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.

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.