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A new sailor came and took our cocktail order. Two different men brought the drinks.

Creedman sipped his martini and licked his lips. 'Nice and dry. Why can't we get vermouth like this in the village, Bill?'

Moreland stared at his tomato juice and shrugged.

'I asked the Trading Post to get me something dry and Italian,' said Creedman. 'Took a month and what I ended up with was some swill from Malaysia.'

'Pity.'

'Go to any duty-free in the booniest outpost and they've got everything from Chivas to Stoli, so what's the big deal about filling an order here? It's almost as if they want to do it wrong.'

'Is that the theme of your book?' said Pam. 'Incompetent islanders?'

Creedman smiled at her over his drink. 'If you're that curious about my book, maybe you and I should get together and discuss it. That is, if you've got any energy after your swims.'

Moreland walked to the blue drapes and parted them.

'Same view,' he said. 'The airfield. Why they put a window here, I'll never know.'

'Maybe they like to see the planes take off, Dad,' said Pam.

Moreland shrugged again.

'How long did you and Mom live here?'

'Two years.'

Three men came in. Two wore officer's garb- the first was fiftyish, tall and thickset, with rough red skin and steel glasses; the other even taller, ten years younger, with a long, swarthy, rubbery face and restless hands.

The man between them had on a beautiful featherweight gray serge suit that trimmed ten pounds from his two hundred. Six feet tall, heavy shouldered and narrow hipped, with a square face, bullish features, slit mouth, rancher's tan. His shirt was soft blue broadcloth with a pin collar, his foulard a silver and wine silk weave. His hair was bushy and black on top, the temples snow-white. The contrast was almost artificial, as dramatic in real life as on TV.

He looked like Hollywood's idea of a senator, but Hollywood had nothing to do with his becoming one, if newspapers and magazines could be believed.

The story was a good one: born to a young widow in a struggling Oregon logging camp, Nicholas Hoffman had been tutored at home till the age of fifteen, when he'd lied about his age and enlisted in the Navy. By the end of the Korean War, he was a decorated hero who gave the military another fifteen years of distinguished service before entering the real estate business, making his first million by forty and running successfully for the Senate at forty- three. His doctrine was the avoidance of extremes; someone dubbed him Mr. Middle-of-the-Road and it stuck. True believers on both ends tried to use it against him. The voters ignored them, and Hoffman was well into his third term after a no-contest race.

'Bill!' he said, barging ahead of the officers and stretching out a meaty hand.

'Senator,' said Moreland softly.

'Oh, Jesus!' roared Hoffman. 'Cut the crap! How are you, man?'

He grabbed Moreland's hand and pumped. Moreland remained expressionless. Hoffman turned to Pam. 'You must be Dr. Moreland, Junior. Christ, last time I saw you, you were in diapers.' He let go of her father and touched her fingers briefly. 'You are a doctor?'

She nodded.

'Splendid.'

Creedman stuck out his hand and announced himself.

'Ah, the press,' said Hoffman. 'Captain Ewing told me you were here, so I said invite him, show him open government in action or he'll make something up. On assignment?'

'Writing a book.'

'On what?'

'Nonfiction novel.'

'Ah. Great.'

'What brings you here, Senator?'

'Fact-finding trip. Not one of those sun-and-fun junkets. Real work. Downsizing. Appraising military installations.'

Unbuttoning his jacket, he patted his middle. He had a small, hard paunch that tailoring had done a good job of camouflaging.

'And you must be the doctors from California.' He stuck out his hand. 'Nick Hoffman.'

'Dr. Delaware's a psychologist,' said Robin. 'I build musical instruments.'

'How nice…' He glanced at the table. 'Shall we, Captain?'

'Certainly, Senator,' said the red-faced officer. His voice was raspy. Neither he nor the swarthy man had budged during the introductions. 'You're at the head, sir.'

Hoffman strode quickly to his place and removed his jacket. The taller officer rushed to take it from him, but he'd already hung it on the back of the chair and sat down, removing his collar pin and loosening his tie.

'Drink, Senator?' the officer said.

'Iced tea, Walt. Thanks.'

The tall man left. The red-faced man remained in place near the door.

'Join us, Captain Ewing,' said Hoffman, motioning to one of the two empty chairs.

Ewing removed his hat and complied, leaving lots of space between his back and the chair.

'Can I assume everyone knows everyone, Elvin?' said Hoffman.

'I know everyone by name,' said Ewing. 'But we've never met.'

'Mr. Creedman, Dr. Pam Moreland, Dr. and Mrs. Delaware,' said Hoffman, 'Captain Elvin Ewing, base commander.'

Ewing put a finger to his eyeglasses. He looked as comfortable as a eunuch in a locker room.

The officer returned with Hoffman's tea. The glass was oversized and a mint sprig floated on top.

'Anything else, Senator?'

'No. Sit down, Walt.'

As he started to obey, Ewing said, 'Introduce yourself, Lieutenant.'

'Lieutenant Zondervein,' said the tall man, looking straight ahead.

'There,' said Hoffman. 'Now we're all friends.' Emptying most of the glass with one gulp, he picked out the mint sprig and chewed on a leaf.

'Are you traveling alone, Senator?' said Creedman.

Hoffman grinned at him. 'Just can't turn it off, can you? If you mean do I have an entourage, no, just me. And yes, it's a leased government jet, but I rode along with the base supplies.'

The sleek craft I'd noticed.

'Actually,' continued Hoffman, 'there are three other legislative luminaries assigned to this particular trip. Senators Bering, Petrucci, and Hammersmith. They're in Hawaii right now, arriving in Guam tomorrow, and I can't promise you they haven't been sunbathing.' Grinning. 'I decided to come early so I could revisit my old stomping grounds, see old friends. No, Mr. Creedman, it didn't cost the taxpayers an extra penny, because my assignment is to assess facilities on several of the smaller Micronesian islands, including Aruk, and by coming alone I turned it into a cheap date.'

He finished the tea, crushed an ice cube, swallowed, and laughed. 'I got to sit up with the pilot. God, the instrumentation on these things. Might as well have been trying to play one of those damn computer games my grandkids are addicted to- did you know the average seven-year-old has more computer proficiency than his parents will ever achieve? Great eye-hand skills, too. Maybe we should train seven-year-olds to fly combat, Elvin.'

Ewing's smile was anemic.

'Let me get you a refill, Senator,' said Zondervein, starting to get up.

Hoffman said, 'No, thanks- anyone else?'

Creedman lifted his martini glass.

Lieutenant Zondervein took it and went to the door. 'I'll check on the first course.'

Hoffman unfolded his napkin and tucked it into his collar. 'Mafia style,' he said. 'But one wirephoto with grease spots on the tie and you learn. So what's on the menu, Elvin?'