"Why wouldn't I be all right?"
"I thought you were looking for something."
"You're damn' right I was looking for something! My shoes. Some jerk kicked them away to hell and gone."
Tiptree-Jones, conscious of a certain lack of decorum at his table, decided to apply a minor measure of discipline. He looked at Mrs. van Dooren with as much hauteur as the regulations would stand for, and asked coldly: "You have them on now?"
"Wouldn't you like to know. . . . What's this thing that makes such a difference?"
"I was saying to Miss Beddington," answered Tiptree-Jones heavily, "that it makes a lot of difference to us—the ship's personnel—if people enjoy these cruises."
"It would make a damn' sight more difference if we didn't enjoy them." Mrs. van Dooren snapped her fingers suddenly, and then, as no steward appeared, rapped smartly on the table.
"Is there anything you want?" asked Tiptree-Jones.
"Rye and water," said Mrs. van Dooren.
"Do you find," asked Tiptree-Jones guardedly, "that rye whisky really goes with a meal like this?"
"It goes with me," said Mrs. van Dooren. "East, west, old friends are best."
Mr. Bancroft looked at his old friend Mr. Gerson. "Maybe if you'd stuck to rye," he said, "you wouldn't have started all that uproar, that night."
"I started no uproar," said Mr. Gerson.
"Boy, it was certainly a good imitation. You even fooled the management."
"Now look here—" began Mr. Gerson angrily.
"Boys, boys," said Mrs. van Dooren. "If youboth got loaded to the eyeballs, what's the difference? Look at me! I've been loaded since November nineteen-forty-eight."
"What happened then?" asked Tiptree-Jones, as no one else seemed inclined to lift this dubious stone.
"Truman was re-elected."
At Carl Wenstrom's table, by contrast, a happy relaxation ruled. It was a good table, under the central skylight of the dining-room; collectively, they could see and be seen from every angle, and Carl was conscious, as when they had boarded the ship earlier, that they were making a good start. The two girls were indisputably the best-looking in the room; Louis—a much-improved Louis—was attracting the speculative glances which indicated that he looked "eligible", in the ship-board sense; even the old Professor managed to shed an air of romantic, old-time gallantry. His eyes were bright as he sipped his wine and talked about his hobby, the history of piracy. His audience was not at all attentive, but it did not seem to matter. Everything was benign, this evening; even the manifest rocking motion of the Alcestis was rhythmical and kindly.
"Then there was Ned Teach," said the Professor, to no one in particular. "An unusual character—I am giving him a whole chapter in my book. He went by the name of Blackbeard, and he operated in these very waters. A most bloodthirsty villain. . . . He marooned his own crew, every last man of them, in order to steal their share of the general plunder. He used to have the hair on his chest made up into small pigtails, and tied with coloured ribbon."
"What was that?" asked Diane, her attention caught at last.
"Ned Teach the pirate," said the Professor. "They say he was covered with thick black hair from head to foot. And he went into battle with flaming sulphur matches stuck into his beard. People thought he was the devil himself."
"That figures," said Louis.
"What was that about the hair on his chest?" asked Diane again.
"He had it curled and tied into pigtails."
"Why? Was he queer or something?"
"That I would doubt," answered the Professor, in a mellow mood of reminiscence. "His aim, I think, was to present a bizarre appearance to his enemies."
Louis turned from a roving-eye survey of the neighbouring tables. He had been doing well, even at this early stage; there was a woman nearby—elderly, beautifully made up—whose glance seemed especially ready to meet his. This was going to be a breeze.. ..
"Are you really writing a book, Prof?" he asked, more attentively.
"Certainly," answered the Professor. "I have been working on it for more than twenty-five years."
"With all these nutty characters?"
"Many of the old-time pirates were distinctly eccentric."
"So who's interested?"
The Professor stared at him over the rim of his wine-glass. He was too contented to take offence, and he was not going to have his evening spoiled by argument.
"It is a field which has always intrigued me," he said finally. "I hope that will prove true for other people."
"And you make a million dollars? This I wish to see!"
Kathy interrupted. "Lots of people will be interested," she said encouragingly. "How far have you got, Professor?"
"Page two hundred and twenty-five," answered the Professor, from an exact, painstaking memory. He gestured, spilling a few drops of wine down his ancient cream flannel suit. "It goes slowly, of course. The scope of research is tremendous. But it is worth it. It is well worth it."
"Excuse me, sir," said a voice at his elbow. It was Vincent, the Chief Steward, whose eagle eye had caught the small mishap. He advanced with a napkin, and gently mopped up the spilled wine.
"Thank you, thank you," said the Professor, courteously. "Entirely my fault."
"Accidents will happen, sir," Vincent reassured him. It was a phrase he had to use at least fifty times on each voyage. He smiled and straightened up, looking at Carl, the natural head of the table. "Everything all right, Mr. Wenstrom?"
"Oh, yes," said Carl. "We have had an excellent dinner. That saddle of lamb was delicious." He glanced round his table benevolently, very much the senior member of the family. "At this rate, we shall have to consider going on a diet."
"Plenty of time to think about that, sir," said Vincent heartily. He also looked round the table, professionally inquisitive. "Excuse me, sir—I was just wondering—are you all one family?"
Carl smiled, with considerable charm. "Not exactly, but we are related." With a careless finger he indicated each of them in turn. "My stepdaughter—my nephew—my niece. . . ." Coming to the Professor, he added: "And my business associate."
Vincent beamed on them all impartially. "How lucky for you to be able to take a holiday together."
"It just worked out right," said Carl.
The voice of young Master Barry Greenfield rose from a nearby table, changing every subject within earshot.
"I don't want any old ice-cream," he proclaimed disagreeably. "It stinks. I want a piece of pie."
"There isn't any pie," said his mother. "Eat up your ice-cream."
"No pie?" The voice was now an incredulous whine. "What sort of a crummy outfit—"
"Excuse me, sir," said Vincent, and turned swiftly away towards the centre of crisis.
Louis glanced sideways after him. "Nosy bastard," he said.
Carl shook his head. "That sort of thing doesn't do any harm. It saves us a lot of explaining. He's the talkative kind. The word will get around."
"You can say that again."
Kathy, chin on hand, dreamily beautiful in pale green, stirred and sat up straight. This was the first mention that evening, even indirectly, of their plans for the voyage, and she was not yet in the mood for it. The ship had captured her now; sitting at ease in the huge dining saloon with its banks of flowers and multiple mirrors and superb service, she wanted the enchanted moment to last for ever, she wanted never to wake up. The idea of using a talkative chief steward to broadcast details of the family set-up was somehow intrusive and gross. She looked round the table.
"Let's go up," she said. "It must be beautiful outside."
"You want to get to work?" inquired Louis, eyeing her.
"What else?" Refusing to surrender her mood, she could only give a flippant answer. "Remember, only eighty-three shopping days till Christmas."