“And nobody knows about those side effects better than me. On the way down to the Falk lands, I stuck one behind my ear to be on the safe side. It worked brilliantly. Only problem was that all I did was sleep for the next two and a half days, until I was finally told that the bloody pads were supposed to be removed after twelve hours.”
A soft electronic chime sounded in the background, signaling that the banquet was about to begin. Hartwell signed the bill, and beckoned his guests to lead the way into the adjoining dining room.
Vince was the first inside, and he found the Queens Grill buzzing with activity. The ship’s orchestra, set up on the balcony for this special occasion, was playing spiritedly. The flags of all nine attending nations hung from the ceiling, while bunting that matched their colors decorated the room’s pillars.
The Grill’s focal point was the large table where the nine heads of state were seated. It was positioned in the exact center of the room, with no other tables close by. Lying on its surface was an immense, intricately detailed ice sculpture of the QE2. The funnel had been dyed red and black to complete the Queen’s distinctive look, with a column of dry-ice-generated smoke rising from it.
Melanie and Neil escorted the party to their balcony table. Dr. Patton was already there. Two seats remained vacant.
“Looks like my son has yet to make an appearance,” said Patton, who had his back to the room’s main entrance.
“Last I heard from him, he was off trying to fill that extra seat of ours with the prettiest young woman on this entire ship,” Morrison revealed.
Kellogg, Morrison, and Hartwell all made certain that their chairs faced the room’s interior and that they had a clear view of the Grill’s two entry ways.
As they seated themselves, the band segued from a Russian folk tune into a German polka and Melanie handed out the menus.
Vince was torn between the pate de foie gras or the chilled Russian Malossol caviar for an appetizer. Neil put a quick end to his dilemma by suggesting that he order both. Vince readily did so, and completed his order by selecting the cream of sweet potato soup with toasted pine nuts, and a fresh Maine lobster served with green asparagus tips, corn on the cob, and sauteed new potatoes. Robert Hartwell also went for the dual appetizers, picking the Chateaubriand for his entree, while Dr. Patton chose a jumbo shrimp cocktail and paupiettes of sole stuffed with broccoli. Morrison, aghast at the thought of all that food, ordered just a bowl of chicken broth and some white toast. Dr. Patton seemed especially concerned with the SAIC’s condition, and began a detailed discussion on the healing effects of chicken soup and other folk remedies.
During this discourse, Dr. Patton’s son showed himself. With a plodding heavy step, he limped toward the table. His father was immediately worried.
“Are you okay, son? You didn’t fall, did you?”
Ricky seated himself and answered while taking a menu from Neil. “I’m fine, Pop. Just feeling a little queasy from motion sickness, I guess.”
“Don’t be afraid to order yourself a hearty meal,” instructed the physician. “There are several studies that show that a full stomach is better than medication when it comes to treating seasickness.”
A better cure for loneliness too, Vince thought. Dr. Patton completed the prescription by looking at Neil and nodding at the extra place setting. Neil removed it, and indeed the boy perceptively brightened.
As the entrees were served, a steward arrived at their table with an envelope for Dr. Patton. Vince watched as the physician opened it, and noted his perplexed expression as he read its contents.
“That certainly is strange,” Patton muttered, drawing the attention of his dining companions. “Dr. Benedict got a response from that memo we distributed to the room service staff. It seems a Filipino steward has come forward to swear he witnessed an attendant from Chinatown deliver a platter of shrimp to the Gym staff, on the day after leaving Southampton. I bet you that’s the source of our food poisoning!”
“If that’s the case,” interjected Hartwell, “surely Ping would have known about it. But as Special Agent Kellogg can attest, the folks down in Chinatown told us that no such delivery ever took place.”
“Well, it’s obvious that someone’s not telling us the truth,” offered Vince.
“That’s certainly a possibility, though if it’s Ping, it’s a bit out of character,” Hartwell returned. “Why don’t we pop down there after dinner, along with the chap who answered Doc Benedict’s memo? That should get us to the truth of the matter.”
Vince nodded that this was fine with him. As he polished off the last of the lobster, the Grill’s forward doorway opened and in walked the QE2’s bearded master. Capt. Ronald Prestwick surveyed the dinner’s progress, and satisfied that the guests were in the process of completing their entrees, he made his way down to the table of honor.
Here he circled the table, making it a point to speak to each head of state.
He ended his rounds at the head of the table, where the British prime minister was seated. There Captain Prestwick accepted a cordless microphone from a steward, and raised it to his lips.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I want to thank you for taking my place at the head of the table, for this distinguished gathering. Presidents, prime ministers, and chancellors all, it is my great pleasure to welcome you on this most special of nights. And to all of you who are also assembled here, know that it is a sincere honor to be of service to each one of you.
“All of us at Cunard are proud of the great tradition of excellence that this wonderful vessel so magnificently represents. The Queen Elizabeth 2 is much more than a mere technological marvel, for above all, it’s her crew who make this ocean liner second to none. Thank you for honoring us with your presence on this historic crossing. And may we be part of history together.”
A polite round of applause caused the captain to briefly lower the microphone. He waited for it to fade completely before addressing them once again, this time with increasing fervor.
“As I speak to you, honored guests, be aware that the QE2 is rapidly approaching the midpoint in our voyage. Here in the mid-Atlantic, there are no geopolitical boundaries to restrain us. In a manner of speaking, we are all citizens of the world out here, stripped of our individual nationalities and united in a common fate.
“May the spirit of concord and union be a part of you for the remainder of this crossing. And even though this gala dinner is usually reserved for the last full day at sea, we thought it appropriate to hold it now.
For our arrival in these international waters signals a homecoming of a sort never before experienced by the peoples of the world. May you who hold the destiny of the planet in your hands take this opportunity to come together, and share the spirit of peace with all the earth’s inhabitants. For if this great ship could speak, this would be her epitaph an end to all war, needless suffering, and deprivation.”
The room erupted with a rousing chorus of applause that included a good number of spirited
“Well dones!” The captain appeared to be taken aback by the intensity and length of this response that rose even louder when the nine heads of state stood in unison. This caused the rest of the Grill’s applauding patrons to stand, and the embarrassed captain allowed them to continue for only another fifteen seconds before finally raising his hands overhead and beckoning them to be seated.
“Thank you very much, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the crossing.
And to continue on the right foot, let the parade of the baked Alaskas begin!”
The lights snapped off, throwing the room into total darkness. Vince found himself momentarily disoriented. Then he heard the orchestra begin to play Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” and a long line of waiters emerged from the aft entryway. They held aloft silver serving trays, lit sparklers projecting from them, and wove their way around the tables.