The young officer turned and studied the man whose strange whim had inexorably bound him tighter in the grip of certain death. The lips were drawn back tightly over the teeth, the eyes glassy with a faraway look. The passenger glanced up and saw the officer staring at him. For a long moment their eyes locked.

“Don’t worry.

“Bigalow, sir.”

“Don’t worry, Bigalow. You’ll make it before she goes.”

“What section of the cargo hold do you want?”

“The ship’s vault in number one cargo hold, G Deck.”

“G Deck must surely be under water by now.”

“We’ll only know when we get there, won’t we?” The passenger motioned with the gun in his coat pocket as the elevator doors opened. They moved out and pushed their way through the crowd.

Bigalow tore off his life belt and ran around the staircase leading to E Deck. There he stopped and looked down and saw the water crawling upward, inching its relentless path up the steps. Some of the lights still burned under the cold green water, giving off a haunting, distorted glow.

“It’s no use. You can see for yourself.”

“Is there another way?”

“The watertight doors were closed right after the collision. We might make it down one of the escape ladders.”

“Then keep going.”

The journey along the circuitous alleyways went rapidly through the unending steel labyrinth of passages and ladder tunnels. Bigalow halted and lifted a round hatch cover and peered into the narrow opening. Surprisingly, the water on the cargo deck beneath was only two feet deep.

“No hope,” he lied. “It’s flooded.”

The passenger roughly shoved the officer to one side and looked for himself.

“It’s dry enough for my purpose,” he said slowly. He waved the gun at the hatch. “Keep going.”

The overhead electric lights were still burning in the hold as the two men sloshed their way toward the ship’s strong room. The dim rays glinted off the brass of a giant Renault town car blocked to the deck.

Both of them stumbled and fell in the icy water several times, numbing their bodies with the cold. Staggering like drunken men, they reached the vault at last. It was a cube in the middle of the cargo compartment. It measured eight feet by eight feet; its sturdy walls were constructed of twelve inch-thick Belfast steel.

The passenger produced a key from his vest pocket and inserted it in the slot. The lock was new and stiff, but finally the tumblers gave with an audible click. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the vault. Then he turned and smiled for the first time. “Thanks for your help, Bigalow. You’d better head topside. There’s still time for you.”

Bigalow looked puzzled. “You’re staying?”

“Yes, I’m staying. I’ve murdered eight good and true men. I can’t live with that.” It was said flatly. The tone final. “It’s over and done with. Everything.”

Bigalow tried to speak, but the words would not come.