"Oh really?"

    "Scout's honor." He lit her cigarette. "Where's Dana tonight?"

    "Very sly of you. You tried to zing one over on me."

    "Not really. I just-"

    "It's none of your prying business, of course, but Dana is on a ship somewhere in the North Atlantic Ocean about now."

    "A vacation will do her good."

    "You do have a way of milking a poor girl for information," Marie said. "Just for the record, so you can inform your pal Gene Seagram, she's not on holiday, but playing den mother to a regiment of news correspondents who demanded to be on the scene when the Titanic is raised next week."

    "I guess I asked for that."

    "Good. I'm always impressed by a man who admits the folly of his ways." She tilted her eyes at him in a kind of mocking amusement. "Now that that's settled, why don't you propose to me?"

    Donner's brows knitted. "Isn't the coy maiden the one who's supposed to say, `But sir, I hardly know you'?"

    She took his hand and stood up. "Come on then."

    "May I ask where?"

    "To your place," she said with a mischievous grin.

    "My place?" Events were clearly moving too fast for Donner.

    "Sure. We have to make love, don't we? How else can two people who are engaged to be married get to know each other?"

44

    Pitt slouched in his train seat and idly watched the Devon countryside glide past the window. The tracks curved along the coastline at Dawlish. In the Channel he could see a small fleet of fishing trawlers heading out for the morning's catch. Soon a misting rain streaked the glass and blurred his view, so he turned once more to the magazine on his lap and thumbed the pages without really seeing them.

    If they had told him two days ago that he'd take a temporary leave from the salvage operation, he'd have thought them stupid. And, if they'd suggested that he'd travel to Teignmouth, Devonshire, population 12,260, a small picturesque resort town on the southeast coast of England, to interview a dying old man, he'd have thought them downright insane.

    He had Admiral James Sandecker to thank for this pilgrimage, and that is exactly what the admiral had called it when he had ordered Pitt back to NUMA headquarters in Washington. A pilgrimage to the last surviving crew member of the Titanic.

    "There's no use in arguing the matter any further," Sandecker said unequivocally. "You're going to Teignmouth."

    "None of this adds up." Pitt was pacing the floor nervously, his equilibrium struggling to forget the months of endless pitching and rolling of the Capricorn. "You order me ashore during a crucial moment of the salvage and tell me I have two Russian agents, identities unknown, who have carte blanche to go about murdering my crew under the personal protection of the CIA, and then in the same breath, you calmly order me to England to take down the deathbed testimony of some ancient limey."

    "That `ancient limey' happens to be the only member of the Titanic's crew who hasn't been buried."

    "But what of the salvage operation," Pitt persisted. "The computers indicate the Titanic's hull might break loose from the bottom any time after the next seventy-two hours."

    "Relax, Dirk. You should be back on the decks of the Capricorn by tomorrow evening. Plenty of time before the main event. Meanwhile, Rudi Gunn can handle any problems that come up during your absence."

    "You don't offer me much choice." Pitt gestured in defeat.

    Sandecker smiled benevolently. "I know what you're thinking . . . that you're indispensable. Well, I've got news for you. That's the best salvage crew in the world out there. I feel confident that somehow they'll struggle through the next thirty-six hours without you."

    Pitt smiled, but there was no humor in his face. "When do I leave?"

    "There is a Lear jet waiting at the NUMA hangar at Dulles. It will take you to Exeter. You can catch a train from there for Teignmouth."

    "Afterward, shall I report to you back here in Washington?"

    "No, you can report to me aboard the Capricorn. "

    Pitt looked up. "The Capricorn?"

    "Certainly. Just because you're relaxing in the English countryside, you don't expect me to miss out on seeing the Titanic's regenesis in case she decides to come up ahead of schedule, do you?"

    Sandecker grinned satanically. He could afford that as it was all he could do to keep from laughing at the aggrieved and crestfallen expression on Pitt's face.

    Pitt climbed into a cab at the railroad station and rode along a narrow road beside the river estuary to a small cottage overlooking the sea. He paid the cab driver, went through a vine-covered gate, and up a walk bordered by rose bushes. His knock was answered by a girl with absorbing violet eyes framed by neatly brushed red hair and a soft voice that was touched by a Scot's accent.

    "Good morning, sir."

    "Good morning," he said with a slight nod. "My name is Dirk Pitt, and-"

    "Oh yes, Admiral Sandecker's cable said you were coming. Please come in. The commodore is expecting you."

    She was dressed in a neatly pressed white blouse and a green wool sweater and matching skirt. He followed her into the living room of the cottage. It was cozy and comfortable, a fire was burning brightly in the fireplace, and if Pitt had not known that the owner was a retired mariner, he could have easily guessed it by the decor. Ships' models filled every available shelf, while framed prints of famous sailing vessels graced all four walls. A great brass telescope was mounted in front of the window facing the Channel, and a ship's wheel, its wood gleaming from hours of hand-waxed care, stood in one corner of the room as if awaiting a momentary turn from some long-forgotten helmsman.

    "You look like you've had a very uncomfortable night," the girl said. "Would you like some breakfast?"

     "Courtesy urges me to decline, but my stomach rumbles for me to` accept."

    "Americans are famous for hearty appetites. I would have been disappointed if you had shattered the myth."

    "Then I'll do my best to uphold Yankee tradition, Miss. . ."

    "Please forgive me. I'm Sandra Ross, the commodore's great-granddaughter."

    "You look after him, I take it."

    "When I can. I'm a flight attendant with Bristol Airlines. A village lady sees to him when I have a flight." She motioned him down a hallway. "While you're waiting for a bit to eat, you'd best talk to Grandfather. He's very, very old, but he's dying to hear-He's anxious to hear all about your efforts to raise the Titanic. "

    She knocked lightly on a door and opened it a crack. "Commodore, Mr. Pitt is here to see you."

    "Well, get him in here," a voice rasped back, "before I founder on the reef."

    She stood aside and Pitt entered the bedroom.

    Commodore Sir John L. Bigalow, K.B.E., R.D., R.N.R. (Retired) sat propped up in a bunklike bed and studied Pitt through deep blue eyes, eyes that had the dreamlike quality of another age. The few strands of hair on his head were pure white, as was his beard, and his face showed the ruddy, weathered look of a seafaring man. He wore a tattered turtleneck sweater over what looked to be a Dickens'-style nightshirt. He held out a leathery hand that was as steady as a rock.