The Web

nonsense.' She had a sub-alto voice. If the two of them had kids, they probably sounded like tugboat horns.

She gave Robin a wide, appraising smile. Light brown eyes, an even nose, lips just a little too thin. Her tan was as new as her getup, still pink around the edges.

'I've heard you're a craftswoman,' she said. 'Sounds fascinating.'

'We've been looking forward to meeting you,' said Picker. 'Round out the dinner table- make up for the host's absence.'

'Is the host absent often?' I said.

'All work, no play. When the man sleeps, I don't know. Are you vegetarians like him? We're not. My line of work, you eat what you can get or you starve to death.'

Knowing it was expected of me, I said, 'What line is that?'

'Epiphytology. Botany. Tropical spores.'

'Are you doing research with Dr. Moreland?'

He gave a wet laugh. 'No, I rarely venture far from the equator. This is a cold weather jaunt for me.' He threw an arm around his wife's shoulder. 'Keeping the distaff side company. Dr. Jo here is an esteemed meteorologist. Fluctuations in aerial currents. Uncle Sam's quite enamored, ergo grant money.'

Jo gave an uneasy smile. 'I study the wind. How was your trip?'

'Long but peaceful,' said Robin.

'Come over on the supply boat?' said Picker.

'Yes.'

'Out of Saipan or Rota?'

' Saipan.'

'Us, too. Damned tedious, give me a plane any day. Even the biggest ocean liner's a thumbnail in a swimming pool. Ridiculous, isn't it, big airfield over on Stanton and the Navy won't let anyone use it.'

'Dr. Moreland wrote that the airport there was closed,' I said.

'Not when the Navy needs it. Damn boats.'

'Oh, it wasn't so bad, Ly,' said Jo. 'Remember the flying fish? It was lovely, actually.'

The four of us started toward the stairs.

'Typical government stupidity,' said Picker. 'All that land, no one using it- probably the result of some subcommittee. Wouldn't you say, dear? You understand the ways of the government.'

Jo's smile was tense. 'Wish I did.'

'Spend any time in Guam?' asked her husband. 'Read any of those tourist pamphlets they have everywhere? Developing the Pacific, making use of the native talent pool. So what does the military do to a place like this? Blocks off the one link between the base and the rest of the island.'

'What link is that?' I said.

'Southern coastal road. The leeward side is unapproachable from the north, sheer rock walls from the tip of North Beach up to those dead volcanoes, so the only other ways to get through are the southern beach road and through the banyan forest. Navy blockaded the road last year. Meaning no military contact with the village, no commerce. What little local economy there was got choked off.'

'What about through the forest?'

'The Japanese salted it with land mines.'

His wife moved out from under his arm. 'What kinds of things do you craft, Robin?'

'Musical instruments.'

'Ah… drums and such?'

'Guitars and mandolins.'

'Lyman plays the guitar.'

Picker scratched his beard. 'Took a guitar into the hoyos of central Ecuador – now that was a place- ocelots, tapir, kinkajou. Only indigenous thingies around here lack spines, and my bride despises spineless things, don't you?'

'He plays quite well,' said Jo.

'Regular Segovia.' Picker mimed a strum. 'Sitting around the campfire with the Auca Indians, trying to charm them so they'd lead me to a juicy trove of Cordyceps militaris-fungal parasite, grows on insect pupae, they eat it like popcorn. Humidity loosened the glue on the thing, woke up the next morning to a stack of soggy boards.' He laughed. 'Used the strings to strangle my supper that night, the rest for toothpicks.'

We reached the bottom of the stairs. Ben Romero was in the front room, KiKo on his shoulder. Picker eyed the animal. 'I've eaten them, too. Gamy. Can't housebreak them, did you know?'

'Evening, Ben,' said Jo. 'Alfresco, as usual?'

Ben nodded. 'Dr. Bill will be a little late.'

'Surprise, surprise,' said Picker.

We walked through the right-hand hallway. Raw silk walls were hung with yet more pale watercolors. Nature scenes, well executed. The same signature on all of them: 'B. Moreland.' Another of the doctor's talents?

Ben led us through a big, yellow living room with a limestone fireplace, brocade couches, chinoiserie tables, Imari porcelain lamps with parchment shades. An oil portrait of a black-haired woman took up the space over the mantel. Her haughty beauty evoked Sargent.

The room opened to a wraparound terrace where a banquet table was covered with bright blue cloth. Bone china set for seven. Nascent light from hanging iron lanterns was swallowed by the still-bright evening.

The sun nudged the horizon, spilling crimson onto the skin of the water, a lovely wound. Down in the village tin roofs glinted through the treetops like tiny coins. The road leading up to the estate was a sleeping gray snake, its head resting at the big front gates. I thought of the slaves storming up from the barracks. Some Japanese general watching, helpless, knowing how it would end.

Lyman Picker touched his throat and winked at Ben.

'Bourbon,' Ben said in a tight voice. 'Straight up.'

'Excellent memory, friend.'

'And for you, Mrs. Picker?'

'Just a soda, if it's no bother.'

'No bother at all.' Ben's jaw flexed. 'Ms. Castagna? Dr. Delaware?'

'Nothing, thanks,' I said.

Robin looked at me. 'Me, neither.'

'You're sure?'

'Positive.'

He left.

'Conscientious one, that,' said Picker.

Jo began examining the flatware. Robin and I walked to the pine railing. Picker followed us and leaned against the wood, elbows resting on the cap.

'So you're here to work with the old man. Sun and fun, maybe a publication or two. He's lucky to get you. You wouldn't find a serious scientist here.'

I laughed.

'No offense, man,' he said, as if offended. 'When I say serious, I mean us theoretical and oh-so-irrelevant types. Panhandlers with Ph.D.'s, rattling our beakers and praying stipends will drop in. This part of the globe, you want funding, you don't study a place like this, you go for Melanesia, Polynesia. Big, fat, fertile islands, plenty of flora, fauna, agreeably colorful indigenous tribes, serious mythology for the folklore crowd.'

'Aruk doesn't have any of that?'

He coughed without covering his mouth. ' Micronesia, my friend, is two thousand dirt specks in three million square miles of water, most of them uninhabited bumps of coral. This bump's one of the most obscure. Did you know there were no people till the Spanish brought them over to grow sugar? The crop failed and the Spanish sailed away, leaving the workers to starve. Then came the Germans, who, for all their authoritarianism, hadn't a clue about colonizing. Sat around reading Goethe all day. Then the Japanese trying the same damn sugar thing, slave labor.'

He laughed. 'So what was the payoff? MacArthur bombs them to hell and the slaves say payback time. Night of the long knives.' He drew a finger across his beard.