The beautiful lounge, with its softly lit tapestries, paintings, and wood carvings and its glossy blond paneling, was in a turmoil. The shiny dance floor, where seconds before couples had been gliding to the strains of “Arrivederci Roma,” was a jumble of squirming bodies. The music had stopped abruptly, to be replaced by criesof pain and dismay. Band members extricated themselves from the tangle of instruments. There were broken .bottles and glasses everywhere, and the sir reeked with the smell of alcohol. Vases of fresh flowers had spilled onto the floor.

“What in God’s name was that?” one of the men said.

Angelo held his tongue, not sure even now of what he had seen. He looked at the window again and saw only the ,fog.

“Maybe we hit. an iceberg,” the man’s wife ventured tentatively.

An iceberg? For Chrissakes, Connie, you’re talking the coast of Massachusetts. In July. “

The woman pouted. “Well, then; maybe it was a mine.”

He looked over at the band and grinned. “Whatever it was, it got their to stop playing that goddamn song.”

They all laughed at the joke. Dancers were brushing their clothes off, the musicians inspecting their instruments for damage. Bartenders and waiters rushed about.

“We’ve got nothing to worry about,” another man said. “One of the officers told me they built this ship to be unsinkable.”

His wife stopped checking her makeup in the mirror of her compact. “That’s what they said about the Titanic,” she said with alarm.

Tense silence. Then a quick exchange of fearful glances. As if they’d heard a silent signal, the three couples .hastily made for

the nearest exit like binds flying off a clothesline.

Angelo’s first instinct was to dear the table of glasses and wipe it down. He laughed softly. “You’ve been a waiter too long,” he said under his breath.

Most of the people in the room were back on their feet, and they were using them to move toward the exits. The lounge was quickly emptying out. If Angelo didn’t leave, he’d be all alone. He shrugged, tossed his dish towel on the floor, then headed for the nearest doorway to find out what was going on.

Black waves threatened to drag Jake Carey under for good. He fought against the dark current tugging at his body, crawled onto the slippery .edge of consciousness, and hung on grimly. He heard a moan and realized it was coming from his own lips. He moaned again, this time on purpose. Good. Dead men don’t moan. His next thought was of his wife.

“Myra!’ he called out.

He heard a faint stirring in the gray darkness. Hope surged in his breast. He called his wife’s name again.

“Over here.” Myra’s voice was muffled as if coming from a distance.

“Thank God! Are you all. right?”

A pause. “Yes. What happened? I was asleep”

“I don’t know. Can you move?”

“No.”