“Yeh, it crossed my mind. A shipful of witches, devils, vampires, goblins, bogles, and spooks, screaming their way down the sky toward the Black Sabbath. Well, aren’t we?” Sadler grinned and snuggled close to Freiwald. He laughed and hugged her. “I feel exactly like doing that kind of nose thumbing.”

The rest agreed. They drank more than they were used to and got rowdy. At last they enthroned Boris Fedoroff on the stage, with a garland and a lei and two girls to wait on his every wish.

Several other folk stood in a ring, arms linked, bawling out a song that had been ancient when the vessel left home.

It makes no diff’rence where I end up when I die.

It makes no diff’rence where I end up when I die.

Up to heaven or down to hell come,

I’ve got friends who’ll make me welcome.

It makes no diff’rence where I end up when I die.

Michael O’Donnell, entering late after his watch ended— there were live stand-bys at every stress point, these days— pushed through the crowd. “Hey, Boris!” he called. The racket drowned him out.

—Oh, you’ve got no use for money when you die.

For St. Peter wants no ticket

When you stand at heaven’s wicket.

Oh, you’ve got no use for money when you die.

He reached the stage. “Hey, Boris! Congratulations!”

You shall have my old bicycle when I die.

You shall have—

“Thank you,” Fedoroff boomed. “Mainly Margarita’s work. She runs quite a shipyard, no?”

For the final kilometer

Goes on tandem with St. Peter—.

“What will you name the kid?” O’Donnell asked.

I’ll shoot craps with old St. Peter when I die—.

“Haven’t decided yet,” Fedoroff said. He waved a bottle. “I can tell you, though, it won’t be Eve.”

If I shoot as I’ve shot here—

“Embala?” Ingrid Lindgren suggested. “The first woman in the Eddie story.”

I can take him for a beer.

“Not that either,” Fedoroff said.

I’ll shoot craps with old St. Peter when I die.

“Nor Leonora Christine,” the engineer went on. “She’s not going to be any damned symbol. She’s going to be herself.”

The singers began dancing in a circle.

It’s not certain we’ll get liquor when we die.

It’s not certain we’ll get liquor when we die.

Let us then drink hell for leather

Now tonight when we’re together.

It’s not certain we’ll get liquor when we die.

Chidambaran and Foxe-Jameson seemed dwarfed by the sprawling masses of the observatory apparatus, and artless amidst its meters and controls and flickering indicator lights, and loud and clumsy in the humming stillness that pervaded this deck. They rose when Captain Telander appeared.

“You asked me to come?” he said pointlessly. His wasted features set. “What news? We’ve had calm this past month…”

“That won’t last.” Foxe-Jameson spoke half in exultation. “Elof’s gone in person to fetch Ingrid. We couldn’t do that for you, sir. The image is still very faint, might get lost if we don’t ride herd. You should be the first to know.” He returned to his chair before an electronic console. A screen above it showed darkness.