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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