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Authors: Donald Hamilton
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and prepare myself to protect the inquisitive bitch from whatever trouble she manages to stir up. Can you tell me where it’s likely to come from?”
The woman beside me hesitated. “How much do you know about what she’s doing?”
I said, “Well, I didn’t take that bloody Triangle nonsense of hers too seriously. I figured she was using that to hide behind while she probed away secretly at something else. So what was she likely to be investigating while she pretended to be collecting fascinating data on the Mysterious Sea of Missing Ships? What made her pick that particular cover story, to cover the story she’s really working on? It came to me in a flash; and I had Washington crank up the computer and find out if there had been any new cases of ships going mysteriously missing of late. They sent me a bunch of clippings and some other stuff, very interesting. Inside and outside the Deadly Triangle, folks have been polluting the sea bottoms with busted-up vessels in a most reprehensible way, racking up well above the normal run of collisions and storm losses and groundings. The computer kicked out over half a dozen it thought deserved special
attention—I haven’t gotten around to reading them all— and that doesn’t count the most recent one that was in the newspaper I read on the plane coming east. Come to think of it, I’ve got that one in my pocket. Here.”
I dug out the torn-out piece of newsprint and laid it on the cabin table. Harriet turned it so she could read the headline above the picture of a neat new ship proceeding peacefully across a placid ocean.
" TANKER SINKS ,” she read aloud. “Date and so forth. . . . Four lives were lost when the tanker Fairfax Constellation , shown above on its maiden voyage in 1963, went down off the Bahama Islands in moderate weather after reporting an explosion and fire on board. The remainder of the crew was picked up etc., etc. . . . The twenty-five thousand ton ship was registered in Monrovia, Liberia. After taking on a full cargo of oil in Aruba, it was proceeding towards Wilmington, North Carolina, when the disaster occurred. The cause of the explosion has not been determined. ... It!” she said explosively.
“What?”
“ It , for God’s sake!” Harriet made a face at the clipping. “I’m getting goddamn sick and tired of these Libbers mangling the goddamn language. A ship is not an it, goddamn it! A ship is a she, and has always been a she . As a woman I simply loved having hurricanes named after me; it’s bad enough now when they call a nice, big, beautiful blow ‘David,’ for God’s sake! It should have been ‘Danielle,’ or ‘Dorothy,’ or ‘Dora’ or something, a real credit to our sex. But when they have the gall to deprive us of having a lovely thing like a ship, even a seventeen-year-old flag-of-convenience rust-bucket like that, referred to in the feminine! . . .” She grinned abruptly. “Did you hear about that big whirlpool off Norway? You’re now supposed to call it the Personstrom, or the equal ladies will have your hide. Instead of the Maelstrom— Male strom—get it?”
I said, “Lady, you need another drink. Ugh!”
She laughed and said, “I gather you’re convinced that all these recent sinkings are related in some way.”
“Wasn’t Eleanor Brand? Isn’t that why she came to see you a second time, remembering from the previous interview that you know a hell of a lot about anything that floats?”
After a moment, Harriet nodded. “You’re a good guesser. Yes, that’s why she stopped by on her way down to the Caribbean; but I couldn’t give her much help. Big ships aren’t really in my line. Anyway, you’ll have gathered I wasn’t very fond of Miss Eleanor Brand; and, of course, there were . . . reasons why I didn’t particularly want her hanging around asking questions.”
“Reasons?”
“Now who’s being stupid?” she asked. “Naturally, I don’t want her putting me into an article or giving me
The woman beside me hesitated. “How much do you know about what she’s doing?”
I said, “Well, I didn’t take that bloody Triangle nonsense of hers too seriously. I figured she was using that to hide behind while she probed away secretly at something else. So what was she likely to be investigating while she pretended to be collecting fascinating data on the Mysterious Sea of Missing Ships? What made her pick that particular cover story, to cover the story she’s really working on? It came to me in a flash; and I had Washington crank up the computer and find out if there had been any new cases of ships going mysteriously missing of late. They sent me a bunch of clippings and some other stuff, very interesting. Inside and outside the Deadly Triangle, folks have been polluting the sea bottoms with busted-up vessels in a most reprehensible way, racking up well above the normal run of collisions and storm losses and groundings. The computer kicked out over half a dozen it thought deserved special
attention—I haven’t gotten around to reading them all— and that doesn’t count the most recent one that was in the newspaper I read on the plane coming east. Come to think of it, I’ve got that one in my pocket. Here.”
I dug out the torn-out piece of newsprint and laid it on the cabin table. Harriet turned it so she could read the headline above the picture of a neat new ship proceeding peacefully across a placid ocean.
" TANKER SINKS ,” she read aloud. “Date and so forth. . . . Four lives were lost when the tanker Fairfax Constellation , shown above on its maiden voyage in 1963, went down off the Bahama Islands in moderate weather after reporting an explosion and fire on board. The remainder of the crew was picked up etc., etc. . . . The twenty-five thousand ton ship was registered in Monrovia, Liberia. After taking on a full cargo of oil in Aruba, it was proceeding towards Wilmington, North Carolina, when the disaster occurred. The cause of the explosion has not been determined. ... It!” she said explosively.
“What?”
“ It , for God’s sake!” Harriet made a face at the clipping. “I’m getting goddamn sick and tired of these Libbers mangling the goddamn language. A ship is not an it, goddamn it! A ship is a she, and has always been a she . As a woman I simply loved having hurricanes named after me; it’s bad enough now when they call a nice, big, beautiful blow ‘David,’ for God’s sake! It should have been ‘Danielle,’ or ‘Dorothy,’ or ‘Dora’ or something, a real credit to our sex. But when they have the gall to deprive us of having a lovely thing like a ship, even a seventeen-year-old flag-of-convenience rust-bucket like that, referred to in the feminine! . . .” She grinned abruptly. “Did you hear about that big whirlpool off Norway? You’re now supposed to call it the Personstrom, or the equal ladies will have your hide. Instead of the Maelstrom— Male strom—get it?”
I said, “Lady, you need another drink. Ugh!”
She laughed and said, “I gather you’re convinced that all these recent sinkings are related in some way.”
“Wasn’t Eleanor Brand? Isn’t that why she came to see you a second time, remembering from the previous interview that you know a hell of a lot about anything that floats?”
After a moment, Harriet nodded. “You’re a good guesser. Yes, that’s why she stopped by on her way down to the Caribbean; but I couldn’t give her much help. Big ships aren’t really in my line. Anyway, you’ll have gathered I wasn’t very fond of Miss Eleanor Brand; and, of course, there were . . . reasons why I didn’t particularly want her hanging around asking questions.”
“Reasons?”
“Now who’s being stupid?” she asked. “Naturally, I don’t want her putting me into an article or giving me
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