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for it. The
Pequod
doesn’t trawl for game like that.”
    Ishmael stops chewing. “The
Pequod
?”
    “It’s the name of this ship.”
    Ishmael puts down his silverware as Old Ben’s words come back to him:
“On Cretacea, where you served aboard a ship called the
Pequod.
”
There’s no longer any doubt in his mind that the old man knew where he was going.
But how?
    “Lost your appetite, honey?” Charity asks.
    Ishmael blinks. “Sorry?”
    She gestures at the uneaten food on his plate. He forces himself out of his daze and continues to eat, but his thoughts are far off.
How could Old Ben have possibly known?
    It’s not long before everyone except Pip and Billy has cleared his plate. Pip is still eating in his slow, deliberate way. Billy has tried a few morsels and left the rest untouched.
    “Can we have some more?” asks Queequeg.
    Charity nods. “But not too much, or, believe me, you’ll be sorry.”
    Queequeg, Ishmael, and Gwen head back into the galley. Heeding Charity’s advice, Ishmael and Gwen don’t ask for much, but Queequeg tells a server to fill his plate.
    “Hold up, friends.” He pulls out a spoon he’s hidden in his pocket and quickly shovels food into his mouth.
    Moments later, when they leave the galley, it appears that Queequeg’s taken no more of a second helping than Ishmael and Gwen.
    By the time they finish their meals, a heavy, languorous sensation has settled upon them. Charity goes into the galley and returns pushing a cart with two meals on trays. “I have to take these up to the bridge. You guys head back to your quarters. Get a good night’s sleep. First thing tomorrow, you’re going to work.”
    Later that night, in the pitch-black, Ishmael wakes to the sounds of whimpering and sniffling. For a second he wonders if it’s Pip. Earlier, when they returned to the men’s berth, Pip found that his electronic sleep aid had been ripped apart, foam and fiber circuitry hanging out like the guts of a small, disemboweled creature. But it’s not Pip who’s sobbing; it’s Billy.
    From around the room come rustling and grousing as Billy’s moans begin to wake the others.
    “Aw, for Earth’s sake, shut it,” someone gripes in the dark.
    “I w-wanna g-go h-home,” Billy whimpers.
    “Wait a year and you’ll get your wish, bud,” another voice croaks.
    “I want to g-go now!” Billy blubbers.
    “Put a sock in it,” someone — sounding like Bunta — growls.
    “Leave him alone,” Ishmael warns.
    “Mind your own business, pinkie. No one wants to listen to that snivelin’ crybaby all night.”
    “The more you threaten him, the more frightened he’ll feel,” Ishmael says. “If you really want to get back to sleep, just drop it.”
    Some mumbling follows, but the room soon goes quiet except for Billy’s sniffling.
    “Billy,” Ishmael whispers.
    “Y-yes?”
    “You’re not alone. We’re all kind of scared. And these jackasses aren’t making it any easier. But Queequeg and I have your back. Right, Queequeg?”
    “Right, friend” comes a yawning murmur from the sleeper below his.
    “Try to get some rest,” Ishmael tells Billy. “Things’ll be better in the morning.”
    “N-no, they w-won’t.” Billy sniffs.
    Knowing not to argue, Ishmael says, “Okay, maybe not. But after a good night’s sleep, at least you’ll feel better.”
    Silence. Then Billy whispers, “Th-thanks, Ishmael.”
    Ishmael lets his head sink into his pillow and soon falls asleep — but not for long. A short while later he’s awakened again, this time by a warm breath close to his ear. He can just make out the silhouette of Bunta’s large, shaved head.
    “You’re a dead man, pinkie,” the brute whispers in the dark. “When you least expect it . . . when it’s the farthest thing from your mind . . . you’re going down.”
    Bunta moves away without a sound. Ishmael closes his eyes and waits for his heartbeat to steady. In the quiet he hears someone retching in the washroom. He peers