"I was serious."

    She turned her eyes from the road and gave him a warm smile. "I know you were, but let's face reality. Our problem is that we're great pals, but we don't need each other. If you and I lived in a little house with a picket fence, the furniture would only gather dust because neither of us would ever be home. Oil and water don't mix. Your life is the sea, mine is Congress. We could never have a close, loving relationship. Don't you agree?"

    "I can't deny you make a strong case."

    "I vote we continue just the way we have. Any objections?"

    Pitt did not immediately answer. He hid his relief remarkably well, Loren thought. He stared through the windshield at the road ahead for a long time. Finally, he said, "You know what, Congresswoman Smith?"

    "No, what?"

    "For a politician, you're an incredibly honest and sexy woman."

    "And for a marine engineer," she said huskily, "you're so easy to love."

    Pitt smiled slyly and his green eyes twinkled. "How far to Washington?"

    About five thousand kilometers. Why?"

    He pulled the sling off his arm, threw it in the backseat and slid his arm around her shoulder. "Just think, we've got five thousand kilometers to find out just how lovable I am."

POSTSCRIPT

    The walls in the waiting room outside Sandecker's private office in the NUMA headquarters building are covered with a rogues' gallery of photographs taken of the admiral hobnobbing with the rich and famous. The subjects include five Presidents, numerous military leaders and heads of state, congressmen, noted scientists, and a sprinkling of motion picture stars, all staring at the camera, lips stretched in predictable smiles.

    All have simple black frames. All except one that hangs in the exact center of the others. This one has a gold frame.

    In this photograph Sandecker is standing amid a strange group of people who look as if they have just been in some kind of spectacular accident. One short, curly-headed man sits in a wheelchair, his legs in plaster casts, jutting toward the cameraman. Beside him is a small man wearing hornrimmed glasses, with his head encased in a bandage and splints on several of his fingers, wearing what appears to be a flimsy untied hospital smock. Then there is an attractive woman in shorts and a haltertop who looks as if she belongs in a safe house for battered wives. Next to her stands a tall man with a bandage on his forehead and one arm in a sling. His eyes have a devil-may-care look and his head is tilted back in robust laughter.

    If, after being ushered into the admiral's office, you casually ask about the unusual characters in the photograph with the gold frame, be prepared to sit and listen attentively for the next hour.

    It is a long story, and Sandecker loves to tell how the Rio Pitt got its name.