"Then save it for the lifeboat."

"That won't work for me."

"Really?" Wells liked the desperation in Kennedy's eyes. It went some way towards assuaging his own fears. He asked, "Do I have anything to gain by this?"

"Probably not."

He examined his watch. "Then you've got ten minutes."

"The smoking room is close by," Kennedy said. "We can talk there."

Another lifeboat had been drawn out over the side. Officers were calling out to the passengers, cajoling them. No one moved forwards. Morgan's attention was fixed on the proceedings. He turned back to find them moving away and stared with a mystified look. "We're going back inside?"

"We are." Kennedy indicated Wells with a nod. "You're not."

"I don't get it."

"Patricia and Doc are gone, Darren. Now it's your turn. You've manned your post to the last, but that's the way it goes. I told you, we leave the ship in stages."

Morgan stared back at him blankly. "What about you?"

"I'll see you on the Carpathia." Kennedy made to walk away. Morgan caught his sleeve. Kennedy looked slightly surprised. "Don't let this ship drag you down with it, Darren. Get into one of the boats. Go. I release you."

Morgan's eyes were imploring.

Kennedy placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "I release you."

It was an incantation, a charm. The revocation of a spell that didn't come lightly.

"Thank you." Morgan's reply was the soft est whisper. He turned and walked with heavy steps towards the officers' promenade. The lifeboat, half-full, swayed at the Titanic's side.

Kennedy strode the other way without a backwards glance. Wells hesitated before following him down the aft stairwell and into the smoking room beyond.

XXII.

There were no more women around. No children in sight. Murdoch ordered some crewmen into the lifeboat. Fifteen of them piled in. There were at least twenty places to spare.

Murdoch levelled Morgan an impatient glare.

His legs betrayed him. He was walking towards the side of the ship, stepping over the railing and into the swinging boat. Other men had approached the barrier and were now climbing aboard. Morgan shifted aside.

Hey.

Morgan raised his downcast eyes.

Hey, bud. You brought me here, just like you promised.

The voice had always come from within, but there was no mistaking it. He told himself it was the cold, his maddening fright, that had congealed into some tangible mass, yet there was Hardas's shifting eidolon, huddled among the occupants of the lifeboat. It seemed to gaze at Morgan broodingly. No one else gave it any notice.

You need to get out of this boat.

Morgan closed his eyes. Leave me alone.

All in good time.

Murdoch was calling for more passengers. A brief wail of venting steam drowned out his entreaty. Softer murmurs rose around Morgan. Prayers and curses, dovetailed with the dying screech of the boilers.

You're condemning me to death.

There are things worse than drowning. Stay here and you'll kill yourself within the year.

He knew it was delusion but there was no denying the impact of the words.

He released us from our duty, bud. Not our honour. He ain't leaving the ship, and you know it. So how can you?

The morning's paper had said that some children were lost. And your father would never leave a child behind, no matter what happened.

He had told Kennedy the wrong story.

"Excuse me." Morgan rose from his seat. The other passengers stared at him in wonder.

He worked his way back to the lifeboat's side, ignoring the hands that reached for him. Murdoch was signalling the crew to lower away. The lifeboat lurched and dropped a few feet.

Morgan leapt, gaining the railing. Murdoch reached a hand across and dragged him over the barrier. His expression was incredulous.

Morgan muttered, "I left something on the ship."

"I fear it's going to cost you."

"You have no idea."

Murdoch shook his head and walked away. Most of the remaining passengers had filed down to the aft lifeboats. The deck was bare.

Morgan looked down at the water. Hardas's shade was dispersing in wisps. It might have been a cloud of escaping steam or the clotted respiration of the saved.

So long, bud.

Morgan turned away.

XXIII.

Four men sat playing cards at one of the tables. Cigar smoke coiled thickly above their heads. A few other men stood by the bar drinking. Everyone should have been in bed. Everyone should have been safe.

A silver-haired man seated nearby absently waved at some bottles that sat opened near several upturned glasses. Kennedy filled two glasses from a bottle of whisky. The alcohol splattered down the sides of the glasses and spilled onto the bar's polished surface. The silver-haired man gave him a dark look.

Wells said, "Put it on my tab."

The man took his drink and strode away.

There was a wooden box on a shelf behind the bar. Wells worked his way around the mahogany expanse of the counter and fished out two cigars. He bit off the tips of them both, and handed one across to Kennedy.

Kennedy said, "I don't smoke."

Wells produced an ornate lighter from below the bar. Kennedy cocked his head in puzzlement.

Wells raised his glass. "To fatherhood."

Kennedy touched Wells' glass with his own. He brought the cigar to his lips while Wells lit it carefully.

Wells lit his own, then said, "I made sure Patricia got aboard, and you helped clean the slate between me and Gershon. I'd say we're even, so make it fast."

Kennedy didn't miss a beat. "What happens to Astor?"

Astor. When it came to the Titanic, the man's fate was an invariable feature of most accounts. He was credited with enough acts of bravery, wit and style to fill any number of disasters. Wells somehow found the thought disturbing. He gave Kennedy the short version, between rapid puffs.

"Is that it?" Kennedy asked.

"That's it. They found him in the water days later, decayed, his head staved in. They only recognised him by his shirt. His initials were stitched into the collar."

"He goes down into the cargo hold in my world, as well," Kennedy said. His expression was pensive.

"I guess he liked animals."

"You were with him."

"I was there?"

Kennedy nodded.

"Looks like I get around. What's so important about Astor?"

"He's the linchpin. His survival is what sent my world to its doom."

"Forget about it. He dies."

"I need to be certain of that."

"He dies." Wells ashed the cigar. "All the American millionaires die tonight." He was in strange spirits now. He added, "How much are you worth, Kennedy?"

Kennedy snorted.

Wells said, "I've got no idea what you have in mind, but I'll tell you something for free. There are twenty lifeboats on this ship, four are already gone. The rest are going to fill fast. When this ship goes ass up, fifteen-hundred people will end up in the water. Only fifteen of those will get taken into the boats. We're talking a one per cent return here.

"Now, you're in reasonable shape-better condition than most of the passengers-so I'll be generous. I'm going to give you a one in twenty chance of clawing your way out of the water. Thing is, you're also a sentimental bastard. I have no idea how you made it as far as you did. Taking that into account puts you back squarely behind the eight ball. I suggest you put aside any crazy notion you've got fermenting in there and get into a lifeboat. That's your only way out of here. That's where you'll find me." He glanced at the clock perched behind the bar and stubbed out his cigar. "Adios."

Someone was standing beside them. He'd approached silently and was regarding them over a pair of oval glasses.

The blood drained from Kennedy's face.

Wells felt a slight shudder sweep his body, feet lightly tripping over his grave. Things were going to take a little longer than he'd expected. He said, "Hello, William."

Stead smiled back. "Good morning, Jonathan."

Wells continued, impelled by some unknown power. He said, "This is Joseph Kennedy. Major Kennedy."

"I know."

"Of course you do." Kennedy extended a hand.

Stead shook it politely. "So many times," he said, "but never like this. Never like this. Only two of you, but two will suffice. Where is the girl?"

"She's safe," Kennedy replied.

Wells reached for his drink and held it with unsteady hands.

Stead indicated the fireplace with a nod. "Take your time, gentlemen. We'll talk because we always talk."

Wells glanced at Kennedy.

Kennedy placed the stub of his cigar on the counter.

"We can leave right now," Wells said. "We'll take the next lifeboat. We don't need to hear this."

"Really?" Kennedy was miles away. Years, perhaps.

"We don't need to hear this again," Wells said stridently. His outburst seemed to have come from somewhere else. He didn't dare utter another word, for fear of what might be loosed.

Kennedy reached for his drink and rose from his seat.

Wells gazed at him despairingly. He drained his glass and made for the exit. Each step was a momentous endeavour against the imperious force of Stead's announcement.

We'll talk because we always talk.

He was drawn back in a decaying orbit to where Kennedy had placed a third chair by the hearth. The fire was a low flicker dancing on the wood. He took his place.

"Usually this is an exchange of information," Stead began. "Understanding for wisdom. But not tonight. Am I mistaken?"

Patricia Marie Kennedy might be safe and gone, but her words still haunted Wells.

Other attempts.

Spurred by the catalyst of Stead's arrival, they tripped a switch in his head. A curtain parted somewhere for him. Suddenly he was in the wings and looking on, and he saw it all for what it was. The faded backdrop, the dusty set, and all the actors weary beyond measure.

The horrors mounted upon themselves, vertiginous; burgeoning in the mystic's presence. They crashed over him-not as revived memories, but as previous encounters, here, on the ship. They stretched out before him now, diverging into two strains. One found him in a pool of his own blood, lying at Gershon's feet; the other found him in the water. They alternated, twining about themselves, but always knotting at the end-in his death. It was as immutable and assured as the loss of the ship itself.

He understood that the notion was completely insane, just as he recognised it as being the absolute truth. This was closing night.

"You're not mistaken," Wells said.