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best—” he smirked—“when only the best will do.”
    “I know,” said Savanna wearily. “I did the voice on that one myself for a couple of years. Well, we shan’t shoot too close to you.”
    “Just don’t get in our way, that’s all. I dunno how you got permission to use our boats, anyway. Old Grafter Gibson ain’t one for public relations or anything like that.”
    “Mr. Gibson is my brother-in-law,” said Savanna, and thought, Put that in your Benson and Hedges and smoke it, pal.
    Bixby’s face became as hard and bony as his fists; then he turned abruptly and went up into the wheelhouse of the trawler.
    Savanna looked at Hopkins and young Colegate, the assistant. “Welcome aboard. But you heard what the admiral said. No getting in his way.”
    It had not been easy. They had shot several hundred feet of film late yesterday afternoon as the trawler’s crew had set their nets, but Hopkins had had to get his close shots with his zoom lens; as soon as he had moved in close, one or another of the crew had snarled at him to get out of the bloody way. When Savanna and his two men had gone below to eat their supper, Bixby and his men had remained up on deck talking quietly amongst themselves. Savanna, Hopkins and Colegate, reluctant to wear out their welcome any further, had not looked at any of the bunks, not knowing if any of
    them were spare, and had gone to sleep propped in corners of the tiny mess-room. At two o’clock in the morning, cramped, his head aching from the stale air, Savanna had woken and, moving cautiously so as not to disturb Hopkins or anyone else who might be sleeping down here, had gone up on deck for a breath of air and a smoke.
    The breath of air he had taken in one short, quick gasp and he had never had the smoke at all. Bixby and the trawler crew were working at the stern of the boat. There was no light hung there, but a broken lantern of moon silhouetted them. A net had been hauled in and Bixby was taking half a dozen oilskin-wrapped parcels from it, each of them attached to a small buoy no bigger than a toy balloon. He passed one of the packages to a crewman who opened it and said, “It’s okay. Pound packets as usual.” He bounced the package in his hand. “It’s hard to believe, ain’t it? That’s worth more than gold.”
    “Don’t get any ideas,” said Bixby sharply. “You work for your cut and that’s all. Our job finishes when we get it ashore.”
    “Christ,” said the crewman in a hurt tone. “I’d never peddle the stuff. I’ve seen what it does to some of ‘em. I could never look a junkie in the face, you know what I mean?”
    The other crewmen laughed softly. Savanna backed cautiously down the stairs, slid back into his corner and sat staring into the darkness, his sudden information pressing down on him as unwanted and uncomfortable as a load of wet fish. He was still staring into the darkness when Bixby, coming noiselessly down the stairs in sandshoes, flashed a torch on him.
    “Hullo, you still awake?”
    Savanna shut his eyes against the brutal punch of the torch. “You just woke me,” he said, and hoped that the nervous rasp in his throat sounded like the voice of a man just disturbed from sleep.
    Bixby held him pinned by the torch beam for a moment,
    then he grunted and switched it off. He went through into the bunk area and Savanna sank further down into his corner.
    He fell asleep, but he tossed restlessly all night, disturbed by his knowledge and by a queasiness brought on by the rolling of the trawler and the stale air of the mess-room. He was glad of daylight when it finally crawled weakly down the steps and gave some shape to the ugly clutter of his surroundings. He got painfully to his feet, went up on deck and a moment later was followed by Bixby.
    “We’re finished,” said Bixby. “We’ll be heading back. You want any more shots, you better get ‘em in a hurry.”
    Savanna nodded weakly. “Can’t get back soon enough for me.
    Bixby