"Captain."

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Let's bust up this wake. People should not stand around moping. Meal hours have become disorganized; can Hester throw together some cold supper quickly? Perhaps with volunteer help? I'd volunteer but I have something to do." (Oho! The Tom Cat. Jock, this is going to be fun.) (Lively Legs, is there a man in this vessel you gals haven't spread for?) (Oh, sure, Jock honey. Hank. He's got his eye on Eve and thinks we're an old hag. And now that her Uncle Jock has left her, Eve might trip him.) (Now that I'm dead, I regret having resisted that delicious little jailbait. Wouldn't have cost me more than a million to buy my way out of trouble—and I had a rich wife.) (If you two lechers will shut up a moment, I'll set you straight about something. Not Thomas Cattus. Certainly not before the midwatch and could be later with this wind against us. Captain Tom Finchley is going to be busy skippering.) "Captain, I want you to get way on and set basic course for San Clemente Island anchorage."

"Yes, Ma'am." He trailed after her, and added softly, "I better start calling you ‘Captain' now. Set an example."

She stopped. They were sufficiently alone that she could speak privately by lowering her voice. "Tom Cat."

"Yes?"

"Don't call me ‘Captain'—you are Captain until I've passed my tests. Then we'll see. And don't call me ‘Ma'am.' I'm either ‘Mrs. Salomon' or ‘Joan,' depending on the company, just as before. But in private I'm still your ‘Pussy Cat'. I hope I am."

"Well...okay."

"Let's hear you say it."

"Pussy Cat. Brave little Pussy Cat. Puss, you surprise me more, longer I know you."

"That's better. Torn Cat, Jake knew all along about your tomcatting with me." (Oh, what a lie! Eunice, she never told me—and I suspected only once and decided I was mistaken.) (I know, Jock. Boss is a deceitful one and not at; all truthful and besides she tells fibs even to me.)

"He did?"

"Yes, Thomas Cattus. But Jake Salomon was a true gentleman and saw only what he was expected to see. He never teased me about my little follies. Simply indulged me. But he didn't tell on himself, either. Do you know if he ever made it with Hester?" (Now see here, Johann—) (Pipe~ down, Jock; I've wondered, too.)

"Uh... hell, Pussy, all men are alike, all after the same thing."

"And all women are alike, we've all got it. Well?"

"Hester spread for him first chance we gave ‘em. But she didn't tell me. Ashamed. Had to catch ‘em at it, then twist her arm."

"Surely you didn't hurt her?"

"No, no, Puss, I don't rough a broad, never. Didn't catch ‘em, not to hurt, neither. Backed out fast—then asked later. Told her I knew for certain, so how about coming clean, was all. She did. She hadn't told me—because of you."

"Oh. I trust you then told her about me?"

Her sailing master looked horrified. "Pussy, you think I'm out o' my frimpin' head? Look, I like what you got, just fine. But I ain't foolish. I don't rat on broads. If I did, you'd be last on the list. Believe."

"Tell Hester if you wish, dear; it can't matter now. Then at some later time, she would not be surprised if she found me doing what widows so often do." (‘They don't tell, they don't yell, they rarely swell—and they're grateful as hell.') (Jock, you're a dirty old ghost.) "Well, let's set our course. What ETA, Tom Cat? If it's later than midnight, I'll relieve you for the midwatch."

"You will like hell, Ma'am—Pussy Cat. You sack in a full night, you need it. I'll put Fred on the wheel now and Hank on lookout—and I'll drag a corking mat back near the helm and catch some sack drill till we get close in. Pussy Cat, you've got to promise me you'll stay in your cabin. Not go wandering around, I'll think you're meaning to jump overboard."

"Is that an order, Captain?"

"Uh—yes, damn it, that's an order!"

"Aye aye, sir. It won't be necessary to check on me; I'll be in my cabin, door locked, and I will be asleep. I promise not to jump overboard earlier than tomorrow night."

"Pussy Cat, you wouldn't jump? Would you?"

"With Jake's baby inside me? Captain, I do have a concept of duty. Until I have this baby, my life is not my own. I not only must not suicide—I would not in any case—but I must also keep calm and happy and healthy and not risk so much as a dirty drinking glass. So don't worry about me. Good night, Tom." She headed for the cabin.

(Nothing doing at that shop tonight, partners—we're faced with nobility. I think Anton is our best bet.) (The Passionate Pole! Jock darling, I'm not sure your heart can stand it.) (Fortunately, my dears, my old pump no longer has to stand anything—and the one you turned over to Joan, Eunice, is a Swiss watch among tickers. Doesn't race even when she is racing. But you know that.) (Quit chattering, you two. Either of you have any idea how to get Olga out of the way?)

(Push her overboard?) (Eunice!) (Can't I joke, Boss? I like Olga, she's a nice girl.) (Too nice, that's the problem. Not a tart like you, or me—or Hester.) (Hrrrmph!) (Jake, you're not in court, dear. The subject is tail. Mine. Ours, I mean.) (Johann, I simply wanted to say that, if you took our problem directly to Mrs. Dabrowski, you might find her sympathetic. I always found her so.)

(Jake! Are you implying that you've had Olga? I don't believe it.) (I don't either, Jock. If you had said ‘Eve' I would have boggled—but would have believed you. But Olga? Hell, she wears a panty even in the pool.) (Which comes off very easily—in private.)

(Eunice, I think he means it. Well, I'll be damned! You and I are pikers. ‘Me' at's off ‘to the Duke.' All right, Jake—tell us how to go about it.) (About what? Getting her out of the way? Just ask her, she's very sympathetic—and felt my death more than you wenches have.) (Jock, that's not fair. We felt it...but we're overjoyed that you decided to stay anyhow.)

(Thank you, my dears. Conversely, if you would like to invite her in—) (Do you mean a Troy?) (I understand that such is the current argot, Eunice; in my youth we called it something else. But wouldn't it be more of a Pentagon? Five?)

(The word is ‘Star' today, Jock. But let me give you the first rule of happy ghosting. You must never, never, never admit that you are here, nor tease Joan to admit it. Because she might get groused and do so. Whereupon Joan would wind up in a shrink factory—with us along—and there go our happy games. Look, you've been married to Joan quite a while now and jumping her even longer—did you ever suspect that I was present, too?) (Not once.) (You see? Don't admit it and they leave us alone.)

(Eunice, Jake would never let on. But now about Olga—Jake, did you ever teach her Om Mani?) (No.) (Boss, I begin to see. We've taught it to Anton, Jock. Is Ol­ga limber enough to sit in Lotus?) (Lively Legs, Mrs. Dabrowski is limber enough for anything.) (That does it, Joan. Olga will join in, even if she thinks it's heathen—tonight she will. For you. And there is no easier way to get a party peeled down and rolling than by forming a Circle. You've done it again and again.) (As I recall, dears, Joan even used it on me. When it was hardly necessary. Okay, let's find the Dabrowskis.)