Late twenties or early thirties, she had a nipped waist, boyish hips, small breasts, long legs. She wore an apricot silk blouse and black crepe slacks. Blunt-cut hair ended at her shoulders, held in place by a black band. The honey tint looked real and her sculpted face had a scrubbed-clean look. Her features were fine and perfectly placed: soft, wide mouth, clean jaw, delicate ears. Blue eyes with a downward slant that made them look sad.

Except for her coloring, she could have been the woman in the oil portrait.

"Dr. Delaware and Ms. Castagna? I'm Pam, Dr. Moreland's daughter." Soft, musical, slightly reticent voice. She had a fetching smile but looked away as she extended her hand. I'd had patients with that tendency to avert; all had been painfully shy as children.

"Doctor herself," Picker corrected. "All these accomplished femmes and everyone's playing the modesty game."

Pam Moreland gave him a pitying smile. "Evening, Lyman. Jo. Sorry I'm late. Dad should be here shortly. If not, we'll start without him. Gladys has done a nice Chicken Kiev. Dad's vegetarian, but he tolerates us barbarians."

She smiled beautifully but the eyes remained sad, and I wondered if physical structure completely explained it.

Picker said, "Just gave our new chums a history lesson, Dr. Daughter. Told them scientists shun this lovely bit of real estate because Margaret Mead showed the key to stardom is witch doctors, puberty rites, and bare-chested, dusky girls." His eyes dropped to Pam's bodice.

"Interesting theory. Can I get you some coffee?"

"No thanks, my dear. But a refill of this wouldn't hurt."

"Ly," said Jo. She hadn't moved from her corner.

Picker kept his back to her. "Yes, my love?"

"Come here and look at the sunset."

He nibbled his mustache. "The old distraction technique? Worried about my liver?"

"I just-"

He swiveled and faced her. "If Entamoeba histolytica and Fasciola hepatica failed to do the trick, do you really think a little Wild Turkey will succeed, Josephine?"

Jo said nothing.

"Lived on metronodizole and bithionol for months," Picker told Pam. "Long overdue for a physical. Any referrals?"

"Not unless you're going to Philadelphia."

"Ah, the city of brotherly love," said Picker. "Don't have a brother. Would I love him, if I did?"

Pondering that, he walked away.

"I will take that refill, Dr. Pam," he called over his shoulder.

"The man who came to dinner," Pam said very softly. "Excuse me."

She returned with a quarter-full bottle of Wild Turkey, thrust it at the surprised Picker, and returned to us. "Dad's sorry about not being able to greet you properly."

"The jellyfish," I said.

She nodded. Glance at a Lady Rolex. "I guess we should get started."

She seated Robin and me with a view of the sunset, the Pickers on the other end, herself in the middle. Two empty chairs remained and moments later Ben Romero came out and took one. He'd put on a tan cotton sportcoat.

"Usually I go home by six," he said, unrolling his napkin, "but my wife's having a card party, the baby's sleeping, and the older kids are farmed out."

"Next time we'll have Claire up," said Pam. "She's a marvelous violinist. The kids, too."

Ben laughed. "That'll be real relaxing."

"Your kids are great, Ben."

The food came. Platters of it.

Watercress salad with avocado dressing, carrot puree, fricassee of wild mushrooms with walnuts and water chestnuts. Then the chicken, sizzling and moist.

A bottle of white burgundy remained untouched. Picker poured himself the rest of the bourbon. His wife looked the other way and ate energetically.

"Gladys didn't learn to cook like this at the base," said Robin.

"Believe it or not, she did," Pam said. "The commander thought himself quite the gourmet. She's very creative, lucky for Dad."

"Has he always been a vegetarian?"

"Since after the Korean War. The things he saw made him determined never to hurt anything again."

Picker grunted.

"But he's always been tolerant," said Pam. "Had meat shipped over for me when I arrived."

"You don't live here?" said Robin.

"No, I came last October. It was supposed to be a stopover on the way to a medical convention in Hong Kong."

"What's your specialty?" I said.

"Internal medicine and public health. I work at the student health center at Temple U. " She paused. "Actually, it was a combination work trip and breather. I just got divorced."

She filled her water glass, shrugged.

"Did you grow up here?" asked Robin.

"Not really. Ready for dessert?"

Picker watched her walk away. "Some fool in Philadelphia 's missing out."

Ben eyed him. "Another bottle, Dr. Picker?"

Picker stared back. "No thank you, amigo. Better keep my wits. I'm flying tomorrow."

Jo put down her fork. Picker grinned at her.

"Yes, darling, I've decided to go ahead."

"Flying in what?" said Ben.

"Vintage craft, but well maintained. Man named Amalfi owns it."

"Harry Amalfi? One of those crop dusters? They haven't flown in years."

"They're quite serviceable, friend. I examined them myself. Been buzzing jungles for fifteen years and I'm going to buzz your poor excuse for one tomorrow morning, me and Dr. Missus. Take some aerial photographs, prove to the boys back at the institute that I've been here and that there was nothing to dig up."

Jo's fingers were gathering tablecloth. "Ly-"

Ben said, "It's not a good idea, Dr. Picker."

Picker shot him a fierce smile. "Your input is duly noted, friend."

"The forest is Navy territory. You'll need official permission to fly over."

"Wrong," said Picker. "Only the east end is Navy land. The western half is public land, never formally claimed by the Navy. Or so Dr. Wife here tells me from her maps."

"That's true, Ly," said Jo, "but it's still-"

"Zoom," Picker spoke over her. "Up and away- would you rather I remain bored to the point of brain death?"

"The entire forest is one mile wide," said Ben. "Once you're up there it's going to be pretty hard to keep track-"

"Concerned about me, amigo?" said Picker, with sudden harshness. He picked up the bourbon bottle, as if ready to break it. Put it down with exquisite care, and got up.

"Everyone so concerned about me. Touching." His beard was littered with crumbs. "Fonts of human kindness to my face, but behind my back: drunken buffoon."

He shifted his attention to his wife, glaring and grinning simultaneously. "Are you coming, angel?"

Her lip trembled. "You know how I feel about small craft, Ly-"

"Not that. Now. Are you coming, now?"

Without taking his eyes off her, he picked up a piece of chicken and bit in. Chewing with his mouth open, he shot a hard, dark glance at Romero: "It's a metaphor, friend."

"What is?" said Ben.

"This place. All the other damn bumps in the ocean. Volcanoes ejaculating, then dropping dead. Conquerors arriving with high hopes only to slink away or die, the damned coral parasites taking over, everything sinking. Entropy."

Jo put down her fork. "Excuse us."

Picker tossed the chicken onto a plate and took her arm roughly.

"Everything sinks," he said, pulling her away.