“I wasn’t pampering the crew,” Mister Jewish interrupted, returning to his original idea. “The thing is, sir, there are twenty-four toilets in each of the four heads used by the crew. If Gorilla can temporarily fix them up, we can put three of the four at the disposal of the passengers. That would help solve the problem between here and Rio.”
“This is supposed to be a luxury cruise, Mister.” Click-click. “These passengers have booked private johns.”
“We have no choice, sir. And it’s only temporary.”
“Very well then. But put all four at the disposal of the passengers. There’s no reason to coddle the crew.” Click-click.
“Yes, there is, sir. We can’t risk the sanitation problem. It could endanger the health of everybody aboard. Ask Dr. Quotabusta if you think I’m being an alarmist, sir.”
“I’ll do that, Mister!” Click-click. The Captain turned on his heel and left.
“I’d better roust out my plumbers and get to work.” Chief Engineer Gorilla also departed.
I strolled up the deck with Mister Jewish. “Do you have any idea who could have sabotaged the converter?” I asked him after we’d walked in silence for awhile.
“Somebody familiar with the operation of a luxury liner. That’s for sure. I don’t know why, but someone is trying to foul up this cruise.”
I knew why. The race. But Mister Jewish obviously was in the dark about that. I was tempted to fill him in, but for the time being I decided against it. “Who would have access to the converter?” I wondered aloud.
“Access is simple. There’s no way of locking up a unit that large. The question is, who would have the mechanical knowhow to wreck it? And why? Somebody’s trying to slow up the Lascivia and keep us from meeting our schedule. You know something, Mr. Victor?” He looked at me solemnly. “I’ve never been convinced that the death of the radio operator was an accident.”
“Why not?”
“He was a knowledgeable technician. He knew his business. I just can’t imagine him being careless enough to electrocute himself that way. No. Someone on board is out to wreck this cruise. And if I’m right, they’ll go to any lengths to do it. That scares me, Mr. Victor! If they won’t stop at murder, they won’t stop at anything!”
We’d reached the radio shack. Mister Jewish excused himself and went inside to wire ahead to Rio. I went down to my cabin to dress for dinner.
After dinner, I went down to the engine room and spoke with Chief Engineer Gorilla. Then I went up on deck and sat there for awhile, mulling over the situation. The timing of the sabotage of the converter, as nearly as Chief Engineer Gorilla had been able to pinpoint it, had coincided with the divorce ceremony in the Captain’s cabin. That ruled out the Stanfords, Yenta, and Mister Jewish as suspects. But it still left me with a list of possible saboteurs half a mile long.
I was stretched out on a chaise longue overlooking the Lascivia’s two large, heated outdoor swimming pools. Between them was a giant-size trampoline. It was about midnight when the four girls appeared. I was hidden above them in the shadows and they didn’t see me. All of them were wearing bikinis, all were well-built, and all had obviously been drinking.
They frolicked in the pool, unaware that I was watching them. Perhaps a half-hour passed. Then one of the girls, a deeply tanned beauty with long bronze- red hair, slipped out of her bikini. “It’s skinny-dipping time!” she announced. Her three companions—a slender brunette with short-cropped hair and a small, uptilted bosom; a short, silver-blonde with plump, jiggly breasts and hips; and a Junoesque brownette with long, tapered legs and a derriere like twin basketballs — also shed their bikinis.
I kept watching as they dived and swam nude in the pool, obviously higher than four kites. They sure were a sexy quartet! And their sexiness increased when they took to the trampoline.
The Amazonian brownette was the first to try it. She bounced a low bounce and squealed with delight. The other three, their naked bodies shining with droplets of water in the moonlight, joined her and started jumping and laughing and bouncing all over the trampoline. After a few moments of this, the petite blonde organized a contest, the object of which was to see who could bounce the highest.
It soon became obvious that the slim, dark-haired girl was the champion. She rose higher and higher with each impact, leaving the others behind. Finally her resiliency carried her so high that I found my face looking into hers as she soared past. She cupped her small bosom with her hands and flounced it at me flirtatiously as she descended. The breasts may have been small, but the nipples were long and sharp as rifle bullets. The memory of their bright redness stayed with me after she’d fallen away.
“There’s a man up there watching us,” she told the other three as she bounced expertly to a full-stop land- mg.
“A man!” the blonde exclaimed. “That’s just what I need!”
“He’s not playing cards, I hope,” the statuesque brownette said.
“Not all men are bridge nuts like our husbands!” the tawny redhead told her.
“If they were,” the blonde sighed, “there wouldn’t be any overpopulation problem.”
“Like there wouldn’t be any population at all,” the sharp-nippled brunette declared.
“Because bridge players have no time for sex!” the redhead summed up. “Come down here and join us!” she called to me.
Why not? I went down to them.
“He’s all dressed!” The blonde was disappointed.
“In dinner clothes.” The redhead frowned.
“Into the pool with him!” The Amazon led the charge.
They swarmed over me, eight breasts pummeling me from all sides. I was enveloped in perfumed flesh. They lifted me off my feet and dumped me in the pool.
When, bedraggled and sopping wet, I fished myself out, they descended on me again. They pulled the clothes from my body and tossed them in the water. I stood there completely nude, the spotlight from the diving board tower illuminating my torso.
“Not bad,” the brunette judged. “What’s your name?” she asked.
I told her.
“I’m Mrs. West.” The brunette’s fingertip pushed one of her long nipples by way of identification. The nipple popped right out again. . . . So did my eyes! . . . “This is Mrs. South.” She introduced the blonde with the jiggling, soft pink aureoles. “Mrs. East.” She pointed to the tawny redhead. “And that’s Mrs. North.” She pointed to the Amazon who was busy scratching the area above her shapely but somewhat heavy thighs.
I noticed then that all the girls were scratching their groins. I wondered if Dr. Quotabusta knew just how far this malady was spreading. I also wondered if it was being spread by sex.
“I think I’ve met your husbands,” I told them.
“I wish I’d never met mine!” the blonde Mrs. South said bitterly. “Damn bridge player!”
“They’re all the same,” agreed Mrs. West, moodily flicking her long nipples. “They’d rather play bridge than play with us!”
“You can say that again,” the mammoth-breasted Mrs. North sighed. “Like last night. It was four a.m. when Wilbur finally got into bed after his bridge game. And then he turned on his side facing away from me. I cuddled up to him and pushed my breast against his ribs.” She held up one of her tremendous breasts and thrust it forward to demonstrate. “No response. So I pushed up on my elbow until I was over him, and I shoved it in his mouth.” Again she demonstrated with an appropriate movement. (For a moment I could sympathize with poor Wilbur; a man could choke to death!) “Still he pretends he’s sleeping. So I worked my leg between his, and I got hold of his hand and put it here and moved it around with my own hand.” Mrs. North’s hand moved over her mound and into the cleft.