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entertainment unlimited, Bill Weigand decided to take a nap. Dorian went to the boat deck, with drawing pad and pencils, since the holidays of commercial artists are likely to be a little like those of busmen.
    Jerry North, after having changed his shirt again, and resumed the slacks which did not need pressing, made one circuit of the promenade deck—but at not over two knots—and joined Pamela, who was merely sitting. She had changed back to a bathing suit, but this time only for tanning purposes. They sat contentedly, saying little, toasting slowly. The bow of the ship rose lazily; it subsided dreamily and the stern apathetically arose. “It’s wonderful to have nothing—nothing at all—to do,” Pam said, at one point, and Jerry said, “M-mm” in agreement, since a sound was simpler to come by than a word. “I suppose,” Pam said, some time later, “I really ought to go into the pool.” Jerry said, “M-mm” again. “Probably you’re right,” Pam said. “Take things easy to start with.”
    Respected Captain Folsom was, presumably, at the Respectables’ cocktail party; Mrs. Macklin did not appear—it could, by one with that kind of mind, be assumed that she was drinking in her cabin. (And that’s the kind of mind I’ve got, Pam admitted to herself.) Hilda Macklin did not appear; possibly she was also in the cabin, pouring. Captain Cunningham probably was at the wheel, peering from it into the distance. It was comforting to know that they were in strong hands. Nothing untoward could happen; ahead stretched days of peace. Pam North dozed in the sun.
    Aboard a cruise ship one can attend a movie, or play shuffleboard or doze in the sun. But it is inevitable that, as time goes on, one will sit at a table in the smoking lounge, and there prepare, in the only proper fashion, for the subsequent consumption of further food. The Norths do not contend against the inevitable.
    At a quarter of six, when the inevitable caught up with them, Pam wore a white dinner dress—and wished, mildly, that its décolletage coincided more exactly with that of her bathing suit. Even with oil, one reddens in the sun. Jerry had changed his shirt again—he wore a white dinner jacket and black trousers and even a cummerbund, and a dress shirt which would dry overnight and did not need pressing. They sat, at a table which would accommodate four, and was expected to, and began to prepare for dinner. The bartender made admirable martinis; it was clear he was American trained.
    Bill Weigand and Dorian were tardy. But the Norths were only started on their drinks when J. Orville Marsh appeared, also wearing a white dinner jacket, tall and heavily handsome—a man of distinction, bound toward a drink before dinner. He nodded his gray head, and smiled pleasantly and said, “Good evening,” and was about to pass on.
    â€œJoin us,” Jerry said, to Pam’s surprise.
    Mr. Marsh said, “Why, thank you,” and that he didn’t mind if he did. He did.
    â€œTalking about you before lunch,” Jerry said, when Marsh had ordered. “Seems the Old Respectables have lost their sword. Case of the missing weapon.”
    â€œOh,” Marsh said. “Of me?” His drink came. He had ordered a daiquiri. He sipped it. “Oh,” he said. “I see.” He was, Pam thought, content to let it lie there. But Jerry was not—
    Talk about busmen’s holidays, Pam thought, although nobody had been. Publishers are just the same, the dears. Looking for books in the oddest places.
    But as J. Orville Marsh was led on—and once started he led easily—and as Bill and Dorian still tarried (gone to sleep, probably) Pam began to doubt whether Mr. Marsh was really the oddest place. Mr. Marsh told stories, and he told them well. He had never, to be sure, carried a gun. He had never shot a man, or been shot at. Murder was,