I chuckled. The idea tickled me. Most sociological surveys, sexual and otherwise, are aimed at solving the ills of society by studying the culture of the victims, the poor. It was about time for society’s ills to be looked at in terms of the patterns of those who run the society—the wealthy—rather than in terms of those who are ground under by it.
But that still didn’t answer my questions. “What is my real purpose for being aboard?” I asked the Baron. “What does it have to do with O.R.G.Y.?”
“There is a threat to the sexual health of all who sail on the Lascivia,” he replied.
‘I’m not a doctor, either.”
“But you are adaptable. And you may have to adapt to all those roles you mentioned. Also, you do have qualifications that mesh with the situation.” Baron Duvivier took a paper from his pocket and handed it to me. “A copy of this threatening letter has been received by every passenger and every member of the crew,” he told me.
“Then you’ve already been infiltrated,” I pointed out. “One of your personnel has been peddling the passenger list.”
“I’m afraid so.” He took it for granted.
I read the letter:
“BEWARE PROMISCUITY ABOARD THE S.S. LASCIVIA!” it warned in large, hand-printed capital letters. “THE SHIP’S OWNER HAS COMMITTED UNPARDONABLE SINS. THE WAGES OF HIS SINNINC WILL BE PAID BY ALL WHO SAIL ABOARD HIS LINER. THE WAGES ARE VENEREAL!” It was unsigned.
Have you ‘committed unpardonable sins’?” I inquired of Baron Duvivier.
The old gentleman smiled nostalgically. “My memory isn't what it used to be, but I think it would be accurate to say that I have.”
“Why would this Captain Grabass threaten the passengers and crew in this particular way?” I wondered. “Why use sex?”
“If you were familiar with the cruise business, you wouldn’t ask that question, Mr. Victor. Romance— with sex definitely implied—is precisely what we’re selling. Moonlit nights, soft ocean breezes, shipboard intimacy—these are the elements of a successful cruise. The threat of venereal punishment hits at the core of the product.” Baron Duvivier’s tone reflected how seriously he took the threat. “One or two venereal cases, even just the rumor of one, could ruin the cruise. Passengers might start disembarking at various ports of call, demanding refunds; the panic would spread like an epidemic! And there is always the chance that the venereal threat is a serious one, that somehow it will be made good.”
“And my job is to prevent that happening?”
“Your job is to see that the sexual activities of the passengers don’t interfere with the Lascivia winning the race. Or anything else for that matter. The race is the thing that’s important!”
“Doesn’t that depend on the Captain?”
“Yes. But while I trust the Captain’s nautical judgment, I can’t saddle him with responsibility in the area of sex. That will be your domain. He will be informed of your reason for being aboard, and instructed to cooperate with you. But he won’t have jurisdiction over you. I’m leaving you free to function independently because I have no way of knowing what situations will arise and how you may have to cope with them.”
“What other members of the crew will know about my assignment?”
“None. At the Captain’s discretion, some of them will be told your cover story—that you are an O.R.G.Y. investigator conducting a sex survey. That’s all. Just in case one of them is a Grabass agent, there’s no sense in revealing your mission.”
That made sense. One of the officers or crew might well have been planted to sabotage the voyage. Which meant that all of them, along with the passengers, were suspect.
Including Chief Purser Yenta. I reminded myself of this fact that first a.m. aboard the S.S. Lascivia as I followed the Japanese officer down the deck toward the Captain’s cabin beyond the wheelhouse. Yenta showed impatience when I insisted on stopping off at the head en route.
The detour was to administer a prophylactic to myself. I believe in preventive medicine. Aside from riding herd on the sexual activities of the passengers, I didn’t want to pay any personal “venereal wages.”
Certainly not for an anonymous piece of eighty-two-year-old Derriere!
CHAPTER THREE
Remember Captain Bligh?
Remember Captain Queeg?
Meet Captain Maldemerde!
I heard the skipper of the S.S. Lascivia bellowing from his cabin halfway down the deck before I saw him. “Mis-ter Jewish!” he was roaring. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear! I will not tolerate neglect of duty! One more incident such as this, Mis-ter, and you will have this simian misanthrope keel-hauled! Keel-hauled! Is that understood?”
A man in a white ship officer’s uniform exited from the Captain’s cabin. He was young, and looked like a mixture of early Clark Gable, Marlon Brando, and Omar Sharif. Behind him the Captain was still shouting.
“Number One.” Chief Purser Yenta identified the officer for me. “The Staff Captain. Mister Jewish.”
“He doesn’t look jewish,” I couldn’t help observing.
“Mister Jewish is an Arabian.” Yenta greeted the officer as he came abreast of us. “What’s going on, Mister Jewish?” he asked respectfully.
“The old man’s reaming Lieutenant Gorilla,” Mis- ter JeWish replied curtly as he continued up the deck.
“What did he do, sir?” Yenta wanted to know.
“Tried to tell him one of the engines blew a gasket.”
Mister Jewish turned a corner and vanished from our sight.
“Lieutenant Gorilla’s the Chief Engineer,” Yenta informed me. “He's from Northern Italy.”
The door to the Captain’s cabin opened again and Lieutenant Gorilla emerged. He was a giant of a man, almost seven feet tall, close to three hundred pounds. There wasn’t a hair on him, not even an eyebrow. “He’s an albino,” Yenta whispered. “The below-decks gang calls him ‘The Hairless Ape.’ ”
Gorilla was bare to the waist, his powerful, smooth upper torso streaked with oil. His bald head nodded wordlessly, like a melon bobbing high on the vine, as he brushed past Yenta. His eyes, large and white with black pupils, rolled snake-eyes, an acknowledgment of shame and disgust at the chewing-out he’d just received from the Captain.
Chief Purser Yenta smiled at him sympathetically, then turned to the Captain’s door and knocked. There was a growl from inside. Yenta opened the door. “Mr. Victor is here, sir,” he announced. He stood aside to let me enter, then closed the door behind me without following me inside. I was on my own.
Captain Maldemerde was seated at a desk across the stateroom from the door. When I entered, he swiveled around on his chair to face me. Even sitting, it was easy to see that he was a short man, barely over five feet tall. His Captain’s cap, with its insignia of rank, sat squarely atop his round head. His shirt was opened to reveal a bare paunch the size of a healthy watermelon.
He got to his feet. The paunch, combined with his unsure stance as the ship rolled gently at anchor, gave him the appearance of a teetering tenpin. He stretched, ignoring me, and sat down again.
Finally, the rheumy blue eyes over the heavy jowls deigned to focus on me. He patted his stomach. His other hand was in his lap, palm up. He continually rolled two objects there with his thumb. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that they were a pair of pasties, the kind stripteasers used to wear when it was still illegal to show their nipples. They punctuated his words as he spoke.
“Victor.” He greeted me with no particular warmth. “I have been notified by the owner, Baron Duvivier, of the nature of your business aboard this vessel.” The pasties went click-click. “I am ordered to cooperate with you fully.” Click-click. “And I am told that you will operate independently, at the discretion of your own judgment, rather than mine.” Click-click. This obviously disgruntled him. “However, Victor—” His voice dropped to a nasty hiss. “—I would remind you that I am the master of this vessel at sea. Regardless of the latitude granted you by the owner, you will remember that. My authority is absolute!” Click-click.