Island of the Sequined Love Nun Chapter 10~14

10

Coconut Telegraph

Jefferson Pardee dialed the island communications center and asked them to connect him to a friend of his in the governor's office on Yap. While he waited for the connection, he looked down from his office above the Food Store on the Truk public market: women selling bananas, coconuts, and banana leaf bundles of taro out of plywood sheds; children with bandannas on their faces against the rising street dust; drunk men languishing red-eyed in the shade. Across the street lay a stand of coconut palms and the vibrant blue-green water of the lagoon dotted with outboards and floating pieces of Styrofoam coolers. Another day in paradise, Pardee thought.

Pardee had been out here for thirty years now. He'd come fresh out of Northwestern School of Journalism full of passion to save the world, to help those less fortunate than himself, and to avoid the draft. After his two years in the Peace Corps were up - his main achievement was teaching the islanders to boil water - he'd stayed. First he worked for the budding island governments, helping to write the charters, the constitutions, and the re-quests for aid from the United States. That work finished, he found himself afraid to go home. He'd gone to fat on breadfruit and beer and become accustomed to dollar whores, fifty-cent taxis, and a two-hour workday. The idea of returning to the States, where he would have to live up to his potential or face being called a failure, terrified him. He wrote and received a grant to start the Truk Star. It was the last significant thing that he'd done for twenty-five years. Covering the news in Truk was akin to taking a penguin census in the Mojave Desert. Still, deep inside, he hoped that something would happen so that he could

flex his atrophied journalistic muscles. Something he could get passionate about. Why couldn't the United States nuke a nearby island? The French did it in Polynesia all the time. But no, the United States nukes one little atoll in Micronesia (Bikini) and they go away, saying, "Well, I guess that ought to do for twenty-five thousand years or so." Wimps.

Then again, maybe there was something going on out on Alualu. Something clandestine and dirty. Jefferson Pardee had lost his ambition, but he still had hope.

"Go ahead," the operator said.

"Ignatho, how you doing, man?"

Ignatho Malongo, governor's assistant for outer island affairs, was not in the mood to chat. It was lunchtime and he was out of cigarettes and betel nut and no one had come to relieve him on the radio so he could leave. His office was in a bright blue corrugated steel shed tucked behind the offices of the governor. It housed a military-style steel desk, a shortwave radio, a new IBM computer, and a wastebasket full of tractor-feed paper stained with red betel nut spit under a sign that emphatically declared NO SPITTING. He was round, brown, and wore only a loincloth, a Casio watch, and a Bic pen on a string around his neck. He was sweating into a puddle that darkened the concrete floor around his desk.

"Pardee, what do you need?"

"I was wondering if you've heard anything going on out on Alualu?"

"Just the same. Occasionally the doctor radios for supplies to be sent out on the Micro Trader. They're not officially in Yap state, so they don't go through my office. Why?"

"You hear any rumors, maybe from the Micro Trader crew?"

"Like what? The Shark People don't have contact with anyone since I can remember. Just that Dr. Curtis."

Pardee didn't want to be in the business of starting rumors. More than once he'd had to track down a story to find out that it had started with a drunken lie he'd told in a bar that had circulated through the islands, changed enough to sound credible, and landed back on his desk. Still, Malongo wasn't giving anything today. "I hear they have a new aircraft out there. A Learjet."

Malongo laughed. "Where did you hear that?"

"I've heard it twice now. A couple of months ago from a guy who said he was going out there to fly it for them and just now from another pilot on his way."

"Maybe they're starting a new airline. Be serious, Jeff. Are you that desperate for a story? I've got some grants you can write if you need the work."

Pardee was a little embarrassed. Still, he had no doubt that Tucker Case had been contacted by Dr. Curtis. Something was up. He said, "Well, maybe you can ask the guys on the Trader to keep an eye out. Ask around and call me if you hear anything."

Suddenly Pardee had a flash of motivational inspiration. "If someone's buying jet airplanes, there might be some untapped government money out there that you guys don't know about." He could almost hear Malongo snap to attention.

Malongo was thinking air conditioner, laser printer, a new chair. "Look, I'll ask out at the airport. If someone's flying a jet off of Alualu, then they have to use the radio, right?"

"I suppose," Pardee said.

"I'll call you." Malongo hung up.

Pardee sighed. "And once again," he said to himself, "we lead with the 'Pig Thief Still at Large' story."

A half hour later the phone rang. The phone never rang. Pardee picked it up and could tell by the clicking that he was being connected off-island. Ignatho Malongo came on the line. He sounded like he was in a better mood. Pardee guessed that he was in a state of foreign aid arousal.

"Jeff, the Trader is in the harbor. Some of the crew was having lunch at the marina and I asked them about your Learjet." Malongo was smoking a Benson & Hedges and chewing a big cud of betel nut. He was in a better mood now.

"And?"

"No one's seen it, but they did see some Japanese on the island the last time they were there."

"Japanese? Tourists?"

"They were carrying machine guns."

"No shit."

"Do you think this means there's some military money coming our way?" Malongo was thinking air-conditioning, a case of Spam, a ticket to Hawaii to go shopping.

Pardee scratched his two-day growth of beard. "Probably the crew off of a tuna boat. They've been threatening to shoot some of the islanders off Ulithi if they keep stealing their net floats. I'll check with the Australian Navy, see if they know about a Japanese boat

fishing those waters. Meantime, I owe you a bag of betel nut."

Malongo laughed. "You owe me about ten bags by now. How you going to pay if you never leave that shithole of an island?"

"You'll see me soon enough." Pardee hung up.

11

Paging the Goddess

The Shark men had been beating drums and marching with bamboo rifles since dawn, while the Shark women prepared the feast for the appearance of the High Priestess.

In her bed chamber the High Priestess was doing her nails. The Sorcerer entered through a beaded curtain, moved up behind her, and cupped her naked breasts. Without looking up, she said, "You know, I used to get a pretty good buzz doing this in my studio apartment. Close the windows and let the fumes build up. Want a whiff?" She held the polish bottle out behind her.

He shook his head. He was in his mid-fifties, tall, thin, with short gray hair and ice blue eyes. He wore a green lab coat over Bermuda shorts. "Missionary Air just radioed. Their Beech is broken. They're waiting for a part from the States and won't have it fixed for a month. Our pilot's stuck on Truk."

The High Priestess fired a glare over her shoulder and he could feel himself going to slime, changing, melting into the lowest form of sea slug. She could do that to him. Her breasts felt like chilled river rocks in his hands. He stepped away.

"It's all right," he said. "I've sent him a message to fly to Yap. He can catch the Micro Trader there tomorrow and he'll be here two days later."

She was not impressed. "Don't you think it might be a good idea for me to meet this one before he gets here? It took long enough to find him."

The Sorcerer had backed all the way to the beaded curtain. "You were the one that didn't want any more military types."

"Because it worked so well last time. It's bad enough I have to be surrounded by ninjas. I don't like it."

The Sorcerer couldn't believe anyone could walk that slowly and still express so much; it was positively symphonic. He said, "They're not ninjas. They're just guards. This will all be over soon and you can live in a palace in France if you want."

He held his arms out to receive her embrace. She turned on a red spiked heel and quickstepped back to the vanity. "We'll talk about this later. I have to go on in an hour."

Feeling stupid, he dropped his arms and backed through the beaded curtain. In the distance the Shark People began the chant to call forth the Priestess of the Sky.

12

Friendly Advice

Tuck was sweating through a slow-motion dream rerun of the crash. The end of the runway was coming up too quickly. Meadow Malackovitch was bouncing off of various consoles in the cockpit. Someone in the copilot seat was screaming at him, calling him a "fuckin' mook." He turned to see who it was and was awakened by a knock on the door.

"Mr. Case. Message for you."

"Just a second." Tucker scrambled in the darkness until he found his khakis on the floor, shook them to evict any insect visitors, then pulled them on and stumbled to the door. Rindi, the driver-rapper, stood outside holding a slip of paper.

"This just come for you from the telecom center." He reached past Tuck and clicked the light switch. A bare bulb went on over the desk.

Tuck took the note, dug in his pants pocket for a tip, and came up with a dollar, but Rindi had already shuffled off.

The note, on waxy fax paper, was covered with greasy fingerprints. Tuck guessed it had probably passed through a dozen hands before getting to him. He unfolded it and read.

To: Tucker Case c/o Paradise Hotel

From: Dr. Sebastian Curtis

Mr. Case,

I deeply regret that my wife will not be able to meet you on Truk as planned.

We have reserved a seat for you on tomorrow's Air Micronesia flight to Yap,

where we have arranged transport aboard the supply ship, Micro Trader, to Alualu. Your plane will arrive at 11:00

A.M. and the Micro Trader is scheduled to sail at noon, so it will be necessary for you to take a taxi to the dock as soon as you clear customs.

I apologize for the inconvenience and would ask that you refrain from discussing the purpose of your visit with the crew of the Micro Trader - or with anyone else, for that matter. It would be unfortunate if this research reached the FAA before it had been thoroughly investigated. Rumors travel quickly in these islands.

I look forward to discussing the intricacies of the particular strain of sta-phylococci with you.

Sincerely,

Sebastian Curtis, M.D.

Staphylococci? Germs? He wants to discuss germs? Tuck couldn't have been more confused if the message had been in Eskimo. He folded it and looked again at the fingerprints.

That was it. He knew that other people would be reading the note. The germ thing was just a red herring to confuse nosy natives. The bit about the FAA obviously referred to Tuck's revoked pilot's license. In a way, it was a threat. Maybe he ought to find out a little more about this doctor before he went running out to this remote island. Maybe the reporter, Pardee, knew something.

Tuck dressed quickly and went down to the desk, where Rindi was listening to a transistor radio with a speaker that sounded like it had been fashioned from wax paper. Someone was singing a Garth Brooks song in nasal Trukese accompanied by an accordion.

"It sounds like someone's hurting animals." Tuck grinned.

Rindi did not smile. "You going out?" Rindi was eager to get into Tuck's

room and go through his luggage. "I need to find that reporter, Jefferson Pardee." Rindi looked as if he was going to spit. He said, "He at Yumi Bar all the

time. That way." He pointed up the road toward town. "You need ride?" "How far is it?" "Maybe a mile. How long you be gone?" Rindi wanted to take his time,

make sure he didn't miss any of Tuck's valuables. "I'm not sure. Do you lock the door at midnight or something?" "No, I come get you if you drunk."

"I'll be fine. I'll be checking out in the morning. Can I get an eight o'clock wake-up call?"

"No. No phone in room."

"How about a wake-up knock?"

"No problem."

"Thanks." Tucker went out the front door and was nearly thrown back by the thickness of the air. The temperature had dropped to the mid-80s, but it felt as if it had gotten more humid. Everything dripped. The air carried the scent of rotting flowers.

Tuck set off down the road and was soaked with sweat by the time he reached a rusted metal Quonset hut with a hand-painted sign that read YUMI BAR. The dirt parking lot was filled with Japanese beaters parked freestyle. A skeletal dog with open running sores, a crossbreed of dingo and sewer rat, cowered in the half-light coming through the door and looked at him as if pleading to be run over. Tuck's stomach lurched. He made a wide path around the dog, who looked down and resumed concen-tration on its suffering.

"Hey, kid, you're not going in there, are you?"

Tuck looked up. There was a cigarette glowing in the dark at the corner of the building. Tuck could just make out the form of a man standing there. He wore some kind of uniform - Tuck could see the silhouette of a captain's hat. Anywhere else Tuck might have ignored a voice in the dark, but the accent was American, and out here he was drawn to the familiarity of it. He'd heard it before.

He said, "I thought I'd get a beer. I'm looking for an American named Pardee."

The guy in the dark blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke. "He's in there. But you don't want to go in there right now. Wait a few minutes."

Tuck was about to ask why when two men came crashing through the door and landed in the dirt at his feet. They were islanders, both screaming incomprehensibly as they punched and gouged at one another. The one on the top held a bush knife, a short machete, which he drew back and slammed into the other man's head, severing an ear. Blood sprayed on the dust.

A stream of shouting natives spilled out of the bar, waving beer bottles and kicking at the fighters. Earless leaped to his feet and backed off to get a running attack at Bush Knife, who was rising to his feet. Earless hit him with a flying tackle as Bush Knife hacked at his ribs. A pickup truck full of policemen pulled into the parking lot and the crowd scattered into the dark and back into the bar, leaving

the fighters rolling in the dirt. Six policemen stood over the fighters, slamming them with riot batons until they both lay still. The police threw the fighters into the bed of their truck, climbed in after them, and drove off.

Tuck stood stunned. He'd never seen violence that sudden and raw in his life. Ten more seconds and he would have been in the middle of it instead of backpedaling across the parking lot.

"Should be okay to go in now," said the voice from the dark.

Tuck looked up, but he couldn't even see the cigarette glowing now. "Thanks," he said. "You sure it's okay?"

"Watch your ass, kid," said the voice, and this time it seemed to come from above him. Tucker spun around, nearly wrenching his neck, but he couldn't see anyone. He shook off the confusion and headed into the bar.

The skeletal dog crawled from under a truck, seized the severed ear from the dust, and slunk into the shadows. "Good dog," said the voice out of the dark. The dog growled, ready to protect its prize. A young man, perhaps twenty-four, dark and sharp-featured, dressed in a gray flight suit, stepped out of the shadows and bent to the dog, who lowered its head in submission. The young man reached out as if to pet the dog, then grabbed its head and quickly snapped its neck. "Now, that's better, ain't it, ya little mook?"

The bar was as dingy inside as it was out. Yellow bug bulbs gave off just enough light to navigate around drunken islanders and a beat-up pool table. An old Wurlitzer bounced American country western songs off the metal walls. A khaki-wrapped hulk, Jefferson Pardee, sweated over a Budweiser at the bar. Tucker slid in next to him.

Pardee looked up with red-rimmed eyes. "You just missed all the excitement."

"No, I saw it. I was outside."

Pardee signaled for two more beers. "I thought I told you not to go out at night."

"I'm leaving for Yap in the morning and I need to ask you some questions."

Pardee grinned like a child given a surprise favor. "I'm at your service, Mr. Tucker."

Tuck weighed his need for information against the ignominy of telling Pardee about the crash. He pulled the crumpled fax paper from his pants pocket and set it on the bar before the reporter.

Pardee lit a cigarette as he read. He finished reading and handed the fax back to Tucker. "It's not unusual to have changes in travel plans out here. But what's this about bacteria? I thought you were a pilot."

Tucker took Pardee though the crash and the mysterious invitation from the doctor, including Jake's theories about drug smuggling. "I think the bacteria stuff was just to throw off anyone who got hold of the fax."

"You're right there. But it's not drugs. There aren't any drugs produced in these islands except kava and betel nut, and nobody wants those except the islanders. Oh, they grow a little pot here and there, but it's consumed here by the gangsta wanna-bes."

"Gangsta wanna-bes?" Tuck asked.

"A few of the islanders have satellite TV. The people who look like them on TV are gangsta rappers. The old rundown buildings they see in the hood look like the buildings here. Except here they're new and run-down. It's a Coke and a smile and baby formula their babies can't digest. It's packaged junk food shipped here without expiration dates."

"What in the hell are you talking about, Pardee?"

"They buy into the advertising bullshit that Americans have become immune to. It's like the entire Micronesian crescent is one big cargo cult. They buy the worst of American culture."

"Are you saying I'm the worst America has to offer?"

Pardee patted his shoulder and leaned in close. Tuck could smell the sour beer sweat coming off the big man. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I don't know what's going on out on Alualu, but I'm sure it's no big deal. Evil tends to grow in proportion to the profit potential, and there's just nothing out there that's worth a shit. Go to your island, kid. And get in touch with me when you figure out what's going on. In the meantime, I'll do some checking."

Tuck shook the reporter's hand. "I will." He threw some money on the bar and started to leave. Pardee called to him as he reached the door.

"One more thing. I checked around. I heard that there's some armed men on Alualu. And there was another pilot that came through here a few months ago. Nobody's seen him. Be careful, Tucker."

"And you weren't going to tell me that?"

"I had to be sure that you weren't part of it."

13

Out of the Frying Pan

Tuck's first thought of the new morning was I've got to catch a plane. His second was, My dick's broke.

It happens that way. One has a "private" irritation - hemorrhoids, menstrual cramps, swollen prostate, yeast infection, venereal disease, bladder infection - and no matter how hard the mind tries to escape the gravity of the affliction, it is inexorably pulled back into a doomed orbit of circular thought. Anything that distracts from the irritation is an irritation. Life is an irritation.

Inside Tuck's head sounded like this: I have to catch a plane. I'm pissing fire. I need a shower. Check the stitches. No water. It looks infected. Probably lep-rosy. I hate this place. I'm sure it's infected. When does the water come on? It's going to turn black and fall off. Whoever heard of a place with satellite TV but no running water? I'll never fly again. I'm thirty years old and I have no job. And no dick. And who in the hell was that guy in the parking lot last night? I smell like rancid goat meat. Probably the infection. Gangrene. I can't believe there's no running water. I'm going to die. Die, die, die.

Not a pleasant place to be: inside Tuck's head.

Outside Tuck's head the shower came on; brown, tepid water ran down his body in gutless streams; pipes shuddered and trumpeted as if trying to extrude a vibrating moose. The soap, a brown minibar made from local copra, lathered like slate and smelled of hibiscus flowers and suffering dog.

Tuck dried himself on a translucent swath of balding terry cloth and slipped into his clothes, three days saturated with tropical travel funk. He shouldered his pack, noticing that the zippered pockets had

been tampered with and not giving a good goddamn, then trudged down to the front desk.

Rindi was sleeping on the desk. Tuck woke him, made sure that the room had been paid by the doctor as promised, then stood in the tropical sun and waited as Rindi brought the car around.

It seemed like a very long ride to the airport. Rindi ran over a chicken, then got out and fought an old woman who claimed the chicken, each tugging on a leg, testing the tensile strength of poultry to its limit before Rindi busted a kung fu move that secured his dinner and left the old woman sitting in the dust with a sacred chicken foot in her hand. (The old woman was from the island of Tonoas, where magic chickens were once called up by a sorcerer to level a mountain for a temple, the Hall of the Magic Chickens.)

At the airport Tuck gave Rindi a dollar for the cab ride, which was twice the going rate, and waved off the bloody handshake the aspiring gangsta offered. "Keep the peace, home boy," Tuck said.

14

Espionage and Intrigue

Yap was cleaner than Truk and hotter, if that was possible. Here the beat-up taxis actually had radio antennas to identify them. The roads were paved as well. The airport, another tin roof over concrete pylons, was filled with natives: men in loincloths and topless women in hand-woven wraparound skirts. Tuck caught a cab at the airport and told the driver to take him to the dock.

The driver spat out the window and said, "The ship gone."

"It can't be gone." What had moments ago been a pleasant drunk from four airline martinis turned instantly to a headache. "Maybe it was another ship that left."

The driver smiled. His teeth were black, his lips bright red. "Ship gone. You want to go to town?"

"How much?" Tuck asked, as if he had a choice.

"Fourteen dollar."

"Fourteen dollars? It's only fifty cents on Truk!"

"Okay, fifty cents," the driver said.

"That's your counteroffer?" Tuck asked. He was thinking about what Pardee had said about these islanders absorbing the worst of American culture. This was his chance to help, if only in a small way. "That's the most helpless bargaining I've ever heard. How do you ever expect your country to get out of the Third World with that weak shit?"

"Sorry," the driver said. "One dollar."

"Seventy-five cents," Tuck said.

"You find another taxi," the driver said, digging in his fiscal heels.

"That's better," said Tuck. "A dollar it is. And there's another one in it for you if you don't run over any chickens."

The driver put the car in gear and started off. They passed though several miles of jungle before breaking into a brightly lit, surprisingly modern-looking town with concrete streets. Occasionally, they passed a tin house with stone wheels leaning against the walls. The stones ranged from the size of a small tire to seven feet in diameter and were covered with varying degrees of green moss. "What are those millstone-looking things?" Tuck asked the driver.

"Fei," the driver said. "Stone money. Very valuable."

"No shit, money?" Tuck looked at a piece of fei standing in a yard as they passed. It was five feet tall and nearly two feet thick. "What do your pay phones look like?" Tuck asked with a grin.

The driver didn't find it funny. He let Tucker out at the dock, which was suspiciously shipless.

Tuck saw a bearded, red-faced white man sitting in the shade of a forklift, smoking a cigarette.

"G'day," the man said. He was about thirty. In good shape. "Impela my tribe?"

"Huh?" Tuck said.

"American, then?"

Tuck nodded. "You Australian?"

"Royal Navy," the man said. He pulled a hat from behind him and tapped on it. "Join me?" He motioned for Tuck to sit next to him on the concrete.

Tuck dragged his pack into the shade, dropped it, and extended his hand to the Australian. "Tucker Case."

The Australian took his hand and nearly crushed it. "Commander Brion Frick. Have a seat, mate. Looks like you been on the piss for a fortnight, if you don't mind my saying."

He handed Tucker a business card. It bore the seal of the Royal Australian Navy, Frick's name and rank, and the designation NAVAL INTELLIGENCE. Tuck looked again at the scruffy Australian, then back at the card.

"Naval Intelligence, huh? What do you do?"

"I'm a spy, mate. You know, secret stuff. Very hush-hush."

Tuck wondered just how secret a spy could be who had his status printed on a business card.

"Espionage, huh?"

"Well, right now we're watching the Yapese Navy don't make a move."

"Yap has a navy?"

"Only one patrol boat, and she's broken right now. Yapese put gas in the diesel engine. But you can't be too careful, lest the little buggers get it in their mind to launch a surprise attack. That's her over there." He nodded down the wharf. Tuck spotted a rusted boat designed like a Chinese junk with the word YAP stenciled on the side in flaking orange Rust-Oleum. A half-dozen Yapese, thin brown men with high cheekbones and potbellies, were lounging on the deck in loincloths, drinking beer.

Tuck said, "I guess an attack would be a surprise."

"Ain't as easy a job as it looks. Yapese can lull you into a false sense of security. They might sit there without moving for two, three weeks, then just when you start to relax, wham, they make their move."

"Right," Tucker said. The only damage the patrol boat looked capable of inflicting was a case of tetanus for the crew.

A mile past the Yapese Navy waves crashed on the reef, just a line of white against the turquoise sea. Cottony clouds rose out of the sea into shining columns. Tuck scanned the horizon for a ship.

"Is the Micro Trader in yet?"

"Been in and gone," Frick said. "She'll be back around in six weeks or so."

"Dammit," Tuck said. "I can't fucking believe it. I need to get to Alualu."

"Why'd you want to go out there?"

"I'm a pilot. I'm supposed to be flying for a missionary out there."

"Boys and I were out there in the patrol boat last week. Godforsaken place."

Tuck lit up at the mention of the patrol boat. Maybe he could catch a ride. "You have a patrol boat?"

"Seventy-footer. Some of the boys are out with it now, tuna fishin' with the CIA. Don't mention it, though. Secret, you know."

"What's the CIA doing down here?"

Frick raised a blond eyebrow. "Keepin' an eye on the Yapese Navy."

"I thought you were doing that."

"Well, I am, ain't I? And when they come back, it's my turn to go fishin'. Lovely, us bein' allies and all. Cuts the work in half. Want to suck some piss?"

"Pardon?" Tuck wasn't ready for any kind of bizarre native customs.

"Drink some beers, mate. If you keep an eye on the Yappies, I'll run down to the store and grab some beers."

"Sounds good." Tuck was ready to take the edge off his headache. Besides, there was still a chance for a ride out to the island.

Frick put his hat on Tuck's head. "Right then. By the power invested in me by the Australian Royal Navy, et cetera, et cetera, I hearby deputize you as official intelligence officer until I get back. Do you swear?"

"Swear what?"

"Just swear."

"Sure."

"There it is." Frick started walking off.

"What do I do if they make a move?"

"How the bloody hell should I know?"

Tuck watched the Yapese Navy for an hour before they all stood up and left the boat. He was pretty sure that this did not constitute a defense emergency, but just in case he decided to walk up the street to see what had happened to Frick. The pack felt even heavier now, and he guessed that it was the responsibility for Australian people that weighed him down. (A woman had once offered Tucker a goldfish in a bowl, and Tuck had graciously declined it on the basis that it was too much responsibility and would probably die anyway. He felt the same way about the Australians.)

The concrete streets of Colonia were bleached white and stained with three-foot red strips of betel nut spit on either side and lined with thick jungle vegetation. Off the streets Tuck could see tin hovels, children playing in the mud, women passing the hottest part of the day combing lice from each other's hair in the shade of a tin-roofed porch. The women wore wraparound skirts, black with brightly colored stripes, and went topless. All but the youngest of them were enormously fat by Western standards, and Tuck felt his idealized picture of the beautiful island girls fade to a lice-infested, rotund reality. Still, there was something in their gentle grooming and in the quiet concentration of the children that made him feel sad and a little lonely. If only he could run into a woman he could talk to. A Western woman - she wouldn't have to know he was a eunuch.

He broke out of the jungle into the open street of Colonia's main "business district." On one side was a marina with a restaurant and bar (or so the sign said), on the other a two-story, stucco minimall of shops and snack bars. Around it, in the shade of the modern portico, stood perhaps a hundred Yapese, mostly women, some

young men in bright blue loincloths, all shirtless. The islanders all had bright red lips and teeth from chewing betel nut. Even the little children were chewing the narcotic cud and spitting periodically into the street. Tuck walked in among them, hoping to find someone to ask about Frick's whereabouts, but none made eye contact. The women and girls turned their backs to him. The men just looked away or pretended to pay attention to sprinkling powdered coral on to a split green betel nut before beginning a chew.

He went into a surprisingly modern grocery store and was relieved to see that the prices were in American dollars, the signs in English. He picked up a quart of bottled water and took it to the checkout counter, where a woman in a lavalava and a blue polyester smock rang up his purchase and held out her hand for the money.

"Do you know where I can find Commander Brion Frick?" Tuck asked her.

She took his money, turned to the cash drawer, and turned back to him with his change without uttering a word. Tuck repeated his question and the woman turned away from him. Finally he left, thinking, She must not speak English.

He ran into Frick coming out of the store. The spy had a six-pack tucked under his arm.

"I was looking for you," Tuck said. "The Yapese Navy took off."

"You could have asked inside. They knew where I was."

"I did. The woman wouldn't talk to me."

"Not allowed to," Frick said. "It's bad manners to make eye contact. Yapese women aren't allowed to talk to a man unless he's a relative. If a woman and a man are seen speaking in public, they're considered married on the spot. Shame too. Ever seen so many bare titties in all your life? Tough grabbin' a snog if you can't talk to them."

Tucker didn't want to talk about it. "You were supposed to come back to the wharf."

Frick looked affronted. "I was on my way. Didn't think you'd desert your post. I hope you're a better pilot than you are a spy. Letting them sneak off like that."

"Look, Frick, I need to get to Alualu right away. Can you take me in your patrol boat?"

"Love to, mate, but we've got a mission as soon as the boys get back from fishin'. We've got to tow the Yapese patrol boat down to Darwin for repairs. Won't be back for a fortnight at least."

"Doesn't it make more sense to leave it broken? I mean, in the interest of watching them?"

The spy raised an eyebrow. "What threat are they with a broken boat?"

"Exactly," Tuck said.

"You obviously don't know a wit about maintaining job security. Mis-sionary Air might take you out, but I hear their plane is down for a while. Fishing boats are all Chinese. Buggers wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire. You might charter a dingy, but I doubt that you'll find anyone willing to take you across four hundred kilometers of open sea in an out-board. There's fellows do it off Perth, but the West Coast is full of loonies anyway. Get yourself a room and wait. We'll take you out when we get back."

"I don't know if I can wait that long." Tuck stood up. "Where should I go to charter a boat?"

Frick pointed to a large Mobil oil tank at the edge of the harbor. "Try heading down to the fueling station. Should be able to find someone down there who needs the gas money."

"Thanks, Frick, I appreciate it." Tucker shook the spy's hand.

"No worries, mate. You watch yourself out there. I hear that doctor's a bedbug."

"Good to know." He waved over his shoulder as he walked down to the edge of the harbor. A group of women chewing betel nut in the shade of a hibiscus tree turned away from him as he passed.

He walked along the bank and looked into the cloudy green water at the harbor's edge. Tiny multicolored fish darted in and out of the shallows, feeding on some kind of shrimp. Brown mud skippers, their eyes atop their heads like a frog's, walked on their pectoral fins across a small mudflat that had formed around the roots of a mangrove tree. Tucker stopped and watched them. They were fish, yet they spent most of their time on land. It was as if they had evolved to a certain point, then just couldn't make a decision to leave the water, grow into mammals, and finally invent personal stereos. For sixty million years they had been hanging out on the mudflats, looking at each other with periscope eyes and goofy froggy grins and say-ing: "What do you want do?" "I don't know. What do you want to do?" "I don't know. Want to go up on the land or stay in the water?" "I don't know. Let's hang out on the mudflat a little longer."

Tuck completely understood. Although if he had been a mud skipper, after a couple of million years of dragging himself around the mudflat, he would have lost his patience and yelled, "Hey, can I get some feet over here!", thus moving evolution along.

He was enjoying the superiority of the Monday morning quarterback (And in a world created in six days, what day but Monday could it be?), feeling a little smarter, a little more worldly than the mud skippers, when it occurred to him that he had no idea how to proceed. He could find the telecom center, if there was one, and contact the doctor, but then what would he do? Sit for two weeks on Yap until the Australians returned? Maybe they were wrong. Maybe there was a privately owned plane on the island. What about a dingy? How bad could it be. The sea looked calm enough. That's it, take to the sea.

Or perhaps he should just stay on Yap and find a sympathetic woman to take his mind off the problem. It had always worked before, not to pos-itive results, but it had worked, dammit. Women made him feel better. He ached for a Mary Jean Cosmetics consultant. A cool, thin, married woman, armored in pantyhose and a bulletproof bouffant. A sweet, shocked, backsliding Born Again on a one-time sin quest to remind her of why re-demption was so so good. Mud skipper thinking.

He was reeling with the heat and the lack of possibilities when he saw her, up ahead, walking by the water's edge, her back to him: a thin blonde in a flowered dress with a swing to her walk like a welcome home parade.