Текст книги "Raise the Titanic"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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    "Excuses, excuses," Giordino replied. "I bet when you make love to a woman, you tell her going in that there's a forty-per-cent chance she'll enjoy it."

    "Forty per cent is better than nothing," Farquar said casually.

    Pitt caught a gesture by the sonar operator and moved over to him. "What have you got?"

    "A strange pinging noise over the amplifier," the sonar man replied. He was a pale-faced man, about the size and shape of a gorilla. "I've picked it up off and on during the last two months. Strange sort of sound, kind of like somebody was sending messages."

    "Make anything of it?"

    "No, Sir. I had Curly listen to it, but he said it was pure gibberish."

    "Most likely a loose object on the wreck that's being rattled about by the current."

    "Or maybe it's a ghost," the sonar man said.

    "You don't believe in them, but you're afraid of them, is that it?"

    "Fifteen hundred souls went down with the Titanic," the sonar man said. "It's not unlikely that at least one came back to haunt the ship."

    "The only spirits I'm interested in," Giordino said from the chart table, "are the kind you drink . . . ."

    "The interior cabin camera of Sappho II just blacked out." This from the sandy-haired man seated at the TV monitors.

    Pitt was immediately behind him, staring at the blackened monitor. "Is the problem at this end?"

    "No, Sir. All circuits here and on the buoy's relay panel are operable. The problem must be on the Sappho II. It just seemed like somebody hung a cloth over the camera lens."

    Pitt swung to face the radio operator. "Curly, contact Sappho II and ask them to check their cabin TV camera."

    Giordino picked up a clipboard and checked the crew schedule. "Omar Woodson is in command of the Sappho II this shift."

    Curly pressed the transmit switch. "Sappho II, hello Sappho II, this is Capricorn. Please reply." Then he leaned forward, pressing his headset tighter to his ears. "The contact is weak, sir. Lots of interference. The words are very broken. I can't make them out."

    "Turn on the speaker," Pitt ordered.

    A voice rattled into the operations room, muffled behind a wave of static.

    "Something is jamming the transmission," said Curly. "The relay unit on the air-line buoy should be picking them up loud and clear."

    "Give your volume everything it's got. Maybe we can make some sense out of Woodson's reply."

    "Sappho II, could you repeat please. We cannot read you. Over."

    As soon as Curly turned up the speaker, the explosion of ear-splitting crackle made everyone jump.

    "–corn. We – –ou –lear. –ver."

    Pitt grabbed the microphone. "Omar, this is Pitt. Your cabin TV camera is out. Can you repair? We will await your reply. Over."

    Every eye in the operations room locked on the speaker as though it were alive. Five interminable minutes dragged by while they patiently waited for Woodson's report. Then Woodson's fragmented voice hammered through the loudspeaker again.

    "Hen– Munk – –est per–on – sur–."

    Giordino twisted his face, puzzled. "Something about Henry Munk. The rest is too garbled to comprehend."

    "They're back on monitor." Not every eye had been aimed at the speaker. The young man at the TV monitors had never taken his off Sappho II's screen. "The crew looks like they're grouped around someone lying on the deck."

    Like spectators at a tennis match, every head turned in unison to the TV monitor. Figures were moving to and fro in front of the camera, while in the background three men could be seen bent over a body stretched grotesquely on the submersible's narrow cabin deck.

    "Omar, listen to me," Pitt snapped into the microphone. "We do not understand your transmissions. You are back on TV monitor. I repeat, you are back on TV monitor. Write your message and hold it up to the camera. Over."

    They watched one of the figures detach itself from the rest and lean over a table for a few moments writing and then approach the TV camera. It was Woodson. He held up a scrap of paper whose rough printing read, "Henry Munk dead. Request permission to surface."

    "Good God!" Giordino's expression was one of pure astonishment. "Henry Munk dead? It can't be true."

    "Omar Woodson isn't noted for playing games," Pitt said grimly. He began to transmit again. "Negative, Omar. You cannot surface. There is a thirty-five-knot gale up here. The sea is turbulent. I repeat, you cannot surface."

    Woodson nodded that he understood. Then he wrote something else, looking over his shoulder furtively every so often. The note said "I suspect Munk murdered!"

    Even Farquar's usually inscrutable face had gone pale. "You'll have to let them surface now," he whispered.

    "I will do what I have to do." Pitt shook his head decisively. "My feelings will have to look elsewhere. There are five men still alive and breathing inside Sappho II. I won't risk bringing them up only to lose them all under a thirty-foot wave. No, gentlemen, we will just have to sit it out until sunrise to see what there is to see inside the Sappho II."

41

    Pitt had the Capricorn home in on the signal-relay buoy as soon as the wind dropped to twenty knots. Once again they connected the air line running from the ship's compressor to the Titanic and then waited for the Sappho IIs emergence from the deep. The eastern sky was beginning to brighten when final preparations were made to receive the submersible. Divers made ready to drop in position around the Sappho II and secure safety lines to prevent her from capsizing in the heavy seas; the winches and cables were set to haul her from the water and into the open stern of the Capricorn; down in the galley the cook began making an urn of coffee and a hearty breakfast to greet the crew of the submersible when they arrived. When all was in readiness, the scientists and engineers stood quietly shivering in the early morning cold, wondering about Henry Munk's death.

    It was 0610 when the submersible popped into the marching swells one hundred yards off the port stern of the Capricorn. A line was run out by boat, and within twenty minutes the Sappho II was winched onto the stern ramp of her tender. As soon as she was blocked and secured into place, the hatch was opened and Woodson pulled himself out, followed by the four surviving members of his crew.

    Woodson climbed to the top deck, where Pitt was waiting for him. His eyes were red with sleeplessness and his face stubble-bearded and gray, but he managed a thin smile as Pitt shoved a steaming mug of coffee into his hand. "I don't know which I'm happier to see, you or the coffee," he said.

    "Your message mentioned murder," Pitt said, ignoring any word of greeting.

    Woodson sipped at the coffee for a moment and looked back at the men who were gently lifting Munk's body through the submersible's hatch. "Not here," he said quietly.

    Pitt motioned toward his quarters. Once the door was closed, he wasted no time. "Okay, let's have it."

    Woodson dropped heavily onto Pitt's bunk and rubbed his eyes. "Not much to tell. We were hovering about sixty feet above the sea floor sealing off the starboard ports on C Deck when I got your message about the TV camera. I went aft to check it out and found Munk lying on the deck with his left temple caved in."

    "Any sign of what caused the blow?"

    "As plain as the nose on Pinocchio's face," Woodson answered. "Bits of skin, blood, and hair were stuck on the corner of the alternator housing cover."

    "I'm not that familiar with the Sappho II's equipment. How is it mounted?"

    "On the starboard side, about ten feet from the stern. The housing cover is raised about six inches off the deck so the alternator below is easily accessible for maintenance."

    "Then it might have been an accident. Munk could have stumbled and fallen, striking his head on the edge."

    "He could have, except his feet were facing the wrong way."

    "What do his feet have to do with it?"

    "They were pointed toward the stern."

    "So?"

    "Don't you get it?" Woodson said impatiently. "Munk must have been walking toward the bow when he fell."

    The fuzzy picture in Pitt's mind began to clear. And he saw the piece of the puzzle that didn't belong. "The alternator housing is on the starboard side so it should have been Munk's right temple that was smashed, not his left."

    "You got it."

    "What caused the TV camera to malfunction?"

    "No malfunction. Somebody hung a towel over the lens."

    "And the crew? Where was each member positioned?"

    "I was working the nozzle while Sam Merker acted as pilot. Munk had left the instrument panel to go to the head which is located in the stern. We were the second watch. The first watch included Jack Donovan-"

    "A young blond fellow; the structural engineer from Oceanic Tech?"

    "Right. And, Lieutenant Leon Lucas, the salvage technician on assignment from the Navy, and Ben Drummer. All three men were asleep in their bunks."

    "It doesn't necessarily follow that any one of them killed Munk," Pitt said. "What was the reasoning? You don't just kill someone in an unescapable situation twelve thousand feet under the sea without one hell of a motive."

    Woodson shrugged. "You'll have to call in Sherlock Holmes. I only know what I saw."

    Pitt continued to probe "Munk could have twisted as he fell."

    "Not unless he had a rubber neck that could turn a hundred and eighty degrees backward."

    "Let's try another puzzler. How do you kill a two-hundred-pound man by knocking his head against a metal corner that's only six inches off the floor? Swing him by the heels like a sledgehammer?"

    Woodson threw out his hands in a helpless gesture. "Okay, so maybe I got carried away and began seeing homicidal maniacs where none exist. God knows, that wreck down there gets to you after a while. It's weird. There are times I could have sworn I even saw people walking the decks, leaning over the rails, and staring at us." He yawned and it was evident that he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

    Pitt made for the door and then turned. "You better get some sleep. We'll go over this later."

    Woodson needed no further urging. He was peacefully gone to the world before Pitt was halfway to the sick bay.

    Dr. Cornelius Bailey was an elephant of a man, broad shouldered, and had a thrusting, square jawed face. His sandy hair was down to his collar and the beard on the great jaw was cut in an elegant Van Dyke. He was popular among the salvage crews and could out drink any five of them when he felt in the mood to prove it. His hamlike hands turned Henry Munk's body over on the examining table as effortlessly as if it was a stick doll, which indeed it very nearly was, considering the advanced stage of rigor mortis.

    "Poor Henry," he said. "Thank God, he wasn't a family man. Healthy specimen. All I could do for him on his last examination was clean out a little wax from his ears."

    "What can you tell me about the cause of death?" Pitt asked.

    "That's obvious," Bailey said. "First, it was due to massive damage of the temporal lobe-"

    "What do you mean by first?"

    "Just that, my dear Pitt. This man was more or less killed twice. Look at this." He pulled back Munk's shirt, exposing the nape of the neck. There was a large purplish bruise at the base of the skull. "The spinal cord just below the medulla oblongata has been crushed. Most likely by a blunt instrument of some kind."

    "Then Woodson was right; Munk was murdered."

    "Murdered, you say? Oh yes, of course, no doubt of it," Bailey said calmly, as though homicide were an everyday shipboard occurrence.

    "Then it would seem the killer struck Munk from behind and then rammed his head against the alternator housing to make it look like an accident."

    "That's a fair assumption."

    Pitt laid a hand on Bailey's shoulder. "I'd appreciate it if you kept your discovery quiet for a while, Doc."

    "Mum's the word; my lips are sealed and all that crap. Don't waste another thought on it. My report and testimony will be here when you need it."

    Pitt smiled at the doctor and left the sick bay. He made his way aft to where the Sappho II sat dripping salt water on the stern ramp, climbed up the hatch ladder, and dropped down inside. An instrument technician was checking the TV camera.

    "How does it look?" Pitt asked.

    "Nothing wrong with this baby," the technician replied.

    "As soon as the structural crew checks out the hull, you can send her back down."

    "The sooner, the better," Pitt said. He moved past the technician to the after end of the submersible. The gore from Munk's injuries had already been cleaned from the deck and the corner of the alternator housing.

    Pitt's mind was whirling. Only one thought broke away and uncoiled. Not a thought really, rather an unreasoning certainty that something would point an accusing finger toward Munk's murderer. He figured it would take him an hour or more, but the fates were kind. He found what he knew he must find within the first ten minutes.

42

    "Let me see if I understand you," Sandecker said, glaring across his desk. "One of the members of my salvage crew has been brutally murdered and you're asking me to sit idle and do nothing about it while the killer is allowed to roam loose?"

    Warren Nicholson shifted uneasily in his chair and avoided Sandecker's blazing eyes. "I realize that it's difficult to accept."

    "That's putting it mildly," Sandecker snorted. "Suppose he takes it in his head to kill again?"

    "That's a calculated risk we have considered."

    "We have considered?" Sandecker echoed. "It's simple for you to sit up there at CIA headquarters and say that. You're not down there, Nicholson, trapped in a submersible thousands of feet below the sea, wondering whether the man standing next to you is going to bash your brains out."

    "I am certain it won't happen again," Nicholson said impassively.

    "What makes you so sure?"

    "Because professional Russian agents do not commit murder unless it is absolutely necessary."

    "Russian agents-" Sandecker stared at Nicholson in startled and total disbelief. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

    "Just that. Henry Munk was killed by an operative working for the Soviet Naval Intelligence Department."

    "You can't be positive. There is no proof . . . ."

    "Not one hundred per cent, no. It might have been someone else with a grudge against Munk. But the facts point to a Soviet-paid operative."

    "But why Munk?" Sandecker asked. "He was an instrument specialist. What possible threat could he have been to a spy?"

    "I suspect that Munk saw something he shouldn't have and had to be silenced," Nicholson said. "And that's only the half of it, in a manner of speaking. You see, Admiral, there happen to be not one, but two Russian agents who have infiltrated your salvage operation."

    "I don't buy that."

     "We're in the business of espionage, Admiral. We find out these things."

    "Who are they?" Sandecker demanded.

    Nicholson shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, that's all I can give you. Our sources reveal that they go under the code names of Silver and Gold. But as to their true identities, we have no idea."

    Sandecker's eyes were grim. "And if my people discover who they are?"

    "I hope you will cooperate, at least for the time being, and order them to remain silent and take no action."

    "Those two could sabotage the entire salvage operation."

    "We're banking heavily on the assumption that their orders do not include destruction."

    "It's madness, pure madness," Sandecker murmured. "Do you have any idea of what you're asking of me?"

    "The President put the same question to me some months ago, and my answer is still the same. No, I don't. I'm aware that your efforts go beyond mere salvage, but the President has not seen fit to make me privy to the real reason behind your show."

    Sandecker's teeth were clenched. "And, if I should go along with you? What then?"

    "I will keep you posted as to any new developments. And when the time comes, I will give you the green light to take the Soviet agents into custody."

    The admiral sat silently for a few moments and, when he finally spoke, Nicholson noted his deadly serious tone.

    "Okay, Nicholson, I'll string along. But God help you if there is a tragic accident or another murder down there. The consequences will be more terrible than you can possibly imagine."

43

    Mel Donner came through Marie Sheldon's front door, his suit splattered from a spring rain.

    "I guess this will teach me to carry an umbrella in the car," he said, taking out a handkerchief and brushing away the dampness.

    Marie closed the front door and stared up at him curiously. "Any port in a storm. Is that it, handsome?"

    "I beg your pardon?"

    "From the look of you," Marie said, her voice soft and slurry, "you needed a roof until the rain let up, and the fates kindly led you to mine."

    Donner's eyes narrowed for a moment, but only a moment. Then he smiled. "I'm sorry, my name is Mel Donner. I'm an old friend of Dana's. Is she at home?"

    "I knew a strange man begging on my doorstep was too good to be true." She smiled. "I'm Marie Sheldon. Sit down and make yourself comfortable while I call Dana and get you a cup of coffee."

    "Thank you. The coffee sounds like a winner."

    Donner appraised Marie's backside as she swiveled toward the kitchen. She wore a short white tennis skirt, a sleeveless knit top, and her feet were bare. The taut swing of her hips flipped the skirt to and fro in a pert, seductive sort of way.

    She returned with a cup of coffee. "Dana is lazy on weekends. She seldom rolls out of the sack before ten. I'll go upstairs and speed things up."

    While he waited, Donner studied the books on the shelves beside the fireplace. It was a game he often practiced. Book titles seldom failed to unlock the door to their owner's personality and tastes.

    The selections ran the usual gamut for the single female there were several books of poetry, The Prophet, The New York Times Cookbook, and the usual sprinkling of gothics and best sellers. But it was the arrangement that interested Donner. Interwoven among Physics of Intercontinental Laval Flows and Geology of Underwater Canyons, he found Explanation of Sexual Fantasies of the Female, and The Story O. He was just reaching for the latter when he heard the sound of feet coming down the stairs. He turned as Dana entered the room.

    She came forward and embraced him. "Mel, how wonderful to see you."

    "You look great," he said. The months of strain and anguish had been erased. She seemed more at ease and she smiled without tenseness.

    "How's the swinging bachelor?" she asked. "Which line are you using on poor innocent girls this week, the brain surgeon or the astronaut?"

    He patted his paunch. "I've retired the astronaut story until I can shed a few pounds. Actually, because of the publicity you people are getting on the Titanic, I can do no wrong by telling the little lovelies crowded around the Washington singles' bars that I'm a deep-sea diver."

    "Why don't you simply tell the truth. After all, as one of the country's leading physicists, you have nothing to be ashamed of."

    "I know, but somehow playing the real me takes the fun out of it. Besides, women love a lover who's phony."

    She nodded at his cup. "Can I get you more coffee?"

    "No thanks." He smiled, and then his expression became serious. "You know why I'm here."

    "I guessed."

    "I'm worried about Gene."

    "So am I"

    "You could go back to him . . ."

    Dana met Mel's eyes evenly. "You don't understand. When we are together, it only makes things worse."

    "He's lost without you."

    She shook her head. "His job is his mistress. I was only a whipping post for his frustrations. Like most wives, I'm not geared to take the anguish that goes hand in hand with a husband's insensibility when he's overburdened with on-the-job stress. Don't you see, Mel? I had to leave Gene before we destroyed each other." Dana turned and held her face in her hands, then quickly composed herself. "If only he could quit and go back to teaching, then things would be different."

    "I shouldn't be telling you this," Donner said, "but the project will be completed in another month if all goes according to plan. Then Gene will have nothing to keep him in Washington. He'll be free to return to the university."

    "But what about your contacts with the government?"

    "Finished. We enlisted for a specific project, and when it's finished, so are we. Then all of us take a bow and head back to whatever campus we originally came from."

    "He may not even want me."

    "I know Gene," Donner said. "He's a one-woman man. He'll be waiting. . . unless, of course, you're involved with another man."

    She looked up surprised. "Why do you say that?"

    "I happened to be in Webster's Restaurant last Wednesday night

    Oh God! Dana thought. One of her few dates since leaving Gene had come back to haunt her already. It had been a foursome with Marie and two biologists from the NUMA marine sciences laboratory, a friendly, comfortable evening. That was all, nothing had happened.

    She stood up and glared down at Donner. "You, Marie, and yes, even the President, all expect me to go crawling back to Gene like some damned old security blanket he can't sleep without. But not one of you has even bothered to ask how I feel. What emotions and frustrations do I face? Well, to hell with all of you. I am my own woman, to do with my life as I please. I'll go back to Gene if and when I damn-well feel like it. And, if I feel in the mood to go out with other men and get laid, so be it."

    She spun and left Donner sitting there stunned and embarrassed. Up the stairs and into the bedroom where she threw herself on the bed. She had mouthed nothing but mere words. There would never be another man in her life but Gene Seagram, and some day, soon, she was sure she would return to him. But now the tears came until there were none left.

    Imbedded in one of the mirrored walls, a phonograph record, watched over by a female disc jockey, thundered through four huge quad speakers. The postage-stamp dance floor was jammed, and a thick haze of cigarette smoke filtered the brightly colored lights that exploded on the ceiling of the discotheque. Donner sat at the table alone, idly watching the couples gyrate to the blaring music.

    A petite blonde wandered up to him and suddenly stopped. "The rainmaker?"

    Donner looked up. He laughed and got to his feet. "Miss Sheldon."

    "Marie," she said pleasantly.

    "Are you alone?"

    "No, I'm the third wheel with a married couple."

    Donner's eyes followed her gesture, but it was impossible to tell who she meant amid the jumbled bodies on the dance floor. He pulled back a chair for her. "Consider yourself escorted."

    A cocktail waitress happened by and Donner shouted an order above the din. He turned to find Marie Sheldon studying him approvingly. "You know, Mr. Donner, for a physicist, you're not a bad-looking man."

    "Damn! I had hoped to be a CIA agent tonight."

    She grinned. "Dana told me about a few of your escapades. Leading poor innocent girls astray. For shame."

    "Don't believe all you hear. Actually, I'm shy and introverted when it comes to women."

    "Oh really?"

    "Scout's honor." He lit her cigarette. "Where's Dana tonight?"

    "Very sly of you. You tried to zing one over on me."

    "Not really. I just-"

    "It's none of your prying business, of course, but Dana is on a ship somewhere in the North Atlantic Ocean about now."

    "A vacation will do her good."

    "You do have a way of milking a poor girl for information," Marie said. "Just for the record, so you can inform your pal Gene Seagram, she's not on holiday, but playing den mother to a regiment of news correspondents who demanded to be on the scene when the Titanic is raised next week."

    "I guess I asked for that."

    "Good. I'm always impressed by a man who admits the folly of his ways." She tilted her eyes at him in a kind of mocking amusement. "Now that that's settled, why don't you propose to me?"

    Donner's brows knitted. "Isn't the coy maiden the one who's supposed to say, `But sir, I hardly know you'?"

    She took his hand and stood up. "Come on then."

    "May I ask where?"

    "To your place," she said with a mischievous grin.

    "My place?" Events were clearly moving too fast for Donner.

    "Sure. We have to make love, don't we? How else can two people who are engaged to be married get to know each other?"

44

    Pitt slouched in his train seat and idly watched the Devon countryside glide past the window. The tracks curved along the coastline at Dawlish. In the Channel he could see a small fleet of fishing trawlers heading out for the morning's catch. Soon a misting rain streaked the glass and blurred his view, so he turned once more to the magazine on his lap and thumbed the pages without really seeing them.

    If they had told him two days ago that he'd take a temporary leave from the salvage operation, he'd have thought them stupid. And, if they'd suggested that he'd travel to Teignmouth, Devonshire, population 12,260, a small picturesque resort town on the southeast coast of England, to interview a dying old man, he'd have thought them downright insane.

    He had Admiral James Sandecker to thank for this pilgrimage, and that is exactly what the admiral had called it when he had ordered Pitt back to NUMA headquarters in Washington. A pilgrimage to the last surviving crew member of the Titanic.

    "There's no use in arguing the matter any further," Sandecker said unequivocally. "You're going to Teignmouth."

    "None of this adds up." Pitt was pacing the floor nervously, his equilibrium struggling to forget the months of endless pitching and rolling of the Capricorn. "You order me ashore during a crucial moment of the salvage and tell me I have two Russian agents, identities unknown, who have carte blanche to go about murdering my crew under the personal protection of the CIA, and then in the same breath, you calmly order me to England to take down the deathbed testimony of some ancient limey."

    "That `ancient limey' happens to be the only member of the Titanic's crew who hasn't been buried."

    "But what of the salvage operation," Pitt persisted. "The computers indicate the Titanic's hull might break loose from the bottom any time after the next seventy-two hours."

    "Relax, Dirk. You should be back on the decks of the Capricorn by tomorrow evening. Plenty of time before the main event. Meanwhile, Rudi Gunn can handle any problems that come up during your absence."

    "You don't offer me much choice." Pitt gestured in defeat.

    Sandecker smiled benevolently. "I know what you're thinking . . . that you're indispensable. Well, I've got news for you. That's the best salvage crew in the world out there. I feel confident that somehow they'll struggle through the next thirty-six hours without you."

    Pitt smiled, but there was no humor in his face. "When do I leave?"

    "There is a Lear jet waiting at the NUMA hangar at Dulles. It will take you to Exeter. You can catch a train from there for Teignmouth."

    "Afterward, shall I report to you back here in Washington?"

    "No, you can report to me aboard the Capricorn. "

    Pitt looked up. "The Capricorn?"

    "Certainly. Just because you're relaxing in the English countryside, you don't expect me to miss out on seeing the Titanic's regenesis in case she decides to come up ahead of schedule, do you?"

    Sandecker grinned satanically. He could afford that as it was all he could do to keep from laughing at the aggrieved and crestfallen expression on Pitt's face.

    Pitt climbed into a cab at the railroad station and rode along a narrow road beside the river estuary to a small cottage overlooking the sea. He paid the cab driver, went through a vine-covered gate, and up a walk bordered by rose bushes. His knock was answered by a girl with absorbing violet eyes framed by neatly brushed red hair and a soft voice that was touched by a Scot's accent.

    "Good morning, sir."

    "Good morning," he said with a slight nod. "My name is Dirk Pitt, and-"

    "Oh yes, Admiral Sandecker's cable said you were coming. Please come in. The commodore is expecting you."

    She was dressed in a neatly pressed white blouse and a green wool sweater and matching skirt. He followed her into the living room of the cottage. It was cozy and comfortable, a fire was burning brightly in the fireplace, and if Pitt had not known that the owner was a retired mariner, he could have easily guessed it by the decor. Ships' models filled every available shelf, while framed prints of famous sailing vessels graced all four walls. A great brass telescope was mounted in front of the window facing the Channel, and a ship's wheel, its wood gleaming from hours of hand-waxed care, stood in one corner of the room as if awaiting a momentary turn from some long-forgotten helmsman.

    "You look like you've had a very uncomfortable night," the girl said. "Would you like some breakfast?"

     "Courtesy urges me to decline, but my stomach rumbles for me to` accept."

    "Americans are famous for hearty appetites. I would have been disappointed if you had shattered the myth."

    "Then I'll do my best to uphold Yankee tradition, Miss. . ."

    "Please forgive me. I'm Sandra Ross, the commodore's great-granddaughter."

    "You look after him, I take it."

    "When I can. I'm a flight attendant with Bristol Airlines. A village lady sees to him when I have a flight." She motioned him down a hallway. "While you're waiting for a bit to eat, you'd best talk to Grandfather. He's very, very old, but he's dying to hear-He's anxious to hear all about your efforts to raise the Titanic. "