She reached the head of. the gangway as Maleski was drawing careful aim at the truck. With a scream and a flurry of arms, she flung herself from the gangway into Maleski's chest, hanging on to his neck. He staggered back, gun hand waving skyward, the other clamped around her waist — a natural reflex-action.

"That's dangerous!" she bleated. "Ever so dangerous." She leaned back, smiled into his eyes. "Lucky me! I'd have hurt myself if you hadn't caught me. Thank you so much!" She ignored the gun and the fury in his gaze. "You can put me down now, you naughty man."

At the stern a soaked figure clambered up from the anchor chain, sloshed on to deck and flip-flopped up to Captain Sidano.

"— —!" said Mark Slate, vigorously. "When are you going to spend some of the owner's money on new tackle? Don't you know that goddam rigging is half rotten? Blasted stinking old scow this is — call yourself a captain!" He let go a few more opinions until Sidano slashed a back hand across his face.

"Silence, you scum! You fell from the mast because you're a stupid, bungling fool. I shall dock one half of your pay for smashing that tackle. Now get aft and stand by to cast off."

Mark's eyes glittered, but he pretended to be cowed, as would any roughneck afraid of being returned to some stinking mainland prison.

"Got a right to complain, ain't I? Could've blasted well killed meself."

"That would be no loss," Sidano snarled, then walked onwards to greet April Dancer.

"Poor man!" said April. "You were very hard on him. After all, he did dive into the sea!"

"They have no feelings, miss," said Sidano. "Like animals, they are. Don't waste your pity on them."

Mark slouched past them. April smiled at him. "That was a wonderful dive."

He surveyed her coolly — undressing her with insolent eyes.

"Yeah," he growled. "Think quick, act fast, trust nothing and no one around here. Thanks all the same, miss."

"All right," said Maleski. "Get aft…" He paused. "No — wait — you." He looked at Sidano. "The steward was deported yesterday. The fool got drunk. His replacement hasn't shown up. This man has a little more class than the others."

Sidano shrugged. "A wash and shave and a white coat might make him presentable. Okay, you — get cleaned up and report to the purser."

"At stewards' pay?"

"We'll see."

"Fair's fair," whined Mark. "A man works well for the right pay."

Maleski pointed ashore, to where more taxis had pulled up. "Our other passengers are arriving, sir."

"You'll have what you earn," said Sidano to Mark. "Get below and clean yourself up."

"Aye, aye, sir." Mark went, and so missed an interesting scene.

April Dancer found this humorous, yet ominous. She knew of the Padracks. They were mentioned in the original Palaga report, as were many other names. Some were now identified as having THRUSH connections, some THRUSH sub-agents. This was the big difficulty when assigned to a carefully researched case. Better, really, to "go in cold", because then at least you got to know all your contacts.

H.Q., and mostly this meant Mr. Waverly, had a tendency to regard a research file as gospel for the guidance of the converted. U.N.C.L.E. agents were trained not to pre-judge situations they met with on their field of assignment. But if they accepted everything contained in those Top Secret dossiers, they automatically pre-judged and, in such pre-judging, became biased by the reports of researchers as well as unknown informants.

Reports contained many statements such as this:

"Padrack, Simon, aged forty-five, slim build, balding, quiet-spoken. Wears spectacles. Appears absentminded. Ex-teacher, Trinidad and Tobago, believed inherited money, set up as bookseller, also adviser on library supplies to island committees. No known political affiliations. Now retained as adviser on catalogue and indexing of library belonging to a senior Palaga family. Travels frequently around islands contacting teachers and others with book connections.

"Padrack, Lucy, aged forty-one, wife of above subject. Ex-teacher, now assists husband in his work. Has written and published two books on legends of the islands, with special emphasis on erotic practices. Unusually tolerant marriage relationship, as she indulges herself with younger men. Husband apparently knows of this and refers to them as 'Lucy's little attacks' or 'Lucy has another cold — rather feverish this time'. No police record, but in her student years was prominent in various leftist groups. Arrested four times for obstructing police, refusing to disperse, uttering threats and distributing pamphlets calculated to incite revolt."

Well, all right — so you read and digest; so when you see Simon and Lucy Padrack coming up the gangway, what does this fact really tell you? You look at them and pre-judge them according to the alleged facts you've digested. They stick in your throat.

Simon Padrack looks as the report says, but his outward appearance did not convey the more important, essential Padrack. The way he strides up with an air of authority, the coldness of his eyes — pale grey pebbles behind polished lenses. The clipped, incisive tone of voice. These belie the pre-judged character. You say at once: "Watch it, my girl — just watch it. This man knows exactly what he's doing, where he's going and why — and it ain't for fun. Sex he might have, but fun? No, siree!" And you shiver slightly under the hot Palaga sun.

Lucy comes ahead of him, small, thin, with nobbly breasts. "Maybe falsies, but I don't think so," April thought. "Thin legs, large thighs, slim flanks. Large blue eyes in a thin, bronzed face, a sensuous mouth, small, thin nose — not beaky. The mouth and nose give her away. Tangle with that, man, and come the night you have yourself a wild cat!" Nothing about her to make immediate physical impact. You have to look hard — or with knowledge and training — to really see these things, because she doesn't project herself.

Her clothes are expensively ordinary, even unflattering. Mousey hair, uncut, plaited, wound around her head, straggling over forehead and temples. Very little make-up. First appearance — middle-aged, sterile, withdrawn. Blue veins patterning brown hands below skinny wrists. Yet when she speaks with that voice, she becomes alive. The report didn't mention that. The voice projects right enough — deep, warm, vibrant, yes, sir, all the clichés. Goddam, it even pulses, husky, smooth-cream!

In her hand is a parasol. She holds it like a drawn sword as she marches up to a seaman, stooping, coiling in rope. Lucy flicks the parasol handle. A blade, stiletto steel, pings out from the ferrule. She rams it into the seaman's backside.

He bellows, leaps, whirls, lands facing her.

"You stood me up, you bum!" says Lucy in that lovely vibrant voice. "Do it again and I'll fix this in your guts — got it?"

The seaman gulps. "I get it, Lucy, but…"

"No buts — understand?" She clicks the blade back in the ferrule and marches off to join the group at the head of the gangway..

Simon Padrack ignored the incident. So did Maleski. Captain Sidano covered up with a "Ladies — Mr. Padrack, sir, be my guests. A cool drink, yes? Maleski, tell the men to see to the luggage. When Mr. Cheval arrives we will cast off."

"Aye, aye, sir," said Maleski quietly.

In the small, coolly attractive bar, April thought savagely:

"I wasn't prepared for these kind of people. It changes the whole approach. Damn the report!"