Sated with rich food, folkies disperse to all corners of the Mudcat Funhouse, Boardwalk and Capo-Clinching Carnival, some to take the languorous Swan Boat Ride through the winding tunnels of the Mystery Tune and Lost Chord Cruise, some to meander past the stands sniffing the jasmine, the quaint incense, the bright-colored scented soaps, or admire the hand-made jewelry on offer. Not Joe Offer -- he doesn't wear that stuff.

Two wrinkled men steer across the clearing behind the barbecue to resume a bluegrass session, one carrying an elegant Silver Lady, the other an worn but beautiful D-28. They step over the ankles of the still, prostrate form leaning against the jacaranda tree, its hat gently laid over its eyes.

"Sleeping off a bad night, pal?", one remarks as they step over, heading for the gathering.

"Don't bother him," the guitar player rejoins. "Believe me, we're better off with him sleeping it off. I played with him for a while when we first got here, and if ever there was a candidate for an asshole costume, it's that guy."

The sun in early afternoon made bright whites and dark shadows of the gingerbread along the quarterdeck of the Albert Hansell as the Gambler came out of his stateroom and moved down the deck to the door that led to Robert E. Leej's quarters. He took a small folded card, engraved with his name and station, out of his pocket, and wrote on it briefly with a small pencil stub.

Urgent we talk; call on me at any hour. C.S. Delacroix

He tucked it under the brass number plate on the door, annoyed that the man he most needed to talk to was not answering his knock.

He returned to his own quarters and sat on the small bench against the wall, and cleaned and reloaded his silver derringer. You never know, he thought, when you are going to want one primed and ready.