" ery well," replied Hartwell, crossing to the table and taking a seat facing the door. "Ruby, if you wish to serve, please keep this room private while we are here." He pulled a coin from his pocket. "Privacy is important to us." He passed the coin over to Ruby, who managed to take it at the third attempt.

   "Right you are, sir, you leave it to old Ruby," she simpered as she backed out through the door. "Don't you worry, sir, old Ruby won't let you down, old Ruby knows what's what, old Ruby…" The rest of the monologue was cut off as Madrigal shut the door.

   "Where are the men?" asked Hartwell.

   "Just outside the door and as fine a body as you can hope to find," said Madrigal, his face wooden.

   Hartwell immediately felt his suspicions rise. Madrigal was wearing the same expression that Fitch used when trying to hide something from his captain. "Bring them in," he said, wondering what he was going to be faced with.

   Madrigal stepped back to the door and pulled it open. "Old Ruby knows the game, old Ruby will keep watch," floated in. Madrigal shut the door and counted to ten before re-opening it. "Old Ruby is on her toes, old Ruby will watch your backs, so she will." He closed the door, counted again, pulled the door open and silence met him. He opened his mouth to call the men through but was interrupted once more by the interminable monologue launching itself afresh. "Old Ruby is on the lookout, old Ruby knows who a villain is, old Ruby…"

   "The men, Captain," said Madrigal, giving up. He gestured to the crowd outside who rushed in through the tiny door, many of them getting wedged in the process. With a heave and a pop, the retinue fell through the frame and staggered into the room, colliding with people, furniture and each other as they did so, until eventually the scrum piled up at the table.

   Hartwell closed his eyes as though in pain and looked disappointed to find the scene still in front of him when he opened them again. "Perhaps, Madrigal, you should organise them into an orderly line outside the door until called for? Thank you. Now, first man, please."

   "Tom Blake, reporting for duty, sir," said the first, stepping forward smartly and saluting.

   "And what experience have you on a vessel, Mister Blake?" asked Hartwell.

   "Twenty years, man and boy," replied Blake.

   "Sorry, I meant what position did you fill?"

   "Very well, thank you for asking."

   "Pardon?"

   "Bardon? No, sir, he's next in the line. We've served together before, good man, a very good man."

   "What position did you fill?" asked Hartwell again, looking perplexed.

   "What proposition do I feel, sir?" asked Blake, looking in slight alarm at Hartwell.

   "What position did you fill?" bellowed Hartwell.

   "Did I ever mill, sir?"

   "I presume you are hard of hearing, Mister Blake?"

   "A shard of herring, sir?"

   "Just go and wait in the corner, would you?" said Hartwell with a sigh.

   "Thank you, sir, it will be a pleasure to serve," said Blake as he moved to the corner indicated by Hartwell. Being deaf, he was unaware of the tittering of Susanna, which she changed to a hasty cough as her brother looked at her.

   "Francois Bardon, reporting for duty," said the next applicant in a French accent. His eyes were clear, his chin clean shaven and his posture beyond reproach. Unfortunately, to verify this, Hartwell had to stand and peer over the table, as did Fitch, Susanna and Mechatronic. In front of them was the smallest man they had ever seen. He was perfectly proportioned and neatly tailored, but all on a scale that seemed to be about one-third the usual.

   "And what experience do you have, Mister Bardon?"

   "Gunnery crew," replied the man promptly.

   "Do you find the work easy?"

   "Apart from the loading of the cannons, the raising of the cannons, the aiming of the cannons and the firing of the cannons."

   "And why do you suppose that was?" asked Hartwell as he leaned back in despair.

   "Poor cannon design," said Bardon, promptly. "I have filed several patents on a new design, but so far no one has had the foresight to see the inherent superiority. I have the plans here." He pulled from his coat pocket a square of paper, which he unfolded several times until he was almost hidden behind a set of dog-eared blueprints which threatened to engulf him.

   Hartwell reached over and took the page easily in one hand. He glanced at the design. "I see you understand the subject, Mister Bardon. Firing mechanism, casting, even a new form of cleaning mechanism, too. However, if I am reading these scales correctly, this particular cannon would measure about twenty inches long."

   "That is the future, sir," replied Bardon. "Miniaturization!"

   "If you wouldn't mind taking a seat over there," said Hartwell, passing the plans back.

   Bardon bowed, grabbed the designs and began folding them down to a manageable size as he walked across the room.

   Hartwell gazed at Madrigal, who shifted slightly in embarrassment. "I think you'll be pleased with the next man," he said as he opened the door to let the next applicant through.

   Hartwell, Fitch, Susanna and Mechatronic looked up at the huge figure towering over them. The man was almost six feet and six inches in height and almost twice as broad as a normal man. His hands were the size of dinner plates, while his arms and legs appeared to be made from several barrels strapped together. His skin was the colour of midnight and a formidable scar ran down the side of his face.

   "Name?" asked Hartwell, feeling his hope rise. With a monster like this in the crew…

   The man-mountain rumbled, coughed, shifted position and then squeaked in the highest voice Hartwell had ever heard from anyone, man, woman or eunuch, "Anatole du Lac de Poppydore, chef, at your service."

   "Chef?" said Susanna in disbelief. Judging by appearances, the man should have been wanted in five countries for crimes against man and God.

   "Via Lisbon, Paris and Vienna," squeaked Anatole. A misty look came onto his face. "Ah, Vienna, where a man could follow his trade. My specialty was the wedding cake."

   "Wedding cake?" said Hartwell dully.

   "Yes. And pastry."

   "A good cook would be useful and welcome," murmured Fitch, looking speculatively at Anatole's broad shoulders and handsome face.

   "Take a seat in the corner, Anatole," said Hartwell with a sigh. "Next man, please. Oh, good grief," he added at seeing the next applicant.

   "Master Richard Keating, reporting for duty, sir," said the girl dressed as a boy. She had done her best by tucking her long, luxuriant hair into a small cap, covering her face with burnt cork to simulate incipient stubble and wearing a pair of trousers and shirt. Unfortunately, her lower figure bulged at the hips in a way that a man's rarely did, while the gap between the end of the trousers and the shoes showed the smooth leg of an undoubted young woman. The breasts swinging loose under the shirt were also something of a giveaway.

   "Experience, Mister Keating?" asked Hartwell, massaging his brow.

   "Cabin boy, Captain," said the girl, before realizing she had forgotten to keep up her gruff, manly voice. "Cabin boy," she repeated in a deeper tone after a fit of false coughing. "Sorry, sir, it's my smoking habit, thirty a day, did I say thirty? More like fifty, makes my voice go funny at times."

   "Really?" said Fitch. "Never mind, have a go with my pipe, it's drawing nicely." He handed the pipe over with an evil grin.

   Keating's face looked shocked, disgusted and horrified before the mask fell back into place. "Wouldn't hear of depriving you of your pipe, sir. Wouldn't be right."

   "I insist," said Fitch. "I hate to see a young lad go without his smoke, it puts hair on your chest."

   "Thank you, Mister Keating, over there with the others," said Hartwell, relieving the girl of her dilemma. She skipped over to the side of the room.

   The interviews went on, with most of the applicants being revealed as murderers, thieves and lunatics. Finally, Madrigal opened the door and announced the last man wishing to volunteer for a life on the ocean wave.

   "Kept the best till last, have you?" asked Fitch sourly.

   "Gentlemen," said Madrigal, ignoring the comment. "Lucky Pete." The figure in the door frame didn't move. Eventually, they saw in the dim light that Lucky Pete was facing the wrong way. Madrigal tapped him on the shoulder. Lucky Pete turned, said "Mernarwn," and limped into the room.

   As he moved to the light, the crew leaned back in consternation. Lucky Pete's face was a patchwork of scars from his neck to his brow. Both his eyes were missing—stretched skin, both marked with X-shaped scars, covered the empty sockets. His ears had gone, too, and most of his nose and half of his lips. As he limped across the room, the rat-tap-tap announced the presence of a wooden stump to replace the missing leg, while one hand was likewise a wooden replacement. His other hand was still attached, but was missing two fingers.

   The figure continued to walk until it crashed into the table seconds before Madrigal could stop him. Despite being blind, Lucky Pete looked around him before saying "Wharnf?" His audience saw in increasing horror that his tongue had also gone.

   "What in the name of God happened to him?" demanded Hartwell.

   "Lucky Pete was on a ship which foundered off the coast of Bajea, the infamous Cannibal Island," said Madrigal. "The crew were brained and eaten. Lucky Pete was kept alive for the sadistic pleasure of the cannibals, who gouged out his eyes, lopped off his ears, took off his nose and mouth, deprived him of his fingers one by one, and then his whole hand and two fingers from the other hand, sliced off his nipples, broke his ribs and then broke and chopped off his leg."

   "Why in the name of sanity is he called Lucky Pete?" asked Hartwell incredulously.

   "He was rescued before the cannibals could make a start at mutilating his… tender areas," said Madrigal.

   Lucky Pete nodded vigorously.

   "And what was your role as a sailor?" asked Hartwell.

   "Euonrol noonies," replied Lucky Pete.

   "Pardon?"

   "He said „general duties'," translated Mechatronic.

   "You can understand the poor devil?" asked Fitch.

   "Of course. Can't you?" asked Mechatronic.

   "Not a word."

   "He still has the root of his tongue, the rest is interpretation and extrapolation," said Mechatronic.

   "I think we are done here," said Hartwell. "Madrigal, did I or did I not ask you to find a crew?"

   "You did, Captain Hartwell."

   "Yet, at best, you seem to have found only parts of a crew."

   "They are all willing."

   "By which I presume you mean they are willing to escape this hellhole, by any means possible?"

   "I'd say desperate to escape this hellhole," corrected Madrigal, a look of slight embarrassment on his face.

   "I see. And you think these men and one girl are just right for the job?"

   "Beggars can't be choosers, Captain. In life, you never know what is going to come through the door." As Madrigal spoke, the door burst open and a man appeared, holding Ruby roughly in one hand and pressing a knife to her throat with the other.

   "Captain Hartwell!" spat the man. "I knew you'd come here, so I lay in readiness, waiting to spring the trap. You are under arrest and your next appointment is with the gallows." The figure moved into the room and they saw in the flickering candlelight the weasel features of Fleetwood.