either.
* * *
Ten or twelve hours later, their captain shouted up at the ship, making a trumpet of his hands. After what seemed a long wait, a dark-faced man with a thin mustache looked over the side. “You desire to come on board?”
“Yes!” Skip called. “Two passengers and an employee! We were left behind!”
The dark face vanished. Vanessa said, “What’s the matter with them?”
Skip was getting out his wallet. “I imagine they’re debating how to get us on board without stopping the ship.”
He had paid the owner when the dark face reappeared. “You, señor. You first. Then the other man. Then the women.”
“Whatever became of women and children first?” Vanessa muttered.
Chelle said, “They don’t want to be accused of feeling us up afterward. Do we want Achille, Skip?”
He shook his head. “I’ll tell them when I get on board.”
A rope was thrown into the fishing boat and tied to a mast. After fifteen minutes or more it became the monorail of a canvas contrivance resembling a pair of trousers.
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “I thought they’d lower a boat for us.”
Without replying, Skip stepped over the broad ring that formed the waistband, and pulled it up. A moment later, ring and trousers pulled him up, moving him almost horizontally at first, then higher and higher until two swarthy men grabbed him and heaved him across the Main Deck railing.
The man with the thin mustache was leaning against a bulkhead; his arms cradled a submachine gun. “Your cabin number, señor?”
“Twenty-three C.”
“Ah! You are rich. We will discuss your ransom tomorrow, I think. Sit down.” The man with the mustache gestured with the barrel of his submachine gun. “Over there.”
Skip sat, and watched as the canvas contrivance was sent down its rope again. “You’re hijackers, aren’t you?”
The man with the submachine gun pointed it at him. “¡Silencio!”
Achille was next up. He put the point of a hook through the cheek of one of the men who had pulled him up, and was knocked down and kicked repeatedly.
Vanessa followed; she seemed to grasp the situation immediately, and explained that she had very little money. “Technically, I’m just a petty officer. I’m Virginia Healy, the social director, and a citizen of the North American Union.”
The man with the thin mustache made her a mock salute with his submachine gun. “As I, señora, am not.”
“May I go to my cabin? I’ll stay there, if that’s what you want.”
“No, señora. Sit beside that man.”
“Him?” Vanessa hesitated, looking at Skip. “I was on the boat with him, Señor…?”
“Del Valle, señora. Su servidor .”
“He’s really quite unpleasant, Del. I would prefer—”
“¡Abajo!”
Vanessa sat, and Skip watched the canvas contrivance go over the rail once more. “Do me a favor,” he whispered.
“I apologize for being so nasty, I only wanted him to think—”
“Put both hands behind your back. Like mine.”
“We weren’t in cahoots.” Vanessa’s hands moved as she spoke.
“Good,” Skip whispered.
The contrivance returned bearing Chelle. She cleared the railing, and the ring supporting the canvas trousers fell at her feet.
The man with the submachine gun smiled slyly. “I fear, señora, that—”
He staggered backward, dropping his submachine gun. There were more shots, two or three coming so quickly that Skip could not count them, although afterward it seemed to him that everything had taken place in slow motion: Chelle drawing from inside her loose blue blouse; blood oozing from a hole in a man’s face to soak his thin mustache; two men falling toward each other, so that their dying bodies nearly collided; Skip himself struggling to get to his feet, hampered by air far thicker than water.
He stumbled across the deck to the submachine gun and scooped it up.
The deck thundered, pounded by running feet. He felt, rather than heard, another shot and saw the first
* * *
Ten or twelve hours later, their captain shouted up at the ship, making a trumpet of his hands. After what seemed a long wait, a dark-faced man with a thin mustache looked over the side. “You desire to come on board?”
“Yes!” Skip called. “Two passengers and an employee! We were left behind!”
The dark face vanished. Vanessa said, “What’s the matter with them?”
Skip was getting out his wallet. “I imagine they’re debating how to get us on board without stopping the ship.”
He had paid the owner when the dark face reappeared. “You, señor. You first. Then the other man. Then the women.”
“Whatever became of women and children first?” Vanessa muttered.
Chelle said, “They don’t want to be accused of feeling us up afterward. Do we want Achille, Skip?”
He shook his head. “I’ll tell them when I get on board.”
A rope was thrown into the fishing boat and tied to a mast. After fifteen minutes or more it became the monorail of a canvas contrivance resembling a pair of trousers.
Vanessa raised her eyebrows. “I thought they’d lower a boat for us.”
Without replying, Skip stepped over the broad ring that formed the waistband, and pulled it up. A moment later, ring and trousers pulled him up, moving him almost horizontally at first, then higher and higher until two swarthy men grabbed him and heaved him across the Main Deck railing.
The man with the thin mustache was leaning against a bulkhead; his arms cradled a submachine gun. “Your cabin number, señor?”
“Twenty-three C.”
“Ah! You are rich. We will discuss your ransom tomorrow, I think. Sit down.” The man with the mustache gestured with the barrel of his submachine gun. “Over there.”
Skip sat, and watched as the canvas contrivance was sent down its rope again. “You’re hijackers, aren’t you?”
The man with the submachine gun pointed it at him. “¡Silencio!”
Achille was next up. He put the point of a hook through the cheek of one of the men who had pulled him up, and was knocked down and kicked repeatedly.
Vanessa followed; she seemed to grasp the situation immediately, and explained that she had very little money. “Technically, I’m just a petty officer. I’m Virginia Healy, the social director, and a citizen of the North American Union.”
The man with the thin mustache made her a mock salute with his submachine gun. “As I, señora, am not.”
“May I go to my cabin? I’ll stay there, if that’s what you want.”
“No, señora. Sit beside that man.”
“Him?” Vanessa hesitated, looking at Skip. “I was on the boat with him, Señor…?”
“Del Valle, señora. Su servidor .”
“He’s really quite unpleasant, Del. I would prefer—”
“¡Abajo!”
Vanessa sat, and Skip watched the canvas contrivance go over the rail once more. “Do me a favor,” he whispered.
“I apologize for being so nasty, I only wanted him to think—”
“Put both hands behind your back. Like mine.”
“We weren’t in cahoots.” Vanessa’s hands moved as she spoke.
“Good,” Skip whispered.
The contrivance returned bearing Chelle. She cleared the railing, and the ring supporting the canvas trousers fell at her feet.
The man with the submachine gun smiled slyly. “I fear, señora, that—”
He staggered backward, dropping his submachine gun. There were more shots, two or three coming so quickly that Skip could not count them, although afterward it seemed to him that everything had taken place in slow motion: Chelle drawing from inside her loose blue blouse; blood oozing from a hole in a man’s face to soak his thin mustache; two men falling toward each other, so that their dying bodies nearly collided; Skip himself struggling to get to his feet, hampered by air far thicker than water.
He stumbled across the deck to the submachine gun and scooped it up.
The deck thundered, pounded by running feet. He felt, rather than heard, another shot and saw the first
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