"The way of the sea." Masters sighed. "The Koreans are clean, hardworking seamen. I wouldn't trade them for half the cargo in our holds."

"That's a pretty stiff price," muttered the engineering officer.

"Is it improper," Estelle ventured, to ask what cargo you're carrying?"

"Not at all," the very young fourth officer offered eagerly. "In San Francisco our holds were loaded with-"

"Titanium ingots," Captain Masters cut in.

"Eight million dollars worth," anded the first officer, eyeing the fourth sternly.

"Once again, please," Estelle said, handing her empty glass to the mess boy. She turned back to Masters. "I've heard of titanium, but I have no idea what it's used for."

"When properly processed in pure form, titanium becomes stronger and lighter than steel, an asset that puts it in great demand by builders of jet aircraft engines. It's also winely used in the manufacture of paints, rayon and plastics. I suspect you even have traces of it in your cosmetics."

The cook, an anemic-looking Oriental with a sparkling white apron leaned through a side door and nodded at Lee, who in turn tapped a glass with a mixing spoon.

"Dinner ready to be served," he said in his heavily accented English, while flashing his gap-toothed smile.

It was a fabulous meal, one Estelle promised herself never to forget. To be surrounded by six handsomely uniformed-ned and attentive men was all that her female vanity could endure in one evening.

After a demitasse, Captain Masters excused himself and headed for the bridge. One by one, the other officers drifted off to their duties, and Estelle took a tour of the deck with the engineering officer. He entertained her with tales of sea superstitions, eerie monsters of the deep and funny tinbits of scuttlebutt about the crew that made her laugh.

At last they reached the door of her stateroom, and he gallantly kissed her hand again. She accepted when he asked her to join him for breakfast in the morning.

She entered the tiny cabin, clicked the lock on the door and switched on the overhead light. Then she closed the curtain tightly over the single porthole, pulled the suitcase from under the bed and opened it.

The top tray contained her cosmetics and carelessly jumbled underthings, and she removed it. Next came several neatly folded blouses and skirts. These she also removed and set aside to later steam out the wrinkles in the shower. Gently inserting a nail file around the edges of the false bottom of the suitcase, she pried it up.

Then she sat back and sighed with relief. The money was still there, stacked and bound in the Federal Reserve Bank wrappers.

She had hardly spent any of it.

She stood up and slipped her dress over her head-daringly, she wore nothing beneath-and collapsed across the bed, hands behind her head.