Gottschalk appeared unduly nervous to Church. His eyes darted up and down the passageway, and he constantly dabbed a linen handkerchief at his small mouth. He took Church by the arm.

"Before we have coffee, would you be so kind, Lieutenant, as to escort me to the baggage cargo hold?"

Church stared at him. "Yes, sir, if you wish."

"Thank you," said Gottschalk. "I need something from one of my trunks."

If Church thought the request unusual, he said nothing, simply nodded and started off toward the forward part of the ship with the fat little consul general huffing in his wake. They made their way topside and walked along the runway leading from the aft deckhouses toward the forecastle, passing under the bridge superstructure awkwardly suspended on steel stiltlike stanchions. The steaming light, suspended between the two forward masts that formed a support for the skeletal grid connecting the coaling derricks, cast a weird glow that was reflected by the eerie radiance of the approaching swells.

Stopping at a hatch, Church undogged the latches and motioned Gottschalk down a ladder, illuminating the way with his flashlight. When they reached the bottom deck of the cargo hold, Church found the switch and flicked on the overhead lights, which lit the area with an unearthly yellow glow.

Gottschalk shouldered past Church and walked directly to the crate, which was secured by chains whose end links were padlocked into eyebolts protruding from the deck. He stood there for a few moments, a reverent expression on his face as he stared at it, his thoughts wandering in another place, another time.

Church studied the crate up close for the first time. There were no markings on the stout wooden sides. He judged its measurements at nine feet long by three feet high by four feet wide. He couldn't begin to guess the weight, but knew the contents were heavy. He recalled how the winch had strained when it hoisted the crate on board. Curiosity overcame his mask of unconcern.

"Mind if I ask what's inside?"

Gottschalk's gaze remained on the crate. "An archeological artifact on its way to a museum," he said vaguely.

"Must be valuable," Church probed.

Gottschalk did not answer. Something along the edge of the lid struck his eye. He pulled out a pair of reading spectacles and peered through the lenses. His hands trembled and his body stiffened.

"It's been opened!" he gasped.

"Not possible," said Church. "The top is so tightly secured by chains that the links have made indentations on the edges of the wood."

"But look here," he said, pointing. "You can see the pry marks where the lid was forced up."

"Those scratches were probably caused when the crate was sealed."

"They were not there when I checked the crate two days ago," said Gottschalk firmly. "Someone in your crew had tampered with it."