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could almost imagine enjoying her company on a daily basis—
    The light on her face awoke the pirate queen, and she sat up, sleepily rubbing her eyes. When she recognized Clayton, she said, “Zounds and Snails, you lubberly lout, what the hell do you mean by disturbing my sleep like this?”
    Clayton’s soft-heartedness evaporated instantly, as Captain Jill’s rude manner reminded him of all the grief she had caused him and the rest of the town.
    “Get up,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
    Captain Jill shot instantly to her feet, drawing her sword. “No one orders Jill Innerarity about like that!”
    Moving quickly, with his long reach, Clayton plucked her sword from her hand.
    Captain Jill smiled ferally. “Been eating your oats, I wot. Well, I admire spunk—to a point. But this will cost you dearly, my lad.”
    Advancing sinuously, Captain Jill grabbed Clayton’s biceps. A long moment passed. Clayton stood there grinning. Captain Jill squeezed harder, to no effect. She stepped back in awe, her jaw dropping.
    Clayton moved to grab her.
    Jill launched a booted kick that landed on Clayton’s stomach and blasted the air out of his lungs. He dropped his flashlight and doubled over.
    When he recovered, Jill was not to be seen, but the sound of her running feet echoed down the tunnel.
    Picking up his light, Clayton jogged off after her.
    Several hundred yards down the dank passage, Clayton came to a branching. He stopped to ponder. Silence filled his ears like cotton. Cautiously he peered down one alley, shining his torch.
    Out of the other branch resounded a piercing battle cry: “Yaaaah!”
    Captain Jill landed like a hod of bricks on Clayton’s back, wrapping her legs around his waist and her hands around his unprotected neck.
    The choking was bad enough, for Jill was frightfully strong. Worse was the cold. Clayton’s invisible suit stopped just above his collarbones. Jill’s enervating chill was seeping in, numbing his muscles and brain.
    Left with no alternatives, Clayton threw his whole weight backward, landing atop Jill. He heard her head smack the hard floor of the passage.
    Her grip relaxed, and Clayton got to his feet.
    Jill’s eyes were still open, although she gasped for breath, evidently fighting unconsciousness. She seemed to be making an effort to get up and fight some more.
    So Clayton slugged her on the jaw.
    He felt just like Bogie.
    Clayton picked up her unconscious form. He retraced his steps to the ladder to his cellar. There, he slung Jill over one shoulder and climbed up easily.
    In the living room, he stretched her out on the couch. When the passing minutes drew a beam of moving sunlight across her face— where a bruise was appearing on her jaw—a transformation seemed to occur, an ineffable softening of her marble flesh. On a hunch, Clayton tentatively raised her limp hand to graze his unprotected face. There was no accompanying blast of chill.
    Granny shuffled in as Jill began to stir. “I’ve fixed up a spare bedroom,” she said, “if you want to carry her up.”
    Clayton nodded, entranced by the sparkle of the light in Jill’s green eyes.
    “I can unravel that suit now, I suppose,” said Granny, “for my next project.”
     
     

 
    Back when I wrote this story, I was on a Herman Melville kick. I mentioned in my 2005 collection, The Emperor of Gondwanaland , how one of my earliest sales was made by taking the template of Melville’s “Benito Cereno” and using it to produce an SF adventure. It amused me afterward to co-opt one of Melville’s titles for a story that bore no thematic or conceptual links to his masterpiece. I’m not sure now if such a joke isn’t ultimately confusing and off-putting, but I’ll let it stand.
    Twenty years ago, Hollywood had barely begun to scratch the surface of computer-generated imagery. Nor had the reign of the megafilm been fully inaugurated. But I could already see that both trends would come to dominate the film industry and