In the ship's liquor store, Mark Slate waited for contact with Sama Paru or Count Kazan. He didn't know which would be where, for Mr. Waverly had said: "They'll be in contact when the Island Traveller is ready to sail, so stand by as soon as you can."

"Come on, come on!" Mark muttered impatiently into the tiny instrument. He surveyed himself in the mildewed mirror hanging below the girlie calendar and noted the considerable improvement in his appearance. Then the voice came through. "Sama Paru to Mark Slate. Sama Paru in DX5."

"Dx5?" Mark whispered close to his ring mike. "That's a ruddy sub!"

"Midget," said Paru. "Two man. Cosy but cramped. We are parked outside the harbour. Submerged, of course."

"I'll be damned!" Mark had never reckoned on a submarine as a shadow contact. It made sense though. "We?" he said. "Who's we?"

"Randy Kovac is with me. He's done a special map job, so Mr. Waverly sent him out to gain field experience and check his theories."

"This is no novice race," said Mark. "No offence to Randy, but this thing bristles with professionals. Where's Kazan?"

"Luxury launch. Fast, powerful. Camouflaged gunboat. He should be clearing Palaga Bay soon."

"Soon? He should be at the rendezvous now."

"Lars Carlson made contact. He has to get off the island. Kazan is picking him up in a cove around the headland from your harbour."

"Ah, yes! Good. THRUSH identified him. I must go now, Sama."

"April is with you?"

"Sure. Over and out." Mark went into the bar, carrying bottles.

Sidano said: "About time. See that our passengers have the drinks they require. I am going to take the ship out."

Another passenger had joined them. April was discussing heat rash with Lucy. Simon Padrack was talking with the newcomer. Mark took their orders and cudgelled his memory as he mixed the drinks, but couldn't recall the name of Andre Cheval in the Palaga report. He managed an eyebrow-wiggling exchange with April across Lucy Padrack's bobbing hair — a manner of communication which, when linked with apparently idle eye movement, they had practised to fair success. She didn't know of Cheval either.

The purser came into the bar. At least he was called the purser and wore an officer's white jacket. Short, wiry, brown-eyed, tropic-wizened, with a quill of hair sticking up from an otherwise bald head, everyone called him Chas and most people assumed his name was Charles.

Years of service in these island traders had not dulled his cockney humour nor twangy voice. Every port in the islands and around the coast of Africa knew Chas. He had some shore connections, but where or with whom, nobody knew. Chas joined a ship, stayed with it, and when he left, the ship either sank, cracked up on a reef or in some other way ended its life. This reputation was so assured that when Chas declared he wasn't taking on for the next trip, all the regular seamen quit with him.

Not really a purser, but he held all the keys and the captain's trust. Not a ship's writer, but he did all the necessary paperwork. Not a cook, but he prepared many a first-class meal. Not even a steward — or, unofficially, a chief steward, but he made life smoothly pleasant for all passengers. He wasn't the ship's chandler, but all suppliers in ports accepted his orders for goods and the captain always okayed the purchases. In the days of the old island traders, many ships had their Chas, but his was now a dying breed. The unions saw to that even if competition from air freight, hovercraft, helicopter and fast "pirate" cargo launches didn't drive the traders off the routes.

Chas greeted the passengers with cheerful respect. He had a "Well, now, ain't it nice to see you with us again," to the Padracks. To Cheval he said: "Nice quiet cabin for you, sir." "Nice" was a favourite adjective with Chas. It didn't always mean nice in the sense of pleasant. His way of describing a crew fight which barely stopped short of murder was "a nice howdedo".

"Thank you," said Cheval. "I will much appreciate to be quiet."

"You be as quiet as you like, sir. Rest and sea air and a nice modicum of sun — just what the doctor ordered, as y'might say. We'll be shoving off any minute now, so if you'd like to go to your cabin, it's all ready for you. Number five—on the starboard side."

Cheval finished his drink. "I think I will. Pardon me." He bowed to the others and left the bar.

Chas twinkled brown eyes at April. "Honoured to have you aboard, miss."

"Thank you."

"Seeing the islands, are we? Having a nice bit of getting away-from-it-all, like? Can't beat it, y'know. Luxury palls, so they say. Does you good to see how the other half lives. We ain't exactly the flagship of the line, but we aim to please."

"I'm sure you do," said April.

"S'right. Nothing fancy. There'll be more coming aboard at our first call. Have a nice ol' party, we will. Cabin number eight, miss. Anything you need, just ring the bell. If it don't work—and most times it don't — just holler Chas."

"You don't have a stewardess?"

Chas rubbed his chin. "Well, we do and we don't. We have one, but she's not what you call reliable. She forgot to come back at Providencia on our last call, so you'll have to put up with me. Not to worry though, miss. Very safe, I am — ain't that so, Mrs. P.?"

Lucy Padrack laughed. "The safest man I know."

"Ur," said Chas. "It may not be exciting, but it's comforting, ain't it? Your cabin's ready, miss. Luggage stowed."

"I'll go and unpack." April sensed the request in Chas's voice, and caught a signal from Mark.

Simon Padrack said coldly: "Chas — why the hell don't you tell people the bar has to be closed as soon as the engines start?"

"Never talk against no one," said Chas. "Not me, sir. It ain't for the likes of me to say these perishin' Palagas are a bunch of blackmailing baskets, is it now?"

Lucy Padrack patted his cheek. "I wonder if you really are safe, Chas?"

"Not with you, me old darling." Chas grinned. "I'll bring the usual soon as his nibs has been."

The Padracks left. Chas moved behind the bar, selected six bottles of assorted spirits and liqueurs and placed them in a line on the counter.

Mark said: "What's that for?"

Chas winked and tapped his nose with a forefinger. A second later the engines started and an elegantly dressed Palaganian policeman entered the bar.

Chas at once let out a wail.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! I've done it again! I dunno what the captain will say." He turned and glared at Mark.

"You blasted fool, you — I told you to close the bar." He turned back to the policeman. "He's new. Didn't understand."

"Ah!" said the policeman. "A pity, but you know the rules."

"Yes, sir. All liquor standing on an open bar is confiscated." Chas sighed heavily. "Ah well, rules are rules. I'll help you carry them."

The policeman looked along the labels.

"Not Kirsch again?"

"Kirsch? It should be Vodka." Chas whipped another bottle in the line.

The policeman nodded, strolled out, followed by the laden Chas. Ten minutes later Chas returned.

"Why be so complicated?" said Mark.

"That's the Palaga way. If people were in the bar at the time the engines start, he'd have to fine them hard cash. If the bar is closed, he gets no perks. He has to pay in the cash, but not confiscated items. He flogs those himself. Nice people, them Palaganians."