shipmates, let's get this Troy straight before we get tangled up in our feet. Joan, you call our husband ‘Jake' same as always—while I'll call him ‘Jock' as I used to. Jock, you call Boss either ‘Joan' or ‘Johann' as suits you- and she's I either ‘Joan' or ‘Boss' to me. And I'm always—'Eunice' to either of you. Got it straight?)

(I'm confused.) (No huhu, Jock beloved, never any huhu again. You'll get used to it, I did. Joan has to drive while we'll sit back and neck and give advice. Tell him, Joan.) (Yes, Jake. You have us both now. Forever.) (Om Mani Padme Hum'.) (Om Mani Padme Hum. Join us, Jake. A Thanksgiving.) (Om Mani Padme Hum!) "Om Mani Padme Hum."

"Joan. Let me have him, dear." Dr. Garcia was bending over her.

She shook her head. "I'll hold him, Roberto." (Boss! Knock off the female kark and let dear Doctor work.) (Yes, Eunice. Hang on tight to Jake.) (Never fear, dear; I shall. Jock, can you see now? Out of Joan's eyes. We're going to move.) (Of course I can see. Who's that ugly old wreck? Me.!) (Of course not; that's just something we don't need any longer. Look away, Joan; you're upsetting Jock.)

"Fred, take her below. Hank, help him. Tom, I need Winnie. Get her."

Dr. Garcia found Joan in the saloon. She was lying down, a wet cloth over her forehead, with Olga Dabrowski seated I by her. Tom Finchley followed the doctor in, his face solemn. The Doctor said nothing, took Joan's wrist, glanced at his watch.

Then he said, "It's bad news, Joan."

"I know, Roberto. He was gone before I came down here. (He's not gone, Boss. Don't put it that way. Jock is dead, as dead as I am. But not gone. Right, Jock?) (I think you're splitting hairs Lively Legs—) (‘Lively Legs!' You haven't called me that in a long tune.) (How about last night?) (You called Joan that; you didn't call me that, not last night.) (Will you two keep quiet? Or at least whisper? I've got to cope.)

(Sorry, Boss. Jock darling, whisper to me very quietly. Is Joan better at it than I am?) (Eunice, I can still hear you—and you have your tenses mixed.) (Boss darling, there are no tenses in the eternal Now. I asked Jock a question—and he's too chicken to answer.) (I certainly am!) (Oh, well. With my equipment and my coaching. Joan is probably adequate by now. Plus a good start—you won't believe this, Jock, but Boss has the dirtiest mind. That lady-lady act is just an act.) (Twin, quit trying to get my goat. I'm busy, Roberto is worried about us.) (Sorry, twin. I'll be good.)

"Eunice, I want to make one thing clear. It would not have made any difference if it had happened ashore with all possible life-support at hand. Even with Dr. Hedrick at hand. Oh, we could have kept him alive—as a vegetable. Nothing else."

"Jake never wanted that, Robert; I've heard him say so, emphatically. He never approved of the way I was kept alive."

"The two cases are a hundred and eighty degrees apart, Joan. Your body was worn out but your brain was in good-shape. In Jake's case—well, I gave him that physical before we put to sea; his body was in fine shape, for his age. But I know what the autopsy will show: a massive rupture of a large blood vessel in his brain; he died at once. A cerebral ‘accident' we call it, because it's unpredictable. If it's any consolation, he didn't suffer."

(‘Didn't suffer,' eh? Try it, Bob—it felt like a kick in the head by a mule. But you're right, it was just one blow. Not even a headache, afterward.) (About the same for me, Jock darling, when I got it. Boss had a much rougher time, for years.) (What if I had? It's over now. Darlings, please keep quiet—we'll talk when they let us alone.)

"Doctor, there will be no autopsy."

"Joan, there should be an autopsy for your peace of mind."

"It won't bring Jake back and he wouldn't like it. As for my ‘peace of mind,' I have just one question. Was it... too much honeymoon?"

"Oh. No, just too many years. Joan, it wasn't even from lifting that heavy load. Let me explain this sort of

‘accident.' It's like a weak spot in an old-fashioned pneumatic tire, worn almost through and ready to blow out—then anything can trigger it. Jake could simply have stood up, and keeled over—today, tomorrow, last week. Oh, it can happen during intercourse, you often hear men say they want to die ‘while tearing off one last load.' But it's a horrible experience for the woman involved—and probably isn't a last orgasm anyhow, more likely he's chopped down just before it.

"Far better the way Jake got it, still virile—I assume—" (You know darn well Jock was ‘still virile.' Ask your wife. Ask Gigi. Hell, ask anybody.) (Eunice, was my behavior that blatant?) (Not blatant at all, Jock you lovin' old goat. But news gets around.)

"—or I should say ‘I know' as I was his physician. Jake was happy and strong and virile—and then he was through, like snipping a film. Don't worry about ‘too much honeymoon.' Getting married may have saved Jake years of hopeless senility. Or it may have chopped two weeks off his life as a small price for much happiness. But more likely it extended his life; a happy man functions better. Forget it, dear. When my time comes I hope I get it the way Jake got it—quickly, and happy to the end."

"Then there is no point in an autopsy, Roberto. Will you sign a death certificate?"

"Well... when death takes place not in a hospital and not under medical care, it is customary to notify the authorities and—"

"Roberto!"

"Yes, Joan?"

"You're not going to do that to Jake. Notify whom? Somebody in Washington? We're in Federal waters, and the coroner of San Diego County has no proper interest in this death. But he'd be likely to try to milk it for publicity, once he finds out who Jake is, who I am—and I shan't let that be done with Jake's death. Jake was under medical care—yours! You're our ship's surgeon. It might be that you saw him die. Think about it." (Joan, don't ask Bob to lie. It doesn't matter if some coroner has his M.E. chop me up.) (I shan't permit it! Besides, Jake, I'm pregnant. Do you want me to have to go through that? Crowds and questions and pulling and hauling and sleepless nights?) (Mmm... tell him to make it an airtight lie, dear.) (Boss is a stubborn bitch, Jock—but she's usually right.)

"Hmm—" Dr. Garcia took off his stethoscope, put it aside. "Now that you mention it, there was still some heart action after I reached him. Lacking means to determine the instant of brain failure, I am forced to take cessation of heart action as the moment of death." (That boy would make a good witness, girls—come to think about it, he did make a good witness at the identity hearings.)

"In that case, Doctor, it seems to me that the circumstances are not open to question—and you may be sure that I will spend any amount of money to keep anyone from turning Jake's death into a circus at any later time. I would like you to certify death and the circumstances and mail a copy to whatever Federal authority should be notified—when next we touch shore. No copy elsewhere, we have no permanent residence other than this vessel. Oh, mail a copy to Alec Train; he has Jake's will, he'll need one for probate. And be sure to supply Captain Finchley with a duplicate original for the log."

"All right, Joan, since that's the way you want it. And I agree: Here we have a natural death and there is no point in letting bureaucrats poke around in it. But—right now I want to give you something to make you sleep. Nothing much, just a heavy dose of tranquilizer."

"Roberto, what was my pulse?"

"That's none of a patient's business, Joan."

"It was seventy-two, dead on normal—I counted my heart beats during that thirty seconds from your first glance at your watch until you let go my wrist. I need no tranquilizers."