Knights of Aurora

This story contains erotic events involving alternative sexualities. Do not read the contents if such will offend you. If accessing this site causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.) please leave now.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This story is copyright by the author and the author retains all rights. Expressly prohibited is the posting of the story to any site not approved by the author, or charging for the story in any manner. Single copies may be downloaded and printed for personal use provided the story remains unchanged.

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 11

The Cousins had not expected to find the Serenity. None of the cadets had mentioned that Michael was in residence and seeing Michael sitting on the terrace, they all stopped abruptly. Several of them quickly dropped their hands to cover their little bumps. It was not seemly to appear so dressed in the presence of the man each young boy had been taught to believe was the Representative of the Celestial Kingdom on Earth! Amah would not be pleased, flashed through more than one young mind.

The Phantom, sensing the embarrassment that hung like a cloud over the group of boys, quickly rose from his seat, walked down the steps and draped his arm over Alistair's shoulder. "Hey, guys!" he crowed, smiling widely. He looked up at Michael. "Here are your relatives come to call!"

Michael, who knew what The Phantom was doing, returned the smile and stood. He gestured for the Cousins to come forward. As they walked hesitatingly up the steps, Michael moved forward. "Welcome, boys," he said with an expansive wave of his hand, "to my home! Please, come up, and be well!"

The Cousins looked at each other quizzically. This could not be the same man, grim-faced, never smiling, that they saw once or twice a year. Alistair could feel The Phantom gently pushing him forward. "Michael . . ." The Phantom ignored the muted gasps from the Cousins, who immediately changed their opinion of the tall, green-eyed ferengi who so enjoyed the Serenity's confidence that he was allowed to call him by his first name! "Your cousin, Alistair," The Phantom said. He gave Alistair another push. "Don't bow, just shake his hand!" The Phantom whispered in Alistair's ear.

Michael, who had heard the exchange, held out his hand. "There will be no formality," he ordered mock sternly. As he held Alistair's hand, Michael looked deeply into the boy's eyes. Alistair's unblinking, steady gaze never wavered. Wishing to assure the young Cousins that they were indeed welcome, and to impress in them the importance they held - they were male Chans, after all and perhaps he had been remiss in forgetting that fact - Michael found himself saying, ostensibly to all of the Cousins, but more to Alistair, "You are all princes of the Imperial House." Then he added sincerely, "And members of my family."

The Phantom smiled and winked at Chef, who scowled, raised his eyes and then returned the wink. Chef did not know how The Phantom knew, but he had, and he suspected that they would be seeing much more of Alistair Chan.

Caroline Arundel, Mabell Airlie and Mary Randolph reappeared. They had been whiling away the time playing bridge, having inveigled the Maestro into being fourth. At Michael's instance two tables were pushed together and the ladies joined the young gentlemen. The Maestro's staff appeared bearing trays of food and soft drink, and the Maestro himself rolled out a teacart set with a magnificent silver tea service. Mrs. Arundel played mother and poured.

As she poured, Mrs. Arundel noticed that Alistair seemed nervous about something, and asked if he were comfortable. Alistair looked at Michael and ducked his head. "Amah will never understand the Seren . . . Michael, receiving us improperly dressed."

Michael, who had overhead Alistair's comment, looked displeased. "Amah? You are much too old to have an amah!" His displeasure seemed to deepen when he asked, "Who is your amah?"

Alistair squirmed. He was too old for an amah, but could not seem to convince his mother of that. "Well, she is really Arden's amah," Alistair replied self-consciously. "She is Su Lin."

Michael started laughing. "Su Lin! Why she was old when I was a boy! I thought the old harridan was dead!"

"She's alive," mumbled Arden around a prawn and tomato sandwich. Only Harry, who was sitting beside the young boy, and reaching for a piece of chocolate cake, heard Arden mutter under his breath, "The old bitch!"

As Mabell Airlie helped Harry clean his fingers and hand of crushed chocolate cake, Michael asked, "Does she still . . ." He paused, not wanting to embarrass his guests, but his memories of his childhood flooded back. He cleared his throat loudly. "Does she still have her bath time ritual?"

Alistair blushed. "Not with me, but . . ." his eyes slid over to Arden.

Arden gave his brother a thunderous look and three of his cousins snickered. Harry, wondering what quaint Chinese ritual they were talking about, asked innocently, "What?"

Leaning to one side, Arden whispered furiously in Harry's ear. Harry's eyes grew wider and wider as he listened and then he asked, "Every night?" Behind him six heads nodded vigorously. Arden then snickered and gave Alistair a wicked, evil smile. He whispered again in Harry's ear. Harry's eyes slid over to Alistair and his jaw dropped.

Harry's eyes lowered and an evil smile formed on his lips. "Yeah?" he asked Arden.

Arden giggled and reached for another sandwich.

Matt, who was sitting nearby, saw the shocked looked on Harry's face and recalled the night he had spent with The Phantom in Cabin 5 back in the ship, and exchanged confidences. Matt had not heard what Arden had whispered but he assumed that the young Arden had just been inducted into the Pain in the Ass Club, Little Brother Division.

Mrs. Arundel, who had no idea what confidences were being exchanged, gently touched Alistair's hand. "Be gentle when you chastise him," she said. "It does not do to leave bruises!"

Alistair, despite his anger at his little brother, chuckled. He was feeling, if the truth were told, somewhat privileged. Michael's query was a small, almost unheard of confidence, for it told Alistair than Michael had endured, or enjoyed, the same bath time ritual as he had! He smiled at the lovely Mrs. Arundel. "I shall try, but with Arden it is difficult not to!" He looked shyly at Michael. "I only hope that Amah does not find out about our appearing in our bathing suits."

Peter Race, who was sitting next to Eion, could not understand what all the bother was about. Who or what, he wondered aloud, was an "amah"?"

Hearing Peter's question, Michael answered loudly, once again never taking his eyes off of his young cousin. "An 'amah', is an Oriental terror who usually conducts herself in an unseemly manner where her charges are concerned. She takes care of the younger children in a Chinese household of substance. In the West she would be called a nanny."

Leaning around Eion, Peter asked one of the Cousins, who was a year or so younger than Arden, and named Henry, "You have a nanny?"

Henry nodded. He was much more interested in the tray of pastries one of the footmen was offering. "Yes. But not Su Lin. She is the boss of all the amahs. We all have one."

The Twins, as usual curious as monkeys, left off pillaging a tray of lobster en croute. "So what's this bath time ritual?" asked Cory. "It sounds interesting."

Todd gave his brother a withering look. Whatever the ritual was, even the mention of it brought blushes to the cheeks of all the older Cousins. "Mind your own business," he muttered, knowing that Cory wouldn't, and would pester poor Alistair - or Harry - until their new friend told them exactly what was what.

As he sat and watched the Cousins, Michael's eyes were constantly drawn to Alistair. He felt nothing sexual - far from it. But there was something indefinable, something that set Alistair apart from his cousins that made Michael fidget. He could not rid himself of the nagging feeling that somehow, in some way, Alistair was destined to be something more than his family had planned for him.

The more he thought of it, the more Michael argued with himself. He did not, as many of his family did, believe in gods and goddesses inhabiting a Celestial Kingdom, interfering in the lives of mere humans. Nor did he believe in predestination, where every man's path was laid out long before he was born. A farmer could leave the land and become a wealthy trader. A man of wealth, the scion of a noble house could, with the turn of a card, or a bad investment, lose everything and become lower than a peasant who counted himself lucky because he owned a water buffalo. Wealth could be gained or lost, not through the fickle whims of imaginary beings, but through the stupidity and carelessness of man!

What Michael could not argue with was the very definite feeling of oneness that seemed to exist between Alistair and himself. Michael had heard, of course, that when a mere baby, he had been selected on the occasion of his sealing, to succeed Uncle Henry, when he had been presented with much ceremony to the old man. Alistair had also been presented - Michael vaguely remembered the ceremony - to Uncle Henry. The old man had not mentioned anything special about the newest Cousin. Uncle Henry had been very old at the time, and very ill, and perhaps Alistair's presentation was just another duty to be endured because it was expected. After all, at least Michael thought, a naked newborn baby boy was very much like any other naked newborn baby boy.

For some reason Michael felt the back of his neck tingling. He glanced and saw The Phantom looking at him, the young knight's emerald eyes bright and expectant. Did The Phantom know something that he, Michael Chan, the Emperor, the Serenity, did not know? Turning, Michael saw Alistair looking at him. The boy's eyes were clear, and calm. There was no fear, no awe in those eyes.

Sighing inwardly, Michael nodded slowly, and saw The Phantom smile softly. He might be making the wrong decision, but deep within his soul Michael knew what he had to do. He reached out and placed his hand on Alistair's.

"There will be no more amahs in your life," Michael stated firmly. "You are much too old, and destined to wear the Yellow Robe of a Prince of my house." He felt Alistair's hand tremble at his words and continued. "You have been sealed to my service, and I now call upon you, Alistair, to come to my side."

Alistair's gaze remained steady. "We have all been sealed to you, Serenity," he pointed out. "And Arden is my brother."

Michael understood. Arden might be a brat, and a trial for Alistair, but the young boy was Alistair's brother, and Alistair would not abandon him. "Each will be set upon a path best suited to his abilities," responded Michael. He gave Alistair's hand a gentle squeeze. "You, and Arden, will be my guests."

Colin, who had watched the interplay between Michael and Alistair, leaned sideways. "Does this mean what I think it means?" he asked The Phantom.

"Michael has found his heir," murmured The Phantom in reply. Then he added, "Deus Vult!"

The Cousins chattered and the young knights chucked shit at each other, and at the Cousins, and all too soon Michael announced that it was time for his guests to go home. He did it gently, but firmly, reminding the youngsters that they were to dine at his restaurant, and that they needed to rest, and prepare for the evening's festivities. He had not wanted to send the Cousins home, but he had been away from his desk too long - Joel was still mumbling and cackling at his computer terminal, and Pete Sheppard's men were due to report in.

Michael was also faced with the unhappy fact that the Maestro had run out of food! Michael would later remark to Major Meinertzhagen that he could well understand why parents encouraged their children to join the military. The Army, or the Navy, was the only organization that could afford to feed growing boys!

The Maestro was in a pet as well. He had planned for a proper tea at 5:00. He had planned carefully, and spared no effort. Unfortunately the young knights and their cohort Cousins had devoured the food prepared for the tea! Gone were the cucumber and cress sandwiches; gone were the dainty cakes and scones. Demolished, mere crumbs on silver trays were tons of seafood dainties, prawns and lobster en croute. Eccles cake and lemon tarts were now pleasant memories. His plans for a marvellous tea ruined, the Maestro retired to the kitchens in the undercroft to pout.

Dismissing the Maestro for the prima donna he was, although secretly commiserating with the caterer, Michael suddenly confronted with what threatened to be a major problem. Arden, headstrong and obstreperous, had whispered in a panic in Harry's ear. Harry had repeated the whisper to Todd, who frowned, regarded the Cousins, all of whom looked as if they faced imminent death, or at least partial dismemberment, whispered in The Phantom's ear.

"They're afraid of what?" asked The Phantom when Todd finished his whispering.

"Amah," returned Todd, his voice suggesting that Armageddon loomed.

The Phantom, who had never been under the influence of an ubiquitous, all-knowing Amah, could not understand the problem, so he turned to the only man around who had: Michael.

Michael understood completely. His formative years, until Uncle Henry had decided to make him his heir, had been, from the moment he awoke in the morning, until he laid his head on his pillow at night, watched, prodded, pinched, nattered at and warned constantly by an Amah.

Looking at the small horde of Cousins, Michael realized that he was expected to do something. He was the Serenity, and the Serenity was never wrong. He winked at The Phantom, gestured broadly, and announced, "I shall accompany you!"

Followed by the Cousins, who cast fearful, but hopeful glances at the Serenity, and wondering if even he had the power to free them from the tyranny they had all endured their entire lives, Michael strode through the gate separating the two estates, and into the sprawling house that was home to his family. He stood in the massive, square, over-decorated foyer, waiting. Behind him, arrayed in a phalanx of fear, stood the Cousins. Arden slipped his hand in Alistair's. The younger Cousins moved closer to each other, finding comfort in familiarity. Alistair looked at the Older Cousins, Cornelius, Michael, John and Matthew for support. The Older Cousins, as a group, instinctively covered the front of their black Speedos, squared their shoulders, and waited for the wrath of the Amah to descend.

Michael did not have to wait long. Su Lin, followed by the other amahs, soon rushed into the foyer. So far as the Cousins were concerned the look of shock on the collective faces of their alleged tormenters was worth whatever was to come.

The amahs - there were six, with Su Lin, by age, position and crankiness, the acknowledged leader - stopped abruptly. Michael did not know what shocked them more, his appearance in the house, unannounced, or their charges standing behind him all but naked!

Su Lin, who had been in the Chans' service for almost all of here sixty-odd years, was wise enough not to protest too much. She bowed low, murmured a formal greeting and waited. The other amahs, following Su Lin's lead, bowed low, muttered a formal greeting and waited.

As the Serenity, Michael was far above speaking to amahs that were, at the end of the day, mere servants to a noble house. He waited, knowing that there existed something that no male could ever understand: a silent, jungle telegraph between women. He had seen it time and time again. A woman, or a group of women, would gather, and somehow silent drums would pound and reinforcements would arrive.

As expected, there came the rapid-fire clicking of high heels on hardwood floors, the muted tinkle of too much gold jewellery, and the scent of very expensive perfume. All too soon Michael was faced with five elegant, faultlessly dressed and coiffured Chinese matrons. The mothers had arrived.

Michael bowed formally to the wives of his cousins. They returned the bow, lower, as was proper. The amahs nodded their collective heads. At least the mothers knew how to conduct themselves, as their sons did not. Su Lin smiled a triumphant smile.

She was very shortly disabused. Michael frowned at the amah and regarded the ladies. He had considered using gentle persuasion in dealing with the mothers. Obviously, if their steely-eyed looks were any indication, this was not going to work. He drew himself erect. "I am displeased," he announced coldly.

The mothers exchanged nervous looks, and then glared at the amahs. The amahs quailed, but stood firm in their rightness. Wisely all remained silent.

Using the full power of his office, Michael declared, "It is my wish that from now on all of my princes . . ." here he gestured widely, his sweeping hand encompassing all of the Cousins, "will no longer require the services of an amah beyond their seventh birthday."

A muted gasp rose from the amahs. The Serenity had just thrown away a thousand years of tradition!

Michael felt a frantic tugging at the back of his suit coat. He turned and Arden crooked his finger, and wiggled it, indicating that Michael should come closer. He bent down and listened to Arden's whispered voice. Coughing delicately, Michael straightened. "The custom of the bath ritual is rescinded. Princes of the Imperial House are not puppies that must be washed and fussed over. They are princes . . ." Michael emphasized the word, " . . . and are intelligent enough to wash themselves!"

The amahs clucked disapprovingly. How else to ensure that little boys would cause no trouble in the night, and sleep blissfully? None, however, dared to oppose the Serenity, and they lapsed into pained silence. Two of the mothers, who had no idea what went on in their children's bath rooms, in fact only saw their children after their baths, if at all, wondered what was happening to their structured world.

Michael bowed and spoke directly to Sarah Chan, Alistair and Arden's mother. He knew that Edmund, the boys' father, was at his office downtown. "Tomorrow," Michel said slowly, "Cousin Edmund will attend me. There is much to discuss."

Sarah Chan nodded with feigned obedience. While she considered herself a modern woman, with modern ideas, and ran her household - ten rooms filled with antiques and an open budget - as a partnership with her husband, she was astute enough to know that whatever it was that the Serenity had in mind would never be discussed with her. Edmund would be consulted, as the father of Alistair and Arden, but she was only a woman and therefore incapable of forming an opinion.

Sarah was also perceptive enough to keep her silence. She enjoyed being a Chan, an important distinction: there were Chans, and then there were Chans, for the name was as common in the Chinese world as Smith or Jones was in the white, Anglo world. She enjoyed the attention she received when she shopped in Chinatown, and more and more, in the mainstream, upper end shops along Burrard and Robson Streets.

She had come to expect the best tables in the best restaurants, service in the best shops, jewels, designer label frocks, a long, black, quiet limousine at her disposal whenever she needed it, all the perquisites of seemingly unlimited wealth.

Sarah was also a very intelligent woman. Michael's veiled order for her husband to meet with him could mean many things, although she doubted there was trouble in the air - Edmund was not involved in any of Michael's businesses, and what possible trouble could an orthodontist get into? And why would Michael wish to take her sons? He had never shown any interest in any of the boys before.

Thinking quickly, Sarah wondered if the impossible was about to happen. Had Michael decided to name an heir? True, he was to be married, but there was no guarantee that his wife would bear sons. She had heard how Michael had been chosen - at his sealing no less - and wondered if this was how an heir was chosen. Of course, no one ever knew until it happened but Sarah allowed herself to dream. If Michael was choosing an heir, if the Serenity was going to take her sons into his house, she was quite willing to acquiesce. Her status as mother of the heir, or heirs, would be paramount in the Family. She would be deferred to, and her wishes would be commands. She could have a separate household, away from the compound, and . . . She would be the Elder Sister!

Sarah made up her mind. If Edmund balked, she would take care of him. If the Serenity had chosen to lead her sons down a certain path - although why he was taking Arden escaped her - so be it. She was also altruistic enough to know that the wealth would continue to flow - directly into her hands for after all, was she not the mother of two whom the Serenity had smiled upon?

Turning, Sarah Chan flashed a look at her sisters-in-law. As the Elder Sister, by temperament and force of character, if not by title, the others knew better than to brook her decisions. They nodded. All pointedly ignored the amahs, standing to one side, and looking collectively like a thunderstorm about to happen. Sarah could handle them, including Su Lin, who could be threatened with a return to the dismal village in the New Territories that had given her birth.

Smiling, Sarah Chan bowed again. "As you wish it, Great One."

Michael was not impressed by Sarah's false modesty. He knew her reputation and would govern his actions accordingly. He returned the woman's nod. "The Cousins, the princes of my house, will dine with me this evening. The cars will call for them at 7:30. See that they are ready."

Turning on his heels, and not waiting for a reply, Michael left the house and walked purposefully toward the gate. Almost immediately two of Pete Sheppard's men fell in behind him. They were armed, as Michael expected they would be. Sighing, Michael allowed that guards and automatic weapons were a fact of his life, a necessary evil and, if his plan for Minh, and Diem, failed, they would be even more necessary.

As he approached his house, Michael saw Caroline Arundel sitting patiently at the table on the deserted terrace. "Now there," Michael thought, "is a formidable woman." He suspected that under the veneer of gentility there was a core of solid stainless steel. Caroline Arundel knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it.

As Michael drew nearer to the terrace, Caroline Arundel was joined by two more "formidable women". Mary Randolph and Mabell Airlie were widows who had lost their husbands to war and, in Mary's case, an only son. Both lived in what was delicately described as "straightened circumstances." Mabell shared a house with Mary, an old, somewhat ramshackle place, without cats, thank God, and still managed to uphold the old ways, keep the old traditions, and generally ignore the hedonistic, self-seeking world they lived in. Both women were old, but utterly fearless, fearing no one, as Bertie Arundel, Caroline's husband had once observed, but God, and Bertie had his doubts about that!

Sighing inwardly, but smiling, Michael ascended the steps leading to the terrace. He had no idea what it was the women wanted - he was sure from their firmly set lips and unblinking eyes that they wanted something. He was equally sure that they would not resort to dimpled acquiescence and feminine wiles to get what they wanted. Bracing himself, Michael nodded to the three women and asked, "How may I be of service?"

As Michael listened to Caroline Arundel explain the benefits of having Mary Randolph, Mabell Airlie and herself accompany the young knights to Ste Anne de Beaupré, the knights in question retired to their rooms, some to nap, some to shower, and one to explore a facet of his character that he had only suspected.

The assignment of bedrooms had been carefully thought out. Chef, as the observer closest to the cadets, had been consulted, and it therefore came as no surprise when Phil Thornton, Randy and Joey were given a room with a double bed. They settled down almost immediately, not to play - except for a gentle "I love you tweak" of the impressive bulge in Phil's tighty-whiteys, by both boys - but to sleep. All three had had a full day thus far, what with being rousted from their bunks at an ungodly hour, flying down to Vancouver, playing soccer and swimming. Phil cradled the two young cooks in his muscular arms, kissed the tops of their heads and closed his eyes.

Next door, Andy and Kyle, as much in love as ever, had entered their room, carefully locked the door and eyed the double bed. Andy reached for Kyle's hand, drew it to his lips and gently led his lover to the bed.

Down the corridor, in their room, Sean nervously watched as Cory slowly pushed down his swimsuit. Cory's blue eyes sparkled as he advanced slowly. Cory gestured for the redheaded Chief to stand up. Rising, Sean allowed his swimming shorts to be slowly pushed down. Sean felt Cory's hand exploring his body and moaned softly. Together they sank onto one of the twin beds provided.

Logan Hartsfield swallowed heavily. He watched as Brian sat in the stuffed chair beside the fireplace that dominated the room. Logan did not know what was to come - he hoped that Brian wanted what he wanted, but could not bring himself to ask.

Brian remained quiet and then whispered. "I love you. I've loved you almost from the moment I saw you lying in the dirt back in Comox."

Logan nodded, his brown eyes growing bright. "I don't . . ."

"If you're straight, and just fooling around, please tell me," asked Brian.

"I'm not straight," replied Logan. His face fell as he confessed, "I've been a whore . . ."

"I know. Harkness Bay."

"Yes. I screwed that kid in the barracks, and I liked it." Logan hastened to add, "Not the circumstances, the act."

"A stiff prick has no conscience," countered Brian.

"I made love to Laurence." Logan ducked his head. "He made love to me. I asked him to show me what two men making love was like. We were fooling around in the forests, sort of an orienteering exercise."

"Do you love him?" asked Brian, his voice flat.

"No," replied Logan honestly. "I like him, and what we did was brilliant, but no, I don't love him." He shrugged expressively. "Laurence is in love with Patrick Tsang."

"The good looking Chinese guy?" asked Brian.

"Yes."

Brian chuckled. "Laurence has excellent taste." He bobbed his head. "You, now Patrick." Brian rose from his seat and sat beside Logan on the bed. "When I was in Aurora I had a summer romance." He thought fondly of Dylan, the slim, blue-eyed, blond Adonis he had loved so desperately. "It didn't work out."

"Are you sorry?" asked Logan, bristling. He was under no illusions that Brian was a virgin boy.

Laughing, Brian shook his head. "Not anymore." He leaned and kissed Logan and stared into the handsome young man's eyes. "Not anymore."

Matt came out of the shower, towelling his blond hair dry. He saw Nicholas lying on one of the twin beds, his hands folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Nicholas was as naked as the day that he had been born. Snickering, Matt threw aside the towel. "So, Yeoman, you have any new Bible verses you want to try out?"

Lowering his eyes, Nicholas gazed at the slim, beautiful young man and said, laughing, "You sure are a horny little fucker, you know that?" But he spread his legs a little wider.

Matt advanced slowly and then lowered his body onto Nicholas'. He gazed into Nicholas' eyes as he slid his hands under the Yeoman's shoulders. "Maybe I've been 'Born Again', lost in the Word, as spake by Brother Nicholas!" Matt wiggled his hips seductively, to the expected result. "Is this the Sword of Gideon I feel rising against me?" he asked rhetorically. "Or is it the jawbone of an ass?"

"It ain't my jawbone you're feeling and there's only one ass in here," returned Nicholas with a giggle. "And where in hell did you hear 'spake' from?"

"I think from the idiotic babblings of the Holy Ghost's representative on earth," supplied Matt. He began grinding his hips, knowing that this would drive Nicholas to distraction.

Grunting, Nicholas felt himself responding to what Matt was doing to him. His arms snaked across Matt's warm, firm back. "The lesson today is taken from . . ."

Tyler and Val had been assigned what was in effect a small suite. Across the corridor from their rooms Mark and Tony were housed in a similar set of rooms. Since none of the senior cadets were sleepy, they gathered in the small sitting room of Tyler's suite to play cards. Much to their surprise Ned Hadfield, who had been making his rounds, ensuring that the protection officers assigned to the young knights were in place and alert, joined them. Ned had been caught flatfooted during a routine patrol in 'Nam, losing six men. He took no chances and left nothing, if he could help it, to chance.

Hearing the muted laugher as Tony tried to bluff his way out of a very bad poker bet, Ned had poked his head into the room. Tyler offered a beer and Ned had accepted. Val, down six bucks, suggested he join the game. Ned was perceptive enough to know that these four young men, and the others who occupied the rooms lining the bedroom floor corridors, were very important, to him, to each other, and to Michael Chan. He saw no harm in joining in the game.

At first the young knights were diffident and a little distant. They did not know Ned, and he did not know them. Ned was, however, deep down, a big-hearted mountain boy who missed the camaraderie that was always around the kitchen table back home, and he seemed to know instinctively that while none of the four young men were related by blood, they were all brothers. He began to make little jokes, swore a little to impress the young men with his vocabulary and, in his own rough way, managed to charm the socks off of them. His stock rose into the stratosphere when he saw that they had run out of beer and rang down to the kitchens for a new supply.

Being a competent, and cagey poker player, Ned did not push his luck too much. He joined in the taunting and sniggering, drank some beer and, when Tyler complained mildly that he wasn't accustomed to so much sloth and indolence, Ned offered a plan to keep "the lads", as Tyler referred to them, in shape. He told the others of the obstacle course that had been built, and offered to outfit everybody in combats. A day in the woods, playing silly buggers (a phrase Ned had borrowed from Val), would do everybody a world of good, sort of wake everybody up, which Ned thought would be necessary what with the luncheon, the swimming, the food and later, Michael's hospitality downtown in his restaurant.

At first Tyler demurred. The lads were having too much fun to be bothered with running about in the forests, and thought that they might not be receptive.

Val, half in the bag, disagreed. They were much too comfortable and, in an opinion that was echoed almost every day by every Chief Gunnery Instructor, too much fun made Jack Tar a lazy boy. Val pointed out that almost every one of the cadets had had some sort of training in woodsmanship, and playing soldier - had most of them not completed QUEST, which was really two weeks of living in tents and pigging it in the middle of a forest, with black flies and assorted bugs as an added attraction.

Tyler reluctantly agreed to a day of training. Unfortunately he, and Val, forgot what happened when they pissed Harry off, and made him do something he didn't want to do, such as play war games in a British Columbia forest.

The Phantom waited while Alex opened the door to the suite assigned to Colin and him. Being young and independent, The Phantom felt there was no need for it, but Alex had insisted.

"But I have Colin," growled The Phantom.

"Who doesn't have one of these," retorted Alex. He lifted the back of his shirt, revealing the dappled pistol grip of his weapon, and about three inches of white boxer shorts.

Snickering, The Phantom reached out and snapped the waistband of Alex's underpants. "He has some of these!"

Alex frowned, tried to look angry, and then softened. "Damn it, Phantom, I'm your protection officer, I'm supposed to protect you!" He glowered briefly, "And how can I do that if you go around snapping my underwear?"

"You are much too serious," returned The Phantom gravely. "Now come on, have a drink with us." He hesitated at the doorway, his eyes taking in what was obviously a huge drawing room. His eyes widened as he said, "Hell and sheeit, we sure are in tall cotton now, Colin!"

"Tall cotton?" gasped Colin as he surveyed the array of stuffed sofas, period chairs, and obviously antique sideboard and tables. "I think we just bought the crop!"

Laughing, The Phantom entered the drawing room. The walls were lined with gold-framed oils, of a kind you couldn't buy out of the Eaton's Catalogue. Under their feet was soft, antique, beige and rose rug; on the mantle piece were a pair of blue and gold china vases, and a gilt clock. In one corner was what The Phantom's mother called an étagère, a curio cabinet filled with, well, curios, small carved jade and amber animals, enamelled and gold cigarette cases, miniature pieces of what looked to be doll house furniture, all in gold or silver and enamelled. The cabinet held a king's ransom.

"Hell and sheeit!" ejaculated The Phantom again. The monetary value of the artwork, the objets d'art, the bibelots in this room could have supported the town of Comox for a month!

"Wait until you see the bedroom" advised Alex as he crossed the room and opened a set of double doors adorned with carved and gilded trophies. "And the bathroom," he said over his shoulder as he entered the room, which was dominated by the biggest four-poster that Colin had ever seen.

The Phantom glanced at the bed, glanced hungrily at Colin, and then back at the bed. Colin made a face, his look ordering his young lover to behave. "What else is there?" he asked Alex.

"The bath," declaimed Alex as he pushed open a door, revealing the bathroom which, while containing the usual fixtures, including a shower big enough to hold six football players - or so The Phantom thought - was functional more than architecturally aesthetic.

"What's in here?" asked Colin as he opened yet another door, revealing another large chamber, this one lined with rosewood drawers on one side and with clothing hanging on racks on the other.

"The dressing room," explained Alex. "The footmen put everything away so you might want to check where they stowed your skivvies." He reached out and brought out a Naval officer's uniform, the dark blue Barathea cloth superbly cut and tailored, the two rows of four gilt buttons on the jacket shining brightly. He held it up for The Phantom's inspection. "Looks like somebody got promoted," Alex said dryly as he nodded his head, indicating the white patch and gold button affixed to the upper collar of the brass-buttoned jacket.

The Phantom was speechless as Colin leaned forward and gave him a light peck on the cheek. "Mister Midshipman Lascelles, RNR," he said with an affectionate snicker.

"Bet he never saw that in one of his visions," said Alex with a giggle. He reached in and brought out another proper Naval uniform, rich with gold lace. "Lieutenant Arnott, RNR," he offered as he held the uniform up for Colin's inspection. "There is also a mess kit. You might want to try these on. Leung and his crew will be around some time tomorrow to make any last minute adjustments."

The Phantom seemed in a trance as he stared at the uniforms. "I . . . I don't know what to say," he muttered. "A midshipman? Me?"

After hanging the clothing back on the rack, Alex returned to the drawing room, The Phantom and Colin in tow. He poured them all a small drink - a large silver tray holding three small carafes of gin, sherry and scotch, and glasses, dominated the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Once The Phantom and Colin were settled on the sofa Alex took a deep breath and said, "Okay, here's the skinny. Tomorrow night - and I suppose I'm not supposed to open my big mouth, but you've treated me all right, like a friend and not a servant, and you look the type who doesn't like surprises . . ." Here Alex looked directly at The Phantom, "So I'm going to tell you anyway." He took a sip of his drink and continued. "Tomorrow night, before the dinner, there will be another Investiture." He pointed his finger at The Phantom. "You will be proclaimed Prince and Apostolic Archduke of Austria." Alex paused and thought a moment. "There are two more titles, I think, but I do know that the Letters Patent have been drawn."

"Me?" squeaked The Phantom, his green eyes wide.

Alex's finger moved to point at Colin. "And you, sir, are to be 'Defensor Princeps', Defender of Princes and, if memory serves, Hereditary Earl Marshal. A dukedom goes with it."

"Me?" squeaked Colin, his blue eyes wide. Then he turned to The Phantom and asked, "Does 'Hereditary' mean what I think it means?"

Giggling, The Phantom nodded his head. "Don't worry, we can adopt!"

Alex joined in the general laughter. "Michael is going all out! He's making up for about 500 years!"

"How so?" Colin asked.

"Well, the way it was explained to me, Michael has the power to grant Letters Patent of Nobility. The past Grand Masters let that privilege lapse. It's the same with the Collars."

The Phantom scratched his chin reflectively. "I seem to recall something about Collars." He suddenly nodded his head firmly. "Yes, I remember now. Chef told me that every knight has his own Collar. It's the only real badge he has."

"And when he dies the Collar is returned to the Order," put in Colin. "As there have been very few knights of late, I can well understand where there could be a few extras lying around."

"Extras!" Alex shook his head rapidly. "There are boxes of them in the Gold and Silver Store. Trust me, I know, because I've had to audit the damned things!"

"Wow!" was the only thing The Phantom could think of saying at the moment.

"Wow is right," exclaimed Alex. "Michael is handing out titles and Collars to just about all the senior knights - the Twins' father is one of them. Since all the titles are hereditary, I guess the Twins will be Lords of the Manor sooner or later."

Colin groaned. "As if their not puffed up enough now!"

"They are not!" growled The Phantom. "Cory and Todd are the nicest, most down to earth guys I know. They don't take anything they don't feel they earned! Hell and sheeit, they are so honourable that . . . well, let me tell you, they wouldn't even take advantage of their remission at the ship's barbecue! They stayed back and cleaned the Gunroom!" The Phantom was nothing if not completely loyal to his friends.

"Are you going to explain?" asked Colin, his tone suggesting his exasperation. He loved The Phantom with all his heart, but the young man had a terrible habit of making statements about things Colin knew nothing about.

After giving his partner a withering look, The Phantom explained. "We had a Chiefs Mess Dinner, very posh." He deliberately puffed out his chest. "I made all the arrangements, set the table, polished the silver, served the dinner, washed the dishes . . ."

"You did not! Nobody could do all that," exploded Colin. "Really, Phantom, you do tend to exaggeration at times!"

"A lot you know," sniffed The Phantom. "As it happens, I had some assistance. Chef was very helpful."

Alex snickered. At times The Phantom and Colin acted like an old married couple.

Ignoring Alex, The Phantom continued. "Anyway, after the dinner, we had a reception in the Gunroom. Todd had gone off somewhere with Harry . . ." He paused. Some details were best left buried. "And Cory was invited down to the Dockyard by Chief Anders, for a nightcap."

Colin, who knew the true nature of Cory and Sean's relationship, cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

" . . . When Todd got back to the Gunroom, he saw that Cory's bunk was empty, and jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"And what conclusion was that?" Colin smiled. He had heard some chatter about the Twins, most of it good, but some of it downright frightening.

Alex also smiled. He had heard that the Twins had wreaked their revenge on the Major for some slight or other, the revenge involving Ex-Lax, a potent laxative.

"Well, Todd, for some reason, thought that Cory had gone off with what he called 'a big-dicked Chief'. Todd suspected Phil Thornton for some reason."

"Did he?" asked Colin.

"Did he what?" countered The Phantom.

"Go off with a big-dicked Chief!" both Colin and Alex roared.

The Phantom assumed an air of confident innocence. "No, Cory did not. I told you, he went down to the Dockyard and had a nightcap with Sean Anders."

"Not a big-dicked Chief?" asked Colin.

Hesitating, remembering the sunny beach, and Sean, The Phantom paused. Then he said, "I have it on good authority that Sean is not a big-dicked Chief." He glowered at Colin, daring him to say something, and continued. "Cory was very hurt at the accusation. He pouted and made Todd's life hell all the next day. Todd said something - I don't know what because I wasn't there. Cory said something back and the next thing we all knew the Twins were at war!" The Phantom's tone suggested that the Twins at war was akin to a thermonuclear explosion.

"They had a fight," said Alex deadpan.

"Big time," responded The Phantom. "They were rolling around the barracks yard, pounding the piss out of each other, and The Gunner read them the Riot Act, and then turned a fire hose on them. They were most displeased," he added with a grin.

"I can see that being doused with a hose might be a little disconcerting," offered Alex. "So what happened?"

"Well, they were called on the carpet and had their leave stopped. They were confined to quarters. Then the Lieutenant Governor came to call, and all sins were forgiven. The Twins wouldn't accept that they basically got away Scot free, and stayed in. On the night of the beach party they stayed in and cleaned the Gunroom. I know, because I helped them."

"You?" asked Colin. "Were you under punishment?"

"No" replied The Phantom with a shake of his head. "But Amy Jensen was on the prowl and she's been trying to get her hand up my drawers for years and since I was wearing boxers at the time, I thought it best to leave when I could with my virginity intact!"

Colin almost choked on his drink at that! For his efforts he received a "belt up or you sleep on the sofa tonight look" from The Phantom.

Alex giggled helplessly. "Sorry, but the thought of you running away - well it is funny."

"Especially, if half the stories I've heard about sailors on the beach with a bunch of girls are true, well, they would be running toward the young lady," offered Colin. Then he winked lewdly at The Phantom. "Of course, I am glad you did!"

The Phantom returned a withering look. "That sofa sure looks comfortable," he said with a grin.

"Ahem," coughed Alex.

Embarrassed, The Phantom shrugged. "Alex, you know the truth about Colin and me," he said quietly.

"I do," replied Alex without inflection. "Just as I know about some of the others." He looked first at The Phantom, and then at Colin. "Some of them are gay, yes?"

The Phantom nodded.

"But not all?"

"Some have professed, said that they were," replied The Phantom seriously. "Others have said nothing. Some, I am sure, have fooled around, that's normal." The Phantom's emerald eyes grew brighter as he looked directly Alex. "But understand, Alex, being gay, or not being gay, is not important. What is important is that they are all part of what I call the Tapestry. We are all linked, so to speak. There is a bond between us."

"And me?" asked Alex.

"Yes. You are a part of the Tapestry."

"How can you know?" demanded Alex. "I mean, one minute I'm worrying about going back to the farm and the cows and the next I'm in the middle of an Order I know so little about!" he returned The Phantom's look. "I have to ask, why me?"

"I wish I knew," replied The Phantom. "I didn't choose any of them. I am not forcing them to be with me." He reached out and placed his hand on Alex's shoulder. "Alex, I am not a psychic. I don't have 'visions'. I did have a dream, which showed me the Tapestry. I cannot understand why I had the dream, why I was the one chosen to have the dream. I can sense, though, honour, integrity and loyalty. You have it. Colin has it. I can't explain how I know, I just do and, as a very fine young man told me on the plane coming down, I'm stuck with it and I might as well accept it, and work with it."

Pausing, The Phantom seemed to look into the far distance. "I did not see anything. I just sensed that somehow Alistair is linked to Michael - not in the sense that he is now, but something, I don't know what to call it. Michael is Alistair's cousin, yes, but there is something there that tells me that Alistair is more than just a cousin." He smiled thinly. "And please, do not ask me for an explanation, because I cannot give you one!"

Alex looked perplexed, and then nodded slowly. "I think I understand. When I was in 'Nam we had a sergeant, a scruffy little grunt, who seemed to sense when Charlie was around. I mean he could really sense them. The sky would be clear and blue, the locals would be going about their business, babies would be crying, dogs barking, ducks fucking, and suddenly old Sarge would tense up and reach for his weapon and vest. It was eerie, man, really creepy!"

"Obviously whatever he had worked," opined Colin. "You still have all your parts."

"Yeah." Then a strange, sad look came over Alex's face. "Toward the end of my first tour Corps sent up a gook. He was supposed to be some wizard at counterinsurgency, vouched for by everybody. The Sarge took one look at him and reached for the 50-cal and watched him like a hawk. Everybody said that the old Sarge had finally gone round the bend, until the gook made a mistake. He was supposed to be walking around the perimeter, checking our firing points and strongholds, and spotting weak points in the wire. Only thing was he was walkin' slow and too precise like. The fucker was pacing the distances!"

Colin nodded. "A living ordnance map!" he exclaimed. "Stand in the hills, tell the mortar team the coordinates and walk the shells in using his predetermined distances. Hell, man!"

"Yeah," responded Alex glumly. "The Sarge saw the gook and tried to take him out. They were wrestling when the gook exploded a grenade - he carried a full belt, just like everybody else. The Sarge didn't make it home."

"Unfortunate," murmured The Phantom. "We could use a few more like him." He thought a moment. "Your sergeant was not some seer who saw the future. He used, as I used, my natural senses to see, to hear, and observe. He saw someone acting suspiciously, asked himself why the man was doing what he was doing. I saw the snake slithering around the garden . . ." He smiled diffidently, " Sorry, but from the moment I laid eyes on Doctor Bradley-Smith I didn't care for him."

"It happens," agreed Colin. "I took one look at my cabin mate in my last ship and shuddered. He hadn't done anything but say hello, but I just couldn't like him."

"And at the end of the day you were right," said The Phantom.

"Yeah," replied Colin sadly. "The sad thing is that the guy is smart, but he, well, maybe it's as the Captain said."

"Which was?" asked Alex.

"That Sub-Lieutenant Neil Menzies was only on board because he needed a vessel to carry his genitals from port to port."

"Pussy hound, was he?" asked Alex.

"Big time," confirmed Colin. "The old man caught him in the paint locker putting the blocks to . . ."

"Louise Metcalfe," supplied The Phantom. "She was on the lookout for anything with a cock attached to it - true, and I make no apology." He turned to Alex. "Louise was only doing what she'd being doing since she discovered boys. It was expected of her, everybody knew it, just as everybody knows that Amy Jensen doesn't put out, just blows a guy. It was the same with your sergeant."

"Pardon?"

The Phantom explained. "We all expect those around us to act in certain ways. Your sergeant expected the so-called expert from Saigon to do certain things, in a certain way. There was nothing eerie about it. He looked, he saw, he asked questions and he came to a conclusion, which is exactly what I did. Your sergeant's instincts, his training and experience, told him that there was something wrong . . ." His voiced trailed off. Then he spoke firmly. "When I watched the doctor, he wasn't looking at the flower beds, or the trees. He was looking at the wall, chatting up the guards. So I asked myself, why? I think I came to the right conclusion."

Alex, who knew much more than he was going to tell The Phantom, nodded.

"The doctor, Bradley-Smith, is wrong," continued The Phantom. "He is not the man he says he is. He's hiding something, and he's up to something." He saw the inquiring looks of the others. "So, I didn't see anything in a dream. I feel it. I don't like the way he acts, the way he talks. I don't like the 'cut of his jib'!" The Phantom's voice turned low and cold. "I have spoken with Michael. Doctor Bradley-Smith is a vicious, backstabbing creature. He has no loyalty to anyone or anything but himself. He will betray - or has betrayed - friends, family, and the Order. He has no conscience, and considers us, all of us, fools."

The implications of The Phantom's words were not lost on Colin. "You know what will happen if Bradley-Smith is actually a spy, or a traitor," he said, not asking a question.

"He is both, and will be punished accordingly," replied The Phantom emotionlessly. "He is a Professed Knight. He has betrayed his oath and will suffer the consequences." He looked frankly at Alex. "Do you have a problem with that?" he asked.

Shrugging, Alex shook his head. "If what you're saying means what I think it means, no. I've cleaned up road kill before."

Nodding, The Phantom offered the decanter of whisky. "Drink?"

As the young knights settled down most headed for the showers, to wash away the chlorine from the pool. Peter Race had been assigned a large, comfortable room with Eion Reilly. As they were old shipmates, there was no need for a settling in between them. Eion immediately stripped off, grabbed a towel and went into the bathroom. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed.

Peter, wondering what had bit Eion's butt, and thinking that there was something, or someone lurking under the toilet, hurried into the bathroom. He looked around and also swore an oath.

The room was huge, with a comfortable dressing table and chair, the double sink surrounded by neatly arranged toiletries, and in the corner stood what seemed to be a large, carved, wooden box. "What's that?" asked Eion.

"How would I know?" returned Peter. He walked to the box and lifted the hinged lid. "Well, I'll be damned, it's the shitter!" he exclaimed. "And look, it's got little flowers painted on the bowl!"

Eion looked and giggled. "Gosh, this place is like something out of bad romance novel!"

Peter gave Eion the eye. "You read romance novels?" he asked with a snigger.

"Up yours," retorted Eion. "Now, if you will excuse me, I think I'll shower."

As Eion spoke he was fondling his genitals, something not lost on Peter. And was he imagining that Eion's pink-headed appendage was growing just a little longer, a little thicker?

Pushing aside the sliding glass door to the shower, Eion gasped. "Look at this, Peter!" he exclaimed. Peter looked. The shower was big enough to hold at least four people, something not lost on Eion. "You wanna join me?" he asked with what Peter thought was a leer.

"You go first," Peter replied. After sharing a mess deck with 17 guys, and showering with them en masse, the thought of sharing a shower - when he didn't have to - did not appeal. "I can wait."

Eion gave Peter a look and then smiled. "Suit yourself." He stepped into the shower stall and slowly closed the door.

Wondering what that was all about, Peter returned to the bedroom, stripped and began to lay out his clothes for the evening. He looked around for his toiletries kit. Not seeing it, he walked back into the bathroom and saw that his personal kit, his toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, and underarm deodorant, had been carefully laid out next to one of the two sinks. Beside the other were Eion's toiletries. Peter was about to turn when he heard a long, low, self-satisfied moan. The shower stall door was closed, and while the stall was filled with steam, Peter could see Eion's pink outline. Eion's arms were flung back, and his hips were thrust forward. His erection, which was jutting out and upward from his body, was bouncing spasmodically. The ecstatic moaning was replaced by a long, growling, "Fffuuuccckkk!"

Staring, Peter's jaw dropped slightly. "Well I sure never saw it done that way before!" he told himself. Then he shrugged and returned to the bedroom.

Peter was not at all surprised at Eion retiring to the bathroom to take care of pressing business. Growing up, Peter had given little thought to his then immature appendage. It was something, as a male, that came with the package. It was there, a guy peed out of it, and from time to time it did strange things, like growing long and filling out, and it felt good when you played with it.

As he grew older, and became more aware of his body, Peter's sexual education began not at home, but in high school. In later years, Peter would joke that he had obtained his bachelor degree in Sex Ed in High school, his master degree in HMCS Acadia, the Sea Cadet camp attended by the bulk of Maritime cadets the first year or two of training, and obtained his doctorate in HMCS Aurora.

Like many 12 and 13-year-old boys, Peter had been curious, curious about himself, about the world he lived in and, more and more about his body, and the bodies of his schoolmates. Coming as he did from a home where sex was never mentioned, he had been mildly surprised to learn that dicks - he and his brothers had gone through the various stages of calling their penises wee-wees, pee-pees, wieners and had more or less settled on 'dick', although 'cock' did pop up every now and then - came in all shapes and sizes.

A part of his formal education had included "gym", where he played basketball, or floor hockey. There was also swim class. In both cases he would end up naked sooner or later.

In the gym change room, where the young boys changed into their sports kit, Peter was mildly surprised to notice that the ubiquitous white briefs his brothers and he wore, were being replaced by something called "boxers", baggy, saggy, cotton shorts, mostly white, but some in patterns, and which reminded him of the drawers his father wore. In swim class, when the combined Grade 9 classes of 50-odd boys changed, he learned that dicks, and up until that moment he had only his brothers' and his own as reference, came in all shapes and sizes.

Some dicks were big, some small, some thin, some thick, and more or less looked like Peter's own. There were, however, three boys who had no skin! At first Peter had thought that they had been born without skin. As there always was, one of the boys was worldlier than the rest, and explained that some boys were "clipped". The boy, who possessed a knowledge that none of the others had became an instant celebrity, and the acknowledged font of information when it came to matters sexual.

Peter would learn that 'clipped' was another term for circumcision, which intrigued him at the time for he had always associated circumcision with Judaism, at least according to his father, who was a rabid anti-Semite, not to mention anti-Catholic, considered blacks - always referred to as "coloured people" by his mother - as less than human and drank a case of Keith's each and every day.

Somewhat confused, Peter regarded the skinless penises, thinking that the boys didn't look Jewish, not that he knew what a Jew looked liked. As it turned out, thanks to schoolyard confidences, Peter learned that the boys were not in fact Jewish. Two were Roman Catholics, and the other Presbyterian. Why they had had their skin removed nobody seemed to know. Not that it mattered. The three boys who were circumcised were the objects of either sympathy or scorn, depending on the tormenter. Eventually nobody paid attention although much later in his Sea Cadet career Peter found himself the odd man out. This, he learned, was due more to demographics than religion. In the Maritimes - Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, PEI and Newfoundland - boys were more than likely "natural", as were the boys from Québec. Boys from the rest of the country, however, all seemed to have undergone a refit, to the extent that in his YAG, where Peter shared a mess deck with 16 other cadets, he was the only one with a foreskin.

The gymnasium change room, and the pool, together with that most sacred place of teenage information, the schoolyard, where the boys gathered on one side, and the girls on the other, with a stern-faced phalanx of teachers to keep it that way, all contributed to Peter's growing knowledge. He also learned that teenage boys could be very cruel when they put their minds to it. Standing naked in front of one's peers was fertile ground for nicknames. A guy with a short dick was almost doomed to be called "Stubby", while a guy with a long, thin dick would be promptly dubbed "Pencil Dick" or "Needle Dick". Peter himself was gifted, admiringly, with the sobriquet, "Horse Balls".

Peter's nickname had come about quite simply. He had the biggest balls in the school. Stripping off, in addition to advertising dick size, also revealed heretofore closely guarded secrets. Testicles were basically the same, oval shaped. This was a given. What differed from boy to boy was the size of what were variably called "balls", "nuts" or sometimes, "stones", and how they "hung". Testicles seemed to come in small, medium, or large and "Wow!" sizes, hanging naturally low (although in winter, with a cold wind blowing off of Bedford Basin this was never a problem), or high. Scrotums, invariably called "bags", were smooth and hairless, wrinkled and hairless, wrinkled and hairy, or smooth and hairy. Peter's status in the "Wow" category had been confirmed the first time he pushed down his tighty-whiteys, and greeted with stunned silence and awe by his wide-eyed classmates. That he had not one hair was immaterial, his balls said it all.

In time the matter of body hair came into discussion. Every boy anxiously awaited the first small crop of hair and Peter looked forward to his growing maturity. He checked his crotch every night and every morning, wondering if he would grow a bumper crop, as some boys did, with the hair, sometimes tightly curled and wiry, sometimes fluffy and soft, growing across his groin, surrounding his balls and travelling under them and up the crack of his butt.

Much to Peter's chagrin he would never be called "Hairy". His crop was respectable, but hardly noteworthy. It was also a mousy brown, which seemed to be the norm. Of course, pubies came in very few colours, usually shades brown, deep black, blond (which at times was so blond the boy looked as if he had no hair at all), and shades of red, from a ginger-coloured orange, to dark red. One of the few things that Peter admired Sean Anders for was his bush of dark red, gold-flecked pubies. Peter thought the Squadron Chief's bush very handsome and at one time had thought about dipping into a dye pot to change the colour of his own little patch. He did not, of course, for guys never dyed anything. That would be queer, and being thought queer was something to be avoided at all costs.

Teenage curiosity inevitably led to discussions of utmost importance - sex, beginning with masturbation, never referred to as that, but called "wanking", "jerking off", "choking the chicken", "spanking the monkey" - there were dozens of variations. At first nobody would admit to doing it. Being good, Christian boys, such things were beyond the pale. In time everybody admitted to doing it. Masturbation studies eventually led to discussions on technique, production of semen (always called "cum" for some reason), and frequency of ejaculation, sometimes (although Peter always thought it youthful, self-centred boasting) four and five times a day, every day!

The discussions of beating off seemed always to lead to whispered talks about certain practices that almost every boy had been taught were perverted. Halifax, while a seaport, and in its way a most cosmopolitan city, was at the same time small, and provincial. The much vaunted and world famous Maritime hospitality and friendliness toward newcomers and tourists, did not extend to one segment of the population: queers. There was a certain bar downtown that was raided on an almost weekly basis by the Halifax police, a place known to be "a place of assignation for homosexuals and other deviants." The names of those "found" in the bar were always published in the local newspapers, much to the shocked, or sniggering delight of the population. Being fined, or jailed was, in many opinions, exactly what "those kind" deserved and many openly stated that worse should have followed.

For Peter, whose knowledge of homosexuality was limited, a newspaper article about a raid on a downtown bar was of little interest, except that it usually generated a lecture from his father about "touching himself", and a fire-breathing, pulpit-pounding sermon railing against "sins of the flesh" from the priest on Sunday. All in all, Peter reasoned, it was no wonder that those who did commit sins of the flesh kept their mouths shut and their zippers up in public.

What intrigued Peter, however, was the homosexual undercurrent of the schoolyard. Although cloaked in joking terms, and it was a day wasted if at some point someone had not called someone else a "fag" or a "queer", Peter hoped not seriously, since the epithet was usually hurled in exasperation or anger. Nobody really meant it, did they?

Yet, for all the disdain and sneering remarks, and effeminate boys being the immediate targets of schoolboy disdain (they wanted it, although no one in his right mind would admit to giving it, whatever "it" was) there were whispered, giggling, rumours about "blow jobs", which Peter learned was taking another boy's dick in your mouth and sucking on it.

The suggestion of sucking a dick was usually accompanied by screwed up faces expressing utmost disgust. That having been said, Peter wondered why everyone he knew seemed obsessed with the idea. Or why in the heat of an argument, or just for deviltry, boys would invite other boys to "Eat me!" or "Suck this!" - usually accompanied by an out-thrusting of hips and grabbing one's crotch. Peter had never had any great desire to suck a dick although he did, in the darkness of his bedroom, wonder what it would be like to have his dick sucked.

Another topic of conversation was "corn-holing", which was another name for "butt fucking", which was basically self-explanatory. Nobody ever admitted to wanting that. Only queers and fags did that and the very idea was only rarely the subject of debate.

As the boys grew older, and puberty set in with a vengeance, Peter also learned that penises were the most nefarious and independent organs ever created. Penises had minds of their own, and everybody was convinced of it. Penises were soft and pliant one minute, hard and standing straight the next! A guy never knew what the damned thing was going to do next! You could be standing in the loo, minding your business, and if the window were open and a cool breeze wafted across your peeing dick, bang! Up it went! This was embarrassing enough. What was worse was showering after gym or a session in the pool. Hardly a day went by when somebody didn't bone up, to accompanying catcalls and name-calling. While Peter felt sorry for the boys this happened to he always avoided scrubbing himself too long or too intimately. Life was easier when you didn't bone up in the shower.

As a Sea Cadet in RCSCC Nelson, Peter's sexual education continued, but at a slower pace. This was hardly surprising. Every Tuesday Peter would take the bus to the local Naval Reserve Base, HMCS Scotian, where the Corps met and drilled, and basically would train with the same boys he had left at school hours before. The only difference was that any reference to sex was low-keyed and confined to the locker room. Sea Cadet officers it seemed were even more straight-laced than parents, and being officers weren't trusted anyway.

Peter's eyes were opened wide, however, when he went off for summer training in HMCS Acadia, which was located in Digby, Nova Scotia, and actually an adjunct to HMCS Cornwallis, the Royal Canadian Navy's recruit school. Here Peter found that sex in the barracks (always called a "Mess") was openly and frankly discussed, and in a much more free and easy, live and let live atmosphere.

Playing silly buggers, nudity, and talking about sex were all part of life in the Mess. The same homoerotic bantering and baiting that Peter had seen and heard in the schoolyard seemed to go on constantly in the Mess. Waking up with a bone on was, when one considered that there were forty males confined to a Mess, hardly a cause for mention after the first few days. Morning bones were either the object of ridicule or admiration, depending on size and heft of the bone on display, and there were plenty of those.

For some reason shyness went the way of pyjamas within hours of reporting aboard. Nobody, except very little boys and Sea Puppies ever went to bed in anything other than their undies. Draping your nether regions with a towel when walking to or from the washplace usually resulted in having your towel whipped away by the usual Mess pranksters. It was show and tell time every day and Peter learned that nobody gave a damn. They had much more important things to worry about. None of the instructors or Chiefs checked their privates. They did check the shine of their boots, how their uniforms were pressed, how they conformed to the Sea Cadet ideal, and how well the cadets "got with the program".

Nights in the Mess were never boring. There were games, and chatter, laughter, plotting raids against the Air Cadets (for some reason Air Cadet musicians were trained in Acadia - Sea Cadet musicians went to HMCS Ontario, housed in the Royal Military College buildings at Kingston, Ontario) and, after the lights went out, the strangled choking of boys trying not to give vent to their ecstatic euphoria as they thumped and rubbed their way to glory.

At first Peter was disgusted. There were certain things that should be done privately - or as privately as possible. There were also certain things that Peter felt should not be spoken of, ever. Unlike the other cadets, he never crowed about the size of his erection, which was hardly impressive - he would never be called "Horse Cock" - the power of his ejaculations, or the number of times each day he sought relief in masturbation. When Peter beat off, which he did, he tried to be as quiet as possible, and always took a worn sweat sock to bed with him.

Because he beat off, Peter was not hypocritical. He said nothing, even though he knew that the majority of the cadets in the Mess, and later in the YAG mess deck, beat off nightly. He also knew that the same held true in the buildings that lined Heron Spit, the home of RCSCC Aurora. On his rare occasional visit to the ship's Mess Hall all he had to do was sit and listen to the complaints each cadet seemed to have, many of those complaints centred on he masturbatory habits of their mates. Inhibitions, along with shyness and probity, seemed to have no place in cadet life, and when you lived with a guy his sex life became a point of your interest.

So it was that Peter knew just about when, how, and how often all of his messmates satisfied a basic urge. Unlike the officers, Peter realized that this urge was something nobody could do anything about. Each and every cadet was at an age when his penis controlled his life. They were at the height of their sexuality, and while Peter came to understand, he still did not feel it necessary for him to know that Jérémie Cher tried to at least maintain a façade of silence, or waited until he thought everyone else was asleep. Nor did he need to know how much many of the cadets thoroughly enjoyed the act, and moaned and groaned their way to satisfying, and noisy, eruptions. Beating off was as much a part of mess life as getting up in the morning and having a shower. Everybody did it.

Eion beat off in the heads every night. Phil Thornton, who was a Chief for Christ's sake, at least until lately, beat of on a nightly basis, his approach to glory heralded by increasing panting, culminating in a long, low, rush of breath as he ejaculated into an old hand towel he kept under his pillow. The same thing held true ashore in the messes and Gunroom of Aurora. According to well-founded rumour when Harry beat off the critters in the woods knew about it. Everybody beat off, and it was hard to deny the fact, not with witnesses listening to every moan, squeak, grunt, and groan.

Some of course denied they did it. Others, the more honest amongst the pack, freely admitted to Onanism, and from time to time consulting Mrs. Fist and her daughters. Some said nothing, neither admitting nor denying what they did in the privacy of their bunks. The Squadron Chief Petty Officer, Sean Anders, a prim, correct little redheaded martinet, never said a word yet everybody knew that "Iron Ass" was just as human and just as frail as everyone else. Everybody knew that the Chief buried his face in his pillow and humped his mattress, thanks to Eion Reilly, because Eion's bunk abutted the bulkhead that separated the Chief's cabin from the mess deck, and Eion had to listen to the muffled groans and grunts coming through the paper thin partition until Iron Ass finally popped his nut and shut the fuck up!

Which Eion had done this afternoon. He came strolling out of the bathroom, his short, stocky body flushed and pink from his shower, with an ethereal smile on his face. Eion was really a quite handsome boy, with dark hair and sparkling brown eyes. He claimed unbroken Irish descent - since Brian Boru was a boy, Chef said - but Peter thought that there was a Spaniard in the woodpile. Eion was what was known as "Black Irish", dark as a Spaniard, without the guile and colour of the Irish. Chef said it was from some ancestor washed ashore as the Spanish galleons of the Armada tried to escape the wrath of Sir Francis Drake by sailing around Ireland. The shoals and rocks of Erin had claimed many a fine ship and drowned many a seaman and soldier. Others were washed ashore and being hot-blooded, and Spaniards, took up with the Irish lassies, who being Irish lassies, could not resist the dark eyed strangers, or so said Chef.

Peter thought that Chef was as full of crap as an Irish Christmas goose and didn't believe a word of it. Eion sort of believed, and claimed that Chef was a wise man indeed, if only because Chef's meanderings offered a reason for his black hair and darker colouring. Both young men suspected that the truth was there somewhere, but neither wanted to endure one of Chef's meandering lectures, so avoided the subject.

"Gosh, that felt good!" exclaimed Eion as he walked to the other bed and flopped down.

Peter wanted to ask if Eion was referring to the shower, or the hand job, but didn't. Instead he complained mildly, "You took long enough." But he grinned when he said it.

"You could have come in," return Eion equably. "It's not that you haven't showered with me before." He rose up and his dark eyes took in Peter's naked body. "And you are undressed for it!"

Grabbing a handful of coverlet, Peter hid is midsection. Eion laughed and lay back down. "And I've seen your dick before, too!" he said.

Peter replied with a noncommittal grunt. For some reason being naked with Eion was . . . not strange, but well, sort of . . . stimulating? He couldn't understand why, but it felt, well, nice . . . okay?

"You going to shower?" Eion's voice broke the silence.

Turning his head, Peter's eyes seemed to automatically drift down to Eion's crotch. He turned away quickly. "Uh, yeah, in a while."

Peter's looking at him had not escaped Eion's notice. "The water's hot."

"Yeah."

Eion raised himself on one elbow and looked at Peter. "Is something wrong?"

Peter returned Eion's gaze. "No, why should it be?"

"Well, you're acting awfully strange," replied Eion. He then deliberately reached down to run his finger down the short length of his soft organ. He noted the almost instant flickering of Peter's eyes, and a slight lowering of Peter's lips. He also noted that the cotton, flower-patterned coverlet covering Peter's waist seemed to twitch and grow into a bit of a tent.

Why he did it, Peter could never explain, but he slowly pulled the coverlet away from his body. "You have a nice dick," he said.

"Yeah," Eion replied as he rolled onto his side. He stared directly at Peter's crotch. "Jeez, you have big balls."

Chuckling, Peter replied, "Horse balls, that's me!" he lowered his eyes and looked at his rising penis. "Too bad my dick isn't as big." He darted his eyes at Eion. "At least you don't look deformed."

"You're not deformed," responded Eion. "You just haven't been clipped. It's no big deal." Then he added with a snicker, "But, if you had Jérémie Cher's cock, man, you'd be in heaven!"

"He's big," agreed Peter. He grinned widely. "I've seen it hard and man, his thing would scare off a brood mare!"

Laughing, Eion nodded his head. "I saw Harry, once."

"You did?" Peter raised his head and looked at Eion. Harry was the considered by many to be the benchmark when it came to penises. "You really saw it, um, you know, hard?"

"Sure did," replied Eion. His dark eyes scanned Peter's rising manhood. "But I'll tell you a secret, Harry is like . . .big, and thick, but I think Jérémie Cher is bigger!"

"Really?"

"Really," said Eion. He got off his bed and without invitation lay down beside Peter. "Like I said, I've seen both of them on the bone." He looked down at Peter's crotch and saw that Peter, like himself, was hard. "I wonder if Harry uses anything."

Peter, not too aware of the masturbation practices of others, looked confused. "Use? Use what?" he asked. He saw that Eion's erection was standing well, not tall but certainly proud.

"It depends," replied Eion. "A lot of guys who are circumcised use something to lubricate. Why do you think most guys have Vaseline in their kitbags? Of course, you're not circumcised, so you don't need it."

"Do you, um, keep some Vaseline around?" asked Peter, curious.

Eion nodded. "Sure do. But I never use any in the shower. Soap works as well."

Peter giggled. "I know."

"I figured," replied Eion deadpan. "You must have heard me. I do get a little, um, carried away sometimes, especially when I rub my secret spot." He pushed his erection back and rubbed his finger gently on the back of the glans, just as it curved down to join the pink and tan shaft. "See this?" he indicated. As he rubbed his penis twitched and a small drop of crystal-clear liquid oozed from the slit in the head of his penis. "I think all circumcised guys have it. When I'm super horny, which is most of the time . . ." he admitted frankly, "I can get off wicked quick."

Peter felt very comfortable, and moved his leg slightly so that it touched Eion's. "And this?" He thrust his hips outward, which caused his erection to bounce.

Laughing, Eion said, "Oh, well, most guys, when they beat off, they keep pumping until they've shot their load. Me, I like to let go just as I'm about to blow. You know the feeling, when you're past the point of no return?"

Peter did.

"I don't know about other guys, but I get a brilliant cum!" He glanced down at Peter's erection. "You should try it." Then he asked. "You're skin doesn't come down? How come? When Jérémie gets hard - the head is like huge - but all the skin comes back."

Regarding his own erection Peter saw what Eion was talking about. His foreskin was very much in evidence. Drawn back reluctantly, the cherry-red, glistening head of his penis was barely revealed. "Um, well, I'll show you."

Peter reached down and pulled on the shaft of his erect penis. The skin drew back until it was just under the domed head. "That's as far as it goes," he said sadly. "It's supposed to go down further, but it doesn't, and if I try to pull it down it hurts like hell."

"So you don't . . .?" asked Eion delicately.

"I do," affirmed Peter confidently. "I just have to go slow, and be careful."

"Slow and careful can be very nice," observed Eion. "I do that sometimes."

"Yeah, well you don't have to worry about tearing your fraenulum!"

"My what?"

Peter rolled and ran his finger down the underside of Eion's erection. "See this little bit of skin than runs from your secret spot down?"

Eion looked and nodded. "Yeah?"

"Well, that's what's left of your fraenulum after you're circumcised. Some guys don't have it, some do. Anyway, the fraenulum is what keeps your foreskin attached to your dick. Usually it's very loose and when a guy who isn't circumcised pulls down on his skin the head is fully exposed." Peter realized that he was sounding very clinical, but he really didn't know any other way to describe his condition. "The doctor says that I have a very short fraenulum - my brothers, too - and so long as I can pull the skin down low enough to clean under the head of my dick I'm all right."

"Still . . ."

"Yeah, but I manage," said Peter with a grin. Then he sobered. "Still, I would like to be circumcised, if only to be able to rub all of my dick! It gets to be a pain when all I can do is rub the head and pump carefully." He sighed. "I sure wish I could, um, you know, just once let loose, like you do."

"Oh, I think I can help you there," said Eion softly. He suddenly rose up and pulled Peter's leg aside.

"What?" Peter's eyes grew wide. "Hey, what are you doing?"

"Shut up," responded Eion as he quickly positioned himself between Peter's now outspread legs. He looked into Peter's eyes. "We're shipmates, right?"

"Yeah." Peter could feel his breathing growing harsher. He had a feeling of what was coming. "Yeah, we're shipmates."

"And shipmates help each other out, right?"

Swallowing, Peter could only nod.

Eion was on his knees. He reached out his hand and his finger gently touched the barely exposed head of Peter's dick. "You want to have a brilliant cum, right?" he asked.

Peter didn't know what to do. He wanted to have Eion do him, but was it right? "But . . . but . . . you're a guy!" he managed. He felt Eion's finger slowly circle the exposed head.

"Most shipmates are," replied Eion. "Jeez, you're hot!"

"In more ways than one," thought Peter. A thrill of something wonderful coursed through his testicles. He raised his hips ever so slightly, offering himself to Eion. Closing his eyes, Peter gave in to the temptation of Eion's circling finger.

"Okay, now just relax," instructed Eion. With his free hand he pulled down the skin covering the head of Peter's dick. Peter hissed softly at the feeling. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Shaking his head, Peter whispered, "No. Just . . . be careful."

Smiling, Eion continued to gently rub Peter's glans, which seemed to glow a deeper red from the stimulation. "Now, let's see if you have a secret spot."

Eion's finger moved to the back of Peter's erection. Much to Peter's surprise a flash of ecstasy roared through him. He all but leaped from the bed. "Sheeeiiit . . . Fffuuuccckkk," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Feels good," observed Eion with a slight chuckle. "Feels really good."

"Yeeeaaah," moaned Peter.

"Okay, when you're just about to blow, tell me."

The feeling seemed to begin in Peter's toes and travel rapidly up his legs to rumble in his groin. His breathing became laboured and his hips slowly rose. "Oh . . . yeeeaaah!"

Eion watched carefully as Peter's huge testicles drew back into his body. Peter was close, very close.

Suddenly Peter yelped, "Eion . . . I'm gonna . . . Oh sheeeiiit!"

As the feeling rolled through him Peter arched his hips. Eion quickly withdrew his hand and watched as Peter's thick erection throbbed and jumped rhythmically. As Eion watched a small river of semen, watery, pale white, dribbled from the slit in the head of Peter's dick. Peter began humping the air and a flood of his thicker ejaculate flowed outward, over the head and down the shaft. Peter was in heaven, breathing heavily, his heart pounding rapidly.

All too soon the feeling began to subside and Peter, breathing heavily through his open mouth, groaned gutturally. "Oh, sheeeiiit!" he exclaimed as he lowered his hips to the bed.

Peter glanced at Eion, who was smiling like a contented cat. Seeing Peter's awestruck face, Eion winked and rolled away, flung is legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. He slowly stroked his wilting erection, a most self-satisfied look on his face. "Now you have to shower," he said with a chuckle.

For a moment Peter was stunned. Eion had just done something to him that he never had thought would happen, and caused him to have the greatest orgasm of his life. As Peter watched, Eion settled comfortably on his bed. Peter then realized that what had happened was exactly what Eion said it was: one shipmate helping out another, no great passion, no desperate longing.

The more he thought about it, the more Peter understood the rationale. He liked Eion, and Eion was a good-looking guy. But Peter had no feelings of love for him. Eion had helped him out, gotten him off and Peter thought that he should at least offer to return the favour. Or at least thank Eion. It was, after all, the least a gentleman could do.

"Eion thanks."

"S'okay," murmured Eion sleepily. He snuggled his head in his pillow.

"You, um, you want me to rub your secret spot?" offered Peter tentatively. He had never touched another boy's penis, but he was willing to help Eion out, if he wanted it.

Eion shook his head, rolled on his side and presented his plump behind for inspection. "Naw. I'm good. I had a great shower. Thanks anyway." Then he giggled. "Maybe later."

Patrick Tsang walked onto the terrace, enjoying the peace and quiet. The young gentlemen were sequestered in their rooms, napping Patrick thought. Michael was locked away in his office with the Major and Joel was in a mood. His molestations of his computer were not working and Joel was in a mood. Patrick actually liked Joel, but knew enough not to try to mollify the man or to try to smooth things over. Joel seemed to enjoy snapping and snarling and generally making a pain of himself.

Above Patrick, his shower over, Peter drew back the drapes and pulled the double-paned window open, letting a cooling breeze flood the bedroom. Eion was snoring away and Peter, not sleepy, decided to just stand and look at the delightful, verdant scene before him.

Patrick was just as enthralled at the panorama of trees and sky and lowering sun. British Columbia was, he decided, God's country, the most beautiful of all the provinces. He was so engrossed in the scenery that he had not heard the soft footfall. Sensing another presence, Patrick turned and saw Pete Sheppard standing at the top of the steps leading to the gardens. Pete seemed distracted, and not his usual self.

Before Patrick could say anything, Pete noticed his presence, smiled wanly and walked to stand beside the Chinese man. "I've been looking for Ned," Pete said.

"He is in the Van Dyke Room," responded Patrick.

Pete knew the room, which was named for the small Van Dyke portrait of Catherine of Braganza, Charles II's queen, which hung over the fireplace. He also knew that the room had been assigned to the Master-at-Arms and Chief Gunnery Instructor, Tyler Benbow and Val Orsini. "What's he doing in there?" asked Pete somewhat miffed. Ned was supposed to be doing rounds.

"Playing cards," returned Patrick without inflection. "He rang down to the kitchens and ordered up some beer. According to the footman who delivered the beer, Ned is playing poker with four of the young gentlemen - the four senior cadets, I believe."

"Is Ned winning or losing," asked Pete suspiciously. If Ned were taking advantage of the young knights he'd rue the day and . . .

"It appears that he is losing," advised Patrick.

Low, brittle laughter escaped Pete's lips. "If he's losing, the sumbitch is cheating."

Patrick looked startled. "I beg your pardon?"

Pete repeated his accusation.

"Excuse me," said Patrick, "but it was my impression that if one is manipulating the cards in a game of chance one is attempting to increase one's odds at winning!"

"That is my impression, too," responded Pete. "But . . . Look, Patrick, Ned likes to project this image of the dumbest hillbilly to ever walk down the mountain but when it comes to cards, he's the sharpest, canniest player ever to hit Reno or Las Vegas."

Patrick considered Pete's words. "Then he is allowing the young gentlemen to win." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes."

Patrick sighed. "I shall send flowers."

"Flowers? Why would you send flowers, and where would you send them?" demanded Pete, not understanding Patrick's remark.

"To Ned's hospital room, or the funeral parlour. It depends on how angry the young gentlemen become if they ever find out that Ned allowed them to win."

"Now why would they become angry," asked Pete. "They're winning Ned's money."

Shaking his head, Patrick looked directly at Pete. "I have heard Michael, and Chef, and yes, young Phantom speaking often enough, and I believe I can say with the great assurance that the young gentlemen will not appreciate being allowed to win." Before Pete could respond, Patrick held up his hand. "The young gentlemen prize several things, Pete. First is loyalty, each to the other. They consider themselves brothers, in all respects. Next is honesty. They will never lie, never betray their brothers. And above all, is honour. They believe in honour, that a man's word is his bond. What Ned is doing is perhaps commendable. He enjoys their company, and he wishes to make them his friends. But . . . allowing them to win is dishonest, and should the young gentlemen ever find out that he is doing so . . ." He shrugged expressively. "They will be most displeased."

Above the two men, Peter, who was all but leaning out of the window to hear the conversation drifting up to him, nodded his head. "Fuckin' Aye!" muttered grimly. Then he added, "Poor Ned." He could hear Patrick's voice again.

" . . .They would approve of what you plan on doing this evening," Patrick said. "I do not agree, but I am not the one who will be . . ."

Pete's harsh voice cut off Patrick's words. "Patrick, the doctor is a venal, vicious, sneaky bastard. He is immoral and would fuck a snake if the thing could get hard!" He slammed the flat of his hand against his thigh. "At the moment the good doctor Daniel Bradley-Smith is no doubt getting his ass reamed." He saw the shocked look of Patrick's face and continued. "He left here and went to a brothel down in the dock area - a brothel that caters to males with peculiar tastes."

"Homosexuals?"

"Yeah. The boys are all Orientals, Chinese and Vietnamese. I'm looking into the place."

"Speak with Cousin Tommy. He will know."

"From experience?" snapped Pete. His nerves were taught and he had had little sleep.

"No." replied Patrick gently. "Cousin Tommy is Michael's man on the scene so to speak. He keeps an eye out for such things and reports them to Michael." Patrick thought a moment and then added, "And just so you know, Cousin Tommy is married, and has two sons. He would only be inside such an establishment if he were there to close it down."

Reaching out, Patrick placed his hand on Pete's shoulder. "You really should reconsider what you plan to do. You're much too tense, much too nervous, Pete."

Sighing, Pete shook his head. "Patrick, you have to understand that Bradley-Smith is no fool. He would never believe it if I just came out and told him what we plan on pretending to do, he'd be suspicious. You have to understand that he's a sneak, and like all sneaks he'd never believe the truth point blank and up front. He has to think that he's wheedled the information out of me by accident."

Peter's ears perked up. He asked himself what Pete Sheppard was going to do to make the doctor think what Pete wanted him to think. Pete unwittingly supplied the answer.

"Patrick, I am not looking forward to being with him," said Pete tightly. "The thought of having to . . ." he paused, stiffened, his mind made up, and continued, "Pillow talk has sunk more ships, Patrick. Remember that."

Peter sat up. Pillow talk? What the hell was that? Did it mean what he thought it meant? He slowly closed the window so as not to make a noise, and hurried to Eion's bed. He shook his roommate awake.

"Wha . . . Peter, for Christ's sake, I told you I was fine!" growled Eion. He threw his pillow at Peter. "Now go away or I won't help you out later!"

"I'm not looking for a knob rub!" exclaimed Peter. He gave Eion another, harder shake. "What's 'pillow talk'?"

Eion, who had read every Ellery Queen novel ever written, and seen "The Maltese Falcon" six times, was just the man to explain pillow talk.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Eion said, "Well, it's like, when you go to bed with somebody, and fuck each other's eyes out, afterward you talk."

"I thought you had a smoke," interjected Peter.

"That's in the movies," returned Eion. He returned to the point. "While you're talking you let slip a secret, a secret that nobody but you knows." He thought a moment. "Like Jérémie Cher is still a virgin. Never had a hand on his dick but his own."

"You're still a virgin," sniped Peter. "So am I!"

"Well you know what I mean," countered Eion. Then he waggled his eyebrows. "How come you're asking me about pillow talk? You wanna fuck my eyes out and then tell me a secret?"

Peter let out an appalled gasp.

Eion laughed uproariously. "Gotcha! I ain't into anal. I draw the line at a hand job."

"Good, 'cause you're not that great a shipmate!" returned Peter. "My ass is a man-free zone!" He turned and began dressing. "I don't have any secrets," he lied to Eion.

"Can I go back to sleep, then?"

"Yeah," replied Peter, stepping into his Jockeys. He knew a secret, though, one that he would not tell Eion. But one he would tell someone.

As he reached for the garish Hawaiian shirt he planned on wearing to the dinner this evening, Peter wondered if he should tell The Phantom what he had heard. He decided he should, the doctor was betraying the Order! The Phantom needed know what the skank was up to.

Peter slipped the shirt over his shoulders, buttoned it and quickly left the bedroom.