“What do you think?” he asked.

“I was thinking of having Dr. Lee stay with my aunt ’Lizbeth on Cuttyhunk Island until the danger passed,” Paul said.

Gamay chortled.

“I know your Aunt Lizzy. She’d drive this poor woman crazy with her incessant talk about beach-plum jelly.”

“Gamay’s right about Lizzy,” Paul said. “And Dr. Lee is right when she says her expertise in the lab’s work could come in handy. I know how you like insurance.”

Austin had a reputation around NUMA for daring that bordered on the reckless. Those he worked with, like the Trouts, knew that his risks were always calculated. He was like the high-stakes riverboat gambler who kept not one but two Derringers up his sleeves.

Austin threw his hands in the air.

“Looks like I’m outgunned, Dr. Lee.” He got on the intercom to the cockpit. “Ready to go in five minutes,” he told the pilot.

Gamay asked, “What would you like us to do while you’re in Micronesia?”

“Get in touch with Lieutenant Casey and tell him that Dr. Lee has joined us. Contact Joe’s FBI friend and fill her in.” He paused in thought, then said, “See what you can do about tracking down the Princess’s logbook.”

“We’ll start with Perlmutter and let you know,” Paul said.

The Trouts wished the others luck and descended to the tarmac. They watched as the Citation X taxied down the runway and leaped into the sky.

Paul gazed at the pink-tinged clouds of dawn.

“Red sky at morning,” he said, “sailor take warning.”

“That sort of stuff went out when weather satellites went into orbit, Captain Courageous,” Gamay said.

Paul was a third-generation fisherman, and weather lore had been passed down in his family from father to son. Gamay was annoyed whenever Paul reverted to his old-salt persona.

He smiled slightly, and said, “Storm is still a storm.”

She took him by the arm, and said, “Put on your foul-weather gear. You haven’t seen the storm that compares with getting Perlmutter out of bed.”

Unknown

NUMA 8 - Medusa

CHAPTER 31

ST. JULIEN PERLMUTTER CUSTOMARILY WORKED INTO THE wee hours and slept until long after the sun had risen. So when the telephone beside his king-size water bed gonged like a ship’s bell and awoke the renowned naval historian from a sound slumber, his usually sunny greeting had an edge to it.

His pudgy hand reached to the bedside table, snatched up the antique French telephone’s receiver, and stuck it to his ear. Still groggier than a punch-drunk prizefighter, he boomed, “St. Julien Perlmutter here. State your bloody damned business in a brief manner. And you better have a good excuse for calling at this ungodly hour!”

“Good morning, Julien,” said a soothing female voice. “Hope I didn’t wake you up.”