There was an arm cradled around his head, and from the underside of the boat, Boukey heard the gloopgloopgloop of water playing. It was night, and there were Disneyfreighters everywhere, but he felt safe. A rich tenor voice, redolent with the accent of the McXenian tribe, sang about a lad who was born to be king, and then a woman's voice he knew began to sing too, and there was something important about that, but what was it? He was a child again, lying curled up under the grand piano while his mother Rose played Chopin in her flowery way which always amused his father, and out from under the bottom of the piano he could look up and see on the wall a picture his father had, an Earth picture, a Tintoretto, St. Mark Discovering Venice, that had once hung in the Accademmia and was saved from the Drowning. Everywhere around the boat was chaos, nightmare, the clash of arms, sweeping storms, zigzagging lightning, perilous waves. But St. Mark, like his Lord before him, slept calmly in the sweet arms of -- and then he woke, to find himself woozily being assisted by the Terran, and there was Mandy, and spreading out beyond, a kind of light that he had seen once before, but he couldn't remember where, and that too was important, but he couldn't remember why.