The morning sun lifts itself over the lapping blue bay, casting tenuous shadows on the forms sleeping here and there on the beach in affectionate twos and even threes. Morning business is lively, as some tune, some stare bemusedly into large mugs of black coffee from Ron-Ron's Java Specialties of the World stand (Do do Ron-Ron!), or stagger down the sandy paths to Jen Ellen's House of Love and Animal Husbandry for a tall glass of Mojo Woman's Sure-Fire Hangover Remedy.

From the shade of the promenade deck, a lean and handsome gambling man stepped onto the gangway of the Albert L. Hansell, noticing with a small smile the hasty overpainting on the large gilt name-plaque on her superstructure. Ole Spaugh never was one for middle names, he thought wryly. He flexed his shoulders and trimmed his calfskin vest, pleased with the chink of gold eagles in the secret inner pocket. Yes, this had been a good trip, clear from the broad delta of the Mississippi to this hidden bay and island of delight in the middle of an unknown sea. He'd done well at the tables, and the beautifully matched, engraved derringers in his left and right inner pockets and not been needed once.

He strode ashore, delighting in the rich breakfast aromas and musical sounds rising from the Boardwalk and the far-flung Capo Carnivale. He thought of Robert E. Leej, had seen him wandering onto the beach a short while back, and wondered what the old cuss was up to.   He made his way along the boardwalk, passing with a smile a gang of early songsters around a campfire, and followed his intuition down the line of the bay, smiling at the beautiful demoiselles along the way, hearing and seeing everything, and missing nothing. That was how you survived, as a Gambler. Miss nothing, and be ready for anything. And he would have it no other way.