sorrow they all felt for a great ship in mortal distress.
To every single man on the bridge of Warlock, a ship was a living thing
for which at best they could feel love and admiration; even the dirtiest
old tramp roused a grudging affection. But Golden Adventurer was like a
lovely woman. She was something rare and special, and all of them felt
it.
For Nick Berg, the bond was much more deeply felt. She was child of his
inspiration, he had watched her lines take shape on the naval
architect's drawing-board, he had seen her keel laid and her bare
skeleton fleshed out with lovingly worked steel, and he had watched the
woman who had once been his wife speak the blessing and then smash the
bottle against her bows, laughing in the sunlight while the wine spurted
and frothed.
She was his ship, and now, as he would never have believed possible, his
destiny depended upon her.
He looked away from her at last to where La Mouette waited in the mouth
of the bay at the edge of the ice. In contrast to the liner, she was
small and squat and ugly, like a wrestler with all the weight in his
shoulders. Greasy black smoke rose straight into the pale sky from her
single stack, and her hull seemed to be painted the same greasy black,
Through his glasses, Nick saw the sudden bustle of activity on her
bridge as Warlock burst into view. The headland would have blanketed La
Mouette's radar and, with Nicks strict radio silence this would be the
first time Jules Levoisin knew of Warlock's presence. Nick could
imagine the consternation on her navigation bridge, and he noted wryly
that Jules Levoisin had not even gone through the motions of putting a
line on to Golden Adventurer. He must have been completely sure of
himself, of his unopposed presence. In maritime law, a line on to a
prize's hull bestowed certain rights, and Jules should have made the
gesture.
Get La Mouette in clear/ he instructed, and picked up the hand
microphone as the Trog nodded to him.
Salut Jules, 9a va? You pot-bellied little pirate, haven't they caught
and hung you yet? Nick asked kindly in French, and there was a long
disbelieving silence on Channel 16 before the fruity Gallic tones boomed
from the overhead speaker.
Admiral James Bond, I think? and Jules chuckled, but unconvincingly. Is
that a battle-ship or a floating whorehouse? You always were a fancy
boy, Nicholas, but what kept you so long? I expected to get a better run
for MY money. Three things you taught me, mon brave: the first was to
take nothing for granted; the second was to keep your big yap shut tight
when running for a prize; and the third was to put a line on it when you
got there - you've broken your own rules, Jules. The line is nothing. I
am arrived. And I old friend, am arrived also. But the difference is
that I am Christy Marine's contractor. ITU ri goles! You are joking!
Jules was shocked. I heard nothing of this! I am not joking! Nick
told him.
My James Bond equipment lets me talk in private. But go ahead, call
Christy Marine and ask them - and while you are doing it, move that
dirty old greaser of yours out the way. I've got work to do. Nick
