There was quite a pile. Joan had urged them to fetch along “everything you could possibly need for a month or longer—for painting especially, as there will be lots of bodies around—and any of them will model. . . or I’ll have them lashed to a grating and flogged, then make them walk the plank. Joe darling, you can do big romantic pix if you wish—pirate scenes with lush victims and leering scoundrels. Fun?”
She had sent the invitation by MercServ with tickets and an air-freight order and instructions to MercServ to supply a reader for the message. Joe had taken her literally; he seemed to have cleared out his studio——flood lamps, spots, easels, a heavy roll of canvas, stretchers, cameras, photo equipment and supplies, assorted impedimenta—and one bag each for clothes and personal articles. Seeing what Joe had fetched, Joan was glad that she had ordered a Brink’s to get them to the jetport and was careful today to have one meet them at the far end.
The basket took up a load of baggage, came back for the last. Fred and Della’s sixteen-year-old, Hank, an eager but untrained deck-hand, were loading taking turns keeping the basket from spinning while the other placed items in it.
Soon they had it alt in but one large case, when a gust of wind disturbed the uneasy balance between copter and surface craft. The basket swung wildly; Fred let go and danced aside while Hank went fiat to the deck to keep from being hit by it.
Fred recovered and again braced the basket, now ten feet farther forward. Joan Eunice grabbed the handle of the last case, then used both hands. “Whew! I think Joe packed the anchor in this one.”
Jake yelled, “Eunice! Don’t lift that! You want to miscarry?” He grabbed it from her, started for the basket.
Hank was on his feet again. “Here, Captain, I’ll get that!”
“Out of my way, son.” Jake trudged to the basket, found it too high, got the case into his arms, then up onto one shoulder, placed it carefully inside—and collapsed. Joan rushed to him.
Back aft, Tom Finchley noted when the last item went in, looked up at the copter’s pilot and signaled “Hoist away!” and added the hand signal for “That’s all—on your way!”
Then he looked down—and started to run.
Joan sat down on the deck, took Jake’s head and shoulders to her.
“Jake, Jake darling!” (Eunice! Help me!)
Fred said, “I’ll get the Doc!” and rushed for a companionway. The boy stood helplessly by. Salomon gave a long bubbling sigh and all his sphincters relaxed. (Eunice! Where is he?) (Boss, 1 can’t find him!) (You’ve got to find him! He can’t be far.) (What in hell?) (Here he is, here he is! Jake!) (Eunice, what happened? Somebody slammed me in the side of the head with a brick.) (Does it hurt, darling?) (Of course it doesn’t hurt, Boss, not now. It can’t. Welcome aboard, Melancholy Jacques you lovin’ old bastard! Oh, boy, am I glad to see you!) (Yes, welcome home, darling. My darling. Our darling.) (Eunice?) (No, I’m Eunice, Jock. Old cocky Jock. That’s Joan. Or Johann. Or Boss. No, Joan is ‘Boss’ only to me; you’d better call her ‘Joan.’ Look,
shipmates, let’s get this Troy straight before we get tangled up in our feet. Joan, you call our husband ‘Jake’ same as always—while I’ll call him ‘Jock’ as I used to. Jock, you call Boss either ‘Joan’ or ‘Johann’ as suits you- and she’s I either ‘Joan’ or ‘Boss’ to me. And I’m always—’Eunice’ to either of you. Got it straight?)
(I’m confused.) (No huhu, Jock beloved, never any huhu again. You’ll get used to it, I did. Joan has to drive while we’ll sit back and neck and give advice. Tell him, Joan.) (Yes, Jake. You have us both now. Forever.) (Om Mani Padme Hum’.) (Om Mani Padme Hum. Join us, Jake. A Thanksgiving.) (Om Mani Padme Hum!) “Om Mani Padme Hum.”
“Joan. Let me have him, dear.” Dr. Garcia was bending over her.
She shook her head. “I’ll hold him, Roberto.” (Boss! Knock off the female kark and let dear Doctor work.) (Yes, Eunice. Hang on tight to Jake.) (Never fear, dear; I shall. Jock, can you see now? Out of Joan’s eyes. We’re going to move.) (Of course I can see. Who’s that ugly old wreck? Me.!) (Of course not; that’s just something we don’t need any longer. Look away, Joan; you’re upsetting Jock.)