Several days had passed before Rogue found the strength to crawl from his bed; and a further week before he was once again able to walk upright and in a straight line. By day he searched the now deserted 'Wilton Weaver' determined to find the rent runner who had shattered his ankles, while by night he sat on the main deck listening to the sound of the river being churned by the steamboat’s enormous paddles. Yet the further up river the old boat took him the more slowly time seemed to pass. He wondered if time might be catching up on itself.
   One evening at sunset, Rogue stood on the portside walkway looking out across the vast expanse of crystal clear blue water when abruptly a blanket of thick fog descended and enveloped the old steamer. So dense was the fog that Rogue could barely see, yet still the boat chugged along, moving steadily upriver. And then, from out of the fog he heard a cry.
   “Ahoy there.”
   Rogue looked long and hard at the image of sorrow that had appeared in a patch of clear air to port. Seven men, a woman and a young girl, huddled together in a battered lifeboat that was barely big enough to hold them. Yet as he studied them, Rogue realised that they were merely shadows in the shape of men.
   “Ahoy there. We are adrift without direction, can you aid us?”
   “How have you come to be here?’ asked Rogue.
   “I’m Captain Edward John Smith and this is my Chief Officer, Henry Wilde. Our liner was on its maiden voyage when we hit an iceberg and sank. This is Captain Benjamin Briggs, his wife and their young daughter. They were forced to abandon ship during bad weather. As for the rest… all that we know is that they are submariners. Germans and Russians, we gather. However, as none of them speak English we have been unable to ascertain what became of their vessels.”
   One of the submariners stood up and saluted, "Comrade Vladimir Bagriantsev," he said, and then, as one, the castaways began to sigh and groan. Rogue looked on as the tiny lifeboat disappeared back into the fog. And then he heard a cry.
   “Ahoy there, we are adrift without direction, can you aid us?”
   It was the same voice from the same battered lifeboat full of phantoms. Rogue wondered who else they could have stumbled upon out there in the fog.
   Suddenly the steamboat ran aground and as Rogue jumped into the shallow waters to wade ashore, the veil of fog lifted as abruptly as it had descended. He looked out across the expanse of parched earth. The sun was high with no breeze to cool the air and, save for a green-painted door that stood in an old oak frame, the landscape appeared barren.
   Rogue reached for the brass handle and turned it anticlockwise. The door creaked open and, with increasing trepidation, he stepped through.

   “Ah, Mr Tuft, how nice of you to join us,” purred an exquisitely dressed buxom bottle-blonde who sat at the head of the green baize table. “My name is Abilene Zylon, Mistress of The Game. Please do take a seat and I’ll introduce you to your fellow players.”
   Warily, Rogue eased himself onto a saddle chair and scanned slowly around the room.
   “To your immediate left,” continued Mistress Zylon,” is Bogart Humphrey, the Queen of Africa.”
   “Nice dress,” said Rogue and offered Mr Humphrey a friendly smile.
   Bogart’s expression was one of ire. “The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter,” he replied and took a sip from his glass of raw eggs and Worcester sauce.
   “Oh don’t mind Mr Humphrey, he’s just upset that Sam won’t play his favourite song,” said Abilene Zylon. “I’ve told him that the pianola is out of tune but he’s having none of it.”
   “It played for you, it could play for me! . . . If you can stand it, I can! Play it!”
   “Oh please, Bogart, stop being so petulant,” chided Miss Zylon.
   Rogue turned his attention back to the hostess. “You mentioned a game?”
   “There’ll be plenty of time for that, later. Now, to your right is Woody Alan. Unfortunately the mists of time have had rather a curious affect on poor Mr Alan’s biological makeup. Haven’t they, sweetie.”
   “I’m not a puppet, I’m a real three-time Academy Award-winning American film director, writer, actor, jazz musician, comedian and playwright.”
   “Yes, and I’m certain that you will be again, dear,” said Abilene Zylon and patted Woody’s hand reassuringly.
   “Are you going to come up and see me, later,” asked the one time satirical comic actor.
   “No, my Love. Once was enough. I still have the splinters, you know!”
   “The game?” insisted Rogue.
   “There’s still one more player that I haven’t introduced,” said Mistress Zylon, sternly. “To your far left is Dean Martini, the lil’ ol’ whining drinker.”
   “It wasn’t me, Abi, it was you. Remember? That night you came down to my dressing room and said, ‘Kid, this ain’t your night’. You remember that?” whined Martini. “And what did I get? A one way ticket to Palookaville.”
   “Palookaville can be quite nice at that time of the year,” replied Abiline Zylon. “Besides, I had some bets down for ya. You saw some money.”
   “You don’t understand,” Martini continued, “I could have had a glass, I could have been a bartender!”
   “I’ve heard quite enough of this childish nonsense,” scolded the Mistress of The Game. “Do you play craps, Mister Tuft?”
   “I’ve had a few off days, I’ll admit, but on the whole I’m a dab hand at sharking.”
   “Then roll the dice, Mr Tuft. Let us see if Lady Luck is smiling on you.”
   “I bet he shoots snakes eyes,” whined Martini.
   “Just play it,” groaned Bogart Humphrey and handed Rogue two dice.
   Rogue scooped up the cubes and made a fist. He pursed his lips and blew. “I’m hustling for a pull newman,” he said and threw the purple dice across the baize.
   “I’m not a puppet, I’m a real - ”
   There were two loud bangs and Woody Alan slumped headfirst onto the gaming table with a hole between his gloss-painted eyes. The dice had been loaded!