It is not until the plane is in the air and cruising high above Connecticut that the man finally folds his newspaper and sticks it in the pouch with the airline magazines in front of him, as if someone else on the next flight might be interested in reading his outdated copy of the New York Times. You now wish you had brought something to read yourself, so that you could feign immersion and avoid eye contact with him at all cost. But he fidgets in the seat to your left, as if he is anxious to get your attention. You try your best to appear lost in thought, pretending to be enthralled by the sight of the two flight attendants wheeling a cart down the aisle, pouring out cans of soda and juice into clear plastic cups for thirsty passengers, seat by seat, row by row.


"I know where you're headed," he finally says.


You turn to look at him, hoping your facial expression is displaying the proper amount of disinterest. "Oh?" you say. "Isn't everybody here heading to Boston?"


"You know what I mean," he says, unfazed at your attempt to be acerbic.


"I'm afraid I don't, actually," you try again.


"I am referring to 46 Van Ness Street," the man says.


You are unable to control your expression of surprise — 46 Van Ness is the address you were given for your meeting with Berringer later this morning.


"Never mind who I am," he continues. "It's you I've come here to see."


Mr. Plaid Suit has a surprisingly deep voice for such a small figure, and his nose sticks out twice as far as any nose should, like an awning over his thin mustache. Unlike most men his age, he has made no attempt to hide his balding dome, either with a hat, with implants, or by shaving his head altogether. And his breath smells like an onion bagel.


How much does this guy know about your meeting? To be honest, you know next to nothing yourself; you just know that Berringer pays well, and you'd be a fool to pass over an opportunity to work for him. Sometimes in your line of work, it's best not to know more than you have to, or before you need to know it.


But now you feel as though you're at a distinct disadvantage. The only thing about which you are certain is the need to not say a thing — for fear that you might reveal too much, or reveal how little you actually know.


Sensing your apprehension, Mr. Plaid Suit continues. "I know where Berringer will send you, and I can get you more pay for your troubles."


You look the man square in the eyes. As he smiles, two golden teeth shine in the subdued light of the plane's cabin.


This early flight was not completely booked, and there is a seat three rows ahead of you that is empty. Perhaps you should relocate. You're pretty sure that if you stay here, you'll be at the bottom of Boston Harbor about an hour after the plane lands. In your experience, strangers like this who come out of nowhere and try desperately to get your attention never lead to anything good.


__________________________________________________

You stay and try to ignore the man.

You do your best to seem disinterested and confused, but the man persists in this one-way conversation of his.


"Does an even two million sound right to you?" he says.


Again, he seems to know more about what is going on than you do. You fumble for your phone in your pocket, desperately trying to maintain the illusion of disinterest and mild irritation, but the words two million are still resonating in your brain.


You have no idea what kind of mission Mr. Berringer wants to hire you for. Well, scratch that; you do have a very good idea. Your potential new employer in Boston is the type of person who desires certain items, and you are the type of person who can procure them. The only thing you don't know at the moment is what the item is in this case, and where you'll need to go to find it.


But if this guy with the bad hairdo and worse clothing is willing to pay you two million... .


Well OK, you tell yourself, let's not get greedy. You have no idea what Berringer's offer is going to be. On the other hand, though, here you are flying on the ticket he purchased for you, chilling near the rear of the plane in economy class. And next to you is a guy who seems eager to steal you away. He doesn't look nearly as well-heeled as your usual employers, but maybe he's just the messenger for somebody else. And to be frank, two million would be real money.


Assuming that we're talking dollars here, and not something idiotic like Bitcoins. The last thing you need is a bank account full of arcade tokens.


But working for Mr. Berringer is like playing in the big leagues — an opportunity that is likely to lead to others. That is worth thinking about, too.


__________________________________________________

You give in and listen to what this man has to say.

"Now what's this job you're talking about?" you say.


"Oh, so you are interested," he replies. "Obviously, we shouldn't talk about it here. And at any rate, you'll want to meet my employer. I mean, our employer. When was your meeting with Berringer scheduled?"


Somehow you suspect he already knows the answer to that question — he seems to know everything else — but you tell him anyway. "I was supposed to meet him at 11:30 this morning."


"Well then. When we land you may want to call Mr. Berringer and reschedule. I'm sure he'll understand."


"Why should I?" you say. "I'm a free agent. I think I should be able to meet with whomever I want, whenever and wherever."


"True," Mr. Plaid Suit says, "but my employer has a tight schedule. I'm afraid that 11:30 this morning is the only time she can meet with you. Here, let me give you this address. When we land, I'll have another errand I'll need to run. Just hail a taxi or an Uber or something, and have the driver take you here. Your employer will be waiting for you. She appreciates punctuality."


He tears a corner off the front page of his New York Times and jots down the address, then hands it to you. There is no name, just a number for Beacon Street. It looks like it might be someplace near Boston Common.


"All right, I'll be there," you say. "But I have to admit, I don't like it when somebody knows all about me, and I haven't the slightest clue who they are."


"My name. You want to know my name."


"It's a start."


"Grant. James Grant. But you can call me Jimmy."


He seems a little old to be a "Jimmy," but whatever. You pocket the address, your mind swimming in unanswered questions.


 

As soon as the plane lands and you are able to use your phone, you arrange for an Uber driver to pick you up outside the terminal. You get the notification that your ride is approaching before you even reach the wall of glass doors leading out to the taxi stand. Fortunately you travel light, and so there is nothing to pick up at the baggage claim. Everything you brought with you to Boston is in your carry-on bag.


You step out into the taxi stand, looking for a red Prius being driven by someone named Lucy. She is not hard to find.


"Well hello there," she says. "Where are you going again?"


Lucy is a tall woman, almost too large for this small Prius, with a mane of red hair that is nearly as bright as her car.


"Beacon Street," you say. "Here is the address."


She looks at the note Jimmy jotted down on the piece of newsprint. "So I take it this is your first trip to Boston?"


"I'll admit I don't get here as often as I should," you say as the car silently moves into traffic under the power of its electric engine.


"I can give you the scenic tour if you like," your driver says. "The TD Garden, the Prudential Building, Faneuil Hall, Fenway. Well maybe not Fenway, because that's a very somber place when the Sox aren't playing in October. But I can give you a wicked good tour of the city, for a lot less than you'd pay for one of them duck boats."


You're not sure why she thinks you are a tourist, but you're in no mood to argue. Instead, you look at your watch. "What time is it? No, I have a meeting I need to make at that Beacon Street address. You can just take me there."


"A meeting, huh? Well, suit yourself."


The route Lucy follows takes you through a tunnel and out into Boston's sprawling downtown. You have no idea where you are until she emerges from a side street on the edge of Boston Common, at which point she turns right onto Beacon Street. About a block later, she comes to a stop.


"Here you are," she says. "Cheers."


And she's right. You recognize the site instantly: steps leading up into the hotel, more steps leading down below the level of the sidewalk to the bar in the basement, that place where everybody knows your name. In the TV show the place burned down, but here it looks exactly like it did thirty years ago.


You step out of the Prius in disbelief. Is this really the place where you're supposed to meet Jimmy's boss? There is one way to find out. You step around a group of tourists taking pictures, then descend the steps toward the entrance to the bar. When you open that door, will you be greeted by Ted Danson and Kirstie Alley?


__________________________________________________

Next page.

But when you enter, you are greeted with a tiny cubbyhole that looks nothing like the version of Cheers you've seen on Netflix. The place is smaller than a delicatessen, with several overweight, middle-aged men taking up most of the stools. They look briefly in your direction before returning to their beers, having concluded that you are of no importance to them. None of them are Norm, and no one here cares what your name is.


A young and perky greeter steps out from behind a podium, clearly trained to intercept dazed and confused first-timers such as yourself.


"Just one today?" she asks, holding a menu.


"I'm here to meet someone, actually," you say.


"Ah, yes. We were expecting you. Follow me, then."


The greeter leads you out a back entrance, and then up a short set of stairs to another bar. A sign identifies this one as the "Set Bar," and indeed it looks a little bit more like the TV version of Cheers you remember, but not quite. The bar is a square island in the middle of the room, with faux studio lighting rigged up on the ceiling. But it is way too small, and there are too many windows. The cardboard cutouts of Woody and Norm aren't enough to assuage your disappointment.


"Don't worry, everybody thinks the same thing: 'This isn't the Cheers I was expecting!'"


This voice comes from behind you. You turn to see a large woman squeezed into a booth, a small planetoid of a human being nearly pulled into a spherical shape by her own gravitational force. In front of her is a platter of Buffalo wings.


"I see you found the place all right," she says. "Come on, sit down. Get something to drink if you like. Here's the tap list."


You take a seat opposite the woman — wondering what you're getting yourself into — and peruse the beer list.


"Um, how is this 'Green Monsta IPA'?" you ask the server who has come to take your order, not really sure you need a beer yet, but feeling obligated to order one since you are, after all, at Cheers. Again, you can't avoid that twinge of disappointment that this bartender isn't someone from the show. Like, maybe, Carla.


"It's an IPA," he says. "It tastes exactly like every other IPA."


"Uh, OK, I'll have that."


"You're an IPA person, huh?" the woman says between nibbles on one of her chicken wings. "I'm more a fan of the Wachusett Blueberry Ale myself. You should order some food, too. That way I won't be eating by myself."


"So, you're Jimmy's employer?" you ask, hoping to avoid any unnecessary chitchat and get straight to business. "The person he sent me here to meet?"


"How rude of me!" she says. "I didn't introduce myself. Yes, you could say I run things. My name is Diane Chambers. I'd shake your hand, but, you know... hot sauce."


"You run... Cheers?"


"Ha! No, not at all. I just like to hang out here and confuse the hell out of the tourists. I tell them my name, and then imply the aging process has been rough. I sign glossies of Shelley Long and sell them for a hundred bucks a pop. The way I see it, if a fool wants to part with his money that badly, I'm more than happy to help."


The server returns with your beer and sets it down in front of you. "Do you need some more time to look at the food menu?" he says.


Just then you notice that you and Diane are the only customers in this part of Cheers. "Just give me a cheeseburger and fries," you say.


"You should get the Giant Norm Burger," Diane says. "That's one of my favorites."


That sounds disgusting, actually. "Nah, just a regular cheeseburger."


"Very well," the server says. "And how would you like that cooked?"


"Medium well."


He rushes off to place your order, leaving you alone with your very large potential employer. You can smell the spiciness of her wings across the table.


"I'm sure you must be wondering why you're here," she says at last.


"I'm here because your guy, Jimmy, mentioned something about 'two million,'" you say.


"Ah, yes, the money. Don't worry, the sale of Shelley Long photos has been brisk lately, so I can pay in cash." She chuckles at the humor implied in her statement; you know from past experience with other such "employers" that the true source of their income is none of your business.


"But here's the job: I want the Stone of Vul-Kar."


The Stone of Vul-Kar... where have you heard that before?


"In fact," she continues, "quite a few people want it. But it just so happens that I want it more. Which is why I'm willing to steal you away from Walter Berringer. Your services in this field are in high demand, if you haven't heard — to the point where some people might decide that if you won't work for them, they won't want you working for anybody."


You feel a chill at the threat of bodily harm implied by that statement. The woman gnawing away at the messy Buffalo wings across the table from you seems like an ordinary (but overweight) person, but look around: she arranged to have this tourist attraction all to herself, right at lunchtime. You know better than to let appearances deceive you; this is power, hidden in plain sight.


"Vul-Kar," you say. "Wasn't that in the news recently?"


"Indeed it was," she says. "When Auri Island was discovered in the South Pacific two years ago, the stone-age natives spoke of a neighboring island that was even more mysterious, more inaccessible. They described a tribe of man-like beasts with three eyes, the Wobans. And on the highest part of Woban Island was a lost temple, from some forgotten culture that not even the collegiate folks over at Harvard had heard about. And at that temple, they said, was this enormous purple gem: the Stone of Vul-Kar."


"And that's it?" you say. "You want me to go to Woban Island and get this purple diamond for you?"


"Ah, direct and to the point, I see. That's not a bad trait to have. Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do. I trust that two million dollars will be more than adequate payment?"


"Plus expenses," you say.


"Plus expenses," she agrees. "Although I wouldn't expect there would be many. It's not like there are any hotels on these islands."


Indeed, you have done similar jobs in the past: slogging your way through one jungle or another, looking for something that a particular wealthy person wants and that someone else would rather not part with. The details may vary, but the basic plot is always the same. It's easier when you see your objective as being one-dimensional — there is less room for scruples that way.


"I don't think you'd need a guide," she continues. "I hear the island is crisscrossed with trails, and an additional person would get in the way."


"I prefer to work alone, at any rate," you say.


"So then it's agreed, no guides. Just you and your wits. And your talent for acquiring things."


Diane continues, as if she needs to entice you to work for her, but you've already decided it's impossible to say no. If you did, she'd just eliminate you from the game.


"If you're on board with all of this," she says, "then you can speak with Jimmy here about making your travel arrangements."


She nods her head to the bar, and there beside the cutout of Woody Harrelson is your old friend from this morning's flight. You never even saw him enter the room, but now he's on the way over to your booth, bringing you that cheeseburger you ordered. 


__________________________________________________

Next page.

One week later, you are the sole passenger on board a commercial cargo carrier bound for Tahiti. It is hardly posh, but there are no other ways to get to Auri and Woban islands. Or at least, that's what you've been told.


Diane Chambers had been eager to send you off after your meeting at Cheers. "You need to get going!" she said. "The next boat heading past the islands will be leaving soon. It's not exactly Carnival, but it does have the advantage of belonging to me." Jimmy immediately booked the next flight to Honolulu for you, before you could even try another beer.


"Don't get too comfortable in one of them Hawaiian hotels," she said, sitting next you in the back seat of her BMW as Jimmy drove you to the airport. "You don't want to get spoiled for the jungle. And remember: I don't reimburse resort fees."


It didn't matter, anyway, because it was so late when you touched down at Honolulu that you didn't care too much where you slept. It had taken you two very long flights to get there — and of course Jimmy had accompanied you. It just so happened that he had other business to attend to in the Fiftieth State, your employer insisted, but you knew a handler when you saw one. He had at least swapped his plaid suit for one that was cleaner, but he still looked hopelessly out of place when you landed on Oahu.


The cargo ship that Diane Chambers owned was small and in need of a fresh coat of paint, but Jimmy assured you it was perfectly seaworthy. He followed you as far as the dock, where a crewman was waiting to show you to your berth. You couldn't help but notice the name painted across the bow of the ship: Sam Malone.


"Take this satellite phone," Jimmy said. "Once you've acquired the object, use it to call for a ride home."


"What kind of assistance can I expect if I get into trouble?" you asked. It was a reasonable question: you were heading to a remote island inhabited by savages, after all.


"None, of course," he said. "Someone with your skill set shouldn't need that kind of assistance."


And that was your farewell from civilization.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

On the afternoon of your fifth day aboard the Sam Malone, as you are standing on deck and watching the blankness of the ocean pass by, the captain approaches you. He is a small man, Pakistani by birth, and until this trip the idea of a Pakistani ship captain never occurred to you. On this voyage you have apparently been an added responsibility for him — a draw on the ship's stores, but not a source of useful labor. While his crew has been scurrying about the ship to keep it functioning, you have been lolling around like an idle tourist.


"This is as close to Auri Island as we'll get!" he says.


"Really?" you say. "I can't even see it."


"Of course not. You're on the port side of the ship. Auri Island is to starboard."


You're about to walk around to the other side of the boat to see the island for yourself when the captain extends his arm to block you.


"There's no time for sightseeing!" he scolds. His fondness for efficiency seems almost British, as does his accent. "My men are preparing a small boat for you right now. You need to get your things so you can be on your way. Hurry now!"


You rush to the quarters that had been assigned to you below: a small room, yes, but comfortably furnished with a vanity, a queen-sized bed, and a wardrobe filled with women's clothing. You have been spending as little time here as possible, because you get the strong vibe that this is where the "female companionship" would normally reside... if you hadn't come along to displace that person, perhaps forcing the captain to leave her behind in Hawaii. Or maybe he just has some embarrassing dressing habits, when he thinks no one is looking. Either way, this would explain his impatience with you, and his eagerness now to get you off the ship.


It doesn't take long to gather your belongings, which are all contained in a single backpack. Then you rush back up to the deck, curious to see how the captain plans to get you ashore.


The crew is gathered at the stern of the ship, where they have just lowered a boat over the side. You look over the rails and see a sporty red Zodiac bobbing beside the hull of the cargo ship.


"Use this rope to lower yourself down!" the captain says. "Hurry! Hurry! Before she drifts away!"


Did they really lower the Zodiac down to the water's surface without tethering it to the Sam Malone? There's no use in arguing with the man if indeed that's what happened, so you grab hold of the rope and rappel down the side of the hull until you are safely in the Zodiac. The rope is immediately reeled back into the ship, as if to prevent you from changing your mind. The crew doesn't even linger to wish you a safe journey.


The Zodiac is essentially a raft with an outboard motor, with enough space for you and your pack, but not a heck of a lot else. This might be the perfect boat for tooling around some lake, but here in the South Pacific — with the cargo ship speeding away toward Tahiti — you feel tiny and vulnerable. At least you have calm seas in your favor.


Another boon: the outboard engine starts on the first try, and purrs as if it were brand new. Auri Island, with its gentle and verdant slopes, is a few nautical miles ahead of you; Woban Island is some distance beyond.


So off you go, piloting the red Zodiac across the waves, your next adventure about to start in earnest. Despite the odd and rushed manner in which you departed the Sam Malone, it feels good to be in the open air, alone and in pursuit of a clearly-stated objective — and hopefully with no plaid suits for thousands of miles around. Your only regret is not grabbing something to eat before leaving the ship.


You can't help but notice that the hour is getting late, though. There is only a short period of twilight at these latitudes, and darkness can set in quickly. It's going to take you a while to reach the islands, so you have a choice to make: Do you head to Auri Island, the closer of the two, and spend the night there? Or do you steer the boat toward Woban Island so you can get a head start on your mission?


Auri looks like a typical tropical island, with broad beaches and an inviting shoreline. Woban Island, of course, is where you ultimately need to be, but from this distance its coastline looks like a series of cliffs plunging into the ocean. Finding a suitable place to land might take time — daylight that you may or may not have at your disposal.


__________________________________________________

You spend the night on Auri Island.

Those long beaches on the shore of Auri Island look so much more inviting than the steep cliffs on Woban. After getting rushed so rudely off the cargo ship you'd like a chance to get your bearings, and the idea of spending a night on a tropical beach sounds preferable to searching for a landing site in the dark.


Therefore you steer your small boat toward Auri, bumping across the small waves and never letting off the throttle until you near the shore. The Zodiac is a rubber craft, so you see no need to be gentle with the landing. You build up speed, cut the engine, and let your momentum carry the boat up onto the sand. Then you hop out and pull it by the bow as far up on land as you can — and hopefully beyond the reach of the tide.


You shoulder your backpack and carry it up to the treeline. Auri Island is supposedly inhabited, but you see no signs of people here, of the Stone Age variety or otherwise. Actually, the only sign of civilization is the great amount of plastic waste that has been pushed ashore by the waves: small buoys, empty jugs of laundry detergent, battered water bottles, and fragments of cellophane.


Woban Island looms across a wide channel, dark and foreboding. From here, it looks like a mountain range emerging from the ocean — and on one of those mountains is the Stone of Vul-Kar, which is worth two million dollars to you, and heaven knows what to Diane Chambers. You are glad you chose not to go there today; you will be in a much better mood to approach those steep slopes in the morning.


Just inside the edge of the tropical forest, you find an open space with flat ground. It is just the right size for your backpacking tent, so you unfurl the bundle of rip-stop Nylon and insert the poles. Fully erected, the tent is waist high: snug, but solid. It is something you picked up ten years ago at an REI as you prepared for a similar mission in Guatemala, and you have used it many times since then. The roof of the tent is still streaked with the dried specks of blood from all the mosquitoes you slaughtered that time on the Noatak River a couple years ago, collecting Inuit artifacts from the thawing permafrost. Alaska is so overrated.


Fortunately, there is more than just plastic debris on this beach; while it is still light out, you gather several armloads of dried wood and pile it up in front of your campsite. After digging a pit in the sand, you set a base of dried grass and place some of the smaller sticks on top of that. Using a cigarette lighter to ignite the grass, you find yourself tending a small campfire within minutes.


Then you pull out the first of your freeze-dried food packages. Ham and carrots — what a freaking odd combination for a backpacking meal. The expiration date has passed by a matter of years, so this must be a leftover from the Noatak trip. But why would anyone put an expiration date on freeze-dried food? You tear open the package. It looks all right and doesn't smell dead, so you boil up some water and let the tiny nuggets of meat and vegetables reconstitute for a few minutes.


The weather is balmy, and there are no bugs, so you lay a ground cloth on the sand and fall asleep right there on the beach, your fire dwindling out on its own.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

You wake up to a cool morning. Standing up and stretching, the first thing you notice is your fireplace. All that is left of last night's campfire is a bed of powdery ashes and a few chunks of charred woods. There are no coals remaining, but you bury the ashes anyway by kicking sand into the pit until the entire space is filled.


Then you look up to see whether the tide is up or down. Actually, the water level doesn't look much different than it did last night. There is Woban Island across the channel, still dark even in the morning light; there is the ribbon of plastic flotsam, now with a few small crabs crawling over it; there is your tent, just inside the trees.


But isn't there something missing? Your boat! You look up and down the beach, and scan the distant waves, but there is not a red Zodiac to be seen anywhere.


Did the tide take it? You step over to the spot where you know you left it. What you find is alarming: a drag mark where the boat was pulled back toward the water, and many bootprints all around it. And about twenty feet to the right, you see where another small boat briefly landed.


Could it be possible that someone snuck ashore in the middle of the night to steal your only means of transportation? The marks in the sand tell you that is precisely what did happen. You are impressed they managed to do it without waking you. And perhaps that campfire wasn't such a good idea after all, if it signaled to the competition your exact location.


You scan the ocean more carefully to see what might be out there. Nothing. This leaves only one thing that you can do: call for someone to come and get you. What will Diane and Jimmy think of that?


The satellite phone that Jimmy gave you is in your backpack, which you left inside your tent — assuming no one absconded with that, either. You crawl inside the small dome tent and find your pack just as you left it. After unzipping the top pouch, your hand grasps the phone. Your mission successful, you begin to crawl backwards out of the tent.


Just then you hear a snapping sound behind you, like someone stepping on a stick. You continue your awkward crawling motion until you are clear of the tent's vestibule, then you stand up. Turning around, you are confronted with five dark-skinned men pointing spears in your direction.


It looks like you've made contact with the primitive tribe of Auri Islanders! But right now it's not looking like a positive development… .


__________________________________________________

Next page.

The Auris surround you, their spears ready for action. You gently lower the satellite phone to the ground, then raise your hands to shoulder-level, hoping that this was the universal gesture for surrender even in the Stone Age. One of your captors responds by motioning with a sideways tip of his spear, which you assume means he wants you to follow. You wouldn't still be in this business if you weren't smart enough to know when to admit defeat, so you fall in line as the natives march you through the forest.


They lead you to the foot of a mountain where, in a small clearing, you find a group of grass huts huddled together. A wall of rock five feet high rises above the level of the village, and on top of this sits a larger hut — clearly the dwelling of someone significant. Above the village rises the bare, rocky slopes of the mountain.


When you hesitate, the Auri behind you gives you a firm shove. You feel as if you are being paraded through the village, with the inhabitants staring at you as you pass by. The two warriors ahead of you lead the way up a set of rough-hewn steps to the top of the rock wall, to what you presume to be the chief's hut.


However, this structure is even grander than you first believed. The hut turns out to be a mere foyer for a large, cavernous room set into the mountainside. At the far end of the chamber sits a man on an elaborate wicker chair — more like a king than a tribal chieftain. Several servants, both men and woman, serve as his retinue.


The five Auris who captured you at your campsite form a line behind you, blocking any possibility of escape, and the largest of them forces you into a kneeling position before the chief-king. This cave-like room is dimly lit, but not entirely dark; you suspect there is an opening in the ceiling above you, but you dare not look up lest it be seen as a sign of disrespect. This feels like a very deadly situation, so it is best to keep your wits about you.


The chief-king draws one of his woman servants closer to him. "E ninau no ka mea a keia malihini e hana nei ma ko makou 'aina. 'O keia mau 'opala i holoi 'ia ma ke kahakai?" he says to her.


The woman then turns to you. "The Chief of the Auris wishes to know why you are on this island." Her English is quite good, albeit uncertain, like someone who once knew the language well but has not had much occasion to speak it recently.


"Um, tell him I am merely passing through," you say, speaking to the woman but keeping your eyes on the chief. He is adorned with the bones and feathers of many creatures, but you are relieved to see that none appear human. There may be a way out of this yet.


"Passing through to where?" the woman says, before translating your statement to her chief. Her English has a peculiar accent, which you can't quite place.


"To Woban Island," you say.


She turns back to the chief. "Ua 'olelo 'ia he hiamoe wale no ia ma ka makou kahakai i ka 'mokupuni o Woban. 'Lelo ia e mihi a 'a'ole ia e hana hou."


The chief guffaws loudly. "E aho kahi e'au'au me ka pulu," he says.


"Ae, ku'u haku," she responds.


"'Ike like keia mea 'ano ia 'oe," the chief says, looking you up and down from his wicker throne. "Ma'ia paha he hoaaloha hou paha 'oe!" He laughs even louder, as if he has just told a great joke.


The woman sounds disgusted with whatever it was he just said. Turning to you, she asks in English, "What is your business on Woban Island?"


"I, ah, have been hired by someone to, um, conduct research." You know from past experience that native populations can be sensitive to the idea of Westerners plundering their cultural artifacts, so for the moment you feel it's best to remain cagey about your true purpose here.


But as it turns out, you have no need to be coy. "Let me guess," the Auri translator says. "You're after the Stone of Vul-Kar."


"Yes?" Your admission comes off more as a question, because you are hoping that honesty truly is the best policy in this situation.


"Of course you are!" she says. "Why else would an American be here?"


This woman's English is way too good. If you didn't know any better, you'd say she was from Michigan — like Mackinac, or someplace way up north.


"If you don't mind me asking, who are you?" you say.


"E hu 'oe!" the chief shouts, rising from his throne. "E ha'i mai i ka mea ana i 'olelo ai."


"Ke 'imi nei keia 'Amelika i ka pohaku o Vul-Kar," the woman says to him.


"Pela oe i hana ai," says the chief. "E hui pu me ia."


"'A'ole hiki ia 'oe ke ho'okau i kekahi o kou po'e," she says. "Pono 'oe i kela me keia kanaka no ka kiu."


"A laila noi ia ia e noho. 'A'ole malama wau i kau mea au e hana ai."


The woman sighs and shakes her head. Then she steps forward, closer to you, so that you can see her more clearly in the dim light of the chamber. This person is no Auri at all! Whereas the natives have the complexion of a mild tea, the translator is as white as her Midwestern accent.


"To answer your question: My name is Cynthia Bolt, and I once sought the Stone of Vul-Kar, just as you do now. But my boat sank, and I landed here. The Auri people took me in and accepted me as one of their own. I have been living here for the last year."


Cynthia Bolt! While you were on the plane from Boston, Jimmy had you reading up on all the past expeditions to Woban Island, and hers was one of the first. The report was very short, though, because Bolt disappeared almost instantly upon setting off. Otherwise, despite the fact the two of you seem to work in the same profession, you've never met.


"I'm glad to hear you're safe," you say. "But what do these people want with me?"


"The chief doesn't really want anything. He says I can go with you to Woban Island, since that was my original purpose for coming here, or you may stay here on Auri Island as I have been doing."


That last option takes you by surprise. "Why on earth would I want to stay here?"


"You'd be surprised," Bolt says. "Life here is very simple, in tune with natural rhythms in a way that modern life will never be. I have been very satisfied here. But at the same time, I feel like a failure for never completing my mission, so perhaps it's time I resume my old life."


You're not sure, but it sounds like you are being given the option to choose not only your fate, but hers as well. Her indecisiveness is puzzling, and it only inspires you to make your choice that much more firmly.


__________________________________________________

You go to Woban Island with Cynthia Bolt.

You remember telling Diane Chambers that day back at Cheers that you wouldn't need any guides, but now it looks like that's exactly what you have.


"The Auris trade with the Wobans all the time," Cynthia Bolt tells you later that day, after the chief releases you to prepare for your journey. "We don't go too far inland, but yeah, in my time here I've had plenty of opportunities to scout the most direct route to the summit temple."


"That's terrific," you say, although you are secretly disappointed that she might make this job too easy if she really does know as much as she says she does. And is she going to expect a share of your two million dollars? "But there's one minor problem: someone stole my boat last night."


"I can't say I'm surprised," Bolt says. "The competition can be pretty cutthroat."


"And yet nobody has snagged the Stone of Vul-Kar yet?" you say.


"Strange setbacks always seem to befall those who try. Take me, for instance. At about the same moment I first laid eyes on Woban Island, my boat caught fire and sank. I blamed myself for the longest time, because I've always had the worst luck. Every venture I've ever touched has ended in failure — careers, relationships, you name it. I have a PhD in linguistics, but look at how much good that's done me. Which was why I was looking for the Stone of Vul-Kar in the first place: I really needed the money. So there I was, adrift in this tiny life raft, eventually landing on the same beach here on Auri that you landed on. I learned the language, and the chief made me one of his advisors because he wanted to know why all of a sudden there were so many outsiders interested in these islands. Life here really has been kind to me. I don't know why I let the chief talk me into going with you to Woban."


Your camping gear is still down by the beach, right where you left it; even though some unknown persons came in the middle of the night to steal your Zodiac, nothing else seems to be as tempting a target, apparently. You're not comfortable with the idea of mingling with the villagers, so you return to your tent for the evening. This time, however, you dispense with the campfire.


Early the next morning, Dr. Bolt awakes you inside your tent. "Come on!" she says. "I have boat we can use to get us across the channel."


She is still wearing her Auri grass skirt. And it's worth pointing out that on Auri Island, skirts are the only items in anyone's wardrobe; Dr. Bolt has clearly adopted the local custom of displaying her body with pride.


"You know, we'll get farther on Woban Island if we both blend in," she says as you pack your gear. "You won't last five minutes dressed like a Westerner. I have something I think will fit you perfectly! I'll be right back."


Before you can object, she is gone.


__________________________________________________

Next page.

The boat she has procured for your use turns out to be a dugout canoe with a pair of outriggers. Instead of the outboard motor you had with the Zodiac, this beauty comes with a pair of paddles.


"How far is it to Woban Island?" you say, trying to calculate just how arduous this journey is going to be.


"Not quite three miles," Dr. Bolt says, concerned that you still haven't ditched your manufactured Western clothing in favor of her hand-woven grass skirt... which you understand is something she has made herself during her time on the island.


"How does this thing handle ocean waves?" you ask.


"Quite well, actually. We surf in canoes like this. But the weather is calm today, so we shouldn't have any issues."


It's not like you see many alternatives, so together you push the canoe into the water and climb inside.


The sun is not as hot as you expected, but it is still somewhat early in the morning. As it climbs higher into the tropical sky, however, there is no escaping its intensity. You're somewhat embarrassed to look at your half-dressed companion, even though she is sitting in front of you in the canoe and there is no real way you cannot look at her. Stare, actually. In her native state she is quite fair-skinned, despite all her time here on the islands; now, as you paddle the channel that separates Woban Island from Auri Island, she is turning pink right before your eyes.


"Those slopes look pretty steep over there," you say, trying to distract yourself by studying Woban Island's rugged shoreline. "Where does anybody make landfall in a place like that?"


"That's the hehi mu," Dr. Bolt says. "That part of the island is uninhabitable. No, we have to paddle around that headland on the left. That's where we land."


The canoe cuts through the water surprisingly well, and in just forty-five minutes you are turning the corner around the small point. You can now get a better look at the bulk of Woban Island, which is ruggedly mountainous at its south end, but tapers off into a long cape to the northeast. The jungle still seems thick and dark, but there are at least beaches on this part of the island.


But then you spot something bright red ahead of you on the shore.


"That's my Zodiac!" you say.


"I wouldn't be surprised if it was," Dr. Bolt says. "Somebody else probably didn't like their own boat, so they took yours."


As you get closer, you can see the Zodiac has been beached directly ahead of you. There are no people around, but the dark object beside your stolen boat turns out to be a small dinghy.


Both boats are sitting right where Dr. Bolt wants to land, and the implication makes you nervous: the people who stole the Zodiac from you are probably nearby.


Your topless companion doesn't seem concerned at all. "Looks like it's a busy day on Woban Island!" she says. "Thankfully there are still plenty of parking spaces left."


As you near the shoreline she starts paddling faster instead of easing up, so you do the same. A wave picks up the canoe and floats it onto the sand, and you come to rest on Woban Island with a minor thud. The dugout is now parked right beside the dinghy and the Zodiac.


"Are you sure you won't change your mind about your clothes?" Dr. Bolt says. "Every adventurer on the island is probably dressed like a model in a Cabella's catalog, so if we—"


Just then you hear shouting coming from somewhere in the woods.


"What's that?" you ask.


"Someone's in trouble," Bolt replies. "Come on!"


And before you can discuss it any further, your companion — with her uninterrupted run of bad luck, and her apparently heedless optimism (among her other assets) — runs off into the woods, towards the sounds of trouble you just heard. Towards the people who probably stole your boat.


You follow her up a narrow trail, finding that it leads to a small campsite about a hundred yards inland. There are two young people, a man and a woman, standing in the middle, frantically waving sticks. "Go away!" the woman shouts. "Shoo! Our friends will be here any moment, and they have guns! You know: Bang! Bang!"


It's not you they're trying to frighten off, though. As Dr. Bolt pulls you to a hasty hiding spot behind a tree, you see three large figures steadily advancing on the two people.


"Wobans!" you whisper.


"Yes, trying to expel a few more outsiders from their sacred island," Bolt says. "These two people are toast, I'm afraid. Wobans show no mercy."


"If they aren't looking for us, then we should get out of here."


"What do you mean? We need to help them. They are such a cute couple!" she says.


You suppress a groan. "OK. How?"


"Those Wobans are very strong. I say we create a diversion, let those men run for cover."


"Then what do we do when they come after us?" you say. "If we're going to do something, we should make a frontal attack, use the element of surprise to overpower the Wobans. The advantage will be ours for only a moment, though."


__________________________________________________

You create a diversion.

"So tell me," you whisper to Dr. Bolt. "What kind of diversion do you have in mind."


"Wobans have good vision, but their sense of hearing is sub-par," she says. "Here, take this stone. On three, throw it over their heads into the woods. They'll hear it land and think there is someone coming from the opposite direction."


It seems like a weak plan, but the Wobans are advancing quickly on the couple in the campsite, so there is no time for debate. You take your stone, step out from behind the tree so that you'll have a clearer shot, and wait for Bolt's signal.


Your shot flies over the Wobans, just as you intended. But Dr. Bolt's run of bad luck rears its ugly head when her stone bounces off a tree and strikes one of the man-beasts in the head. She's managed to distract them away from the two young people, all right — now they're after you!


She at least has the presence of mind to run back towards the beach, just as you do when you see one of the seven-foot-tall, three-eyed figures splitting away from his companions to give chase to the two of you. She is running back for the boats, and you realize that is not a bad idea. You are a pretty good runner, and the odds look pretty good that you'll make it in time to get out to the relative safety of the water. Better yet, this will be your chance to reclaim the Zodiac.


But what you can't appreciate is just how much faster the Wobans are compared to an ordinary human. Even as you are starting to make plans for your next attempt to land on the island, your pursuer overtakes you. With one swipe of his claw-like index finger, you are cut down. The last thing you see is Dr. Bolt frantically trying to get one of the boats off the beach and onto the water.


THE END