“Ready?”

“Ready, sir.”

“I don’t expect trouble, but just in case.”

“Don’t you worry, sir,” all three assured him.

“If trouble they want, trouble they’ll have.”

“Bet yer sweet life.”

He knew this was crazy. But he had to get a look at the machine to be sure it was O.K. It was a move like this that got the poor Professor the ax, which was why he was paying good money to husky stewards to make sure it didn’t happen to him.

“You know the way?”

“Follow us, sir.”

“Where you headed, Clyde?”

Clyde Lynds whirled around to discover a wide-awake, hard-eyed Archie Abbott in the doorway behind him. The stewards rushed to his rescue, then thought better of it.

“Whoa, Emma!”

Archie held a pistol tucked tight to his torso. “Take it easy, boys. Where are you headed, Clyde?”

Clyde Lynds explained that he had hired the stewards to escort him safely to the baggage hold so he could see his machine. “I just have to make sure it’s O.K., Mr. Abbott. Can you understand? It’s really important.”

Archie took a close look at Clyde’s “protection squad.” Second Class stewards were a tougher lot than he’d seen in First. And one bruiser looked like he’d stepped into the prize ring, though not recently.

“All right.” He pocketed his pistol. “I’m rear guard. Go ahead, gents. Lead the way.”

They went quickly along the corridor and down companionways, Clyde close behind the stewards and Archie lagging behind Clyde, breathing hard and thinking to himself, I could be dining with my wife instead of herding this motley crew into the bowels of an ocean liner.

Both the swindler and his guard were fast asleep under blankets. Neither stirred when Archie, Lynds, and the stewards crowded into the baggage room. Archie smelled something sharp and acrid that he hadn’t noticed on his last visit. Clyde smelled it, too. He stopped abruptly in front of the row of wooden crates from which the smell emanated.

“I smell tar,” said Archie.

“Could be the wine went bad,” said a steward and laughed, “Why don’t we sample some, see if it’s all right?”

Clyde did not laugh, Archie noticed. The young man wet his lips and looked around nervously.

“What’s the matter, Clyde?”

“Uhhmm.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Do you smell something sharp?” Clyde asked.

“Yes, I just said that. So do they. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Clyde answered, slowly, though Archie bet that he did. He laid a tentative hand on one of the crates, bent over it, and sniffed the wood. When he straightened up, Archie thought that he looked terrified.

“Mr. Abbott, we’d better open all the doors and hatches in this baggage room. Immediately—all you men! Open everything. Now!”

The stewards looked about, uncomprehending.

Archie said, “What is going on, Clyde?”

“Unless I’m mistaken,” said Clyde, “these crates contain raw celluloid film stock. Movie film. The tar smell indicates that it’s old and decomposing.”

“So what?”