Chapter 7

After dinner a committee of four--self-appointed--searched the ship for Patrick Doyle. They found him descending from the bridge, where he had been discussing celestial navigation, radar, sonar and lunar tides with the captain, a grizzled veteran of some thirty-five years at sea.

The group was a hearty, tweedy, sensibly shod and indefatigable quartet determined to liven up the trip with good clean fun and wholesome activities. Resolutely they cornered the vessel's most celebrated passenger and told him that it was his duty to share his inventiveness and wit with his less endowed fellows.

Shooing them away turned out to be impossible. And at last he succumbed to the plump pressures and was proudly shepherded below by the matrons. Their conspirators had gathered in one of the dining rooms, and at his arrival a murmur went through the crowd.

Doyle glanced about.

Largely they consisted of the widows and spinsters, with a sprinkling of cowed elderly males. The Martins, he noticed, were conspicuously absent. So was Sabrina Moore. He did not see Larry Stevens. But he did see Tricia Goode.

The slim, dark-haired girl sat unobtrusively in a corner, busily knitting with a pair of needles and a ball of yarn. Wondering why it should make such a difference to him, Doyle watched to check whether she had heeded his entrance.

Tricia Goode made not a sign.

While the ladies performed gay introductions, he listened and observed with only half his consciousness. Had she been a live hand-grenade ticking away, the girl could not have been more important to him. It was ridiculous, he knew. She was less than half his age. They had not yet exchanged so much as a word. She was hardly any more attractive than Vicky or Sabrina. And yet he stood there nodding and smiling at people he did not know nor care to know--all because a young girl sat in a corner and knitted.

It galled him. And abruptly he stopped smiling.

"Could you give us a lecture on the Tyrolean Alps, Mr. Doyle?" someone cried. "I heard you give that one once and it was wonderful. I wish you would..."

His stare cut the woman short. "I would rather have my tongue torn out by the roots, madam."

"Then would you recite one of your epic poems for us?"

"Not if I can help it."

Suggestions continued to fly thick and fast. Everyone tried to win the "let's get Patrick Doyle involved" contest. But he held out staunchly, brushing off each request with a refusal as malevolent as corrosive acid.

And at last they got the hint. The eagerness drained away and the atmosphere grew stiff. No one seemed to know what to do. The gaiety of the party fell like a punctured balloon. But the knitting needles continued to click unabated.

Presently, when a voice weakly suggested a duplicate bridge tournament, Doyle quietly excused himself and went out on deck. The night was clear, but a chill was in the air and there were comparatively few strollers.

He stood and sucked in the cool air. After that stupid mob he was glad of solitude. But it was soon broken and he was startled to hear a voice at his elbow.

"Why must you be so cruel, Mr. Doyle?"

Even before he looked he knew who it was. He had not heard her speak before, but he was quite certain that this voice could belong only to one person.

"Am I cruel, Miss Goode?"

"You--you know my name?"

"Yes. As you knew mine. But let me ask you again, if I may. Am I cruel?"

"Of course you are. You've been cruel ever since you got on this boat. I have a feeling that you're very proud of yourself when you go to sleep at night."

"Who says I sleep? Perhaps I hang from my toes like a sloth and catch fireflies."

"It's not necessary to be clever, Mr. Doyle. Actually, I suppose it's none of my business. But you see, I feel kind of sorry for you. I beg your pardon. Good night."

Doyle's arm barred her way. "Wait."

"Yes?"

"Please. I beg your pardon, Miss Goode. Won't you stay another moment?"

Silently the girl moved back to the rail. By the light from the portholes he could make out her face. Eyes solemn, mouth unsmiling. The wind danced in her hair.

She wore a blue sweater against the chill. The soft wool clung to her breasts tenderly and Doyle resisted an impulse to hold them in his hands. He liked the simple way her skirt hung over her hips and legs. At this instant Tricia Goode seemed infinitely more desirable than either Vicky or Sabrina.

Doyle was glad that his own face was in shadow. "Why do you care, Miss Goode?" he asked gently. "To you, I'm sure, I must appear completely obnoxious."

"You may seem that way to many, Mr. Doyle. But somehow I don't think you are. I wasn't really certain that you fully realized how much you can hurt people. And since everyone else is afraid of your sharp tongue, I thought I'd be the scared sacrificial lamb."

A weight settled upon Doyle's shoulders. This was not the first time in his life he had been forced to gaze upon himself in a mirror held up by someone else. But it was the first time that it caused a stab of conscience. And with the pained conscience came a definite sense of guilt.

"Come now," he said, "there's no need for anyone to be sacrificed. I'm not altogether a sadist." Then, hearing her sudden intake of breath, "In fact, I'm not a sadist in any respect."

"That's odd. I had thought of you as just that."

It was like the twist of a knife. "That's a rather serious business," he said. "I had no idea you were watching me so critically. However, if I do give that ghastly impression it is quite unintentional, let me assure you."

"That's why it's so horrible. If you were deliberately sadistic it would be almost forgivable. But being that way unknowingly indicates terrible things in you."

Doyle held his hands out, palms up, and spoke with sincerity. "What would you have me do?"

The girl hesitated. Evidently she had attacked with the expectation of a counterattack in return. To have the foe expose his jugular vein without defense was unnerving. Her thoughts apparently had not gone beyond the basic fact of the malady. The cure had never entered her mind.

"I--I don't know. Recognize yourself, I suppose. Recognize all the good and constructive things you can do for people. And stop feeling compelled to mock and insult and hurt. Oh, I just don't know..."

Her voice quavered and he sensed she was on the verge of tears. But he could not imagine why. Surely it couldn't be over this little scene. If there were any tears to be shed they should be his.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Doyle. I have no right to be talking to you like this. I should go."

Once again she tried to get away, but again he held her. For a moment she struggled and then all at once she went limp. Her face dropped against his chest and she clung to him. It was not the embrace of a woman for a man. Instead it was more like that of a child for a parent.

Her slender body trembled in a paroxysm of dry sobs. There stirred in Doyle a curiously mixed reaction. Part of him was overly conscious of her as an appealing woman. The other part wanted to offer only the solace and comfort she sought.

He was mildly astonished at the inherent warmth of her body. A flowery glow seemed to emanate from her. Was this what he had felt but had not understood ever since laying eyes on her? It was strange to him, this feeling, almost alien. In his entrails was a mushiness he could not fathom.

"I want to be your friend," Tricia said in muted tones. "I didn't mean all those awful things I said."

"You are my friend," he murmured, looking over her trembling shoulder at the star-flecked water beyond. "But we mustn't stay out here; you'll catch your death of cold. Let me take you to your cabin. May I?"

She shook her head. "No. Not to my cabin. Anywhere but there. Not now. Please."

"As you wish. To the lounge, then. Perhaps we can find a quiet table and talk. A good brandy might help, also."

"All right," she said faintly.

But they did not get to the bar. Peering in from the doorway, Doyle saw too many passengers warming themselves with alcohol. And the girl made no demurral when he suggested his cabin.

Feeling like a boy on his first date, he uncorked a bottle of cognac and poured two fingers for her. Trustingly she drank it and then coughed. Her face reddened and her eyes went bleary. But the shivering stopped and soon she lifted her head and smiled.

"Delicious," she gasped. "What do you call it?"

"French moonshine. Another?"

"I give up. I'll never be cold again."

They talked casually about the ship and her home and school and where she was going in Europe. Until, at last, Doyle could hold back no longer. "Understand, young lady, I'm not about to forget the roasting you gave me." His voice chided, but there was no sting in it. "But in all frankness I must confess to some mystification as to why you picked me."

"Did I pick you?"

"Well, didn't you? But why? If you despised me so much, why did you want me as a friend?"

"Oh..." She put a hand to her still-flushed face. "Was I that transparent?"

"Not quite. Pellucid, perhaps. You see, you didn't lie in toto. You meant what you said about me. And I know enough about this tired old hulk to recognize the truth when I hear it. But there were other reasons you had, I'm sure, for approaching me. Your main object had to do with you--didn't it?"

Tricia lowered her eyes. "Yes. You're right."

She spoke with such helpless trust that Doyle felt a lump rise in his throat. "Would you care to tell me about it?" he said.

"Yes... and no. I thought it was a very important matter, but now it seems so ridiculous."

"Nothing is ridiculous if it has an effect on you."

"But maybe I am ridiculous."

"Impossible. What is it?"

He hated to prod. At times it was like poking at a festering boil. He preferred remaining aloof from the petty troubles that bothered petty people. Anyone who interfered in another's problems usually got more than he bargained for.

But this was difficult.

This was Tricia Goode.

"Sex," Tricia Goode said out loud.

Doyle had heard the word before but never with quite such violence and dread. To hear the sound issue from those lips was like hearing a curse word in church. He had long known that to most young people--and many older ones-- sex was a frightening monster that threatened to gobble them up if they weren't careful. This monster had come into Tricia Goode's life, and it was a shock to him that she should be suffering because of it.

"That's a pretty broad subject," he said lightly, his mind racing ahead in a dozen different guesses.

"And pretty dull to you, I imagine. You'll probably get a big chuckle out of this--but if you want to hear it..."

"I do. Please tell me."

She did. She told him about a boy named Walter and what had happened to her on her last night in New York. And the later awakening to reality, the revulsion and self-castigation, the sickness of disappointment. She told him a lot.

And Doyle muttered silent oaths about the stupid youth who had barged in, bull-like, to shatter this fragile, crystalline heart. And all those like him, for they are myriad. There should be a law, he figured, that only experienced and skillful males be allowed to make love to virgins. Not asses who had picked up their knowledge in hallways or bushes or out of pseudo-scientific books.

In all his life and with all his activity, Doyle could truly swear that he had never left a maiden's bed without leaving her happy and grateful. Now he bemoaned the fate which had not brought this girl to him forty-eight hours earlier.

"And that's just the beginning, Mr. Doyle. There's more--if you can stand it."

Raging with jealousy, he nodded--yes, he could stand more. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in an effort to quell his wrath. How he detested that Walter boy!

"I suppose it wouldn't have been so bad, really--I mean, well, I would have lived through it all right. Every girl does, I guess. But something happened inside of me."

Tricia was standing next to the bureau and Doyle saw two of her in the mirror. Unable to chain his ire, he stared at the slim form and imagined it writhing nude on a hotel bed with a leering, slobbering oaf poised to violate it. The vision of those shapely limbs kicking in futile resistance infuriated him.

"As bad as things are," she went on quietly, "there are always two sides. In this case, the present and the future. Well, the present took place in that hotel. The future is taking place on this boat. The aftermath, you could call it. Afterbirth, to be really crude. Now I'm beginning to reap some of the agonies. Like feeling terribly ashamed when I'm around others who don't know."

The roll of the vessel caused her skirt to sway softly around the loveliness of her legs.

"So now there is someone who interests me very much, but I can't fight off the unclean feeling I have. If he knew he would probably turn his back on me. A man has a right to expect me to come to him without any dark secrets."

Doyle gulped. Another one?

It was bad enough to bear rage and jealousy for an absent man, but to have a second one right under his nose was too much. Perhaps the girl was stupid--didn't she know that she could have come to him, Patrick Doyle, with her problem before it ever became a problem? He was almost angry with her for not having foreseen the fact that they would meet.

Holding down his irritation, he said, "I can understand your dilemma, Tricia. But where do I fit in?"

"That's what I'm not sure of. I guess I just had to tell somebody--a man--to find out what I should do. A man as worldly as you would know about such things. Maybe I'm being overly squeamish about the whole affair."

"Not exactly. You've been through an emotional battle. I'd be amazed if it didn't have some repercussions. However, I see no reason for it to become a bugaboo in your life." His mind shifted into high gear. "I'll tell you this, though--any man who turns his back on a girl for that sort of thing isn't worth a damn in the first place. You are what you are. You mustn't pretend to be anything else. The man who really wants you will love you for yourself or not at all."

Her eyes came alive. He could see that she was all but eating up his soothing words.

"And now," he said shrewdly, "what else is it that bothers you? The other part of sex? The physical part of it?"

"I--I think so," and her voice was low as she said it.

"Afraid that something is wrong with your reactions?"

The girl nodded.

"It wasn't very pleasant the other night?"

She shook her head.

"Not even a hint of enjoyment?"

"Uh... just a hint. But that was all."

Doyle pursed his lips. Then he raised his eyebrows in a question that could have been construed in only one way. He crossed his fingers in hopes that she would understand.

She must have. Slowly, deliberately, knowingly, Tricia Goode nodded her head, once.

"Are you afraid of me?" he murmured.

"No."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes. That's why I'm here."

Their separate gazes met, locked, held. No longer were they two persons of different generations. They were a man and a woman. Doyle felt the change in the atmosphere; it seemed to press heavily upon his chest.

How many times had he been involved in similar moments? He couldn't count them. Yet they still were possessed of an enormous magnetism. He could be blase about many things in this world. But he would never, even if he lived another half century, be jaded about this.

Doyle stood up. Tricia started across to him. The door dipped toward her and she stopped. Then, inexorably, it rose and slanted in the opposite direction. She raced down the incline into his arms. The impact sent him backward onto the chair and then she was on his lap, their mouths meeting.

Tenderly, so very tenderly, he probed her lips, parting them. The flaming tip of her tongue darted to greet him. His hand slipped upward along a slim leg. To her waist and higher. Around to her back where his fingers groped expertly for the zipper, found it, tugged --and the dress folded away.

Even through the silken fabric of her bra he tasted the freshness of the flesh beneath and felt it stiffen. Her body quivered. The backstrap clasp presented only a small problem. And then there was no silken fabric in his path.

He lifted her, surprised that a body so light could still feel so full and firm and complete. On his way to the bed he hit the switch and darkness cloaked the room. But almost immediately a faint illumination poked itself from the porthole to the bed like a long yellow finger. Gently, lovingly, he placed his burden down directly in its glow.

With a trust that dizzied him, she allowed his hands and lips full reign. He prepared her like a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. And soon the white body was exposed to his eyes and he wondered how any man, no matter how blinded by passion, could have treated it as that simpleton Walter had.

Lying beside her, he heard the deep and regular breathing that issued from her open mouth. His own mouth was dry and burning. In the darkness he envisioned a jewel coolly displayed on a velvet cushion. A beautiful pearl. It was there to be taken--purloined, perhaps-- by some daring diver.

And he saw himself high atop a cliff about to enter the beckoning waters below. And then he was springing far out into the air and soaring, soaring, and at last plunging into the sea. At the touch of his hands it parted resiliently and he was in the depths, sinking, but it became lighter instead of darker and now he could see all around him. The water enveloped him like a friendly blanket, pulling him and buoying him at the same moment as though he had no weight, no consistency.

Farther and farther he plumbed, and the liquid gave way with a kind of joyous reluctance. In the distance was the pearl lying in its velvet nest and he reached for it--but alas! it was just too far away.

Stroking, he sank toward the precious gem and saw it grow larger with each movement. Now he was almost there--the urgency of the necessity to breath was pulsing in his lungs. They were about to burst. He needed air.

Yet he knew he must reach the pearl. He must. Even though he might not ever have the strength to get back to the surface he had to gain this prize.

And he reached.

His fingers closed over the smooth, lovely thing.

He started to return to the living world.

Then, with startling suddenness, the sea crushed in on him, the air in his lungs rushed out, his ears popped. And he had the peculiarly thrilling sensation of watching himself disintegrating in the terrific pressure of the surrounding water in a soundless, ever-spreading explosion.

But he had the pearl, the treasure, the precious gem--and he had gained it without harming even one speck of its flawless, maddening beauty.

And that was what counted.

The taut, jouncing breasts were free and expanding now and Tricia watched him pull back and gape at them. Then she brought them back to his mouth in a most giving and womanly gesture, her cheek against his, lips trailing, flicking at his ear lobe. "Teach me..." she murmured, and with a groan he gathered her closer to him, sank deeper into her, and buried his face against the naked throb and heat of her, sucking furiously at her nipples, nibbling at the palpitating buds and loving the tantalized moans of her as she reverently stroked his cheeks and cradled his chin higher against her breasts, and he alternately slid each fat little melon into his mouth, trying to devour the both of them, going carnivorous with the sudden luxuriant taste of her. Then his lips were fervently caressing at the hot-tit undersides, gently lifting each tear-shaped mound and slowly swirling his tongue up and behind to lick and explore the tender back-flesh, and all of it tasted so new and fresh to his mouthings.

Slowly, his movement in and out of her furtive and savoring, his lips traveling, satiny, staking their claim, lifting the back of her knees and raising her legs, his cock all sopped and pressed into the unveiled glories of her, now a rearing response in its own slight emission, the buried head of it towering up in her belly, discovering new, hidden heat pockets in there.

His hands swept around her buttocks and clutched the tight and sweltering cheeks, hoisting her higher for the coming finale, his prick wet-sliding in and slowly out in awe and wonder that he thought himself no longer capable of, as he wormed his way through the groaning discovery, drowning it again and again in her sweet, moist rain, letting it be sipped by the swirling, clinging whirlpool, he stretched upward and flung her thighs even wider apart... wanting the loin-emptying of her now, the nourishment lurking for him in this girl of fire and replenishment. And her frenzied convulsions of legs and pelvis, she sighed "Ahhh!" and grasped for more of the thickness and breadth of the wet throbbing monster-member, the rumbling now fever shafting deep inside her belly, giving her every joyful inch, basking it in the hot fluids of her, feeling the inner muscles of her cradling the very hub of it, spiking her up off the bed, holding her straight up, planted in that ever-gurgling nest of her, as she moaned and shot her little body and bottom in fresh and covetous hunger, his eyes brooding about her soft licking lips, parted and vulnerable with need, crushing his own hot mouth against hers, softly nudging his tongue between her lips as their mouths went locked and he thought my little virgin-whore, my lovely one, my... Ohhhhhhh!

He went senseless and unhinged for the mad moment... dug in and soaking in her moist creamy cunt, treading juices between them... going under, losing altitude, drowning...

Patrick Doyle came, splitting, spraying endless volleys of hot jetting bursts and jamming the great flood into her... again... un... again... his loins aflame, milking it into her, trembling from his head to his feet. He felt her body tighten from within, too, felt her come uncontrollably, the bunk wheezing with her hand-grabbing at it for support throughout this glorious moment.

Sunk and met, as he throbbed out his last moist drippings into her.

They clung in silence for long and sheltered moments, both unbelieving, letting the cathedral-hush of their dwindling sighs envelop the cabin, and perhaps the world.

He leaned down and kissed the warm full repose of her lips.