The Vulcan Disaster

Sometimes blind instinct is the best guide. I let one hand do whatever it wanted to; it went to her wrist, twisted so hard she yelped like a puppy, and forced the knife free. That hand — it was the left one, the one I do a lot of my own dirty work with — handed it to the other, which heaved it across the room to stick, quivering, in one of those priceless paneled walls. Then the left hand backhanded her a good one across the mouth.

To my amazement it put her out cold. She just collapsed on the cushions and, in a moment, started to snore. Well, she’d had a lot more of those downers than I had tonight; she’d started long before I arrived on the scene.

What do I do now? I wondered. For all I knew, my cover ID was blown. How she’d take to this I had no way of knowing, but I’d have put money on the notion that I had myself a whole mess of new problems I hadn’t had before. I reached for my pants.

“My lord wants wine?”

I wheeled, pants in hand. The naked little slave stood before me, the silver decanter in her hand, her eyes averted. I just stood there like a ninny.

“Hey, look,” I said, “I’m getting out of here. Do you want to come along? I mean, you can’t stay here with somebody who treats you like this. You...”

“My lord clapped his hands for wine?” she said. Her eyes were still on the floor.

“Listen to me,” I said. “What you heard was no hand clap. It was a slap. She’s out cold. Now’s your chance, if you want to get out. We’ll go to the closet and find you a couple of changes of clothes and I’ll give you some money. We’re still close to land, and we’re going so slowly under sail, that if you’re a good swimmer you ought to be able to make it. You...”

“I will pour my lord’s wine,” she said in that beaten, dejected voice. “Begging his pardon for my forward behavior.” She picked up my glass and poured. The full glass she placed on the couchside table. “My lord will drink with a peaceful heart.” She stood there in that exaggerated pose of submission, the little chains tinkling softly. Her face would have been as lovely as her body if it hadn’t had that expression on it.

“She’s going to come out of that in a little while,” I said. “We don’t have long. I...” She just stood there.

My head ached. I picked up the glass the naked and chained little girl had handed me, made a little here’s-looking-at-your-twisted-little-psyche gesture with it, and drank deep.

I shouldn’t have. It was drugged too — even worse than the coffee had been. Apparently the lady had a little scenario that she followed every time, and it called for more dope as the evening wore on. And her tolerance for the stuff, by now, was so far past mine... But by now I was down to my knees and sinking fast, into what felt like a vast, black sea of Turkish coffee...

I awoke on her cushions on the floor. Daylight was coming in through the fancy windows in one corner. I sat up, expecting my head to punish me unmercifully, but the only sign of a hangover, seemed to be a thick coating on my tongue.

I looked around. There was no sign of the Great Lady... but no, there was after all. She’d dressed before leaving, and over by the big wall mirror she’d strewn those queen-of-the- pagan-Nile clothes all over the floor like any other spoiled rich kid.

I had a sudden thought. I looked up and down my body. If she’d found that knife again, and gone to work while I slept...

But I was all there, or at least as much as usual. I got up, feeling, strangely, a few less aches and pains from the chest and the other bruises than usual. Laudanum — and whatever she’d spiked the wine with — were apparently good for broken ribs.

There was no sign of the little slave. Apparently she slept days, when her mistress was otherwise occupied... but where, I couldn’t say. There might be a door somewhere in that wall, past the curtains, but if there was it was well hidden by the paneling. I shook my head again and went to find my clothes.

On the big couch — the one she’d been on — there was another one of those notes of hers, on paper whose edges had been torn, not cut. Always first class. I opened it and read:

Harry—

Darling, you were marvelous. I don’t know when I’ve had a more marvelous time. So masterful — so strong — I will be busy tonight. But I will see you in the days to follow — and often—

A.

I felt a little ridiculous coming out in the open air and making my way back to the cabin in evening clothes, but the way things were on that crazy boat I didn’t draw a single solitary stare. A knowing wink from Michel, perhaps, but from the crew and the galley staff (from whom I got a pot of undoctored coffee), nothing.