"Turkey?" said Heller.

"Why, yes. We're under the Turkish flag now and the owner's interests are our interests and the owner's country our country, of course. Events of last night certainly proved that somebody was on your trail, that is for certain. So you'd best just batten down, all snug and shipshape aboard. We'll do all we can to make your cruise a happy one. BUT I have specific orders to stay outside

the continental limits of the United States and under no circumstances to go near land or other ships or let you ashore or obey any other orders from any other source until that radio comes." He saluted and walked away.

Heller took hold of a funnel stay. He glanced at the letter he still held and then looked all around at the very empty sea.

"Well, I'll be blasted!" he said. "I'm a prisoner!"

It was totally and completely the fault of the mixture of drugs and champagne. I am ashamed to confess that the import of what I had just seen and heard did not register on me at all. I freely confess that it was the greatest omission of my entire career. That shows what drup and alcohol can do to one: People should beware and little children should be warned. The fates of nations and empires were hanging in the balance that very moment and all I was thinking about was my AWFUL headache.

The doorbell rang and the second catastrophe of the day began, with all its sinister implications, and once more I did not grasp it.

Woodenly, thinking it was one of those (bleeped) paper boys who want you to subscribe to a paper you are already subscribing to, so they can get an all-expense-paid tour to reform school, I wrapped my bathrobe around me and, barefooted, went to the front door and opened it.

TEENIE!

I slammed the door hurriedly. I put on the burglar chains. I shot the heaviest bolts in place. I went into the front room and slammed the shutters shut and put the forged-iron fasteners on. That done, I leaned against a closed shutter, panting. I went back to the front door and checked it. It was locked tight.

My Gods, what was Teenie doing coming here during business hours, especially when I was alone in the house. Let me tell you, my headache had surged up to a point where I could hardly see.

I tottered to the fridge and got some ice. I held it against my brow. That was better but not much better.

Staggering a bit with the aftermath of shock, I groped my way to my back room.

I stopped dead.

I thought I was having hallucinations. They say marijuana can give you those.

Plain as day, I saw a wraith that looked just like Teenie come over the top of the garden fence, step down off a trellis, walk in through the back door, remove her coat and sit down in an easy chair.

I could not believe my eyes. I was SEEING things!

She was sitting right there with her knees apart. She wore no underpants. Then my knowledge of psychology restored the reality of the world. I was dealing with a sex-hibitionist. If she matured-which I doubted, from the way she enraged me-she would probably become a model for nonexistent women's clothes. No. A female flasher! Yes, a sexhibitionist all right, unfortunately real and no hallucination. Bless psychology!

She looked at me with her oversized eyes. She wiped the back of her hand across her too-big lips.

"I've GOT to complete my education," she said appealingly.

My Gods, didn't she realize that we were alone in the house? That there was nobody around to defend me or protect me from her nails?

"NO!" I cried. "What are you doing here during work hours?"

"I've been fired. And all because I am not educated enough."

"They can't fire you because of that."

"Oh, yes, he did. And Pinchy's plans for me are blasted totally. And all because I am instruction defi­cient."

"That's not possible."

"Oh, yes, it is. I ran out of stamps to lick and I walked into Rockecenter's office. And there he was down on his knees in front of an elevator boy, going after it like mad. And I said, 'No, no! That's not the right way to do it!' And I got on the desk and pulled up my skirt and reached for the elevator boy to show them what I'd learned here."

She gave an audible sniff and brushed away a tear. "But I couldn't have possibly had it correct because Rockecenter screamed at me that I was a stupid brat and had the security men throw me out of the building. See? My elbow is skinned and I lost my hat. They wouldn't even give me back my underpants. So I came to you to ask... You're not listening to me!"

"I HAVE A TERRIBLE HEADACHE AND I DON'T NEED ANOTHER ONE FROM YOU!"

"Oh, the marijuana. I wondered if you wouldn't get one when I saw you drinking champagne with it. You have to be streetwise about these things. Is your throat raw?"

"I can hardly talk."

"There. You see what lack of education can do? It

does happen that I know about marijuana, like any other school kid. Sit right there."

I wasn't going anyplace. My head felt like it was about to burst whenever I even blinked my eyes. It was her fault. Both last night and appearing so suddenly today.

She was bustling around in the front room. Suddenly she came back. "Music is what you have to have with marijuana. They go together. So I put a new Neo Punk Rock record on. You'll feel better shortly."

The massive stereo speakers in the front room clicked as a needle dropped. Drums began to boom. Every stroke of the stick was tearing my eyeballs out! Guitars screamed and a chorus brayed:

Subliminal, subliminal.

A toy car, And a toy girl, Ran up a tree!

SMASH!

A toy house,

And a toy boy,

Fell out of the tree!

SMASH!

The toy car

And the toy baby,

Dropped the tree!

SMASH!

Where was NASA*

Where was NASA?

Where was NASA?

SMASH!

"Now, don't you feel better?" said Teenie.

"Oh, Jesus, no!" I cried.

"Aha!" said Teenie. "You have to get it balanced. Too much music, not enough marijuana. Just sit right there."

I could hear her rummaging around in the cupboards in the front room. Then another "Aha!" and she came back with something that looked like a museum sculpture. She was cramming green leaves and buds into the top of it. It had a tube. "This," she said, learnedly, "is called a bhong, or carburetor. Because the smoke goes through water first, it doesn't irritate the throat." She lighted it and got it going. "Adults can sometimes be pretty ignorant," she said, "and they should not be ashamed to ask those who know. I AM educated in some things. My trouble is that I am NOT educated in vital matters. Now take this mouthpiece and take a long, slow pull on it. Hold the smoke in your lungs as long as you can and then exhale."

I tried to avoid the mouthpiece but it hurt too much to turn my head. I let her put it in my mouth. I could not get any worse so I did what she said.

"Now again," she instructed.

I did it again.

"Now again," she repeated.

I did. A soft haze began to gather around me. I felt like I was floating.

"Now is your headache better?"

Gingerly, I found I could move it a bit without agony.

"There," she said. "You see the benefit of being edu­cated about some things." She took a couple puffs and then put the pipe aside. "We don't want you stoned," she said, "as I have to talk to you."

"I don't want to seem ungrateful," I said, feeling oddly disconnected, "but you better leave." I was sure

the relief was temporary and the headache maybe even would come back aggravated.

"No. I do not know enough," she said.

"It seems you know too (bleeped) much for your age," I said.

"Well," said Teenie, "I'm not like other teen-agers you know. I'm different. I have a mental problem."