"What nationality are you?"

"Me? I am Palaganian."

"I might have known it. Anyway — forget your seagoing purity. We can still arrest you and apologize later."

Sidano pulled a package of letters from his pocket. His strong, stubby fingers shredded them into small pieces — confetti floating seawards.

"Now there is nothing that anyone can arrest me for — at any time."

"You must have been off the bridge and into Maleski's belongings before he hit the water."

Sidano spat over the side. "I already had them while he was helping the Padracks. Later, I would have killed him." He beamed his tearful-looking smile. "I am such a happy man this lovely morning. Ah, but you would not understand how it feels to see a blackmailer die!"

"I can imagine," said Mark, wringing out his shirt. "What was the object?"

"Only to use my rank, my signature as a Palaganian captain, my silence about certain types of cargo. Some equipment must not be carried on a Palaganian island ship unless it is supplied by Palaga. Many things like that could not be done without the captain's knowledge."

Mark squee-jeed his pants. "What type of equipment?"

"Laboratory equipment used for medical research. Anything that can be used for processing must come through Palaga. Also presses — small power presses. Such things are forbidden. Palaga is protected by International Law. No other ship would carry them to the islands. Palaga controls all the Customs in the islands."

"Including Taradata?"

"Ah! You must ask Chas about that. He knows more of how somebody has got control. You know he is the owner?"

"So he told me. And you've been double-crossing him?"

"No, that is not so. Well — at first, perhaps, but not for the later trips."

"Palaga — one-time paradise of the pirates!" Mark exclaimed. "As Chas would say: a nice bunch of rake-off merchants you are! But, my God! Don't you squeal when things get out of control! The trouble is, the damage you do has to be cleaned up by somebody else."

"Why, yes," said Sidano. "No respectable pirate ever cleaned up after himself!... That is my little joke," he added hastily.

"I'm laughing my head off!" Mark pulled on his shirt.

"Okay, Sidano — back to your bridge. We're going into Taradata."

"The owner will tell me — not you."

"I am telling you. You're not the only people who can play pirates. Obey orders, or I'll call up a boarding party." Mark left Sidano, ran between the holds, met Chas on the way.

"Sidano will do as he's told," said Chas. "I overheard you talking." He pointed upwards. "I was looking for him to order stop ship, so we could pick you up." He grinned. "That was a nice howdedo! Our regular crew have been wanting to have a go at Maleski's men — so have I." Blood oozed from cuts on his arms. His knuckles were skinned, one eye puffed in promise of a blue-black "shiner". "I'm going below to cure these cuts." Chas surveyed Mark. "You ain't cut, are you? Got to be careful in this part of the world."

"I'm not cut, but I'll come with you. Tell the captain to stay stopped for a while longer."

"Okay. See you in the purser's office."

Mark went to his own cabin, collected certain gear, including special assault devices, then decided to make a quick change so as to fit on some secret body attachments because his clothes were shrinking — a fact he hadn't allowed for. "All nice stuff!" he chuckled. "That Chas is going to lose some of his profit on this gear!"

Fortunately, the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and other electronic devices were waterproofed. A quick test showed these were functioning well. He made a three-way link-up between April Dancer on the launch, Sama Paru in the submarine, and Mr. Waverly on his floating H.Q.

"I'll come back to you in a short while," said Mark. "Standby."

What Chas called the purser's office was at the end of the passenger cabins. Mark hadn't seen inside it. The door was double-locked, with a steel outer. He now saw why. Smallish, with a domed ceiling, the air pungent with the smell of incense. Bright-coloured woven mats, small, odd-shaped, formed a circle beneath a rack of glistening gold, purple and flame-red robes. Chas was kneeling on the mats, stripped to his waist. He turned.

"Shut the door, please." His voice was quieter, deeper, and had lost its cockney intonation. He pointed to a heavily ornamented flask on a shelf next to the robes. "Will you help me?"

"Surely. How?"

"Take the flask. Pour some of the contents slowly over my head, then over the cuts. Take no notice of me."

When Mark turned from lifting the flask, he saw that Chas was now completely still — the stillness of death. No movement of chest or stomach as in normal breathing. No flicker of life in the wide-staring eyes. Mark observed this, but made no comment as he poured the liquid Chas had requested. This done, he gently sniffed the flask. The liquid was scented — not unlike lavender water. He replaced the flask, then turned to see the cuts bubbling as if the liquid consisted of peroxide of hydrogen or a similar fluid.

After nearly five minutes the life returned to Chas's eyes, and his body moved in rhythmic breathing. He began to speak in a foreign tongue, softly, gently. Mark caught the words "Y-Shan-U" and what sounded like "Mort ah mortshan ah mort, deeya, deeya", but the rest was spoken too fast and too softly to catch.

Then Chas quivered, blinked his eyes, moved his arms. The bubbling on the cuts had ceased. In fact, no cuts were now visible, merely slight crustations of dried blood. Chas brushed these away so that only a few whitish marks remained on the skin.

He smiled up at Mark. "Thanks." He rose to his feet.

"Self-induced trance?" said Mark. "Part of your religion?"

Chas nodded. "I thought you'd be interested." He glanced at the flask. "That's only water, y'know. Drink some, if you like. A little oil of lavender rubbed on the rim gives the spirit some pleasure. It likes music too. And colour."

"The faith of the flowers, the bird songs, and the colours of earth, sea and sky," said Mark quietly. "I've heard of it. Y-Shan-U,"

"S'right," said Chas, reverting to his cockney accent. "Y-Shan-U it is. But you don't need to bother your head about it. Just wanted you to see that it works."

Mark smiled. "And some of your faithful are on Taradata? Your own people on Lagelo want them to return. You have promised they will. If there were free entry and exit, you could bring them off because you can hypnotize them. But the time has gone on and on until now you realize they may be prisoners there. Today, to all except special persons, entry and exit is banned. You can't reach them. But if you return to Lagelo without them — eh, Chas? What will happen?"

Chas shrugged. "They'll likely chop me ruddy head off." He pointed to the robes. "And I'll certainly lose me little Boy Scout lot." He grinned. "You sure are quick at figuring. How d'you do it? I thought my performance would impress you. It ain't a fake, y'know."

Mark chuckled. "I know it isn't. That's how you survived your terrible treatment in the war. You hypnotized yourself to resist pain. Many eastern religions have priests who can do that — from fire walking to sticking bamboo rods through their skins."

"Yeah — I can do that too. So you know more than most people. But you couldn't know I'm in a spot over our people on Taradata."