Outside the offices of Crowther & Son, Marine Agents, Documents of Pratique, Licensed Agents of the Port, Export and Import Documents, the little group gathered. Montgomery Street brokers hurried past, heedless of drama. Andrew Dugan wore a dated pinstriped suit and a dark tie. His black shoes were mirror-polished. He looked like a freshly robed scarecrow. His brother John, almost identically dressed, had an air of unwavering finality, like a good funeral director. John’s sturdy, anxious wife was there too, stuffed into a black wool outfit. She wore a shiny pillbox hat. Mitch knew that Lindy regretted coming bareheaded; he wished, himself, that he’d worn a suit instead of a sports jacket.

“Well...” began Mitch and John Dugan simultaneously, and smiled. Dugan continued: “Got your papers, Andrew?”

Andrew Dugan nodded without expression. Inside, they stood at an ancient oaken counter while a clerk with fierce white eyebrows and thick glasses studied Dugan’s certificate of ownership. The vessel would of course continue to be federally documented, rather than state-licensed. Documentation made you subject to federal confiscation in time of war, but gave you more protection in foreign ports. Mostly, it added blue-water class: most racing boats, like automobiles, were registered; deep-water cruisers got documented.

The clerk, straight out of Dickens, squeezed a yellow form into a typewriter and began anachronistically to tap. Home port would remain San Francisco. Port of Hail would be Sausalito.

“Name of vessel, Lorelei,” murmured the clerk.

“Hold it.” Mitch dropped his bomb. “Linda Lee. For her first mate, cook, and co-owner.”

The poised fingers froze. Above the glasses, aged eyes fixed Mitch. It was as if he had suggested scuttling her. “Pardon me?”

“Mitch!” breathed Lindy. “Do you really want to?”

“I do,” he murmured, searching her eyes. “OK?”

She nodded uncertainly.

“Linda Lee,” he told the clerk again. “Two words. L ... I ... N...”

“I can spell it,” the clerk said stiffly. “But there’s considerable paperwork. Has to be published three days running—”

“Publish it.”

“Has to be recorded...”

“Charge me for it.”

“We do. Forty dollars extra.”

“I can change my wife’s name to Lorelei for less than that!” protested Mitch.

Lindy winced. Her eyes were on Andrew Dugan. It was no place for a joke. Dugan said stonily: “I guess you know it’s supposed to be bad luck.”

Mitch, embarrassed, reacted irritably. If he was going to drive Dugan’s mournful shadow from the boat, now was the time to start. “Forty bucks is bad luck in itself. There are also sideboards to change, life-rings to repaint, and Lloyds Registry to inform. But I still want her named Linda Lee."

“Wait a second,” begged Lindy. “Andy?”

Dugan looked away coldly. She struggled on, unsteadily: “We’ll get a brass nameplate, for the bulkhead, under the clock? Something like: Linda Lee, ex-Lorelei; Andrew Dugan, builder, keel laid such-and-such a date, launched such-and-such a date?”