One Passenger Too Many

At ten o'clock on the last night of the cruise, Security Officer Brannstrom sat down in her small office on Deck 3 to do the job she liked least: the final count. Before the ship could dock in the morning, the number of people on board had to match the passenger list sent to the immigration authorities, down to the very last person. Usually it was a matter of twenty minutes. As they delivered the customs forms, the cabin stewards noted how many guests were in each cabin, the figures were added up, and the list was signed.

Tonight, however, the numbers refused to agree. According to the list, there were 2,413 passengers on board, but the stewards' reports added up to 2,414. Brannstrom counted again, and then a third time, while her coffee went cold beside her. One person too many could mean a dozen things, most of them bad. Someone might have slipped on board at the last port without a ticket. A steward could have counted a visitor from the cabin next door. Or someone might be travelling under another passenger's name, which would be far more serious.

It took her almost an hour to find the problem. Every cabin matched the list except one: Cabin 7148 on Deck 7, booked for two adults, where the steward had written a small but unmistakable "3". Only then did she remember two odd things from earlier that day. At about five o'clock, the ship's doctor, Dr. Achebe, had hurried past her in a corridor, looking exhausted but strangely cheerful. "Busy afternoon," was all she had said. And at dinner, a steward had mentioned that the passengers in 7148 had asked for every spare towel on the deck.

Taking a colleague with her, Brannstrom went up to Deck 7. Before she had even knocked, she could hear something behind the door: a thin, high cry, rather like a cat's. Pets were not allowed on board, and whoever was making that noise was not on her list. She knocked firmly. The door was opened by a pale young man in a crumpled T-shirt, who put a finger to his lips. Behind him, propped up in bed, was a woman holding a tiny bundle wrapped in one of the ship's white towels, and beside the bed, still in her uniform, sat Dr. Achebe.

"I was going to bring you the paperwork first thing in the morning," the doctor said apologetically. "She arrived at 4:12 this afternoon. Nobody knew she was coming. Not even her mother." "I thought it was seasickness," said the woman in the bed, and laughed weakly. Brannstrom looked at the baby, who had stopped crying and was now frowning at the ceiling, as though she, too, had found a mistake in the numbers. "Has she got a name yet?" Brannstrom asked. "We're still arguing about that," said the father.

Back in her office, Brannstrom took out a pen. At the bottom of the passenger list, below 2,413 typed names, she wrote by hand: "2,414. Baby girl, Cabin 7148. Boarded at sea, 4:12 p.m." Then she finally drank her coffee, which was stone cold, and didn't mind at all.