A woman's voice interrupted me, I turned to look at the captain's wife who, of course, was the only woman aboard _Mary Celeste_. She was carrying little Sophia Matilda in her arms. She said, "Edward, what unearthly manner of ship is that?" The steward, Edward Head replied, "I don't rightly know, ma-am." I turned to look. No more than fifty feet from the starboard rail was a vast barge. Upon the barge were serried rows of seats that stretched upwards and backwards for hundreds of feet. The seats were filling rapidly; ushers were escorting the spectators efficiently, vendors were selling refreshments and programs. A thrumming sound came from overhead and I looked up to watch the materialization of jetcopters and personnel carriers and even a poised spacecraft hanging in a dome above our heads. Over the lee rail came a crew of technicians carrying the heavy Ward-Workman tridi recorders of the twenty-seventh century, and their director pulled a script from his pocket and said: "Joe, you and Pete dislocate the binnacle and break the compass. Al, open the fore hatch and lazarette. Tony, that spring-wound chronometer is a pre-atomic clock and worth a fortune to the National Museum, put it among my personal loot, along with the sextant. You can keep the ship's register, but give the navigation books to George with my compliments. Let's see, um. Sails, jib and fore-topmast. Now toss the yawl overboard; get it out of the way. It's missing." One of his men came up and said something to him that I could not hear. "No," he replied, "It would not be more dramatic to dummy-up a half-eaten breakfast and a pan of milk warming on the stove for the baby. Too many writers tried to make it that way in the beginning. I know what's authentic." Then he paused as the Ward-Workman cameramen panned around _Mary Celeste_ making close-up and approach shots. One by one they finished their work and reported to him. "Fine," he said, looking at his strapwatch. "Now let's back off for some long shots. And remember, we don't know what kind of a catastrophe this is going to be, so keep those tridi recorders running constantly until I tell you to stop!" Captain Benjamin Spooner Briggs of _Mary Celeste_ put an arm around his wife. To me he said, "I don't completely understand, but I do get enough to realize that we're the subject of something evil." "Yes," I replied, "you--" "We're not waiting here to let it happen to us!" he snapped. "But you can't change history!" I objected. "Watch," he said roughly. And then with a stentorian voice, Captain Briggs roared: "_Abandon ship!_" The captain and his wife, still carrying their daughter Sophia Matilda, mingled with the photorecording crew. The two mates, the steward, and the four German seamen went over the side and swam swiftly for the barges. There were flurries of activity when they went aboard the barges, but then the activity stilled and I was alone on _Mary Celeste_.