Hunter opened the sphere so that the humans could climb into it. The bottom was hard and curved. Designed as a laboratory instrument, it had never been intended to accommodate humans or robots. Steve huddled in the base of the curve with Jane and Rita, waiting for Hunter to set the timer on the controls. Then Hunter joined them; easing inside so as not to land on anyone, he closed the door.

Steve suddenly saw the darkness in the sphere vanish. It was replaced by the sudden brilliance of tropical sunlight. He fell onto a soft bed of green grass. The others tumbled around him.

For a longtime resident of the Mojave Desert such as Steve, the lush green island life of Jamaica was an abrupt change. Tall, full trees and bushes rose up all around them. The trees and brush were full of birds, twittering and chirping at them in startled concern. Colorful flowers bloomed nearby, red and white and orange. He gasped for breath, startled by the humidity of the air.

“It’s beautiful,” said Jane, looking around.

“It looks pretty much the same in our time,” said Rita, sitting up. “More developed, of course, but not really spoiled. Not yet, anyway.”

“It’s late afternoon,” said Steve, observing the position of the sun.

“That is right,” said Hunter. “MC 2 will return to full size again sometime tonight, according to my calculations.”

“Where are we?” Jane asked. “Out on some country road, I see.”

“Yes,” said Hunter. “But not too far from Port Royal. We are less than a quarter mile out of town. I wanted to make sure we landed away from the town, to lessen the chance that someone would happen to see us arrive.”

“No one did, I guess,” said Rita. “This late in the day, the townsfolk will be hurrying to get inside the walls. Anyone who did business from the plantations along this road has probably gone home already.”

“We should join them,” said Steve, getting to his feet. “Or else we’ll be stuck out here in the dark.”

The team began to walk along the rough wagon and horse track. Through the trees to their right, Steve could just see the blue water of the Caribbean. Then he realized that sometimes through the trees to the left, he could see more water of the same color. “Where are we, exactly?”

“Okay,” said Rita. “I guess I should give you a quick geography lesson. We’re on the southeastern coast of the island. That water on our right, to the north, will someday be called Kingston Bay. The city of Kingston itself will be built across the bay, on the far shore.” She pointed to the water on their other side. “That’s the open sea, to the south. We’re walking along a very narrow, long peninsula that the British called the Cagway, a corruption of the Spanish word Caguaya. It stretches westward, defining much of the southern enclosure of the bay. And that’s Port Royal up ahead at the end of it, just coming into sight.”

Steve looked where she was pointing. A few people on carts and horses were just entering the town. Steve found that in the humidity, he was already sweating freely.

“MC 2 can masquerade the same way we are if he gets some clothes,” said Hunter. “Assuming he does, we will have to keep a sharp lookout for someone the right size in order to find him. He is unusually short and slender, virtually identical in build to the other component robots. You saw MC 1 in MC Governor’s office.”

Rita nodded.

“Rita,” said Jane. “What are we going to find in Port Royal when we get there? Is it really going to be full of pirates, or will there be ordinary townspeople there too?”

“Both,” said Rita. “Jamaica is a true British colony. Here’s what happened. About 1630, the island of Tortuga became a pirate stronghold and hideaway. Tortuga isn’t far from here. Just three years ago, in 1665, the various buccaneers and their hangers-on in Tortuga spilled over to Jamaica, which was already ruled by the English.”

“Simple enough,” said Steve.

“Yes, it is. English ships are still raiding Spanish ships for gold being sent from the New World, but the English are now keeping it here, not returning it to England. France nominally rules Tortuga, and lots of French buccaneers will also be present in Port Royal.”

“Is there a difference between pirates and buccaneers?” Jane asked. “Or are they the same thing?”

“A perceptive question.” Rita smiled indulgently. “Here, they’re the same. The word ‘pirate’ means any pirate throughout history. ‘Buccaneer’ means specifically the pirates of the Caribbean during this time. It originally came from the native Arawak tribe’s word buccan, which was a grid of green sticks used to grill strips of meat slowly over a fire. The first French pirates in the Caribbean cooked their food that way on Tortuga when they moved there from Haiti around 1630.”

“You sure know your stuff,” said Steve.

“We are getting close to Port Royal,” said Hunter. “Before we arrive, what can you tell us about the political climate? What should we watch out for?”

“Port Royal is a wide open town full of impulsive, violent buccaneers,” Rita said firmly. “The real danger is from them, not from the government.”

“How much government is there?” Steve asked, looking at the town ahead. It seemed small, with its buildings crowded together against the blue sea.

“There is definitely some, but relatively little. Jamaica doesn’t have much in the way of British ships or troops. Sir Thomas Modyford is the governor. In the past, he granted commissions as privateers to certain pirates, who could then raid the Spanish as representatives of the British crown. For instance, a year ago, word arrived here in Jamaica that the Spanish in nearby Cuba were assembling a fleet for a strike against Jamaica. Modyford prevented that by sending Sir Henry Morgan and a fleet of buccaneers on a preemptive strike against Cuba.”

“What’s a privateer?” Steve asked, puzzled. “Some kind of buccaneer?”

“Sort of.” Rita laughed. “The line was always blurry. Basically, a government that was at war would commission pirates to fight for them against the enemy. In peace, pirates might attack any ship they wanted. The trouble is, the term turns on a legal technicality. They were basically the same people, doing the same things.”

“Pirates were the ones who ran up the skull and crossbones flag,” said Jane.

“Well, not in this time,” said Rita. “The Jolly Roger didn’t appear on the scene for another couple of decades.”

“Too bad we can’t invent it for them,” said Steve. Then he turned to Hunter quickly. “Just a joke, Hunter. Not serious, okay?”

“Okay,” said Hunter soberly. “I have data about jokes stored. Was that one funny?”

“No,” said Jane.

The sun had dropped behind the trees to the west by the time they reached the gate in the town wall. A couple of bored uniformed sentries straightened slightly, obviously spotting the team as strangers. Hunter stepped forward, towering over both of them.

“What’s your business?” One sentry spoke in a strong British accent. The other looked over Hunter’s tall, solid build and did not seem pleased with the prospect of a confrontation.

“We seek shelter for the night,” said Hunter. “We are looking for a friend.”

“Oh, yeah? I says you jumped ship offshore and swam here, you and your loose ladies.”

Steve stiffened, but Jane stifled a giggle.

“We only seek shelter for the night,” Hunter repeated, less certainly.

Rita leaned close to Hunter, whispering something Steve couldn’t hear. Hunter slipped a hand into the leather pouch hanging from his belt and drew out a couple of coins. He tossed one into the air to each of the sentries. As they looked up to catch them, Hunter pushed past them, then turned to make sure the rest of the team followed. They did; the sentries were busy examining the coins for their value.

Steve’s appraisal of Port Royal from a distance still held up once they were inside. The streets were narrow and crooked, the buildings low and crowded together. They were in a part of town that was relatively quiet.