“Mrs. Binny Stanford,” Yenta continued, “has an IQ of 168, while her husband’s is only 123. She claims that because of this discrepancy, she can’t communicate with him. She cites MENSA evidence relating to the difficulties intellectually gifted members have in communicating with less intelligent people.”
“If they’re so smart,” I remarked, “you'd think that they’d be able to figure out how to communicate with people less smart.”
“She also says that while he wasn’t permitted to join MENSA, he was granted visiting privileges as the husband of a member, but that he wouldn’t attend meetings, claiming they ‘bored him silly.’ When he did attend, she claims he embarrassed her by asking members to explain how a ‘dumbhead’ like himself had become a millionaire, while the majority of the membership fell into a far lower income bracket. On one occasion, she alleges that he became violent and threatened to ‘crack a few eggheads.’ In conclusion, she states that he married her for her physical endowments and is incapable of appreciating her mental ones.
“Well,” I stared at Binny Stanford. “There’s a lot to be said for her physical endowments. And she sure doesn’t try to hide them.”
I was distracted from her charms by the strange sight of an old man and a small boy starting up the gangplank. I looked from them to Chief Purser Yenta, my jaw hanging open like a silent question mark. Yenta’s face was impassive except for the professional smile of greeting on his lips. Which surprised me still more, since both the boy and the old man were stark naked!
It was a cold winter day. As the pair came up the gangplank, the effect was of a boarding party of goosepimples. Genitally, the old man was a wonder. Decently flaccid, but very impressive! Like Bermuda shorts couldn’t have granted him modesty! He stopped directly in front of Yenta, towering over him.
“I am Knute Summerknut,” he introduced himself with a slight Scandinavian accent. “My great-grandson Erik and I are sailing with you.” The boy yawned, cradled his head on his small shoulder, reached up with one hand and wrapped his small fist around the old man’s penis. He hung onto it, half-dozing, looking like a sleepy subway straphanger. The old man didn’t seem to notice.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Summerknut.” Yenta greeted him. He motioned to a steward to conduct the Summerknuts to their cabin. “We sail at midnight,” he told them as they trailed after the steward.
“Who-—?” I stammered when they were out of hearing .
“Knute Summerknut is the founder and head of Danish International Nudist Camps. Among the world’s nudists, he’s known as ‘The Grand Old Man of Nudism.' ”
“Excuse me, Mister Yenta.” The steward was back. “What shall I do about the Summerknut luggage?”
“What luggage?”
“That’s what I mean, sir. I don’t seem able to locate it.”
“There isn't any,” Yenta told him. “He and his great-grandson don’t wear clothes. It’s part of their religion.”
“They sure must save on laundry bills,” I remarked us the steward departed, scratching his head.
There was a sudden flurry at the rail. People scattered, leaving a roughly circular clearing on the deck. In its center was a small Pekingese wearing a mink sweater and a jewel-studded collar. A strip of material dangled from the Peke’s mouth. Nearby a man was muttering curses as he put his overcoat back on to cover the fact that the seat of his pants had been torn away.
Chief Purser Yenta started for the man at a fast pace, pumping up oil for troubled waters. But he wasn’t quite fast enough. A petite female figure in gauzy Arabian garb, a veil covering the lower half of her face, got to the victim first.
“You tried to kick Zwing Toy!” she accused him.
“That damn mutt bit me!” the man protested.
“Because you almost sat on him! I saw you!”
“How was I supposed to know he was on that deck chair?”
“That’s no excuse!” saying which she belted him hard across the face.
Chief Purser Yenta grabbed her from behind and restrained her from repeating the clout. “Please, Your Highness—” he remonstrated.
“Take your hands off me!"
Yenta immediately released her. “Beg pardon, Your Highness.”
“I want this man put in irons!” she demanded. “I want him flogged! Publicly!” she added.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. This gentleman is not a passenger. He's just on board seeing someone off. We have no jurisdiction over him.”
“I shall speak to the Captain! He is a man, I am told, who knows how to enforce discipline. I shall recommend that he have the Chief Purser flogged in place of this culprit!” ‘
“He just might do that,” Yenta moaned to himself.
“Your Highness, I beg of you-—” he said aloud. But she wasn’t listening. She had turned on her heel and gone to pick up the Pekingese. Now she was cradling it in her arms, against her small, high, sharply pointed bosom. The tiny dog licked the light material over one breast, wetting it down thoroughly until a bright red nipple was clearly visible. The dark eyes over the face veil sparkled as she carried the dog off to her cabin.
“That was Queen Nimmfetah,” the Japanese told me, mopping his brow. “She’s the ex-wife of the Shah of Kubal, one of the richest rulers in the Arab world. He divorced her because she failed to bear him any children.”
“Really? She looks young and able,” I commented.
“Yes. But the Shah is old and feeble. It would have been impossible for him to admit to his people that he was unable to sire an heir to the throne. So Queen Nimmfetah was made the scapegoat.”
“How long were they married?”
“Three years. She was thirteen when she became Queen, sixteen when she was deposed. That was last year.”
“So she’s seventeen now. That’s pretty young to be so tyrannical.”
“It’s quite young for many of the activities in which the Queen engages.”
“Such as?” I was curious.
“Her dossier reveals a decided sexual preference for animals. Dogs, horses, camels -”
“Camels?”
“A decided preference. Probably a distorted Electra complex -- her father was a hunchback.”
While I was mulling that over, a deck steward came up to Yenta and saluted. “The Captain wants to see Mr. Victor, sir,” he told him. “Right away.”
Captain Maldemerde was waiting in the wheelhouse. The paunchy little martinet was pacing back and forth like a caged gerbil, one hand held in front of him rolling the pasties, click-click. Every so often he’d come to a stop and peer over the shoulder of Mister Jewish who was seated at a table working on some nautical charts. Dr. Quotabusta, looking a little incongruous in his officer’s cap over Afro hairdo, uniform shirt and tie, and starched white loincloth, was standing at attention beside the tiller.
“Victor, we have a problem,” Captain Maldemerde greeted me. “And this quack here—” he indicated Quotabusta with a contemptuous wave of his hand “—thinks you may be able to help.”
“The newlywed couple,” I guessed.
“Have you ever come across a similar case in your experience with O.R.G.Y.?” Dr. Quotabusta asked.
‘I’m afraid not.”
“I hoped you might know of some special solvent.”
“The only thing I can suggest is to pull hard.”
“We tried that. It didn’t work.” The Doctor turned to the Captain. “They’ll have to be removed from the ship and taken to a hospital, sir.”
“Absolutely not! The red tape would hold us up for at least one full day. Out of the question! We sail at midnight!” Click-click.
Nasty as the Captain came off, I could sympathize with him. His officers didn’t know it, but he had a race to win. He couldn’t afford to give away a one-day handicap to Captain Grabass and the Queen William at the very beginning.