Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 BEE-7535

   Barbara Balls 'Em All!  By Janet London

   CHAPTER ONE

   He slid down to run his lips over the warm flesh of her flat tummy.  He
munched at her, teasing and tickling with his tongue, then kissed up and
down one quivering thigh as she spread her legs for him, moaning and
begging for him to lick her vulva.  He did, but only for one
passion-blinding moment.  Barbara strained up to him, trying to coax his
tongue inside her, but the chance was gone, as he mounted her bucking,
squirming body.  He guided his prong just slightly into her moist pussy,
and every nerve in her lovely body throbbed in anticipation of what was to
come.  He was tormenting her, rubbing the thick meaty glands around the wet
edges, touching her clit once, twice.

   "Ohhh, Tommy!" Barbara wailed.  "Put it in deeper.  Come on, honey.  I
want you so bad."

   The young man tried his best to answer his lover's frantic wishes, but
he was having a hard time considering the position they were in.  There
wasn't much room on the floor of her dormitory room, with all the books and
clothes and other assorted junk that Barbara and her roommate scattered
around.  So Tommy tried to get her up on the bed.

   "Here, baby," he said, yanking his hard cock out of her slippery pussy.
"Let's get all our clothes off and fuck up here.  Okay?"

   "No!" Barbara wailed.  "I want it now, right here!  Put your cock back
in me, Tommy Bradshaw!  I mean it!"

   "No way," Tommy said.  "I can't fuck you with this damn typewriter case
bashing me in the head.  Don't you ever clean this place up?  If you
weren't so good in bed, I don't think I'd even bother stopping by this pig
pen."

   Barbara wasn't listening to him.  While he kneeled between her legs, his
prick twitching above her, she clawed at his legs.

   "Give it to me," she pleaded.  "Tommy, please!"

   The young man stood up and began shucking off his clothes.  It felt much
better to be naked.  They had charged into the room earlier so fast and so
sexually excited they hadn't bothered to undress completely.  Tommy plugged
Barbara with his cock as soon as he unzipped his pants, and fucking her
with his prick chafing against the ragged edges of his fly got tiresome
after a while.

   "Okay, honey, now it's your turn," he commanded.  "Get those rags off
and get into bed.  We're gonna fuck for real in a minute, if you'll
cooperate."

   But Barbara just wrapped herself around his legs like a snake and tried
to pull him back down onto the floor.  She wanted his cock desperately. 
Having that big shaft of meat yanked out of her pussy prematurely was
almost painful, and now she wanted it back inside her as soon as possible.

   "Well, since you're going to be difficult, I guess I'll have to use
force," Tommy announced.

   Being a football player at the college didn't hurt Tommy's strength any.
It was easy for him to lift Barbara away from his legs and up onto the bed.


   "There," he said, rubbing his hands together, "now we're going to do
some serious fucking."

   Barbara lay flat on her back with her legs spread wide apart.  Tilting
his head at the right angle, Tommy could easily see up into her pink inner
slit.  She was juicy and ready, but he was still going to take his time. 
He hadn't had a piece of ass all week--and he was determined to make the
most of Barbara's wonderful cunt.

   Tommy slid down until his face was between her legs.  He held Barbara in
place with his large hands, digging his fingers into her thighs.  When he
figured she'd gotten the message--don't move!--he began assaulting her
pussy.  He gripped the edges of her outer cunt-lips and pulled the shiny
flesh apart like a pair of pink plastic wings.  Then he brought his face
forward and extended his tongue.  He jabbed inside her little slit with the
tip of his tongue, savoring the flavor of her tangy fuck-fluids.

   "Mmmmmm," Barbara moaned.  "Yes, Tommy.  Yes!"

   The young coed was beginning to get used to Tommy's unique approach to
lovemaking.  When they had first entered her room, she had wanted to fuck
with him as soon as possible.  Ever since she found out that he had a crush
on her, she wanted to get him alone and find out if it was true what all
the girls said.  Did Tommy Bradshaw really have the biggest cock around? 
And did he really know how to please a woman thoroughly?  Barbara had been
dying to find out all week.

   Her roommate, Judy, had once had the opportunity to fuck Tommy after a
drunken homecoming celebration.  Judy told Barbara that she had never
fucked anyone so wonderful before, and Judy had fucked quite a few men and
boys--including some of her college professors.  But Barbara never believed
Judy.  She was beginning to, however, the more Tommy sucked on her wet
pussy.  He really knew what he was doing, touching all the right places. 
Most men Barbara knew were terrible pussy-eaters.  They never managed to
find her clit, and she was unsatisfied more often than not.  There was
nothing more frustrating for her than a man sucking on her cunt who didn't
know what he was doing.  She heard once that in India the women taught
their daughters how to fuck.  And Barbara always thought it would be a good
idea for American men to teach their sons how to fuck.  Or at least, how to
eat pussy.

   From the way Tommy was going at it, Barbara thought that he must have
had a good instructor somewhere along the way.  He knew just the way to
stimulate Barbara's clitoris, by flicking his tongue as fast as he could
over her hard little love-bud.  That was what really got Barbara off.

   "Yes!" she cried out.  "Oh, Tommy.  That feels so good.  Ohhhh, faster.
Faster!"

   While the muscular football player worked away between her legs, Barbara
gripped the sides of his head and held him in place.  He still had a grip
on her cunt-flaps, holding them spread apart, but that just made it easier
for her to push him deeper into her moist pussy.

   "Oh, Tommy, you're making me come," she whispered.

   As waves of pleasure began flowing through her thighs, Barbara could
tell that her release was not far off.  Yet it seemed to her that Tommy was
giving her just enough stimulation to keep her excited but not too excited.
He didn't want her to come too soon.  He wanted to draw out her ecstasy for
an excruciatingly long time, wringing every bit of bliss from her young
body.

   Finally, Tommy had become exhausted working between her legs.  His
tongue was tired and he was finding it hard to breathe with Barbara holding
him fast against her pussy.  So he ripped his face free and leered up at
her.

   "You ready?" he asked.

   Barbara remembered how good it had felt earlier to have Tommy's penis
jammed inside her.  Now she was more than ready to have that huge shaft of
meat ramming into her anew.  He was so big, she could hardly believe it. 
But it was true.  Deliciously true.  And if there was anything she enjoyed,
it was a large prick.  Usually, what a man lacked in technique--and Barbara
knew there were plenty of them out there who didn't know the first thing
about pleasing a woman--they could make up for in size.  But Tommy had both
things going for him.  Not only did he know how to thrill a woman with
skillful movements of his tongue and lips, but he also had a monster of a
cock.

   What did I do to deserve this?  Barbara thought as Tommy prepared to
mount her.  Looking down, as the young man scooted his body up across the
length of hers, she could see his big dick.  It seemed so full of blood. 
The tip was a shiny red, and the veins which circled the shaft seemed
almost ready to burst, they were so engorged.

   When Tommy's hairy chest slid across her tits, she sighed deeply. 
Realizing that he had just pleased Barbara by stimulating her nipples,
Tommy stopped.  He took a deep breath and then bent down to suck on her
breasts, first one and then the other.

   Having her nipples gently chewed upon felt great to Barbara.  The more
Tommy worked over her tits, the better it felt.  Yet his cock was still
burning into her thighs.  His big slab of meat was hot, sizzling into her
flesh and reminding her how great it had felt earlier to have him inside
her.

   "Please, Tommy," she whimpered.  "That's enough.  I want you to ...  to
...  fu ...  "

   "Go ahead, baby," he said, grinning up at her from between her big tits.
"You can say it.  What do you want me to do?  Hmmmm?"

   "No, don't play games with me.  I just want you to ...  to ...  "

   "Yes?" he said before biting down hard into one of her thick brown
nipples.

   "Fuck me!" she finally shouted.  "Oh, Tommy, fuck me!"

   Tommy smiled a broad satisfied smile.  He had Barbara right where he
wanted her.  He had fucked plenty of women in his day, and many of them had
demanded his cock.  But he could tell that most of them were faking, trying
to act like depraved sluts for his benefit.  Barbara, on the other hand,
was a different story.  He could tell she wanted it bad.  The way she was
wallowing around beneath him, the way her chest was beginning to flush red,
the way her lips trembled and her belly quivered--all these signs told him
that she wanted to fuck in the worst way.

   Knowing that he had brought a woman to such a thorough state of arousal
was a tremendous boost to his ego.  The team hadn't been winning many games
in the past few weeks, so Tommy was spending more and more time taking his
frustrations out on the women at school.  He hadn't fucked a woman so
needful of his cock since he let Judy, Barbara's roommate, suck on his
penis at a wild beer party a few weeks earlier.  He remembered how he had
come in her mouth as she gobbled down his sperm while kneeling next to a
shiny silver beer keg.  Then she had begged him to fuck her.  Dragging her
off into the bushes, Tommy had done just that, much to the lewd delight of
a gaggle of onlookers.

   Through Judy, Tommy had met Barbara.  She seemed like a much nicer, more
intelligent person than Judy.  Sure, Judy liked to fuck, but that seemed
like all she wanted to do.  Obviously, Barbara liked to fuck, too, but at
least she seemed to have a brain in her head.

   Gripping the swollen shaft of his cock in his large fist, Tommy teased
Barbara by stroking himself a few times.  A bead of juice appeared on the
tip of his prick, signaling to the aroused young woman that Tommy wouldn't
be long in coming.

   "Please," she gasped.  "Put it in me, honey.  Now!"

   Barbara was becoming desperate.  Since she knew his orgasm was imminent,
she wanted him inside her as soon as possible.  She didn't want him to lose
control at the last second and blast his sperm out across her belly.  No.
She wanted to be filled with his juices, overflowing with sticky white
semen.

   Aiming the head of his cock at her hole, Tommy thrust forward.  The
first few inches of his prick easily entered her.  He held still for a
moment to enjoy the feeling of being surrounded by the hot slippery flesh
of her cunt.

   Barbara wrapped her legs around his waist and then locked her ankles
together.  She squeezed her legs tight against his sides.  At the same
time, she kicked her heels into his taut buttocks, imploring him to drive
more of his penis into her needful cunt.

   "Awwwwww!" she moaned as Tommy thrust a few more inches of his shaft
inside her.

   Barbara felt as if she were being split apart.  But she wanted more. 
Harder, she hammered her heels into his ass, demanding the full length of
his cock.

   At last, Tommy plunged his prick all the way in.  Barbara couldn't
believe how stuffed she felt.  Her pussy was big enough to allow his cock
inside, but her cunt-flesh was still stretched to the limit.  Each time
Tommy thrust into her, her pussy-lips were pushed back down into her hole.
And when Tommy pulled back out, her lips were pulled out almost all the
way, still pressed tightly around his shaft.

   Soon they were fucking at a furious pace.  Tommy pumped as hard as he
could, and Barbara took all he had to give.  They started sweating, and
their bodies were coated with a glistening sheen of perspiration.  The
wetter they became, the louder their bellies smacked together.

   Barbara wanted it to last forever, it felt so good.  But she felt
herself moving closer and closer to her release, and she knew that if Tommy
kept it up, she would come shortly.

   Then it seemed to her that Tommy's cock was beginning to swell up even
larger in her cunt.  When he began moving his hips faster while grunting
loudly, Barbara could tell that he was about to come first.  So she held on
tight and tried to make him feel as good as possible, trying to make his
impending climax powerful and satisfying.

   Just when she thought Tommy was moving his hips impossibly fast, he
stopped and held his cock deep inside her.  He let out a loud groan, his
face contorted with pleasure.  Then the first spurt of his sperm came
jetting out of his prick.

   That was all it took to trigger Barbara's orgasm.  The feel of his
blazing juices oozing into her cunt-flesh started her coming in a big way.
She clutched Tommy's body even tighter with her arms and legs as she began
spasming.

   Never before had the young football star experienced such a thrilling
mutual orgasm.  Knowing that he had aroused Barbara tremendously was one
thing, but knowing that his own orgasm had set off her climax was the
ultimate thrill.

   Their bodies continued to slap together as they rode out their pleasure.
They moaned and sighed, reaching a frantic peak and then drifting back
down. When their pleasure was complete, they continued to hold one another
tightly, kissing softly, breathing heavily.

   "That was wonderful," Barbara said, running her fingers through Tommy's
hair.  "I'm just sorry that I'll be going back home next week, after
finals."

   Tommy sat up for a moment, startled.  "But you can't do that, "he said.
"We ...  we just met a few days ago.  And ...  and ...  "

   "I'm sorry, Tommy.  But I have to go.  My friend Regina is getting
married and I have to be with her.  You understand, don't you?  Don't you?"


   Dropping his head into her cleavage, Tommy began licking her tits
absent-mindedly.  "No," he mumbled.  "I don't understand."

   * * *

   The weeks that followed were frantic ones for Barbara.  Events happened
at a mad pace.  She went back to her hometown, stayed at the home of her
soon-to-be married girlfriend, Regina, was offered and took a summer job on
the local newspaper, and renewed one childhood friendship after another. 
She hoped she would not have to return to the Me Generation kooks of Los
Angeles after the summer was over.  She loved the little town where she had
grown up, and was a bit jealous of Regina who had lived her entire life
there and was soon to marry Greg, a boy they had both known since
kindergarten days.

   But just a few days into her stay at the Prescott home, Barbara realized
that the day after the wedding she would be alone in the big house. 
Regina's parents were leaving on vacation and of course Regina would be on
her honeymoon.  The whole idea of staying on in Regina's house turned
Barbara off.  She considered taking an apartment of her own, but wondered
if she could afford it.  And that's when it happened.  The newspaper's ace
reporter was killed in a plane crash, and after a day of shock in the City
Room, someone mentioned that the dead man's penthouse apartment and his
houseboat would be vacant now, and, although it seemed a bit ghoulish,
Barbara began to think about the possibility of taking over the houseboat
herself.  She became fascinated with the idea.  The penthouse itself was,
of course, out of the question.  The rent was fourteen hundred a month! 
But the houseboat ...  perhaps she could swing that.  After helping Regina
that night with the final wedding invitations, Barbara thought about the
idea long into the night before falling asleep.

   CHAPTER TWO

   The next morning, after attending to her usual routine office duties at
the newspaper (which included making appointments for Melinda, a fellow
employee), Barbara dialed Ted's extension.  Ted knew where the houseboat
was moored.  He thought she was crazy, but gave her directions anyway. 
After an hour's search, and being advised by the dock-man that she was the
fifth person to inquire about the houseboat, Barbara finally found it.

   It was not what she expected, somewhat of a disappointment.  But more of
a disappointment was the conversation she overheard once she boarded the
old boat.  Listening, she heard the argument of four men, an argument that
told her that two naval officers had already rented or bought the
houseboat, and that a civilian was still trying to outbid them, frustrated
at their refusal.

   She stood on the deck, as the civilian, wearing a rumpled-looking suit
and a sour scowl, stomped past her, grunting obscenities.

   She watched the man leave, then entered the cabin where the argument had
occurred.  There stood a blond navy lieutenant, with his back to her,
bragging about how he had turned the tough-dealing civilian away with ease.


   The other officer, sensing her presence, spun and stared at her.  He
eyed her up and down and whistled.

   Barbara, embarrassed, and aware that she had been guilty of trespassing,
as well as committing heaven knew how many other misdemeanors, blushed and
edged backwards.  An instant later, she suddenly halted.  The blond
lieutenant had about-faced at his friend's whistle and she stared at him in
open-mouthed astonishment.  Regina's fiance!

   "Why, Greg Maiden!" she gasped.  "What are you doing here?"

   Greg looked blank for a moment.  Then, as her identity dawned on him, he
strode forward to take her hands in a warm clasp.

   "Barbara Torrance!  Say, how did you know I'd be here?  Regina wrote
that you were staying with her, but I hardly expected you to form a
reception committee." He held her at arm's length for a more thorough
scrutiny.  "You've grown up!"

   "That's what I keep telling my parents," she said, laughing.

   Greg introduced Chuck Dodson, who broke into a relieved smile.  "I'm
mighty glad you two are friends!" he explained.  "For a while there, I was
afraid you were another customer wanting to buy or rent the Albatross."

   "Well, I was, almost," Barbara confessed.  "But from what I've seen, I
guess I arrived latest with the leastest."

   "You wouldn't have liked the competition," the other sailor declared
after Greg had performed the introductions and identified him as Whitney
Egan.  He turned to Chuck.  "Who was our snarling competitor, anyway?"

   "He gave his name as Smith," Chuck said dubiously.

   Barbara sniffed.  "With an accent like that?  Did he say why he was so
eager to buy this particular houseboat?"

   Whit shook his head.  "Nope.  Just sailed in here prepared to hoist
anchor.  He tried some 'you'll-be-sorry-if-you-don't' tactics on us first,
and when he found we didn't scare easily, he started waving his wallet.  By
that time, I was so mad I wouldn't have sold for sixteen thousand!"

   "It seems awfully peculiar.  Not that this isn't a nice houseboat,"
Barbara hastened to add.  "But Mr.  Dodson mentioned that I was the fourth
person to inquire about it in the last hour.  I suppose he meant Mr. 
Smith, you and Greg and myself."

   "There was someone else, too," Chuck put in.  "He telephoned yesterday
and a couple of times today, insisting that we hold off selling the
Albatross until he got here.  Pa told him first come, first served, but he
didn't seem to get discouraged easily."

   "Maybe that was our mysterious Mr.  Smith," Greg suggested.

   "The fellow on the phone had a Southern drawl," Chuck said flatly.  He
shrugged, glad to be rid of the problem.  Descending to the wharf, he
informed Whit that he could take possession of the houseboat that evening,
since it would require only a few hours to remove the former owner's
possessions to a storage room.

   "I'd better call Regina," Barbara said suddenly.  "She would never
forgive me if I let you catch her in pin curls, Greg.  We weren't expecting
you until tomorrow."

   Her phone call completed, she and Whit Egan piled into Greg's shiny new
convertible.  "What do you intend to do with the houseboat, now that you've
bought her?" she asked Whit.

   "Turn her into a restaurant." He grinned.  "Sound silly?  You'd be
surprised at how many chefs ladle up their soup in old railway cars and
streetcars.  This should be quite a novelty in Santa Teresa--I'll bet we
won't have room for half the people who will line up for a seagoing sirloin
once we swab down the decks and freshen up her paint."

   Barbara smiled at his enthusiasm.  "It sounds like a wonderful idea! 
One thing puzzles me, though.  How did you discover that this particular
houseboat was for sale?"

   "Lucky accident.  I was waiting outside a phone booth near the base
yesterday and I overheard this guy inside mention a houseboat at Dodson's
in Santa Teresa.  I didn't see his face--but he sounded like he was going
to talk all day so I went to buy a newspaper.  When I came back, he was
gone."

   "Whit's been dreaming about owning a houseboat ever since we ate at a
place called 'The Willows' in Honolulu," Greg put in.  "It's a fantastic
spot, built like a huge raft over a pond.  You can even pick out your own
frog legs there."

   Barbara wrinkled her nose, but before she could reply, Greg had leaped
out and was halfway up the front steps of the Prescott house.  She and Whit
discreetly delayed their exit from the car for a few minutes, then joined
the engaged couple.

   "You would have to show up tonight!" Regina was saying, although she was
smiling happily.  "This is Mother's evening for volunteer work at the
hospital, and Dad has gone bowling with his League.  When Barbara called to
say she wouldn't be home either, I decided to make myself a sandwich.  I
haven't a thing prepared!"

   "Point me in the direction of the kitchen," Whit said.  "This
likely-looking KP assistant and I will stir up a few calories while you two
hold hands."

   No one objected, and half an hour later, after selecting various items
from the pantry shelves, Whit had a salmon soufflé puffing in the oven and
was measuring ingredients for the lemon sauce that was to accompany it.

   "Where did you learn to cook?" Barbara asked him, rinsing salad greens
under the faucet.

   "On our ranch in Montana.  Mom gave up hoping for a girl after six boys
and recruited the baby of the family to help her feed the threshers.  Once
you have cooked for threshers," Whit added emphatically, "feeding a Navy
chow line is child's play.  Salad ready?  Shell some walnuts for brownies.
I'd make a lemon pie, but there isn't time."

   "Aye, aye, sir," Barbara responded with a smart salute.  "Anything
else?"

   "Set the table while I hail the lovebirds.  This soufflé won't keep."

   The golden-brown salmon loaf was a work of perfection.  Barbara, ladling
lemon sauce over it and helping herself to French-sliced green beans
garnished with mushrooms and red slivers of pimento, catalogued Whit's
culinary artistry in the Cordon Bleu class.  Yet there wasn't a trace of
sissiness about him.  His broad shoulders looked as if they would fit
snugly into a football jersey, and she had already seen him stand up for
his rights against the bullying Mr.  Smith.  Watching his blue eyes sparkle
with small-boy mischievousness as he teased Regina and Greg, Barbara
decided that Whitney Egan, like his cooking, was in a class all by himself.


   While the girls cleaned up the kitchen, Greg and Whit commandeered one
of the spare bedrooms and changed into civilian clothes.

   "I was all for moth-balling my bell-bottoms this morning when the Navy
handed over my freedom papers, but this character couldn't wait even five
minutes to wave goodbye to Port Dixon.  Said there was some girl in Santa
Teresa he wanted to see," Whit teased.

   Regina pretended disbelief.  "A girl or a houseboat?"

   "Wait a minute!" Greg protested.  "The houseboat was all his idea."

   "You might at least introduce me to this floating cafeteria," Regina
told them.

   "Before the clock strikes eight, you shall feast your eyes on the
Albatross," Greg promised her.  "In fact, if you coaxed hard enough, we
might even berth her in your inlet for a few weeks.  I'm going to pull the
'Man-Who-Came-to-Dinner' act on Whit until your Aunt Louise sings 'O
Promise Me' at us."

   "You'll stay here?  Oh, super!" Regina squealed delightedly.  "I can
think of a hundred chores for a couple of stalwart ex-sailors--with a
wedding coming up!"

   "Pardon me while I catch a slow boat for China," Whit groaned, but no
one took any notice of his feeble protestations.  Munching brownies still
warm from the pan, the four swarmed into the convertible.  Traffic was
light, and within ten minutes Greg had pulled up in the alley behind Pier
Six.

   The Albatross looked younger and less disreputable with the soft splash
of moonlight across her weather-beaten decks.  Regina and Barbara were
escorted on a tour through the cabins, then they all stretched out on
canvas deck chairs while Whit outlined his plans for refurbishment of the
boat.  A former shipmate, he explained, would go into partnership with him
when his discharge came through in about two weeks.

   "We'll spot tables all along the port and starboard decks," he said. 
"Should be able to fit fifteen on each side without crowding.  I'd like to
raise a small stage at the stern there--maybe hire an accordionist to keep
the customers happy."

   "What about the cabins?" Regina asked.  "Will you turn them into dining
rooms, too?"

   "Not at first--at least, not until we see how business goes.  We'll just
keep them as living quarters and expand the galley to--" Whit broke off and
strode over to the rail.

   "Seasick--after two years of destroyer duty?" Greg hooted.

   "That's the second time that car has driven past here." Whit frowned,
staring after a pair of rapidly disappearing tail-lights along the bend of
the water front.

   "Same car?  So what?  Maybe they like the view," Greg said offhandedly.

   "Maybe."

   "You don't think it might have been that dreadful Mr.  Smith, do you?"
Barbara asked.

   A sober expression had settled over Whit's face.  "No, it wasn't Santa
Claus.  I got a fair look at the driver the second time he cruised by.  It
could have been Buck Younger."

   Barbara and Regina exchanged puzzled glances.  The name meant nothing to
them.

   "Your twenty-twenty is going back on you, pal," Greg scoffed.  "Younger
must be a thousand miles away from here by this time.  A guy doesn't crash
out of the brig and then hang around playing tag with the Shore Patrol."

   "Younger is a Texan," Whit recalled, rubbing his chin.  "Now that I
think about it, the voice in the phone booth did have a pronounced drawl.
"And," he added, "the person who phoned the Dodson's also had a drawl."

   "Coincidence," declared Greg.  Nevertheless, he seemed a bit
disconcerted.  "Look, Whit--Younger hated every second he spent in the
Navy. Why should he hang around the water now, when he could be down in
Waco rustling steers?"

   Whit had no answer to that.  He merely repeated that there were some
coincidences that even Jonah's whale would have trouble swallowing.

   "Who is Buck Younger?" Barbara asked, her curiosity piqued.

   "Fellow we knew in Port Dixon.  He fought," Greg said briefly.

   "Brawled," Whit corrected.  "Not the sort of character you'd bring home
to meet Mother."

   "Or even Father," Greg said with finality, and the conversation swung to
a more pleasant topic.

   It was decided that Barbara and Regina would ride home with Greg while
Whit remained aboard the houseboat overnight.

   "I want to talk to Mr.  Dodson again first thing in the morning.  He's
to transfer all the papers for the Albatross to me then," Whit said.

   It was a reasonable explanation--but after a look at his set expression,
Barbara guessed that he intended to batten down the hatches and stand ready
to repel boarders.

   "He could do it, too," she told herself.  Somehow she felt as if her
acquaintanceship with Whit had spanned months, instead of one short
evening.

   I'd hate to see anything happen to him, she thought, shuddering a bit
despite the balminess of the June night.  Unbidden, a vision of the
anonymous "Mr.  Smith" arose.  She would be a long time forgetting his
scowl as he stalked in fury out of the cabin.  And then there was Buck
Younger, perhaps.  Someone else, certainly, who had displayed an undue
amount of interest in the Albatross.

   There had to be a reason--and an awfully good one, too.  Some very
definite purpose lay behind the various attempts to gain title to the
Albatross.

   Something is on that houseboat!  The words exploded from Barbara's
subconscious.  The longer she mulled over the idea, the more certain she
became that this was the explanation.  What else could account for the
houseboat's vast popularity?  But what could this "something" be?  And what
was it doing aboard the Albatross?

   While Greg and Regina lay in bed later that evening, they talked about
the Albatross, but they didn't worry themselves with what might be aboard
the houseboat.  They talked instead about what a nice restaurant the place
could eventually turn into.

   "We'll have to go there and eat all the time.  After we're married, of
course," Greg said.

   "Yes, after we're married," Regina replied.  "Oh, Greg, I'm so glad
you're home now.  I missed you so much."

   "It's great to be back, honey, believe me," Greg said.  "I've been
dreaming of being with you for so long."

   To emphasize his words, Greg pulled her closer and kissed her hard on
the lips.  Regina hugged him tightly and refused to let him go.  While Greg
lay next to her, Regina smoothed her hands down his back and slipped her
fingers beneath the elastic band of his pajama bottoms.  She clutched his
buttocks for a moment.  Then Greg rolled his hips to the side, enabling
Regina to massage his semi-hard penis.

   Regina thrilled to the feel of his cock growing in her hand.  While she
stroked it up and down, it grew hard and thick.  Soon, it was throbbing
mightily in her grasp.  She could feel the veins engorged with blood.

   Breaking off their kiss, Greg rolled to the side to catch his breath. 
Regina still clutched his penis.

   "Come on, honey," Greg gasped.  "Suck it just a little bit.  Just like
you used to."

   That was just what Regina had in mind.  She eagerly responded to her
fiance's request.  In seconds, she was lavishing his warm prick with long,
sweeping caresses of her tongue.  She didn't neglect his scrotum, paying
special attention to his testicles.  She sucked the fragile balls into her
mouth and nibbled on them tenderly.

   "Perfect," Greg gasped.  "Honey, that's just perfect!"

   Knowing that she was pleasing Greg so well gave Regina a special warm
feeling of delight.  She liked nothing better than making her man feel
good.

   Taking his penis into her mouth, Regina thought about how great it was
to have Greg back with her.  She was thrilled about their marriage and
their new life together.  If the pleasure they were experiencing just now
was any indication, she was certain their future would be a happy one.  Not
to mention a sexy one.

   "There, now do it harder," Greg requested.  "That's it.  Move your head
faster ..  ohhh, like that.  Nice, honey.  Really nice.  Man, that feels
good!"

   Regina was giving Greg her all, trying everything she knew to turn him
on.  From the way he was groaning and moving his hips, she knew she was
doing a good job.  Any moment now he was going to come, that she was sure
of.

   Greg gripped the back of her head to hold Regina in place.  Then he
concentrated on his orgasm until he was able to abandon himself to the
overpowering sensations that were flooding through his body.

   "This is it, baby!" he grunted.  "I'm coming.  Ohhhhh!"

   Tightening her lips around his shaft, Regina prepared herself for the
flood of sperm she was sure would soon erupt.  Even if she hadn't been so
fond of the taste of a man's semen, she would willingly have swallowed
Greg's to let him know just how much she cared for him.  She knew it turned
him on to shoot his jism down her throat, so she did her best to
accommodate him.  After all, there were plenty of things she liked him to
do for her that she was certain he wasn't too fond of that he did anyway.
That was one of the things their relationship was based on, she knew:
sacrifice.

   While shouting out his pleasure, Greg unleashed his sperm.  He came
again and again, while Regina swallowed fast to get it all down.  When he
was done, she lovingly cleaned him off, draining him to the last drop.

   After she finished, Regina scooted back up the length of Greg's body and
gave him a big kiss.  Then she took off his pajamas, leaving him naked. 
Playfully, she toyed with his soft penis, flipping it back and forth
between her fingers.

   "It looks so sad," she said.  "Are you sure he's ready for more?"

   Greg grinned at her lewdly.  "Of course.  The way I feel, honey, I could
go all night."

   "Oh, yeah?" she teased.  "You could have fooled me.  I need more than
this soft little thing."

   "Just get your nightgown off and be patient.  I won't be soft for long."


   Greg wasn't kidding.  By the time Regina peeled off her nightie, his
penis began to grow.

   "Rub your pussy against it.  Like that.  Feel it?" Greg asked.

   "Yes, honey," she replied huskily.  "It feels marvelous.  Oh, Greg.  I
love you so much.  Now put it inside me.  Ohhhh!"

   Greg did as she asked, mounting her easily.  And true to his word, Greg
was prepared to fuck her until sunup.

   His long cock went in deep, and Regina loved the way it plunged to the
depths of her cunt.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and tried to
pull him closer, deeper.

   "Greg," she whispered, gripping the sides of his head and pulling him
down close so she could slide her tongue into his ear.  "I love it when you
fuck me this way.  It's so good.  Oh, darling, I love you so much.  I love
you to fuck me."

   The aroused man just grunted in reply.  He was too caught up in the
pleasure of driving his prick into her cunt to take time for conversation.
When he was fucking, nothing could disturb his concentration--nothing
except his orgasm.

   Having just come moments earlier, spewing his jism into his fiancée's
mouth, Greg knew that his second orgasm of the evening would be a long time
coming.  So he concentrated on making Regina feel good.  He knew how she
liked him to vary the speed of his thrusts, so he slowed down the pace of
his fucking.  Ever so slowly, he pushed his cock in and then pulled it out.


   To Regina, this snail's pace approach to making love was just what she
needed.  Having quickly drained Greg's balls of their load of sperm with
her mouth and lips, she was now ready to be pleased.  She wanted them to
take their time and make this evening last as long as possible.

   When he drove his cock back into her, Greg angled his hips so he could
drag the shaft of his prick along her clitoris.  Regina usually liked Greg
to stimulate her clit with his lips and tongue, but his cock seemed to be
doing a pretty good job at that moment.  One thing she really enjoyed,
outside of having her pussy sucked until she came, was enjoying her orgasm
while stuffed full of Greg's hard prick.  She knew that if he continued to
fuck her--slowly and carefully, paying special attention to her clit--that
she would be able to experience a devastating orgasm while he was inside
her.

   "Just like that," she said softly, coaxing him into pleasing her the way
she wanted to be pleased.  "Oh, Greg, that feels so good.  Where'd you ever
learn ...  ohhhhh ...  to do it like that?"

   Greg just smiled at her and continued to work his hips up and back,
taking his time, enjoying the way Regina was beginning to respond to him
more eagerly.

   With her arms and legs wrapped around Greg's heaving body, Regina
thought about how wonderful it was going to be to be married to this man.
He was so considerate of her desires, not only in the bedroom, but
everywhere they happened to be.  Oh, he made her feel so good.  Never
before had she felt this way--so satisfied, so thoroughly pleased.

   The taste of Greg's sperm was still heavy in her mouth.  She loved the
tangy, musky flavor, and only hoped that he had much more of that sticky
white stuff to spew into her cunt.  Oftentimes, Greg had told her that she
was hungry for cum.  And she didn't deny that.  She loved the taste and
texture of a man's jism.  For her, there was nothing like it--so warm and
gooey.  She was fascinated by the stuff.  It seemed to possess magical
qualities for her.  She was always amazed that such a strange sticky liquid
could produce life.  It was powerful stuff, she told herself, capable of
wondrous things.

   Despite the fact that she felt semen was so awesome, for the time being
she would be content to just have a few spurts of it in her cunt.  There
would be plenty of time later to consider having a baby.  Now, she only
wanted to enjoy Greg's sperm for its playful, pleasing qualities, not its
life-giving potential.

   "Oh, Greg, darling," she groaned.  "Please, come in me.  Come in me
hard, honey, and fill me up with your sperm.  I want it so bad, baby.  I
want to feel it so warm and wet, splashing into me.  Give it to me.  I want
it so bad, Greg.  Come!  Come inside me!"

   The young man was tremendously excited by the way his future wife was
chanting her demands.  He loved it when she got this way, when her desires
became so basic and when they surfaced so easily.  That was one thing he
loved about Regina--the way she was so honest and up front about sex.  She
loved to fuck, and she made no pretenses about that.  But she was no whore.
She was also faithful.  Granted, she loved to fuck, but only with Greg.

   Luckily for Greg, however, he was a skillful, understanding lover.  He
had the abilities to please his sex-hungry wife-to-be.  If not, she might
have been looking for other men to satisfy her overwhelming desires.  Since
Greg was such a good lover, able to meet Regina on her own terms, they
found themselves infinitely compatible.  And they also found themselves in
love.

   Regina was becoming more needful of Greg's sperm with each passing
second.  She began digging her fingernails into his back while thrashing
around wildly beneath him.

   "Come!" she shouted.  "Fuck me hard and come!"

   Greg was almost there, but he tried to restrain himself for just a few
more moments.  He was enjoying the way Regina was acting--so intensely
frantic and demanding--that he wanted to watch her for as long as he could.
It wasn't often that she became so animal-like in her actions, so primitive
yet appealing.  He tried to keep from coming so he could see just how far
she would go.

   But the young man's body soon took over.  He couldn't hold himself back
any longer.  He felt that unmistakable itch in the base of his scrotum that
told him his climax was upon him, so he gave in.

   Greg shouted out his pleasure when he came, and Regina joined him.  The
room was soon filled with the feverish sounds of their groans of
completion.

   Afterwards, they held one another tightly, kissing, their tongues
lingering together, before drifting off into a deep, restful slumber.

   CHAPTER THREE

   Saturday morning, Barbara and Regina ate a quick breakfast before
hurrying down the overgrown path through the woodland back of the house.  A
few minutes later, the Albatross churned into view.

   As the girls waved from the shore, the houseboat's engines slowed for
the tricky approach to the boulder-strewn inlet.  Their waves turned to
cheers when at last the barrier was crossed and the anchor dropped with a
splash that sent water geysering high into the air.

   The boys, dungaree-clad and barefoot, swaggered down the gangplank.

   "Shouldn't someone tell the Matson Line about these nautical geniuses?"
Regina teased.

   "Do you think they'd become commodores right away?  Or would they have
to settle for mere captaincies?" Barbara pretended to wonder.

   Taking the razzing with good humor, the boys bent to the task of making
the Albatross fast to shore.

   "Did you get all your final papers without any trouble?" Barbara asked.

   Whit nodded, but an angry look flickered briefly over his face.  "There
was nothing you'd call trouble, exactly," he said.  "Just that Smith
character hanging around again.  He offered Mr.  Dodson a whopping bribe to
cancel our agreement.  The old man threatened to call the police if he
showed up at the dockyard again."

   "Do you suppose there might be a reason why the Albatross is so
popular?" Barbara asked carefully, apprehensive that she might be taunted
about her wild imagination.

   Whit shot her an appreciative look.  "That occurred to you, too?  My
suspicion started to rise the minute Smith went for his wallet."

   "We spent three hours last night searching that boat from prow to keel,"
Greg said.  "If there ever was a pirate treasure or something concealed
aboard her, it isn't there now."

   "In that case, we can just forget about Mr.  Smith and all the other
menacing rivals you three have conjured up," Regina said firmly.  "Pretty
soon we won't have time to loaf around; we'll have to buckle down and start
getting things in shape for the wedding."

   "To think I've met my doom so young!" Greg moaned, but it was obvious
that he wouldn't have traded one of Regina's dimples for an admiral's
stripes.

   Regina proposed a picnic, an idea which the others quickly seconded. 
They made a foray on the Prescott refrigerator, then returned to the beach
to eat, talk, and swim the day away.

   Late that afternoon, Whit boarded the Albatross, and presently he
rejoined his companions carrying a dog-eared catalogue.  Using the damp
sand as a tablet, he estimated the cost of the furniture and equipment
which would be needed to start the houseboat-restaurant in business.

   "I hadn't figured on everything being so expensive," he said in a
worried tone.  He added that even at wholesale prices his budget could not
possibly stretch enough to cover the cost of all the tables and chairs, as
well as the enormous amount of dishes, flatware, and linen that would be
needed.

   "Why don't you buy some of the things secondhand?" Barbara suggested. 
"We can all scout around for a cafe that's going out of business.  In that
way, you could buy what you need at half price, or even less."

   Whit solved a quick problem in long division.  "We could swing that," he
agreed.  "Buying the stuff at half price would leave us enough capital to
install a modern range and dishwasher, too."

   "We'll look around first, and if we don't find anything suitable,
perhaps an ad in the paper would smoke out a place," Barbara proposed.

   Greg laughed.  "I think it's all a plot to drum up business for the
Courier!" Nevertheless, he agreed that her idea was sound.

   Whit was anxious to have the refurbishment well under way by the time
Roger Nelson, his partner, arrived.  The young couples spent the rest of
the afternoon pacing off the decks of the houseboat and computing the
amount of paint, primer, cleanser and detergent required to give the
Albatross the trim, spotless appearance which would attract customers.

   Returning to the house at six o'clock, Barbara found a telephone message
awaiting her.

   "Melinda wants me to cover Terri Nicholson's deb dance!" she exclaimed
with a mixture of excitement and regret, since Whit had already asked her
out for the evening.

   "Miss Foster said she didn't feel up to attending herself," Mrs. 
Prescott called from the kitchen.  "I'm afraid it doesn't give you much
notice.  Can you be there by nine?  She also mentioned that you were
welcome to bring an escort."

   "Would you like to come with me, Whit?" Barbara asked eagerly.  "We
could have just as much fun--oh!  It's black tie."

   "You're in luck," he replied loftily.  "The best men at weddings
nowadays come fully equipped with black ties--and white dinner jackets. 
Pick you up at eight-thirty."

   Barbara raced through a shampoo and shower.  She borrowed Mrs. 
Prescott's hair dryer to set her curls, and gave herself a manicure.  When
the doorbell chimed, she was dabbing cologne on her wrists and temples.

   "I'm coming!"

   She spun once in front of the mirror, admiring the swirl of her
lemon-yellow gown with its flared skirt, then draped a matching stole
around her shoulders.

   Whit's smile showed his very evident approval.  After a complimentary
remark about her appearance, he mentioned that Mr.  Prescott had offered
them the loan of his car.

   Barbara decided that in his white dinner jacket and with his reddish
hair freshly trimmed, Whit was the handsomest escort she had had in months.
She was also secretly delighted that, even while wearing the highest pair
of heels she possessed, the top of her head barely brushed his chin.

   Most of the guests were already assembled when they arrived.  Barbara
whipped a pen and notebook from her purse as the debutante, radiant in
bouffant white, made her grand entrance.  For the next half hour, she
concentrated on identifying half-forgotten faces, jotting down details, and
filling page after page with notes regarding floral decorations and the
superb buffet dinner of which the guests would partake later.

   Pausing to relax her cramped fingers, Barbara looked around for Whit and
caught sight of him dancing with a raven-haired girl in a snug, backless
dress.  The girl appeared to be listening breathlessly to his every word.
And Whit seemed to be enjoying her adulation!

   I have enough data to fill three articles, Barbara abruptly decided. 
She tucked the pen and notebook in her evening bag, determined that there
they could stay for the remainder of the evening.  She wasn't jealous, of
course, but--

   To her relieved delight, Whit escorted his sophisticated partner back to
her seat as soon as the dance ended, and shouldered his way through the
crush of couples to Barbara's side.

   "Have you ever," he asked with an amused grin, "been tickled under the
chin by a pair of false eyelashes?  It's quite an experience!"

   Barbara shared his laughter, glad now that she had not attempted
anything along the lines of heavy glamour herself.  When the members of the
orchestra bongoed their way into a rhumba, she at first insisted on dancing
at arm's length, until Whit drew her closer.

   "Just keeping my eyelashes out of harm's way," she explained demurely.

   "Yours aren't phony!"

   The midnight buffet tasted as delectable as it had looked, and after
they had circled the floor in a final waltz and said their good nights to
their hostess, Barbara exclaimed that she had never enjoyed a party so
thoroughly.

   "Care for a short stroll?" Whit suggested, cutting the motor after
pulling up in front of the Prescott garage.  "Only to work off the
anchovies," he added innocently when she hesitated.

   Barbara laughed and took his hand.  Whit was fun and, so far, had proved
himself to be definitely unwolfish.  In an amiable silence, they sauntered
up a knoll which commanded a view of the moonlit sea.

   "Santa Teresa is a beautiful town," Whit said sincerely.  "Exactly the
spot I've always wanted to settle down in.  I'm glad Greg talked me into
coming here."

   "So am I," Barbara admitted.  "Regina's wedding--" Suddenly she stopped,
rising on tiptoe to peer over a clump of low-growing trees at the water's
edge.  "That's odd," she murmured.  "I thought I saw a light down there."

   Whit tensed.  Dropping her hand, he strode forward a few paces.

   "There it is again!" Barbara cried, pointing.

   But Whit, too, had seen the pinpoint flash.  "Let's go," he said,
tight-lipped.  "Somebody is on the Albatross!"

   "Wait!" Barbara caught Whit's arm, restraining him from hurtling down
the rocky slope.  "You'd only break a leg going through there in the dark.
Besides, it's quicker by car--there's an abandoned road just the other side
of the grove."

   Whit steadied her across the slick patches of grass as they raced toward
the driveway.  He had the motor turning over before she was half in the
seat, and an instant later, they were rocketing down the quiet street.

   "There!" Barbara indicated the turn.

   Whit shifted into low gear, exclaiming in disgust at the ruts that
snatched at the tires and pitched the car into the center of the road. 
Reluctantly, he eased up on the accelerator.  "I've thought of a hundred
questions to ask about that houseboat in the past twenty-four hours," he
said grimly.  "Now maybe we can get a few answers!"

   Barbara felt certain that an urgent reason lay behind the interloper's
nocturnal visit to the Albatross.  She glanced anxiously at the determined
young man beside her.  "But--you and Greg searched the boat, didn't you?"

   "Sure," Whit affirmed.  "That doesn't mean a thing.  We didn't know
where to look, or even what we were looking for.  We didn't rip up the
decks, pump out the gas tanks.  To be positive of finding every secret
cranny, we'd have to put the Albatross in dry dock and take her apart nail
by nail."

   "It's hard to know what to think," Barbara murmured.  They would, she
decided hopefully, know a great deal more about the riddle of the Albatross
if they were successful in surprising the intruder at his search.

   She peered ahead at the swarm of insects trapped in the glow of the
headlights, praying that the person aboard the houseboat was too much
absorbed in his errand to pay attention to anything else.

   As they neared the inlet, the road deteriorated into a web of ruts and
chuck holes, so crisscrossed and deep that the brilliant beams of light
jiggled crazily, illuminating bits of trees and shrubs and now and then a
patch of black, swirling water.  The powerful headlights would advertise
their approach as effectively as a siren!

   Whit seemed to read her thoughts.  Cautiously, he pulled up on the
pitted shoulder of the road and cut the ignition.

   "I'm afraid of breaking an axle if we drive any farther," he told her.
"Feel up to a hike?"

   "Nothing like a stroll in the country to work off the anchovies,"
Barbara returned.  She hopped out, trying not to think what the brambles
and stones would do to her sandals and nylons.  "We haven't far to go, have
we?"

   "Just a few hundred yards." Whit pitched his voice low, aware that
sounds carry a considerable distance over water.

   Following the road's rugged curve, they hurried toward the mouth of the
inlet.  Within a few minutes, they were able to make out the dark shape of
the Albatross rocking at anchor and to hear the lapping of waves across her
keel.

   "Do you think he's still--" Barbara started to ask, and then, not
watching her footing, stumbled as her heel twisted on a rock.  Whit caught
her before she could pitch forward, but the rock skipped over the ledge
formed by the gravel shoulder of the road and dislodged a nest of pebbles,
which tumbled noisily into the sea.

   "Oh!" Barbara bit her lip in disgust.  The clamor had aroused swift
activity aboard the houseboat.  From across the water, she heard the echo
of running feet, followed by aloud, hollow thud.  Seconds later, a
sputtering engine growled twice before resolving itself into a steady
putt-putt fading toward the open sea.

   Whit had sprinted ahead, but he was unable to catch more than a shadowy
glimpse of the figure crouching in the motor boat.

   "He's half a mile away by now," he said gloomily, striding back.

   "I really put my foot into it that time," Barbara scolded herself. 
"Whit, I am sorry!"

   "Forget it--we had about one chance in a thousand, anyway.  The
slightest noise would have alerted him.  You notice he had the motorboat
all primed for a quick getaway."

   Clinging to Whit's arm, Barbara hobbled mournfully along.  Even though
he didn't blame her for the blunder, she could sense his deep
disappointment.  An answer to the mystery of the Albatross had been almost
within his grasp--until she had kicked it out of his reach.

   "Perhaps we frightened him away before he found whatever he came for."
She offered the faint consolation hopefully.

   Whit allowed her to precede him up the gangplank, which swayed
creakingly in the night breeze, then strode across the deck.  "I'm
half-inclined to hope that he got it," he growled.  "Maybe then we'd get a
little peace and--" He bit off the sentence as, wrenching open the cabin
door, his eyes fell upon the wild disarray inside.

   "Oh, what a mess!" Barbara gasped.

   Whit snapped on the light powered by the boat's generator.  Following
him inside, Barbara saw that the bunks had been ripped apart and the heavy
chairs upended.  Books, papers, pictures were strewn about and tossed
carelessly into corners.  Even the light fixture had been unscrewed,
leaving the bare bulb glaring from the ceiling.

   "The next room is in even worse shape," Whit reported glumly, returning
from a hasty inspection tour.  "Looks as if he had just started on the
galley--only a couple of cupboards disturbed there."

   "That's a good sign," Barbara offered hopefully.  "If he was still
searching when we interrupted him, it means he didn't find what he was
looking for.  I imagine he was slowed down considerably by having to rely
on a flashlight."

   "Maybe we ought to hold 'open houseboat', " Whit grumbled.  "Burglars
welcome Tuesdays and Thursdays."

   He wrestled a chair upright and climbed on the seat to replace the light
fixture.  Barbara stooped to collect the scattered books and papers.  "Are
you going to notify the police?" she asked.

   "I don't see what good it would do.  Anyone would know better than to
leave his fingerprints lying around.  And I'm afraid that if this got into
the papers the unpleasant advance publicity might jinx our restaurant
business."

   "Yes, I can see that people might be wary of a place that is reputed to
have the crown jewels or a pirate treasure stashed away in a sliding
bulkhead," Barbara agreed.  She stacked a handful of books on the shelf. 
"Whit what do you suppose it is?"

   "To me, it looks like a place that's just had a rodeo in it," observed a
wry voice behind them.

   Barbara whirled to see Greg leaning against the doorframe.

   "You won't think it's so funny when you have to sleep on a mattress
that's had half its stuffing gouged out," Whit predicted.

   While he and Barbara sketched in the details of the prowler's discovery
and escape, Greg rolled up his sleeves and helped them restore order to the
cabin.

   "I can't see that anything is missing," he said presently.

   "Would we know if it was?" Whit countered.

   "I don't believe the burglar was after anything you boys own," Barbara
said.  "I have an idea he thinks Lance Shelby concealed something of value
here."

   "Lance Shelby!" Greg exclaimed.  "Was this his houseboat?"

   "Why, yes." Barbara eyed him curiously.  "Did you know him?"

   "He visited the base early this month," Greg said.  "He had been granted
permission to interview Admiral Billingsly.  A lot of the brass sat in on
the conference, and since I was acting as the admiral's aide at the time, I
stayed during the interview.  Saw quite a lot of Shelby."

   "You'd have thought he was the President coming to bestow a couple of
light cruisers on the fleet, the way everyone catered to him," Whit
contributed.  He snapped his fingers.  "Speaking of Lance Shelby, didn't
Buck Younger trigger off that riot in front of the admiral's quarters the
same evening the great newsman arrived?"

   Greg nodded.  "What a brawl!  Took every Shore Patrolman in Port Dixon
to break it up.  I don't think anyone ever did discover what it was all
about, but Buck was headed for a long stretch in the brig because of it."

   "He broke out a couple of days later, though, and nobody's seen him
since." Whit frowned suddenly.  "And wasn't it the very next morning that
they discovered--"

   Barbara intercepted the warning look that Greg shot his friend. 
"Discovered what?" she prompted.

   "Me and my big mouth!" Whit groaned.  "Sorry Miss T., Military Secret."

   Barbara did not press him.  For a moment, though, the conversational
trend had reminded her of something, some obscure piece of information that
she had recently garnered while reading or watching a news telecast.  The
vague memory skipped away before her brain could really take hold of it.

   CHAPTER FOUR

   Barbara slept late the next morning, awaking barely in time to shower
and dress before attending church services.  Although invited to come
along, she had decided against accompanying Regina to her aunt's home,
where the entire Prescott family planned to gather for a relative's
birthday party.  Instead, she purchased a fat Sunday newspaper and carried
it to a park bench.

   "Houses, flats--here we are, apartments, furnished," she murmured,
creasing open the want-ads section.  Unless she found an apartment within
the next three weeks she would have no choice but to give up her job and
return to Los Angeles.

   How disgusting!  she fretted, when the tightly crammed column revealed
nothing suitable in a moderate price range.  If only I had left work early
last Friday.  Just an hour sooner and I would have had first crack at the
houseboat.

   Then she was forced to smile.  The situation wasn't quite that desperate
yet.  And, she reminded herself, Whit intended to make very good use of the
Albatross.  In any case, she would have found it difficult to cope with the
bewildering assortment of persons who continued to demonstrate their
interest in the houseboat--even to the point of illegal entry.

   "I'd like to know if that awful Mr.  Smith was our burglar of last
night," Barbara mused aloud.

   She considered it quite likely that the stocky foreigner was the
culprit. But then again, it might also have been the man with the Southern
drawl.

   "If Whit was right and the man he saw in the car was Buck Younger, what
connection might he have with the Albatross?" she asked herself.

   The mention of the brawling Texan reminded her of the abruptly
terminated conversation of the night before.  What sort of military secret
could possibly have involved a rough and tumble sailor like Buck Younger?
Again, she struggled to retrieve the dim memory that had teased her brain,
but whatever it was had firmly entrenched itself in her subconscious, and
no amount of puzzling could coax it out.

   Well, anyway, I'll bet the mystery has something to do with Lance
Shelby, Barbara thought, abandoning side issues like Buck Younger.  Think
of the secrets a famous newspaperman might uncover!

   Perhaps Lance Shelby had obtained documents which incriminated a gang of
racketeers.  These criminals would certainly attempt to recover such
evidence before the police learned of the newspaperman's discovery.  But
why such concentration on the houseboat?  Why not search his desk at the
Courier office--or his apartment?

   How do I know they haven't?  Barbara thought suddenly.  With reporters
and cameramen bustling in and out of the newspaper building at all hours of
the day and night, it would be almost impossible for anyone to ransack his
desk.  To desperate men, though, Lance Shelby's apartment would be easily
accessible.

   She deposited the papers in the nearest trash can, at the same time
trying to remember the address that Ted Rigney had mentioned.  She had
boarded a bus and was on her way downtown before she paused to wonder how
she might gain entry to the ace reporter's penthouse.

   "I'm hunting for an apartment, and his is vacant.  What better excuse do
I need?" she decided.

   Despite the simplicity of her plan, Barbara felt some trepidation as a
uniformed doorman bowed her into a lavishly decorated foyer.  Everything in
the apartment building had an aura of wealth surrounding it.  Everything,
she amended, but herself.  Supposing the manager refused to admit her?

   "There's only one way to find out," she told herself.  Taking a deep
breath, she readied her sunniest smile and pressed the button beneath the
card labeled "Superintendent."

   Barbara heard the gong reverberate loudly behind the closed door, but no
footsteps responded in answer to the summons.  After a minute or two, she
pressed the buzzer again.  The bell had just echoed a second time when feet
shuffled down the polished expanse of corridor and an elderly man in work
clothes appeared.

   "Mr.  Post is gone.  He'sa come back two or two-thirty," the old man
said.

   "Oh, dear, that's too bad." Barbara started to turn away, but the
janitor's Italian accent had evoked a memory.  "Why, Mr.  Orsini!" she
exclaimed, recognizing the former custodian of the high school.  "How nice
to see you again."

   He smiled widely, pleased at being remembered.  "You want to see Mr. 
Post?"

   "Not really.  I came to look at the vacant apartment," Barbara
explained. "I'm working here in town now, and I need a place to live."

   The janitor shook his head.  "You don't need this one.  It'sa too
expensive.  But come on.  I show you." He drew a jingling ring of keys from
his pocket and stepped into a self-service elevator.

   "I understand the man who leased the apartment has recently died,"
Barbara said as the elevator ascended.  "Are his things still here?"

   Mr.  Orsini nodded.  "Maria, my wife, she clean the apartment Friday. 
Mr.  Post say pretty soon relatives come, take everything away.  Might as
well have the place looking nice."

   But, Barbara thought as the door swung open and she stepped onto the
thick, rich pile of the carpet, Maria's work had all been in vain.  The
penthouse most decidedly did not look nice.

   Behind her, Mr.  Orsini gasped and began gesturing frantically. 
"Somebody wreck everything!" he moaned, clapping his hands to his head. 
"Mr.  Post will be plenty mad!"

   Appalled as she was by the wanton destruction, Barbara felt no shock of
surprise.  She had almost expected to find the penthouse in a state of
chaos similar to that which the midnight prowler had left behind on the
Albatross.

   Barbara was now convinced that it was the sullen "Mr.  Smith" who was
responsible for the rifling of Lance Shelby's possessions, since the man
with the Southern drawl had apparently not arrived in Santa Teresa until
Friday evening.  On Thursday morning, he had been in a phone booth in Port
Dixon.  By late the next afternoon, he had still not made an appearance at
the dock, but had resorted to another telephone call in the hope of
persuading Mr.  Dodson to refrain from selling the Albatross until he
arrived.

   I wonder why it took him so long?  she pondered.  Greg and Whit made the
drive from Port Dixon in a couple of hours.  It seems to me if the
Southerner wanted the houseboat so badly, he would have broken every
traffic law in the book to get it first.

   "You don't want the apartment, eh?"

   Barbara realized that Mr.  Orsini was waiting for her to leave the
elevator.  "No, I don't think so," she said.  "Thank you for showing the
apartment to me, but I'm afraid it would cost a great deal more than I can
afford."

   "You'd be better off with a nice cheap place bandits don't break into,"
he said morosely, pausing at the superintendent's office.

   Barbara left the building and resumed the train of thought he had
interrupted.  If Mr.  Smith's motives were difficult to figure out, the
Southerner was a real enigma.  Unless--Her eyes widened.  Unless the
Southerner was Buck Younger!

   He wouldn't dare break any traffic laws, she thought.  I'll bet he
detoured miles out of his way every time he saw a policeman.  With the
Shore Patrol after him for desertion, he couldn't risk being recognized.

   When Whit had first suggested that the Southern voice on the phone might
have belonged to Buck Younger, Greg had argued that the Texan would have no
reason to linger in California.  Barbara could still think of no motive why
he should do so, but nevertheless, she strongly believed that Whit's hunch
had been correct.  Buck Younger, as well as Mr.  Smith, was interested in
that houseboat--or in something that he suspected was concealed on it.

   Barbara took a few more steps, then halted, oblivious of the curious
stares she was drawing from her fellow pedestrians.  "There might be a way
to find out what the mysterious something is," she murmured.  "If Lance
Shelby was working on a hot story just before he flew to the Orient,
someone at the Courier might know about it."

   A brisk ten-minute walk brought her to the newspaper building.  A
cameraman, she decided, would have been Shelby's most likely confidant,
since the reporter might have needed pictures to accompany his story.  She
rode up to the third floor, but found the photographic department deserted.
Undaunted, she hiked up another flight of stairs.  The photographers quite
often spent time in the City Room when not working on a specific
assignment.

   To her disappointment, however, most of the rooms on this floor were
also empty.  Not until she had reached her own department did she encounter
anyone, and then it was Melinda Foster.  The Society Editor sat pecking
halfheartedly away at a batch of items in her column.

   "Don't you ever take a day off?" Barbara asked her.

   Melinda smiled wanly.  "I prefer to keep busy.  But what are you doing
here on such a beautiful Sunday afternoon?"

   "I was looking for one of the cameramen.  They all seem to be out,
though." Barbara sank into a chair beside the older girl's desk. 
"Melinda," she said impulsively, "you knew Lance Shelby pretty well, didn't
you?  Would you have any idea of what he was working on just before--"

   Melinda swayed, gripping her typewriter with both hands.  Every drop of
color had drained out of her face, and her entire concentration was riveted
on a spot ten feet away.

   "What is it?  What's wrong?" Barbara cried.  Following Melinda's
stupefied gaze, she, too, was impelled to turn.

   A tall, dark, and very handsome man stood in the doorway.  His arms were
folded and a cigarette dangled rakishly between his lips.

   "Just before what?" Lance Shelby demanded, advancing into the room.

   For a minute longer, Barbara struggled to regain her composure.  There
were no ghosts, she told herself sternly, and spooks and spirits
materialized only at séances under the adroit manipulation of phony fortune
tellers.

   Glancing anxiously at Melinda's waxen face, she hurried to the water
cooler and returned to press the cup into the older girl's hand.  The
question she ignored.  This was hardly the time to go on with a sentence
that had almost ended in the words, "just before he died."

   Because, incredible as it seemed, Lance Shelby was very much alive.

   The reporter appeared to be genuinely bewildered.

   "Well, come on.  Isn't anyone even going to say hello?" he expostulated.
"You two characters act as if you'd seen a gho--oh, ho!  Everything has
suddenly become very clear."

   Wheeling abruptly, he strode to the oak-paneled partition at the
opposite end of the room.  He shoved through Bruce McFarland's private door
and rummaged through the editor's desk.  With the gusto of an instant
tornado, he came breezing back, flapping a beige-colored envelope against
the palm of his hand.

   "Doesn't anyone ever read the mail around here?" he exclaimed
aggrievedly.  "I sent this message from the Honolulu airport nearly ten
hours ago!"

   "Lance, we thought you were dead." Melinda had regained her voice. 
"That plane crashed!'

   He nodded.  "So I hear.  Lucky for me, I wasn't aboard."

   "You must have known that everyone here would be frantic with worry."
Barbara's sharp tone held none of the deference usually accorded the star
reporter.  "Why didn't you cable or telephone as soon as you learned what
had happened?"

   "Now hold everything!  I hadn't the foggiest notion until early this
morning that my name was listed among the missing.  Believe me, it was a
greater shock to me than it was to you!"

   Lance slung a leg over the corner of Melinda's desk, treating the girls
to one of his famous, off-center smiles.

   "Through no fault of my own, I was detained in Hong Kong.  The plane on
which I held reservations took off without me.  Apparently, nobody bothered
to cross my name off the passenger manifest, since everybody seems to have
taken it for granted that I was aboard." He shrugged.  "When I'm busy
chasing down a lead, I don't go browsing through every news sheet published
in the Crown Colony.  I knew nothing of the exaggerated reports of my
demise until I landed in Honolulu this morning.  Dashed off a cable right
away then, of course, but--"

   "Oh, what does it matter now?" Melinda cried happily.  "You're safe;
that's all that matters!"

   "My opinion exactly." Lance flicked his hat to the back of his head. 
"Guess our esteemed editor will be glad to see me back, too.  Don't know
what he'd use for copy if I weren't around."

   Barbara gasped.  What overbearing egotism!  Granted, Lance Shelby had
plenty to be conceited about.  He was talented--and handsome--and charming.
But she could not help feeling that all of these attributes could be
enhanced by at least a semblance of modesty.

   His personality flaws were none of her business, though, Barbara told
herself.  She opened her purse and fished for the notebook she had used the
night before.

   "See you in the morning," she said, dropping it into her desk drawer. 
"I really just stopped by to leave my notes on the Nicholson dance."

   Melinda smiled absent-mindedly.  Before Barbara could reach the hall,
however, Lance Shelby's voice arrested her.

   "Sure that was your only reason for paying a Sunday call on the Courier?
Somehow I got the impression that you were digging for information about
me." He tilted a sardonic eyebrow.  "Research for my obituary?"

   Barbara had been hoping to escape before the subject of her unfinished
query recurred to him.  Certainly she had no desire to break the news that
the mistaken announcement of his death had prompted sightseers to route a
series of excursions through his belongings.

   "I'm afraid the only obituaries I write concern parties that die on the
vine," she hedged.

   "Then why ask what story I had been, working on?" he persisted
reasonably.

   There seemed no way to avoid replying.  Barbara took a deep breath.  "If
you must know, the man who bought the houseboat you used to rent is a
friend of mine.  I thought that if you had been investigating the
activities of gangsters or racketeers, it might account for some of the
strange things that have been happening aboard the Albatross."

   "Bought the houseboat!" Lance Shelby roared, leaping to his feet.

   "Like everyone else, Mr.  Dodson thought you were on the plane that
crashed," Barbara explained.  "Since you only rented the boat by the month,
he put the Albatross up for sale."

   "Goodness, Lance, it's not that important," Melinda declared.  "I never
could understand why you kept that creaky old boat, anyway."

   "I happen," he said, "to be very fond of fishing."

   "All your gear is in a storage room at Dodson's," Barbara put in
helpfully.

   This statement seemed to relieve his mind.  "Just so long as he didn't
include my tackle in the sale, I guess it's all right," he conceded. 
"Uh--you mentioned that strange things have been happening?"

   Lance Shelby's attitude had undergone a quick change.  Now he was all
news-scenting reporter.

   "Yes," Barbara said, deciding that her snap judgment of him might have
been faulty.  "Several people were interested in the Albatross, but my
friend succeeded in buying it first.  Both he and Mr.  Dodson were offered
bribes to cancel the sale, and when they refused, an attempt was made last
night to rob the boat."

   "Is your friend wealthy?" asked Melinda.

   Barbara smiled.  "No, quite the contrary.  Nothing of his was taken.  So
we assumed that since Whit had nothing of value there, the thief must have
been hunting for something belonging to the houseboat's former owner.  Did
you keep anything expensive aboard the Albatross, Mr.  Shelby?"

   "My fishing tackle wasn't cheap," he admitted.  "By the way, everyone
calls me Lance.  Now, what was that about my investigating racketeers and
gangsters?"

   "A number of your articles have concerned notorious criminals.  As there
seemed to be no other explanation for the houseboat's popularity, I thought
you might have come across some incriminating evidence concerning
underworld life."

   "And cached the evidence aboard my floating oyster palace?" Lance
grinned.  "Quite an idea.  Wish I had thought of it myself."

   "Then you don't know of anything concealed on the Albatross?" Barbara
bit her lip, chagrined.  So much for elaborate theories!

   "Nothing except your friend--Whit, is it?" Lance slid off the desk where
he had been perched.  "I wonder if he'd mind my taking a quick look around
the old tub just to make sure the Dodson's didn't overlook any of my gear.
Some of those lures would be hard to replace."

   "Of course he wouldn't mind.  I had intended to drop by there this
afternoon, if you'd care to come along."

   "Hey, what about me?" Melinda cried.

   Lance gave her a friendly but definitely nonromantic pat on the
shoulder. "Honey, I'm a working reporter, remember?  And I've got a hunch
there's a hot story lurking around here somewhere!"

   His sleek Italian sports car was parked at the curb in open defiance of
the "towaway zone" sign posted above it.  Ducking low to enter the car,
Barbara shook her head in wonderment.  Lance Shelby, she mused, seemed to
be one of fortune's favorites.  Beautiful girls like Melinda Foster
idolized him, fabulous trips to the Orient were a routine part of his life,
and traffic cops handed out their citations on the next street down.  No
wonder the Courier's star reporter was a wee bit conceited!

   She gave directions as he skillfully guided the car around corners and
downgrades.  Presently she found herself responding to questions about
herself and her friends.  Lance's manner was so friendly that, without
hesitation, she detailed Whit's experiences in purchasing the houseboat,
and mentioned his difficulties with the recalcitrant "Mr.  Smith."

   "You think he was using an alias?" Lance probed.  "Could be I've run
across this 'Mr.  Smith.' Give me his description."

   Barbara had no trouble in complying; the man had left an indelible
impression on her mind.  "A stocky man in his mid-forties, about five feet
nine, with black eyes and haystack eyebrows," she told Shelby.  "He needed
a haircut and his suit was rumpled."

   A thoughtful expression crossed Lance's face, but "dunno for sure" was
the only reply she managed to drag from him when she asked if he could
identify the man.

   Pulling off the rutted road at approximately the same spot where Whit
had parked the evening before, Lance shaded his eyes and peered toward the
inlet.  "Looks as if your friend has company already." He gestured to the
motor launch that nuzzled the bow of the Albatross.

   Barbara was forced to take rapid strides in order to keep up with the
reporter.  As they drew closer to the little bay, she perceived the reason
for haste.  The visiting craft bore the Coast Guard insignia, and Lance,
already intrigued by her accounts of the mystery surrounding the Albatross,
intended to discover the purpose behind this official call.

   Ascending the gangplank, Barbara found Whit and Greg deeply absorbed in
conversation with a pair of Naval policemen.  Each of the men wore S.P. 
armbands, and around the waists of their white uniforms were buckled
businesslike service revolvers.

   "Has something else happened?" she asked Whit, who broke away from the
group and came to greet her.

   "Not to us.  To Buck Younger, if and when they catch him." He looked
quizzically at Lance Shelby, and Barbara introduced him.

   "Lance Shelby!" Whit exclaimed.  "But aren't you--?"

   "Still among the living." Lance smiled, and briefly explained.

   "Sorry.  That was thoughtless of me," Whit apologized.  He swung back to
Barbara.  "Remember the other evening I thought I saw Buck Younger cruise
past the wharf?  Seems I was right, after all.  The city police had set up
a roadblock that night trying to nab a bank robber, and one of the cars
they admitted through was driven by Buck.  The patrolman checked his
license as a matter of routine, but he didn't realize until later that
Younger was the man the Navy had a warrant out on."

   This confirmed Barbara's theory regarding the telephone caller with the
Southern accent.  Deciding to save this news until later, she asked, "What
are the Shore Patrolmen doing here?"

   "They're running a check on all Naval personnel and recent discharges in
the area.  They're hoping that someone who knew Buck personally might be
able to give them a lead as to his present whereabouts."

   Whit took her arm and drew her into the group.  Lance tagged behind. 
Barbara, masking a smile, reflected that the lucky newspaperman had
stumbled onto the makings of another "scoop." Talk about fortune's
favorites!

   "We have no idea what he could be doing in this locality," one of the
Shore Patrolmen was saying to Greg.  "Unless he has made contact with the
person who helped him crash out of the brig."

   "You mean the escape wasn't his own doing?" Greg asked, startled.

   "Definitely not.  The guard was attacked from behind and his keys
stolen. Younger was the only prisoner in custody at the time, so we have no
witnesses who saw the breakout." The Naval policeman fingered his belt. 
"Funny thing.  Younger got into a lot of scrapes during his years with the
Navy, but in each case, he operated as a lone wolf.  Always by himself. 
Seems odd that anyone would be willing to take such a risk for him now."

   "Yes, it does," Whit agreed, escorting the patrolmen to the gangplank.
"If we see or hear anything, we'll let you know right away."

   The launch roared out of the inlet, heading back toward the public docks
of Santa Teresa.

   Barbara was struck by the thoughtful expression that had settled over
Greg's face at the mention of Younger's accomplice.  He made no mention of
the AWOL Texan, however, but extended his hand to Lance Shelby.

   "Nice to see you again, sir," he said politely.  "We enjoyed reading
your piece on Admiral Billingsly."

   "Had a ball doing it," Lance replied.  "The fishing is good down around
Port Dixon.  I just tossed the anchor over the side and set my lines while
banging out the article.  Had a half-dozen bass by the time I finished
typing up the interview."

   "They ought to change the 'Life of Riley' saying to read 'Life of
Shelby,' " Whit observed.  "I, uh, I feel a bit guilty having bought the
Albatross out from under you.  Of course I had no idea--"

   "Of course not," Lance interjected smoothly.  "Even my editor was
prepared to write me off with a floral RIP." His casual glance traveled the
length of the houseboat.  "You haven't run across any of my tackle, have
you?  I haven't been down to check it out at Dodson's yet, but it was
scattered all over the boat.  He might have missed packing a rod or a few
lures."

   "Haven't seen so much as a fishhook, but you're welcome to look for
yourself," Whit offered.  Like a proper host, he opened a cabin door and
escorted the reporter inside.  Within a few minutes, they emerged,
empty-handed.

   "Stay for a Coke?" Whit invited, but Lance declined.

   "I'd better run back into town and play spook for a few people who
haven't yet heard of my resurrection.  Maybe I can scare Bruce MacFarland
into giving me a raise.  So long!"

   CHAPTER FIVE

   Greg, who had remained slouched in one of the canvas chairs while Whit
accompanied Lance through the cabins, got to his feet and walked over to
the railing.  He remained there, lost in thought, until the reporter had
vanished around the bend of the road.

   "I wonder what's on his mind?" Barbara asked herself.  "He has been
acting awfully peculiar for the last half hour."

   With a start, Greg aroused himself from the brown study into which he
had sunk.  "How long was Buck Younger in the brig before he crashed out?"
he asked abruptly.

   "Oh, two or three days, I suppose," Whit said, frowning.  "Why?"

   "Well, I was thinking--" Greg seemed to be having a mental debate with
himself.  "No, it couldn't be," he muttered.  "Timing's all wrong."

   Whit snapped his fingers in front of Greg's face, like a magician
bringing his subject out of a trance.  "It's me, remember, your old buddy,
Greg.  What are you stewing about?"

   "My bomb of an idea turned out to be a dud." Greg stared glumly down at
the frothing water.  Suddenly, the glum look changed to one of startled
comprehension.  "Wait a minute!" he exclaimed.  "I had it all backwards. 
The other guy wasn't the accomplice--Buck was!"

   He wheeled around, and the cogs clicking in his brain were almost
audible.  "You're the one who put the notion into my head.  You know--last
night, when we were talking about the riot Buck started.  You asked if it
wasn't the very next day they discovered that the plans for that new atomic
sub had been stolen--"

   "No, pal," Whit said emphatically.  "That's what I started to say.  You
shot me a dagger look and I shut up."

   "Like a clam.  You said, 'Sorry, Miss T., Military Secret,' " Barbara
verified.  "But it isn't, really.  It was in all the papers.  About the
plans having disappeared, I mean." And that, she remembered triumphantly,
was exactly what she had been trying to recall.  She had even clipped the
item from the papers while comparing the different styles of the Courier
and the Herald!

   Greg grimaced.  "With friends like our newspapers, this country doesn't
need enemies," he growled.  "That information shouldn't have been
released."

   "Have to keep the American public informed," Whit shrugged.  "At least
by releasing the news themselves, the authorities could play down its
importance.  Suppose a sharp news hound like Shelby had sniffed it out? 
He'd have blared it in three-inch headlines and had every Congressman in
the country forming investigating committees to plague the Navy."

   "Quit locking the sub door after the plans have been stolen and tell us
your idea," Barbara said impatiently.  "What about Buck Younger and his
accomplice?"

   The anger faded from Greg's face.  "Usually visitors to Port Dixon are
kept to a minimum and allowed in only on special passes.  But two weeks ago
when Shelby came to interview Admiral Billingsly, a crew of news-reel
photographers sat in on the session, and half a dozen consulting engineers
who had helped blueprint the new sub were there, too, surveying the harbor
facilities.  The base was bulging with visitors."

   "I remember.  All we needed was a drum and bugle corps to make it look
like convention time at Madison Square Garden," Whit agreed.  "Well, go
on--get to the point."

   "The point," said Greg earnestly, "is that any one of those people, or
even someone who slipped in with them during all the confusion, could have
stolen the plans.  But he couldn't just stroll in and pick them off the
admiral's desk.  They were in a locked steel cabinet, and a guard was
posted in that office day and night.  That's where I think Buck Younger
came in."

   "That big bruiser is too clumsy to be a safe-cracker," Whit protested.
"The only thing he really knows how to do is fight."

   "Exactly!  As I said, the thief couldn't just walk into the admiral's
office.  He needed a diversion to pull the guard out of there first.  My
guess is that he hired Younger to start such a lulu of a brawl that every
Shore Patrolman on the base would come running to squelch it.  The Navy
couldn't afford to let that mob of newsmen and photographers get wind of a
riot--not with the Senate already bickering over military appropriations.
So, while everyone else was pitching in to stop the battle, the thief
jimmied the cabinet and did a Houdini act with the blueprints."

   Whit was awed by his friend's deductive abilities.  "Good lord, Greg, I
think you've hit it!"

   "It could easily have happened that way.  And listen!" Barbara cried
excitedly.  "Buck Younger was the only one who could point out the thief.
He couldn't be allowed to come up before a court martial--he might have
confessed the whole scheme!  So the thief slipped back onto the base a
couple of nights later and sprung him out of the brig!"

   "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage--when you've got
a friend on the outside," Whit quipped.

   "What was that you were saying before, about the timing being all wrong,
Greg?" Barbara asked.

   "Well, first I had the notion that Younger himself was the thief.  He
couldn't have been, though, because the guard didn't leave the admiral's
office until after the fight had started.  Buck was right in the thick of
it the whole time.  You know," he ruminated, "in some ways Port Dixon is a
little like Alcatraz was.  It's almost impossible to get in or out without
a written pass.  And when you do enter or leave, you're subjected to a
search."

   "So how did this mastermind get the blueprints past the gate?" Whit
asked.

   Greg casually exploded a bombshell.  "He didn't.  At least, I don't
think so."

   "They're still on the base?" Barbara gasped.

   "Nope.  I don't know where they are now," Greg admitted, "but I have a
hunch that at one time they were right here on the Albatross."

   "Right here on the Albatross?" Whit echoed.

   "You're not serious!" Barbara exclaimed.

   But Greg was grimly earnest.

   "Sure.  It hit me a few minutes ago when Shelby mentioned that he had
brought his houseboat down to Port Dixon.  You know the setup there, Whit.
A pass could be faked; an unauthorized person might get onto the base--and
off again--but not with those blueprints.  The guards at the gate use an
X-ray type machine which would show up bulky papers, as well as any metal
object.  And if anyone had tried going over that twelve-foot electric
fence, or taking off in a plane or chopper, he'd have been spotted within
seconds."

   "Which leaves the water," Whit said, beginning to understand.

   "That's the only way those papers could have been smuggled out." Greg
paced a few yards down the deck, a faraway look in his eyes.  "Shelby
requested permission to bring his houseboat into the harbor while doing
that interview.  Because he is such a well-known person, authorization was
granted almost immediately.  Between then and the time he actually made the
trip, any number of people might have learned of his plan.  Shelby made no
secret of the fact that he is an avid fisherman.  He probably went around
bragging that he was going to get the interview and a good catch of fish in
the bargain."

   "I guess he bragged to one person too many," Barbara said with a little
shiver.

   "As I see it, the thief learned of Shelby's plans in advance, which gave
him a chance to work out a timetable with Buck Younger.  When the riot
started and the guard ran out to help break it up, the thief slipped into
the office and broke open the cabinet.  Then he barreled down to where the
Albatross was berthed, hid the plans aboard, and hurried back to rejoin his
group.  The whole operation shouldn't have taken more than half an hour."

   "And with the blueprints safely concealed, he had no further need for
haste." Whit took up with the sordid tale.  "He left when everyone else
did, passed the gate search like any innocent citizen, and settled down in
Santa Teresa to wait for Lance Shelby to return from his fishing trip.  As
soon as Shelby came ashore, the thief retrieved the cache." Whit brought
his fist smashing down on the rail.  "It was so simple it had to be
foolproof.  He couldn't miss!"

   "Don't you think," Barbara interrupted quietly, "that 'thief' is the
wrong word to use?  Wouldn't 'spy' be more appropriate?"

   "Well, let's just say that ordinary second-story men are more interested
in diamond necklaces than in the blueprints for a nuclear sub," Greg
admitted.

   An uncomfortable silence settled over the Albatross as each of them was
lost in his own thoughts.  Barbara retraced the steps of Greg's reasoning
and could find no flaw in it.  The only trouble, she decided morosely, was
that they hadn't figured out the ruse in time.  The spy had neatly outfoxed
them.

   "Even that creepy Mr.  Smith caught on before we did," she murmured to
herself.  "I wonder where he got the notion that the blueprints were still
aboard the houseboat?  Maybe he suspected that the spy hadn't been able to
smuggle them out of the country yet, and figured this was as safe a
temporary hiding place as any."

   "I'll bet Buck Younger started worrying that he wasn't going to get his
cut of the profits," Whit said, showing that his thoughts were running
parallel to hers.  "He took an awful risk coming out of hiding."

   Greg nodded gloomily.  He seemed to be blaming himself for not
unraveling the plot sooner.

   "What are you going to do now?" Barbara asked.  "Notify the military
authorities or the FBI?"

   "Guess we'd better.  Though, as you so aptly put it, starting an
investigation now is like locking the sub door after the plans have been
stolen." Greg kicked absently at a splinter jutting up from the deck.  "I
want to think about it a little longer.  I've got a feeling that somewhere
along the way I overlooked an important point."

   When Barbara left the houseboat a short time later, Whit and Greg had
still not decided upon a definite course of action.  Short-cutting along
the woodland trail, she decided that the grandeur of the sunset in the
western sky was out of place.  A damp, murky fog would have made a more
appropriate setting for her depressed frame of mind.

   Her spirits sank even lower when she found the house empty and recalled
the birthday party which the Prescott family was attending.  It would be
hours before Regina and her parents would return.

   Even now, Barbara could scarcely credit the fantastic tale which Greg
had unfolded.  Espionage in this peaceful little town!

   The sharp jangle of the telephone bell sliced through her disturbed
thoughts.  Her eyes widened in surprise as Lance Shelby's breezy voice came
bouncing over the wire.

   "Hungry?" he asked without preamble.

   "I had forgotten all about dinner," Barbara confessed.

   "Then you're in luck.  Slip into something black and slinky, and I'll
buy you a lobster at Pietro's.  Half an hour."

   An uncompromising click severed the connection before Barbara could
accept or reject the invitation.  "Of all the nerve!" she fumed.  "And
telling me what to wear.  It's a wonder he didn't specify the shade of
lipstick--"

   Suddenly she was overcome by a fit of giggles.  It would do the
conceited Mr.  Shelby no end of good to be left waiting on the porch while
she slipped out the back door.  On the other hand, her stomach impatiently
reminded her, she had eaten nothing since breakfast, and Pietro's was the
best restaurant in town.

   "Might as well attend the command performance," she told herself, still
smiling as she hurried upstairs.  Anything was preferable to sitting alone
in an empty house and worrying about spies!

   Barbara ignored his clothing instructions and chose a becoming knit suit
in a soft shade of coral.

   This mutinous gesture did nothing to diminish Lance's enthusiasm,
however.

   "My, my!  You should be decorating the Society pages, instead of helping
write them," he commented gallantly, holding the car door open for her.

   Pietro's was hushed and dimly candlelit.  A bowing major domo whisked
them to their table, where self-effacing waiters competed for the privilege
of drawing out their chairs.

   Goodness, thought Barbara, impressed by the service which Lance's very
presence seemed to command.  He certainly has the world handed to him on a
platter.  I'll bet he was born wearing twenty-four carat gold diaper pins!

   "I have a craving for seafood," Lance confided when the waiter had
placed rosy goblets of shrimp cocktail before them.  "That ole brain food
legend was thrown at me when I was a kid.  I had an urge to become the
smartest fellow on the block, so fish was on the menu as often as I could
persuade my folks to put it there.  Guess I never outgrew the habit."

   Barbara tasted the tiny crescents of shrimp nestling in a tangy sauce.
"Um, this is wonderful," she exclaimed.  "I can understand now why you're
such a fishing fan."

   "It's a wonderful hobby.  I've had lots of relaxing vacations aboard the
old houseboat.  By the way," he asked, "what do your friends intend to do
with the Albatross, now that they've bought her?"

   "It's Whit's boat, really.  Greg is just staying there with him for a
few weeks.  Whit plans to turn it into a restaurant."

   Lance approved wholeheartedly.  "Fine idea.  It's a wonder no one
thought of doing something like that sooner.  I was rather surprised when
the other young man--Greg--remembered me," he confided after a slight
pause. "There were a great many visitors at Port Dixon the day I went
down."

   "Greg has a marvelous memory." Barbara smiled.  "I think he must have
had a brain food diet, too."

   It was on the tip of her tongue to reveal the brilliant way in which
Greg had plotted the circumstances surrounding the theft of the blueprints.
Just in time, she restrained the impulse.  The slightest hint to a newsman
of Lance's capabilities would have him burrowing for details.  And the last
thing Greg or the Navy wanted right now was more publicity!

   "Besides," she substituted hastily, "why shouldn't he remember you? 
You're one of the best-known reporters on the West Coast.  How about
sharing the secret of your success and telling me how you reached such
lofty heights?"

   Lance considered.  "Persistence.  Determination.  Luck, once in a while.
My family had practically no money.  I resolved to make up for it--be the
richest kid on the block, as well as the smartest.  You have to be tops if
you want to get rich in the newspaper business.  After working hours were
over, I used to go out and make contacts.  Pretty soon I had friends and
informants in every walk of life, and leads to the big stories started
trickling in.  I made them pay off."

   Barbara nodded, thinking that this driving determination explained a
great deal about Lance Shelby.  Vanity accounted for only a small part of
his personality.  A heaping portion of ruthlessness also figured in his
outlook on life.  Where his goals were concerned, nothing had been allowed
to stand in the way.

   "Well, you accomplished your aim," she conceded.  "I doubt if many of
the other kids on your block drive around in Italian sports cars, or fly to
the Orient on routine assignments."

   Lance disposed of the last succulent morsel of lobster.  "My assignments
are never routine," he corrected.

   "Allow me to rephrase my statement," said Barbara humbly.  "Lance Shelby
flies to the Orient only on the most unique assignments.  All right?" She
smiled, and set down her coffee cup.  "Tell me about Hong Kong.  Isn't it
situated a bit too close to Red China for comfort?"

   Lance gave her a keen look.  "So you're a geography student, as well as
a Society writer?  No, I can't say that I ever felt uncomfortable in the
Crown Colony.  The British keep it well policed."

   A flurry of activity at a nearby table captured their attention. 
Someone's wine glass had overturned, and a waiter moved quickly to blot up
the red stain which snaked across the snowy linen cloth.

   Barbara's first glance at the scene of the mishap had been casual; her
second was frankly incredulous.  "Lance," she whispered, "the man at the
corner table--he's the Mr.  Smith I was telling you about!"

   In a natural manner, as if merely wishing to summon the waiter, Lance
swiveled.  "Smith, nothing!" he said gleefully.  "That's Alexei Litvinov!"

   While Barbara was puzzling over this unrevealing piece of information,
Lance rose unobtrusively and made his way to a phone booth.

   "I've had the goods on Alexei for months, but he's always managed to
elude me," the reporter said, returning by a route which kept his back to
the unsuspecting foreigner.

   "But--who is he?" Barbara whispered eagerly.

   "Read the Courier tomorrow morning and find out," Lance teased.  Amused
by her crestfallen expression, he relented.  "Comrade Litvinov," he
informed her sotto voce, "is one of those men who are popularly known on
television dramas as espionage agents.  Uncle Sam knows all about the
little games he plays.  The State Department refused him a visa when he
applied for entry to this country last year."

   "Then how did he get in?  What's he doing here?  And how," Barbara
asked, "did you come to know him?"

   "You sound like a pal of mine who does interviews on radio.  Never lets
the interviewee get a word in edgewise," Lance chided.  "We don't have an
iron curtain around America.  Anyone with a reasonable amount of
determination and intelligence can evade the border patrol and slip in
illegally.  I ran across Litvinov in Paris a couple of years back.  At that
time, he was a strike agitator--he and men like him stirred up all sorts of
trouble for the French.  They promoted a strike which literally crippled
the country's transportation for six weeks."

   Barbara's eyes widened.  "Is that his mission in the United States?"

   "My dear child," Lance said patronizingly, "Comrade Litvinov is a very
versatile fellow.  One never knows from day to day what dirty work he'll
stick his pudgy little finger into next." He paused.  "I can tell you this,
though--I have a file in my safe-deposit box which contains a picture of
him.  It was snapped in a place which not even loyal American citizens are
allowed to enter--unless the highly specialized nature of their work takes
them there."

   Barbara's mind was a whirl of names.  Los Alamos, Oak Ridge, Cape
Canaveral--that was the sort of place Lance meant!

   "We'd better be going," he said, fanning bills across the discreetly
reversed check on the platter.  "I have a feeling that Pietro's is about to
be invaded by the minions of the law!"

   Her mind reeling with thoughts of international intrigue, Barbara hardly
noticed which direction Lance was driving them.  Before she knew it, he had
arrived at his apartment building.

   "I hope you'll be coming up for a drink," he said.  It came out more as
a command than a wish.

   "Well, I really shouldn't," Barbara said.  "But since we're already
here, I guess it's all right."

   "That's the girl."

   Once inside his penthouse, Barbara was intoxicated by the beauty of the
place.  The view was marvelous, and she stopped by the window almost
hypnotized by the bright lights of the city.  Lance left her there and then
returned some time later dressed in a plush robe.

   "Here," he said.  "I thought you might like to get comfortable."

   Lance held out a robe--a woman's robe, and just her size--to Barbara. 
She thought things had gone too far, but when she saw the gleam of
insistence in Lance's eyes, she couldn't find the courage to resist.

   After a few drinks, Barbara found herself feeling a bit more comfortable
in Lance's presence.  They sat close together on the couch talking like old
friends.  Then Lance hit a switch on a side table and dimmed the lights in
the room.  Finishing off his glass of gin, he reached out and grabbed
Barbara, pulling her to him.

   She loved their first kiss.  Never before had a man been so bold with
her.  And never before had she felt so totally swept away by a man.  When
he moved his hand up to caress her breasts, she made no move to stop him.
In fact, she encouraged him to reach inside and touch her flesh.

   Lance massaged her nipples for a while as he kissed her deeply.  Then he
tore his lips from hers and began frantically untying the sash on her robe.
He wanted to see her naked.  He wanted her body revealed to him so he could
run his hands all over it, so he could kiss her everywhere, so he could
devour her with his eyes, his touch, his throbbing penis.

   Lance slipped off the couch and dropped to his knees beside her.  After
removing the robe she wore, he began running his hands up and down, from
her knees to her neck, pausing to stroke her large breasts, smooth his
palms across her belly, or grind the heel of his hand into the puffy mound
of her vagina.

   When he figured Barbara was aroused sufficiently, he decided it was time
to carry her into his bedroom.  Running his strong arms underneath her, he
picked her up.  Barbara was amazed at how easy it was for Lance to support
her while he ran into the bedroom.  He seemed so strong to her, so
powerful.

   Tossing Barbara down onto his circular bed, Lance proceeded to shed his
robe.  Barbara watched him, eagerly anticipating the sight of his penis. 
She was rewarded momentarily with a glimpse of the biggest cock she had
ever seen.  When Lance caught her staring at it, he stood at the foot of
the bed with his hands on his hips, smiling, letting Barbara have a good
look.

   "You like that, eh?" Lance said.

   "Oh, Lance, it's so big," she said excitedly.  "I've never ...  seen one
so ...  big." Not that Barbara had been with a lot of men.  However,
Lance's size still amazed her.

   "Well, don't worry, honey.  I'll go nice and slow."

   When Lance joined her on the bed, he embraced her, pressing her down
against the mattress.  While kissing her neck and shoulders, he pressed his
hips into her thighs, letting the heat from his hard penis seep into her
body.

   Barbara looked at the ceiling to see that it was covered with mirrors.
She could see herself underneath Lance's body.  She could see his buttocks
clenching as he began moving his hips back and forth.  And she could see
that she was enjoying herself.  Smiling at her reflection, she returned to
the task at hand.

   Barbara extended her hand tentatively down toward Lance's penis.  She
gently scraped her fingernails into the flesh of his rib cage, his smooth
lower back, his hairy thighs.  Then she dropped her hand down and gripped
the shaft of his prick.  She held it tightly, thrilled by the way it filled
her hand.

   "That's it, honey," Lance said softly.  "You don't have to be afraid. 
Just relax.  That's the way."

   Back and forth, Barbara stroked her fist.  On the down stroke she felt
her hand pressing into the soft, wrinkled flesh of his scrotum.  At the
height of the upstroke, she surrounded the shiny head of his penis.

   "Oh, yeah," he grunted.  "That's good, baby.  But now I've got something
else for us to do."

   Lance pressed Barbara down onto her back and then spread her legs apart.
He could tell her vagina was ready by the way it glistened from an excess
of lubricant.  Holding his penis in his hand, he aimed it toward the
entrance of her pussy.  He lowered his hips, and slowly he slipped his
manhood inside her.

   It felt so good to Barbara that she thought she would burst with
delight. Lance's penis filled her so full.  She abandoned herself to the
wonderful feelings coursing through her body, responding to his fevered
strokes passionately.

   Higher and higher she drifted until a cascade of bright lights and
rippling spasms enveloped her.  She could feel Lance's semen smoldering in
the depths of her vagina, and it felt tremendously satisfying.

   Lance made her feel so good that for the rest of the evening she didn't
think about the blueprints or foreign agents for a moment.

   CHAPTER SIX

   Spy!  Spy!  Spy!  The word traveled through the Courier building with
the rapidity of a brush fire leaping across the prairie.  Everyone whom
Barbara encountered that Monday morning was carrying a copy of the early
edition.  Her own paper was already dog-eared from having been read and
reread.

   "Soviet Agent Apprehended!" the banner shrieked, and under Lance
Shelby's byline the story was dramatically revealed.  The city police,
acting on a tip from "your reporter," had placed Alexei Litvinov under
arrest.  An alerted FBI had already taken over custody of the suspected
spy, and it was intimated that charges of espionage would be leveled
against him.  Definite proof of Litvinov's illicit activities, Lance wrote,
had been placed in the hands of the federal authorities.

   Although the nature of the proof was not described, Barbara guessed that
this must pertain to the compromising photograph in Lance's possession.

   He certainly left no doubt in anyone's mind as to who should be credited
with the arrest, she thought with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

   References to "your reporter" were sprinkled liberally throughout the
article.  Even though it was Barbara who had been instrumental in the
agent's identification, no mention was made of her participation. 
Actually, she felt rather relieved that her name had not appeared in the
newspaper account.  Melinda regarded Lance as her own special property--and
Whit might not have understood, either.

   In any event, the date had supplied the answer to a point which Barbara
had found perplexing.  Greg's theory that the blueprints were at one time
secreted aboard the Albatross explained why the houseboat was being
searched.  But Lance Shelby's apartment had also been ransacked.  Now she
realized that while Alexei Litvinov would have given a great deal to gain
possession of the blue prints, his primary concern undoubtedly was to
unearth the telltale photograph.  No wonder "Mr.  Smith" had gone to such
desperate lengths in his attempts to buy the Albatross!

   Melinda's pointed comment about the unopened mail brought her sharply
back to earth.  What a relief, Barbara thought, reaching for the letter
opener, to have all the riddles solved.  Well--all but one.  There was
still no clue as to the person who had purloined the vital documents.  But
that was a matter for the FBI.  Now maybe Whit could redecorate his
houseboat in peace--and she could concentrate on her job!

   A few days later, the preparations for the wedding began in earnest. 
Lengthy consultations with florists, caterers, and photographers went on
from morning till night, and strains of the 'Wedding March' and 'O Promise
Me' echoed continuously from behind the door of the sun room, where
Regina's Aunt Louise had taken over temporary possession of the piano.

   "Do you realize," Regina gasped, bursting into Barbara's bedroom on
Thursday evening, "that we haven't even selected the bridesmaids' gowns
yet? I put it off because Fran Harris left on vacation just before you
arrived, and it went completely out of my mind!"

   "That's not much of a problem," Barbara said.  "Tobin's is having a
sale. Now that the June brides are all married off, we can get the dresses
for half price.  You're right, though," she admitted with a laugh when
Regina-groaned despairingly, "we really ought to see about them.  Since the
wedding is only two weeks away, I suppose we'd better not wait for the
quarter price sale."

   Regina plopped down on the bed.  "Barbara, how can you joke at a time
like this?"

   "It's easy--I'm not the bride-to-be!" Barbara had been sewing buttons
onto a sweater.  Now she set aside her needle and looked questioningly at
her friend.

   "You've been awfully nervous lately, Regina," she said.  "Is it just
those famous pre-matrimonial jitters, or is something else the matter?  I'd
like to help if I can."

   Regina laughed shakily.  "You're imagining things," she insisted.  Then
her composure crumbled.  "Or maybe I am.  It's Greg.  He--he's seemed so
withdrawn and preoccupied these past few days.  He can be sitting right in
the same room with me, and his mind is a million miles away."

   "Oh, I see." Barbara stared reflectively out of her bedroom window.  The
inlet was masked by close-growing trees, and the twilight effectively
camouflaged any lights which might have twinkled aboard the Albatross.

   "You mustn't worry," she said gently.  "I think Greg is troubled about
something that happened in Port Dixon shortly before his discharge.  I
heard him discussing it with Whit."

   Regina looked enormously relieved.  "I'm glad to hear that.  I was
afraid he was trying to think of a diplomatic way to call off the wedding!"
Curiously, she added, "What did happen in Port Dixon?"

   "The blueprints for a new atomic submarine were stolen.  There is a
possibility that the man who was arrested the other night might have had
something to do with the theft."

   "Spies!" Regina shuddered distastefully.  "Thank goodness the FBI knows
how to deal with people like that.  Now," she reverted to her original
concern, "what are we going to do about those dresses?"

   "The stores are open tomorrow night.  Why don't you and Fran meet me
downtown after work?" Barbara suggested.

   The next afternoon at five o'clock the three girls met outside the
Courier building.  Strolling along arm in arm, Barbara swapped news with
Fran Harris, the pert redhead who was to be Regina's other bridal
attendant. They had all gone through school together, and since Barbara and
Fran had not seen each other in two years, they found a great deal to talk
about.

   Luckily, Tobin's had a wide selection of bridesmaids' gowns left in
stock.  The girls had some difficulty in deciding which style and color
they preferred, but finally they narrowed down the choice to a jacketed
gown of mist-green taffeta and a lovely flaring chiffon in a heavenly shade
of peacock blue.

   "I believe the blue number suits both of you better." The saleswoman
voiced her experienced opinion.  "And aren't you fortunate to need no
alterations?  I wish I were a perfect size twelve."

   After another quarter hour of twisting and turning before the
full-length mirror, Barbara and Fran agreed that the saleswoman's advice
was sound.  They had the blue dresses carefully wrapped in layers of tissue
paper and then, to complete the ensembles, they chose simple satin pumps
and wide picture hats in a matching shade.

   I wonder how Whit will like me in it, Barbara thought, juggling her
parcels.  A flush warmed her cheeks as she realized how very much she was
looking forward to walking down the aisle as his partner after the marriage
ceremony.

   The past week had been so crowded that she had seen very little of the
good-looking ex-sailor.  Social affairs seemed to be at a peak despite the
fact that July was the height of the vacation season, and she and Melinda
were often pressed for time to cover all the events to which they were
invited.  During her lunch hour, Barbara never failed to comb the want ads
in the hope that a suitable apartment for rent would appear.  She had even
inserted an ad of her own in the Courier, but so far she had not received a
single reply.

   Something had better turn up soon, she thought.  With the ceaseless
comings and goings of caterers and photographers, it was beginning to seem
as if she would never find another moment of solitude.

   Whit, she knew, had been busy, too.  A huge mound of paint and cleaning
supplies now crowded the Albatross's center cabin, and Greg reported that
considerable progress had already been made in the houseboat's
refurbishment.

   When Regina mentioned that Greg planned to meet her downtown for dinner,
Barbara glanced at her wrist watch.  It was barely six o'clock.  Several
hours of daylight remained.  Impulsively, she decided to stop by the
houseboat on her way home, and de-toured around to the wrapping desk to
request that her purchases be delivered.

   "Have to rush--got a date.  But I want to talk to you about something,"
Fran whispered as Regina left the shop ahead of them.  "Call you tomorrow."


   Wondering what could be on Fran's mind, Barbara rode to the bus stop
nearest the Prescott home and then walked the remaining distance to the
inlet.  She found Whit on his hands and knees, industriously running an
electric sander over the deck.  He seemed glad of an excuse to stop
working.

   "You've accomplished wonders this past week," Barbara praised him,
looking around.  "With a couple of days vacation coming up, I thought I'd
drop in to ask if you could use a helper."

   Some of the weariness left his face and his eyes brightened.  "I'll sign
you on the ship's complement as soon as my fingers straighten out," he said
gratefully.  "What's your rating--able seaman, oiler, wiper?"

   "Hummm.  None of those categories quite describe my talents," Barbara
said.  "What does the bosun do?"

   "Gives orders," said Whit, and laughed at her prompt, "That's for me!"

   Over a strawberry waffle and coffee, they discussed the next step in the
houseboat's face-lifting.

   "I have a few more yards of paint to finish chipping and then we can go
ahead and prime," he told her proudly.

   "I'll help," Barbara offered.  She carried the dishes to the sink and
paused thoughtfully, watching the soap bubble up around them.

   "Whit," she said, "Regina is worried about Greg.  Do you know if he is
still brooding about those stolen blueprints?"

   "He has something on his mind; I've noticed it, too." Whit frowned.  "I
didn't want to say anything, but since you've brought it up, there is
something else that bothers me.  He's taken to walking in his sleep!"

   Barbara almost dropped the plate.  "Greg?  Walking in his sleep?"

   "Don't ask me to explain it." Whit shrugged.  "I've been sleeping with
one ear open ever since our burglary.  I thought I heard noises several
times before, but wrote it off when I couldn't find anyone prowling around.
Then, last night I saw Greg."

   "What was he doing?" Barbara asked eagerly.

   "At first, he was monkeying around with the bulkheads--tapping them and
pushing on them.  After a while, he started pacing round and round the
deck. Ten minutes later he came back to his bunk and stretched out, and he
didn't budge for the rest of the night."

   "Did he say anything?"

   "Not a syllable.  I trailed along behind him to make sure he didn't fall
over the side, but I was too baffled to try to wake him.  I don't think he
believed me when I told him about it this morning.  Said he'd never heard
of such a crazy stunt."

   "Something must be preying on his mind." Barbara frowned.  "I've heard
that people react strangely at times when they are troubled with a problem
they can't solve."

   Whit looked dubious.  "Greg is the most normal guy I've ever known," he
declared.  "What possible problem could he have?  He's healthy, he's going
to marry the second prettiest girl in Santa Teresa, and he's about to join
his dad in making a mint of money selling real estate."

   "I didn't mean personal problems, exactly," Barbara murmured.  "I
meant--Whit, I can't get those blueprints out of my mind.  I keep wondering
who took them, and whether he has already succeeded in handing them over to
the enemy.  I'm sure Greg is worried about the same thing.  More so,
probably, because he was actually on the base when the plans were stolen."

   "So was I--so were two thousand other sailors." Whit dragged a hand
through his close-cropped red hair.  "Holy smoke, Barbara!" he burst out.
"Do you suppose Greg knows who took those blueprints?"

   "Of course not," she said firmly.  "If he did, he would have notified
the FBI immediately.  Remember, he said that as the Admiral's aide he stuck
pretty close to that party of newsmen and photographers who were visiting
the base?  I think he has been going over and over their movements in his
mind, trying to recall if one of them slipped away from the group for any
length of time.  He must feel partly responsible for the theft, even though
no one could have foreseen that such a thing would happen.  It's become
sort of an obsession with him to expose the culprit."

   "And that's what pressured him into climbing out of the sack in the
middle of the night to go prowling around the boat?" Whit shook his head.
"Sounds goofy to me."

   "Listen!" Barbara cried.  "Greg's theory hinged on the fact that he
thought the blueprints were smuggled out of Port Dixon aboard the
Albatross. Subconsciously, he might believe that they are still hidden
somewhere on this boat!"

   "He was poking at the bulkheads," Whit reflected.  "Ah--they couldn't
be, though.  This houseboat has been searched so many times it's
practically threadbare!"

   "I didn't say they were still here.  I said Greg might believe they
were," Barbara pointed out reasonably.  "You'd better see if you can't get
him interested in something else."

   Whit promised to do what he could.  "Want to go to a movie tomorrow
night?" he asked, squeezing her hand as she started down the gangplank.

   "I'd love to.  Though by the time we're through chipping all that paint
we may be too bleary-eyed to watch it," Barbara laughed.  "See you at nine
in the morning."

   It was closer to ten o'clock, however, when Barbara arrived at the
houseboat on Saturday morning.  Immediately after breakfast, Fran Harris
telephoned, and upon learning that Regina was nowhere about, she proceeded
to outline a plan she had in mind.

   "I want to give Regina a bridal shower," she confided.  "Is next
Saturday night all right with you?"

   "Sure," Barbara answered.  The same idea had occurred to her, but she
lacked a place to hold the shower and still preserve the necessary secrecy.
"What can I do to help?"

   "Just make sure Regina gets here without suspecting anything.  I want it
to be a real surprise.  Tip off her fiance so that he won't make any big
plans for that evening."

   They chatted a few minutes longer before hanging up.  Then, after
explaining to Mrs.  Prescott that she would be away for the rest of the
day, Barbara headed for the inlet.  Whit greeted her enthusiastically and,
when the paint-chipping operation was completed in record time,
complimented her on her workmanship.

   "You're so good, I think I'll let you paint, too," he told her.

   "Thanks a million!" Barbara retorted, but she didn't really mind. 
Working side by side with Whit, chores she would ordinarily have classed as
drudgery became almost pleasant.

   They picnicked on chicken-filled pastries and frosty lemonade, and
dabbled their toes in the cove's clear, shallow water before resuming work
on the Albatross.  During the afternoon, Whit finished sanding down the
decks, while Barbara polished the portholes to a glistening sparkle.

   "Wonder what happened here?" she murmured, catching her finger on a
rough edge.  The casement into which the porthole fitted was splintered. 
It looked as if it had been damaged at one time, and inexpertly repaired.

   The grating hum of the sander drowned out her voice, however, and Whit
failed to hear her comment.  Shrugging, Barbara moved her cleaning
equipment onto the next porthole and promptly forgot about the splintery
one adjoining it.

   Contrary to her prediction, they both enjoyed the movie at the drive-in
which followed.

   "Damn!  I almost forgot!" Whit exclaimed with a suddenness which almost
caused Barbara to spill her malt.  "I found a restaurant that's going out
of business.  Heard about it from a fellow in the drugstore."

   "Wonderful!  Is it here in Santa Teresa?"

   "No.  It's down the coast about thirty miles.  Little place called
Amigos."

   "Amigos--friends," Barbara translated.  Many California towns bore the
original names given them by the first Spanish settlers.  "When do you plan
on seeing the owner?"

   "The sooner the better.  We could drive down together, if you'd like to
come." Whit had tapped his lean savings to purchase a small secondhand car.
"I'd take the Albatross, but I don't have a decent chart of these waters.
Besides, the paper said there might be rain squalls."

   Barbara agreed that the proposed excursion sounded like an ideal way to
spend a Sunday.  On the way home they speculated on what sort of place the
Cafe El Gato might prove to be, and what sort of arrangement might be made
with the owner for the sale of his equipment.

   CHAPTER SEVEN

   Shortly after noon the following day, Barbara and Whit set out along the
barren coastal road.  Although ominous-looking clouds glowered on the
horizon, the predicted rain squalls did not materialize.  Several times
Barbara asked Whit to stop the car so that she might photograph some of the
majestic rock formations which jutted up from the frothing surf.

   "You shutterbugs!" Whit said indulgently as she clambered out on the
ledge and teetered precariously while focusing on her target.  "Anything
for a good shot.  You ought to get together with Rog Nelson, my partner. 
Now there is a camera addict.  Never goes anywhere without a couple of
bulging cases strapped over his shoulder.  He looks like a tourist even in
his home town!"

   Barbara stuck out her tongue at him and climbed back into the car.  "He
ought to have a grand collection by the time he returns from the Orient,"
she remarked, thinking vaguely of cherry trees and Balinese dancers.

   "Right now, he's on destroyer duty, but last time he wrote they were
about to start for home, and he was hoping the ship would put in at Hong
Kong and Tokyo long enough for him to shoot up a few yards of film."

   Urged on by Barbara, Whit described some of the places he had visited
during his hitch in the Navy.  Almost before he knew it, the little car was
toiling up the steep winding road which led to Amigos.

   The buildings which fronted the town's main street were ramshackle and
unpainted.  Few pedestrians were to be seen on the sidewalks.  The gutters
were clogged with debris, and the gloomy weather only intensified their
impression that the place was really a ghost town and the sparse population
figments of their imagination.

   "Amigos looks a little short on friends at the moment," Barbara
commented as Whit pulled up to the curb in front of the only whitewashed
building they had seen so far.

   A decal of a stalking black cat was embellished on the door of the cafe.
When no one appeared to answer their tentative knock, Whit tried the latch.
Finding it unlocked, they stepped inside.  Barbara was quick to notice the
scrubbed appearance of the floors and counters, and that the furnishings
were solid and unmarred.

   A slender, black-haired boy of about sixteen emerged through the
swinging door at that moment.  Whit asked if he might speak with the
proprietor, and the boy nodded shyly, answering that he would bring his
uncle.

   Manuel Rodriguez was a hospitable little man with a quick smile and a
hearty handshake.  "Senior, senorita, come in--my house is yours," he said,
giving them the traditional Spanish greeting.  "You will not mind coming
into my kitchen?  I am my own cook, and the food must be tended."

   Seated in the homey room surrounded by penetrating odors of garlic,
onion, and cheese, Whit stated his errand.  Senior Rodriguez listened
politely.

   "I see.  You weesh tables and chairs for this new business of yours." He
smiled, white teeth flashing against his olive skin.  "That is good.  I
must sell.  The mill, you see, which gave work to most of the people in
this town has gone--closed down.  My customers went with it." He shrugged
philosophically.  "So my nephew, Felipe, and I go back to Guaymas."

   While the two men discussed details of the sale, Barbara wandered over
to the huge iron range and watched as Felipe stirred the contents of one
bubbling pot, added a pinch of salt to another.  With an amused grin, he
reeled off the names of the dishes.

   "Frijoles, tamales, enchiladas," he said.  "You like them?"

   "They smell wonderful," Barbara told him.

   "You must dine with us, you and your friend."

   Manuel Rodriguez promptly seconded the invitation.  Barbara and Whit,
their appetites whetted by the tantalizing aromas, readily accepted, and
were doubly glad of the decision when at the close of the meal Felipe took
up his guitar and began to strum the melodies of old Mexico.

   "Why don't you hire Felipe to play on the Albatross?" Barbara asked
dreamily.  "Between his music and your cooking, you'd have to turn the
cabins into extra dining rooms in no time."

   "Good idea, but I'm afraid he is going back to Mexico with his uncle,"
Whit answered.

   Felipe had been listening with interest.  He would, he said, prefer to
stay in California, at least for the rest of the summer.  Had they a job
for him?

   "Not a very profitable one, I'm afraid," Whit said, explaining that his
budget would make a shoestring look fat.

   "But lots of tips, maybe?" Felipe grinned, his black eyes sparkling.  "I
sing and play the guitar.  I clear the tables, I wash the dishes.  You
won't be sorry."

   Whit promised to think it over and let the boy know in a week's time,
when he would return with the Albatross to collect the furniture.  He and
Manuel Rodriguez had had no difficulty in coming to an agreement, and a
receipted bill of sale was in his pocket when at last they left the Cafe El
Gato.

   Stepping out into the street was like wading into the soft center of a
marshmallow.  The gray-white fog obscured even the closest objects. 
Barbara clung tensely to the window handle while Whit cautiously maneuvered
around the sharp curves and turns.  Then, suddenly, they were able to see
again.  The fog lay above them, hovering over the hill and the town of
Amigos like a ceiling wispy with patches of flaking plaster.

   "Scared?" Whit asked, removing his eyes from the road for the first time
in fifteen minutes.

   "Not now.  I was, a little, " Barbara admitted.  Settling back, she
closed her eyes.  What a wonderful day it had been!  Not even the fog could
spoil it.  With a warm feeling of happiness, she thought of the fire lit
kitchen, of Felipe's fingers whispering across the strings of his guitar to
bring forth those poignant melodies.

   "Oh Whit, thank you for bringing me!" she cried.  "I've never spent such
a perfect day!"

   The glow of the dashboard was their only illumination, but she could see
his face light up with pleasure.  "Neither have I," he agreed
enthusiastically.  "Your being along--well, it made all the difference."
For a time, he drove in silence.  Then he burst out, "It must be the very
dickens being a Captain of Industry!"

   Barbara stared at him.  "What brought that on?"

   "Even trying to get a small business like mine established takes nearly
every minute I have."

   "But think how nice it will be when the customers start flocking in."

   "Guess you're right.  Maybe then I'll be able to relax and concentrate
on something really important." An alarming thought struck him.  "You're
not going to leave Santa Teresa once the wedding is over, are you?"

   "It all depends.  I--I hope not." More-than ever Barbara dreaded the
move back to the city.  If only she could find an apartment!

   The return journey consumed more than an hour.  By the time they drove
up to the Prescott house, the sidewalks were deserted, and the only sign of
life was the parade of yellow street lights glowing mistily through the
darkness.

   "Nobody home," Whit remarked, eyeing the darkened windows. 
"Gallivanters, these Prescott's.  As bad as the Egan's and Torrances."

   "It's nearly ten." Barbara smiled as she looked at the dashboard clock.
"They'll be home soon.  Greg went with them to visit Regina's
grandparents."

   Whit walked around to open the car door for her.  "Just the same, I
don't like--"

   He stiffened, staring at the house.

   Her fingers tightening over his, Barbara followed his gaze.  A bulky
shadow flickered away from the enclosure of the porch.  An instant later, a
form materialized, solidly, at the head of the driveway.

   The man continued to move toward them, not pausing in his measured tread
until he-had reached the curb.

   "You wouldn't," he said with more than a hint of truculence in his tone,
"be Gregory Maiden, would you?"

   Barbara's heart resumed its normal beat.  How silly, she thought
shakily, to have been so afraid.  As if, in Santa Teresa, there was
anything to fear.  As if, she added reluctantly, men like Alexei Litvinov
still prowled the streets.

   "Nope," Whit said.  "You wanted to see him?"

   The stranger produced a wallet from his pocket and held it open in the
flood of the street lamp.  "He wanted to see me.  Telephoned.  Said it was
urgent."

   The man's picture and his name, Thomas J.  Quinn, were stamped on his
credentials.  "Federal Bureau of Investigation," Barbara read.  Wide-eyed,
she met his unblinking gaze.  "Oh, but there must be some mistake.  Greg
wouldn't--"

   "Why don't we find out what this is all about?" Whit interjected
quietly. "Let's go inside."

   When they were seated in the living room, Whit introduced Barbara and
himself, adding that they were close friends of Greg Maiden.  "You're with
the FBI?" he asked.

   "Special agent," said Thomas J.  Quinn.  "Can you tell me where to find
Mr.  Maiden?"

   Whit and Barbara exchanged glances.  "As far as we know, he went
visiting with his fiancée and her family," Barbara said.  "I can telephone,
if you like, and see if they are still there."

   "Would you do that, please?" Although Mr.  Quinn's words were pleasant,
his voice had an authoritative ring.

   She found the number in the desk directory, dialed, and exchanged a few
sentences with someone at the other end of the wire.

   "Mrs.  Prescott said that Greg had been with them all day, but that he
left rather suddenly around seven o'clock," Barbara relayed.  "He insisted
there was something important that he had to do.  When Regina's father
offered to drive him home, Greg told him that he would take a taxi rather
than spoil the evening for the rest of the family."

   "Mr.  Maiden lives at this address?" Mr.  Quinn asked.

   Whit explained that Greg stayed with him aboard the Albatross.  "We
don't want to pry, sir, but you've got us sort of worried," he admitted. 
"You mentioned that Greg called you.  Mind telling us why?"

   "I'm not sure myself." Mr.  Quinn looked thoughtfully from one to the
other of them, until Barbara felt like squirming in discomfort.

   Finally, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he resumed: "At
eight-five a call came in to our office from a person who said his name was
Gregory Maiden.  He gave this address, and asked that an agent meet him as
soon as possible at a houseboat which was anchored in a cove a few hundred
yards down the hill behind the house.  Mr.  Maiden said that he had
discovered something of the greatest possible importance.  However, he
declined to reveal anything further over the telephone."

   "And that's all?" Barbara cried.

   "There was one other thing," the FBI man hesitantly admitted.  "He
chuckled, as though it were a joke of some kind, and said we needed a
password so he would know who was approaching.  When I got near the cove,
he said, I should whistle 'Anchors Aweigh.' "

   Mr.  Quinn's grave expression was all that restrained Barbara from
laughing aloud.  The whole tale had sounded slightly ridiculous to begin
with, but with this last statement, it took on a cloak-and-dagger aspect.
Secret password!  And a whistle at that!

   Apparently, Whit shared her opinion.  "I hate to say this, sir, but I've
got a notion that someone was pulling your leg.  Greg isn't a very
imaginative guy--he couldn't dream up anything as mysterious as this in a
hundred years!"

   "Did you go down to the houseboat?" Barbara asked Mr.  Quinn.

   "Certainly," he affirmed.  "We can't afford to pass up any leads.  When
Mr.  Maiden didn't meet me as promised, I took the liberty of looking
through the cabins.  Not a soul around anywhere.  I waited for more than
half an hour and then came back here to see if someone else might know what
this affair was all about."

   "I'm awfully sorry," Whit mumbled.  Abruptly, his expression changed
from puzzlement to relief.  A car had pulled into the driveway.  "Perhaps
the Prescott's can help you," he said hopefully as Regina and her parents
entered the house.

   Listening to Mr.  Quinn describe the enigmatic telephone call a second
time, Barbara felt a gradual sense of unease steal over her.  Supposing,
she thought, the implausible story was true.  Supposing it was Greg, and
not some prankster, who had phoned the FBI?  What possible reason could he
have had for doing so--and why wasn't he here to explain?

   " ...  The Sunshine Cab Company," she emerged from her speculations to
hear Mr.  Prescott say.

   While everyone sat frankly eavesdropping, Mr.  Quinn placed a call to
the taxi company and spoke briefly with the dispatcher.

   "He came back here, all right," he reported, hanging up.  "Each driver
keeps a log of his fares.  Mr.  Maiden paid off the cab at this address at
7:16 p.m.  Roughly fifty minutes elapsed, therefore, between the time he
arrived and the time he called me." The Federal agent looked quizzically at
the Prescott family.  "Was there anything unusual about his behavior
earlier in the day?"
Regina, who had been sitting white-faced and tense throughout the

recital, suddenly came to life.

   "Yes," she said, straining to keep the tremor out of her voice.  "He
was--he was fine until we went out to mail some letters for Grandad shortly
before dinner.  Greg dropped the letters in the slot and then he stood
there just staring at the mailbox, as if he'd never seen one before.  I
asked him what was the matter, and he said, 'Right under our noses the
whole time and we never guessed!' He looked awfully excited, but he
wouldn't explain what he meant.  As soon as we had finished eating, he
jumped up and said he had to go."

   "I see," Mr.  Quinn rose briskly and turned to Whit.  "I want to have
another look at that houseboat of yours.  Could be I missed something."

   Barbara had no intention of being excluded, although Mrs.  Prescott
insisted that she and Regina wait at the house for their return.  Carrying
powerful flashlights, Mr.  Prescott and Whit strode down the overgrown
trail to the inlet, while Barbara and Mr.  Quinn followed closely behind.

   The Albatross rocked serenely at anchor, silent and deserted-looking as
any Flying Dutchman.  Her phantom appearance soon changed, however, as
lights flooded the creaky old boat and they began a thorough inspection of
her decks and cabins.

   It was Whit who discovered the damaged porthole.  He had been raking his
flashlight across the bulkheads and railings while the two older men
concentrated on the boat's interior.  With a muffled exclamation, he
focused the beam on the chipped fragments of wood beneath the little round
pane.

   Mr.  Quinn emerged hastily onto the deck in answer to Whit's shout. 
Barbara, watching him bend to inspect the damage, had a sudden, vivid
recollection of a soapy sponge and herself industriously polishing
portholes.

   "That's the splintery one!" she cried.  "I caught my finger on the rough
edge and thought what a shoddy repair job someone had done."

   Mr.  Quinn demanded a full description of the porthole's former
appearance, but Barbara could tell him nothing except that it had looked as
if the wood below it was dented at one time and then haphazardly patched
up. She was rather abashed at the furor her exclamation had caused.

   "These marks are fresh," the Federal man commented thoughtfully.  "I'd
say that someone had been gouging here with a penknife.  Notice the small
crevice between the solid wooden frame and this plywood facing?  A thin
object could have been inserted here and the breach filled in with putty or
some other substance."

   "Oh!" Barbara gasped, and Whit, obviously struck with the same idea,
echoed her startled cry.

   "Oh, what?" Mr.  Quinn snapped.  "Come on--out with it!"

   "This is all strictly guesswork, sir," Whit said hesitantly.  "I'm sure
your office must have been informed about the submarine blueprints which
were stolen from the Port Dixon naval base?" He took a deep breath when the
older man stiffened.  "Well, Greg had a--a theory on how those blueprints
could have been smuggled out ...  "

   The night air seemed charged with tension as Whit recounted the details
of Greg's idea.  Mr.  Quinn listened without interrupting, but his face was
no longer impassive.

   "Great Scott!" he ranted.  "And you two characters just sat on this keg
of dynamite without telling anyone?"

   "We didn't really know anything," Whit protested.  "It was just a notion
that Greg had.  If we had thought for one minute that the blueprints might
still be aboard--"

   "Okay, okay.  You didn't want to stir up a hornet's nest of red tape
without something more than a hunch to go on," Mr.  Quinn said wearily. 
"Can't say I blame you, when you put it that way.  It's too late now, of
course."

   "Mr.  Quinn," Barbara choked, "what-- what do you think happened to
Greg?"

   His refusal to meet her eyes was answer enough.

   When Whit drove Barbara home later that evening, they rode in silence.
It wasn't until they arrived in front of the Prescott home that Barbara
said anything.

   "Oh, Whit.  I'm so scared.  Please, come inside and make sure everything
is all right."

   She just wanted him to escort her to her room safely, but Whit had other
ideas.  He thought her intentions were somewhat different than they
actually were.  Whit thought that Barbara needed more than casual comfort
and a reassuring pat on the back.  He thought that she wanted to go to bed
with him.

   When they arrived at her room safely, after walking through the house as
quietly as possible, Barbara extended her hand.

   "Thank you, Whit," she said.  "I really appreciate this."

   "My pleasure."

   Whit took her hand, but he didn't shake it.  Instead, he pulled her
closer and then hugged her.  Before Barbara could protest, he pressed his
lips against hers and kissed her hard.  She tried to push him away, but to
no avail.  He was too strong for her.  She gave in, but it was less a
surrender than it was something she did willingly.  She couldn't deny that
she had sexual feelings for Whit.  Why should she pretend to hold him off
any longer?  she wondered.  Why not just give in and enjoy?

   Whit continued to swirl his tongue around in her mouth, and it seemed to
Barbara that he would have been content to just stand there and kiss the
whole night.  So she decided it was her turn to make the next move. 
Tearing her lips free of his, she gave him one last wet kiss on the cheek.
Then she grabbed his hand and led him over to her bed.

   Now that the reality of the situation was apparent--they were going to
make love--Whit became a bit hesitant.  Barbara found this interesting. 
She supposed he had been acting assertively in the beginning just to prove
something to her or to act out what he thought his male role was.  But now
that it was obvious what was to follow--since Barbara was beginning to take
off her clothes-Whit seemed nervous.

   "There, honey," Barbara said soothingly.  "There's nothing to be afraid
of.  Here, come sit by me on the bed.  That's right.  Nice and close. 
Whit, do you think I have nice breasts?  You do?  Then help me unhook this
bra, okay?"

   Barbara was perfectly capable of removing the bra on her own, but she
wanted to get Whit involved.  When the frilly white cups dropped into her
lap, her breasts spilled out into Whit's hands.

   "Go ahead, darling," Barbara said.  "Kiss them for me.  All over, Whit.
Especially my nipples.  I like that the best."

   While holding on to Whit's head, Barbara leaned back against the
mattress.  All the way down, Whit didn't miss a beat, keeping his mouth
securely attached to her fleshy tits.  Like a hungry man, he lapped his
tongue against her smooth breasts, taking care to linger at her nipples. 
In no time, the brown tips of her breasts were hard, her areolas covered
with goose bumps.

   "Please," Barbara gasped.  "Please, Whit.  Take off your clothes.  I
want to see your ...  your ...  cock."

   Barbara was surprised to see Whit appear startled by her request. 
Hadn't he ever heard a woman talk this way before?  she wondered.  Surely
he didn't think there was anything wrong with being upfront about sex.  If
so, then he had a lot to learn.  Not to mention the fact that he had a
willing teacher.

   They had finished undressing together.  When they were naked, they
embraced and kissed again.  Barbara thrilled to the feel of Whit's hairy
chest sliding across her aroused nipples.  And she loved the way his penis
jabbed against her belly.

   Whit wasn't as well-endowed as Lance, Barbara realized.  But he seemed
more responsive.  Lance was hung up on some bizarre macho ideal.  Whit
seemed to her more tender and sensitive.  Those qualities appealed to her
in a big way.  She found them more sexy than brute force.

   As she wrapped her fingers around Whit's cock, Barbara said softly, "Do
you want me to kiss it, Whit?"

   "Ah, well, I never ...  "

   "You mean, no one has ever kissed you there before?"

   Whit closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side.

   "There, there," Barbara said.  "It's nothing to be ashamed of.  Oh,
Whit. You're quite a guy.  You know, I really like you."

   To prove to him just how much she did like him, Barbara slid down the
length of his body until her face was in his crotch.  She stuck out her
tongue and flicked it along his hard shaft.  At the same time, she clutched
his testicles gently.

   Barbara lovingly sucked on his penis for a long while, swallowing as
much of it as she could.  When she sensed he was on the verge of coming,
she stopped.  She wanted to give him the full treatment tonight.  Holding
his cock tightly at the base, she scooted back up until she was straddling
his hips.  While Whit lay down beneath her, she sat down on his penis,
guiding it inside her moist vagina.

   Once they were locked together, Whit became animated.  And Barbara loved
it.  She felt that she had succeeded in helping Whit work through some of
the problems he had with women and sex.  That in itself was almost as
pleasurable as the feeling she got from his penis pumping deep into her
pussy.

   When Whit eventually climaxed, he groaned so loudly that Barbara had to
slap a hand over his mouth in order to keep others in the house from
hearing.  Whit looked up at her, and then he grinned broadly.

   "Gee, I guess I got a little carried away," he said sheepishly.

   Then they started laughing, tumbling about on the bed joyously.  Barbara
felt as if something very important had occurred that evening, and she was
determined to share as many of these evenings in the future, with Whit, of
course, as she could.

   CHAPTER EIGHT

   Barbara sat up instantly at the first raucous jangle of her alarm clock
the next morning.  For a few seconds she felt as if she were struggling out
of the depths of a nightmare.  All too soon, however, the events of the
night before came flooding back.  The nightmare, every horrible minute of
it, had been real.

   Mr.  Quinn, catapulted into action by Whit's revelation, had called in a
squad of city policemen to help search the underbrush and shoreline for
some trace of the missing Greg.  Throughout the long night, after Whit had
left her, Barbara sat with Regina at her bedroom window, watching
flashlight beams methodically crisscross every foot of the thicket.  But
although she had remained at the window until the night's blackness was
diluted by gray streaks of dawn, she had heard no cry of discovery, had
seen no converging of lights and men at any point.

   They hadn't found Greg.

   "He'll show up," Barbara told herself fiercely.  "It's just morbid to
believe that he was kidnapped."

   But try as she might, she could think of no other explanation for Greg's
mysterious disappearance.  She realized now that his theory regarding the
theft of the blueprints had been correct--in all but one vital detail.  The
blueprints were smuggled out of Port Dixon aboard the Albatross, but rather
than reclaim them immediately, the spy, for some unknown reason, had left
them in their original hiding place.

   "Until last night," she murmured.

   The fact that Greg had not discovered the documents until the very
evening the spy had chosen to retrieve them seemed like a cruel twist of
fate.  Greg had searched the houseboat again and again, and undoubtedly had
noticed the splintered frame beneath the porthole.  But even his agile mind
did not make the connection until he dropped a letter in a mailbox slot. 
Then he put two and two together--and blundered into mortal danger.

   Descending the stairs, Barbara found Whit and Mr.  Prescott drooping
over their coffee cups at the kitchen table.  Lines of fatigue were etched
across their faces and their tired eyes confirmed her guess that neither of
them had slept.

   "Any news?" she asked, forcing the words around the lump in her throat.

   "Not a clue," Whit said disconsolately.  "The police found some trampled
footprints in the sand, but there's no way of telling who made them.  Too
blurred."

   "Greg is a smart boy," Mr.  Prescott said, trying to boost their morale.
"He'll find a way to let us know where he is."

   "Hope he lets me know personally.  I'd like to get my hands on those
thugs," Whit growled.

   Barbara filled a coffee cup for herself and stirred it pensively.  "What
about enlisting the Courier's aid?" she proposed.  "They could run a photo
of Greg and ask that anyone who knows of his whereabouts call Mr.  Quinn or
Chief Daley."

   Whit's answer was an instantaneous "No!"

   "That is one thing Mr.  Quinn was most emphatic about," Mr.  Prescott
explained.  "Any chance that Greg has of coming out of this predicament
alive could be forfeited if there was the slightest whisper of publicity."

   "The FBI is pretty sure that Greg wouldn't have admitted calling them,"
Whit added.  "They're banking on the hope that the kidnappers will be
lulled into a false sense of security when no further mention of the
blueprints is made.  If any sharp reporter were to connect Greg's
disappearance with those sub plans, though--" He broke off and substituted
a throat-cutting gesture for the rest of the sentence.

   "Aren't they going to do anything?" Barbara asked angrily.

   "They are already doing a great many things," Mr.  Prescott assured her.
"Every airport and seaport on the West Coast is under surveillance.  Every
out-of-the-way spot in this vicinity which might serve as a hideout is
being visited by Federal men in the guise of door-to-door salesmen. 
They're working day and night on this case, but under no circumstances must
the country's security be jeopardized."

   Barbara realized that there was much more at stake than the life of one
man.  Nevertheless, she feared that this policy of ultra-discretion might
cause a delay which could prove fatal to Greg.

   "I guess Mr.  Quinn knows best," she admitted with a sigh.  "I won't
breathe a word about it to anyone."

   Whit walked with her to the bus stop.  Worry showed in every plane of
his face, but overshadowing the worry was a rugged look of determination.
"Greg is my best friend," he said.  "I'm not going to let anyone quit
looking until they find him!"

   Barbara had anticipated some trouble in keeping her promise to remain
silent.  The eagle-eyed reporters and cameramen with whom she worked had
the ability to practically "smell" a scoop.  As it turned out, though, the
staff members were too much concerned with an internal crisis to pay any
attention to her.

   "Mr.  MacFarland is on the warpath," Melinda confided in a whisper. 
"The Herald devoted almost half its front page to a statistical report on
their circulation growth as opposed to our decline."

   "How bad is it?" Barbara asked.

   "It's not bad; it's second-degree murder!  And to make things worse,
we've lost one of our biggest advertisers to them.  If this keeps up, the
Courier will be the laughingstock of the newspaper industry!"

   Almost afraid to look at it after their gloomy buildup, Barbara picked
up a copy of the Herald.  The disparity between the two newspapers'
popularity was even wider than she had thought.  Unless drastic and
immediate steps were taken to halt the swing of Courier subscribers to the
Herald, it appeared that the Courier would soon cease to be a competitor at
all.

   "I hope the boss has some bright ideas," she murmured apprehensively.

   "He'd better, or he will be getting the axe along with the rest of us,"
Melinda predicted.  "Did you see the notice?  General meeting for all
editorial staff members at eleven."

   Bruce MacFarland had formulated several plans to revive reader interest,
Barbara learned.  Among these were wider sports coverage, three additions
to the comic-strip page, the inauguration of an "inquiring reporter"
column, and a variety of contests.  Most of these moves were to be
expected, but the summons which Barbara received ordering her to report to
the Managing Editor's office following the meeting came as a total
surprise.

   "I'm taking you off Society," Mr.  MacFarland announced.  "For part of
the day, at least.  You're going to do the Inquiring Reporter column."

   Barbara could not have been more astonished if he had proclaimed that
she was slated to be the first girl on the moon.

   "Th-that's grand!  Thank you," she stammered, realizing that the words
were inadequate, but too stunned to think of a more suitable reply.

   "Surprised?" he asked with the grimace he used for a smile.  "I'm giving
you a crack at the job for two reasons.  Miss Foster won't be needing a
full-time assistant during the slack vacation season--and there's nobody
else I can spare to take it on."

   In a more businesslike tone, Barbara asked, "What does an 'inquiring
reporter' inquire about?"

   He shoved a sheet of paper headed "Question of the Day" across the desk.
"These.  One a day.  You pick out a street corner and ask a dozen people
the same question.  If their answers don't have enough variety, you ask a
dozen more.  I'll assign a photographer to go along with you."

   Still unable to believe her good fortune, Barbara took the list of
questions and ran to tell Melinda of her part-time promotion.  Later that
afternoon, her telephone jingled and Don George said, "Inquiring Reporter?
This is the Inquiring Cameraman."

   Barbara laughed.  "Ready and willing.  Meet you downstairs."

   The first question of the day was a controversial one, regarding a
proposed bond issue in the coming city elections.  Barbara, scribbling
frantically while Don snapped his pictures, recorded twelve different
replies from the first dozen people she queried.  There was no need to go
on to a second dozen.

   "Do you know what one of the contests is going to be?" Don asked as they
trudged back to the Courier building.  " 'The Mystery Pedestrian.' I'm
supposed to make myself practically invisible and aim the camera at a mob
of people in the street.  Next day when the paper comes out one of the
heads in the photo is circled.  Cries the Courier, 'Who is the Mystery
Pedestrian?' If he shows up at the advertising booth by two o'clock, he's
given five dollars."

   "What if he doesn't?"

   "Then we've found another poor, misguided soul who doesn't read the
Courier.  His five bucks is added to the next day's winnings."

   "I should think the chance of winning a prize would stimulate
circulation," Barbara said hopefully.

   She transcribed her notes in record time and managed to have the copy in
final form by five o'clock.  Taking her seat on the bus, she remembered
guiltily that she had not thought of Greg Maiden for almost three hours.

   Would they--could they have found him?

   Barbara crossed her fingers.  "Maybe he'll be there when I get home,"
she told herself.

   But when Barbara walked in the door one look at Regina's face told her
that no such miracle had occurred.  One of Mr.  Quinn's assistants reported
with almost monotonous regularity; however, the FBI had so far failed to
come up with a single lead.

   "Nobody can simply vanish into thin air," Whit exclaimed that evening.
"With all their technical know-how and trained agents, they've got to turn
up a trace of Greg sooner or later."

   How much "later" would be too late?  Barbara wondered, and then could
have kicked herself for letting such pessimistic notions wander into her
head.  Of course the FBI would find Greg--and soon!

   "Regina is being awfully brave about everything," she said admiringly.
"If Greg were my fiance, I'd probably be paddling around in my own tears,
but she keeps insisting that he will show up before the seventeenth."

   "She isn't postponing the wedding plans?" Whit asked, surprised.  "Oh,
no.  She--she has so much faith in him, it's positively heartbreaking. 
I've never known anyone with such courage." Barbara was close to tears. 
"Oh, Whit, I'm so afraid!  For Greg, and for Regina, too.  If something
dreadful has happened to him--"

   "Stop it!" he said sharply.  "Haven't you ever heard of positive
thinking?"

   Ashamed of her outburst, Barbara nevertheless guessed that Whit was also
finding it hard to keep from dwelling on the bleakness of the situation.

   "You're right," she declared.  "Anything Regina can do, we should at
least be able to imitate.  She has her faith in Greg--I'm placing my trust
in Thomas J.  Quinn!"

   But however capable, the Federal agent was no magician.  Day by day,
hopes of Greg's rescue and the recovery of the blueprints waned still
further.  Although the others struggled with grim determination to remain
optimistic, by Thursday Regina was the only one whose faith remained
unshaken.

   "I just know everything is going to be all right, Mother," she said
quietly, when urged to announce a postponement of the wedding.

   Regina could not keep the worry from showing in her eyes, though, and
for the first time Barbara understood her friend's refusal to alter a
single plan.  To do so would be to admit that their worst fears might be
true.

   More than ever Barbara was grateful to Mr.  MacFarland for assigning her
to the Inquiring Reporter beat.  The heavy work load he had placed on her
was exhausting but-never dull, and by far the greatest blessing of her
involved and varied duties was that she had very little time to brood over
the fate of Greg Maiden.

   Much to his chagrin, Whit had been forbidden by Mr.  Quinn to take any
active part in the search for Greg.  The Federal man had pointed out that
the kidnappers would surely recognize him at once, while his own men worked
under the cloak of anonymity.

   "He said the spy had probably been watching the boat for days," Whit
grumbled to Barbara on Thursday evening.  Mr.  and Mrs.  Prescott had taken
Regina out for a drive, and the two had the living room to themselves.

   Barbara was sympathetic, but practical.  "I'm sure Mr.  Quinn is right,
Whit.  If you were to start pounding on doors, the spy might be stampeded
into taking some drastic action."

   Whit continued to pace up and down.  "There must be something we can
do!" he burst out explosively.

   In an effort to coax him into sitting down, Barbara reached for a copy
of the Courier, which lay on an end table.

   "All the new features have brought in sixty new subscribers already this
week," she said with a touch of pride.  "That doesn't sound like many, but
it's a start.  How do you like our Question of the Day column?"

   "Haven't seen it," Whit confessed sheepishly.  "I've even been
neglecting the Albatross.  Can't seem to concentrate on anything lately."

   He skimmed through the column.  To Barbara's relief, the hint of a smile
touched his lips as he read the dozen responses evoked by the Wednesday
question of the day: "How Henpecked Are Husbands?"

   "Pretty good," he acknowledged.  "A few more items in this vein might
make the Herald start gnashing its teeth.  Photographing the people who
answer the questions is a swell idea.  Who wouldn't buy a newspaper that
had his picture in it?"

   "The contests are our biggest subscription drawing card," she told him.
"The Sports Editor received hundreds of replies to the first week's
baseball quiz."

   She flipped through the pages.  "Here is Don's Mystery Pedestrian photo.
It's a beautiful shot--not at all blurred.  He must have disguised himself
as a tree or something."

   Whit peered over her shoulder.  "Uh-huh," he murmured appreciatively. 
"Good man with a lens."

   "I'll show you what they've done to the sports page," Barbara began, but
before she could turn the page, Whit had snatched the paper from her and
was holding it under the light for a closer inspection.

   "I thought there was something familiar-looking about that guy!" he
exclaimed.

   It was Barbara's turn to crane her neck.  "Who?  The Mystery
Pedestrian?"

   "No, this fellow standing on the fringes of the crowd." Whit pointed out
the man.  "He's turned at an angle, but you can see most of his face."

   "One of your friends?" Barbara asked, wondering at his excitement.

   "Not on your life!" Whit seemed unable to wrench his eyes from the
half-shaded face in the photograph.  "That's Buck Younger!"

   There was no mistaking that pugnacious expression, he insisted, or the
square, stony jaw thrust belligerently out toward the person to whom Buck
was speaking.

   "Oh, Whit, do you realize what this could mean?" Barbara gasped.  "Greg
was positive that Buck Younger collaborated with the spy in stealing the
blueprints.  He might have been in on the kidnapping, too!"

   "And if Buck was in Santa Teresa yesterday, his hideout can't be that
far away!" Whit groaned.  "If only the photo were a half-inch wider, we
could get a look at the man Buck was talking to.  You can just see his
shoulder and part of his arm."

   Barbara admitted that for identification purposes this was very little
to go on.  "Oh!" she cried suddenly.  "The negative!  Don might have masked
off the edges of it and printed only the main portion showing the Mystery
Pedestrian!"

   Whit nearly knocked over a lamp in his dive for the telephone book. 
"Call him, quick!  This could break the whole case.  Buck wouldn't have
risked coming in to town just to see the sights.  The other man in the
picture has to be the spy!"

   With trembling fingers, Barbara paged through to the G's, and hunted
until she found a listing for George, Donald.  Whit held the phone while
she dialed.  Gradually the anticipation on their faces dissolved into
disappointment as the steady ringing went unanswered.

   "I'll try the Courier" Barbara said, determined to call every place in
town, if necessary, to track down the cameraman.  "I remember Don
mentioning that he occasionally uses the darkroom in the evenings."

   Unaware that she was holding her breath, she waited while the
switchboard operator relayed the call to Don's extension.  Once again, the
intermittent buzzes aroused no answering voice.

   "What rotten luck!" Whit growled as she held the receiver away from her
ear so that he, too, could listen.

   Barbara started to hang up.  The phone was inches away from its cradle
when a break in the monotonous buzzing made her tighten her grasp on the
receiver.  Swiftly, she raised the instrument to her ear.

   " 'Lo," said a muffled, faraway voice.

   "Don!  Is that you?" Barbara cried.

   "Yeah.  Yeah, I think so," said the voice after a painful pause.  "Be a
good kid and--and call a doctor, will you?  Somebody darn near caved my
skull in!"

   CHAPTER NINE

   Barbara and Whit arrived at the Courier building minutes after of the
ambulance, having delayed only long enough to summon a doctor and place a
hasty call to Mr.  Quinn.  Clattering up the stairs, they wrenched open the
door to the photographic department and halted just inside.

   Stethoscope dangling from his ears, a sober-faced man swung around to
face them.  He motioned curtly for silence.

   "Don!" Barbara stifled the exclamation as her eyes fell on the figure
sprawled across the floor.

   "Concussion." The doctor's voice was a whisper.  "Not too serious,
probably, but I won't be able to tell with any degree of certainty until we
get him to a hospital.  Are you the person who called me?"

   Barbara nodded, a tide of relief flooding over her.

   In a moment, her weak-kneed sensation ebbed.  Glancing around the room,
she caught sight of the telephone receiver hanging limply from its cord. 
It must have taken every ounce of Don's strength to utter those few words.
Once he had gasped out his plea for help, he had collapsed, too weak even
to replace the phone.

   She did so now, moving carefully around Don's motionless form.  Whit
came up beside her, pointing, and Barbara's startled gaze fastened on the
open door of the darkroom.

   It was a darkroom that was no longer dark.  Light spilled from a harsh
overhead globe, glinting on the shiny surfaces of a thousand negatives
strewn about the room.

   "Looks as if someone wanted his arm and shoulder to remain anonymous,"
Whit said tightly.

   "I'm afraid so." As usual, they were one step behind their diabolically
clever adversary.  She gestured helplessly at the litter which swamped the
darkroom.  "How desperate he must have been, to attack Don and--"

   "Didn't see him." Thick and halting, the cameraman's words were barely
audible.  "Bending over.  Hit me ...  "

   "You mustn't talk," the doctor interrupted.  He motioned for the two
white-clad men who had appeared in the doorway to hurry with the stretcher.
Within seconds they had whisked their inert patient from the room.  Below
in the street the wail of a siren receded screaming into the night.

   A pair of city policemen wedged into the room, their eyes busily taking
in details.  Whit, recognizing them as two of the men who had helped search
the thicket for Greg the previous Sunday, confided that Mr.  Quinn was on
his way and asked them to prevent anyone from tampering with the darkroom
until the Federal agent had had an opportunity to dust it for fingerprints.


   At the entrance of the building a throng of curious onlookers stirred
expectantly as the police cordon opened to allow Whit and Barbara to pass
through.  Ignoring the inquisitive stares, they hurried to the car.

   They had driven only a few blocks when a speeding sedan crowned by a
flashing red beacon whipped past them.  Barbara sighed thankfully,
glimpsing a familiar gray slouch hat in the back seat.  Somewhere in the
disordered darkroom there might lie a clue.  If so, Mr.  Quinn would find
it.

   "Did you tell him about the photographer?" she asked.  She had gone for
her coat while Whit telephoned the Federal officer.

   With a pained expression, Whit massaged his ear.  "Yes, and you should
have heard him.  A Geiger counter being introduced to an atom bomb couldn't
have made such a racket.  He's positive that Buck Younger is in this up to
his neck."

   "I suppose that negative is burnt to a cinder by this time," Barbara
said gloomily.  "The spy couldn't risk being seen consorting with a known
fugitive.  He must have nearly died of apoplexy when that picture appeared
in the paper."

   "He's a daring bird," Whit muttered.  "He must have found out earlier in
the day where the darkroom was situated.  As soon as the staff left for the
night, he barged right in."

   "And struck so fast and ruthlessly that poor Don didn't even have a
chance to turn around." Thoughtfully, Barbara considered the assailant's
audacity.  Like an old nemesis, the point which had troubled her from the
beginning of this strange affair returned to plague her anew.  They were
driving down a quiet side street; on an impulse, she asked Whit to pull in
to the curb.

   "Regina and her folks will be home by now.  I'd just as soon not discuss
this in front of them," she explained.

   "Okay by me.  Got any new ideas?" Whit asked hopefully.  "All of mine
have ruts worn in them."

   "Not new, exactly," she answered with a frown.  "But for the first time,
I've started thinking of the spy as a real person, not just a--a sort of
mechanical bogeyman.  You said he was daring, and I certainly agree. 
Almost everything he's done has a distinct flavor of derring-do about it, a
rashness that defies common sense.  He's bold and fearless, and a genius at
carrying out his decisions on a split-second timetable.  Look at how he
stole the blueprints!  And tonight, the way he went after that negative."

   "So he's a decisive fellow." Whit shrugged.  "What's so perplexing about
that?"

   "Nothing, except that I can't understand why he stepped out of character
at one crucial point.  Why did he dilly-dally around for weeks while the
blueprints mildewed on the Albatross?"

   "I thought you must be leading up to something." Whit eyed her with
dawning admiration.  "You do put those little gray cells to work, don't
you? Hmmmm.  My guess would be that he needed time to set up a deal with a
prospective buyer."

   "Ye-es," Barbara said dubiously.  "I suppose it wasn't really such a
great risk, leaving the blueprints where they were.  After all, Lance
Shelby didn't use the houseboat very often.  Most of the time the Albatross
stayed in port where the spy could keep a sharp eye on her.  And it was
less hazardous than if he'd hidden them in his own house--if he were
suspected, there would be no evidence to convict him.  But I keep picturing
him as a man who enjoys flirting with danger.  This one act is completely
inconsistent."

   "Maybe he planned to go back for that new radar device," Whit blurted,
and then looked as if he could have bitten his tongue out.

   Barbara spun around, her eyes wide and incredulous.  "What!"

   "I ought to be muzzled," Whit said weakly.

   "Not so fast, Mr.  Whitney Egan.  What was that about a new radar
device?"

   "Shhh!  Barbara, it's just scuttle-butt gossip.  I don't even know for
sure that there is such a thing."

   These protestations did not deceive her for a minute.  It would have
been almost impossible to keep some hint of a tremendous new defensive
weapon from leaking out on a base as large as Port Dixon.  While the
"scuttlebutt" might not be wholly accurate, it was undoubtedly rooted in
fact.  And if the spy had been alert enough to ferret out the location of
the submarine blueprints, a few adroitly placed questions could have
revealed to him the existence of this even more valuable invention.

   "Oh, Whit!" she breathed.  "Think of what a foreign power would pay if
he got that, as well as the blueprints.  The spy could retire for life!"

   "Come off it, Barbara!  He wouldn't be foolhardy enough to go back a
second time.  That wouldn't be boldness--it would be hari-kari!"

   "Not necessarily.  In the first place, nobody knows who the spy is.  He
could be anyone!  And how many people are supposed to know about the--the
new thing?  I'll bet you're not.  The authorities would never suspect that
he found out about it, let alone dream that he'd be audacious enough to try
to steal it.  The odds against such a maneuver could work in his favor."

   Whit wavered, his thoughts trapped on a pendulum which swung between his
own conviction that the feat would be impossible and Barbara's convincing
arguments to the contrary.

   "Boy, am I confused!" he muttered.  "Here I thought civilian life would
be nice and uncomplicated.  I couldn't go back to a quiet little ranch in
Montana, oh, no.  I had to buy a houseboat and settle in a hotbed of
international intrigue like Santa Teresa!"

   Barbara changed her tactics.  "I'm sorry," she said contritely.  "You're
probably right.  I don't imagine the spy ever wants to go within a hundred
miles of Port Dixon again."

   Unexpectedly, Whit grinned.  "You're going to back down and let me take
the initiative, now that you have me nicely riled up about this notion, is
that it?  Women!"

   A look of mischief danced across Barbara's face.  "You'll call Mr. 
Quinn?"

   "Of course I'll call Mr.  Quinn." Still shaking his head, Whit reached
for the ignition key.  "There's about one chance in a million that your
idea is on the nose, but it's a chance I don't want to be responsible for.
The FBI might want to have the--the thing shipped back to Washington until
our shifty adversary is behind bars."

   "And if you're wrong," he concluded, "I think I'll throttle you!"

   Barbara didn't know what to say.  She wanted to take Whit home with her,
but she didn't want to be too forward.  But as she looked at him and
figured out how he was feeling, she decided the best thing she could do
would be to tell Whit just exactly what was on her mind.

   "I don't know how to say this," she said, sliding her hand across his
thigh.  "But I wish you could, well, you know."

   Whit seemed to catch on quickly.  He started up the car and then moved
out into traffic.

   "Let's go to the houseboat," he said.  "We can be alone there."

   While Whit drove, Barbara moved closer to him on the front seat.  She
slid her hand down into his crotch and began massaging his penis.

   "Just be patient, honey," Whit said shakily.  "I'm driving as fast as I
can."

   "Well," said Barbara, rubbing harder against his hardening prick,
"you're going to have to drive faster."

   After what seemed an eternity to Barbara, Whit pulled up at the docks.
They leaped out of his car and ran merrily down to the boat, arm in arm. 
Once inside, Whit tossed Barbara onto one of the bunks.

   "I've been thinking about this for a long time," he said, taking off his
clothes.

   "Me, too, Whit," Barbara replied.  "I've wanted you so bad."

   When Whit was naked, he climbed into the bunk with Barbara.  Quickly, he
began undressing her.

   "Take it easy," Barbara gasped.  "You might tear something."

   But Whit appeared not to hear her.  He tore at her clothes savagely. 
Barbara had never seen him like this before.  He was so impassioned that
for an instant she forgot it was Whit who was ripping off her bra and
panties.  She couldn't, however, say that she didn't like it, because his
frenzied activity was turning her on tremendously.

   "Oh, I've been dreaming about these," Whit gasped as he began fondling
her breasts.  "I've wanted to suck them so bad."

   Whit buried his face between her tits and began flapping his tongue all
around.  It seemed as if he couldn't get enough.  When he began slurping on
her nipples, Barbara thought he was never going to stop.  Not that she
wanted him to.  She wanted him to do whatever he wished for as long as he
wished.  She was thoroughly enjoying the way he was attacking her.  If he
could please her this way all the time, well, she could see no reason to
look for any other man.

   Slowly, Whit moved his face down her belly until he was staring at her
vagina.  Licking his lips, he paused to admire her beauty.

   "Don't just sit there," Barbara said.  "Do something!"

   Whit looked up at her and leered.  Then he dove between her legs,
flapping his tongue madly.  Barbara moved her legs together and held him in
place, drumming her fingers on the top of his head and urging him on.

   "More!" she cried.  "Oh, Whit, that feels so good.  Keep doing it. 
Faster.  Faster!"

   Whit tried his best to meet her urgent demands.  He flicked his tongue
across her clitoris and then licked through the succulent flesh of her
pussy.  Opening his mouth wide, he then clamped his lips against the slick
folds of her vagina, sucking as hard as he could.

   "Yes!" she screamed, her words reverberating through the small
houseboat. "Just like that.  Oh, Whit!"

   But Whit could only kiss her vagina for so long.  His desires were
getting the best of him, and he just had to sink his penis into Barbara as
soon as he could.

   "Oh, yes, now," she chanted.  "Give it to me now, Whit.  I want you in
me so deep.  So good and deep, baby.  Ohhhhh!"

   Whit mounted her easily, despite the fact that they had very little room
in the tiny bunk.  She spread her legs as wide as she could, enabling Whit
to slide his penis in to the hilt on the first stroke.  His following
thrusts were teasing, tentative movements, but it didn't take him long to
move into a steady pumping rhythm.

   They wallowed mindlessly in the small bed, giving themselves up to their
physical needs.  Soon, cries and moans that signaled their mutual climax
erupted in the tiny boat ...

   * * *

   The temporary loss of Don George from the Courier's staff threw an extra
workload onto his fellow cameramen.  Don was so well liked, though, that
the additional assignments were willingly accepted, and most of the
newspaper's personnel even juggled their busy schedules in order to visit
him in the hospital.

   Shortly before noon on the Friday following Don's attack, Lance Shelby
appeared at the door of the City Room.  He announced his intention of
stopping by the hospital during the noon hour.

   "Would you girls care to go along on an errand of mercy?" he asked them.


   Barbara glanced hopefully at Melinda, who nodded.

   "Of course!  Why don't you ask Ted Rigney to come along, too?" the
Society Editor suggested.  "He and I have a meeting to cover at that end of
town this afternoon.  You can drop us off at the auditorium on the way
back."

   Barbara found the hushed atmosphere of the hospital depressing,
especially after a stern-faced nurse cautioned them to confine their visit
to fifteen minutes and to avoid exciting the patient.

   Don lay flat, his face almost as white as the bandage which swathed his
head.  Nevertheless, he insisted that he would be back on the job within a
few days.  His main reaction to the attack was one of anger.

   "If I ever find the guy who hit me, I'll pulverize him with his own
blackjack," he threatened darkly.

   "You haven't any idea of what he looked like?" Lance probed.

   "No, he must move like a cat.  I didn't even hear him." Don glared
belligerently at the circle of faces surrounding his bed.  "Well, how was I
supposed to know somebody was going to sneak in and conk me over the head?
Why pick on me?"

   "Easy!" Ted warned.  "They'll throw us out of here if you start
hollering.  Lance was just offering to head a vigilante committee in case
you could point out the varmint.  None of us likes this any better than you
do."

   "I'll bet it was one of those clowns from the Herald, jealous because
we're finally getting back some of our own business," Melinda declared. 
"Do the police have a lead yet?"

   "Not that they confided to me," Don grumbled.  "I doubt it, though. 
Every cop in town must have been in here last night, spouting questions. 
Some who weren't exactly cops, too."

   "What do you mean?" Lance asked quickly.

   Don started to shake his head, then thought better of it.  "They were
asking the questions, not answering them.  Maybe the district attorney's
office got in on the act.  I never saw them before, and they didn't bother
to introduce themselves."

   Barbara, who had been listening apprehensively, exhaled in relief.  How
wise of Mr.  Quinn to keep his identity unknown.  A hint to any of these
inquisitive news hounds that the Federal authorities were involved could
have landed the case on the front page.  And that, she thought with a gasp,
would have been the end of Greg Maiden!

   Ted carefully refrained from mentioning the damage to the irreplaceable
negatives, fearing that the knowledge of their destruction would only
excite Don further.  Instead, he urged the young cameraman to relax and
enjoy all the service and attention while he had the chance.

   "It won't be long before you're back in the clutches of slave-driving
MacFarland," he added.

   A short time later, the four left the hospital and, after depositing
Melinda and Ted at the door of the auditorium, Lance invited Barbara to
lunch with him.

   "I'll have time for a quick sandwich," she told him.

   This was the first overture of friendliness the star reporter had made
since their dinner date at Pietro's.  Barbara wondered whether an ulterior
motive lay behind the invitation.  Lance seldom did anything without a
reason.

   Almost as soon as they had seated themselves in the drugstore booth, she
found that her hunch was correct.

   "How did you and that redheaded swabbie happen to be on the scene last
night?" he asked.  "Don't tell me you have an inside track with the Demon
of the Darkroom?"

   Barbara realized that his highly trained senses of observation were
operating at full speed.  She couldn't afford a single careless word!

   "Looking for another scoop, Mr.  Shelby?"

   "A reporter's life isn't all fabulous trips to the Orient," he admitted.
"Have to fit in a few slices of bread and butter once in a while, to go
along with the cake."

   Barbara pulled a napkin from the dispenser.  "Blind luck, that's all,"
she said finally, deciding that to tell the truth with certain vital
omissions would be her wisest course.  "I telephoned Don, meaning to ask
him about the pictures he had taken for one of our features.  I guess the
constant ringing of the phone must have restored him to consciousness.  He
answered just as I was about to hang up, and managed to gasp out a few
words about needing a doctor."

   Lance seemed unconvinced.  "You were home and yet you came all the way
back into town?" he said skeptically.  "Why?"

   Irritation at the cross-examination showed in her voice.  "Because Don
is my friend.  I didn't know what had happened to him, but I wanted to be
there in case I could help.  He might have been dying!"

   "Everyone is sure touchy today," Lance complained.  "First Don explodes
in my face, and now you!"

   Barbara felt like telling him to stick to cake if he didn't care for the
commonplace bread and butter his attempts to pump her had evoked.  Instead,
she thanked him politely for the grilled cheese, reminding herself that he
was only doing his job.  Given his driving ambition to gain a story
whatever the cost, it was only natural that Lance would try to ferret out
all the details behind the assault on Don.

   I suppose all's fair in love and newspaper reporting, she thought
grudgingly.  But I don't have to like it!

   The bridal shower that Fran Harris had planned presented another
problem. Like everyone outside the immediate family and a few close
friends, such as Barbara and Whit, Fran knew nothing of Greg's
disappearance.  Barbara, balancing conscience against intuition, could not
decide whether to spoil Fran's surprise by telling Regina in advance, or
whether to risk the possibility that her friend might find the party one
shock too many.  After an almost sleepless night, she came to the
conclusion that Regina should be forewarned of the surprise which lay in
store for her.

   "It doesn't seem quite fair to Fran," she concluded guiltily on Saturday
morning.  "But I was afraid--"

   "That I might go into hysterics?" Regina's ghost of a smile was rueful;
the tiny blonde girl appeared to have lost ten pounds in the past week. 
"I'm glad you understand.  I'm not sure that even Mother realizes how I
feel.  If I let myself think for one minute that Greg mightn't be coming
back, I'd probably just stand around screaming.  But he will come back,
Barbara; he is alive and well.  I must keep on believing that!"

   "Of course you believe it--and so do I!" Barbara asserted in nervous
desperation.  "Then it's all right--about tonight?"

   "I'll go set my hair," Regina answered.

   "And Regina sat there like a regular trooper for three full hours,"
Barbara told Whit the next morning.  "I don't know where she found the
courage.  The presents were things for their new home, and she opened them
and thanked people--and all the time she doesn't even know if Greg is alive
or dead.  I could have bawled."

   "Regina is a brave girl," Whit agreed soberly.  "But don't forget there
is a full week left before the wedding.  Remember our resolution to trust
Thomas J.  Quinn."

   She hadn't forgotten.  "This business about the negative proves the spy
hasn't left town yet, anyway," she said, plucking a sunbeam from the storm
clouds which had burgeoned so menacingly seven days before.  A thought
suddenly struck her.  "There's that inconsistency again.  He's waiting,
just as he waited before retrieving the blueprints.  If we only knew why!"

   "Maybe the dragnet is spread too wide," Whit guessed.  "He's standing
pat until the FBI relaxes its guard over the airports so he can board his
flight to Moscow or wherever."

   The ceaseless worry and speculation over Greg and the blueprints had
dropped their morale to an all time low.  Barbara was thankful when Whit
changed the subject.

   "Any answers to your want ad for an apartment yet?"

   "Two.  Both far too expensive for a humble working girl.  I'm still
hoping that someone who knows the meaning of the word 'reasonable' will
call."

   He grinned.  "Say, I've thought of just the place for you.  Of course
the commuting would be a little rough."

   "Where?" Barbara asked eagerly.

   "Amigos!  I'll bet you wouldn't have any trouble finding a vacant
apartment there, but as I said--" He ducked, narrowly avoiding the scrub
brush which came hurtling across the deck.  "Okay, okay!  I was only trying
to be helpful."

   "Whimsical Whit!  By the way, have you decided to hire Felipe?"

   From his quick response, Barbara knew that he had given the matter a
great deal of thought.  "He'd be a tremendous asset, no doubt about that.
I'm going to make him the best offer I can afford."

   She smiled, happy to hear that the pleasant, nimble-fingered lad was to
be one of the Albatross's unofficial "crew." She would be very much
surprised if the customers didn't flock to hear the young guitarist.

   Whit brought out a tide table and a navigational chart of the coastal
waters which he had obtained from the Coast Guard.

   "I told Senior Rodriguez I'd be down to pick up the furniture today. 
We'd better plan to leave at noon on the flood tide.  Figure two hours each
way and another couple hours to load the furniture--we can easily make it
back before dark."

   Barbara glanced at her wrist watch.  Forty-five minutes remained before
departure time.

   "I'll run up to the house and pack a lunch," she proposed.  "Is it all
right if I invite Regina to come along?  A change of scenery might do her
good."

   "Sure, but hurry up," Whit cautioned.  "We have to make that tide."

   She scrambled up the path and through the back door.  Her efforts to
persuade her friend to accompany them on the outing proved futile, however.
Regina doggedly insisted on remaining near the phone in case some word
about Greg should come.

   Juggling a picnic kit crammed with sandwiches and a six-pack of
Coca-Cola, Barbara hastened back to the inlet.  "Made it with five minutes
to spare," she panted.  "Hope you like salami and pickles."

   Whit nodded his approval and prepared to cast off.  Barbara helped free
the lines binding the Albatross to shore, then stood back while he turned
the winch which would haul up the anchor.  "Anchors aweigh, my boys ...  "
A few bars of the Navy hymn flitted through her mind.

   Greg's password, she thought as Mr.  Quinn's account of Greg Maiden's
last telephone call recurred to her.

   "He chuckled as if it were a joke of some kind.  When I got near the
cove, he said, I should whistle 'Anchors Aweigh.' "

   Why should Greg have chuckled?  Finding the blueprints was no joking
matter.  And why had he chosen that particular "password"?  Association,
she supposed; Greg as a former Naval officer had probably loved the song.

   Or had they, she wondered suddenly, in all the excitement surrounding
Greg's disappearance, overlooked something?

   "None of us gave that remark another thought," she told herself.  "And
yet it might--"

   Jerking herself back to reality, Barbara turned to stare at the massive
chain.  It rose slowly, clankingly, reluctantly.

   Link by link by link the chain dripped clear of the water until, after
what seemed to Barbara an eternity spent with the winch's whine in her
ears, the dark bow of the anchor itself emerged.

   The anchor and, tightly wired to the leaden weight, a waterproof pouch.

   CHAPTER TEN

   "It's not possible," Barbara breathed incredulously.  "It is simply not
possible!"

   A look of utter stupefaction had spread over Whit's face.  Motionless as
a pair of statues, neither he nor Barbara seemed able to move toward the
object which held their rapt attention.

   A long sixty seconds crawled by, the silence broken only by the steady
drip, drip, drip of water, which snaked along the brine-encrusted chain and
anchor and thick, oily surface of the pouch to dimple the cove in a
widening series of circles.

   It was the Albatross that prodded them into action.  With nothing to
link her to shore, she slid out on the rushing current of the tide.  The
sudden lurch dispelled their inertia.  Whit jumped to throw the engine into
reverse, while Barbara, her fingers tingling with excitement, bent and
twisted at the strong wire which bound the pouch to the anchor.

   "Hurry!" Whit called as her hand skidded on the slimy, seaweed-coated
oilskin.

   Barbara cast a look of terror at the reef which loomed between them and
the open sea, and plucked frantically at the wire.  The engine hadn't
caught.  Without the dragging anchor to hold them back, the tide would
propel them directly onto the boulders!

   Miraculously, the final twist had freed it.  The pouch spurted to the
deck at the same instant that Whit dived toward the winch.  The anchor and
its clanking chain plunged viciously downward, barbing into the ocean floor
and halting their forward progress with a snap that set Barbara reeling to
the rail.  Floundering after the pouch, Whit captured it in a flying
tackle, scraping elbows and knees as the Albatross shuddered to a
standstill.

   "Close," he puffed.  "Awfully close.  This thing is as slippery as a
slab of raw liver!"

   Barbara peered down at the frothing surf and then hastily looked away.
Mere yards separated them from the first gigantic rock!

   They regained their balance and hobbled together into the cabin where
they would be safe from prying eyes.

   "If this is what I think it is," Whit said, "we could be in trouble."

   Barbara laughed shakily.  "What's trouble?  I'm slated to die of old age
pretty soon, anyway.  Another day like today might just do it."

   Eyeing the faded yellow oilskin, patched with brownish flakes of
seaweed, Whit gingerly undid the flap.  He drew out a long, cylindrical
roll of papers.  Barbara caught a glimpse of blue background, of sleek
lines and precise figures, before his brown fists snapped tight on the roll
and secured it with a rubber band.

   "Yup, we're in trouble," he confirmed.  "Now what?"

   There must, Barbara knew, be no postponement of the decision.  Not so
much as a minute could be wasted.  The Albatross was not equipped with
radio.  One of them would have to chance swimming to shore.

   Whit had come to the same conclusion.  He bent to untie his shoes.  "I'm
going to leave you here for a few minutes," he began, but Barbara
interrupted.

   "No, I'll go.  Be practical, Whit," she insisted.  "I could never pilot
the Albatross around those boulders, and that's exactly what you'll have to
do unless I make it back here within half an hour.  Take her out into deep
water and head for the nearest Coast Guard station."

   The stubborn line of his jaw relaxed slowly as he realized that her plan
was the best means of safeguarding the precious blueprints.  Thrusting the
paper roll back into its pouch, he left the cabin and stood for a long
moment reconnoitering the coastline.  Ashore there was no sign of life
except a faint stirring of leaves and shrubbery as the breeze rustled
through the thicket.

   Even then, he might not have agreed to her going had Barbara not taken
the initiative.  She removed her shoes before tiptoeing across the deck. 
While Whit's eyes still probed for menacing shapes beyond, she clambered
onto the rail.

   "Back soon!" she called.

   Barbara cut the water in a clean, smooth dive.  Bobbing to the surface,
she struck out for shore a hundred yards away.  Her sleeveless blouse and
cotton slacks clung to her skin and she was grateful now that she had not
succumbed to the temptation of wearing her new sundress.  Its flaring skirt
and binding straps would have been dangerous impediments for a swimmer.

   The shallows were soon reached, and with water gushing from her hair and
clothing, Barbara waded onto the sand.  As she turned to wave, she saw that
the Albatross lay almost directly in the center of the channel.  If an
attack should come, Whit would have ample warning.

   Barbara made her way down the beach, setting down plans in her mind. 
First she was going to call the Coast Guard and then she was going to call
Thomas J.  Quinn.

   But Barbara's good intentions were dashed to pieces by the unexpected
arrival of Buck Younger.

   "Going somewhere, lady?" he asked, smiling evilly.

   Barbara panicked.  She knew Whit was probably watching, and knowing that
he was helpless to do anything to save her made Barbara feel worse.

   "Get away from me," she said sternly as the man approached.

   "Now, don't worry," Younger said.  "I ain't gonna hurt you."

   But Barbara knew better.  Just before Younger reached out to grab her,
she pushed him aside and ran off as fast as she could.  Younger picked
himself up and took off after her.  And he would have caught her if it
hadn't been for the police car that drove up moments later.

   "All right, Younger," an officer yelled through a loudspeaker.  "Give
yourself up.  You can't get away this time."

   Younger stopped running and then turned toward some nearby rocks.  He
took cover and then began firing a pistol at the police car.  Luckily,
Barbara made it to cover behind the rear fender just as the shots began
ringing out.

   The officer radioed for help and then concentrated on keeping Younger
pinned down.  Barbara crouched down low, her heart racing.  Looking
seaward, she saw that the Albatross was still there, with Whit on deck
looking toward the gun battle.  She only hoped he would just stay put.

   When three more police units arrived, Younger was surrounded.  After
running out of ammunition, he gave up quietly.

   Down at the police station, Younger eventually cracked and spilled out
his story to Quinn and some other interrogators.  He claimed to be working
for someone known only c ode name: Lone Star.  He had been employee to help
steal the blueprints, which were now .n the custody of the FBI.  And he
also confessed to having beat up Don George, the photographer, in addition
to kidnapping Greg Maiden.

   Greg was freed that evening, and his reunion with his fiancée was a
joyous one indeed.  He sat up half the night telling the Prescott's, Whit,
Regina, Barbara and others about his ordeal and eventual rescue.

   "But one thing still bothers me," Barbara told everyone who was gathered
in the Prescott living room drinking coffee.  "Just who is this Lone Star
character?  Do you have any clues, Greg?  Did you hear anything while you
were held captive?"

   Barbara felt silly, treating Greg as if she were interviewing him for a
newspaper article.  Then her mind began whirring.  Newspaper.  Reporter. 
Lone Star.  Lance Shelby.  No!  It couldn't be true.  Lance as a spy?  The
idea was too farfetched.

   Nonetheless, Barbara checked out her hunch the next day while at work.
She went through some of Lance's things and did turn up some notes which
were signed "Lone Star."

   Reporting to Quinn immediately, Barbara revealed everything she had
discovered.  Quinn and the FBI went into action, following Lance around
town, staking out his penthouse and making notes of all his contacts.

   Sure enough, Lance slipped up and was hauled downtown by the FBI.  After
three days of interrogation, Lance finally told all, revealing that for
years he had been working as a spy for the Russians.  He explained in
detail how he had stolen the submarine blueprints, hoping that if he
complied with the authorities that they might be lenient with him when it
came time for sentencing.

   After the shocking news about Lance appeared in the papers, Barbara was
upset yet relieved.  She had liked Lance, in a certain way, and she had
mixed emotions about his complicity with the Russians.  But she was glad it
was all over.

   Late one evening, Barbara sat up with Whit on the Albatross enjoying a
glass of after-dinner sherry.  "Who would have ever thought that after
buying this boat you'd be part of such an adventure," she told him.

   "Well, one good thing.  We'll get some great publicity for the
restaurant.  You know, I'll be set up for the grand opening pretty soon,
and I was thinking about asking Regina and Greg if they'd like to hold
their reception here, to sort of kick off their marriage and help me get my
business rolling."

   "Oh, Whit, that would be wonderful," Barbara gushed.  "I don't know why
we didn't think of that before."

   Whit put his arm around Barbara and pulled her in close, leaning over to
kiss her on the ear.  "There's one thing I have been thinking about,
though," he said.  "I've been thinking about this a lot."

   Barbara detected a note of sincerity in Whit's voice, so she gave him
her full attention.

   He said: "How'd you like to make it a double wedding?"

   Barbara almost dropped her glass of wine, she was so excited and
delighted.

   "Oh, Whit!" she cried out, flinging her arms around his shoulders. 
"That would be wonderful!"

   While they kissed, she pressed her tits hard against his chest.  She
drove her tongue into his mouth fiercely.  Barbara wanted to leave no doubt
in Whit's mind--she loved him and she wanted to marry him, and to symbolize
her deep feelings, she was prepared to give him the fuck of his life right
there on the Albatross.

   Whit was overwhelmed by Barbara's passion.  He knew she was hot and
ready, so he wasted no time peeling off her clothes.  Barbara accommodated
him, smiling all the while, until he was down to Her bra and panties.  Then
she decided to tease him a bit, and she backed away.

   "Now it's your turn," she said.  "Get those clothes off.  I want to
watch and beat off."

   While Whit shed his shirt and trousers, Barbara stood a few feet away,
watching him intently.  As he stripped, she slipped one hand below the
waistband of her panties and began fingering her pussy.

   "Damn, that feels good," she sighed as she eased her middle finger up
into her wet cunt.  "I bet you wish that was your cock up there, don't you,
Whit?"

   " Honey," Whit replied, as he slithered out of his jockey shorts, "I bet
you wish that was my cock up there, too."

   Barbara giggled, but she stood her ground.  With her free hand, she
began massaging one of her bra-covered tits.

   "I bet you'd like to suck on this, too, wouldn't you?" she said.  "It's
so big and juicy."

   Whit stood before the sexy young woman and watched her play with
herself. He had his hands on his hips, his feet spread wide for support. 
His cock was still semi-erect, but the more he studied Barbara as she
fingered her cunt and stroked her tit, the harder his prick became.  Soon,
it was sticking up straight, twitching with every beat of his heart.

   "Hmmmm," Barbara said.  "It looks like you're ready.  Just give me a few
more seconds and I'll be right with you."

   Closing her eyes, the sensuous woman continued to rub her tits and her
pussy.  She gyrated her hips slightly to allow her finger to go in deeper,
sighing delightedly all the while.

   "Sorry, honey," Whit said, stepping toward her.  "I can't wait any
longer.  We're going to fuck right now, whether you want to or not."

   Barbara put up a playful protest, hammering her fists against Whit's
muscular back and shoulders as he lifted her up.  But she didn't want to
get away.  She wanted to fuck just as much as he did.

   After tossing her onto the bunk, Whit proceeded to tear off her bra and
panties.  Then he mounted her, plowing his cock deep into her slick cunt on
the first stroke.  Whit fucked her so hard that Barbara felt as if he was
rocking the boat with his intense thrusts.  She could have sworn the old
Albatross was listing back and forth as he furiously pummeled her pussy.

   As Barbara hung on for dear life, feeling Whit's thick cock slide up
deep inside her, she thought about how wonderful he was making her feel. 
If the intensity of his lovemaking was any indication, they were destined
to have a long and happy marriage.

   When she finally came, as Whit flooded her pussy with hot sperm, she
didn't think they could ever be happier.  As long as they could fuck
whenever they wanted to--as long and as hard as they wanted to--she didn't
think they would ever have any problems.
   THE END