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.

Out on the edge of the world, with no place to stay, no way to move on, no job, no life, no friends; hurt, confused, hot, thirsty, and irritated, Tuck was desperate. Desperate for just the momentary satisfaction that might come from attracting an attractive woman. No matter that he couldn’t do anything about the attraction.

What was she doing out here? Who cares? What a walk!

He quickened his pace, his legs and shoulders protesting against the weight of his pack, and approached within a couple of steps of the blonde.

“Excuse me,” he called.

She turned. Tuck stopped and backed up a step. Something is wrong here. Very, very wrong.

“Oh, baby,” she said, hand to her chest as if trying to catch her breath. “You scare little Kimi. Why you sneakin’ up like that?”

Tuck was dumbfounded. She wasn’t a natural blonde. Her skin was dark and she had the high cheekbones and angular features of a Filipino. Long false eyelashes, bright red lipstick, but lines in the face that were a little too harsh, a jawline that was a little too square. The dress was tight around the chest and there was nothing there but muscle. She wore a huge black medallion at her throat that looked as if it was made of animal fur. She needed a shave.

“I’m sorry,” Tuck said. “I thought you were something—er, someone else.”

Then the medallion turned its head and looked at him. Tuck let out an involuntary scream and jumped back. The medallion was wearing tiny rhinestone sunglasses. It squeaked at Tucker. It was the