by R. R. Irvine
“You win.” She emerged with the towel still wrapped around her head, with only a peephole.
One look at her father and she said, “My God, your face is swollen.”
“You think that’s bad. Look at my hands.” He displayed fingers that reminded her of link sausage.
“What about me?” She whipped open her towel.
Elliot whistled. “A regular Graf Zeppelin.”
Nick was about to cover up again when she realized that the outside air, suddenly rain-free, was relatively clear of insects for the moment. At least, what bugs there were seemed lethargic. One thing was for sure, the heat was worse than before, and so was the humidity. But a steam bath was better than being bled dry by vampire mosquitoes. Or maybe they were resting long enough to digest their earlier transfusions.
“Come on,” Elliot said. “You’re the airplane expert. Curt’s having trouble contacting Guam.”
“He told Coltrane he’d contact him tomorrow.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t be listening.”
Rather than argue with her father’s faulty logic, she followed him to the radio tent. Its dry, lofty interior was providing hangar facilities for squadrons of flying insects. “You see. I told you these tents were waterproof,” Buettner said. His face, too, showed a welter of inflamed bites. “Not a wet bug in the place.”
He pumped up a Coleman lantern, then lit it. The fuel hissed under pressure as the filament grew bright. Bugs flocked to the light.
“I’m sorry about the insect spray,” Buettner said. “It’s useless. I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do.”
Elliot coughed politely. It was a sound Nick knew well. He’d been using it on his students for years, a personal fanfare to let them know he was about to dispense a pearl of wisdom.
“All right, Elliot,” Nick said. “You have our full attention.”
“Am I missing something?” Buettner said.
“Only that the great man is about to enlighten us,” Nick replied.
“While you two have been hiding in your tents or fooling with radios,” Elliot said, “I’ve been working in the field like any respectable archaeologist would do.” He wiggled an eyebrow. “My initial research has proved successful. The Baleseans have solved their insect problem.”
“What the hell are they using?” Buettner asked.
Elliot pressed his lips together, looking sly.
“Mother hated it when you did that,” Nick told him.
“Your mother was good at hating.”
Nick sighed. “Just spit it out, Elliot. Cut the dramatics and astound us. Otherwise, I’m going to scratch myself to death.”
“If you insist, daughter. What’s this long . . .” He held his forefingers about six inches apart. “. . . has large eyes, belongs to the family Gekkonidae, and can eat its weight in insects?”
“Geckos,” Nick answered, annoyed with herself for not having thought of it before.
Buettner banged his forehead. “What a dummy. I should have thought of lizards in the rafters. Nature’s own pest control.”
“We’re still in trouble,” Nick pointed out. “I don’t think geckos like clinging to the sides of nylon tents.”
“So we negotiate for a house,” Elliot said. “Like we should have done in the first place.”
“I seem to remember suggesting something along those lines earlier,” she answered, with a sly grin she hoped was as annoying as her father’s.
Buettner snapped his fingers. “We offer them more cargo.” “Such as?” Nick asked.
Buettner produced a crafty look every bit the equal of her father’s. “I filled one of our cases with goodies. I thought we might want to indulge ourselves after the flight, but escaping these bugs is more important.”
“What kind of goodies?” Elliot asked.
“Candy bars and ice cream packed in dry ice.”
“How about a sample?” Nick said. “I’m starving.”
“You know the rules,” Elliot said, handing her a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.
“That’s not what I had in mind,” she said, but downed a couple of mouthfuls just the same. A stomach coating was always a good idea when in the field and about to partake of the local diet. She’d repeat the dosage before going to bed.
“Before you two get drunk on that,” Buettner said, “I want some help with this damned radio. I’d like to order a different brand of pesticide.”
“I don’t know anything about radios,” Nick said.
“Airplanes have radios, don’t they?” Buettner responded. “And they’re your field, Nick.”
She sighed. “Give me the checklist.”
Buettner handed it over. As far as Nick could see, Buettner had assembled it correctly. There were no loose connections, and the frequency setting matched the one Coltrane had written on the tab next to the dial.
Nick toggled the on-off switch. Nothing happened.
“Maybe it got wet coming ashore,” she said.
“It was sealed in a watertight container,” Buettner reminded her.
“You heard what Coltrane said. This climate is death on batteries.”
“I’ve just changed them to be on the safe side,” Buettner answered.
“Maybe someone dropped the radio on the way from the beach,” Elliot said.
“No way. I had this baby in my sights the whole time.”
“Did you test it before we came?” Nick asked.
“Give me some credit, Nick. I have been in the field before.”
“We could try military tactics on it.” She grinned. “Immediate action, they call it.”
“Go ahead.”
Nick banged her fist on the top of the radio’s metal casing. The speaker hissed in response. “There must be a loose connection.”
“Don’t jiggle it, then,” Buettner said and immediately tried contacting Coltrane, but without success.
“What happens if he doesn’t hear from us?” Nick asked.
“No big deal, really,” Buettner said. “He’s scheduled to fly in my grad students and their supplies whether we contact him or not. We’ll try again in the morning when he’s expecting us to call.”
He switched frequencies and contacted the airport at Guam. Despite a weak signal, he was able to leave a message for Coltrane as a precaution in case the connection came loose again.
The moment he signed off, Buettner said, “We’ll fire up the generator tomorrow and run this baby on direct current. That ought to boost the signal.”
“I think I’d rather have a refrigerator than a radio,” Nick said.
Elliot chuckled. “Curt and I considered bringing one along, but we ruled it out because the generator would have to be kept running night and day. That would take a lot of fuel and the noise wouldn’t make us any too welcome around here either.”
“There’s a store on the island,” Buettner said. “They have a refrigerator. It’s the only place on Balesin you can get a cold beer, though they charge an arm and a leg.”
“You shouldn’t be saying things like that,” a voice said from the darkness outside the tent. “It could be misleading.”
Buettner twitched. Elliot caught his breath. And Nick said, “Is that you, Lily?”
Without answering, Lily stepped out of the darkness and into the lantern’s circle of light. She was wearing a flowered muumuu that could have come from the pages of a travel brochure. She looked cool, totally at ease, and immune to the ever-swarming insects.
“It was only a figure of speech,” Nick explained.
“Stories from the old days cling to us like chains,” Lily said. “First the English explorers came, then the Spanish and the Portuguese. They all stole from us. They took what they wanted, even women and children. When we fought back, they made up lies to justify killing us. We were savages, they said. We were cannibals.”
Nick reached out, but stopped herself short of contact for fear of breaching etiquette. “I’m sorry, Lily. We’re here to study your people. We
will take nothing away with us but knowledge.”
“I understand your intentions, but there are others who won’t.”
She took Nick’s hand. “There was a time when Henry Yali claimed descent from Captain Henry Wilson, the English explorer who came to these islands in 1783. Henry was named for him, or so he was told as a boy. But then John Frum came, and Henry no longer spoke of such things.”
“Are you saying that John Frum actually came here to Balesin in person?” Elliot asked.
“It’s a tale Henry loves telling.”
“What do you say, Lily?” Nick probed gently.
The woman smiled. “The food is waiting and I’ve been sent to show you the way.”
“I’ll just get the cargo, then.” Buettner grabbed one of the sealed containers stacked inside the tent.
Lily looked dubious.
“We’re bringing dessert,” Nick explained.
“And the others?” Lily indicated the half-dozen cases stacked inside the tent. “This isn’t a safe place to keep food.”
“Everything’s sealed,” Buettner said. “And damn near indestructible.” He kicked one of the plastic chests to prove his point.
“Have you ever tried to open a coconut?”
Buettner shook his head.
“We have coconut crabs who find it no trouble at all. I think they’ll make quick work of your containers.”
“What do you suggest, then?” Nick asked.
“Leave your lantern lit at night. Crabs usually stick to the shadows.”
“How big are they?” Nick said.
Lily spread her arms to their limit.
“Swell,” Elliot said. “That’s all we need, creepy crawlers in the night.”
Nick laughed, though she didn’t like the thought of encountering anything that big in the dark, or broad daylight either, for that matter. If the local crustaceans could crack open coconuts, her desert boots would offer no resistance at all.
Nick glanced at Lily’s feet. The woman might as well have been barefoot for all the protection her rubber sandals afforded.
Lily smiled as if reading Nick’s thoughts. “Don’t worry, child. Our crabs don’t eat people, not as long as they’re still moving anyway. Now come. We mustn’t keep Henry Yali waiting.”
They took Lily’s advice and left a blazing lantern behind in the tent. Outside, the village was dark except for torches burning in front of one of the communal houses. Homing on the torchlight was easy enough, though the dancing shadows cast by the flames had Nick seeing scuttling crabs everywhere.
CHAPTER 13
The last rays of the setting sun embraced the Tang horse and threw its subtle modeling into high relief. Kobayashi wished he could lose himself in the deep amber glaze that glowed so warmly on the pottery figure’s surface. He shook himself and sighed with regret. It was now dark and the horse stood in shadow. He could barely see it.
Kobayashi lifted his hand to turn on the light and then stopped. This kind of thing was best done in the dark. Besides, he didn’t need to see to activate the radio, so he waited in the dark for the agent to report. No doubt Farrington had already made similar contact.
He already regretted letting Farrington choose the man. Still, if anything should go wrong, it might be better if an American were involved. Favors were owed on both sides and debts ensured silence.
At the prearranged time, Kobayashi received the signal.
“Are you in place?” he asked.
He got an affirmative reply.
“Have you made contact with my agent in place?”
“No.”
Kobayashi waited.
“The beacon was in place and activated,” the voice continued. “I had no trouble finding it, but no one showed.”
“That is not possible,” Kobayashi said in spite of himself, regretting immediately that he had allowed himself to be caught off guard. Of course it was possible. His own sleeper had been put in place many years ago and it was known that a small percentage of sleeper agents simply integrated into their new lives and were never heard from again.
“Keep to your mission,” Kobayashi warned. “Observe and report.”
“It’s my ass on the line and it’s your man that didn’t show.”
Kobayashi frowned in displeasure. That was the trouble with Americans, they were crude. “You must be patient. The beacon was activated. Perhaps he was called away.”
“Fuck that,” came the harsh reply. “I’m not going to hang around here any longer. I can do this job on my own, but if I ever run into this asshole, his ass is grass. You understand?”
“I understand very well,” Kobayashi replied smoothly. “I believe that the agreement was that I would provide extraction, was it not? However, it is a small matter. No doubt Mr. Farrington will make the extraction effort and not mind.”
“The guy better have a good excuse,” came the muted reply. The tone was still aggressive, but Kobayashi knew that his point had been taken.
He broke the connection without a further word. Let the man worry. It was important to show Americans who was in control. It was part of their culture.
CHAPTER 14
Nick and Lily led the way. At Lily’s insistence, they stopped in front of the communal house and waited for Henry Yali and Chief Jeban to come down the steps to greet them. Both men bowed formally. Nick answered in kind, as did Buettner and her father. But Lily stood aloof, as if watching over the ceremony like a chief of protocol. Around them insects swarmed and hummed. Occasionally, one sizzled when it got too close to the flaming torches.
“We have special treats all the way from America,” Buettner announced, holding out the plastic chest at arm’s length.
Which wasn’t quite true, Nick thought, since America implied the mainland, not just Guam, or even Hawaii.
Yali and Jeban bowed again, but neither made a move to accept the gift or show the party inside. Only when Lily nodded her approval did Yali say, “We are in your debt.”
“Iced dessert,” Buettner clarified as he opened the lid, displaying an extensive array of Popsicles, Snickers, Milky Ways, and Hershey bars. Nick’s mouth watered even as the last piece of dry ice melted into vapor as the hot air hit it.
Yali caught his breath, obviously in awe. Jeban’s jaw dropped open.
Yali’s hand reached into the vapor. “There is a store on the far side of our island.” He pointed inland. “They have ice but nothing like this. There is no other full- time refrigeration on Balesin.”
“They have a generator,” Jeban explained.
“We brought one, too,” Buettner told him. “It’s very small, though, and good only for our radio.”
Jeban nodded. “The church has such a one, but for lights only.”
“Your church?” Nick asked.
“The Reverend Innis’s church. It’s on the other side of the island next to the store,” Yali answered. “Not John Frum’s church.”
Buettner changed the subject. “I hope we’ve enough dessert for everyone.”
“How can we repay such a debt?” Yali said.
Buettner started to reply but Lily spoke first. “Now is not the time for business, Henry. Our guests are hungry. Later we can talk.”
“Of course,” the priest said immediately.
He and Jeban stood to one side so that Lily could lead the way up the steps, through mosquito netting, and inside the communal hall. At first glance, Nick thought there was only a single large meeting room. But when her eyes adjusted to the flickering lantern light, she realized that one end of the room was divided off by a curtain of hanging bamboo that had been cut into sections and strung together like wind chimes. The area beyond served as a kitchen and was populated by women and children.
The main room was filled with tables from one end to the other, like a mess hall. Only the head table remained empty; the others were already crammed with adult villagers, both men and women. Nick blinked against the sweat flooding into her stinging eyes. As hot as it was outsi
de, inside was worse. The steamy aroma from the kitchen area was both mouth-watering and sauna-like. But, she realized suddenly, there were no insects inside the hall.
Nick glanced at her father. For once even Elliot seemed overwhelmed by the heat. His hair lay plastered against his scalp; his shirt stuck to him.
It’s mind over matter, she mouthed at him silently, reminding him of his own advice whenever she complained on one of their digs. Think cool.
He held up a finger to indicate she’d scored a point. His crooked smile said the next would be his.
It would be, too, because basically his advice was sound enough. Heat didn’t matter, or cold either when it came down to it. Because no matter what, field trips were an archaeologist’s lifeblood. Without them, without the breakthroughs and scientific discoveries they provided, archaeology would be nothing but classroom theory.
So do your job, Nick reminded herself. Observe, learn, and next time bring a sweatband. And remember, even a steam bath like this is better than being eaten alive by bloodsucking bugs.
She wiped her eyes with a tissue and began by studying the interior architecture. The vaulted ceiling caught her attention. The thatch, held in place by rafters made of unmilled tree limbs, had been blackened over the years, probably from torches when lanterns hadn’t been available.
Squinting at the thatch, she looked for movement, for any sign of geckos. But maybe they couldn’t cope with the soot, or the heat either, for that matter. Scratch that, she thought. Most likely, the geckos’ survival was strictly a matter of insects. If the mosquito netting was effective, the geckos would find someplace else to live. Or else there were bigger bugs to keep them busy in the thatch.
Nick sighed, her mind again dwelling on the stifling atmosphere. If she were a gecko, she’d sure as hell find someplace else to call home.
She was still looking for signs of thatch life when Lily grasped her elbow and guided her across the hand-hewn plank flooring to the head table. There, after another bow from Yali, the plastic cooler changed hands and was placed in the center of the table.
Longing for comfortable clothing like Lily’s, Nick rolled up her sweat-sodden shirtsleeves. A cold drink would have been a godsend, something with ice, anything with ice. But even the dry ice was gone from the cooler, vaporized by the consuming heat. Soon the candy bars would melt into goo. At the moment, Nick felt as if she, too, was about to dissolve into a shapeless puddle.
