A shuddering jar shook them as the anti-aircraft cannon began to fire. The engine room telegraph rang, signaling ready, and the helm was put about.

"Damage Control here. Both aircraft fired high-explosive rockets; one hit. Number three battery damaged. Both aircraft destroyed."

"Fire Control report."

"All clear, sir, unless they have big guns on the island."

Napoleon touched Illya's arm and spoke softly. "I think the military might by which we are surrounded will be capable of handling things from here. Unless you're particularly interested in watching naval operations I suggest we get out of the way and go below. Besides, you still haven't guessed my 'W'."

They started out the door from the bridge, and walked calmly past and among the various running figures of sailors on their ways to or from posts, as Illya began, "I've established you're a literary figure and American. So you were the Town Crier of the Air?"

"Too easy," said Napoleon. "Not Alexander Woolcott."

"All right. Did you...whoops!" A short sailor with a bristly moustache ducked between them and scurried off.

"A lot of people are killed in traffic every day," said Illya philosophically. "Now, where were we?"

"Not Alexander Woolcott."

"Right. Now, did you collaborate with..."

The two of them turned a corner, and were gone.

THE END

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posted 2.12.2008, transcribed by Connie