"Jake never wanted that, Robert; I've heard him say so, emphatically. He never approved of the way I was kept alive."
"The two cases are a hundred and eighty degrees apart, Joan. Your body was worn out but your brain was in good-shape. In Jake's case—well, I gave him that physical before we put to sea; his body was in fine shape, for his age. But I know what the autopsy will show: a massive rupture of a large blood vessel in his brain; he died at once. A cerebral ‘accident' we call it, because it's unpredictable. If it's any consolation, he didn't suffer."
(‘Didn't suffer,' eh? Try it, Bob—it felt like a kick in the head by a mule. But you're right, it was just one blow. Not even a headache, afterward.) (About the same for me, Jock darling, when I got it. Boss had a much rougher time, for years.) (What if I had? It's over now. Darlings, please keep quiet—we'll talk when they let us alone.)
"Doctor, there will be no autopsy."
"Joan, there should be an autopsy for your peace of mind."
"It won't bring Jake back and he wouldn't like it. As for my ‘peace of mind,' I have just one question. Was it... too much honeymoon?"
"Oh. No, just too many years. Joan, it wasn't even from lifting that heavy load. Let me explain this sort of
‘accident.' It's like a weak spot in an old-fashioned pneumatic tire, worn almost through and ready to blow out—then anything can trigger it. Jake could simply have stood up, and keeled over—today, tomorrow, last week. Oh, it can happen during intercourse, you often hear men say they want to die ‘while tearing off one last load.' But it's a horrible experience for the woman involved—and probably isn't a last orgasm anyhow, more likely he's chopped down just before it.
"Far better the way Jake got it, still virile—I assume—" (You know darn well Jock was ‘still virile.' Ask your wife. Ask Gigi. Hell, ask anybody.) (Eunice, was my behavior that blatant?) (Not blatant at all, Jock you lovin' old goat. But news gets around.)
"—or I should say ‘I know' as I was his physician. Jake was happy and strong and virile—and then he was through, like snipping a film. Don't worry about ‘too much honeymoon.' Getting married may have saved Jake years of hopeless senility. Or it may have chopped two weeks off his life as a small price for much happiness. But more likely it extended his life; a happy man functions better. Forget it, dear. When my time comes I hope I get it the way Jake got it—quickly, and happy to the end."
"Then there is no point in an autopsy, Roberto. Will you sign a death certificate?"
"Well... when death takes place not in a hospital and not under medical care, it is customary to notify the authorities and—"
"Roberto!"
"Yes, Joan?"
"You're not going to do that to Jake. Notify whom? Somebody in Washington? We're in Federal waters, and the coroner of San Diego County has no proper interest in this death. But he'd be likely to try to milk it for publicity, once he finds out who Jake is, who I am—and I shan't let that be done with Jake's death. Jake was under medical care—yours! You're our ship's surgeon. It might be that you saw him die. Think about it." (Joan, don't ask Bob to lie. It doesn't matter if some coroner has his M.E. chop me up.) (I shan't permit it! Besides, Jake, I'm pregnant. Do you want me to have to go through that? Crowds and questions and pulling and hauling and sleepless nights?) (Mmm... tell him to make it an airtight lie, dear.) (Boss is a stubborn bitch, Jock—but she's usually right.)
"Hmm—" Dr. Garcia took off his stethoscope, put it aside. "Now that you mention it, there was still some heart action after I reached him. Lacking means to determine the instant of brain failure, I am forced to take cessation of heart action as the moment of death." (That boy would make a good witness, girls—come to think about it, he did make a good witness at the identity hearings.)
"In that case, Doctor, it seems to me that the circumstances are not open to question—and you may be sure that I will spend any amount of money to keep anyone from turning Jake's death into a circus at any later time. I would like you to certify death and the circumstances and mail a copy to whatever Federal authority should be notified—when next we touch shore. No copy elsewhere, we have no permanent residence other than this vessel. Oh, mail a copy to Alec Train; he has Jake's will, he'll need one for probate. And be sure to supply Captain Finchley with a duplicate original for the log."
"All right, Joan, since that's the way you want it. And I agree: Here we have a natural death and there is no point in letting bureaucrats poke around in it. But—right now I want to give you something to make you sleep. Nothing much, just a heavy dose of tranquilizer."
"Roberto, what was my pulse?"
"That's none of a patient's business, Joan."
"It was seventy-two, dead on normal—I counted my heart beats during that thirty seconds from your first glance at your watch until you let go my wrist. I need no tranquilizers."
"Joan, your heart action should be higher than normal—under the circumstances."
"Then possibly I need a stimulant, not a tranquilizer. Roberto, you sometimes forget—even though you have been through the whole thing with me—that I am not a normal patient. Not a young bride subject to hysteria. Underneath I am a very old man, almost three times your age, dear, and I've seen everything and no shock can truly be a shock to me. Death is an old friend; I know him well. I lived with him, ate with him, slept with him; to meet him again does not frighten me—death is as necessary as birth, as happy in its own way."
She smiled. "My pulse is normal because I'm happy—happy that my beloved Jake met death so easily and happily. Oh, I'll go to my cabin and lie down; I usually nap during the heat of the afternoon. But how about Eve?"
"Eh?"
"Have you done anything about her? She's young, she's probably never seen death before. She almost certainly needs a tranquilizer—not I."
"Uh... Joan, I've been busy. But— Olga. Will you find Winnie and tell her I said that Eve was to have a minimum dose of ‘Tranquille'?"
"Yes, Doctor." Mrs. Dabrowski left.
"Now, young lady, I'll take you to the cabin."
"Just a moment, Doctor. Captain, will you get way on with both sails and auxiliary, and make course for the nearest point of the seventy-five-mile limit? I want us to be in international waters before sundown."
"Aye aye, Ma'am. That would be about west by south, maybe basic course two-six-oh. I'll plot it."
"Good. Then pass the word, quietly, that burial services will be at sundown."
"Joan!"
"Roberto, do you think I would turn Jake over to an undertaker? Taxidermists! He wanted to die like his ancestors; I shall bury him like his ancestors—his dear body untouched and returned home before the sun sets."
"‘To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die-'
Joan paused in her reading. The Sun was an orange-red circle almost touching the horizon. On a grating at the rail, steadied by Fred and the Doctor, Jake's body waited, sewed into canvas, with ballast weights at the feet. (A primitive rite, Johann.) (Jake, if you don't like it, I'll stop.) (Jock, you should be respectful; this is a funeral.) (It's my funeral, isn't it? Do I have to pull a long face for my own funeral? Johann, I do like it. I respect symbols, primitive symbols especially. Thank you for doing this—and thank you most of all for not letting my carcass fall into the hands of licensed ghouls.) (Just wanted to be sure, Jake. I'd better go on; I've marked several more passages.)