"You disappoint me, Chas. No bluff. No counter threats?"

"Very smart — your lot. Must have been working on me a long time. Flattering, ain't it? Little me!"

"Routine," said Mark. "We missed you the first time. Surface research was all we read. But all research is done at three levels. Two are not shown to people like me unless you are a principal. Suddenly, you become a principal. We almost know what baby food you ate. There won't be any ten thousand dollars. And we have photographs and tape equipment too."

"You forgot something, sonny. My religion allows me all the wives I can keep. The law around these parts is kind of tolerant of my religion. So that'll still be ten thousand dollars."

"Only two things wrong with that, has. You married the Palaga one under Palaga laws. Maybe you'd even get out of that. But you forgot to tell any of them about the others. We wouldn't bother the law with it. Wouldn't need to. We are already arranging a pleasant all-expenses-paid trip to Palaga for Mrs. de Witt, Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Sale. We'll deliver them all to Mrs. Salisbury and let them sort it out. Or should I say — let them sort you out?"

Chas ground the butt of 'his cigarette with his heel.

"Diabolical," he said, still smiling. "Dia-bloomin-bolical! That's you, mate! It'd be a nice old howdedo, wouldn't it?"

"I can imagine. Scared now, Chas?"

"Nah! Not scared. A bit annoyed, like." He shrugged. "Okay — you win. No ten thousand dollars."

"And no shark bait?"

"You're safe, sonny. From me, anyway. You don't have very nice friends."

"They could be real nice to you — the keeper of a thousand secrets. You wouldn't even miss a couple."

"Such as?"

"This ship is virtually under charter, isn't it?"

"Could be."

"Registered in Palaga by a Palaga company — making routine calls around the islands, carrying normal cargo and a few passengers. Why bother to charter? Why take on a strong-arm crew?"

"Ask 'em yourself."

"Who?"

"The Padracks. It'll be the last question you ask. And I'll keep this tape just to prove I warned you."

Mark frowned. "This puts me at risk again, Chas."

"Well, you shouldn't be so damned nosey, should you? But don't worry, sonny. I'll give you a trade. You're trying to uncover something, aren't you? Something big. Same as the Swede, only they got on to him. You saved him. I reckon the girl's in with you too, One of them comical outfits — Auntie or Uncle, or somesuch, ain't you? No skin off my nose. I'm me. I've had enough of organizations — had a bellyful of 'em — so I just don't want to know. Money is all I want. You can have your ruddy glory." He rubbed the weals on his chest. "I've had mine. So I'll trade." He took out a bottle from the wine rack, reached his hand inside and clicked off a switch. He, turned to Mark and grinned. "Off the record. Watch the boats of Taradata." He raised his hand as Mark was about to speak. "That's all, sonny." He held out his hand. "You trade?"

Mark gripped it. "I trade. We'll hold over arrangements to transport the ladies."

"Right. I'll leave you long enough to use your little talkie-walkie. Make it quick. You're not bugged."

Mark grinned. "Why bug the liquor store?"

"Because locks can be forced, and keys pinched — but no one can be so silent they beat the bug. I switch it through an amplifier at night. Our seamen are bonza fellas, but if they get drink in 'em they go beserk."

"You said all the cabins were bugged too."

Chas nodded. "By the Padracks. I should worry. At the price they're paying they can bug the ruddy sharks as well, for all I care."

"Sounds like you cut a commission on the deal."

Chas snorted disgustedly. "Commission? A nice pack of researchers your lot are! Cor stone the crows, don't you know I own the flamin' ship?" He unlocked the door and went out, muttering.

CHAPTER FOUR: THY NAME IS WOMAN

A TRIFLE peeved, that's me, April Dancer thought, as she lazed in glamorous indolence on the sun deck. Peeved because — aha! Don't let Mark or any U.N.C.L.E. colleagues read your thoughts, my lass. Peeved, you are, because no one seems aware of you. Near-nude or Paris-gowned, mod-geared or man-bait alluring, you make no dent — in anyone on this boat.

Palaga went to your head. This is work. Okay, so that was work too. All the links were made there, the character built, the identity registered — little gay girl with a yen to express herself. No, thank you, not on a luxury cruiser — one gets so tired of luxury this and luxury that.

That quaint boat with its rust and blistered paint, and assorted cargo of human needs — that's what I need to bring me close to real people. The real life of the islands. I'm going to put it all in a book — a real book of real people. It's not because my psychiatrist advised it to help release myself. I feel I've always had this talent, you see? And now I've got to fulfil myself. It'll be a best-seller, of course. Well, of course, I mean, who else in my position has ever got so close to life? People are tired of travelogues written by professional hacks. Dear Orlando, it's sweet of you to encourage me so much.

The big build-up to impress the Padracks. "Why, aren't you Miss Dangerveldt, the heiress who is going to write about our islands? Well, books are our business — you must allow us to help you all we can." They knew. Of course they knew. The local field workers had seen to that. Yet, not a nibble! Not one teeny reaction.

So she'd had to force it a bit. "Oh, Mr. Padrack, I hear you are in the book business. Now isn't that a coincidence! Of course, I'm not telling everybody, but, seeing we have so much in common — I mean, you and your charming wife knowing all about books and the islands and all these lovely people. .

The cold-grey pebble eyes stared at her. She feigned embarrassment. "Well, what I'm trying to say is — I am writing a book about the islands."

Not one flicker of interest. What did the great bookman say?

He said: "Who isn't?" and walked away.

Well, she knew he was THRUSH. At least, THRUSH connected. But he didn't know she was U.N.C.L.E. But after all the groundwork... "Who isn't?" he said! And Lucy Padrack had smiled nastily before leaving the bar in search of her tomcat.

Peeved was the word. This was the most infuriating case — personal-wise — she had ever been on. She was peeved against Mark too. She even envied him his work. Basically, she wasn't a gay girl, never had been. What woman wouldn't revel in Palaga-style vacationing? Those lovely clothes, the lush line-up, Orlando and Co., the Climb Sublime — a two-tiered heaven set in an azure seascape. But, oh lordy, how idleness palls!

Now, on the Island Traveller, she was the mostest. Didn't even need a mirror to know it. Perhaps I have you-know-what and no best friend? Isolationists. The boat was full of ruddy isolationists. Or misogynists? Captain Sidano, quiet and gruffly courteous. He spoke Spanish. April tried him at that. He answered, but didn't comment on her linguistics.

Cheval also. Okay, so he'd been sick. Looked well enough now. And April was proud of her French. But: "Pardon, mam'selle," he'd said. "I prefer to speak English." Small talk — all the time small talk, and not much of that. Not enough to trap a casual word and link it with any known facts. And the sun shone, and the flying fish flew, and Mark Slate was up the mast again reporting his action. "And how is Miss Dancer?" "Oh, lush, sir, very lush and golden brown!" And bored and bitchy.