The Vulcan Disaster

“Oh, come now,” she said. One brown hand was on my thigh. “You don’t have to hide it from me, just Alexandra. And perhaps Elsa, and Boris, and Michel. All the rest of us are phonies just like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, take Philippe. He is supposed to be La Komarova’s personal secretary. He is not. He is her hashish connection. I, I am supposed to be her hairdresser. Hal Alexandra does not need a hairdresser. She...”

“I’ve never seen her,” I said. That part was the truth, anyhow.

“I’ll point her out. If, indeed, you do not know her immediately from her manner. She is a rich father’s brat. She is all the brats of all rich fathers rolled into one. But hairdresser? Bah! I am a painter, Mr. Archer, and a good one. I am here because she wants her portrait done. Not once but many times. Always when she is on drugs. All...” She did not blush, after all, but she did stop and start again. “All nudes. She has terrible taste. The intention is always erotic. She will bring a lover in and pose, ostensibly for me, actually for him. She will talk — bed talk — to him as I paint her. You realize she is very high during all this. For her I hardly exist any more. All the better. If she is concentrating on her lover of the moment I hardly have to go through the motions of painting her. She never asks to see the portrait, anyhow. All the better, I say. As long as her lovers keep her busy she does not grow amorous toward me. I remember once...” But she shuddered here. She looked at me again. “You, Mr. Archer. Who hired you?”

“Why, I suppose Philippe did. He handled the application I sent in with my photographs.”

She shuddered again. “You see? You’re a phony too. If you cast so much as a single horoscope while you are on board the Vulcan it will be a miracle.” Her mouth shut tight in a wry smile; the brown hand gripped my leg hard. “I... I’m sorry...” The green eyes, looking up at me, were penitent. Were something else, too; she was near tears. There were goosebumps on her naked shoulders.

And there was a moment there when my lovely, blonde, naked blanket partner nearly melted into my arms... and it passed. She picked up my jacket and threw it over her shoulders; her gaze, pointed out to sea, was full of self-loathing. The green eyes brimmed with bitter tears.

“If you don’t like it,” I said, “why don’t you leave?”

She looked at me oddly. “Yes,” she said. “Why don’t I?” But she didn’t answer me. She bit her lip and shook the jacket off her body and lay back, taking the sun. She forced all expression off her lovely face, looking up at the sun like that, and only then put on a pair of dark glasses from the beach bag. She didn’t say anything more.

“I gather,” I said, “we’re going on a cruise shortly.”

“Yes,” she said at last. “The Vulcan is due in port tomorrow. It will lie off Nice at anchor; we will go out in a motor launch.”

“Where’s it coming from?” I said. “Philippe didn’t tell me.”

“Oh... outside Gibraltar, I think. The Canaries, perhaps. The African coast. I’m not sure. Does it matter?”

“I guess not. Where’s it going?”

“Greece. Cyprus. The Levant.”

I’ll bet, I thought. I didn’t believe that business about the Canaries, either. Not with Angola on the way. I couldn’t wait to start finding out what the devil was going on. Anyhow, I would have put a month’s pay, right then, on the incidence of another Middle Eastern outbreak before the year was out. That orientation Hawk had given me on Komaroff’s arms operation had been enough to raise the hair on my head every time I thought hard about it. Where Komaroff trod, the grass died and would grow no more. It was as simple as that. “Do you ever see much of Mr. Komaroff?” I said. “I mean, I understand he and Alexandra Komarova have their own different worlds.”

“Komaroff?” she said. “No, no. He very much sticks to his own quarters these days. I think he has been ill. Why? He does not concern you.” She raised her upper body on her elbows, looking at me. “Come, Mr. Archer. The sun will heal your bruises...”

She looked up suddenly. Past my shoulder, at something behind me. No, make that someone behind me: his long shadow advanced along her brown legs. Her expression was one of quick rage.

I turned as fast as I could without shaking the ribs up any worse than I had to. It wasn’t fast enough. A fist as big as Walter Corbin’s caught me one over the ear and laid me out across Vicki Weiner’s brown body. The ribs felt like somebody had shot me there with something like an elephant gun.

“Constantin...” the girl said. She was trying to push me off. It didn’t help the ribs any. I shoved loose, gritted my teeth, and rolled over past her, keeping her between me and whoever had hit me until I could get my legs under me.