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By Root 682 0

the damage and were even now putting it to rights – and such an absence of persons in authority to whom one might turn that it was possible to imagine the man in the golfing jacket had spoken no more than the truth when presupposing we were victims of a hoax. In part, this lack of communication was due to the awesome size of the wounded ship. It was simply not possible to keep everyone abreast of events. An accident at the summit of a mountain is hardly observable from the slopes. For the rest, what was Smith expected to do? Should he appear on the landing of the Grand Staircase beneath that rococo clock whose hands now stood at twenty-five to one in the morning and announce that in spite of the watertight compartments, the indestructible bulkheads, the unimaginable technology, the unthinkable was in process and his unsinkable vessel, now doomed, unfortunately carried insufficient life-boats to accommodate all on board?

Ginsberg was still in his armchair opposite the elevator, still clutching a handkerchief to his nose. An unknown girl was chatting to him; he introduced her but the loudness of the band blotted out her name. She had an enormous expanse of brow, beneath which her features sat truncated like those of an infant’s; it was possibly on account of her hair being dragged back in a fearsome bun. She said, without preamble, that she had known for several years past, from dreams and such like, that it was her destiny to drown. She spoke of it quite calmly and without resorting to melodrama. Her doctor had dismissed her condition as no more than nerves; her mother had enrolled her in the local tennis club, in the hopes that strenuous exercise in the fresh air would banish such fancies. She had become quite exceptionally adroit on the courts, but the dreams persisted.

‘There is nothing to worry about,’ I said. ‘I myself have been plagued by nightmares. I’m convinced they consist of memories of the past rather than portents of the future.’

Ginsberg was leaning back in his chair, breathing like a man recovering from a record-breaking run round the tracks. Hopper asked what was wrong and he explained he was afflicted with asthma. It came on sometimes without reason. His handkerchief was smeared with a concoction of honey obtained from a bee-keeper in a Shaker community in Massachusetts and would do the trick shortly. I thought it was an inspired excuse and fancied he was in a blue funk.

It was then that I realised I hadn’t seen Charlie Melchett since the interruption to our game of bridge. In Hopper’s opinion it was probable he’d galloped off to play knight errant to the Ellery sisters and Molly Dodge. I made my excuses to the girl with the forehead and went looking for him. Lady Melchett, but six weeks before, had drawn me to one side and entreated me to keep an eye on her boy. ‘He is so very fond of you,’ she’d said. ‘He looks up to you.’ ‘You may rely on me,’ I’d told her, fighting off those damn dogs threatening to lick my face away.

I ran him to earth quite quickly, standing in the deserted gymnasium gazing out at the shadowy deck. The funnels continued intermittently to release those deafening blasts of steam and though the sound was muted by the glass I had to shout to draw his attention. He didn’t turn round. ‘Why does it keep on with that ghastly noise?’ he asked.

‘It’s a bit like a train,’ I said.

‘I thought I saw a ship out there a few minutes ago.’

‘I expect it’s coming to assist us.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s stopped moving. Perhaps it’s just starlight.’

‘You ought to fetch your life-preserver,’ I said. ‘I’ve got mine on.’

‘I will . . . soon. I needed to mull things over. I should have liked—’ The gush of steam started up again; when it had died away he was still rabbiting on and I reckoned he was speaking of his father— ‘. . . I know he’s fond of me but it worries him how I’ll face up to things when he’s gone. I’m not brainy and I don’t often think of anything downright important. My mother dotes on me, and that’s rather held me back. I’ve never had to go it alone, not like some chaps. Not that I’d want