"Gigi."

"Yes, Joan?"

"Look at me. You haven't missed a meal since Roberto put you on the seasick pill. If Joe prefers floodlights to sunlight, we'll clear out the dining saloon and it can be his studio. Put your arms around me and tell me what's really wrong."

"Uh—Joan, the ocean's just too darn big!" Gigi blinked tears and said, "I guess you think I'm a baby."

"No. It's big. Biggest ocean in the world. Some people don't like oceans. I do. That doesn't mean you have to."

"Well, I thought I would like it. I mean, you hear about it. What a wonderful thing it is to make an ocean trip. But it scares me. Uh, it scares Joe, too; he just doesn't say so. Joan Eunice, you've been awful good to us—but this isn't our scene. Joe and I, we aren't fish—we're alley cats. Always lived in cities. It's too quiet here. Especially at night. At night the quiet is so loud it wakes me up."

Joan kissed her. "All right, darling. I knew you weren't having quite the happy time I wanted you to have. Didn't know why. I'll have to visit you at your place—where it's nice for all of us. I don't like the city, it scares me. But I like it, loads, in your studio—as long as 1 don't have to go outside. But is that all that's wrong? Has anyone upset you? Or Joe?"

"Oh, no! Everybody's been swell."

"You called Jake ‘Mr. Salomon.'"

"That was because I was upset—knowing I had to tell you."

"Then you both feel easy with Jake? I know he's impressive, he even impresses me. Nothing uptight there?"

"Oh, not a bit! Uh; knowing we were walking out on Jake upset us as much as knowing we were walking out on you."

"Then may Jake and I both come visit you? Stay a few days?" (Will she duck this, Eunice?) (Why ask me, Boss? You just asked her.)

Mrs. Branca dropped her eyes, then looked up and said bluntly, "You mean a Quartet? All the way?"

"All the way."

"Well, we would, I guess you know that. But how about Jake?"

"Well? How about Jake, Gigi? You tell me."

"Uh, Jake is relaxed with us. But he's a little uptight when you're around, seems like. Joan Eunice, you caught on. Didn't you? Or you wouldn't have braced me for a Quartet."

"I caught on, dear. It's all right. No huhu."

"I told Jake I thought you had. He said, Oh, no, impossible, you slept like a log."

"I do except that I've reached the point in pregnancy where I sometimes get up to pee. But that wasn't it—Jake could be most anywhere if he's not in bed and I never check on him. What I spotted wasn't proof. Just that a man has a way of looking at a woman he's sure of. And vice versa. Nothing anybody could object to. Just ‘not uptight' describes it as well as any. I'm not even mildly jealous of Jake, it simply pleased me. Knowing how sweet you can be for a man—remember, I used to be a man—"

"I know. But I don't really believe it."

"I have to believe it and can't ever forget it. Knowing you, I felt smugly pleased for my husband. Tell me, have you made a Three Circle with Jake? Money Hum?"

"Oh, yes, always!"

"Next time—at your studio—it will be a Four Circle. Then our Quartet will harmonize perfectly and no one will ever be uptight again."

"Yes. Yes!"

"In the meantime you're not going to have to put up with this great big scary ocean even one more night. We won't anchor, I'll have Tom call for a copter—say for right after lunch. It'll put you down at La Jolla International and you'll jet straight home—copter pilot will see to things for you and Tom will have your reservations—and you'll be home and flashing a pack in your own studio before you can say ‘Time Zone.' Feel better?"

"Uh, I feel like a heel but—yes, I do. Oh, golly, Joan, I'm so homesick!"

"You'll be home today. I'm going to find Tom and have him get things rolling. Then I'll go tell Jake—and tell him why, he'll understand—and relieve him at the wheel, and tell him he can find you in your stateroom. If you have the nerve of a mouse, little alley cat from the big city, you'll bolt the door and tell him good-bye properly. Uh—Troy? Or twosome?"

"Oh. Troy. Of course."

"Then find Joe and tell him. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. But Gigi—that painting of Eve. I must buy it."

"No, we'll give it to you."

"We settled that long ago. Joe can give me anything else, but not paintings. I must pay for it because I want it to be a present from me to my husband. Now kiss me and run, dear."

The Pussy Cat with her sails dowsed rocked gently on a light sea. Fifty feet above her tallest stick a copter hovered while again lowering a passenger-freight basket. Tom Finchley stood far aft and coached the copter pilot with hand signals. Mr. and Mrs. Branca had already disappeared into the copter cabin, having gone up on the first trip, but their baggage was on the weather deck, waiting to be loaded.

There was quite a pile. Joan had urged them to fetch along "everything you could possibly need for a month or longer—for painting especially, as there will be lots of bodies around—and any of them will model... or I'll have them lashed to a grating and flogged, then make them walk the plank. Joe darling, you can do big romantic pix if you wish—pirate scenes with lush victims and leering scoundrels. Fun?"

She had sent the invitation by MercServ with tickets and an air-freight order and instructions to MercServ to supply a reader for the message. Joe had taken her literally; he seemed to have cleared out his studio——flood lamps, spots, easels, a heavy roll of canvas, stretchers, cameras, photo equipment and supplies, assorted impedimenta—and one bag each for clothes and personal articles. Seeing what Joe had fetched, Joan was glad that she had ordered a Brink's to get them to the jetport and was careful today to have one meet them at the far end.

The basket took up a load of baggage, came back for the last. Fred and Della's sixteen-year-old, Hank, an eager but untrained deck-hand, were loading taking turns keeping the basket from spinning while the other placed items in it.

Soon they had it alt in but one large case, when a gust of wind disturbed the uneasy balance between copter and surface craft. The basket swung wildly; Fred let go and danced aside while Hank went fiat to the deck to keep from being hit by it.

Fred recovered and again braced the basket, now ten feet farther forward. Joan Eunice grabbed the handle of the last case, then used both hands. "Whew! I think Joe packed the anchor in this one."

Jake yelled, "Eunice! Don't lift that! You want to miscarry?" He grabbed it from her, started for the basket.

Hank was on his feet again. "Here, Captain, I'll get that!"

"Out of my way, son." Jake trudged to the basket, found it too high, got the case into his arms, then up onto one shoulder, placed it carefully inside—and collapsed. Joan rushed to him.

Back aft, Tom Finchley noted when the last item went in, looked up at the copter's pilot and signaled "Hoist away!" and added the hand signal for "That's all—on your way!"

Then he looked down—and started to run.

Joan sat down on the deck, took Jake's head and shoulders to her.

"Jake, Jake darling!" (Eunice! Help me!)

Fred said, "I'll get the Doc!" and rushed for a companionway. The boy stood helplessly by. Salomon gave a long bubbling sigh and all his sphincters relaxed. (Eunice! Where is he?) (Boss, 1 can't find him!) (You've got to find him! He can't be far.) (What in hell?) (Here he is, here he is! Jake!) (Eunice, what happened? Somebody slammed me in the side of the head with a brick.) (Does it hurt, darling?) (Of course it doesn't hurt, Boss, not now. It can't. Welcome aboard, Melancholy Jacques you lovin' old bastard! Oh, boy, am I glad to see you!) (Yes, welcome home, darling. My darling. Our darling.) (Eunice?) (No, I'm Eunice, Jock. Old cocky Jock. That's Joan. Or Johann. Or Boss. No, Joan is ‘Boss' only to me; you'd better call her ‘Joan.' Look,