Twenty Blue Devils

'I don't know, sis. Nick's not the kind of guy who's going to appreciate my butting in. If he wants to talk about it he'll bring it up on his own.'

'John, you know that Uncle Nick is never in a million years going to admit there's something he can't handle. You're going to have to do it.'

'Yeah, but I don't like—'

'I'm relying on you, John.'

Silence.

'John?'

'Jeez,” he exclaimed, “you know something, Brenda?'

'What?'

'Sometimes you can be every damn bit as bad as Nelson.'

'Heaven forfend,” Brenda said.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 3

* * * *

Brian sat bolt-upright in the unzipped sleeping bag, not sure what had brought him awake with his heart pounding. A sound, a light, a movement in the bushes?

'Anybody there?” he called into the darkness, still muddled with sleep.

There was no answer, of course, and after a few seconds, as consciousness flooded back, his pulses stopped their hammering and he quieted down. What animal was there on Raiatea that would harm a man? And there was probably no other human being within ten miles. Silly to react like that, but he had had such a strong, sudden sense of...of presence. It had been a dream, naturally—what else?—although it seemed to him that he had been dreaming about Therese. He had surprised her with some silly gift she'd wanted and she had laughed...

He lay back and resettled himself in the bag. Around him the night was silent and soft, the southern constellations as brilliant as diamonds. An exquisite little breeze, heavy with the fragrance of orange blossom and gardenia, flowed over his face. Hibiscus trees, silhouetted against the star-flecked sky, drowsed at the edge of the clearing. From far away, near the lagoon, came the weird, repetitive cry of some seabird, a hollow, echoing wuh...wuh...wuh...

His eyelids drifted slowly down. Relaxed, tranquil, he slid again into his dreams.

It was a long time before the bushes moved again, and when they did Brian only stirred, but did not waken.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 4

* * * *

Shhl-l-l-l-p.

The coffee was sucked from the silverplated tablespoon, rolled over, under, and around the tongue, then held at the back of Rudy Druett's mouth for a few seconds. He chewed, he gargled, he tipped his head back. His eyes closed, his eyes opened. Finally he leaned to one side and delicately dipped his chin.

Blupp.

Into the waist-high funnel of the spittoon it went. “Well now,” he said, his long, doleful face pensive. “It's...in my opinion it's...let me see...'

He moved his tongue over the inside of his mouth, chewed his cheek, hunched his narrow shoulders, muttered nasally to himself. While he thus marshaled his evaluative powers the others took their own spoons from bowls of water and dipped them one at a time into the sample of coffee under consideration. Four shl-l-l-l- ps, four blupps.

The tasting session had been under way for an hour. There were four of them in the room besides Rudy. Three were officers of the Paradise Coffee plantation: Nick Druett, easygoing, comfortably in charge, and carrying his sixty-nine years lightly; his nephew and comptroller Nelson Lau—John's older brother—looking like a Hong Kong businessman, pompous and serious in a conservative, pin-striped business suit; and Nick's older daughter, Maggie, casually and colorfully dressed in a bright Tahitian flowered skirt, but as blunt and outspoken as ever.

Although Maggie generally attended the tasting sessions, Nick had never managed to instill in her much interest in the business of growing and selling coffee. What Maggie was interested in was improving the lot of the world's laboring masses, particularly the Tahitian laboring masses, and, on a more general level, in saving the earth from the depredations of its human inhabitants. True to her convictions, she belonged to a number of native-culture groups and had herself founded the Island Culture Club, chiefly dedicated to the reintroduction of the native Tahitian musical tradition; in particular the pahu, a drum made from a hollowed-out tree trunk, and the viva, a bamboo flute played with the nostrils. The society met monthly, had grown to eleven like-minded individuals over the years, and had high hopes of someday acquiring a native member.

Taking advantage of her natural inclinations and abilities, Nick had made her the plantation's personnel