"I think Mr. Jarolic is applauding your formidable powers of retention," the ambassador retorted pleasantly. "Which certainly have me willing to throw in the towel here and now."
Hawkes feigned rising to leave, but Waters stretched out her hand toward him, begging, "Oh no, please stay. Please try."
"Come on. Ambassador," the captain added. "After all, you can't win them all."
"Well, now there's a bitter truth," answered Hawkes, his eyes narrowing. Deciding that perhaps his little voice was right and that he had stayed in his room a bit too much, he continued, saying, "But I suppose a round or two wouldn't hurt. If you promise to go easy on an old man."
"First topic, diplomats and diplomacy," said Mrs. Waters quickly. When Hawkes made to protest, she said, "Now, Ambassador, you asked us to take it easy on you. How much more generous could we be?"
Hawkes smiled. The woman was somewhat younger than he—he guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid to late forties. She was plump and had worn more jewelry than the night called for, but something within her easy manner and sincerity had touched the ambassador. Raising both his eyebrows to her in mock surrender, he said, "Well . . . diplomats it is."
"Oliver Herford," said Pensaval immediately.
" 'Diplomacy: lying in state,' " offered the captain.
Everyone at the table applauded politely. Pensaval nodded, conceding the point to the captain. The older man nodded, then threw out a name of his own. "Alexander Woollcott."
" 'Babies in silk hats playing with dynamite,' " Hawkes responded. Again the table applauded. Hawkes shut his eyes for a moment, then said, "Peter Ustinov."
Everyone stared blankly. Sherman scratched at his head as if he had an idea who the person named might be. Hawkes gave them all a hint. "He was an actor from England . . . died about sixty years ago."
" 'A diplomat these days,' " started Martel, haltingly, " 'is nothing more than a headwaiter . . . who's allowed to sit down occasionally.' "
Everyone laughed politely.
"Close enough," the ambassador granted. His aide smiled, then offered a name of her own.
"American president John F. Kennedy."
" 'Let us never negotiate out of fear,' " responded Jar-olic, " 'but let us never fear to negotiate.' " When Martel conceded that the environmental researcher had taken the point, he smiled and threw out another name: "Trygve Lie."
Everyone stared blankly except Hawkes. He gave the table a polite handful of seconds, then said, " 'A real diplomat is one who can cut his neighbor's throat without having his neighbor notice it."
Everyone clapped politely again. Hawkes gave the table the name James Reston to chew on. Jarolic swallowed the bit, responding, " 'This is the devilish thing about foreign affairs: they are foreign and will not always conform to our whims.' " Not even waiting for acknowledgment that he had gotten the quote correct, Jarolic gave out another name: "Admiral Bill Kimball."
Not waiting either, the ambassador responded immediately, " 'He lied, I knew he lied, and he knew I lied. That was diplomacy.' "
Waters gave out a gasp at the speed with which the two men were playing each other. The rest of the party settled back, seeing the obvious, changing over from participants to observers. Having taken the point, Hawkes offered, "Joe Stalin, Soviet dictator during—"
Jarolic cut the ambassador off, answering, " 'Sincere diplomacy is no more possible than dry water or wooden iron.' " The environmental researcher took a quick breath, then threw out, "Daniele Vare."
" 'Diplomacy is the art of letting someone have your way.' "
Hawkes watched Jarolic's face as the man granted the ambassador his point. He had known the nasty quotes would have to start coming sooner or later. The art of diplomacy was not one well understood by the general public. Like politicians and lawyers, abuses by the worst members of the profession made everyone suspect.
But Hawkes was not worried about having to dance around some outsider's snide attacks. Fencing with loudmouths and bullies was standard operating procedure for any career corps person. Every formal dinner managed to produce at least one. Perhaps, thought the ambassador, Jarolic's just this party's designated boor.
As lightly as he wished he could take the game, however, Hawkes had a sneaking suspicion that there was more to it than that. The ambassador had attended too many dinners and battled verbally with far too many opponents to not have a better understanding of such situations. Jarolic seemed openly hostile. The corners of his eyes were too meanly crinkled. His smile, his eyes, his rate of breathing—everything indicated to Hawkes's well-trained mind that the man was on the attack.
Why? wondered the ambassador, staring at Jarolic. What's your problem?
Hawkes nodded politely as the researcher granted the last point to the ambassador. At the same time, one of the captain's officers came up to the table. Immediately Hawkes's attention was stolen away. Although no one else at the table seemed aware of it, there was a tension in this man's approach that no member of the crew had displayed throughout the entire trip.
Everyone waited politely for the captain to receive his message. The others around the table were all curious, of course. Far beyond curious, Hawkes felt himself slipping over into apprehension as he watched the captain's face. The man was trying hard to keep himself from betraying what he was being told. He was not particularly good at it.
It's not internal, thought the ambassador, watching the two men talk in whispers at the other end of the table. This is nothing he and the crew can control. It's external.
Hawkes ran over the possibilities in his mind: communications interference, meteors, a distress call, a comet . . . he knew it was none of those. Watching the captain tighten his face and narrow his eyes, the ambassador's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.
Pirates, he thought.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the captain, standing from
