<div class="floatleft">(https://46.media.tumblr.com/84400782eb9cadbbb1a45de7e5d4a923/tumblr_mx2kuiRV9E1sr1ki0o1_500.gif)</div><hr/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;"><strong>EDMUND BROCKMAN, MD | 34 | DOCTOR OF MEDICINE (PSYCHIATRY) </strong></span><hr/><br/><hr/><br/>Men of lesser intelligence were so easy to read. Had the porter been a patient, Dr. Brockman would have diagnosed him completely before he had even reached the couch. The younger man tried to disguise his emotions but lacked the talent to do so when faced with a professional reader of the mind.<br/><br/>Envy and jealousy, certainly. What a self-torturing man this must be, to seek a job that would bring him in constant contact with his betters, like a thirsting man with a drink always just out of reach? There was more to it, though. Just as animals possess a natural cunning that warns them of predators, this lowly servant had somehow sensed within Dr. Brockman the seed of evil that had taxed his island country so mercilessly in recent days. Edmund Brockman had not fought in the war, of course. He had argued strenuously for the United States to maintain its neutrality. When the will of the populace turned and his adopted country had become hopelessly engaged the good doctor found wisdom in discretion and remained silent on the issue, even going so far as to drop the second "N" from his surname and work harder in cultivating a bland Mid-Atlantic accent.<br/><br/>This man, carrying his suitcase and currying favor despite his inward loathing, knew the truth. Dr. Brockman was German to the core, and this servant despised him for it.<br/><br/>Let him stew in his own miserable hate, then. He was of no consequence. The doctor passed him a single American quarter for his troubles, a paltry sum that he imagined might be found at the bottom of the harbor in due course.<br/><br/>"I am well, well indeed," he said, smiling. "The trip was marvelously smooth. You English certainly know how to build a good ship." How to steal a good ship, more like. He glanced over the first telegram. Pointless as usual; he could expect no more from Jenkins. No doubt the man had made a great show of having to send a Transatlantic Cable, even if it was empty drivel. The second telegram--<br/><br/>But wait. A vision. A dream. For a moment the customs agent, and all other women, dimmed into the background. He slid the second telegram absent-mindedly into his pocket as he crossed the short distance between himself and this Aphrodite. The passport in her hands -- a fellow traveler, no doubt disembarking. How much more pleasant the voyage might have been if he had met her at the onset!<br/><br/>"Miss?" he offered in his most charming, officious voice. "May I help you? I am Doctor Edmund Brockman, completely at your service. You're fatigued from your travels, clearly, and the airs of London can be overpowering after becoming used to the oceanic breeze." He turned to the inspector. "Can you process this quickly, please? The young lady would be best served to find a stable seat, and perhaps a stabilizing sherry, as soon as possible." His smile returned as he faced her again. "I do think it would be best, and I would be negligent if I did not accompany you."<br/>