Mark Slate muttered, turned, yawned, opened one eye. "Put that ruddy light out!"

"Don't swear at me — and say please."

"Please put that ruddy light out."

"There's no need. I'd already covered the porthole before I knew you were here."

Groaning, he eased up, hand scrubbing at his face.

"Aw hell! The first real sleep since I signed on this stinking barge, and you have to come back early." He surveyed her through blinking eyelids. "That's not your gear! Is that blood?" He swung off the bunk. "Are you hurt, me old darling?"

She went coy. "How nice of you to care!"

"Scrub the comedy," he growled. "My back's broken in three places, my hands have more calluses than I can count, my arms are stretched six inches, my belly is in revolt against fish skilly — and I've run out of cigarettes! Just don't be coy or kittenish, or I'll belt you. Got it?"

She smiled. "Aye, aye, sir. Poor Mark! You've had the dirty end this time."

"Yeah — and for what? Nothing I couldn't have discovered as a passenger. I'm buying myself out of this man's navy. You got five hundred dollars?"

"You have to pay that to get released?"

"Yep."

"It's an awful lot."

"Oh, my Gawd! How mean can you get? I'm an awful lot of agent, sweetie — some of your Paris dresses cost that."

He held out his hand. "Come, baby, give –– else poppa take. Give me no arguments — just cash. Make it seven hundred. You bet Chas will overcharge on the clothes."

"I might have known he'd be in the swindle."

"Natch. I've been released, officially, by the captain, but it's Chas who pockets the mowlah. He's bringing clothes for me, and I have the cabin next to yours. Broadminded cuss, that Chas."

"He overestimates you and underestimates me," said April. "If you get what I mean?"

"I can't live without you either, darling — ah, thanks — cigarettes!"

She supplied lighter, then counted out money. "You'd better have a round thousand." She wrote on a card. "Just sign that."

"Bureaucracy at its highest level," Mark scoffed. "I have to make an expense report too, y'know. Ain't you got no trust at all, woman?"

"Plenty," said April. "But you might die on me. The Treasury minions never die. They'd take that thousand out of my pension, and you know it."

"Funny," said Mark, scribbling his signature. "Funny, funny world! To think treasure rhymes with pleasure."

"And Treasury rhymes with usury."

"A good point." He exhaled with a satisfied sigh. "Been having a joyous time?"

April pointed to the bunk. "Relax, and I'll tell you. Then we'll have to adjust our ideas."

Speaking quietly, clearly, she reported on the events of the day. Mark was silent for a long time after she'd finished, then said:

"I think we should extract Chas and his pop. No doubt they have their own little racket — maybe broadcasting messages to the faithful around the islands. I know he's not THRUSH. I believe he knows about them. Likewise, he knows about us. He'll take profit from both, responsibility from neither."

"He saved me from harm — maybe my life."

"Yes, he'd do that. He's a kinky sort of cuss, but I trust him. Don't ask me why. He's got a code of his own. But this Cheval — or Chaminal — whatever his name is — he's a strong link. Yet he was party to a shocking weak ploy. Up to that point we couldn't link him at all. Then, all of a sudden, he involves himself in the most obvious way with the Padracks."

"We're not sure it was the Padracks, though I admit it seems likely."

"Maleski is THRUSH, but not senior to Simon Padrack. I caught enough to convince me of that," said Mark. "And the captain is a weak sister. I think Maleski has a blackmail hold on him. Chas is the king of this castle."

"Chas sold you out — and me too."

"Then tipped you off so you'd escape? That would be a bit devious."

"Chas is a devious character."

"I said: extract him. He clouds the picture. If Cheval — we'll call him that for now — is a top scientist, he's not going grubbing around in petty thuggery — unless…"

"Unless someone convinces him that his own interests are threatened?" said April. "Said someone being the Padracks — or maybe just Lucy Padrack. She was out to kill, but kidded Cheval she aimed only to remove me from the scene. A personal attack, but she used her — hmm — trade connections. It's the way a woman would work."

"Not pausing to consider that if it failed, then she'd have involved Cheval — left him open to suspicion?"

"We're assuming she knows I'm an agent. I don't think she does. But, yes, I think her personal vengeance would override everything else in her mind. I think also that if she suspected I was an agent, she'd pass it on to Simon Padrack and Maleski, and pressure them to fit me for a halo. That would give her great satisfaction. Make her feel dominant and oh, so in the right."

"We sail on the midnight tide," said Mark thought fully. "If you keep out of sight until then, she's going to have one helluva shock when you show up. But perhaps she'll know by now. Those thugs would have come round in about five hours. You'll have to watch yourself between here and Taradata, me old darling."

"I don't think she'll try anything on board. Chas wouldn't stand for anything he didn't organize himself."

Mark groaned. "That Chas..." He paused at a tap on the door.

April opened it. Chas stepped into the cabin, carrying packages.

"Dead on cue," said Mark.

"Thought I'd find you here." Chas beamed. "Brought your clothes. All nice stuff. That'll be one hundred, seventy- five dollars, plus twenty-five service charge."

"Pah!" Mark snapped his fingers; "Now how could I forget the service charge?"

"And five hundred for this." Chas waved a piece of paper. "All legal and aboveboard. Been notarized, it has. You were paroled in our custody, y'see. We transfer the parole to the local magistrate and he signs your release." Chas flipped the paper across. "I got the feeling you never ought to have been in that prison, sonny." He grinned. "Nice young fella like you. But then — you will do these things."

Mark looked at the paper. "This is signed by Salisbury. Are you the magistrate too?"

"Nah, not me. That's my Daddy." He smiled at April. "Nice old duck, ain't he? Took a shine to you, he did. He's still got an eye for a nice bit of crackling."

"Yes?" said April weakly. "Thank you."

"And thank you," said Chas, plucking the cash from Mark's hand. "If you can't always be clever, you don't have to be good, y'know." He winked at April and exited.

"Daddy!" said Mark, rolling his eyes ceiling-ward. "That's my Daddy!"

"Crackling!" April snorted. "The dirty old man!"

"Now, now!" said Mark. "Leave us not think ill of the aged. I've an idea that when my whiskers turn white, I'll be thinking along the same lines."

"You should live that long," April snapped. "Men! Get out, you horrible specimen! Go on — get, get!"

Lots of clichés to describe atmosphere. Cut it with a knife. It's bad or good, disruptive or mellowing. Husbands feel it around wives. Families react to it. Mass meetings are swayed by it. Lovers revel in it. Martinets exude it. Sulkers project it. Good salesmen create it. Atmosphere.