"I like that!" Farrington cried. "Who wrote that?"

"e.e. cummings. Another line of his that's a favorite of mine is: Listen! There's a hell of a good universe next door...Let's go!"

Peter thought that he might be pouring it on too thick. Farrington, however, seemed to be enjoying it.

Once Frigate was on the ship, he could bring up subjects which might anger and would certainly irritate Farrington. For instance, the man's knowledge of Nietzsche had been gotten mostly from dialogs with a friend, Strawn-Hamilton. He had apparently made some attempt to read the philosopher in English. But he had been so taken by the poetic phrases and the slogans that he had not taken in the full philosophy. He had picked what he liked from Nietzsche and ignored the rest-as Hitler had done. Not that Farrington was any Hitler.

What was it his daughter had said? " "The glad perishers, "the Superman, "live dangerously!-these were more potent than wine.' "

As for Farrington's knowledge of socialism, he had not read anything of Marx's except The Communist Manifesto. But, as his daughter had said, ignoring Marx was a common practice among American Socialists then.

There were many other things to discuss-and contemn. London had wanted socialism only for the benefit of the Germanic peoples. He firmly believed that men were superior to women. Might made right. And he was not, in one sense of the word, a true artist. He wrote only for money, and if he had enough money would have quit writing. At least he had claimed he would. Frigate doubted this. Once a writer, always a writer.

"Well," Peter said, "whatever else can be said against London, Fred Lewis Patton probably had the final word. He said it was easy to criticize him, easy to deplore him, but impossible to avoid him.''

Farrington liked that even more. But he said, "Enough of Lon­don , though I would like to meet him some day. Listen. Your idea of the superman sounds a lot like the ideal man of the Church of the Second Chance. It sounds even more like that of one of my crew, you know, the little Arab, though he isn't really an Arab. He's a Spanish Moor, born in the twelfth century a.d. He's not a Chancer, though."

He pointed to a man Frigate had seen among the crew of the Razzle Dazzle. He was standing in the center of a circle of Ruritanians, holding a drink and a cigarette. His speech seemed to be amusing; at least those around him were laughing. He was about 163 centimeters or a little less than 5 feet 5 inches tall, thin but with a suggestion of wiry strength, very dark, and big nosed. He looked like a young Jimmy Durante.

"Nur-ed-din el-Musafir," Farrington said. "Nur for short."

Frigate said, "In Arabic that means Light-of-the-Faith the-Traveler."

"You know Arabic?" Farrington said. "I never could get the hang of any foreign language except Esperanto."

"I picked up a lot of words from Burton's Arabian Nights."

He paused. "Well, what about it? Am I eliminated?"

Farrington said, "Yes and no." He laughed at Frigate's puzzled expression, and he clapped him on the shoulder.

"Can you keep your mouth shut?"

"Like a Trappist monk."

"Well, I'll tell you, Pete. Tom and I had picked out that big Kanaka there." He pointed at Mauf, a giant Marquesan, looking very Polynesian in a white cloth around his waist and a big dark-red bloom in his thick, black, curly hair.

"He was top's'l man in a whaler and then a harpooner for thirty years. He looks like he'd be a hellcat in a fight. Tom and I agreed that he was easily the best qualified. But he doesn't know anything about books, and I need educated people around me. That may sound snobbish, but so what?

"I'll tell you now. I just changed my mind. You're signed up-as far as I'm concerned. No, wait a minute! Don't look so happy. I have to talk to Tom about this. You wait. I'll be right back."

He plunged among the dancers, caught Rider by the hand, and dragged him off protesting to one side. Peter watched them talking. Rider looked at him several times but did not seem to be arguing.

Peter was glad that he had not had to play his trump card. If he hadn't been chosen, he would have told the two that he knew their true identities. What would have happened then, he couldn't guess. The two had some good reason to go under fake names. Perhaps they would have rushed off, leaving him behind if he had threatened to expose them. Or perhaps they would have taken him along, just to keep his mouth shut, and then thrown him overboard far up The River.

Possibly Farrington had caught on to what he was doing. He must have wondered why a man so familiar with London's works would not recognize him. In which case, Farrington would have decided that Frigate was playing some kind of game. He would go along with it until they were well up The River and then find out just what he was up to.

However, Peter did not think he was in any danger of being killed. Neither Farrington nor Rider were murderers. Still, if some changed for the better on this world, others changed for the worse. And he had no idea how deep and desperate this game was.

Rider came over, shook his hand, and told him he was welcome aboard. A few minutes later, Farrington stopped the music and announced his choice of the new deckhand. By then, Peter had taken Eve outside and given her the news.

Eve was quiet for a while. Then she said," Yes, I knew you were trying to get on that ship. It's not easy to keep a secret here, Peter. I do feel bad, though mostly because you hadn't told me you were going to go away."

"I tried to get hold of you," he said. "But you had gone off without telling me where."

Eve began to cry. Peter's eyes were moist. But she wiped the tears, sniffled, and said, "I'm not grieved because you're leaving me, Pete. I'm full of sorrow because our love died. I once thought that it would last forever. I should have known better, though."

"I'm still fond of you."

"But not fond enough, is that it? Of course it is. I'm not blaming you, Peter. I feel the same way. It's just that... I wish we could have gone on feeling like we first did."

"You'll find someone else. At least, we didn't part with hatred.''

"It would have been better that way. It's bad enough when you love each other but can't get along. But to have love just die out, cold! I can't stand indifference."

"You've stood a lot more than that," he said. "If we'd still been in love, I would've stayed here or I would've tried to get them to take us both."

"And then you would've resented me. No, this may not be the best way, but it's the only way."

He pulled her to him to kiss her, but she gave him her cheek.

"Goodbye, Peter."

"I won't forget you."

"A lot of good that'll do us," she said, and she walked away.

Peter went back under the roof. People crowded around to con­gratulate him. He didn't feel happy. Eve had upset him, and he felt uncomfortable when he was the focus of public attention. Then Bullitt was shaking his hand.

"We'll be sorry to see you go, Frigate," he said. "You've been a model citizen. However, there is one thing."

He turned to the sergeant-at-arms next to him and said, "Mr. Armstrong, please confiscate Mr. Frigate's weapons."

Peter did not protest, since he had sworn to give them up if he quit Ruritania. However, he had not given his word not to steal them back. Early that morning, while it was still dark, he did just that.

He told himself that he had put in too much labor making the weapons to give them up. Besides, he had been wounded once in the service of this state. Ruritania owed him those weapons.

He had not gotten more than a kilometer up The River when he felt like going back and surrendering the weapons. That fit of honesty lasted for a day, and then he was cured.