'But you're practically there,' he turned and gestured at the machine. 'Look at it. Amazing achievement.'

'Chanute, that's him. But it's Santos-Dumont I'm most worried about. He's extremely rich. Money no object, you know.'

'Panta -'

'And this!' He actually shook his fist at the rain. 'It's not due to start for at least another two months. What's going on? Look at that field. It's a quagmire, practically underwater. That's why I bought this place. The ground is meant to be drained naturally. The farmer swore on his children's heads that would happen.'

Carriscant peered up at the sky as Pantaleon ranted on about the" farmer's duplicity. It was noon and the clouds seemed to be thinning. He could not be sure but he thought he could make out a bluey haze beyond the pale grey blanket.

'You need a road,' he said, without really thinking. 'A metalled road, like the ones the Americans are building in Intramuros. Take any amount of rain-and smooth-then you could – ' He stopped. Pantaleon was staring at him, his thumb and forefinger pinching his bottom lip. 'What is it?'

'A road… Of course.'

'Something firm, anyway. A beaten track, a-'

Pantaleon strode out into the downpour, heedless of the wet, measuring out the ground with his big strides. Carriscant sighed, erected his umbrella and followed him out into the field, tugging his collar away from his neck, the dampness making it chafe. He had actually found mould on a shirt in a closet that morning. A perfectly good white shirt with blue mould growing on it, mildewed like a cheese.

He caught up with Pantaleon at the end of the meadow. Through a fringe of guava trees was a paddy field and beyond that the swollen brown mass of the estero, dotted with more than its usual cargo of water cabbages, like vivid green footballs, no doubt. The Pasig had been full of them this morning, he had noticed, as he crossed the Colgante bridge.

'I'll build my own,' Pantaleon said fervently, holding his arms out straight in front of him, pointing back at the barn. 'A base of crushed stones, bamboo poles set a metre apart, wooden planks nailed to the top of them.'

'Panta, that's almost a hundred yards. Think of the cost, man!'

'No, no. It's an excellent idea. Thank you, Salvador.' He gripped his hand and shook it excitedly. 'Thank you, bless you.'

'My pleasure.'

They squelched back towards the barn.

'Have you reconsidered, Salvador? You know how important it is to me.'

'I told you, I can't possibly. I'd be terrified, I'm not like you. I'd be useless. Train some youngster. I'm too heavy, anyway.'

'No, no, we can take the weight. It has to be you. I've calculated everything based on your weight.'

'No, Panta, really -'

'Don't say "no". Don't. Just think about it some more.'

The rain let up momentarily as Carriscant was driving back to Intramuros. The wind was coming from the east and he could see huge cloud continents building over the foothills of the Benguet mountains. Only a temporary respite, he thought, taking off his hat and mopping his face with a handkerchief, we'll really catch it this evening.

At the hospital, in his consulting rooms, he saw the inventory he had asked his senior theatre nurse to prepare. Numerous items were missing from the stores including one Merck and Frankl straight, sharp-pointed bistoury, as he had surmised. Who could say when it had gone, however? It could have been lost, it could have been stolen months ago, it could have been thrown out accidentally in a bundle of soiled swabs… So why did he suspect the hand of Drs Cruz and Wieland? He started, as methodically as he could, to explore the ramifications of this supposition but stopped after two minutes, exhausted by its crowding implausibilities and inferences. In this kind of mood, he realised, anyone was capable of being turned into an enemy – Cruz, Wieland, even Bobby. Perhaps Bobby had planted the scalpel there, to unsettle him, to test him out in some way… But why? What did that imply? This way lay madness, he knew, and put the whole matter out of his mind. There was a long queue of patients outside his consulting room door.

Later, his work over for the day, he stood at the rear window of his office looking out at a corner of the hospital's garden. The air was loud with the mumblings of distant thunder and tall plum-coloured clouds were building high over the city. Yet to the west, over Manila Bay, the sky was clear and the sinking sun was shining brightly, filling the garden with a heavy creamy light, making the ancient tiled roofs of Intramuros glow, their vibrant terracotta temporarily renewed, set starkly against the boiling bruised mass of the thunderclouds. The first drops began to fall, silver like coins, through the garden's radiant light and, as the clouds hunched over the city as if to smother this audacious sun, a brief blending of mauve thundercloud and late afternoon luminescence turned the air blue, it seemed to him, almost changing its nature from something invisible to something there, tangible, as if the blue light that filled the garden was a fine mist of droplets suspended in the atmosphere. Enchanted, rapt, not really thinking, Carriscant opened his window and stretched his hand out like a child trying to catch, trying to touch, this beautiful phenomenon. His fingers closed on nothing. He saw instead the hundreds of shades of green in the leaves and bushes and grass; he smelt the ferrous, musty reek of the impending downpour; big gobbets of rain thwacked his outstretched palm and he heard the thunderclap break over San Juan del Morte as the afternoon turned blue before his spellbound eyes.

His reverie was interrupted by a small commotion of protesting voices in his anteroom. Senora Diaz's polite protests presaged her rap on the door, around which her plump, apologetic face appeared.

'There is a patient, Doctor, I'm so sorry. I said it was too late but it's an emergency, I think.'

'Show him in, Senora Diaz. And you may go. I'll be here 'til late.'

He sat down behind his desk and, with his fingernail, idly drew joins between the ink blots on his blotter. The rain began to fall now in earnest, beating down, filling the gutters to overflowing, the sound of water plashing everywhere. That effect of the light in the garden, he thought, extraordinary. The atmosphere so charged with moisture, the white glare of the sun and the bluey greyness of the clouds seeming to fuse in the microscopic drops. Some sort of one-tone prism effect, he supposed, if that made sense, quite magical. Felt he could touch the air, scoop blue handfuls almost.

He looked up and saw her. She had come into his room so quietly that for a crazy moment he thought she was a vision too, another sublime trick of the light. He gave a small cry of astonishment which he managed to turn into a cough and rose abruptly to his feet.

'Mrs Sieverance…'

She wore a straw boater, a navy-blue cotton jacket over a pale grey ankle-length skirt. Her thick hair was gathered at her nape with a maroon velvet ribbon.

'I'm so sorry to be so late, Doctor. I wasn't feeling well.'

Carriscant came round from behind his desk and pulled out a chair for her to sit on. He noticed she was not using walking sticks any longer. He had not seen her for some days, but that still indicated rapid progress. She looked pale, her brow moist, and her breathing was swift and shallow.

'No sticks? You're overdoing it, I suspect.'

'I feel so much stronger. Felt, I mean. But this afternoon, I was writing and I began to feel faint, most odd.'

'Nurse Aslinger, didn't she -'

'I gave her the day off, I felt so fine, you see.'

He took her pulse. The way the electric sconce on the wall cast its light meant that, looking obliquely at her, he could see the fine down on her top lip. The finest peach bloom. Her fleece, her pelt. The tip of her tongue appeared to moisten her lower lip. An arc of light caught the lash-screened jelly of her eyeball. Some black stuff on her eyelashes. Facepowder dust in the whispy blonde hair in front of her ears.