While Sam continued to blast away with his gun and his rolling eyes, and Kenya and Brazil fornicated desperately on the balcony,    staring down into the murky, dark, swirling depths, Jake discerned something indefinable and intangible struggling against the cataclysmic torrent - indefinite yet vaguely familiar to his jaundiced ken. Screwing up his eyes and peering further, he could dimly discern the outlines of a human form, the passing likeness of a face, a figure in an undulating, flaring, dark-colored dress making tortured, unsteady progress with ungainly, uncoordinated strokes and arm movements towards the edge of the penthouse observation deck. He reached for a light, wooden ladder which, with careful forethought, he had deposited at the side of the deck for just such an emergency. Jake lowered the ladder down to the surface of the water and towards the emergent swimmer. In a frenzy of wild movements, the girl - for it was a she - clung on to the lower rungs of the ladder and then feebly, tortuously, rung by rung, ever upward and towards him, slowly made her way to the rail and, as by a miracle, fell into Jake's arms.
    "Phoebe! he cried, "dear girl - can it be you?"