thought as he and Sandra made their entrance.
Babs was dressed in a modish grave-shroud and had grey circles painted around her eyes. She took Steve by both hands and gazed soulfully at him. The effect was astonishing.
“Babs!” Steve grinned at her. “You’re marvellous. You’re quite the most hideous woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Continental as ever, aren’t you? Hello, Sandra. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Check!”
“Oh!” said Babs. “I had an idea that’s the way it was. Come and meet people.”
They went. Sandra stayed close to his elbow like a President’s secretary, whispering names, thumbnail sketches, and comebacks; nudging, covering up, and ordering retreats. Time and again she subtly changed the subject; time and again Steve grew conveniently deaf. They carried it off well.
Wherever Steve went he was surrounded by an admiring mob. Dubois’s surgery was unparalleled. He was asked a thousand and one questions about it, and congratulated a thousand times. It was in just such a group that he sensed a malignant and unpleasant stare. Turning, he looked at the man beside him.
He was quite the slimiest-looking individual Steve Roupe had ever seen. He had small eyes and a mouth oddly pointed at the corners. He was wall-eyed and flat-faced, and his dark skin shone liquidly. He had too many pointed little teeth.
Steve squeezed Sandra’s arm, and she followed his eyes. They broke away from the group.
“Who’s the greasy gentleman?”
“Goyaz. Your private enemy number one.”
“Oh? What seems to be his trouble?”
Sandra giggled. “Last year you called him a ______.” She whispered it in his ear. “He sued you for defamation of character and you proved that it was true.”
Steve looked over his shoulder at Goyaz. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were … Sandra, he makes me feel—oh, I don’t know.”
Alarmed by the sudden flare in his eyes, Sandra asked, “Steve! Steve, what is it?”
His brain began to rock. Up. Down. There was a light in his eyes … “Shark …”
She shook his arm. “Steve! Darling! Snap out of it!”
His face was white and she knew he didn’t hear.
“Let’s get out of here.” She piloted him to the door, where they bumped into Babs. “My god!” she shrilled. “You’re not going? You can’t do this to me!” And before Sandra could stop her, “Hey, everybody! Steve’s running out on us!”
“Shut up!” hissed Sandra, too late. “He’s sick!”
They crowded over, Goyaz with them. As he approached Steve left the floor in a great arc. Never had any of them seen a leap like that. He hit Goyaz before he hit the floor, and Goyaz skittered across the room on his back. Steve lay where he had fallen, flopping, flopping, making a noise like a baby crying …
They took him home, those shaken, frightened people, and left him alone with Sandra.
For two weeks he lay like a log, unmoving, silent. Sandra and a trained nurse cared for him, fed him, bathed him. And gradually he regained his senses. He was Stephen Roupe again, but he was a frightened, trembling travesty of himself. But under Sandra’s care he slowly returned to normal, with but occasional attacks of weakness.
They were married soon after that, and they sailed on the
Trigger
for a leisurely coastwise trip, casually exploring Florida’s thousand and one lovely inlets. Sea and sun and quiet completed the cure, and that could be the happy ending.
But there was one thing more. One afternoon they outran a tanker, heading south in ballast.
She was old, but she was clean. She was a well-decker, with a high poop and midship house. The gang on deck were chipping; they could hear the roar of her pneumatic hammers. As they drew abreast, a deep-toned bell rang twice, calling the 4 to 8 watch to relieve the 12 to 4. Its sound echoed and re-echoed in his brain, and the mental reflex of years of training made him look over his shoulder to look for his relief. But instead
Babs was dressed in a modish grave-shroud and had grey circles painted around her eyes. She took Steve by both hands and gazed soulfully at him. The effect was astonishing.
“Babs!” Steve grinned at her. “You’re marvellous. You’re quite the most hideous woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Continental as ever, aren’t you? Hello, Sandra. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Check!”
“Oh!” said Babs. “I had an idea that’s the way it was. Come and meet people.”
They went. Sandra stayed close to his elbow like a President’s secretary, whispering names, thumbnail sketches, and comebacks; nudging, covering up, and ordering retreats. Time and again she subtly changed the subject; time and again Steve grew conveniently deaf. They carried it off well.
Wherever Steve went he was surrounded by an admiring mob. Dubois’s surgery was unparalleled. He was asked a thousand and one questions about it, and congratulated a thousand times. It was in just such a group that he sensed a malignant and unpleasant stare. Turning, he looked at the man beside him.
He was quite the slimiest-looking individual Steve Roupe had ever seen. He had small eyes and a mouth oddly pointed at the corners. He was wall-eyed and flat-faced, and his dark skin shone liquidly. He had too many pointed little teeth.
Steve squeezed Sandra’s arm, and she followed his eyes. They broke away from the group.
“Who’s the greasy gentleman?”
“Goyaz. Your private enemy number one.”
“Oh? What seems to be his trouble?”
Sandra giggled. “Last year you called him a ______.” She whispered it in his ear. “He sued you for defamation of character and you proved that it was true.”
Steve looked over his shoulder at Goyaz. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were … Sandra, he makes me feel—oh, I don’t know.”
Alarmed by the sudden flare in his eyes, Sandra asked, “Steve! Steve, what is it?”
His brain began to rock. Up. Down. There was a light in his eyes … “Shark …”
She shook his arm. “Steve! Darling! Snap out of it!”
His face was white and she knew he didn’t hear.
“Let’s get out of here.” She piloted him to the door, where they bumped into Babs. “My god!” she shrilled. “You’re not going? You can’t do this to me!” And before Sandra could stop her, “Hey, everybody! Steve’s running out on us!”
“Shut up!” hissed Sandra, too late. “He’s sick!”
They crowded over, Goyaz with them. As he approached Steve left the floor in a great arc. Never had any of them seen a leap like that. He hit Goyaz before he hit the floor, and Goyaz skittered across the room on his back. Steve lay where he had fallen, flopping, flopping, making a noise like a baby crying …
They took him home, those shaken, frightened people, and left him alone with Sandra.
For two weeks he lay like a log, unmoving, silent. Sandra and a trained nurse cared for him, fed him, bathed him. And gradually he regained his senses. He was Stephen Roupe again, but he was a frightened, trembling travesty of himself. But under Sandra’s care he slowly returned to normal, with but occasional attacks of weakness.
They were married soon after that, and they sailed on the
Trigger
for a leisurely coastwise trip, casually exploring Florida’s thousand and one lovely inlets. Sea and sun and quiet completed the cure, and that could be the happy ending.
But there was one thing more. One afternoon they outran a tanker, heading south in ballast.
She was old, but she was clean. She was a well-decker, with a high poop and midship house. The gang on deck were chipping; they could hear the roar of her pneumatic hammers. As they drew abreast, a deep-toned bell rang twice, calling the 4 to 8 watch to relieve the 12 to 4. Its sound echoed and re-echoed in his brain, and the mental reflex of years of training made him look over his shoulder to look for his relief. But instead
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