Dudley was barely inside his room when his beeper sounded. He did not need to look at it to know it was the Commodore. Glancing at his watch, Dudley saw that it was just eleven o’clock. When he was in port, Dudley loved to watch the local news. Tonight he was glad the news was not available on the ship. He didn’t even want to think about what the reporter from the local station in Miami who’d attended the party this afternoon was saying about the Santa Cruise. He’d find out soon enough.
He picked up the phone from the night table and dialed the Commodore’s suite. The Commodore grunted a hello.
In Dudley’s best fake cheery voice, he chirped, “Commodore Weed, your favorite cruise director here. What can I do for you?”
“This is no time for levity,” the Commodore grumbled. “Get up here immediately. I’ve been getting distress calls from land about the television coverage of this cruise and that loathsome waiter you hired!”
“I’ll be right up,” Dudley promised. “We’ll get this all squared away, sir—”
The Commodore had already hung up.
Dudley hated his room but now looked longingly at the bed. To get undressed. Wash his hands and face. Brush his teeth. Floss. Get under the covers. It was not going to happen for a long time. If ever, he thought.
Winston answered the door of the Commodore’s suite wearing a solemn expression, which immediately got under Dudley’s skin. So Pluto isn’t a planet anymore, Dudley thought sarcastically. Get over it. He sailed past Winston into the living room. The Commodore was in his admiral-of-the-fleet stance, shoulders rigid, hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window. When he turned around, Dudley was shocked to see that there were tears in his boss’s eyes. The Commodore pointed in the direction of Miami. “They’re snickering, Dudley. They’re all making fun of us. I’ve received four calls in the last few minutes. You know what they’re saying? ‘You lose if you go on the Santa Cruise.’ You lose! I’m losing. Lots of money. And now your big idea is a bust. That waiter is telling the cops that this ship is a joke.” Commodore Weed’s voice tightened. “They even showed a video of you falling on your bum at the rock-climbing wall. The newscaster had the nerve to call you the ‘sports director.’ “
Dudley was aghast. “They showed that video? Wasn’t the coverage of the waiter swimming away enough?”
“Apparently not. We have entertained the city of Miami, and God knows where else the segment has been broadcast. Those kind of recorded moments are played and replayed on the Internet millions of times.”
I’ll never be able to go to my next high school reunion, Dudley thought. “But, sir . . .” he began. “Sometimes they say that any publicity is good publicity.”
“Not in this case! Where’s Eric?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s not answering his beeper. I want him here.”
“Sir, I have a question.”
“What?”
“They didn’t mention Miss Pickering’s hallucination, did they?”
The Commodore’s misty eyes bulged. “No. But I’m sure that will be on the morning news. How many of our do-gooders are on cell phones at this very moment reporting on every last thing that has happened since we left Miami?”
“Sir, most cell phone coverage has faded by now. Only if you have a special world phone can you make and receive calls.”
“Then they’re calling from their rooms! I’m sure someone will get through! Summon Eric! We have to be ready with a dignified response to this disgraceful gossip.”