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+{"text":" \n# The word inside the book\n\nAs Bastian read and listened to the deep, dark voice of the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, a roaring started up in his ears and he saw spots before his eyes.\n\nWhy, this was all about him! And it was the Neverending Story. He, Bastian, was a character in the book which until now he had thought he was reading. And heaven only knew who else might be reading it at the exact same time, also supposing himself to be just a reader.\n\nAnd now Bastian was afraid. He felt unable to breathe, as though shut up in an invisible prison. He didn't want to read anymore, he wanted to stop.\n\nBut _the deep, dark voice of the Old Man of Wandering Mountain went on,_\n\nand there was nothing Bastian could do about it. He held his hands over his ears, but it was no use, because the voice came from inside him. He tried desperately to tell himself\u2014though he knew it wasn't true\u2014that the resemblance to his own story was some crazy accident....\n\nPUFFIN BOOKS\n\nAn imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York\n\nFirst published in Germany as Die Unendliche Geschichte by K. Thienemanns Verlag, 1979\n\nThis translation published in the United States of America by Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1983\n\nPublished simultaneously in Great Britain by Allen Lane Published by Penguin Books, 1984\n\nFirst published by Puffin Books, 1985\n\nSecond Puffin edition, 1997\n\nPublished by Firebird, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005\n\nPublished by Puffin Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2018\n\nCopyright \u00a9 K. Thienemanns Verlag, Stuttgart, 1979\n\nTranslation copyright \u00a9 Doubleday & Co. Inc., 1983\n\nPenguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.\n\nVisit us online at penguinrandomhouse.com\n\nTHE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PUFFIN EDITION AS FOLLOWS:\n\nEnde, Michael.\n\n[Unendliche Geschichte. English]\n\nThe neverending story \/ Michael Ende; translated by Ralph Manheim. p. cm.\n\nSummary: Shy, awkward Bastian is amazed to discover that he has become a character in the mysterious book he is reading and that he has an important mission to fulfill.\n\nISBN 978-0-525-55604-6\n\n[1. Fantasy.] I. Manheim, Ralph, 1907-. II. Title.\n\nPZ7.E6964Ne 1997 [Fic]\u2014dc21 96-51187 CIP AC\n\nPuffin Books ISBN 9780140386332\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.\n\nVersion_1\n\n# Contents\n\nTitle Page\n\nCopyright\n\nI: Fantastica in Danger\n\nII: Atreyu's Mission\n\nIII: Morla the Aged One\n\nIV: Ygramul the Many\n\nV: The Gnomics\n\nVI: The Three Magic Gates\n\nVII: The Voice of Silence\n\nVIII: The Wind Giants\n\nIX: Spook City\n\nX: The Flight to the Ivory Tower\n\nXI: The Childlike Empress\n\nXII: The Old Man of Wandering Mountain\n\nXIII: Perilin, the Night Forest\n\nXIV: The Desert of Colors\n\nXV: Grograman, the Many-Colored Death\n\nXVI: The Silver City of Amarganth\n\nXVII: A Dragon for Hero Hynreck\n\nXVIII: The Acharis\n\nXIX: The Traveling Companions\n\nXX: The Seeing Hand\n\nXXI: The Star Cloister\n\nXXII: The Battle for the Ivory Tower\n\nXXIII: The City of the Old Emperors\n\nXXIV: Dame Eyola\n\nXXV: The Picture Mine\n\nXXVI: The Water of Life\n\nAbout the Author\n\n_This inscription could be seen on the glass door of a small shop, but naturally this was only the way it looked if you were inside the dimly lit shop, looking out at the street through the plateglass door._\n\n_Outside, it was a gray, cold, rainy November morning. The rain ran down the glass and over the ornate letters. Through the glass there was nothing to be seen but the rain-splotched wall across the street._\n\n_Suddenly the door was opened so violently that a little cluster of brass bells tinkled wildly, taking quite some time to calm down. The cause of this hubbub was a fat little boy of ten or twelve. His wet, dark-brown hair hung down over his face, his coat was soaked and dripping, and he was carrying a school satchel slung over his shoulder. He was rather pale and out of breath, but, despite the hurry he had been in a moment before, he was standing in the open doorway as though rooted to the spot._\n\n_Before him lay a long, narrow room, the back of which was lost in the half-light. The walls were lined with shelves filled with books of all shapes and sizes. Large folios were piled high on the floor, and on several tables lay heaps of smaller, leather-bound books, whose spines glittered with gold. The far end of the room was blocked off by a shoulder-high wall of books, behind which the light of a lamp could be seen. From time to time a ring of smoke rose up in the lamplight, expanded, and vanished in darkness. One was reminded of the smoke signals that Indians used for sending news from hilltop to hilltop._ _Apparently someone was sitting there, and, sure enough, the little boy heard a cross voice from behind the wall of books: 'Do your wondering inside or outside, but shut the door. There's a draft.'_\n\n_The boy obeyed and quietly shut the door. Then he approached the wall of books and looked cautiously around the corner. There, in a high worn leather wing chair sat a short, stout man in a rumpled black suit that looked frayed and somehow dusty. His paunch was held in by a vest with a flower design. He was bald except for outcroppings of white hair over his ears. His red face suggested a vicious bulldog. A gold-rimmed pince-nez was perched on his bulbous nose. He was smoking a curved pipe, which dangled from one corner of his mouth and pulled his whole cheek out of shape. On his lap he held a book, which he had evidently been reading, for in closing it he had left the thick forefinger of his left hand between the leaves as a kind of bookmark._\n\n_With his right hand he now removed his spectacles and examined the fat little boy, who stood there dripping. After a while, the man narrowed his eyes, which made him look more vicious than ever, and muttered: 'Goodness gracious.' Then he opened his book and went on reading._\n\n_The little boy didn't know quite what to do, so he just stood there, gaping. Finally the man closed his book_ \u2013 _as before, with his finger between the pages \u2013 and growled: 'Listen, my boy, I can't abide children. I know it's the style nowadays to make a terrible fuss over you \u2013 but I don't go for it. I simply have no use for children. As far as I'm concerned, they're no good for anything but screaming, torturing people, breaking things, smearing books with jam and tearing the pages. It never dawns on them that grown-ups may also have their troubles and cares. I'm only telling you this so you'll know where you're at. Anyway, I have no children's books and I wouldn't sell you the other kind. So now we understand each other, I hope!'_\n\n_After saying all this without taking his pipe out of his mouth, he opened his book again and went on reading._\n\n_The boy nodded silently and turned to go, but somehow he felt that_ _he couldn't take this last remark lying down. He turned around and said softly:_ 'All _children aren't like that.'_\n\n_Slowly the man looked up and again removed his spectacles. 'You still here? What must one do to be rid of you? And what was this terribly important thing you had to tell me?'_\n\n_'It wasn't terribly important,' said the boy still more softly. 'I only wanted... to say that_ all _children aren't the way you said.'_\n\n_'Really?' The man raised his eyebrows in affected surprise. 'Then you must be the big exception, I presume?'_\n\n_The fat boy didn't know what to say. He only shrugged his shoulders a little, and turned to go._\n\n_'And anyway,' he heard the gruff voice behind him, 'where are your manners? If you had any, you'd have introduced yourself.'_\n\n_'My name is Bastian,' said the boy. 'Bastian Balthazar Bux.'_\n\n_'That's a rather odd name,' the man grumbled. 'All those_ B _s. Oh well, you can't help it. You didn't choose it. My name is Carl Conrad Coreander.'_\n\n_'That makes three_ C _s.'_\n\n_'Hmm,' the man grumbled. 'Quite right.'_\n\n_He puffed a few clouds. 'Oh well, our names don't really matter, as we'll never see each other again. But before you leave, there's just one thing I'd like to know: What made you come bursting into my shop like that? It looked to me as if you were running away from something. Am I right?'_\n\n_Bastian nodded. Suddenly his round face was a little paler than before and his eyes a little larger._\n\n_'I suppose you made off with somebody's cashbox,' Mr Coreander conjectured, 'or knocked an old woman down, or whatever little scamps like you do nowadays. Are the police after you, boy?'_\n\n_Bastian shook his head._\n\n_'Speak up,' said Mr Coreander. 'Whom were you running away from?'_\n\n_'The others.'_\n\n_'What others?'_\n\n_'The children in my class.'_\n\n_'Why?'_\n\n_'They won't leave me alone.'_\n\n_'What do they do to you?'_\n\n_'They wait for me outside the schoolhouse.'_\n\n_'And then what?'_\n\n_'Then they shout all sorts of things. And push me around and laugh at me.'_\n\n_'And you just put up with it?'_\n\n_Mr Coreander looked at the boy for a while disapprovingly. Then he asked: 'Why don't you just give them a punch on the nose?'_\n\n_Bastian gaped. 'No, I wouldn't want to do that. And besides, I can't box.'_\n\n_'How about wrestling?' Mr Coreander asked. 'Or running, swimming, football, gymnastics? Are you no good at any of them?'_\n\n_The boy shook his head._\n\n_'In other words,' said Mr Coreander, 'you're a weakling.'_\n\n_Bastian shrugged his shoulders._\n\n_'But you can still talk,' said Mr Coreander. 'Why don't you talk back at them when they make fun of you?'_\n\n_'I tried...'_\n\n_'Well...?'_\n\n_'They threw me into a garbage can and tied the lid on. I yelled for two hours before somebody heard me.'_\n\n_'Hmm,' Mr Coreander grumbled. 'And now you don't dare?'_\n\n_Bastian nodded._\n\n_'In that case,' Mr Coreander concluded, 'you're a scaredy-cat too.'_\n\n_Bastian hung his head._\n\n_'And probably a hopeless grind? Best in the class, teacher's pet? Is that it?'_\n\n_'No,' said Bastian, still looking down. 'I was put back last year.'_\n\n_'Good Lord!' cried Mr Coreander. 'A failure all along the line.'_\n\n_Bastian said nothing, he just stood there in his dripping coat. His arms hung limp at his sides._\n\n_'What kind of things do they yell when they make fun of you?' Mr Coreander wanted to know._\n\n_'Oh, all kinds.'_\n\n_'For instance?'_\n\n_'Namby Pamby sits on the pot. The pot cracks up, says Namby Pamby: I guess it's 'cause I weigh a lot!'_\n\n_'Not very clever,' said Mr Coreander. 'What else?'_\n\n_Bastian hesitated before listing: 'Screwball, nitwit, braggart, liar...'_\n\n_'Screwball? Why do they call you that?'_\n\n_'I talk to myself sometimes.'_\n\n_'What kind of things do you say?'_\n\n_'I think up stories. I invent names and words that don't exist. That kind of thing.'_\n\n_'And you say these things to yourself? Why?'_\n\n_'Well, nobody else would be interested.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander fell into a thoughtful silence._\n\n_'What do your parents say about this?'_\n\n_Bastian didn't answer right away. After a while he mumbled: 'Father doesn't say anything. He never says anything. It's all the same to him.'_\n\n_'And your mother?'_\n\n_'She \u2013 she's gone.'_\n\n_'Your parents are divorced?'_\n\n_'No,' said Bastian. 'She's dead.'_\n\n_At that moment the telephone rang. With some difficulty Mr Coreander pulled himself out of his armchair and shuffled into a small room behind the shop. He picked up the receiver and indistinctly Bastian heard him saying his name. After that there was nothing to be heard but a low mumbling._\n\n_Bastian stood there. He didn't quite know why he had said all he had_ _and admitted so much. He hated being questioned like that. He broke into a sweat as it occurred to him that he was already late for school. He'd have to hurry, oh yes, he'd have to run_ \u2013 _but he just stood there, unable to move. Something held him fast, he didn't know what._\n\n_He could still hear the muffled voice from the back room. It was a long telephone conversation._\n\n_It came to Bastian that he had been staring the whole time at the book that Mr Coreander had been holding and that was now lying on the armchair. He couldn't take his eyes off it. It seemed to have a kind of magnetic power that attracted him irresistibly._\n\n_He went over to the chair, slowly held out his hand, and touched the book. In that moment something inside him went_ click!, _as though a trap had shut. Bastian had a vague feeling that touching the book had started something irrevocable, which would now take its course._\n\n_He picked up the book and examined it from all sides. It was bound in copper-colored silk that shimmered when he moved it about. Leafing through the pages, he saw the book was printed in two colors. There seemed to be no pictures, but there were large, beautiful capital letters at the beginning of the chapters. Examining the binding more closely, he discovered two snakes on it, one light and one dark. They were biting each other's tail, so forming an oval. And inside the oval, in strangely intricate letters, he saw the title:_\n\n### _The Neverending Story_\n\n_Human passions have mysterious ways, in children as well as grown-ups. Those affected by them can't explain them, and those who haven't known them have no understanding of them at all. Some people risk their lives to conquer a mountain peak. No one, not even they themselves, can really explain why. Others ruin themselves trying to win the heart of a certain person who wants nothing to do with them. Still others are destroyed by their devotion to the pleasures of the table. Some are so bent on winning a game of chance that they lose everything they own, and some sacrifice everything for a dream that can never come true. Some think their_ _only hope of happiness lies in being somewhere else, and spend their whole lives traveling from place to place. And some find no rest until they have become powerful. In short, there are as many different passions as there are people._\n\n_Bastian Balthazar Bux's passion was books._\n\n_If you have never spent whole afternoons with burning ears and rumpled hair, forgetting the world around you over a book, forgetting cold and hunger -_\n\n_If you have never read secretly under the bedclothes with a flashlight, because your father or mother or some other well-meaning person has switched off the lamp on the plausible ground that it was time to sleep because you had to get up so early -_\n\n_If you have never wept bitter tears because a wonderful story has come to an end and you must take your leave of the characters with whom you have shared so many adventures, whom you have loved and admired, for whom you have hoped and feared, and without whose company life seems empty and meaningless \u2013_\n\n_If such things have not been part of your own experience, you probably won't understand what Bastian did next._\n\n_Staring at the title of the book, he turned hot and cold, cold and hot. Here was just what he had dreamed of, what he had longed for ever since the passion for books had taken hold of him: A story that never ended! The book of books!_\n\n_He had to have this book \u2013 at any price._\n\n_At any price? That was easily said. Even if he had had more to offer than the bit of pocket money he had on him \u2013 this cranky Mr Coreander had given him clearly to understand that he would never sell him a single book. And he certainly wouldn't give it away. The situation was hopeless._\n\n_Yet Bastian knew he couldn't leave without the book. It was clear to him that he had only come to the shop because of this book. It had called him in some mysterious way, because it wanted to be his, because it had somehow always belonged to him._\n\n_Bastian listened to the mumbling from the little back room. In a twinkling, before he knew it, he had the book under his coat and was hugging it with both arms. Without a sound he backed up to the street door, keeping an anxious eye on the other door, the one leading to the back room. Cautiously he turned the door handle. To keep the brass bells from ringing, he opened the glass door just wide enough for him to slip through. He quietly closed the door behind him._\n\n_Only then did he start running._\n\n_The books, copybooks, pens and pencils in his satchel jiggled and rattled to the rhythm of his steps. He had a stitch in his side. But he kept on running._\n\n_The rain ran down his face and into his collar. The wet cold passed through his coat, but Bastian didn't feel it. He felt hot all over, but not from running._\n\n_His conscience, which hadn't let out a peep in the bookshop, had suddenly woken up. All the arguments that had seemed so convincing melted away like snowmen under the fiery breath of a dragon._\n\n_He had stolen. He was a thief!_\n\n_What he had done was worse than common theft. That book was certainly the only one of its kind and impossible to replace. It was surely Mr Coreander's greatest treasure. Stealing a violinist's precious violin or a king's crown wasn't at all the same as filching money from a cash drawer._\n\n_As he ran, he hugged the book tight under his coat. Regardless of what this book might cost him, he couldn't bear to lose it. It was all he had left in the world._\n\n_Because naturally he couldn't go home anymore._\n\n_He tried to imagine his father at work in the big room he had furnished as a laboratory. Around him lay dozens of plaster casts of human teeth, for his father was a dental technician. Bastian had never stopped to ask himself whether his father enjoyed his work. It occurred to him now for the first time, but now he would never be able to ask him._\n\n_If he went home now, his father would come out of his lab in a white smock, possibly holding a plaster cast, and he would ask: 'Home so soon?' 'Yes,' Bastian would answer. 'No school today?'_ \u2013 _He saw his father's quiet, sad face, and he knew he couldn't possibly lie to him. Much less could he tell him the truth. No, the only thing left for him was to go away somewhere. Far, far away. His father must never find out that his son was a thief. And maybe he wouldn't even notice that Bastian wasn't there anymore. Bastian found this thought almost comforting._\n\n_He had stopped running. Walking slowly, he saw the schoolhouse at the end of the street. Without thinking, he was taking his usual route to school. He passed a few people here and there, yet the street seemed deserted. But to a schoolboy arriving very, very late, the world around the schoolhouse always seems to have gone dead. At every step he felt the fear rising within him. Under the best of circumstances he was afraid of school, the place of his daily defeats, afraid of his teachers, who gently appealed to his conscience or made him the butt of their rages, afraid of the other children, who made fun of him and never missed a chance to show him how clumsy and defenseless he was. He had always thought of his school years as a prison term with no end in sight, a misery that would continue until he grew up, something he would just have to live through._\n\n_But when he now passed through the echoing corridors with their smell of floor wax and wet overcoats, when the lurking stillness suddenly stopped his ears like cotton, and when at last he reached the door of his classroom, which was painted the same old-spinach color as the walls around it, he realized that this, too, was no place for him. He would have to go away. So he might as well go at once._\n\n_But where to?_\n\n_Bastian had read stories about boys who ran away to sea and sailed out into the world to make their fortune. Some became pirates or heroes, others grew rich and when they returned home years later no one could guess who they were._\n\n_But Bastian didn't feel up to that kind of thing. He couldn't conceive of anyone taking him on as a cabin boy. Besides, he had no idea how to reach a seaport with suitable ships for such an undertaking._\n\n_So where_ could _he go?_\n\n_Suddenly he thought of the right place, the only place where_ \u2013 _at least for the time being \u2013 no one would find him or even look for him._\n\n_The attic of the school was large and dark. It smelled of dust and mothballs. Not a sound to be heard, except for the muffled drumming of the rain on the enormous tin roof. Great beams blackened with age rose at regular intervals from the plank floor, joined with other beams at head height, and lost themselves in the darkness. Here and there spider webs as big as hammocks swayed gently in the air currents. A milky light fell from a skylight in the roof._\n\n_The one living thing in this place where time seemed to stand still was a little mouse that came hobbling across the floor, leaving tiny footprints in the dust \u2013 and between them a fine line, a tailprint. Suddenly it stopped and pricked up its ears. And then it vanished_ \u2013 whoosh! \u2013 _into a hole in the floor._\n\n_The mouse had heard the sound of a key in a big lock. The attic door opened slowly, with a loud squeak. For a moment a long strip of light crossed the room. Bastian slipped in. Then, again with a squeak, the door closed. Bastian put the big key in the lock from inside and turned it. Then he pushed the bolt and heaved a sigh of relief. Now no one could possibly find him. No one would look for him here. The place was seldom used_ \u2013 _he was pretty sure of that_ \u2013 _and even if by chance someone had something to do in the attic today or tomorrow, he would simply find the door locked. And the key would be gone. And even if they somehow got the door open, Bastian would have time to hide behind the junk that was stored here._\n\n_Little by little, his eyes got used to the dim light. He knew the place. Some months before, he had helped the janitor to carry a laundry basket full of old copybooks up here. And then he had seen where the key to the_ _attic door was kept_ \u2013 _in a wall cupboard next to the topmost flight of stairs. He hadn't thought of it since. But today he had remembered._\n\n_Bastian began to shiver, his coat was soaked through and it was cold in the attic. The first thing to do was find a place where he could make himself more or less comfortable, because he took it for granted that he'd have to stay here a long time. How long? The question didn't enter his head, nor did it occur to him that he would soon be hungry and thirsty._\n\n_He looked around for a while. The place was crammed with junk of all kinds; there were shelves full of old files and records, benches and ink-stained desks were heaped up every which way, a dozen old maps were hanging on an iron frame, there were blackboards that had lost a good deal of their black, and cast-iron stoves, broken-down pieces of gymnasium equipment \u2013 including a horse with the stuffing coming out through the cracks in its hide \u2013 and a number of soiled mats. There were also quite a few stuffed animals_ \u2013 _at least what the moths had left of them \u2013 a big owl, a golden eagle, a fox, and so on, cracked retorts and other chemical equipment, a galvanometer, a human skeleton hanging on a clothes rack, and a large number of cartons full of old books and papers. Bastian finally decided to make his home on the pile of old gym mats. When he stretched out on them, it was almost like lying on a sofa. He dragged them to the place under the skylight where the light was best. Not far away he found a pile of gray army blankets; they were dusty and ragged but that didn't matter now. He carried them over to his nest. He took off his wet coat and hung it on the clothes rack beside the skeleton. The skeleton jiggled and swayed, but Bastian had no fear of it, maybe because he was used to such things at home. He also removed his wet shoes. In his stocking feet he squatted down on the mats and wrapped himself in the gray blankets like an Indian. Beside him lay his school satchel_ \u2013 _and the copper-colored book._\n\n_It passed through his mind that the rest of them down in the classroom would be having history just then. Maybe they'd be writing a composition on some deadly dull subject._\n\n_Bastian looked at the book._\n\n_'I wonder,' he said to himself, 'what's in a book while it's closed. Oh, I know it's full of letters printed on paper, but all the same, something must be happening, because as soon as I open it, there's a whole story with people I don't know yet and all kinds of adventures and deeds and battles. And sometimes there are storms at sea, or it takes you to strange cities and countries. All those things are somehow shut up in a book. Of course you have to read it to find out. But it's already there, that's the funny thing. I just wish I knew how it could be.'_\n\n_Suddenly an almost festive mood came over him._\n\n_He settled himself, picked up the book, opened it to the first page, and began to read_\n\nThe Neverending Story.\n\n# I\n\n# _Fantastica in Danger_\n\nALL the beasts in Howling Forest were safe in their caves, nests, and burrows.\n\nIt was midnight, the storm wind was whistling through the tops of the great ancient trees. The towering trunks creaked and groaned.\n\nSuddenly a faint light came zigzagging through the woods, stopped here and there, trembling fitfully, flew up into the air, rested on a branch, and a moment later hurried on. It was a glittering sphere about the size of a child's ball; it moved in long leaps, touched the ground now and then, then bounded up again. But it wasn't a ball.\n\nIt was a will-o'-the-wisp. It had lost its way. And that's something quite unusual even in Fantastica, because ordinarily will-o'-the-wisps make others lose their way.\n\nInside this ball of light there was a small, exceedingly active figure, which ran and jumped with all its might. It was neither male nor female, for such distinctions don't exist among will-o'-the-wisps. In its right hand it carried a tiny white flag, which glittered behind it. That meant it was either a messenger or a flag-of-truce bearer.\n\nYou'd think it would have bumped into a tree, leaping like that in the darkness, but there was no danger of that, for will-o'-the-wisps are incredibly nimble and can change directions in the middle of a leap. That explains the zigzagging, but in a general sort of way it moved in a definite direction.\n\nUp to the moment when it came to a jutting crag and started back in a fright. Whimpering like a puppy, it sat down on the fork of a tree and pondered awhile before venturing out and cautiously looking around the crag.\n\nUp ahead it saw a clearing in the woods, and there in the light of a campfire sat three figures of different sizes and shapes. A giant, who looked as if the whole of him were made of gray stone, lay stretched out on his belly. He was almost ten feet long. Propped up on one elbow, he was looking into the fire. In his weather-beaten stone face, which seemed strangely small in comparison with his powerful shoulders, his teeth stood out like a row of steel chisels. The will-o'-the-wisp recognized him as belonging to the family of rock chewers. These were creatures who lived in a mountain range inconceivably far from Howling Forest \u2013 but they not only lived _in_ the mountain range, they also lived _on_ it, for little by little they were eating it up. Rocks were their only food. Luckily a little went a long way. They could live for weeks and months on a single bite of this \u2013 for them \u2013 extremely nutritious fare. There weren't very many rock chewers, and besides it was a large mountain range. But since these giants had been there a long time \u2013 they lived to a greater age than most of the inhabitants of Fantastica \u2013 those mountains had come, over the years, to look very strange \u2013 like an enormous Swiss cheese, full of holes and grottoes. And that is why they were known as the Cheesie-wheezies.\n\nBut the rock chewers not only fed on stone, they made everything they needed out of it: furniture, hats, shoes, tools, even cuckoo clocks. So it was not surprising that the vehicle of this particular giant, which was now leaning against a tree behind him, was a sort of bicycle made entirely of this material, with two wheels that looked like enormous millstones. On the whole, it suggested a steamroller with pedals.\n\nThe second figure, who was sitting to the right of the first, was a little night-hob. No more than twice the size of the will-o'-the-wisp, he looked like a pitch-black, furry caterpillar sitting up. He had little pink hands, with which he gestured violently as he spoke, and below his tousled black hair two big round eyes glowed like moons in what was presumably his face.\n\nSince there were night-hobs of all shapes and sizes in every part of Fantastica, it was hard to tell by the sight of him whether this one had come from far or near. But one could guess that he was traveling, because the usual mount of the night-hobs, a large bat, wrapped in its wings like a closed umbrella, was hanging head-down from a nearby branch.\n\nIt took the will-o'-the-wisp some time to discover the third person on the left side of the fire, for he was so small as to be scarcely discernible from that distance. He was one of the tinies, a delicately built little fellow in a bright-colored suit and a top hat.\n\nThe will-o'-the-wisp knew next to nothing about tinies. But it had once heard that these people built whole cities in the branches of trees and that the houses were connected by stairways, rope ladders, and ramps. But the tinies lived in an entirely different part of the boundless Fantastican Empire, even farther away than the rock chewers. Which made it all the more amazing that the mount which had evidently carried the tiny all this way was, of all things, a snail. Its pink shell was surmounted by a gleaming silver saddle, and its bridle, as well as the reins fastened to its feelers, glittered like silver threads.\n\nThe will-o'-the-wisp couldn't get over it that three such different creatures should be sitting there so peacefully, for harmony between different species was by no means the rule in Fantastica. Battles and wars were frequent, and certain of the species had been known to feud for hundreds of years. Moreover, not all the inhabitants of Fantastica were good and honorable, there were also thieving, wicked, and cruel ones. The will-o'-the-wisp itself belonged to a family that was hardly reputed for truthfulness or reliability.\n\nAfter observing the scene in the firelight for some time, the will-o'-the-wisp noticed that each of the three had something white, either a flag or a white scarf worn across his chest. Which meant that they were messengers or flag-of-truce bearers, and that of course accounted for the peaceful atmosphere.\n\nCould they be traveling on the same business as the will-o'-the-wisp?\n\nWhat they were saying couldn't be heard from a distance because of the howling wind in the treetops. But since they respected one another as messengers, mightn't they recognize the will-o'-the-wisp in the same capacity and refrain from harming it? It had to ask someone the way, and there seemed little likelihood of finding a better opportunity at this hour in the middle of the woods. So plucking up courage, it ventured out of its hiding place and hovered trembling in midair, waving its white flag.\n\nThe rock chewer, whose face was turned in that direction, was first to notice the will-o'-the-wisp.\n\n'Lots of traffic around here tonight,' he crackled. 'Here comes another one.'\n\n'Hoo, it's a will-o'-the-wisp,' whispered the night-hob, and his moon eyes glowed. 'Pleased to meet you!'\n\nThe tiny stood up, took a few steps toward the newcomer, and chirped: 'If my eyes don't deceive me, you are here as a messenger.'\n\n'Yes indeed,' said the will-o'-the-wisp.\n\nThe tiny removed his red top hat, made a slight bow, and twittered: 'Oh, do join us. We, too, are messengers. Won't you be seated?'\n\nAnd with his hat he motioned toward an empty place by the fire.\n\n'Many thanks,' said the will-o'-the-wisp, coming timidly closer. 'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Blubb.'\n\n'Delighted,' said the tiny. 'Mine is Gluckuk.'\n\nThe night-hob bowed without getting up. 'My name is Vooshvazool.'\n\n'And mine,' the rock chewer crackled, 'is Pyornkrachzark.'\n\nAll three looked at the will-o'-the-wisp, who was wriggling with embarrassment. Will-o'-the-wisps find it most unpleasant to be looked full in the face.\n\n'Won't you sit down, dear Blubb?' said the tiny.\n\n'To tell the truth,' said the will-o'-the-wisp, 'I'm in a terrible hurry. I only wanted to ask if by any chance you knew the way to the Ivory Tower.'\n\n'Hoo,' said the night-hob. 'Could you be going to see the Childlike Empress?'\n\n'Exactly,' said the will-o'-the-wisp. 'I have an important message for her.'\n\n'What does it say?' the rock chewer crackled.\n\n'But you see,' said the will-o'-the-wisp, shifting its weight from foot to foot, 'it's a secret message.'\n\n'All three of us \u2013 hoo \u2013 have the same mission as you,' replied Vooshvazool, the night-hob. 'That makes us partners.'\n\n'Maybe we even have the same message,' said Gluckuk, the tiny.\n\n'Sit down and tell us,' Pyornkrachzark crackled.\n\nThe will-o'-the-wisp sat down in the empty place.\n\n'My home,' it began after a moment's hesitation, 'is a long way from here. I don't know if any of those present has heard of it. It's called Moldymoor.'\n\n'Hoo!' cried the night-hob delightedly. 'A lovely country!'\n\nThe will-o'-the-wisp smiled faintly.\n\n'Yes, isn't it?'\n\n'Is that all you have to say, Blubb?' Pyornkrachzark crackled. 'What is the purpose of your trip?'\n\n'Something has happened in Moldymoor,' said the will-o'-the-wisp haltingly, 'something impossible to understand. Actually, it's still happening. It's hard to describe -the way it began was \u2013 well, in the east of our country there's a lake \u2013 that is, there _was_ a lake \u2013 Lake Foamingbroth we called it. Well, the way it began was like this. One day Lake Foamingbroth wasn't there anymore \u2013 it was gone. See?'\n\n'You mean it dried up?' Gluckuk inquired.\n\n'No,' said the will-o'-the-wisp. 'Then there'd be a dried-up lake. But there isn't. Where the lake used to be there's nothing \u2013 absolutely nothing. Now do you see?'\n\n'A hole?' the rock chewer grunted.\n\n'No, not a hole,' said the will-o'-the-wisp despairingly. 'A hole, after all, is something. This is nothing at all.'\n\nThe three other messengers exchanged glances.\n\n'What \u2013 hoo \u2013 does this nothing look like?' asked the night-hob.\n\n'That's just what's so hard to describe,' said the will-o'-the-wisp unhappily. 'It doesn't look like anything. It's \u2013 it's like \u2013 oh, there's no word for it.'\n\n'Maybe,' the tiny suggested, 'when you look at the place, it's as if you were blind.'\n\nThe will-o'-the-wisp stared openmouthed.\n\n'Exactly!' it cried. 'But where \u2013 I mean how \u2013 I mean, have you had the same... ?'\n\n'Wait a minute,' the rock chewer crackled. 'Was it only this one place?'\n\n'At first, yes,' the will-o'-the-wisp explained. 'That is, the place got bigger little by little. And then all of a sudden Foggle, the father of the frogs, who lived in Lake Foamingbroth with his family, was gone too. Some of the inhabitants started running away. But little by little the same thing happened to other parts of Moldymoor. It usually started with just a little chunk, no bigger than a partridge egg. But then these chunks got bigger and bigger. If somebody put his foot into one of them by mistake, the foot \u2013 or hand \u2013 or whatever else he put in \u2013 would be gone too. It didn't hurt \u2013 it was just that a part of whoever it was would be missing. Some would even fall in on purpose if they got too close to the Nothing. It has an irresistible attraction \u2013 the bigger the place, the stronger the pull. None of us could imagine what this terrible thing might be, what caused it, and what we could do about it. And seeing that it didn't go away by itself but kept spreading, we finally decided to send a messenger to the Childlike Empress to ask her for advice and help. Well, I'm the messenger.'\n\nThe three others gazed silently into space.\n\nAfter a while, the night-hob sighed: 'Hoo! It's the same where I come from. And I'm traveling on the exact same errand \u2013 hoo hoo!'\n\nThe tiny turned to the will-o'-the-wisp. 'Each one of us,' he chirped, 'comes from a different province of Fantastica. We've met here entirely by chance. But each one of us is going to the Childlike Empress with the same message.'\n\n'And the message,' grated the rock chewer, 'is that all Fantastica is in danger.'\n\nThe will-o'-the-wisp cast a terrified look at each one in turn.\n\n'If that's the case,' it cried, jumping up, 'we haven't a moment to lose.'\n\n'We were just going to start,' said the tiny. 'We only stopped to rest because it's so awfully dark here in Howling Forest. But now that you've joined us, Blubb, you can light the way.'\n\n'Impossible,' said the will-o'-the-wisp. 'Would you expect me to wait for someone who rides a snail? Sorry.'\n\n'But it's a racing snail,' said the tiny, somewhat miffed.\n\n'Otherwise \u2013 hoo hoo \u2013' the night-hob sighed, 'we won't tell you which way to go.'\n\n'Who are you people talking to?' the rock chewer crackled.\n\nAnd sure enough, the will-o'-the-wisp hadn't even heard the other messengers' last words, for it was already flitting through the forest in long leaps.\n\n'Oh well,' said the tiny, pushing his top hat onto the back of his head, 'maybe it wouldn't have been such a good idea to follow a will-o'-the-wisp.'\n\n'To tell the truth,' said the night-hob, 'I prefer to travel on my own. Because I, for one, fly.'\n\nWith a quick 'hoo hoo' he ordered his bat to make ready. And _whish!_ Away he flew.\n\nThe rock chewer put out the campfire with the palm of his hand.\n\n'I, too, prefer to go by myself,' he crackled in the darkness. 'Then I don't need to worry about squashing some wee creature.'\n\nRattling and grinding, he rode his stone bicycle straight into the woods, now and then thudding into a tree giant. Slowly the clatter receded in the distance.\n\nGluckuk, the tiny, was last to set out. He seized the silvery reins and said: 'All right, we'll see who gets there first. Geeyap, old-timer, geeyap.' And he clicked his tongue.\n\nAnd then there was nothing to be heard but the storm wind howling in the treetops.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck nine. Reluctantly Bastian's thoughts turned back to reality. He was glad the Neverending Story had nothing to do with_ that.\n\n_He didn't like books in which dull, cranky writers describe humdrum events in the very humdrum lives of humdrum people. Reality gave him enough of that kind of thing, why should he read about it? Besides, he couldn't stand it when a writer tried to convince him of something. And these humdrum books, it seemed to him, were always trying to do just that._\n\n_Bastian liked books that were exciting or funny, or that made him_ _dream. Books where made-up characters had marvelous adventures, books that made him imagine all sorts of things._\n\n_Because one thing he was good at, possibly the only thing, was imagining things so clearly that he almost saw and heard them. When he told himself stories, he sometimes forgot everything around him and awoke_ \u2013 _as though from a dream_ \u2013 _only when the story was finished. And this book was just like his own stories! In reading it, he had heard not only the creaking of the big trees and the howling of the wind in the treetops, but also the different voices of the four comical messengers. And he almost seemed to catch the smell of moss and forest earth._\n\n_Down in the classroom they were starting in on nature study. That consisted almost entirely in counting pistils and stamens. Bastian was glad to be up here in his hiding place, where he could read. This, he thought, was just the right book for him!_\n\nA week later Vooshvazool, the little night-hob, arrived at his destination. He was the first. Or rather, he thought he was first, because he was riding through the air.\n\nJust as the setting sun turned the clouds to liquid gold, he noticed that his bat was circling over the Labyrinth. That was the name of an enormous garden, extending from horizon to horizon and filled with the most bewitching scents and dreamlike colors. Broad avenues and narrow paths twined their way among copses, lawns, and beds of the rarest, strangest flowers in a design so artful and intricate that the whole plain resembled an enormous maze. Of course, it had been designed only for pleasure and amusement, with no intention of endangering anyone, much less of warding off an enemy. It would have been useless for such purposes, and the Childlike Empress required no such protection, because in all the unbounded reaches of Fantastica there was no one who would have thought of attacking her. For that there was a reason, as we shall soon see.\n\nWhile gliding soundlessly over the flowery maze, the night-hob sighted all sorts of animals. In a small clearing between lilacs and laburnum, a group of young unicorns was playing in the evening sun, and once, glancing under a giant bluebell, he even thought he saw the famous phoenix in its nest, but he wasn't quite certain, and such was his haste that he didn't want to turn back to make sure. For at the center of the Labyrinth there now appeared, shimmering in fairy whiteness, the Ivory Tower, the heart of Fantastica and the residence of the Childlike Empress.\n\nThe word 'tower' might give someone who has never seen it the wrong idea. It had nothing of the church or castle about it. The Ivory Tower was as big as a whole city. From a distance it looked like a pointed mountain peak twisted like a snail shell. Its highest point was deep in the clouds. Only on coming closer could you notice that this great sugarloaf consisted of innumerable towers, turrets, domes, roofs, oriels, terraces, arches, stairways, and balustrades, all marvelously fitted together. The whole was made of the whitest Fantastican ivory, so delicately carved in every detail that it might have been taken for the latticework of the finest lace.\n\nThese buildings housed the Childlike Empress's court, her chamberlains and maidservants, wise women and astrologers, magicians and jesters, messengers, cooks and acrobats, her tightrope walkers and storytellers, heralds, gardeners, watchmen, tailors, shoemakers and alchemists. And at the very summit of the great tower lived the Childlike Empress in a pavilion shaped like a magnolia blossom. On certain nights, when the full moon shone most gloriously in the starry sky, the ivory petals opened wide, and the Childlike Empress would be sitting in the middle of the glorious flower.\n\nRiding on his bat, the little night-hob landed on one of the lower terraces, where the stables were located. Someone must have announced his arrival, for five imperial grooms were there waiting for him. They helped him out of his saddle, bowed to him, and held out the ceremonial welcome cup. As etiquette demanded, Vooshvazool took only a sip and then returned the cup. Each of the grooms took a sip, then they bowed again and led the bat to the stables. All this was done in silence. On reaching its appointed place, the bat touched neither food nor drink, but immediately rolled up, hung itself head-down on a hook, and fell into a deep sleep. The little night-hob had demanded a bit too much of his mount. The grooms left it alone and crept away from the stable on tiptoes.\n\nIn this stable there were many other mounts: two elephants, one pink and one blue, a gigantic griffon with the forequarters of an eagle and the hindquarters of a lion, a winged horse, whose name was once known even outside of Fantastica but is now forgotten, several flying dogs, a few other bats, and several dragonflies and butterflies for especially small riders. In other stables there were still other mounts, which didn't fly but ran, crawled, hopped, or swam. And each had a groom of its own to feed and take care of it.\n\nOrdinarily one would have expected to hear quite a cacophony of different voices: roaring, screeching, piping, chirping, croaking, and chattering. But that day there was utter silence.\n\nThe little night-hob was still standing where the grooms had left him. Suddenly, without knowing why, he felt dejected and discouraged. He too was exhausted after the long trip. And not even the knowledge that he had arrived first could cheer him up.\n\nSuddenly he heard a chirping voice. 'Hello, hello! If it isn't my good friend Vooshvazool! So glad you've finally made it!'\n\nThe night-hob looked around, and his moon eyes flared with amazement, for on a balustrade, leaning negligently against a flower pot, stood Gluckuk, the tiny, tipping his red top hat.\n\n'Hoo hoo!' went the bewildered night-hob. And again: 'Hoo hoo!' He just couldn't think of anything better to say.\n\n'The other two haven't arrived yet. I've been here since yesterday morning.'\n\n'How \u2013 hoo hoo \u2013 how did you do it?'\n\n'Simple,' said the tiny with a rather condescending smile. 'Didn't I tell you I had a racing snail?'\n\nThe night-hob scratched his tangled black head fur with his little pink hand.\n\n'I must go to the Childlike Empress at once,' he said mournfully.\n\nThe tiny gave him a pensive look.\n\n'Hmm,' he said. 'I put in for an appointment yesterday.'\n\n'Put in for an appointment?' asked the night-hob. 'Can't we just go in and see her?'\n\n'I'm afraid not,' chirped the tiny. 'We'll have a long wait. You can't imagine how many messengers have turned up.'\n\n'Hoo hoo,' the night-hob sighed. 'How come?'\n\n'You'd better take a look for yourself,' the tiny twittered. 'Come with me, my dear Vooshvazool. Come with me!'\n\nThe two of them started out.\n\nThe High Street, which wound around the Ivory Tower in a narrowing spiral, was clogged with a dense crowd of the strangest creatures. Enormous beturbaned djinns, tiny kobolds, three-headed trolls, bearded dwarfs, glittering fairies, goat-legged fauns, nixies with wavy golden hair, sparkling snow sprites, and countless others were milling about, standing in groups, or sitting silently on the ground, discussing the situation or gazing glumly into the distance.\n\nVooshvazool stopped still when he saw them.\n\n'Hoo hoo,' he said. 'What's going on? What are they all doing here?'\n\n'They're all messengers,' Gluckuk explained. 'Messengers from all over Fantastica. All with the same message as ours. I've spoken with several of them. The same menace seems to have broken out everywhere.'\n\nThe night-hob gave vent to a long wheezing sigh.\n\n'Do they know,' he asked, 'what it is and where it comes from?'\n\n'I'm afraid not. Nobody knows.'\n\n'What about the Childlike Empress?'\n\n'The Childlike Empress,' said the tiny in an undertone, 'is ill, very ill. Maybe that's the cause of this mysterious calamity that's threatening all Fantastica. But so far none of the many doctors who've been conferring in the Magnolia Pavilion has discovered the nature of her illness or found a cure for it.'\n\n'That,' said the night-hob breathlessly, 'is \u2013 hoo hoo -terrible.'\n\n'So it is,' said the tiny.\n\nIn view of the circumstances, Vooshvazool decided not to put in for an appointment.\n\nTwo days later Blubb, the will-o'-the-wisp, arrived. Of course, it had hopped in the wrong direction and made an enormous detour.\n\nAnd finally \u2013 three days after that \u2013 Pyornkrachzark, the rock chewer, appeared. He came plodding along on foot, for in a sudden frenzy of hunger he had eaten his stone bicycle.\n\nDuring the long waiting period, the four so unalike messengers became good friends. From then on they stayed together.\n\nBut that's another story and shall be told another time.\n\n# II\n\n# _Atreyu's Mission_\n\nBECAUSE of their special importance, deliberations concerning the welfare of all Fantastica were held in the great throne room of the palace, which was situated only a few floors below the Magnolia Pavilion.\n\nThe large circular room was filled with muffled voices. The four hundred and ninety-nine best doctors in Fantastica had assembled there and were whispering or mumbling with one another in groups of varying sizes. Each one had examined the Childlike Empress \u2013 some more recently than others \u2013 and each had tried to help her with his skill. But none had succeeded, none knew the nature or cause of her illness, and none could think of a cure for it. Just then the five hundredth doctor, the most famous in all Fantastica, whose knowledge was said to embrace every existing medicinal herb, every magic philtre and secret of nature, was examining the patient. He had been with her for several hours, and all his assembled colleagues were eagerly awaiting the result of his examination.\n\nOf course, this assembly was nothing like a human medical congress. To be sure, a good many of the inhabitants of Fantastica were more or less human in appearance, but at least as many resembled animals or were even farther from the human. The doctors inside the hall were just as varied as the crowd of messengers milling about outside. There were dwarf doctors with white beards and humps, there were fairy doctoresses in shimmering silvery-blue robes and with glittering stars in their hair, there were water sprites with big round bellies and webbed hands and feet (sitz baths had been installed for them). There were white snakes, who had coiled up on the long table at the center of the room; there were witches, vampires, and ghosts, none of whom are generally reputed to be especially benevolent or conducive to good health.\n\nIf you are to understand why these last were present, there is one thing you have to know:\n\nThe Childlike Empress \u2013 as her title indicates \u2013 was looked upon as the ruler over all the innumerable provinces of the Fantastican Empire, but in reality she was far more than a ruler; she was something entirely different.\n\nShe didn't rule, she had never used force or made use of her power. She never issued commands and she never judged anyone. She never interfered with anyone and never had to defend herself against any assailant; for no one would have thought of rebelling against her or of harming her in any way. In her eyes all her subjects were equal.\n\nShe was simply there in a special way. She was the center of all life in Fantastica.\n\nAnd every creature, whether good or bad, beautiful or ugly, merry or solemn, foolish or wise \u2013 all owed their existence to her existence. Without her, nothing could have lived, any more than a human body can live if it has lost its heart.\n\nAll knew this to be so, though no one fully understood her secret. Thus she was respected by all the creatures of the Empire, and her health was of equal concern to them all. For her death would have meant the end of them all, the end of the boundless Fantastican realm.\n\n_Bastian's thoughts wandered._\n\n_Suddenly he remembered the long corridor in the hospital where his mother had been operated on. He and his father had sat waiting for hours outside the operating room. Doctors and nurses hurried this way and that. When his father asked about his wife, the answer was always evasive. No one really seemed to know how she was doing. Finally a bald-headed man in a white smock had come out to them. He looked tired and sad. Much as he regretted it, he said, his efforts had been in vain. He had pressed their hands and mumbled something about 'heartfelt sympathy.'_\n\n_After that, everything had changed between Bastian and his father._\n\n_Not outwardly. Bastian had everything he could have wished for. He_ _had a three-speed bicycle, an electric train, plenty of vitamin pills, fifty-three books, a golden hamster, an aquarium with tropical fish in it, a small camera, six pocketknives, and so forth and so on. But none of all this really meant anything to him._\n\n_Bastian remembered that his father had often played with him in the past. He had even told him stories. No longer. He couldn't talk to his father anymore. There was an invisible wall around his father, and no one could get through to him. He never found fault and he never praised. Even when Bastian was put back in school, his father hadn't said anything. He had only looked at him in his sad, absent way, and Bastian felt that as far as his father was concerned he wasn't there at all. That was how his father usually made him feel. When they sat in front of the television screen in the evening, Bastian saw that his father wasn't even looking at it, that his thoughts were far away. Or when they both sat there with books, Bastian saw that his father wasn't reading at all. He'd been looking at the same page for hours and had forgotten to turn it._\n\n_Bastian knew his father was sad. He himself had cried for many nights, sometimes he had been so shaken by sobs that he had to vomit_ \u2013 _but little by little it had passed. And after all he was still there. Why didn't his father ever speak to him, not about his mother, not about important things, but just for the feel of talking together?_\n\n'If only we knew,' said a tall, thin fire sprite, with a beard of red flames, 'if only we knew what her illness is. There's no fever, no swelling, no rash, no inflammation. She just seems to be fading away \u2013 no one knows why.'\n\nAs he spoke, little clouds of smoke came out of his mouth and formed figures. This time they were question marks.\n\nA bedraggled old raven, who looked like a potato with feathers stuck onto it every which way, answered in a croaking voice (he was a head cold and sore throat specialist): 'She doesn't cough, she hasn't got a cold. Medically speaking, it's no disease at all.' He adjusted the big spectacles on his beak and cast a challenging look around.\n\n'One thing seems obvious,' buzzed a scarab (a beetle, sometimes known as a pill roller): 'There is some mysterious connection between her illness and the terrible happenings these messengers from all Fantastica have been reporting.'\n\n'Oh yes!' scoffed an ink goblin. 'You see mysterious connections everywhere.'\n\n'My dear colleague!' pleaded a hollow-cheeked ghost in a long white gown. 'Let's not get personal. Such remarks are quite irrelevant. And please \u2013 lower your voices.'\n\nConversations of this kind were going on in every part of the throne room. It may seem strange that creatures of so many different kinds were able to communicate with one another. But nearly all the inhabitants of Fantastica, even the animals, knew at least two languages: their own, which they spoke only with members of their own species and which no outsider understood, and the universal language known as High Fantastican. All Fantasticans used it, though some in a rather peculiar way.\n\nSuddenly all fell silent, for the great double door had opened. In stepped Cairon, the far-famed master of the healer's art.\n\nHe was what in older times had been called a centaur. He had the body of a man from the waist up, and that of a horse from the waist down. And Cairon was furthermore a black centaur. He hailed from a remote region far to the south, and his human half was the color of ebony. Only his curly hair and beard were white, while the horselike half of him was striped like a zebra. He was wearing a strange hat plaited of reeds. A large golden amulet hung from a chain around his neck, and on this amulet one could make out two snakes, one light and one dark, which were biting each other's tail and so forming an oval.\n\nEveryone in Fantastica knew what the medallion meant. It was the badge of one acting on orders from the Childlike Empress, acting in her name as though she herself were present.\n\nIt was said to give the bearer mysterious powers, though no one knew exactly what these powers were. Everyone knew its name: AURYN.\n\nBut many, who feared to pronounce the name, called it the 'Gem' or the 'Glory'.\n\n_In other words, the book bore the mark of the Childlike Empress!_\n\nA whispering passed through the throne room, and some of the doctors were heard to cry out. The Gem had not been entrusted to anyone for a long, long time.\n\nCairon stamped his hooves two or three times. When the disorder subsided, he said in a deep voice: 'Friends, don't be too upset. I shall only be wearing AURYN for a short time. I am merely a go-between. Soon I shall pass the Gem on to one worthier.'\n\nA breathless silence filled the room.\n\n'I won't try to misrepresent our defeat with high-sounding words. The Childlike Empress's illness has baffled us all. The one thing we know is that the destruction of Fantastica began at the same time as this illness. We can't even be sure that medical science can save her. But it is possible \u2013 and I hope none of you will be offended at what I am going to say \u2013 it is possible that we, we who are gathered here, do not possess _all_ knowledge, _all_ wisdom. Indeed it is my last and only hope that somewhere in this unbounded realm there is a being wiser than we are, who can give us help and advice. Of course, this is no more than a possibility. But one thing is certain: The search for this savior calls for a pathfinder, someone who is capable of finding paths in the pathless wilderness and who will shrink from no danger or hardship. In other words: a hero. And the Childlike Empress has given me the name of this hero, to whom she entrusts her salvation and ours. His name is Atreyu, and he lives in the Grassy Ocean beyond the Silver Mountains. I shall transmit AURYN to him and send him on the Great Quest. Now you know all there is to know.'\n\nWith that, the old centaur thumped out of the room.\n\nThose who remained behind exchanged looks of bewilderment.\n\n'What was this hero's name?' one of them asked.\n\n'Atreyu or something of the kind,' said another.\n\n'Never heard of him,' said the third. And all four hundred and ninety-nine doctors shook their heads in dismay.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck ten. Bastian was amazed at how quickly the time had passed. In class, every hour seemed to drag on for an eternity. Down below, they would be having history with Mr Drone, a gangling, ordinarily ill-tempered man, who delighted in holding Bastian up to ridicule because he couldn't remember the dates when certain battles had been fought or when someone or other had reigned._\n\nThe Grassy Ocean behind the Silver Mountains was many days' journey from the Ivory Tower. It was actually a prairie, as long and wide and flat as an ocean. Its whole expanse was covered with tall, juicy grass, and when the wind blew, great waves passed over it with a sound like troubled water.\n\nThe people who lived there were known as 'Grass People' or 'Greenskins'. They had blue-black hair, which the men as well as the women wore long and often in pigtails, and their skin was olive green. They led a hard, frugal life, and their children, girls as well as boys, were brought up to be brave, proud, and generous. They learned to bear heat, cold, and great hardship and were tested for courage at an early age. This was necessary because the Greenskins were a nation of hunters. They obtained everything they needed either from the hard, fibrous prairie grass or from the purple buffaloes, great herds of which roamed the Grassy Ocean.\n\nThese purple buffaloes were about twice the size of common bulls or cows; they had long, purplish-red hair with a silky sheen and enormous horns with tips as hard and sharp as daggers. They were peaceful as a rule, but when they scented danger or thought they were being attacked, they could be as terrible as a natural cataclysm. Only a Greenskin would have dared to hunt these beasts, and moreover they used no other weapons than bows and arrows. The Greenskins were believers in chivalrous combat, and often it was not the hunted but the hunter who lost his life. The Greenskins loved and honored the purple buffaloes and held that only those willing to be killed by them had the right to kill them.\n\nNews of the Childlike Empress's illness and the danger threatening all Fantastica had not yet reached the Grassy Ocean. It was a long, long time since any traveler had visited the tent colonies of the Greenskins. The grass was juicier than ever, the days were bright, and the nights full of stars. All seemed to be well.\n\nBut one day a white-haired black centaur appeared. His hide was dripping with sweat, he seemed totally exhausted, and his bearded face was haggard. On his head he wore a strange hat plaited of reeds, and around his neck a chain with a large golden amulet hanging from it. It was Cairon.\n\nHe stood in the open space at the center of the successive rings of tents. It was there that the elders held their councils and that the people danced and sang old songs on feast days. He waited for the Greenskins to assemble, but it was only very old men and women and small children wide-eyed with curiosity who crowded around him. He stamped his hooves impatiently.\n\n'Where are the hunters and huntresses?' he panted, removing his hat and wiping his forehead.\n\nA white-haired woman with a baby in her arms replied: 'They are still hunting. They won't be back for three or four days.'\n\n'Is Atreyu with them?' the centaur asked.\n\n'Yes, stranger, but how can it be that you know him?'\n\n'I don't know him. Go and get him.'\n\n'Stranger,' said an old man on crutches, 'he will come unwillingly, because this is _his_ hunt. It starts at sunset. Do you know what that means?'\n\nCairon shook his mane and stamped his hooves.\n\n'I don't know, and it doesn't matter. He has something more important to do now. You know this sign I am wearing. Go and get him.'\n\n'We see the Gem,' said a little girl. 'And we know you have come from the Childlike Empress. But who are you?'\n\n'My name is Cairon,' the centaur growled. 'Cairon the physician, if that means anything to you.'\n\nA bent old woman pushed forward and cried out: 'Yes, it's true. I recognize him. I saw him once when I was young. He is the greatest and most famous doctor in all Fantastica.'\n\nThe centaur nodded. 'Thank you, my good woman,' he said. 'And now perhaps one of you will at last be kind enough to bring this Atreyu here. It's urgent. The life of the Childlike Empress is at stake.'\n\n'I'll go,' cried a little girl of five or six.\n\nShe ran away and a few seconds later she could be seen between the tents galloping away on a saddleless horse.\n\n'At last!' Cairon grumbled. Then he fell into a dead faint. When he revived, he didn't know where he was, for all was dark around him. It came to him only little by little that he was in a large tent, lying on a bed of soft furs. It seemed to be night, for through a cleft in the door curtain he saw flickering firelight.\n\n'Holy horseshoes!' he muttered, and tried to sit up. 'How long have I been lying here?'\n\nA head looked in through the door opening and pulled back again. Someone said: 'Yes, he seems to be awake.'\n\nThen the curtain was drawn aside and a boy of about ten stepped in. His long trousers and shoes were of soft buffalo leather. His body was bare from the waist up, but a long purple-red cloak, evidently woven from buffalo hair, hung from his shoulders. His long blue-black hair was gathered together and held back by leather thongs. A few simple white designs were painted on the olive-green skin of his cheeks and forehead. His dark eyes flashed angrily at the intruder; otherwise his features betrayed no emotion of any kind.\n\n'What do you want of me, stranger?' he asked. 'Why have you come to my tent? And why have you robbed me of my hunt? If I had killed the big buffalo today \u2013 and my arrow was already fitted to my bowstring \u2013 I'd have been a hunter tomorrow. Now I'll have to wait a whole year. Why?'\n\nThe old centaur stared at him in consternation.\n\n'Am I to take it,' he asked, 'that you are Atreyu?'\n\n'That's right, stranger.'\n\n'Isn't there someone else of the same name? A grown man, an experienced hunter?'\n\n'No. I and no one else am Atreyu.'\n\nSinking back on his bed of furs, old Cairon gasped: 'A child! A little boy! Really, the decisions of the Childlike Empress are hard to fathom.'\n\nAtreyu waited in impassive silence.\n\n'Forgive me, Atreyu,' said Cairon, controlling his agitation with the greatest difficulty. 'I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but the surprise has been just too great. Frankly, I'm horrified. I don't know what to think. I can't help wondering: Did the Childlike Empress really know what she was doing when she chose a youngster like you? It's sheer madness! And if she did it intentionally, then... then...'\n\nWith a violent shake of his head, he blurted out: 'No! No! If I had known whom she was sending me to, I'd have refused to entrust you with the mission. I'd have refused!'\n\n'What mission?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'It's monstrous!' cried Cairon indignantly. 'It's doubtful whether even the greatest, most experienced of heroes could carry out this mission... and you!... She's sending you into the unfathomable to look for the unknown... No one can help you, no one can advise you, no one can foresee what will befall you. And yet you must decide at once, immediately, whether or not you accept the mission. There's not a moment to be lost. For ten days and nights I have galloped almost without rest to reach you. But now \u2013 I almost wish I hadn't got here. I'm very old, I'm at the end of my strength. Give me a drink of water, please.'\n\nAtreyu brought a pitcher of fresh spring water. The centaur drank deeply, then he wiped his beard and said somewhat more calmly: 'Thank you. That was good. I feel better already. Listen to me, Atreyu. You don't have to accept this mission. The Childlike Empress leaves it entirely up to you. She never gives orders. I'll tell her how it is and she'll find someone else. She can't have known you were a little boy. She must have got you mixed up with someone else. That's the only possible explanation.'\n\n'What is this mission?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'To find a cure for the Childlike Empress,' the centaur answered, 'and save Fantastica.'\n\n'Is she sick?' Atreyu asked in amazement.\n\nCairon told him how it was with the Childlike Empress and what the messengers had reported from all parts of Fantastica. Atreyu asked many questions and the centaur answered them to the best of his ability. They talked far into the night. And the more Atreyu learned of the menace facing Fantastica, the more his face, which at first had been so impassive, expressed unveiled horror.\n\n'To think,' he murmured finally with pale lips, 'that I knew nothing about it!'\n\nCairon cast a grave, anxious look at the boy from under his bushy white eyebrows.\n\n'Now you know the lie of the land,' he said. 'And now perhaps you understand why I was so upset when I first laid eyes on you. Still, it was you the Childlike Empress named. \"Go and find Atreyu,\" she said to me. \"I put all my trust in him,\" she said. \"Ask him if he's willing to attempt the Great Quest for me and for Fantastica.\" I don't know why she chose you. Maybe only a little boy like you can do whatever has to be done. I don't know, and I can't advise you.'\n\nAtreyu sat there with bowed head, and made no reply. He realized that this was a far greater task than his hunt. It was doubtful whether the greatest hunter and pathfinder could succeed; how then could he hope... ?\n\n'Well?' the centaur asked. 'Will you?'\n\nAtreyu raised his head and looked at him.\n\n'I will,' he said firmly.\n\nCairon nodded gravely. Then he took the chain with the golden amulet from his neck and put it around Atreyu's.\n\n'AURYN gives you great power,' he said solemnly, 'but you must not make use of it. For the Childlike Empress herself never makes use of her power. AURYN will protect you and guide you, but whatever comes your way you must never interfere, because from this moment on your own opinion ceases to count. For that same reason you must go unarmed. You must let what happens happen. Everything must be equal in your eyes, good and evil, beautiful and ugly, foolish and wise, just as it is in the eyes of the Childlike Empress. You may only search and inquire, never judge. Always remember that, Atreyu!'\n\n'AURYN!' Atreyu repeated with awe. 'I will be worthy of the Glory. When should I start?'\n\n'Immediately,' said Cairon. 'No one knows how long your Great Quest will be. Every hour may count, even now. Say goodbye to your parents and your brothers and sisters.'\n\n'I have none,' said Atreyu. 'My parents were both killed by a buffalo, soon after I was born.'\n\n'Who brought you up?'\n\n'All the men and women together. That's why they called me Atreyu, which in our language means \"Son of All\"!'\n\n_No one knew better than Bastian what that meant. Even though his father was still alive and Atreyu had neither father nor mother. To make up for it, Atreyu had been brought up by all the men and women together and was the 'son of all', while Bastian had no one \u2013 and was really 'nobody's son'. All the same, Bastian was glad to have this much in common with Atreyu, because otherwise he resembled him hardly at all, neither physically nor in courage and determination. Yet Bastian, too, was engaged in a Great Quest and didn't know where it would lead him or how it would end._\n\n'In that case,' said the old centaur, 'you'd better go without saying goodbye. I'll stay here and explain.'\n\nAtreyu's face became leaner and harder than ever.\n\n'Where should I begin?' he asked.\n\n'Everywhere and nowhere,' said Cairon. 'From now on you will be on your own, with no one to advise you. And that's how it will be until the end of the Great Quest \u2013 however it may end.'\n\nAtreyu nodded.\n\n'Farewell, Cairon.'\n\n'Farewell, Atreyu. And \u2013 much luck!'\n\nThe boy turned away and was leaving the tent when the centaur called him back. As they stood face to face, the old centaur put both hands on Atreyu's shoulders, looked him in the eye with a respectful smile, and said slowly: 'I think I'm beginning to see why the Childlike Empress chose you, Atreyu.'\n\nThe boy lowered his head just a while. Then he went out quickly.\n\nHis horse, Artax, was standing outside the tent. He was small and spotted like a wild horse. His legs were short and stocky, but he was the fastest, most tireless runner far and wide. He was still saddled as Atreyu had ridden him back from the hunt.\n\n'Artax,' Atreyu whispered, patting his neck. 'We're going away, far, far away. No one knows if we shall ever come back!'\n\nThe horse nodded his head and gave a brief snort.\n\n'Yes, master,' he said. 'But what about your hunt?'\n\n'We're going on a much greater hunt,' said Atreyu, swinging himself into the saddle.\n\n'Wait, master,' said the horse. 'You've forgotten your weapons. Are you going without your bow and arrow?'\n\n'Yes, Artax,' said Atreyu. 'I have to go unarmed because I am bearing the Gem.'\n\n'Humph!' snorted the horse. 'And where are we going?'\n\n'Wherever you like, Artax,' said Atreyu. 'From this moment on we shall be on the Great Quest.'\n\nWith that they galloped away and were swallowed up by the darkness.\n\nAt the same time, in a different part of Fantastica, something happened which went completely unnoticed. Neither Atreyu nor Artax had the slightest inkling of it.\n\nOn a remote night-black heath the darkness condensed into a great shadowy form. It became so dense that even in that moonless, starless night it came to look like a big black body. Its outlines were still unclear, but it stood on four legs and green fire glowed in the eyes of its huge shaggy head. It lifted up its great snout and stood for a long while, sniffing the air. Then suddenly it seemed to find the scent it was looking for, and a deep, triumphant growl issued from its throat.\n\nAnd off it ran through the starless night, in long, soundless leaps.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck eleven. From the downstairs corridors arose the shouts of children running out to the playground._\n\n_Bastian was still squatting cross-legged on the mats. His legs had fallen asleep. He wasn't an Indian after all. He stood up, took his sandwich and an apple out of his satchel, and paced the floor. He had pins and needles in his feet, which took some time to wake up._\n\n_Then he climbed onto the horse and straddled it. He imagined he was Atreyu galloping through the night on Artax's back. He leaned forward and rested his head on his horse's neck._\n\n_'Gee!' he cried. 'Run, Artax! Gee! Gee!'_\n\n_Then he became frightened. It had been foolish of him to shout so loud. What if someone had heard him? He waited awhile and listened. But all he heard was the intermingled shouts from the yard._\n\n_Feeling rather foolish, he climbed down off the horse. Really, he was behaving like a small child!_\n\n_He unwrapped his sandwich and shined the apple on his trousers. But just as he was biting into it, he stopped himself._\n\n_'No,' he said to himself aloud. 'I must carefully apportion my provisions. Who knows how long they will have to last me.'_\n\n_With a heavy heart he rewrapped his sandwich and returned it to his satchel along with the apple. Then with a sigh he settled down on the mats and reached for the book._\n\n# III\n\n# _Morla the Aged One_\n\nCAIRON, the old black centaur, sank back on his bed of furs as Artax's hoofbeats were dying away. After so much exertion he was at the end of his strength. The women who found him next day in Atreyu's tent feared for his life. And when the hunters came home a few days later, he was hardly any better, but he managed nevertheless to tell them why Atreyu had ridden away and would not be back soon. As they were all fond of the boy, their concern for him made them grave. Still, they were proud that the Childlike Empress had chosen him for the Great Quest- though none claimed to understand her choice.\n\nOld Cairon never went back to the Ivory Tower. But he didn't die and he didn't stay with the Greenskins in the Grassy Ocean. His destiny was to lead him over very different and unexpected pathways. But that is another story and shall be told another time.\n\nThat same night Atreyu rode to the foot of the Silver Mountains. It was almost morning when he finally stopped to rest. Artax grazed a while and drank water from a small mountain stream. Atreyu wrapped himself in his red cloak and slept a few hours. But when the sun rose, they were already on their way.\n\nOn the first day they crossed the Silver Mountains, where every road and trail was known to them, and they made quick progress. When he felt hungry, the boy ate a chunk of dried buffalo meat and two little grass-seed cakes that he had been carrying in his saddlebag \u2013 originally they had been intended for his hunt.\n\n_'Exactly!' said Bastian. 'A man has to eat now and then.'_\n\n_He took his sandwich out of his satchel, unwrapped it, broke it carefully in two pieces, wrapped one of them up again and put it away. Then he ate the other._\n\n_Recess was over. Bastian wondered what his class would be doing_ _next. Oh yes, geography, with Mrs Flint. You had to reel off rivers and their tributaries, cities, population figures, natural resources, and industries. Bastian shrugged his shoulders and went on reading._\n\nBy sunset the Silver Mountains lay behind them, and again they stopped to rest. That night Atreyu dreamed of purple buffaloes. He saw them in the distance, roaming over the Grassy Ocean, and he tried to get near them on his horse. In vain. He galloped, he spurred his horse, but they were always the same distance away.\n\nThe second day they passed through the Singing Tree Country. Each tree had a different shape, different leaves, different bark, but all of them in growing \u2013 and this was what gave the country its name \u2013 made soft music that sounded from far and near and joined in a mighty harmony that hadn't its like for beauty in all Fantastica. Riding through this country wasn't entirely devoid of danger, for many a traveler had stopped still as though spellbound and forgotten everything else. Atreyu felt the power of these marvelous sounds, but didn't let himself be tempted to stop.\n\nThe following night he dreamed again of purple buffaloes. This time he was on foot, and a great herd of them was passing. But they were beyond the range of his bow, and when he tried to come closer, his feet clung to the ground and he couldn't move them. His frantic efforts to tear them loose woke him up. He started out at once, though the sun had not yet risen.\n\nThe third day, he saw the Glass Tower of Eribo, where the inhabitants of the region caught and stored starlight. Out of the starlight they made wonderfully decorative objects, the purpose of which, however, was known to no one in all Fantastica but their makers.\n\nHe met some of these folk; little creatures they were, who seemed to have been blown from glass. They were extremely friendly and provided him with food and drink, but when he asked them who might know something about the Childlike Empress's illness, they sank into a gloomy, perplexed silence.\n\nThe next night Atreyu dreamed again that the herd of purple buffaloes was passing. One of the beasts, a particularly large, imposing bull, broke away from his fellows and slowly, with no sign of either fear or anger, approached Atreyu. Like all true hunters, Atreyu knew every creature's vulnerable spot, where an arrow wound would be fatal. The purple buffalo put himself in such a position as to offer a perfect target. Atreyu fitted an arrow to his bow and pulled with all his might. But he couldn't shoot. His fingers seemed to have grown into the bowstring, and he couldn't release it.\n\nEach of the following nights he dreamed something of the sort. He got closer and closer to the same purple buffalo \u2013 he recognized him by a white spot on his forehead \u2013 but for some reason he was never able to shoot the deadly arrow.\n\nDuring the days he rode farther and farther, without knowing where he was going or finding anyone to advise him. The golden amulet he wore was respected by all who met him, but none had an answer to his question.\n\nOne day he saw from afar the flaming streets of Salamander, the city whose inhabitants' bodies are of fire, but he preferred to keep away from it. He crossed the broad plateau of the Sassafranians, who are born old and die when they become babies. He came to the jungle temple of Muwamath, where a great moonstone pillar hovers in midair, and he spoke to the monks who lived there. And again no one could tell him anything.\n\nHe had been traveling aimlessly for almost a week, when on the seventh day and the following night two very different encounters changed his situation and state of mind.\n\nCairon's story of the terrible happenings in all parts of Fantastica had made an impression on him, but thus far the disaster was something he had only heard about. On the seventh day he was to see it with his own eyes.\n\nToward noon, he was riding through a dense dark forest of enormous gnarled trees. This was the same Howling Forest where the four messengers had met some time before. That region, as Atreyu knew, was the home of bark trolls. These, as he had been told, were giants and giantesses, who themselves looked like gnarled tree trunks. As long as they stood motionless, as they usually did, you could easily mistake them for trees and ride on unsuspecting. Only when they moved could you see that they had branchlike arms and crooked, rootlike legs. Though exceedingly powerful, they were not dangerous \u2013 at most they liked to play tricks on travelers who had lost their way.\n\nAtreyu had just discovered a woodland meadow with a brook twining through it, and had dismounted to let Artax drink and graze. Suddenly he heard a loud crackling and thudding in the woods behind him.\n\nThree bark trolls emerged from the woods and came toward him. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the sight of them. The first, having no legs or haunches, was obliged to walk on his hands. The second had a hole in his chest, so big you could see through it. The third hopped on his right foot, because the whole left half of him was missing, as if he had been cut through the middle.\n\nWhen they saw the amulet hanging from Atreyu's neck, they nodded to one another and came slowly closer.\n\n'Don't be afraid,' said the one who was walking on his hands, and his voice sounded like the groaning of a tree. 'We're not exactly pretty to look at, but in this part of Howling Forest there's no one else left who might warn you. That's why we've come.'\n\n'Warn?' Atreyu asked. 'Against what?'\n\n'We've heard about you,' moaned the one with the hole in his chest. 'And we've been told about your Quest. Don't go any further in this direction, or you'll be lost.'\n\n'The same thing will happen to you as happened to us,' sighed the halved one. 'Would you like that?'\n\n'What _has_ happened to you?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'The Nothing is spreading,' groaned the first. 'It's growing and growing, there's more of it every day, if it's possible to speak of more _nothing._ All the others fled from Howling Forest in time, but we didn't want to leave our home. The Nothing caught us in our sleep and this is what it did to us.'\n\n'Is it very painful?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'No,' said the second bark troll, the one with the hole in his chest. 'You don't feel a thing. There's just something missing. And once it gets hold of you, something more is missing every day. Soon there won't be anything left of us.'\n\n'In what part of the woods did it begin?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'Would you like to see it?' the third troll, who was only half a troll, turned to his fellow sufferers with a questioning look. When they nodded, he said: 'We'll take you to a place where there's a good view of it. But you must promise not to go any closer. If you do, it will pull you in.'\n\n'All right,' said Atreyu. 'I promise.'\n\nThe three turned about and made for the edge of the forest. Leading Artax by the bridle, Atreyu followed them. For a while they went this way and that way between enormous trees, then finally they stopped at the foot of a giant tree so big that five grown men holding hands could scarcely have girdled it.\n\n'Climb as high as you can,' said the legless troll, 'and look in the direction of the sunrise. Then you'll see \u2013 or rather _not_ see it.'\n\nAtreyu pulled himself up by the knots and bumps on the tree. He reached the lower branches, hoisted himself to the next, climbed and climbed until he lost sight of the ground below him. Higher and higher he went; the trunk grew thinner and the more closely spaced side branches made it easier to climb. When at last he reached the crown, he turned toward the sunrise. And then he saw it:\n\nThe tops of the trees nearest him were still green, but the leaves of those farther away seemed to have lost all color; they were gray. A little farther on, the foliage seemed to become strangely transparent, misty, or, better still, unreal. And farther still there was nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a bare stretch, not darkness, not some lighter color; no, it was something the eyes could not bear, something that made you feel you had gone blind. For no eye can bear the sight of utter nothingness. Atreyu held his hand before his face and nearly fell off his branch. He clung tight for a moment, then climbed down as fast as he could. He had seen enough. At last he really understood the horror that was spreading through Fantastica.\n\nWhen he reached the foot of the great tree, the three bark trolls had vanished. Atreyu swung himself into the saddle and galloped as fast as Artax would carry him in the direction that would take him away from this slowly but irresistibly spreading Nothing. By nightfall he had left Howling Forest far behind him; only then did he stop to rest.\n\nThat night a second encounter, which was to give his Great Quest a new direction, awaited him.\n\nHe dreamed \u2013 much more distinctly than before \u2013 of the purple buffalo he had wanted to kill. This time Atreyu was without his bow and arrow. He felt very, very small and the buffalo's face filled the whole sky. And the face spoke to him. He couldn't understand every word, but this is the gist of what it said:\n\n'If you had killed me, you would be a hunter now. But because you let me live, I can help you, Atreyu. Listen to me! There is, in Fantastica, a being older than all other beings. In the north, far, far from here, lie the Swamps of Sadness. In the middle of those swamps there is a mountain, Tortoise Shell Mountain it's called. There lives Morla the Aged One. Go and see Morla the Aged One.'\n\nThen Atreyu woke up.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck twelve. Soon Bastian's classmates would be going down to the gym for their last class. Today they'd probably be playing with the big, heavy medicine ball which Bastian handled so awkwardly that neither of the two teams ever wanted him. And sometimes they played with a small hard-rubber ball that hurt terribly when it hit you. Bastian was an easy mark and was always getting hit full force. Or perhaps they'd be climbing rope \u2013 an exercise that Bastian especially detested. Most of the others would be all the way to the top while he, with his face as red as a beet, would be dangling like a sack of flour at the very bottom of the rope, unable to climb as much as a foot. They'd all be laughing their heads off. And Mr Menge, the gym teacher, had a special stock of gibes just for Bastian._\n\n_Bastian would have given a good deal to be like Atreyu. He'd have shown them._\n\n_He heaved a deep sigh._\n\nAtreyu rode northward, ever northward. He allowed himself and his little horse only the most necessary stops for sleep and food. He rode by day and he rode by night, in the scorching sun and the pelting rain. He looked neither to the left nor the right and asked no more questions.\n\nThe farther northward he went, the darker it grew. An unchanging, leaden-gray twilight filled the days. At night the northern lights played across the sky.\n\nOne morning, when time seemed to be standing still in the murky light, he looked out from a hilltop and finally glimpsed the Swamps of Sadness. Clouds of mist drifted over them. Here and there he distinguished little clumps of trees. Their trunks divided at the bottom into four, five, or more crooked stilts, which made the trees look like great many-legged crabs standing in the black water. From the brown foliage hung aerial roots resembling motionless tentacles. It was next to impossible to make out where there was solid ground between the pools of water and where there was only a covering of water plants.\n\nArtax whinnied with horror.\n\n'Are we going in there, master?'\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu. 'We must find Tortoise Shell Mountain. It's at the center of those swamps.'\n\nHe urged Artax on and Artax obeyed. Step by step, he tested the firmness of the ground, but that made progress very slow. At length Atreyu dismounted and led Artax by the bridle. Several times the horse sank in, but managed to pull himself loose. But the farther they went into the Swamps of Sadness, the more sluggish became his movements. He let his head droop and barely dragged himself forward.\n\n'Artax,' said Atreyu. 'What's the matter?'\n\n'I don't know, master. I think we should turn back. There's no sense in all this. We're chasing after something you only dreamed about. We won't find anything. Maybe it's too late even now. Maybe the Childlike Empress is already dead, and everything we're doing is useless. Let us turn back, master.'\n\nAtreyu was astonished. 'Artax,' he said. 'You've never spoken like this. What's the matter? Are you sick?'\n\n'Maybe I am,' said Artax. 'With every step we take, the sadness grows in my heart. I've lost hope, master. And I feel so heavy, so heavy. I can't go on!'\n\n'But we must go on!' cried Atreyu. 'Come along, Artax!'\n\nHe tugged at the bridle, but Artax stood still. He had sunk in up to his belly. And he made no further effort to extricate himself.\n\n'Artax!' cried Atreyu. 'You mustn't let yourself go. Come. Pull yourself out or you'll sink.'\n\n'Leave me, master,' said the little horse. 'I can't make it. Go on alone. Don't bother about me. I can't stand the sadness anymore. I want to die!'\n\nDesperately Atreyu pulled at the bridle, but the horse sank deeper and deeper. When only his head emerged from the black water, Atreyu took it in his arms.\n\n'I'll hold you, Artax,' he whispered. 'I won't let you go under.'\n\nThe little horse uttered one last soft neigh.\n\n'You can't help me, master. It's all over for me. Neither of us knew what we were getting into. Now we know why they are called the Swamps of Sadness. It's the sadness that has made me so heavy. That's why I'm sinking. There's no help.'\n\n'But I'm here, too,' said Atreyu, 'and I don't feel anything.'\n\n'You're wearing the Gem, master,' said Artax. 'It protects you.'\n\n'Then I'll hang it around your neck!' Atreyu cried. 'Maybe it will protect you too.'\n\nHe started taking the chain off his neck.\n\n'No,' the little horse whinnied. 'You mustn't do that, master. The Glory was entrusted to you, you weren't given permission to pass it on as you see fit. You must carry on the Quest without me.'\n\nAtreyu pressed his face into the horse's cheek.\n\n'Artax,' he whispered. 'Oh, my Artax!'\n\n'Will you grant my last wish?' the little horse asked.\n\nAtreyu nodded in silence.\n\n'Then I beg you to go away. I don't want you to see my end. Will you do me that favor?'\n\nSlowly Atreyu arose. Half the horse's head was already in the black water.\n\n'Farewell, Atreyu, my master!' he said. 'And thank you.'\n\nAtreyu pressed his lips together. He couldn't speak. Once again he nodded to Artax, then he turned away.\n\n_Bastian was sobbing. He couldn't help it. His eyes filled with tears and he couldn't go on reading. He had to take out his handkerchief and blow his nose before he could go on._\n\nAtreyu waded and waded. For how long he didn't know. The mist grew thicker and he felt as if he were blind and deaf. It seemed to him that he had been wandering around in circles for hours. He stopped worrying about where to set his foot down, and yet he never sank in above his knees. By some mysterious means, the Childlike Empress's amulet led him the right way.\n\nThen suddenly he saw a high, steep mountain ahead of him. Pulling himself up from crag to crag, he climbed to the rounded top. At first he didn't notice what this mountain was made of. But from the top he overlooked the whole mountain, and then he saw that it consisted of great slabs of tortoise shell, with moss growing in the crevices between them.\n\nHe had found Tortoise Shell Mountain.\n\nBut the discovery gave him no pleasure. Now that his faithful little horse was gone, it left him almost indifferent. Still, he would have to find out who this Morla the Aged One was, and where she actually lived.\n\nWhile he was mulling it over, he felt a slight tremor shaking the mountain. Then he heard a hideous wheezing and lip-smacking, and a voice that seemed to issue from the innermost bowels of the earth: 'Sakes alive, old woman, somebody's crawling around on us.'\n\nIn hurrying to the end of the ridge, where the sounds had come from, Atreyu had slipped on a bed of moss. Since there was nothing for him to hold on to, he slid faster and faster and finally fell off the mountain. Luckily he landed on a tree, which caught him in its branches.\n\nLooking back at the mountain, he saw an enormous cave. Water was splashing and gushing inside, and something was moving. Slowly the something came out. It looked like a boulder as big as a house. When it came into full sight, Atreyu saw that it was a head attached to a long wrinkled neck, the head of a turtle. Its eyes were black and as big as ponds. The mouth was dripping with muck and water weeds. This whole Tortoise Shell Mountain \u2013 it suddenly dawned on Atreyu \u2013 was one enormous beast, a giant swamp turtle; Morla the Aged One.\n\nThe wheezing, gurgling voice spoke again: 'What are you doing here, son?'\n\nAtreyu reached for the amulet on his chest and held it in such a way that the great eyes couldn't help seeing it.\n\n'Do you recognize this, Morla?'\n\nShe took a while to answer: 'Sakes alive! AURYN. We haven't seen that in a long time, have we, old woman? The emblem of the Childlike Empress \u2013 not in a long time.'\n\n'The Childlike Empress is sick,' said Atreyu. 'Did you know that?'\n\n'It's all the same to us. Isn't it, old woman?' Morla replied. She seemed to be talking to herself, perhaps because she had had no one else to talk to for heaven knows how long.\n\n'If we don't save her, she'll die,' Atreyu cried out. 'The Nothing is spreading everywhere. I've seen it myself.'\n\nMorla stared at him out of her great empty eyes.\n\n'We don't mind, do we, old woman?'\n\n'But then we shall all die!' Atreyu screamed. 'Every last one of us!'\n\n'Sakes alive!' said Morla. 'But what do we care? Nothing matters to us anymore. It's all the same to us.'\n\n'But you'll be destroyed too, Morla!' cried Atreyu angrily. 'Or do you expect, because you're so old, to outlive Fantastica?'\n\n'Sakes alive!' Morla gurgled. 'We're old, son, much too old. Lived long enough. Seen too much. When you know as much as we do, nothing matters. Things just repeat. Day and night, summer and winter. The world is empty and aimless. Everything circles around. Whatever starts up must pass away, whatever is born must die. It all cancels out, good and bad, beautiful and ugly. Everything's empty. Nothing is real. Nothing matters.'\n\nAtreyu didn't know what to answer. The Aged One's dark, empty, pond-sized eyes paralyzed his thoughts. After a while, he heard her speak again:\n\n'You're young, son. If you were as old as we are, you'd know there's nothing but sadness. Why shouldn't we die, you and I, the Childlike Empress, the whole lot of us? Anyway, it's all flim-flam, meaningless games. Nothing matters. Leave us in peace, son. Go away.'\n\nAtreyu tensed his will to fight off the paralysis that flowed from her eyes.\n\n'If you know so much,' he said, 'you must know what the Childlike Empress's illness is and whether there's a cure for it.'\n\n'We do, we do! Don't we, old woman?' Morla wheezed. 'But it's all the same to us whether she's saved or not. So why should we tell you?'\n\n'If it's really all the same to you,' Atreyu argued, 'you might just as well tell me.'\n\n'We could, we could! Couldn't we, old woman?' Morla grunted. 'But we don't feel like it.'\n\n'Then it's _not_ all the same to you. Then you yourself don't believe what you're saying.'\n\nAfter a long silence he heard a deep gurgling and belching. That must have been some kind of laughter, if Morla the Aged One was still capable of laughing. In any case, she said: 'You're a sly one, son. Really sly. We haven't had so much fun in a long time. Have we, old woman? Sakes alive, it's true. We might just as well tell you. Makes no difference. Should we tell him, old woman?'\n\nA long silence followed. Atreyu waited anxiously for Morla's answer, taking care not to interrupt the slow, cheerless flow of her thoughts. At last she spoke:\n\n'Your life is short, son. Ours is long. Much too long. But we both live in time. You a short time. We a long time. The Childlike Empress has always been there. But she's not old. She has always been young. She still is. Her life isn't measured by time, but by names. She needs a new name. She keeps needing new names. Do you know her name, son?'\n\n'No,' Atreyu admitted. 'I never heard it.'\n\n'You couldn't have,' said Morla. 'Not even we can remember it. Yet she has had many names. But they're all forgotten. Over and done with. But without a name she can't live. All the Childlike Empress needs is a new name, then she'll get well. But it makes no difference whether she gets well or not.'\n\nShe closed her pond-sized eyes and began slowly to pull in her head.\n\n'Wait!' cried Atreyu. 'Where can she get a name? Who can give her one? Where can I find the name?'\n\n'None of us,' Morla gurgled. 'No inhabitant of Fantastica can give her a new name. So it's hopeless. Sakes alive! It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.'\n\n'Who then?' cried Atreyu in despair. 'Who can give her the name that will save her and save us all?'\n\n'Don't make so much noise!' said Morla. 'Leave us in peace and go away. Even we don't know who can give her a name.'\n\n'If you don't know,' Atreyu screamed even louder, 'who does?'\n\nShe opened her eyes a last time.\n\n'If you weren't wearing the Gem,' she wheezed, 'we'd eat you up, just to have peace and quiet. Sakes alive!'\n\n'Who?' Atreyu insisted. 'Tell me who knows, and I'll leave you in peace forever.'\n\n'It doesn't matter,' she replied. 'But maybe Uyulala in the Southern Oracle knows. She may know. It's all the same to us.'\n\n'How can I get there?'\n\n'You can't get there at all, son. Not in ten thousand days' journey. Your life is too short. You'd die first. It's too far. In the south. Much too far. So it's all hopeless. We told you so in the first place, didn't we, old woman? Sakes alive, son. Give it up. And most important, leave us in peace.'\n\nWith that she closed her empty-gazing eyes and pulled her head back into the cave for good. Atreyu knew he would learn no more from her.\n\nAt that same time the shadowy being which had condensed out of the darkness of the heath picked up Atreyu's trail and headed for the Swamps of Sadness. Nothing and no one in all Fantastica would deflect it from that trail.\n\n_Bastian had propped his head on his hand and was looking thoughtfully into space._\n\n_'Strange,' he said aloud, 'that no one in all Fantastica can give the Childlike Empress a new name.' If it had been just a matter of giving her a name, Bastian could easily have helped her. He was tops at that._ _But unfortunately he was not in Fantastica, where his talents were needed and would even have won him friends and admirers. On the other hand, he was glad not to be there. Not for anything in the world would he have ventured into such a place as the Swamps of Sadness. And then this spooky creature of darkness that was chasing Atreyu without his knowing it. Bastian would have liked to warn him, but that was impossible. All he could do was hope, and go on reading._\n\n# IV\n\n# _Ygramul the Many_\n\nDIRE hunger and thirst pursued Atreyu. It was two days since he had left the Swamps of Sadness, and since then he had been wandering through an empty rocky wilderness. What little provisions he had taken with him had sunk beneath the black waters with Artax. In vain, Atreyu dug his fingers into the clefts between stones in the hope of finding some little root, but nothing grew there, not even moss or lichen.\n\nAt first he was glad to feel solid ground beneath his feet, but little by little it came to him that he was worse off than ever. He was lost. He didn't even know what direction he was going in, for the dusky grayness was the same all around him. A cold wind blew over the needlelike rocks that rose up on all sides, blew and blew.\n\nUphill and downhill he plodded, but all he saw was distant mountains with still more distant ranges behind them, and so on to the horizon on all sides. And nothing living, not a beetle, not an ant, not even the vultures which ordinarily follow the weary traveler until he falls by the wayside.\n\nDoubt was no longer possible. This was the Land of the Dead Mountains. Few had seen them, and fewer still escaped from them alive. But they figured in the legends of Atreyu's people. He remembered an old song:\n\nBetter the huntsman\n\nShould perish in the swamps,\n\nFor in the Dead Mountains\n\nThere is a deep, deep chasm,\n\nWhere dwelleth Ygramul the Many,\n\nThe horror of horrors.\n\nEven if Atreyu had wanted to turn back and had known what direction to take, it would not have been possible. He had gone too far and could only keep on going. If only he himself had been involved, he might have sat down in a cave and quietly waited for death, as the Greenskin hunters did. But he was engaged in the Great Quest: the life of the Childlike Empress and of all Fantastica was at stake. He had no right to give up.\n\nAnd so he kept at it. Uphill and down. From time to time he realized that he had long been walking as though in his sleep, that his mind had been in other realms, from which they had returned none too willingly.\n\n_Bastian gave a start. The clock in the belfry struck one. School was over for the day._\n\n_He heard the shouts and screams of the children running into the corridors from the classrooms and the clatter of many feet on the stairs. For a while there were isolated shouts from the street. And then the schoolhouse was engulfed in silence._\n\n_The silence descended on Bastian like a great heavy blanket and threatened to smother him. From then on he would be all alone in the big schoolhouse \u2013 all that day, all that night, there was no knowing how long. This adventure of his was getting serious._\n\n_The other children were going home for lunch. Bastian was hungry too, and he was cold in spite of the army blankets he was wrapped in. Suddenly he lost heart, his whole plan seemed crazy, senseless. He wanted to go home, that very minute. He could just be in time. His father wouldn't have noticed anything yet. Bastian wouldn't even have to tell him he had played hooky. Of course, it would come out sooner or later, but there was time to worry about that. But the stolen book? Yes, he'd have to own up to that too. In the end, his father would resign himself as he did to all the disappointments Bastian had given him. Anyway, there was nothing to be afraid of. Most likely his father wouldn't say anything, but just go and see Mr Coreander and straighten things out._\n\n_Bastian was about to put the copper-colored book into his satchel. But then he stopped._\n\n_'No,' he said aloud in the stillness of the attic. 'Atreyu wouldn't give_ _up just because things were getting a little rough. What I've started I must finish. I've gone too far to turn back. Regardless of what may happen, I have to go forward.'_\n\n_He felt very lonely, yet there was a kind of pride in his loneliness. He was proud of standing firm in the face of temptation._\n\n_He was a little like Atreyu after all._\n\nA time came when Atreyu really could not go forward. Before him lay the Deep Chasm.\n\nThe grandiose horror of the sight cannot be described in words. A yawning cleft, perhaps half a mile wide, twined its way through the Land of the Dead Mountains. How deep it might be there was no way of knowing.\n\nAtreyu lay on a spur at the edge of the chasm and stared down into darkness which seemed to extend to the innermost heart of the earth. He picked up a stone the size of a tennis ball and hurled it as far as he could. The stone fell and fell, until it was swallowed up in the darkness. Though Atreyu listened a long while, he heard no sound of impact.\n\nThere was only one thing Atreyu could do, and he did it. He skirted the Deep Chasm. Every second he expected to meet the 'horror of horrors', known to him from the old song. He had no idea what sort of creature this might be. All he knew was that its name was Ygramul.\n\nThe Deep Chasm twisted and turned through the mountain waste, and of course there was no path at its edge. Here too there were abrupt rises and falls, and sometimes the ground swayed alarmingly under Atreyu's feet. Sometimes his path was barred by gigantic rock formations and he would have to feel his way, painfully, step by step, around them. Or there would be slopes covered with smooth stones that would start rolling toward the Chasm as soon as he set foot on them. More than once he was within a hairbreadth of the edge.\n\nIf he had known that a pursuer was close behind him and coming closer by the hour, he might have hurried and taken dangerous risks. It was that creature of darkness which had been after him since the start of his journey. Since then its body had taken on recognizable outlines. It was a pitch-black wolf, the size of an ox. Nose to the ground, it trotted along, following Atreyu's trail through the stony desert of the Dead Mountains. Its tongue hung far out of its mouth and its terrifying fangs were bared. The freshness of the scent told the wolf that its prey was only a few miles ahead.\n\nBut suspecting nothing of his pursuer, Atreyu picked his way slowly and cautiously.\n\nAs he was groping through the darkness of a tunnel under a mountain, he suddenly heard a noise that he couldn't identify because it bore no resemblance to any sound he had ever heard. It was a kind of jangling roar. At the same time Atreyu felt that the whole mountain about him was trembling, and he heard blocks of stone crashing down its outer walls. For a time he waited to see whether the earthquake, or whatever it might be, would abate. Then, since it did not, he crawled to the end of the tunnel and cautiously stuck his head out.\n\nAnd then he saw: An enormous spider web was stretched from edge to edge of the Deep Chasm. And in the sticky threads of the web, which were as thick as ropes, a great white luckdragon was struggling, becoming more and more entangled as he thrashed about with his tail and claws.\n\nLuckdragons are among the strangest animals in Fantastica. They bear no resemblance to ordinary dragons, which look like loathsome snakes and live in deep caves, diffusing a noxious stench and guarding some real or imaginary treasure. Such spawn of chaos are usually wicked or ill-tempered, they have batlike wings with which they can rise clumsily and noisily into the air, and they spew fire and smoke. Luckdragons are creatures of air, warmth, and pure joy. Despite their great size, they are as light as a summer cloud, and consequently need no wings for flying. They swim in the air of heaven as fish swim in water. Seen from the earth, they look like slow lightning flashes. The most amazing thing about them is their song. Their voice sounds like the golden note of a large bell, and when they speak softly the bell seems to be ringing in the distance. Anyone who has heard this sound will remember it as long as he lives and tell his grandchildren about it.\n\nBut the luckdragon Atreyu saw could hardly have been in a mood for singing. His long, graceful body with its pearly, pink-and-white scales hung tangled and twisted in the great spider web. His bristling fangs, his thick, luxuriant mane, and the fringes on his tail and limbs were all caught in the sticky ropes. He could hardly move. The eyeballs in his lionlike head glistened ruby-red.\n\nThe splendid beast bled from many wounds, for there was something else, something very big, that descended like a dark cloud on the dragon's white body. It rose and fell, rose and fell, all the while changing its shape. Sometimes it resembled a gigantic long-legged spider with many fiery eyes and a fat body encased in shaggy black hair; then it became a great hand with long claws that tried to crush the luckdragon, and in the next moment it changed to a giant scorpion, piercing its unfortunate victim with its venomous sting.\n\nThe battle between the two giants was fearsome. The luckdragon was still defending himself, spewing blue fire that singed the cloudmonster's bristles. Smoke came whirling through the crevices in the rock, so foul-smelling that Atreyu could hardly breathe. Once the luckdragon managed to bite off one of the monster's long legs. But instead of falling into the chasm, the severed leg hovered for a time in mid-air, then returned to its old place in the black cloud-body. And several times the dragon seemed to seize one of the monster's limbs between its teeth, but bit into the void.\n\nOnly then did Atreyu notice that the monster was not a single, solid body, but was made up of innumerable small steel-blue insects which buzzed like angry hornets. It was their compact swarm that kept taking different shapes.\n\nThis was Ygramul, and now Atreyu knew why she was called 'the Many'.\n\nHe sprang from his hiding place, reached for the Gem, and shouted at the top of his lungs: 'Stop! In the name of the Childlike Empress, stop!'\n\nBut the hissing and roaring of the combatants drowned out his voice. He himself could barely hear it.\n\nWithout stopping to think, he set foot on the sticky ropes of the web, which swayed beneath him as he ran. He lost his balance, fell, clung by his hands to keep from falling into the dark chasm, pulled himself up again, caught himself in the ropes, fought free and hurried on.\n\nAt last Ygramul sensed that something was coming toward her. With the speed of lightning, she turned about, confronting Atreyu with an enormous steel-blue face. Her single eye had a vertical pupil, which stared at Atreyu with inconceivable malignancy.\n\n_A cry of fear escaped Bastian._\n\nA cry of terror passed through the ravine and echoed from side to side. Ygramul turned her eye to left and right, to see if someone else had arrived, for that sound could not have been made by the boy who stood there as though paralyzed with horror.\n\n_Could she have heard my cry? Bastian wondered in alarm. But that's not possible._\n\nAnd then Atreyu heard Ygramul's voice. It was very high and slightly hoarse, not at all the right kind of voice for that enormous face. Her lips did not move as she spoke. It was the buzzing of a great swarm of hornets that shaped itself into words.\n\n'A Twolegs,' Atreyu heard. 'Years upon years of hunger, and now two tasty morsels at once! A lucky day for Ygramul!'\n\nAtreyu needed all his strength to keep his composure. He held the Gem up to the monster's one eye and asked: 'Do you know this emblem?'\n\n'Come closer, Twolegs!' buzzed the many voices. 'Ygramul doesn't see well.'\n\nAtreyu took one step closer to the face. The mouth opened, showing innumerable glittering feelers, hooks, and claws in place of a tongue.\n\n'Still closer,' the swarm buzzed.\n\nHe took one more step, which brought him near enough to distinguish the innumerable steel-blue insects which whirled around in seeming confusion. Yet the face as a whole remained motionless.\n\n'I am Atreyu,' he said. 'I have come on a mission from the Childlike Empress.'\n\n'Most inopportune!' said the angry buzzing after a time. 'What do you want of Ygramul? As you can see, she is very busy.'\n\n'I want this luckdragon,' said Atreyu. 'Let me have him.'\n\n'What do you want him for, Atreyu Twolegs?'\n\n'I lost my horse in the Swamps of Sadness. I must go to the Southern Oracle, because only Uyulala can tell me who can give the Childlike Empress a new name. If she doesn't get one, she will die and all Fantastica with her \u2013 you too, Ygrarmul.'\n\n'Ah!' the face drawled. 'Is that the reason for all the places where there is nothing?'\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu. 'So you too know of them. But the Southern Oracle is too long a journey for a lifetime. That's why I'm asking you for this luckdragon. If he carries me through the air, I may get there before it's too late.'\n\nOut of the whirling swarm that made up the face came a sound suggesting the giggling of many voices.\n\n'You're all wrong, Atreyu Twolegs. We know nothing of the Southern Oracle and nothing of Uyulala, but we do know that this dragon cannot carry you. And even if he were in the best of health, the trip would take so long that the Childlike Empress would die of her illness in the meantime. You must measure your Quest, Atreyu, in terms not of your own life but of hers.'\n\nThe gaze of the eye with the vertical pupil was almost unbearable.\n\n'That's true,' he said in a small voice.\n\n'Besides,' the motionless face went on, 'the luckdragon has Ygramul's poison in his body. He has less than an hour to live.'\n\n'Then there's no hope,' Atreyu murmured. 'Not for him, not for me, and not for you either, Ygramul.'\n\n'Oh well,' the voice buzzed. 'Ygramul would at least have had one good meal. But who says it's Ygramul's last meal? She knows a way of getting you to the Southern Oracle in a twinkling. But the question is: Will you like it?'\n\n'What is that way?'\n\n'That is Ygramul's secret. The creatures of darkness have their secrets too, Atreyu Twolegs. Ygramul has never revealed hers. And you too must swear you'll never tell a soul. For it would be greatly to Ygramul's disadvantage if it were known, yes, greatly to her disadvantage.'\n\n'I swear! Speak!'\n\nThe great steel-blue face leaned forward just a little and buzzed almost inaudibly.\n\n'You must let Ygramul bite you.'\n\nAtreyu shrank back in horror.\n\n'Ygramul's poison,' the voice went on, 'kills within an hour. But to one who has it inside him it gives the power to wish himself in any part of Fantastica he chooses. Imagine if that were known! All Ygramul's victims would escape her.'\n\n'An hour?' cried Atreyu. 'What can I do in an hour?'\n\n'Well,' buzzed the swarm, 'at least it's more than all the hours remaining to you here.'\n\nAtreyu struggled with himself.\n\n'Will you set the luckdragon free if I ask it in the name of the Childlike Empress?' he finally asked.\n\n'No!' said the face. 'You have no right to ask that of Ygramul even if you are wearing AURYN, the Gem. The Childlike Empress takes us all as we are. That's why Ygramul respects her emblem.'\n\nAtreyu was still standing with bowed head. Ygramul had spoken the truth. He couldn't save the white luckdragon. His own wishes didn't count.\n\nHe looked up and said: 'Do what you suggested.'\n\nInstantly the steel-blue cloud descended on him and enveloped him on all sides. He felt a numbing pain in the left shoulder. His last thought was: 'To the Southern Oracle!'\n\nThen the world went black before his eyes.\n\nWhen the wolf reached the spot a short time later, he saw the giant spider web \u2013 but there was no one in sight. There the trail he had been following broke off, and try as he might, he could not find it again.\n\n_Bastian stopped reading. He felt miserable, as though he himself had Ygramul's poison inside him._\n\n_'Thank God I'm not in Fantastica,' he muttered. 'Luckily, such monsters don't exist in reality. Anyway, it's only a story.'_\n\n_But was it only a story? How did it happen that Ygramul, and probably Atreyu as well, had heard Bastian's cry of terror?_\n\n_Little by little, this book was beginning to give him a spooky feeling._\n\n# V\n\n# _The Gnomics_\n\nEVER so slowly Atreyu awoke to the world. He saw that he was still in the mountains, and for a terrible moment he suspected that Ygramul had deceived him.\n\nBut these, he soon realized, were entirely different mountains. They seemed to consist of great rust-red blocks of stone, piled in such a way as to form strange towers and pyramids. In between these structures the ground was covered with bushes and shrubbery. The air was blazing hot. The country was bathed in glaring sunlight.\n\nShading his eyes with his hand, Atreyu looked around him and discovered, about a mile away, an irregularly shaped arch, perhaps a hundred feet high. It too appeared to consist of piled stone blocks.\n\nCould that be the entrance to the Southern Oracle? As far as he could see, there was nothing behind the arch, only an endless empty plain, no building, no temple, no grove, nothing suggesting an oracle.\n\nSuddenly, while he was wondering what to do, he heard a deep, bronzelike voice: 'Atreyu!' And then again: 'Atreyu!'\n\nTurning around, he saw the white luckdragon emerging from one of the rust-red towers. Blood was pouring from his wounds, and he was so weak he could barely drag himself along.\n\n'Here I am, Atreyu,' he said, merrily winking one of his ruby-red eyes. 'And you needn't be so surprised. I was pretty well paralyzed when I was caught in that spider web, but I heard everything Ygramul said to you. So I thought to myself: She has bitten me too, after all, so why shouldn't I take advantage of the secret as well? That's how I got away from her.'\n\nAtreyu was overjoyed.\n\n'I hated leaving you to Ygramul,' he said. 'But what could I do?'\n\n'Nothing,' said the luckdragon. 'You've saved my life all the same \u2013 even if I had something to do with it.'\n\nAnd again he winked, this time with the other eye.\n\n'Saved your life,' Atreyu repeated, 'for an hour. That's all we have left. I can feel Ygramul's poison burning my heart away.'\n\n'Every poison has its antidote,' said the white dragon. 'Everything will turn out all right. You'll see.'\n\n'I can't imagine how,' said Atreyu.\n\n'Neither can I,' said the luckdragon. 'But that's the wonderful part of it. From now on you'll succeed in everything you attempt. Because I'm a luckdragon. Even when I was caught in the web, I didn't give up hope. And as you see, I was right.'\n\nAtreyu smiled.\n\nTell me, why did you wish yourself here and not in some other place where you might have been cured?'\n\n'My life belongs to you,' said the dragon, 'if you'll accept it. I thought you'd need a mount for this Great Quest of yours. And you'll soon see that crawling around the country on two legs, or even galloping on a good horse, can't hold a candle to whizzing through the air on the back of a luckdragon. Are we partners?'\n\n'We're partners,' said Atreyu.\n\n'By the way,' said the dragon. 'My name is Falkor.'\n\n'Glad to meet you,' said Atreyu, 'but while we're talking, what little time we have left is seeping away. I've got to do something. But what?'\n\n'Have luck,' said Falkor. 'What else?'\n\nBut Atreyu heard no more. He had fallen down and lay motionless in the soft folds of the dragon's body.\n\nYgramul's poison was taking effect.\n\nWhen Atreyu \u2013 no one knows how much later \u2013 opened his eyes again, he saw nothing but a very strange face bent over him. It was the wrinkliest, shriveledest face he had ever seen, and only about the size of a fist. It was as brown as a baked apple, and the eyes in it glittered like stars. The head was covered with a bonnet made of withered leaves.\n\nAtreyu felt a little drinking cup held to his lips.\n\n'Nice medicine! Good medicine!' mumbled the wrinkled little lips in the shriveled face. 'Just drink, child. Do you good.'\n\nAtreyu sipped. It tasted strange. Kind of sweet and sour.\n\nAtreyu found it painful to speak. 'What about the white dragon?' he asked.\n\n'Doing fine!' the voice whispered. 'Don't worry, my boy. You'll get well. You'll both get well. The worst is over. Just drink. Drink.'\n\nAtreyu took another swallow and again sleep overcame him, but this time it was the deep, refreshing sleep of recovery.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck two._\n\n_Bastian couldn't hold it in any longer. He simply had to go. He had felt the need for quite some time, but he hadn't been able to stop reading. Besides, he had been afraid to go downstairs. He told himself that there was nothing to worry about, that the building was deserted, that no one would see him. But still he was afraid, as if the school were a person watching him._\n\n_But in the end there was no help for it; he just had to go!_\n\n_He set the open book down on the mat, went to the door and listened with pounding heart. Nothing. He slid the bolt and slowly turned the big key in the lock. When he pressed the handle, the door opened, creaking loudly._\n\n_He padded out in his stocking feet, leaving the door behind him open to avoid unnecessary noise. He crept down the stairs to the second floor. The students' toilet was at the other end of the long corridor with the spinach-green classroom doors. Racing against time, Bastian ran as fast as he could and just made it._\n\n_As he sat there, he wondered why heroes in stories like the one he was_ _reading never had to worry about such problems. Once \u2013 when he was much younger \u2013 he had asked his religion teacher if Jesus Christ had had to go like an ordinary person. After all, he had taken food and drink like everyone else. The class had howled with laughter, and the teacher, instead of an answer, had given him several demerits for 'insolence'. He hadn't meant to be insolent._\n\n_'Probably,' Bastian now said to himself, 'these things are just too unimportant to be mentioned in stories.'_\n\n_Yet for him they could be of the most pressing and embarrassing importance._\n\n_He was finished. He pulled the chain and was about to leave when he heard steps in the corridor outside. One classroom door after another was opened and closed, and the steps came closer and closer._\n\n_Bastian's heart pounded in his throat. Where could he hide? He stood glued to the spot as though paralyzed._\n\n_The washroom door opened, luckily in such a way as to shield Bastian. The janitor came in. One by one, he looked into the stalls. When he came to the one where the water was still running and the chain swaying a little, he hesitated for a moment and mumbled something to himself. But when the water stopped running he shrugged his shoulders and went out. His steps died away on the stairs._\n\n_Bastian hadn't dared breathe the whole time, and now he gasped for air. He noticed that his knees were trembling._\n\n_As fast as possible he padded down the corridor with the spinach-green doors, up the stairs, and back into the attic. Only when the door was locked and bolted behind him did he relax._\n\n_With a deep sigh he settled back on his pile of mats, wrapped himself in his army blankets, and reached for the book._\n\nWhen Atreyu awoke for the second time, he felt perfectly rested and well. He sat up.\n\nIt was night. The moon was shining bright, and Atreyu saw he was in the same place where he and the white dragon had collapsed. Falkor was still lying there. His breathing came deep and easy and he seemed to be fast asleep. His wounds had been dressed.\n\nAtreyu noticed that his own shoulder had been dressed in the same way, not with cloth but with herbs and plant fibers.\n\nOnly a few steps away there was a small cave, from which issued a faint beam of light.\n\nTaking care not to move his left arm, Atreyu stood up cautiously and approached the cave. Bending down \u2013 for the entrance was very low \u2013 he saw a room that looked like an alchemist's workshop in miniature. At the back an open fire was crackling merrily. Crucibles, retorts, and strangely shaped flasks were scattered all about. Bundles of dried plants were piled on shelves. The little table in the middle of the room and the other furniture seemed to be made of root wood, crudely nailed together.\n\nAtreyu heard a cough, and then he saw a little man sitting in an armchair by the fire. The little man's hat had been carved from a root and looked like an inverted pipe bowl. The face was as brown and shriveled as the face Atreyu had seen leaning over him when he first woke up. But this one was wearing big eyeglasses, and the features seemed sharper and more anxious. The little man was reading a big book that was lying in his lap.\n\nThen a second little figure, which Atreyu recognized as the one that had bent over him, came waddling out of another room. Now Atreyu saw that this little person was a woman. Apart from her bonnet of leaves, she \u2013 like the man in the armchair \u2013 was wearing a kind of monk's robe, which also seemed to be made of withered leaves. Humming merrily, she rubbed her hands and busied herself with a kettle that was hanging over the fire. Neither of the little people would have reached up to Atreyu's knee. Obviously they belonged to the widely ramified family of the gnomes, though to a rather obscure branch.\n\n'Woman!' said the little man testily. 'Get out of my light. You are interfering with my research!'\n\n'You and your research!' said the woman. 'Who cares about that? The important thing is my health elixir. Those two outside are in urgent need of it.'\n\n'Those two,' said the man irritably, 'will be far more in need of my help and advice.'\n\n'Maybe so,' said the little woman. 'But not until they are well. Move over, old man!'\n\nGrumbling, the little man moved his chair a short distance from the fire.\n\nAtreyu cleared his throat to call attention to his presence. The two gnomes looked around.\n\n'He's already well,' said the little man. 'Now it's my turn.'\n\n'Certainly not!' the little woman hissed. 'He'll be well when I say so. It'll be your turn when I say it's your turn.'\n\nShe turned to Atreyu.\n\n'We would invite you in, but it's not quite big enough, is it? Just a moment. We shall come out to you.'\n\nTaking a small mortar, she ground something or other into a powder, which she tossed in the kettle. Then she washed her hands, dried them on her robe, and said to the little man: 'Stay here until I call you, Engywook. Understand?'\n\n'Yes, Urgl, I understand,' the little man grumbled. 'I understand only too well.'\n\nThe female gnome came out of the cave and looked up at Atreyu from under knitted brows.\n\n'Well, well. We seem to be getting better, don't we?'\n\nAtreyu nodded.\n\nThe gnome climbed up on a rocky ledge, level with Atreyu's face, and sat down.\n\n'No pain?' she asked.\n\n'None worth mentioning,' Atreyu answered.\n\n'Nonsense!' the old woman snapped. 'Does it hurt or doesn't it?'\n\n'It still hurts,' said Atreyu, 'but it doesn't matter.'\n\n'Not to you, perhaps, but it does to me! Since when does the patient tell the doctor what matters? What do you know about it? If it's to get well, it _has to_ hurt. If it stopped hurting, your arm would be dead.'\n\n'I'm sorry,' said Atreyu, who felt like a scolded child. 'I only wanted to say... that is, I wanted to thank you.'\n\n'What for?' said Urgl impatiently. 'I'm a healer, after all. I've only done my professional duty. Besides, Engywook, that's my old man, saw the Glory hanging on your neck. So what would you expect?'\n\n'What about Falkor?' Atreyu asked. 'How's he getting along?'\n\n'Falkor? Who's that?'\n\n'The white luckdragon.'\n\n'Oh. I don't know yet. Took a little more punishment than you. But then he's bigger and stronger, so he ought to make it. Why not? Needs a little more rest. Where did you ever pick up that poison? And where have you come from all of a sudden? And where are you going? And who are you in the first place?'\n\nEngywook was standing in the mouth of the cave. He listened as Atreyu answered Urgl's questions. When Urgl opened her mouth to speak again, he shouted: 'Hold your tongue, woman! Now it's my turn.'\n\nRemoving his pipe-bowl hat, he scratched his bald head, and said: 'Don't let her tone bother you, Atreyu. Old Urgl is a little crude, but she means no harm. My name is Engywook. We are the well-known Gnomics. Ever hear of us?'\n\n'No,' Atreyu confessed.\n\nEngywook seemed rather offended.\n\n'Oh well,' he said. 'Apparently you don't move in scientific circles, or someone would undoubtedly have told you that you couldn't find a better adviser than yours truly if you're looking for Uyulala in the Southern Oracle. You've come to the right address, my boy.'\n\n'Don't give yourself airs,' Urgl broke in. Then she climbed down from her ledge and, grumbling to herself, vanished into the cave.\n\nEngywook ignored her comment.\n\n'I can explain everything,' he went on. 'I've studied the question all my life. Inside and out. I set up my observatory just for that. I'm in the last stage of a great scientific work on the Oracle. \"The Riddle of Uyulala, solved by Professor Engywook.\" That's the title. Sounds all right, doesn't it? To be published in the very near future. Unfortunately a few details are still lacking. You can help me, my boy.'\n\n'An observatory?' asked Atreyu, who had never heard the word.\n\nEngywook nodded and, beaming with pride, motioned Atreyu to follow him.\n\nA narrow path twined its way upward between great stone blocks. In some places where the grade was especially steep, tiny steps had been cut out of the stone. Of course, they were much too small for Atreyu's feet and he simply stepped over them. Even so, he had a hard time keeping up with the gnome.\n\n'Bright moonlight tonight,' said Engywook. 'You'll see them all right.'\n\n'See who?' Atreyu asked. 'Uyulala?'\n\nEngywook only frowned and shook his head.\n\nAt last they came to the top of the hill. The ground was flat, but on one side there was a natural stone parapet. In the middle of this wall there was a hole, obviously the work of gnomian hands. And behind the hole, on a stand made of root wood, stood a small telescope.\n\nEngywook looked through the telescope and made a slight adjustment by turning some screws. Then he nodded with satisfaction and invited Atreyu to look. To put himself on a level with it, Atreyu had to lie down on the ground and prop himself on his elbows.\n\nThe telescope was aimed at the great stone arch, or more specifically at the lower part of the left pillar. And beside this pillar, as Atreyu now saw, an enormous sphinx was sitting motionless in the moonlight. The forepaws, on which she was propped, were those of a lion, the hindquarters were those of a bull; on her back she bore the wings of an eagle, and her face was that of a human woman \u2013 in form at any rate, for the expression was far from human. It was hard to tell whether this face was smiling or whether it expressed deep grief or utter indifference. After looking at it for some time, Atreyu seemed to see abysmal wickedness and cruelty, but a moment later he had to correct his impression, for he found only unruffled calm.\n\n'Don't bother!' he heard the gnome's deep voice in his ear. 'You won't solve it. It's the same with everyone. I've observed it all my life and I haven't found the answer. Now for the other one.'\n\nHe turned one of the screws. The image passed the opening of the arch, through which one saw only the empty plain. Then the right-hand pillar came into Atreyu's view. And there, in the same posture, sat a second sphinx. The enormous body shimmered like liquid silver in the moonlight. She seemed to be staring fixedly at the first, just as the first was gazing fixedly at her.\n\n'Are they statues?' asked Atreyu, unable to avert his eyes.\n\n'Oh no!' said Engywook with a giggle. 'They are real live sphinxes \u2013 very much alive! You've seen enough for now. Come, we'll go down. I'll explain everything.'\n\nAnd he held his hand in front of the telescope, so that Atreyu could see no more. Neither spoke on the way back.\n\n# VI\n\n# _The Three Magic Gates_\n\nFALKOR was still sound asleep when Engywook brought Atreyu back to the gnomes' cave. In the meantime Urgl had moved the little table into the open and put on all sorts of sweets and fruit and herb jellies.\n\nThere were also little drinking cups and a pitcher of fragrant herb tea. The table was lit by two tiny oil lamps.\n\n'Sit down!' Urgl commanded. 'Atreyu must eat and drink something to give him strength. Medicine alone is not enough.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Atreyu. 'I'm feeling fine already.'\n\n'No back talk!' Urgl snapped. 'As long as you're here, you'll do as you're told. The poison in your body has been neutralized. So there's no reason to hurry, my boy. You've all the time you need. Just take it easy.'\n\n'It's not on my account,' said Atreyu. 'But the Childlike Empress is dying. Even now, every hour may count.'\n\n'Rubbish!' the old woman grumbled. 'Haste makes waste. Sit down! Eat! Drink!'\n\n'Better give in,' Engywook whispered. 'I know the woman from A to Z. When she wants something, she gets it. Besides, you and I have a lot to talk about.'\n\nAtreyu squatted cross-legged at the tiny table and fell to. Every bite and every swallow made him feel as if warm, golden life were flowing into his veins. Only then did he notice how weak he had been.\n\n_Bastian's mouth watered. It seemed to him that he could smell the aroma of the gnomes' meal. He sniffed the air, but of course it was only imagination._\n\n_His stomach growled audibly. In the end he couldn't stand it any longer. He took his apple and the rest of his sandwich out of his satchel and ate them both. After that, though far from full, he felt a little better._\n\n_Then he realized that this was his last meal. The word 'last' terrified him. He tried not to think of it._\n\n'Where do you get all these good things?' Atreyu asked Urgl.\n\n'Ah, sonny,' she said. 'It takes lots of running around to find the right plants. But he \u2013 this knuckleheaded Engywook of mine \u2013 insists on living here because of his all-important studies. Where the food is to come from is the least of his worries.'\n\n'Woman,' said Engywook with dignity, 'how would you know what's important and what isn't? Be off with you now, and let us talk.'\n\nMumbling and grumbling, Urgl withdrew into the little cave and a moment later Atreyu heard a great clatter of pots and pans.\n\n'Don't mind her,' said Engywook under his breath. 'She's a good old soul, she just needs something to grumble about now and then. Listen to me, Atreyu. I'm going to let you in on a few things you need to know about the Southern Oracle. It's not easy to get to Uyulala. In fact, it's rather difficult. But I don't want to give you a scientific lecture. Maybe it will be better if you ask questions. I tend to lose myself in details. Just fire away.'\n\n'All right,' said Atreyu. 'Who or what is Uyulala?'\n\nEngywook gave him an angry look. 'Botheration!' he spluttered. 'You're so blunt, so direct. Just like my old woman. Couldn't you start with something else?'\n\nAtreyu thought a while. Then he asked: 'That big stone gate with the sphinxes. Is that the entrance?'\n\n'That's better,' said Engywook. 'Now we'll get somewhere. Yes, that gate is the entrance, but then come two more gates. And Uyulala's home is behind the third \u2013 if one can speak of her having a home.'\n\n'Have you yourself ever been with her?'\n\n'Don't be absurd!' replied Engywook, again somewhat nettled. 'I am a scientist. I have collected and collated the statements of all the individuals who have been there. The ones who have come back, that is. Very important work. I can't afford to take personal risks. It could interfere with my work.'\n\n'I see,' said Atreyu. 'Now what about these three gates?'\n\nEngywook stood up, folded his hands behind his back, and paced.\n\n'The first,' he lectured, 'is known as the Great Riddle Gate; the second is the Magic Mirror Gate; and the third is the No-Key Gate...'\n\n'Strange,' Atreyu broke in. 'As far as I could see, there was nothing behind that stone gate but an empty plain. Where are the other gates?'\n\n'Be still!' Engywook scolded. 'How can I make myself clear if you keep interrupting? It's very complicated: The second gate isn't there until a person has gone through the first. And the third isn't there until the person has the second behind him. And Uyulala isn't there until he has passed through the third. Simply not there. Do you understand?'\n\nAtreyu nodded, but preferred to say nothing for fear of irritating the gnome.\n\n'Through my telescope you have seen the first, the Great Riddle Gate. And the two sphinxes. That gate is always open. Obviously. There's nothing to close. But even so, no one can get through' \u2013 here Engywook raised a tiny forefinger \u2013 'unless the sphinxes close their eyes. And do you know why? The gaze of a sphinx is different from the gaze of any other creature. You and I and everyone else \u2013 our eyes take something in. We see the world. A sphinx sees nothing. In a sense she is blind. But her eyes send something out. And what do her eyes send out? All the riddles of the universe. That's why these sphinxes are always looking at each other. Because only another sphinx can stand a sphinx's gaze. So try to imagine what happens to one who ventures into the area where those two gazes meet. He freezes to the spot, unable to move until he has solved all the riddles of the world. If you go there, you'll find the remains of those poor devils.'\n\n'But,' said Atreyu, 'didn't you say that their eyes sometimes close? Don't they have to sleep now and then?'\n\n'Sleep?' Engywook was shaken with giggles. 'Goodness gracious! A sphinx sleep? I should say not. You really are an innocent. Still, there's some point to your question. All my research, in fact, hinges on that particular point. The sphinxes shut their eyes for some travelers and let them through. The question that no one has answered up until now is this: Why one traveler and not another? Because you mustn't suppose they let wise, brave, or good people through, and keep the stupid, cowardly, and wicked out. Not a bit of it! With my own eyes I've seen them admit stupid fools and treacherous knaves, while decent, sensible people have given up after being kept waiting for months. And it seems to make no difference whether a person has some serious reason for consulting the Oracle, or whether he's just come for the fun of it.'\n\n'Haven't your investigations suggested some explanation?' Atreyu asked.\n\nAngry flashes darted from Engywook's eyes.\n\n'Have you been listening or haven't you? Didn't I just say that so far no one has answered that question? Of course, I've worked up a few theories over the years. At first I thought the sphinxes' judgment might be guided by certain physical characteristics \u2013 size, beauty, strength, and so on. But I soon had to drop that idea. Then I toyed with numerical patterns. The idea, for instance, that three out of five were regularly excluded, or that only prime-numbered candidates were admitted. That worked pretty well for the past, but for forecasting it was no use at all. Since then I've come to the conclusion that the sphinxes' decision is based on pure chance and that no principle whatever is involved. But my wife calls my conclusion scandalous, un-Fantastican, and absolutely unscientific.'\n\n'Are you starting your old nonsense again?' came Urgl's angry voice from the cave. 'Shame on you! Such skepticism only shows that the bit of brain you once had has dried up on you.'\n\n'Hear that?' said Engywook with a sigh. 'And the worst of it is that she's right.'\n\n'What about the Childlike Empress's amulet?' Atreyu asked. 'Do you think they'll respect it? They too are natives of Fantastica, after all.'\n\n'Yes, I suppose they are,' said Engywook, shaking his apple-sized head. 'But to respect it they'd have to _see_ it. And they don't see anything. But their gaze would strike you. And I'm not so sure the sphinxes would obey the Childlike Empress. Maybe they are greater than she is. I don't know, I don't know. Anyway, it's most worrisome.'\n\n'Then what do you advise?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'You will have to do what all the others have done. Wait and see what the sphinxes decide \u2013 without hoping to know why.'\n\nAtreyu nodded thoughtfully.\n\nUrgl came out of the cave. In one hand she held a bucket with some steaming liquid in it, and under her other arm she was carrying a bundle of dried plants. Muttering to herself, she went to the luckdragon, who was still lying motionless, fast asleep. She started climbing around on him and changing the dressings on his wounds. Her enormous patient heaved one contented sigh and stretched; otherwise he seemed unaware of her ministrations.\n\n'Couldn't you make yourself a little useful,' she said to Engywook as she was hurrying back to the kitchen, 'instead of sitting around like this, talking rubbish?'\n\n'I am making myself _extremely_ useful,' her husband called after her. 'Possibly more useful than you, but that's more than a simple-minded woman like you will ever understand!'\n\nTurning to Atreyu, he went on: 'She can only think of practical matters. She has no feeling for the great overarching ideas.'\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck three._\n\n_By now Bastian's father must have noticed \u2013 if he was ever going to \u2013 that Bastian hadn't come home. Would he worry? Maybe he'd go looking for him. Maybe he had already notified the police. Maybe calls had gone out over the radio. Bastian felt a sick pain in the pit of his stomach._\n\n_But if the police had been notified, where would they look for him? Could they possibly come to this attic?_\n\n_Had he locked the door when he came back from the toilet? He couldn't remember. He got up and checked. Yes, the door was locked and bolted._\n\n_Outside, the November afternoon was drawing to a close. Ever so slowly the light was failing._\n\n_To steady his nerves, Bastian paced the floor for a while. Looking about him, he discovered quite a few things one wouldn't have expected to find in a school. For instance, a battered old Victrola with a big horn attached \u2013 God only knew when and by whom it had been brought here. In one corner there were some paintings in ornate gilt frames. They were so faded that hardly anything could be made out \u2013 only here and there a pale, solemn-looking face that shimmered against a dark background. And then there was a rusty, seven-armed candelabrum, still holding the stumps of thick wax candles, bearded with drippings._\n\n_Bastian gave a sudden start, for looking into a dark corner he saw_\n\n_someone moving. But when he looked again, it dawned on him that he had only seen himself, reflected in a large mirror that had lost half its silvering. He went closer and looked at himself for a while. He was really nothing much to look at, with his pudgy build and his bow legs and pasty face. He shook his head and said aloud: 'No!'_\n\n_Then he went back to his mats. By then it was so dark that he had to hold the book up to his eyes._\n\n'Where were we?' Engywook asked.\n\n'At the Great Riddle Gate,' Atreyu reminded him.\n\n'Right. Now suppose you've managed to get through. Then \u2013 and only then \u2013 the second gate will be there for you. The Magic Mirror Gate. As I've said, I myself have not been able to observe it, what I tell you has been gleaned from travelers' accounts. This second gate is both open and closed. Sounds crazy, doesn't it? It might be better to say: neither closed nor open. Though that doesn't make it any less crazy. The point is that this gate seems to be a big mirror or something of the kind, though it's made neither of glass nor of metal. What it is made of, no one has ever been able to tell me. Anyway, when you stand before it, you see yourself. But not as you would in an ordinary mirror. You don't see your outward appearance; what you see is your real innermost nature. If you want to go through, you have to \u2013 in a manner of speaking \u2013 go into yourself.'\n\n'Well,' said Atreyu. 'It seems to me that this Magic Mirror Gate is easier to get through than the first.'\n\n'Wrong!' cried Engywook. Once again he began to trot back and forth in agitation. 'Dead wrong, my friend! I've known travelers who considered themselves absolutely blameless to yelp with horror and run away at the sight of the monster grinning out of the mirror at them. We had to care for some of them for weeks before they were even able to start home.'\n\n'We!' growled Urgl, who was passing with another bucket. 'I keep hearing \"we\". When did _you_ ever take care of anybody?'\n\nEngywook waved her away.\n\n'Others,' he went on lecturing, 'appear to have seen something even more horrible, but had the courage to go through. What some saw was not so frightening, but it still cost every one of them an inner struggle. Nothing I can say would apply to all. It's a different experience each time.'\n\n'Good,' said Atreyu. 'Then at least it's _possible_ to go through this Magic Mirror Gate?'\n\n'Oh yes, of course it's possible, or it wouldn't be a gate. Where's your logic, my boy?'\n\n'But it's also possible to go around it,' said Atreyu. 'Or isn't it?'\n\n'Yes indeed,' said Engywook. 'Of course it is. But if you do that, there's nothing more behind it. The third gate isn't there until you've gone through the second. How often do I have to tell you that?'\n\n'I understand. But what about this third gate?'\n\n'That's where things get really difficult! Because, you see, the No-Key Gate is closed. Simply closed. And that's that! There's no handle and no doorknob and no keyhole. Nothing. My theory is that this single, hermetically closed door is made of Fantastican selenium. You may know that there's no way of destroying, bending, or dissolving Fantastican selenium. It's absolutely indestructible.'\n\n'Then there's no way of getting through?'\n\n'Not so fast. Not so fast, my boy. Certain individuals have got through and spoken with Uyulala. So the door can be opened.'\n\n'But how?'\n\n'Just listen. Fantastican selenium reacts to our will. It's our will that makes it unyielding. But if someone succeeds in forgetting all purpose, in wanting nothing at all \u2013 to him the gate will open of its own accord.'\n\nAtreyu looked down and said in an undertone: 'If that's the case \u2013 how can I possibly get through? How can I manage not to _want_ to get through?'\n\nEngywook sighed and nodded, nodded and sighed.\n\n'Just what I've been saying. The No-Key Gate is the hardest.'\n\n'But if I succeed after all,' Atreyu asked, 'will I then be in the Southern Oracle?'\n\n'Yes,' said the gnome.\n\n'But who or what is Uyulala?'\n\n'No idea,' said the gnome, and his eyes sparkled with fury. 'None of those who have reached her has been willing to tell me. How can I be expected to complete my scientific work if everyone cloaks himself in mysterious silence? I could tear my hair out \u2013 if I had any left. If you reach her, Atreyu, will you tell me? Will you? One of these days my thirst for knowledge will be the death of me, and no one, no one is willing to help. I beg you, promise you'll tell me.'\n\nAtreyu stood up and looked at the Great Riddle Gate, which lay bathed in moonlight.\n\n'I can't promise that, Engywook,' he said softly, 'though I'd be glad to show my gratitude. But if no one has told you who or what Uyulala is, there must be a reason. And before I know what that reason is, I can't decide whether someone who hasn't seen her with his own eyes has a right to know.'\n\n'In that case, get away from me!' screamed the gnome, his eyes literally spewing sparks. 'All I get is ingratitude! All my life I wear myself out trying to reveal a secret of universal interest. And no one helps me. I should never have bothered with you.'\n\nWith that he ran into the little cave, and a door could be heard slamming within.\n\nUrgl passed Atreyu and said with a titter: 'The old fool means no harm. But he's always running into such disappointments with this ridiculous investigation of his. He wants to go down in history as the one who has solved the great riddle. The world-famous gnome Engywook. You mustn't mind him.'\n\n'Of course not,' said Atreyu. 'Just tell him I thank him with all my heart for what he has done for me. And I thank you too. If it's allowed, I will tell him the secret \u2013 if I come back.'\n\n'Then you're leaving us?' Urgl asked.\n\n'I have to,' said Atreyu. 'There's no time to be lost. Now I shall go to the Oracle. Farewell! And in the meantime take good care of Falkor, the luckdragon.'\n\nWith that he turned away and strode toward the Great Riddle Gate.\n\nUrgl watched the erect figure with the blowing cloak vanish among the rocks and ran after him, crying: 'Lots of luck, Atreyu!'\n\nBut she didn't know whether he had heard or not. As she waddled back to her little cave, she muttered to herself: 'He'll need it all right \u2013 he'll need lots of luck.'\n\nAtreyu was now within fifty feet of the great stone gate. It was much larger than he had judged from a distance. Behind it lay a deserted plain. There was nothing to stop the eye, and Atreyu's gaze seemed to plunge into an abyss of emptiness. In front of the gate and between the two pillars Atreyu saw only innumerable skulls and skeletons \u2013 all that was left of the varied species of Fantasticans who had tried to pass through the gate but had been frozen forever by the gaze of the sphinxes.\n\nBut it wasn't these gruesome reminders that stopped Atreyu. What stopped him was the sight of the sphinxes.\n\nHe had been through a good deal in the course of the Great Quest \u2013 he had seen beautiful things and horrible things \u2013 but up until now he had not known that one and the same creature can be both, that beauty can be terrifying.\n\nThe two monsters were bathed in moonlight, and as Atreyu approached them, they seemed to grow beyond measure. Their heads seemed to touch the moon, and their expression as they looked at each other seemed to change with every step he took. Currents of a terrible, unknown force flashed through the upraised bodies and still more through the almost human faces. It was as though these beings did not merely exist, in the way marble for instance exists, but as if they were on the verge of vanishing, but would recreate themselves at the same time. For that very reason they seemed far more real than anything made of stone.\n\nFear gripped Atreyu.\n\nFear not so much of the danger that threatened him as of something above and beyond his own self. It hardly grazed his mind that if the sphinxes' gaze should strike him he would freeze to the spot forever. No, what made his steps heavier and heavier, until he felt as though he were made of cold gray lead, was fear of the unfathomable, of something intolerably vast.\n\nYet he went on. He stopped looking up. He kept his head bowed and walked very slowly, foot by foot, towards the stone gate, Heavier and heavier grew his burden of fear. He thought it would crush him, but still he went on. He didn't know whether the sphinxes had closed their eyes or not. Would he be admitted? Or would this be the end of his Great Quest? He had no time to lose in worrying. He just had to take his chances.\n\nAt a certain point he felt sure that he had not enough will power left to carry him a single step forward. And just then he heard the echo of his footfalls within the great vaulted gate. Instantly every last shred of fear fell from him, and he knew that whatever might happen he would never again be afraid.\n\nLooking up, he saw that the Great Riddle Gate lay behind him. The sphinxes had let him through.\n\nUp ahead, no more than twenty paces away, where previously there had been nothing but the great empty plain, he saw the Magic Mirror Gate. This gate was large and round like a second moon (for the real moon was still shining high in the sky) and it glittered like polished silver. It was hard to imagine how anyone could pass through a metal surface, but Atreyu didn't hesitate for a moment. After what Engywook had said, he expected a terrifying image of himself to come toward him out of the mirror, but now that he had left all fear behind him, he hardly gave the matter a thought.\n\nWhat he saw was something quite unexpected, which wasn't the least bit terrifying, but which baffled him completely. He saw a fat little boy with a pale face \u2013 a boy his own age \u2013 and this little boy was sitting on a pile of mats, reading a book. The little boy had large, sad-looking eyes, and he was wrapped in frayed gray blankets. Behind him a few motionless animals could be distinguished in the half-light \u2013 an eagle, an owl, and a fox \u2013 and farther off there was something that looked like a white skeleton. He couldn't make out exactly what it was.\n\n_Bastian gave a start when he realized what he had just read. Why, that was him! The description was right in every detail. The book trembled in his hands. This was going too far. How could there be something in a book that applied only to this particular moment and only to him? It could only be a crazy accident. But a very remarkable accident._\n\n_'Bastian,' he said aloud, 'you really are a screwball. Pull yourself together.'_\n\n_He had meant to say this very sternly, but his voice quavered a little, for he was not quite sure that what had happened was an accident._\n\n_Just imagine, he thought. What if they've really heard of me in Fantastica! Wouldn't that be wonderful?_\n\n_But he didn't dare say it aloud._\n\nA faint smile of astonishment played over Atreyu's lips as he passed into the mirror image \u2013 he was rather surprised that he was succeeding so easily in something that others had found insuperably difficult. But on the way through he felt a strange, prickly shudder. He had no suspicion of what had really happened to him.\n\nFor when he emerged on the far side of the Magic Mirror Gate, he had lost all memory of himself, of his past life, aims, and purposes. He had forgotten the Great Quest that had brought him there, and he didn't even know his own name. He was like a newborn child.\n\nUp ahead of him, only a few steps away, he saw the No-Key Gate, but he had forgotten its name and forgotten that his purpose in passing through it was to reach the Southern Oracle. He had no idea why he was there or what he was supposed to do. He felt light and cheerful and he laughed for no reason, for the sheer pleasure of it.\n\nThe gate he saw before him was as small and low as a common door and stood all by itself \u2013 with no walls around it \u2013 on the empty plain. And this door was closed.\n\nAtreyu looked at it for a while. It seemed to be made of some material with a coppery sheen. It was nice to look at, but Atreyu soon lost interest. He went around the gate and examined it from behind, but the back looked no different than the front. And there was neither handle nor knob nor keyhole. Obviously this door could not be opened, and anyway why would anyone want to open it, since it led nowhere and was just standing there. For behind the gate there was only the wide, flat, empty plain.\n\nAtreyu felt like leaving. He turned back, went around the Magic Mirror Gate, and looked at it for some time without realizing what it was. He decided to go away,\n\n_'No, no, don't_ _go away,' said Bastian aloud. 'Turn around. You have to go through the No-Key Gate!'_\n\nbut then turned back to the No-Key Gate. He wanted to look at its coppery sheen again. Once more, he stood in front of the gate, bending his head to the left, bending it to the right, enjoying himself. Tenderly he stroked the strange material. It felt warm and almost alive. And the door opened by a crack.\n\nAtreyu stuck his head through, and then he saw something he hadn't seen on the other side when he had walked around the gate. He pulled his head back, looked past the gate, and saw only the empty plain. He looked again through the crack in the door and saw a long corridor formed by innumerable huge columns. And farther off there were stairs and more pillars and terraces and more stairs and a whole forest of columns. But none of these columns supported a roof. For above them Atreyu could see the night sky.\n\nHe passed through the gate and looked around him with wonderment. The door closed behind him.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck four._\n\n_Little by little, the murky light was failing. It was getting too dark to read by. Bastian put the book down._\n\n_What was he to do now?_\n\n_There was bound to be electric light in this attic. He groped his way to the door and ran his hand along the wall, but couldn't find a switch. He looked on the opposite side, and again there was none._\n\n_He took a box of matches from his trouser pocket_ ( _he always had matches on him, for he had a weakness for making little fires_ ) _, but they were damp and the first three wouldn't light. In the faint glow of the fourth he tried to locate a light switch, but there wasn't any. The thought of having to spend the whole evening and night here in total darkness gave him the cold shivers. He was no baby, and at home or in any other familiar place he had no fear of the dark, but this enormous attic with all these weird things in it was something else again._\n\n_The match burned his fingers and he threw it away._\n\n_For a while he just stood there and listened. The rain had let up and now he could barely hear the drumming on the big tin roof._\n\n_Then he remembered the rusty, seven-armed candelabrum he had seen. He groped his way across the room, found the candelabrum, and dragged it to his pile of mats._\n\n_He lit the wicks in the thick stubs \u2013 all seven \u2013 and a golden light spread. The flames crackled faintly and wavered now and then in the draft._\n\n_With a sigh of relief, Bastian picked up the book._\n\n# VII\n\n# _The Voice of Silence_\n\nGLADNESS buoyed Atreyu's heart as he strode into the forest of columns which cast black shadows in the bright moonlight. In the deep silence that surrounded him he barely heard his own footfalls. He no longer knew who he was or what his name was, how he had got there or what he was looking for. He was full of wonder, but quite undismayed.\n\nThe floor was made of mosaic tiles, showing strange ornamental designs or mysterious scenes and images. Atreyu passed over it, climbed broad steps, came to a vast terrace, descended another set of steps, and passed down a long avenue of stone columns. He examined them, one after another, and it gave him pleasure to see that each was decorated with different signs and symbols. Farther and farther he went from the No-Key Gate.\n\nAt last, when he had gone heaven knows how far, he heard a hovering sound in the distance and stopped to listen. The sound came closer, it was a singing voice, but it seemed very, very sad, almost like a sob at times. This lament passed over the columns like a breeze, then stopped in one place, rose and fell, came and went, and seemed to move in a wide circle around Atreyu.\n\nHe stood still and waited.\n\nLittle by little, the circle became smaller, and after a while he was able to understand the words the voice was singing:\n\n'Oh, nothing can happen more than once,\n\nBut all things must happen one day.\n\nOver hill and dale, over wood and stream,\n\nMy dying voice will blow away...'\n\nAtreyu turned in the direction of the voice, which darted fitfully among the columns, but he could see no one.\n\n'Who are you?' he cried.\n\nThe voice came back to him like an echo: 'Who are you?'\n\nAtreyu pondered.\n\n'Who am I?' he murmured. 'I don't know. I have a feeling that I once knew. But does it matter?'\n\nThe singing voice answered:\n\n'If questions you would ask of me,\n\nYou must speak in poetry,\n\nFor rhymeless talk that strikes my ear\n\nI cannot hear, I cannot hear...'\n\nAtreyu hadn't much practice in rhyming. This would be a difficult conversation, he thought, if the voice only understood poetry. He racked his brains for a while, then he came out with:\n\n'I hope it isn't going too far,\n\nBut could you tell me who you are?'\n\nThis time the voice answered at once:\n\n'I hear you now, your words are clear,\n\nI understand as well as hear.'\n\nAnd then, coming from a different direction, it sang:\n\n'I thank you, friend, for your good will.\n\nI'm glad that you have come to me.\n\nI am Uyulala, the voice of silence.\n\nIn the Palace of Deep Mystery.'\n\nAtreyu noticed that the voice rose and fell, but was never wholly silent. Even when it sang no words or when he was speaking, a sound hovered in the air.\n\nFor a time it seemed to stand still; then it moved slowly away from him. He ran after it and asked:\n\n'Oh, Uyulala, tell me where you're hid.\n\nI cannot see you and so wish I did.'\n\nPassing him by, the voice breathed into his ear:\n\n'Never has anyone seen me,\n\nNever do I appear.\n\nYou will never see me,\n\nAnd yet I am here.'\n\n'Then you're invisible?' he asked. But when no answer came, he remembered that he had to speak in rhyme, and asked:\n\n'Have you no body, is that what you mean?\n\nOr is it only that you can't be seen?'\n\nHe heard a soft, bell-like sound, which might have been a laugh or a sob. And the voice sang:\n\n'Yes and no and neither one.\n\nI do not appear\n\nIn the brightness of the sun\n\nAs you appear,\n\nFor my body is but sound\n\nThat one can hear but never see,\n\nAnd this voice you're hearing now\n\nIs all there is of me.'\n\nIn amazement, Atreyu followed the sound this way and that way through the forest of columns. It took him some time to get a new question ready:\n\n'Do I understand you right?\n\nYour body is this melody?\n\nBut what if you should cease to sing?\n\nWould you cease to be?'\n\nThe answer came to him from very near:\n\n'Once my song is ended,\n\nWhat comes to others soon or late,\n\nWhen their bodies pass away,\n\nWill also be my fate.\n\nMy life will last the time of my song,\n\nBut that will not be long.'\n\nNow it seemed certain that the voice was sobbing, and Atreyu, who could not understand why, hastened to ask:\n\n'Why are you so sad? Why are you crying?\n\nYou sound so young. Why speak of dying?'\n\nAnd the voice came back like an echo:\n\n'I am only a song of lament,\n\nThe wind will blow me away.\n\nBut tell me now why you were sent.\n\nWhat have you come to say?'\n\nThe voice died away among the columns, and Atreyu turned in all directions, trying to pick it up again. For a little while he heard nothing, then, starting in the distance, the voice came quickly closer. It sounded almost impatient:\n\n'Uyulala is answer. Answers on questions feed.\n\nSo ask me what you've come to ask,\n\nFor questions are her need.'\n\nAtreyu cried out:\n\n'Then help me, Uyulala, tell me why\n\nYou sing a plaint as if you soon must die.'\n\nAnd the voice sang:\n\n'The Childlike Empress is sick,\n\nAnd with her Fantastica will die.\n\nThe Nothing will swallow this place,\n\nIt will perish and so will I.\n\nWe shall vanish into the Nowhere and Never,\n\nAs though we had never been.\n\nThe Empress needs a new name\n\nTo make her well again.'\n\nAtreyu pleaded:\n\n'Oh, tell me, Uyulala, oh, tell me who can give\n\nThe Childlike Empress the name, which alone will let her live.'\n\nThe voice replied:\n\n'Listen and listen well\n\nTo the truth I have to tell.\n\nThough your spirit may be blind\n\nTo the sense of what I say,\n\nPrint my words upon your mind\n\nBefore you go away.\n\nLater you may dredge them up\n\nFrom the depths of memory,\n\nRaise them to the light of day\n\nExactly as they flow from me.\n\nEverything depends on whether\n\nYou remember faithfully.'\n\nFor a time he heard only a plaintive sound without words. Then suddenly the voice came from right next to him, as though someone were whispering into his ear:\n\n'Who can give the Childlike Empress\n\nThe new name that will make her well?\n\nNot you, not I, no elf, no djinn,\n\nCan save us from the evil spell.\n\nFor we are figures in a book \u2013\n\nWe do what we were invented for,\n\nBut we can fashion nothing new\n\nAnd cannot change from what we are.\n\nBut there's a realm outside Fantastica,\n\nThe Outer World is its name,\n\nThe people who live there are rich indeed\n\nAnd not at all the same.\n\nBorn of the Word, the children of man,\n\nOr humans, as they're sometimes called,\n\nHave had the gift of giving names\n\nEver since our worlds began,\n\nIn every age it's they who gave\n\nThe Childlike Empress life,\n\nFor wondrous new names have the power to save.\n\nBut now for many and many a day,\n\nNo human has visited Fantastica,\n\nFor they no longer know the way.\n\nThey have forgotten how real we are,\n\nThey don't believe in us anymore.\n\nOh, if only one child of man would come,\n\nOh, then at last the thing would be done.\n\nIf only one would hear our plea.\n\nFor them it is near, but for us too far,\n\nNever can we go out to them,\n\nFor theirs is the world of reality.\n\nBut tell me, my hero, you so young,\n\nWill you remember what I have sung?'\n\n'Oh yes!' cried Atreyu in his bewilderment. He was determined to imprint every word on his memory, though he had forgotten what for. He merely had a feeling that it was very, very important. But the singsong voice and the effort of hearing and speaking in rhymes made him sleepy. He murmured:\n\n'I will remember. I will remember every word.\n\nBut tell me, what shall I do with what I've heard?'\n\nAnd the voice answered:\n\n'That is for you alone to decide.\n\nI've told you what was in my heart.\n\nSo this is when our ways divide,\n\nWhen you and I must part.'\n\nAlmost half asleep, Atreyu asked:\n\n'But if you go away,\n\nWhere will you stay?'\n\nAgain he heard the sobbing in the voice, which receded more and more as it sang:\n\n'The Nothing has come near,\n\nThe Oracle is dying.\n\nNo one again will hear\n\nUyulala laughing, sighing.\n\nYou are the last to hear\n\nMy voice among the columns,\n\nSounding far and near.\n\nPerhaps you will accomplish\n\nWhat no one else has done,\n\nBut to succeed, young hero,\n\nRemember what I have sung.'\n\nAnd then, farther and farther in the distance, Atreyu heard the words:\n\n'Oh, nothing can happen more than once,\n\nBut all things must happen one day.\n\nOver hill and dale, over wood and stream,\n\nMy dying voice will blow away.'\n\nThat was the last Atreyu heard.\n\nHe sat down, propped his back against a column, looked up at the night sky, and tried to understand what he had heard. Silence settled around him like a soft, warm cloak, and he fell asleep.\n\nWhen he awoke in the cold dawn, he was lying on his back, looking up at the sky. The last stars paled. Uyulala's voice still sounded in his thoughts. And then suddenly he remembered everything that had gone before and the purpose of his Great Quest.\n\nAt last he knew what was to be done. Only a human, a child of man, someone from the world beyond the borders of Fantastica, could give the Childlike Empress a new name. He would just have to find a human and bring him to her.\n\nBriskly he sat up.\n\n_Ah, thought Bastian. How gladly I would help her! Her and Atreyu too. What a beautiful name I would think up! If I only knew how to reach Atreyu. I'd go this minute. Wouldn't he be amazed if I were suddenly standing before him! But it's impossible. Or is it?_\n\n_And then he said under his breath: 'If there's any way of my getting to you in Fantastica, tell me, Atreyu. I'll come without fail. You'll see.'_\n\nWhen Atreyu looked around, he saw that the forest of columns with its stairways and terraces had vanished. Whichever way he looked there was only the empty plain that he had seen behind each of the three gates before going through. But now the gates were gone, all three of them.\n\nHe stood up and again looked in all directions. It was then that he discovered, in the middle of the plain, a patch of Nothing like those he had seen in Howling Forest. But this time it was much nearer. He turned around and ran the other way as fast as he could.\n\nHe had been running for some time when he saw, far in the distance, a rise in the ground and thought it might be the stony rust-red mountains where the Great Riddle Gate was.\n\nHe started toward it, but he had a long way to go before he was close enough to make out any details. Then he began to have doubts. The landscape looked about right, but there was no gate to be seen. And the stones were not red, but dull gray.\n\nThen, when he had gone much farther, he saw two great stone pillars with a space between them. The lower part of a gate, he thought. But there was no arch above it. What had happened?\n\nHours later, he reached the spot and discovered the answer. The great stone arch had collapsed and the sphinxes were gone.\n\nAtreyu threaded his way through the ruins, then climbed to the top of a stone pyramid and looked out, trying to locate the place where he had left the Gnomics and the luckdragon. Or had they fled from the Nothing in the meantime?\n\nAt last he saw a tiny flag moving this way and that behind the balustrade of Engywook's observatory. Atreyu waved both arms, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted: 'Ho! Are you still there?'\n\nThe sound of his voice had hardly died away when a pearly-white luckdragon rose from the hollow where the gnomes had their cave and flew through the air with lazy, sinuous movements. He must have been feeling playful, for now and then he turned over on his back and looped-the-loop so fast that he looked like a burst of white flame. And then he landed not far from the pyramid where Atreyu was standing. When he propped himself on his forepaws, he was so high above Atreyu that to bring his head close to him, he had to bend his long, supple neck sharply downward. Rolling his ruby-red eyeballs for joy, stretching his tongue far out of his wide-open gullet, he boomed in his bronze-bell voice: 'Atreyu, my friend and master! So you've finally come back! I'm so glad! We had almost given up hope \u2013 the gnomes, that is, not I.'\n\nI'm glad too!' said Atreyu. 'But what has happened in this one night?'\n\n'One night?' cried Falkor. 'Do you think it's been only one night? You're in for a surprise. Climb on, I'll carry you.'\n\nAtreyu swung himself up on the enormous animal's back. It was his first time aboard a luckdragon. And though he had ridden wild horses and was anything but timid, this first short ride through the air took his breath away. He clung fast to Falkor's flowing mane, and Falkor called back with a resounding laugh: 'You'll just have to get used to it.'\n\n'At least,' Atreyu called back, gasping for air, 'you seem to be well again.'\n\n'Pretty near,' said the dragon. 'Not quite.'\n\nThen they landed outside the gnomes' cave, and there in the entrance were Engywook and Urgl waiting for them.\n\nEngywook's tongue went right to work: 'What have you seen and done? Tell us all about it! Those gates, for instance? Do they bear out my theories? And who or what is Uyulala?'\n\nBut Urgl cut him off. 'That'll do! Let the boy eat and drink. What do you think I've cooked and baked for? Plenty of time later for your idle curiosity.'\n\nAtreyu climbed down off the dragon's back and exchanged greetings with the gnomes. Again the little table was set with all sorts of delicacies and a steaming pot of herb tea.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck five. Bastian thought sadly of the two chocolate nut bars that he kept in his bedside table at home in case he should be hungry at night. If he had suspected that he would never go back there, he could have brought them along as an iron ration. But it was too late to think of that now._\n\nFalkor stretched out in the little gully in such a way that his huge head was near Atreyu and he could hear everything.\n\n'Just imagine,' he said. 'My friend and master thinks he was gone for only one night.'\n\n'Was it longer?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'Seven days and seven nights,' said Falkor. 'Look, my wounds are almost healed.'\n\nThen for the first time Atreyu noticed that his own wound too was healed. The herb dressing had fallen off. He was amazed. 'How can it be? I passed through three magic gates. I talked with Uyulala, then I fell asleep. But I can't possibly have slept that long.'\n\n'Space and time,' said Engywook, 'must be different in there. Anyway, no one has ever stayed in the Oracle as long as you. What happened? Are you finally going to speak?'\n\n'First,' said Atreyu, 'I'd like to know what has happened here.'\n\n'You can see for yourself,' said Engywook. 'The colors are all fading. Everything is getting more and more unreal. The Great Riddle Gate isn't there anymore. It looks as if the Nothing were taking over.'\n\n'What about the sphinxes? Where have they gone? Did they fly away? Did you see them go?'\n\n'We saw nothing,' Engywook lamented. 'We hoped you could tell us something. Suddenly the stone gate was in ruins, but none of us saw or heard a thing. I even went over and examined the wreckage. And do you know what I found? The fragments are as old as the hills and overgrown with gray moss, as if they had been lying there for hundreds of years, as if the Great Riddle Gate had never existed.'\n\n'It was there, though,' said Atreyu under his breath, 'because I went through it. And then I went through the Magic Mirror Gate and the No-Key Gate.'\n\nAnd then Atreyu reported everything that had happened to him. Now he remembered every last detail.\n\nAs Atreyu told them his story, Engywook, who at first had impatiently demanded further information, became more and more subdued. And when Atreyu repeated almost word for word what Uyulala had told him, the gnome said nothing at all. His shriveled little face had taken on a look of deepest gloom.\n\n'Well,' said Atreyu in conclusion. 'Now you know the secret. Uyulala is just a voice. She can only be heard. She _is_ where she sings.'\n\nFor a time Engywook was silent. When he spoke, his voice was husky: 'You mean she _was._ '\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu. 'She herself said no one else would ever hear her speak. I was the last.'\n\nTwo little tears flowed down Engywook's wrinkled cheeks.\n\n'All for nothing!' he croaked. 'My whole life work, all my research, my year-long observations. At last someone brings me the last stone for my scientific edifice, finally I'm in a position to complete my work, to write the last chapter \u2013 and it's absolutely futile and superfluous. It's no longer of the slightest interest to anyone, because the object under investigation has ceased to exist. There go my hopes. All shattered.'\n\nHe seemed to break into a fit of coughing, but actually he was shaken with sobs.\n\nMoved to sympathy, Urgl stroked his bald little head and mumbled: 'Poor old Engywook! Poor old Engywook! Don't let it get you down. You'll find something else to occupy you.'\n\n'Woman!' Engywook fumed at her. 'What you see before you is not a poor old Engywook, but a tragic figure.'\n\nOnce again he ran into the cave, and again a door was heard slamming within. Urgl shook her head and sighed. 'He means no harm,' she muttered. 'He's a good old sort. If only he weren't plumb crazy!'\n\nWhen they had finished eating, Urgl stood up and said: 'I've got to pack now. We can't take much with us, but we will need a few things. I'd better hurry.'\n\n'You're going away?' Atreyu asked.\n\nUrgl nodded. 'We have no choice,' she said sadly. 'Where the Nothing takes hold, nothing grows. And now, my poor old man has no reason to stay. We'll just have to see how we make out. We'll find a place somewhere. But what about you? What are your plans?'\n\n'I have to do as Uyulala told me,' said Atreyu. 'Try and find a human and take him to the Childlike Empress to give her a new name.'\n\n'Where will you look for this human?' Urgl asked.\n\n'I don't know,' said Atreyu. 'Somewhere beyond the borders of Fantastica.'\n\n'We'll get there!' came Falkor's bell-like voice. 'I'll carry you. You'll see, we'll be lucky.'\n\n'In that case,' Urgl grunted, 'you'd better get started.'\n\n'Maybe we could give you a lift,' Atreyu suggested. 'For part of the way.'\n\n'That's all I need,' said Urgl. 'You won't catch me gallivanting around in the air. A self-respecting gnome keeps his feet on the ground. Besides, you mustn't let us delay you. You have more important things to do \u2013 for us all.'\n\n'But I want to show my gratitude,' said Atreyu.\n\n'The best way of doing that is to get started and stop frittering the time away with useless jibber-jabber.'\n\n'She's got something there,' said Falkor. 'Let's go, Atreyu.'\n\nAtreyu swung himself up on the luckdragon's back. One last time he turned back and shouted: 'Goodbye!'\n\nBut Urgl was already inside the cave, packing.\n\nWhen some hours later she and Engywook stepped out into the open, each was carrying an overloaded back-basket, and again they were busily quarreling. Off they waddled on their tiny, crooked legs, and never once looked back.\n\nLater on, Engywook became very famous, in fact, he became the most famous gnome in the world, but not because of his scientific investigations. That, however, is another story and shall be told another time.\n\nAt the moment when the two gnomes were starting out, Atreyu was far away, whizzing through the skies of Fantastica on the back of Falkor, the white luckdragon.\n\n_Involuntarily Bastian looked up at the skylight, trying to imagine how it would be if Falkor came cutting through the darkening sky like a dancing white flame, if he and Atreyu were coming to get him._\n\n_'Oh my,' he sighed. 'Wouldn't that be something!'_\n\n_He could help them, and they could help him. He would be saved and so would Fantastica._\n\n# VIII\n\n# _The Wind Giants_\n\nHIGH in the air rode Atreyu, his red cloak flowing behind him. His blue-black hair fluttered in the wind. With steady, wavelike movements Falkor, the white luckdragon, glided through the mists and tatters of clouds...\n\nUp and down and up and down and up and down...\n\nHow long had they been flying? For days and nights and more days \u2013 Atreyu had lost track. The dragon had the gift of flying in his sleep. Farther and farther they flew. Sometimes Atreyu dozed off, clinging fast to the dragon's white mane. But it was only a light, restless sleep. And more and more his waking became a dream, all hazy and blurred.\n\nShadowy mountains passed below him, lands and seas, islands and rivers... Atreyu had lost interest in them, and gave up trying to hurry Falkor as he had done on first leaving the Southern Oracle. For then he had been impatient, thinking it a simple matter, for one with a dragon to ride, to reach the border of Fantastica and cross it to the Outer World.\n\nHe hadn't known how very large Fantastica was.\n\nNow he had to fight the leaden weariness that was trying to overpower him. His eyes, once as keen as a young eagle's, had lost their distant vision. From time to time he would pull himself upright and try to look around, but then he would sink back and stare straight ahead at the dragon's long, supple body with its pearly pink-and-white scales. Falkor was tired too. His strength, which had seemed inexhaustible, was running out.\n\nMore than once in the course of their long flight they had seen below them spots which the Nothing had invaded and which gave them the feeling that they were going blind. Seen from that height, many of these spots seemed relatively small, but others were as big as whole countries. Fear gripped the luckdragon and his rider, and at first they changed direction to avoid looking at the horror. But, strange as it may seem, horror loses its power to frighten when repeated too often. And since the patches of Nothing became more and more frequent, the travelers were gradually getting used to them.\n\nThey had been flying in silence for quite some time when suddenly Falkor's bronze-bell tone rang out: 'Atreyu, my little master. Are you asleep?'\n\n'No,' said Atreyu, though actually he had been caught up in a terrifying dream. 'What is it, Falkor?'\n\n'I've been wondering if it wouldn't be wiser to turn back.'\n\n'Turn back? Where to?'\n\n'To the Ivory Tower. To the Childlike Empress.'\n\n'You want us to go to her empty-handed?'\n\n'I wouldn't call it that, Atreyu. What _was_ your mission?'\n\n'To discover the cause of her illness and find out what would cure it.'\n\n'But,' said Falkor, 'nothing was said about your bringing her the cure.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Maybe it's a mistake, trying to cross the border of Fantastica in search of a human.'\n\n'I don't see what you're driving at, Falkor. Explain yourself.'\n\n'The Childlike Empress is deathly sick,' said the dragon, 'because she needs a new name. Morla the Aged One told you that. But only a human, only a child of man from the Outer World can give her this name. Uyulala told you that. So you've actually completed your mission. It seems to me you should let the Childlike Empress know it as soon as possible.'\n\n'But it won't do her a bit of good,' Atreyu protested, 'unless I bring her the human who can save her.'\n\n'Don't be so sure,' said Falkor. 'She has much greater power than you or I. Maybe she would have no difficulty in bringing a human to Fantastica. Maybe she has ways that are unknown to you and me and everyone else in Fantastica. But to do so she needs to know what you have found out. If that's the way it is, there's no point in our trying to find a human on our own. She might even die while we're looking. But maybe if we turn back in time, we can save her.'\n\nAtreyu made no answer. The dragon could be right, he reflected. But then he could be wrong. If he went back now with his message, the Childlike Empress might very well say: What good does that do me? And now it's too late to send you out again.\n\nHe didn't know what to do. And he was tired, much too tired to decide anything.\n\n'You know, Falkor,' he said, hardly above a whisper, 'you may be right. Or you may be wrong. Let's fly on a little further. Then if we haven't come to a border, we'll turn back.'\n\n'What do you mean by a little further?' the dragon asked.\n\n'A few hours,' Atreyu murmured. 'Oh well, just _one_ hour.'\n\n'All right,' said Falkor, 'just _one_ hour.'\n\nBut that one hour was one hour too many.\n\nThey hadn't noticed that the sky in the north was black with clouds. In the west the sky was aflame, and ugly-looking clouds hung down over the horizon like seaweed. In the east a storm was rising like a blanket of gray lead, and all around it there were tatters of cloud that looked like blue ink blots. And from the south came a sulfur-yellow mist, streaked with lightning.\n\n'We seem to be getting into bad weather,' said Falkor.\n\nAtreyu looked in all directions.\n\n'Yes,' he said. 'It looks bad. But what can we do but fly on?'\n\n'It would be more sensible,' said Falkor, 'to look for shelter. If this is what I think, it's no joke.'\n\n'What _do_ you think?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'I think it's the four Wind Giants, starting one of their battles. They're almost always fighting to see which is the strongest and should rule over the others. To them it's a sort of game, because they have nothing to fear. But God help anyone who gets caught in their little tiffs.'\n\n'Can't you fly higher?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'Beyond their reach, you mean? No, I can't fly that high. And as far as I can see, there's nothing but water below us. Some enormous ocean. I don't see any place to hide in.'\n\n'Then,' said Atreyu, 'we'll just have to wait till they get here. Anyway, there's something I want to ask them.'\n\n'What?!' cried the dragon, so terrified that he jumped, in a manner of speaking, sky-high.\n\n'If they are the four Wind Giants,' Atreyu explained, 'they must know all four corners of Fantastica. If anyone can tell us where the borders are, it's them.'\n\n'Good Lord!' cried the dragon. 'You think you can just stop and chat with Wind Giants?'\n\n'What are their names?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'The one from the north,' said Falkor, 'is called Lirr, the one from the east is Baureo, the one from the south is Sheerek, and the one from the west is Mayestril. But tell me, Atreyu. What are you? Are you a little boy or a bar of iron? How come you're not afraid?'\n\n'When I passed through the sphinxes' gate,' Atreyu replied, 'I lost all my fear. And besides, I'm wearing the emblem of the Childlike Empress. Everyone in Fantastica respects it. Why shouldn't the Wind Giants?'\n\n'Oh, they will,' cried Falkor, 'they will. But they're stupid, and nothing can make them stop fighting one another. You'll see.'\n\nMeanwhile the storm clouds from all four directions had converged. It seemed to Atreyu that he was at the center of a huge funnel, which was revolving faster and faster, mixing the sulfur-yellow, the leaden gray, the blood-red, and the deep black all together. He and his white dragon were spun about in a circle like a matchstick in a great whirlpool. And then he saw the Wind Giants.\n\nActually all he saw was faces, because their limbs kept changing in every possible way \u2013 from long to short, from clear-cut to misty \u2013 and they were so knotted together in a monstrous free-for-all that it was impossible to make out their real shapes, or even how many of them there were. The faces too were constantly changing; now they were round and puffed, now stretched from top to bottom or from side to side. But at all times they could be told apart. They opened their mouths and bellowed and roared and howled and laughed at one another. They didn't even seem to notice the dragon and his rider, who were gnats in comparison to the Wind Giants.\n\nAtreyu raised himself as high as he could. With his right hand he reached for the golden amulet on his chest and shouted at the top of his lungs: 'In the name of the Childlike Empress, be still and listen.'\n\nAnd the unbelievable happened!\n\nAs though suddenly stricken dumb, they fell silent. Their mouths closed, and eight gigantic goggle-eyes were directed at AURYN. The tempest stopped and the air was deathly still.\n\n'Answer me!' cried Atreyu. 'Where are the borders of Fantastica? Do you know, Lirr?'\n\n'Not in the north,' said the black cloud face.\n\n'And you, Baureo?'\n\n'Not in the east,' said the leaden-gray cloud face.\n\n'You tell me, Sheerek!'\n\n'There is no border in the south,' said the sulfur-yellow cloud face.\n\n'Mayestril, do you know?'\n\n'No border in the west,' said the fiery-red cloud face.\n\nAnd then they all spoke as with one mouth: 'Who are you, who bear the emblem of the Childlike Empress and don't know that Fantastica has no borders?'\n\nAtreyu made no reply. He was stunned. It had never occurred to him that Fantastica might have no borders whatsoever. Then his whole Quest had been for nothing.\n\nHe hardly noticed it when the Wind Giants resumed their war game. He had given up caring what would happen to him. He clung fast to the dragon's mane when they were hurled upward by a whirlwind. The lightning played around them, they were spun in a circle and almost drowned in a downpour of rain. They were sucked into a fiery wind that nearly burned them up, but a moment later a hailstorm, consisting not of stones but of icicles as long as spears, flung them downward. So it went: up and down, down and up, this way and that. The Wind Giants were fighting for power.\n\nA gust of wind turned Falkor over on his back. 'Hold tight!' he shouted.\n\nBut it was too late. Atreyu had lost his hold and fell. He fell and fell, and then he lost consciousness.\n\nWhen he came to, Atreyu was lying on white sand. He heard the sound of waves, and when he looked around he saw that he had been washed up on a beach. It was a gray, foggy day, but there was no wind. The sea was calm and there was no sign that the Wind Giants had been fighting a battle only a short time before. The beach was flat and there were no hills or rocks in sight, only a few gnarled and crooked trees which, seen through the mist, looked like great clawed hands.\n\nAtreyu sat up. Seeing his red buffalo-hair cloak a few steps away, he crawled over to it and threw it over his shoulders. To his surprise, it was almost dry. So he must have been lying there for quite a while.\n\nHow had he got there? Why hadn't he drowned?\n\nDimly he remembered arms that had carried him, and strange singing voices. Poor child, beautiful child! Hold him! Don't let him go under!\n\nPerhaps it had only been the sound of the waves.\n\nOr could it have been sea nymphs and water sprites? Probably they had seen the Glory and that was why they had saved him.\n\nInvoluntarily, he reached for the amulet \u2013 it was gone. There was no chain around his neck. He had lost the Gem.\n\n'Falkor!' he shouted as loud as he could. He jumped up and ran back and forth, shouting in all directions: 'Falkor! Falkor! Where are you?'\n\nNo answer came \u2013 only the slow, steady sound of the waves breaking against the beach.\n\nHeaven only knew where the Wind Giants had driven the white dragon. Maybe Falkor was looking for his little master in an entirely different place, miles and miles away. Maybe he wasn't even alive.\n\nNo longer was Atreyu a dragon rider, and no longer was he the Childlike Empress's messenger. He was only a little boy. And all alone.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck six._\n\n_By then it was dark outside. The rain had stopped. Not a sound to be heard. Bastian stared into the candle flames._\n\n_Then he gave a start. The floor had creaked._\n\n_He thought he heard someone breathing. He held his breath and listened. Except for the small circle of light shed by the candles, it was dark in the big attic._\n\n_Didn't he hear soft steps on the stairs? Hadn't the handle of the attic door moved ever so slowly?_\n\n_Again the floor creaked._\n\n_What if there were ghosts in this attic!_\n\n_'Nonsense!' said Bastian none too loudly. 'There's no such thing! Everyone knows that.'_\n\n_Then why were there so many stories about them?_\n\n_Maybe all the people who say ghosts don't exist are just afraid to admit that they do._\n\nAtreyu wrapped himself up tight in his red cloak, for he was cold, and started inland. The country, as far as he could see through the fog, was flat and monotonous. The only change he noticed as he strode along was the appearance among the stunted trees of bushes which looked as if they were made of rusty sheet metal and were almost as hard. You could easily hurt yourself brushing against them if you weren't careful.\n\nAbout an hour later, Atreyu came to a road paved with bumpy, irregularly shaped stones. Thinking it was bound to lead somewhere, he decided to follow it but preferred to walk on the soft ground beside the bumpy paving stones. The road kept twisting and turning, though it was hard to see why, for there was no sign of any hill, pond, or stream. In that part of the country everything seemed to be crooked.\n\nAtreyu hadn't been skirting the road for very long when he heard a strange thumping sound. It was far away but coming closer. It sounded like the muffled beat of a big drum. In between beats he heard a tinkling of bells and a shrill piping that could have been made by fifes. He hid behind a bush by the side of the road and waited to see what would happen.\n\nSlowly the strange music came closer, and then the first shapes emerged from the fog. They seemed to be dancing, but it was a dance without charm or gaiety. The dancers jumped grotesquely, rolled on the ground, crawled on all fours, leapt into the air, and carried on like crazy people. But all Atreyu could hear was the slow, muffled drumbeats, the shrill fifes, and a whimpering and panting from many throats.\n\nMore and more figures appeared, the procession seemed endless. Atreyu looked at the dancers' faces; they were ashen gray and bathed in sweat, and the eyes had a wild feverish glow. Some of the dancers lashed themselves with whips.\n\nThey're mad, Atreyu thought, and a cold shiver ran down his spine.\n\nThe procession consisted mostly of night-hobs, kobolds, and ghosts. There were vampires as well, and quite a few witches, old ones with great humps and beards, but also young ones who looked beautiful and wicked. If he had had AURYN, he would have approached them and asked what was going on. As it was, he preferred to stay in his hiding place until the mad procession had passed and the last straggler vanished hopping and limping in the fog.\n\nOnly then did he venture out on the road and look after the ghostly procession. Should he follow them? He couldn't make up his mind. By that time, to tell the truth, he didn't know if there was anything that he should or should not do.\n\nFor the first time he was fully aware of how much he needed the Childlike Empress's amulet and how helpless he was without it. And not only or even mainly because of the protection it had given him \u2013 it was thanks to his own strength, after all, that he had stood up to all the hardships and terrors and the loneliness of his Quest \u2013 but as long as he had carried the emblem, he had never been at a loss for what to do. Like a mysterious compass, it had guided his thoughts in the right direction. And now that was changed, now he had no secret power to lead him.\n\nHe had no idea what to do, but he couldn't bear to stand there as though paralyzed. So he made himself follow the muffled drumming, which could still be heard in the distance.\n\nWhile making his way through the fog \u2013 always careful to keep a suitable distance between himself and the last stragglers \u2013 he tried to put his thoughts in order.\n\nWhy, oh, why hadn't he listened when Falkor advised him to fly straight to the Childlike Empress? He would have brought her Uyulala's message and returned the Gem. Without AURYN and without Falkor, he would never be able to reach her. She would wait for him till her last moment, hoping he would come, trusting him to save her and Fantastica \u2013 but in vain.\n\nThat in itself was bad enough, but still worse was what he had learned from the Wind Giants, that Fantastica had no borders. If there was no way of leaving Fantastica, then it would be impossible to call in a human from across the border. Because Fantastica was endless, its end was inevitable.\n\nBut while he was stumbling over the bumpy paving stones in the fog, Uyulala's gentle voice resounded in his memory, and a spark of hope was kindled in his heart.\n\nLots of humans had come to Fantastica in the past and given the Childlike Empress glorious new names. That's what she had sung. So there was a way from the one world to the other!\n\n'For them it is near, but for us too far,\n\nNever can we go out to them.'\n\nYes, those were Uyulala's words. Humans, the children of man, had forgotten the way. But mightn't just one of them, a single one, remember?\n\nHis own hopeless situation mattered little to Atreyu. What mattered was that a human should hear Fantastica's cry of distress and come to the rescue, as had happened many times before. Perhaps, perhaps one had already started out and was on his way.\n\n_'Yes! Yes!' Bastian shouted. Then, terrified of his own voice, he added more softly: 'I'd go and help you if I knew how. I don't know the way, Atreyu. I honestly don't.'_\n\nThe muffled drumbeats and the shrill piping had stopped. Without noticing it, Atreyu had come so close to the procession that he almost ran into the last stragglers. Since he was barefoot, his steps were soundless \u2013 but that wasn't why those creatures took no notice of him. He could have been stomping with hobnailed boots and shouting at the top of his lungs without attracting their attention.\n\nBy that time the procession had broken up and the spooks were scattered over a large muddy field interspersed with gray grass. Some swayed from side to side, others stood or sat motionless, but in all their eyes there was a feverish glow, and they were all looking in the same direction.\n\nThen Atreyu saw what they were staring at in fascinated horror. On the far side of the field lay the Nothing.\n\nIt was the selfsame Nothing that he had seen from the bark trolls' treetop, or on the plain where the Magic Gates of the Southern Oracle had stood, or looking down from Falkor's back \u2013 but up until then he had always seen it from a distance. This time it was close by. It cut across the entire landscape and was coming slowly but irresistibly closer.\n\nAtreyu saw that the spooks in the field ahead of him were twitching and quivering. Their limbs were convulsed and their mouths were wide open, as though they had wanted to scream or laugh, though not a sound came out of them. And then all at once \u2013 like leaves driven by a gust of wind \u2013 they rushed toward the Nothing. They leapt, they rolled, they flung themselves into it.\n\nThe last of the ghostly crowd had just vanished when Atreyu felt to his horror that his own body was beginning to take short, convulsive steps in the direction of the Nothing. He felt drawn to it by an unreasoning desire, and braced his will against it. He commanded himself to stand still. Slowly, very slowly, he managed to turn around and step by step, as though bucking a powerful current, to struggle forward. The force of attraction weakened and he ran, ran with all his might over the bumpy paving stones. He slipped, fell, picked himself up, and ran on. He had no time to wonder where this foggy road would lead him.\n\nHe followed the senseless twists and turns of the road until high pitch-black ramparts appeared in the fog ahead of him. Behind them several crooked towers jutted into the gray sky. The heavy wooden wings of the town gate were rotting away and hung loose on rusty hinges.\n\nAtreyu went in.\n\n_It was growing colder and colder in the attic. Bastian's teeth were chattering._\n\n_What if he should get sick \u2013 what would become of him then? He might come down with pneumonia, like Willy, a boy in his class. Then he would die all alone in this attic. There'd be no one to help him._\n\n_He'd have been very glad just then to have his father come and save him._\n\n_But go home? No, he couldn't. He'd rather die._\n\n_He took the rest of the army blankets and wrapped them around him._\n\n_After a while he felt warmer._\n\n# IX\n\n# _Spook City_\n\nIN the endless sky, somewhere above the roaring waves, Falkor's voice rang out like a great bronze bell:\n\n'Atreyu! Where are you, Atreyu?' The Wind Giants had long finished their war game and had stormed apart. They would meet again in this or some other place, to continue their battle as they had done since time immemorial. They had already forgotten the white dragon and his little rider, for they remembered nothing and knew nothing except their own enormous power.\n\nWhen Atreyu fell, Falkor tried to reach him and catch him. But a sudden whirlwind had driven the dragon upward and far away. When he returned, the Wind Giants were raging over another part of the sea. Falkor tried desperately to find the place where Atreyu had fallen, but even a white luckdragon can't possibly find anything as tiny as a little boy in the seething foam of an angry ocean.\n\nBut Falkor wouldn't give up. He flew high into the air to get a better view, then he skimmed the waves or flew in larger and larger circles, all the while calling Atreyu by name.\n\nBeing a luckdragon, he never doubted for a moment that everything would come out all right in the end. And his mighty voice resounded amid the roaring of the waves: 'Atreyu! Atreyu, where are you?'\n\nAtreyu wandered through the deathly stillness of a deserted city. The place seemed to be under a curse, a city of haunted castles and houses, inhabited only by ghosts. Like everything else in this country, the streets were crooked. Enormous spider webs were suspended over them, and a foul smell rose from the cellars and well shafts.\n\nAt first Atreyu darted from wall to wall for fear that someone would see him, but after a while he didn't even bother to hide. The streets and squares were deserted, and nothing stirred in the houses. He went into some of them, but found only overturned furniture, tattered curtains, broken china and glassware \u2013 signs of devastation but no inhabitants. On one table there was still a half-eaten meal, dishes with black soup in them, and some sticky chunks of something that might have been bread. He ate some of both. The taste was disgusting, but he was very hungry. It struck him as almost fitting that he should end up in this town. Just the place, he thought, for someone who had given up hope.\n\n_Bastian was weak with hunger._\n\n_For some strange reason his thoughts turned to Anna's apple strudel \u2013 the best apple strudel in the whole world._\n\n_Anna came three times a week. She would do a bit of typing for Bastian's father and put the house in order. And usually she would cook or bake something. She was a strapping, bouncy woman with an unrestrained, cheery laugh. Bastian's father was polite to her but seemed hardly aware of her presence. She was seldom able to bring a smile to his worried face. But when she was there, the place was a little more cheerful._\n\n_Though unmarried, Anna had a little daughter. Her name was Christa, she was three years younger than Bastian, and she had beautiful blond hair. At first Anna had brought Christa with her almost every time. Christa was very shy. Bastian spent hours telling her his stories, and she would sit there still as a mouse, watching him wide-eyed. She looked up to Bastian, and he was very fond of her._\n\n_But a year ago Anna had sent her daughter to a boarding school in the country. Since then she and Bastian had seldom seen each other._\n\n_Bastian had been rather cross with Anna. She had tried to explain why it was better for Christa, but he wasn't convinced._\n\n_Even so, he could never resist her apple strudel._\n\n_He wondered in his distress how long a person could go without eating._ _Three days? Two? Maybe you'd get hallucinations after twenty-four hours. On his fingers Bastian counted the hours he had been there. At least ten. Maybe more. If only he had saved his sandwich, or at least his apple._\n\n_In the flickering candlelight the glass eyes of the fox, the owl, and the huge eagle looked almost alive. Their moving shadows loomed large on the attic wall._\n\nAtreyu went out into the street again and wandered aimlessly about. He passed through neighborhoods where all the houses were small and so low that he could reach up to the eaves, and others lined with mansions many stories high, the fronts of which were adorned with statues. But all these statues were of skeletons or demons, which grimaced down at the forlorn wanderer.\n\nThen suddenly he stopped stock-still.\n\nFrom not far away he heard a raucous wailing that sounded so plaintive, so hopeless that it cut him to the heart. All the despair, all the desolation of the creatures of darkness was in that lament, which echoed back from the walls of distant buildings, until in the end it sounded like the howling of a scattered wolf pack.\n\nAtreyu followed the sound, which gradually grew weaker and ended in a hoarse sob. He had to search for some time. He passed a gateway, entered a narrow, lightless court, passed through an arch, and finally came to a damp, grimy backyard. And there, chained, lay a gigantic, half-starved werewolf. Each rib stood out separately under its mangy fur, the vertebrae looked like the teeth of a saw, and its tongue dangled from its half-open mouth.\n\nSlowly Atreyu approached him. When the werewolf noticed him, it raised its great head with a jerk. A greenish light flared up in its eyes.\n\nFor a time the two looked at each other without a word, without a sound. Finally the wolf let out a soft, dangerous-sounding growl: 'Go away. Let me die in peace.'\n\nAtreyu didn't stir. Just as softly he answered: 'I heard your call. That's why I came.'\n\nThe werewolf's head sank back. 'I didn't call anyone,' he growled. 'I was singing my own dirge.'\n\n'Who are you?' Atreyu asked, taking a step closer.\n\n'I am Gmork, the werewolf.'\n\n'Why are you lying here chained?'\n\n'They forgot me when they went away.'\n\n'Who are they?'\n\n'The ones who chained me.'\n\n'Where did they go?'\n\nGmork made no answer. He watched Atreyu from under half-closed lids. After a long silence, he said: 'You don't belong here, little stranger. Neither in this city, nor in this country. What have you come here for?'\n\nAtreyu bowed his head.\n\n'I don't know how I got here. What is the name of this city?'\n\n'It is the capital of the most famous country in all Fantastica,' said Gmork. 'More stories are told about this country and this city than about any other. Surely you've heard of Spook City and the Land of Ghosts?'\n\nAtreyu nodded slowly.\n\nGmork hadn't taken his eyes off the boy. He was amazed that this green-skinned boy should look at him so quietly out of his black eyes and show no sign of fear.\n\n'And who are you?' he asked.\n\nAtreyu thought a while before answering.\n\n'I'm Nobody.'\n\n'What do you mean by that?'\n\n'I mean that I once had a name. It can't be named anymore. That makes me Nobody.'\n\nThe werewolf bared his hideous fangs for a moment in what was no doubt intended as a smile. He was familiar with mental anguish of every kind and sensed a certain kinship in the boy.\n\n'If that's the case,' he said, 'then Nobody has heard me and Nobody has come to me, and Nobody is speaking to me in my last hour.'\n\nAtreyu nodded again. Then he asked: 'Can Nobody free you from your chain?'\n\nThe greenish light in the werewolf's eyes flickered. He began to growl and to lick his chops.\n\n'You'd really do that?' he blurted out. 'You'd really set a hungry werewolf free? Do you know what that means? Nobody would be safe from me.'\n\n'I know,' said Atreyu. 'But I'm Nobody. Why should I be afraid of you?'\n\nHe wanted to approach Gmork. But again the wolf uttered his deep, terrifying growl. The boy shrank back.\n\n'Don't you _want_ me to set you free?' he asked.\n\nAll at once the werewolf seemed very tired.\n\n'You can't do that. But if you come within my reach, I'll have to tear you to pieces, my boy. That would delay my end a little, an hour or two. So keep away from me and let me die in peace.'\n\nAtreyu thought it over.\n\n'Maybe,' he said finally. 'Maybe I can find you something to eat. I'll look around.'\n\nSlowly Gmork opened his eyes. The greenish fire had gone out of them.\n\n'Go to hell, you little fool! Do you want to keep me alive until the Nothing gets here?'\n\n'I thought,' Atreyu stammered, 'that maybe if I brought you food and you were full, I could get close enough to take off your chain...'\n\nGmork gnashed his teeth.\n\n'Do you think I wouldn't have bitten through it myself if this were an ordinary chain?'\n\nAs though to prove his point, he clamped his jaws on the chain. The chain jangled as he tugged and pulled at it. After a while he let it go.\n\n'It's a magic chain. Only the person who put it on can take it off. But she will never come back.'\n\n'Who is that?'\n\nGmork whimpered like a whipped dog. It was some time before he was calm enough to answer.\n\n'It was Gaya, the Dark Princess.'\n\n'Where has she gone?'\n\n'She has leapt into the Nothing \u2013 like everyone else around here.'\n\nAtreyu remembered the mad dancers he had seen outside the city in the foggy countryside.\n\n'Why didn't they run away?' he murmured.\n\n'Because they had given up hope. That makes you beings weak. The Nothing pulls at you, and none of you has the strength to resist it for long.'\n\nGmork gave a deep, malignant laugh.\n\n'What about yourself?' Atreyu asked. 'You speak as if you weren't one of us?'\n\nGmork watched him out of the corner of his eye.\n\n'I am not one of you.'\n\n'Then where are you from?'\n\n'Don't you know what a werewolf is?'\n\nAtreyu shook his head.\n\n'You know only Fantastica,' said Gmork. 'There are other worlds. The world of humans, for instance. But there are creatures who have no world of their own, but are able to go in and out of many worlds. I am one of those. In the human world, I appear in human form, but I'm not human. And in Fantastica, I take on a Fantastican form \u2013 but I'm not one of you.'\n\nAtreyu sat down on the ground and gazed at the dying werewolf out of great dark eyes.\n\n'You've been in the world of humans?'\n\n'I've often gone back and forth between their world and yours.'\n\n'Gmork,' Atreyu stammered, and he couldn't keep his lips from trembling, 'can you tell me the way to the world of humans?'\n\nA green spark shone in Gmork's eyes. He seemed to be laughing deep inside.\n\n'For you and your kind it's easy to get there. There's only one hitch: You can never come back. You'll have to stay forever. Do you want to?'\n\n'What must I do?' Atreyu asked. His mind was made up.\n\n'What everyone else around here has done before you. You must leap into the Nothing. But there's no hurry. Because you'll do it sooner or later in any case, when the last parts of Fantastica go.'\n\nAtreyu stood up.\n\nGmork saw that the boy was trembling all over. Not knowing why, he spoke reassuringly: 'Don't be afraid. It doesn't hurt.'\n\n'I'm not afraid,' said Atreyu. 'But I never expected to get my hope back in a place like this. And thanks to you!'\n\nGmork's eyes glowed like two thin green moons.\n\n'You have nothing to hope for, sonny \u2013 whatever your plans may be. When you turn up in the world of humans, you won't be what you are here. That's the secret that no one in Fantastica can know.'\n\nAtreyu stood there with his arms dangling.\n\n'What will I be? Tell me the secret.'\n\nFor a long time Gmork neither spoke nor moved. Atreyu was beginning to fear that the answer would never come, but at length the werewolf breathed heavily and spoke:\n\n'What do you think I am, sonny? Your friend? Take care. I'm only passing the time with you. At the moment you can't even leave here. I hold you fast with your hope. But as I speak, the Nothing is creeping in from all sides and closing around Spook City. Soon there will be no way out. Then you will be lost. If you stay and listen, your decision is already made. But you can still escape if you choose.'\n\nThe cruel line around Gmork's mouth deepened. Atreyu hesitated for just a moment. Then he whispered: 'Tell me the secret. What will I be in the world of humans?'\n\nAgain Gmork sank into a long silence. His breath came in convulsive gasps. Then suddenly he raised himself on his forepaws. Atreyu had to look up at him. And then for the first time he saw how big and terrifying the werewolf was. When Gmork spoke, his voice was like the jangling of chains.\n\n'Have you seen the Nothing, sonny?'\n\n'Yes, many times.'\n\n'What does it look like?'\n\n'As if one were blind.'\n\n'That's right \u2013 and when you get to the human world, the Nothing will cling to you. You'll be like a contagious disease that makes humans blind, so they can no longer distinguish between reality and illusion. Do you know what you and your kind are called there?'\n\n'No,' Atreyu whispered.\n\n'Lies!' Gmork barked.\n\nAtreyu shook his head. All the blood had gone out of his lips.\n\n'How can that be?'\n\nGmork was enjoying Atreyu's consternation. This little talk was cheering him up. After a while, he went on:\n\n'You ask me what you will be there. But what are you here? What are you creatures of Fantastica? Dreams, poetic inventions, characters in a neverending story. Do you think you're real? Well yes, here in your world you are. But when you've been through the Nothing, you won't be real anymore. You'll be unrecognizable. And you will be in another world. In that world, you Fantasticans won't be anything like yourselves. You will bring delusion and madness into the human world. Tell me, sonny, what do you suppose will become of all the Spook City folk who have jumped into the Nothing?'\n\n'I don't know,' Atreyu stammered.\n\n'They will become delusions in the minds of human beings, fears where there is nothing to fear, desires for vain, hurtful things, despairing thoughts where there is no reason to despair.'\n\n'All of us?' asked Atreyu in horror.\n\n'No,' said Gmork, 'there are many kinds of delusion. According to what you are here, ugly or beautiful, stupid or clever, you will become ugly or beautiful, stupid or clever lies.'\n\n'What about me?' Atreyu asked. 'What will I be?'\n\nGmork grinned.\n\n'I won't tell you that. You'll see. Or rather, you won't see, because you won't be yourself anymore.'\n\nAtreyu stared at the werewolf with wide-open eyes.\n\nGmork went on:\n\n'That's why humans hate Fantastica and everything that comes from here. They want to destroy it. And they don't realize that by trying to destroy it they multiply the lies that keep flooding the human world. For these lies are nothing other than creatures of Fantastica who have ceased to be themselves and survive only as living corpses, poisoning the souls of men with their fetid smell. But humans don't know it. Isn't that a good joke?'\n\n'And there's no one left in the human world,' Atreyu asked in a whisper, 'who doesn't hate and fear us?'\n\n'I know of none,' said Gmork. 'And it's not surprising, because you yourselves, once you're there, can't help working to make humans believe that Fantastica doesn't exist.'\n\n'Doesn't exist?' the bewildered Atreyu repeated.\n\n'That's right, sonny,' said Gmork. 'In fact, that's the heart of the matter. Don't you see? If humans believe Fantastica doesn't exist, they won't get the idea of visiting your country. And as long as they don't know you creatures of Fantastica as you really are, the Manipulators do what they like with them.'\n\n'What can they do?'\n\n'Whatever they please. When it comes to controlling human beings there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated. The power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts. That's why I sided with the powerful and served them \u2013 because I wanted to share their power.'\n\n'I want no part in it!' Atreyu cried out.\n\n'Take it easy, you little fool,' the werewolf growled. 'When your turn comes to jump into the Nothing, you too will be a nameless servant of power, with no will of your own. Who knows what use they will make of you? Maybe you'll help them persuade people to buy things they don't need, or hate things they know nothing about, or hold beliefs that make them easy to handle, or doubt the truths that might save them. Yes, you little Fantastican, big things will be done in the human world with your help, wars started, empires founded...'\n\nFor a time Gmork peered at the boy out of half-closed eyes. Then he added: 'The human world is full of weak-minded people, who think they're as clever as can be and are convinced that it's terribly important to persuade even the children that Fantastica doesn't exist. Maybe they will be able to make good use of you.'\n\nAtreyu stood there with bowed head.\n\nNow he knew why humans had stopped coming to Fantastica and why none would come to give the Childlike Empress new names. The more of Fantastica that was destroyed, the more lies flooded the human world, and the more unlikely it became that a child of man should come to Fantastica. It was a vicious circle from which there was no escape. Now Atreyu knew it.\n\n_And so did someone else: Bastian Balthazar Bux._\n\n_He now realized that not only was Fantastica sick, but the human world as well. The two were connected. He had always felt this, though he could not have explained why it was so. He had never been willing to believe that life had to be as gray and dull as people claimed. He heard them saying: 'Life is like that,' but he couldn't agree. He never stopped believing in mysteries and miracles._\n\n_And now he knew that someone would have to go to Fantastica to make both worlds well again._\n\n_If no human knew the way, it was precisely because of the lies and delusions that came into the world because Fantastica was being destroyed. It was these lies and delusions that made people blind._\n\n_With horror and shame Bastian thought of his own lies. He didn't count the stories he made up. That was something entirely different. But now and then he had told deliberate lies \u2013 sometimes out of fear, sometimes as a way of getting something he wanted, sometimes just to puff himself up. What inhabitants of Fantastica might he have maimed and destroyed with his lies?_\n\n_One thing was plain: He too had contributed to the sad state of Fantastica. And he was determined to do something to make it well_ _again. He owed it to Atreyu, who was prepared to make any sacrifice to bring Bastian to Fantastica. He had to find the way._\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck eight._\n\nThe werewolf had been watching Atreyu closely.\n\n'Now you know how you can get to the human world,' he said. 'Do you still want to go, sonny?'\n\nAtreyu shook his head.\n\n'I don't want to turn into a lie,' he said.\n\n'You'll do that whether you like it or not,' said Gmork almost cheerfully.\n\n'But what about you? Why are you here?'\n\n'I had a mission,' Gmork said reluctantly.\n\n'You too?'\n\nAtreyu looked at the werewolf with interest, almost with sympathy.\n\n'Were you successful?'\n\n'No. If I had been, I wouldn't be lying here chained. Everything went pretty well until I came to this city. The Dark Princess, who ruled here, received me with every honor. She invited me to her palace, fed me royally, and did everything to make me think she was on my side. And naturally the inhabitants of this Land of Ghosts rather appealed to me, they made me feel at home, so to speak. The Dark Princess was very beautiful in her way \u2013 to my taste at least. She stroked me and ran her fingers through my coat. No one had ever caressed me like that. In short, I lost my head and let my tongue get out of hand. She pretended to admire me; I lapped it up, and in the end I told her about my mission. She must have cast a spell on me, because I am ordinarily a light sleeper. When I woke up, I had this chain on me. And the Dark Princess was standing there. \"Gmork,\" she said. \"You forgot that I too am one of the creatures of Fantastica. And that to fight against Fantastica is to fight against me. That makes you my enemy, and I've out-smarted you. This chain can never be undone by anyone but me. But I am going into the Nothing with all my menservants and maidservants, and I shall never come back.\" Then she turned on her heel and left me. But all the spooks didn't follow her example. It was only when the Nothing came closer that more and more of them were unable to resist its attraction. If I'm not mistaken, the last of them have just gone. Yes, sonny, I fell into a trap, I listened too long to that woman. But you have fallen into the same trap, you've listened too long to me. For in these moments the Nothing has closed around the city like a ring. You're caught and there's no escape.'\n\n'Then we'll die together,' said Atreyu.\n\n'So we will,' said Gmork, 'but in very different ways, you little fool. For I shall die before the Nothing gets here, but you will be swallowed up by it. There's a big difference. Because I die first, my story is at an end. But yours will go on forever, in the form of a lie.'\n\n'Why are you so wicked?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'Because you creatures had a world,' Gmork replied darkly, 'and I didn't.'\n\n'What was your mission?'\n\nUp until then Gmork had been sitting up. Now he slumped to the ground. He was plainly at the end of his strength, and he spoke in raucous gasps.\n\n'Those whom I serve decided that Fantastica must be destroyed. But then they saw that their plan was endangered. They had learned that the Childlike Empress had sent out a messenger, a great hero \u2013 and it looked as if he might succeed in bringing a human to Fantastica. They wanted to have him killed before it was too late. That was why they sent me, because I had been in Fantastica and knew my way around. I picked up his trail right away, I tracked him day and night \u2013 gradually coming closer \u2013 through the Land of the Sassafranians \u2013 the jungle temple of Muwamath \u2013 Howling Forest \u2013 the Swamps of Sadness \u2013 the Dead Mountains \u2013 but then in the Deep Chasm by Ygramul's net, I lost the track, he seemed to have dissolved into thin air. I went on searching, he had to be somewhere. But I never found his trail again, and this is where I ended up. I've failed. But so has he, for Fantastica is going under! I forgot to tell you, his name was Atreyu.'\n\nGmork raised his head. The boy had taken a step back.\n\n'I am Atreyu,' he said.\n\nA tremor ran through the werewolf's shrunken body. It came again and again and grew stronger and stronger. Then from his throat came a panting cough. It grew louder and more rasping; it swelled to a roar that echoed back from the city's walls. The werewolf was laughing.\n\nIt was the most horrible sound Atreyu had ever heard. Never again was he to hear anything like it.\n\nAnd then suddenly it stopped.\n\nGmork was dead.\n\nFor a long time Atreyu stood motionless. At length he approached the dead werewolf \u2013 he himself didn't know why \u2013 bent over the head and touched the shaggy black fur. And in that moment, quicker than thought, Gmork's teeth snapped on Atreyu's leg. Even in death, the evil in him had lost none of its power.\n\nDesperately Atreyu tried to break open the jaws. In vain. The gigantic teeth, as though held in place by steel clamps, dug into his flesh. Atreyu sank to the grimy pavement beside the werewolf's corpse.\n\nAnd step by step, soundless and irresistible, the Nothing advanced from all sides, through the high black wall surrounding the city.\n\n# X\n\n# _The Flight to the Ivory Tower_\n\nJUST as Atreyu passed through the somber gateway of Spook City and started on the exploration that was to end so dismally in a squalid backyard, Falkor, the luckdragon, was making an astonishing discovery.\n\nWhile searching tirelessly for his little friend and master, he had flown high into the clouds. On every side lay the sea, which was gradually growing calmer after the great storm that had churned it from top to bottom. Suddenly, far in the distance, Falkor caught sight of something that puzzled and intrigued him. It was as though a beam of golden light were going on and off, on and off, at regular intervals. And that beam of light seemed to point directly at him, Falkor.\n\nHe flew toward it as fast as he could, and when he was directly over it he saw that the light signal came from deep down in the water, perhaps from the bottom of the sea.\n\nLuckdragons, as we know, are creatures of air and fire. Not only is the liquid element alien to them; it is also their enemy. Water can extinguish them like a flame, or it can asphyxiate them, for they never stop breathing in air through their thousands of pearly scales. They feed on air and heat and require no other nourishment, but without air and heat they can only live a short time.\n\nFalkor didn't know what to do. He didn't even know what the strange blinking under the sea was, or whether it had anything to do with Atreyu.\n\nBut he didn't hesitate for long. He flew high into the sky, turned around, and head down, pressing his legs close to his body, which he held stiff and straight as a telegraph pole, he plummeted. The water spouted like a fountain as he hit the sea at top speed. The shock was so great that he almost lost consciousness, but he forced himself to open his ruby-red eyes. By then the blinking beam was close, only a few body lengths ahead of him. Air bubbles were forming around his body, as in a saucepan full of water just before it boils. He felt that he was cooling and weakening. With his last strength he dived still deeper \u2014 and then the source of light was within reach. It was AURYN, the Gem. Luckily the chain of the amulet had got caught on a coral branch growing out of the wall of an undersea chasm. Otherwise the Gem would have fallen into the bottomless depths.\n\nFalkor seized it and put the chain around his neck for fear of losing it \u2014 for he felt that he was about to faint.\n\nWhen he came to, he didn't know where he was, for to his amazement he was flying through the air, and when he looked down, there was the sea again. He was flying in a very definite direction and very fast, faster than would have seemed possible in his weakened condition. He tried to slow down, but soon found that his body would not obey him. An outside will far stronger than his own had taken possession of his body and was guiding it. That will came from AURYN, the amulet suspended from a chain around his neck.\n\nThe day was drawing to a close when at last Falkor sighted a beach in the distance. He couldn't see much of the country beyond, it seemed to be hidden by fog. But when he came closer, he saw that most of the land had been swallowed up by the Nothing, which hurt his eyes and gave him the feeling of being blind.\n\nAt that point Falkor would probably have turned back if he had been able to do as he wanted. But the mysterious power of the gem forced him to fly straight ahead. And soon he knew why, for in the midst of the endless Nothing he discovered a small island that was still holding out, an island covered with high-gabled houses and crooked towers. Falkor had a strong suspicion whom he would find there, and from then on it was not only the powerful will of the amulet that spurred him on but his own as well. It was almost dark in the somber backyard where Atreyu lay beside the dead werewolf. The luckdragon was barely able to distinguish the boy's light-colored body from the monster's black coat. And the darker it grew, the more they looked like one body.\n\nAtreyu had long given up trying to break loose from the steel vise of the werewolf's jaws. Dazed with fear and weakness, he was back in the Grass Ocean. Before him stood the purple buffalo he had not killed. He called to the other children, his companions of the hunt, who by then had no doubt become real hunters. But no one answered. Only the giant buffalo stood there motionless, looking at him. Atreyu called Artax, his horse, but he didn't come, and his cheery neigh was nowhere to be heard. He called the Childlike Empress, but in vain. He wouldn't be able to tell her anything. He hadn't become a hunter, and he was no longer a messenger. He was Nobody.\n\nAtreyu had given up.\n\nBut then he felt something else: the Nothing. It must be very near, he thought. Again he felt its terrible force of attraction. It made him dizzy. He sat up and, groaning, tugged at his leg. But the fangs held fast.\n\nAnd in that he was lucky. For if Gmork's jaws had not held him, Falkor would have come too late.\n\nAs it was, Atreyu suddenly heard the luckdragon's bronze voice in the sky above him: 'Atreyu! Are you there, Atreyu?'\n\n'Falkor!' Atreyu shouted. And then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: 'Falkor! Falkor! I'm here. Help me! I'm here!'\n\nAnd then he saw Falkor's white body darting like a living streak of lightning through the square of darkening sky, far away at first, then closer. Atreyu kept shouting and Falkor answered in his bell-like voice. Then at last the dragon in the sky caught sight of the boy down below, no bigger than a bright speck in a dark hole.\n\nFalkor prepared for a landing, but the backyard was small, there was hardly any light left, and the dragon brushed against one of the high-gabled houses. The roof collapsed with a roar. Falkor felt an agonizing pain; the sharp edge of the roof had cut deep into his body. This wasn't one of his usual graceful landings. He came tumbling down on the grimy wet pavement next to Atreyu and the dead Gmork.\n\nHe shook himself, sneezed like a dog coming out of the water, and said: 'At last! So this is where you are! Oh well, I seem to have got here on time!'\n\nAtreyu said nothing. He threw his arms around Falkor's neck and buried his face in the dragon's silvery-white mane.\n\n'Come!' said Falkor. 'Climb on my back. We have no time to lose.'\n\nAtreyu only shook his head. And then Falkor saw that Atreyu's leg was imprisoned in the werewolf's jaws.\n\n'Don't worry,' he said, rolling his ruby-red eyeballs. 'We'll fix that in a jiffy.'\n\nHe set to with both paws, trying to pry Gmork's teeth apart. They didn't budge by a hairbreadth.\n\nFalkor heaved and panted. It was no use. Most likely he would never have set his young friend free if luck hadn't come to his help. But luckdragons, as we know, are lucky, and so are those they are fond of.\n\nWhen Falkor stopped to rest, he bent over Gmork's head to get a better look at it in the dark, and it so happened that the Childlike Empress's amulet, which was hanging from the chain on the dragon's neck, touched the werewolf's forehead. Instantly the jaws opened, releasing Atreyu's leg.\n\n'Hey!' cried Falkor. 'What do you think of that?'\n\nThere was no answer from Atreyu.\n\n'What's wrong?' cried Falkor. 'Atreyu, where are you?'\n\nHe groped in the darkness for his friend, but Atreyu wasn't there. And while the dragon was trying to pierce the darkness with his glowing red eyes, he himself felt the pull that had snatched Atreyu away from him. The Nothing was coming too close for comfort. But AURYN protected the luckdragon from the pull.\n\nAtreyu was free from the werewolf's jaws, but not from the pull of the Nothing. He tried to fight it, to kick, to push, but his limbs no longer obeyed him. A few feet more, and he would have been lost forever.\n\nIn that moment, quick as lightning, Falkor grabbed him by his long blue-black hair, and carried him up into the night-black sky.\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck nine._\n\nNeither Atreyu nor Falkor could say later how long they had flown through the impenetrable darkness. Had it been only one night? Perhaps time had stopped for them and they were hovering motionless in the limitless blackness. It was the longest night Atreyu had ever known; and the same was true for Falkor, who was much older.\n\nBut even the longest and darkest of nights passes sooner or later. And when the pale dawn came, they glimpsed the Ivory Tower on the horizon.\n\nHere it seems necessary to pause for a moment and explain a special feature of Fantastican geography. Continents and oceans, mountains and watercourses, have no fixed locations as in the real world. Thus it would be quite impossible to draw a map of Fantastica. In Fantastica you can never be sure in advance what will be next to what. Even the directions \u2014 north, south, east, and west \u2014 change from one part of the country to another. And the same goes for summer and winter, day and night. You can step out of a blazing hot desert straight into snowfields. In Fantastica there are no measurable distances, so that 'near' and 'far' don't at all mean what they do in the real world. They vary with the traveler's wishes and state of mind. Since Fantastica has no boundaries, its center can be anywhere \u2014 or to put it another way, it is equally near to, or far from, anywhere. It all depends on who is trying to reach the center. And the innermost center of Fantastica is the Ivory Tower.\n\nTo his surprise Atreyu found himself sitting on the luckdragon's back. He couldn't remember how he had got there. All he remembered was that Falkor had pulled him up by the hair. Feeling cold, he gathered in his cloak, which was fluttering behind him. And then he saw that it was gray. It had lost its color, and so had his skin and hair. And Falkor, as Atreyu discovered in the rising light, was no better off. The dragon looked unreal, more like a swath of gray mist than anything else. They had both come too close to the Nothing.\n\n'Atreyu, my little master,' the dragon said softly. 'Does your wound hurt very badly?' About his own wound he said nothing.\n\n'No,' said Atreyu. 'I don't feel anything anymore.'\n\n'Have you a fever?'\n\n'No, Falkor. I don't think so. Why do you ask?'\n\n'I can feel you trembling,' said the dragon. 'What in the world can make Atreyu tremble now?'\n\nAfter a short silence Atreyu said: 'We'll be there soon! And then I'll have to tell the Childlike Empress that nothing can save her. That's harder than anything else I've had to do.'\n\n'Yes,' said Falkor even more softly. 'That's true.'\n\nThey flew in silence, drawing steadily nearer to the Ivory Tower.\n\nAfter a while the dragon spoke again.\n\n'Have you seen her, Atreyu?'\n\n'Who?'\n\n'The Childlike Empress. Or rather, the Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes. Because that's how you must address her when you come into her presence.'\n\n'No, I've never seen her.'\n\n'I have. That was long ago. Your great-grandfather must have been a little boy at the time. And I was a young cloud-snapper with a head full of foolishness. One night I saw the moon, shining so big and round, and I tried to grab it out of the sky. When I finally gave up, I dropped with exhaustion and landed near the Ivory Tower. That night the Magnolia Pavilion had opened its petals wide, and the Childlike Empress was sitting right in the middle of it. She cast a glance at me, just one short glance, but \u2014 I hardly know how to put it \u2014 that glance made a new dragon of me.'\n\n'What does she look like?'\n\n'Like a little girl. But she's much older than the oldest inhabitants of Fantastica. Or rather, she's ageless.'\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu. 'But now she's deathly sick. How can I tell her that there's no hope?'\n\n'Don't try to mislead her. She can't be fooled. Tell her the truth.'\n\n'But suppose it kills her?'\n\n'I don't think it will work out that way,' said Falkor.\n\n'You wouldn't,' said Atreyu, 'because you're a luckdragon.'\n\nFor a long while nothing was said.\n\nWhen at last they spoke together for the third time, it was Atreyu who broke the silence.\n\n'Falkor,' he said, 'I'd like to ask you one more thing.'\n\n'Fire away.'\n\n_'Who is_ she?'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'AURYN has power over all the inhabitants of Fantastica, the creatures of both light and darkness. It also has power over you and me. And yet the Childlike Empress never exerts power. It's as if she weren't there. And yet she is in everything. Is she like us?'\n\n'No,' said Falkor, 'she's not like us. She's not a creature of Fantastica. We all exist because she exists. But she's of a different kind.'\n\n'Then is she...' Atreyu hesitated. 'Is she human?'\n\n'No,' said Falkor, 'she's not human.'\n\n'Well then...' And Atreyu repeated his question. 'Who _is_ she?'\n\nAfter a long silence Falkor answered: 'No one in Fantastica knows, no one can know. That's the deepest secret of our world. I once heard a wise man say that if anyone were to know the whole answer, he would cease to exist. I don't know what he meant. That's all I can tell you.'\n\n'And now,' said Atreyu, 'she'll die and we'll die with her, and we'll never know her secret.'\n\nThis time Falkor made no answer, but a smile played around the corners of his leonine mouth, as though to say: Nothing of the kind will happen.\n\nAfter that they spoke no more.\n\nA little later they flew over the outer edge of the 'Labyrinth,' the maze of flower beds, hedges, and winding paths that surrounded the Ivory Tower on all sides. To their horror, they saw that there too the Nothing had been at work. True, it had touched only small spots in the Labyrinth, but those spots were all about. The once bright-colored flower beds and shrubbery in between were now gray and withered. The branches of once graceful little trees were gnarled and bare. The green had gone out of the meadows, and a faint smell of rot and mold rose up to the newcomers. The only colors left were those of swollen giant mushrooms and of garish, poisonous-looking blooms that suggested nothing so much as the figments of a maddened brain. Enfeebled and trembling, the innermost heart of Fantastica was still resisting the inexorable encroachment of the Nothing.\n\nBut the Ivory Tower at the center still shimmered pure, immaculately white.\n\nOrdinarily flying messengers landed on one of the lower terraces. But Falkor reasoned that since neither he nor Atreyu had the strength to climb the long spiraling street leading to the top of the Tower, and since time was of the essence, the regulations and rules of etiquette could reasonably be ignored. He therefore decided on an emergency landing. Swooping down over the ivory buttresses, bridges, and balustrades, he located, just in time, the uppermost end of the spiraling High Street, which lay just outside the palace grounds. Plummeting to the roadway, he went into a skid, made several complete turns, and finally came to a stop tail-first.\n\nAtreyu, who had been clinging with both arms to Falkor's neck, sat up and looked around. He had expected some sort of reception, or at least a detachment of palace guards to challenge them \u2014 but far and wide there was no one to be seen. All the life seemed to have gone out of the gleaming white buildings roundabout.\n\n'They've all fled!' he thought. 'They've left the Childlike Empress alone. Or she's already...'\n\n'Atreyu,' Falkor whispered. 'You must give the Gem back to her.'\n\nFalkor removed the golden chain from his neck. It fell to the ground.\n\nAtreyu jumped down off Falkor's back \u2014 and fell. He had forgotten his wound. He reached for the Glory and put the chain around his neck. Then, leaning on the dragon, he rose painfully to his feet.\n\n'Falkor,' he said. 'Where must I go?'\n\nBut the luckdragon made no answer. He lay as though dead.\n\nThe street ended in front of an enormous, intricately carved gate which led through a high white wall. The gate was open.\n\nAtreyu hobbled through it and came to a broad, gleaming-white stairway that seemed to end in the sky. He began to climb. Now and then he stopped to rest. Drops of his blood left a trail behind him.\n\nAt length the stairway ended. Ahead of him lay a long gallery. He staggered ahead, clinging to the balustrade for support. Next he came to a courtyard that seemed to be full of waterfalls and fountains, but by then he couldn't be sure of what he was seeing. He struggled forward as in a dream. He came to a second, smaller gate; then there was a long, narrow stairway, which took him to a garden where everything \u2014 trees, flowers, and animals \u2014 was carved from ivory. Crawling on all fours, he crossed several arched bridges without railings which led to a third gate, the smallest of all. He dragged himself through it on his belly and, slowly raising his eyes, saw a dome-shaped hall of gleaming-white ivory, and on top of it the Magnolia Pavilion. There was no path or stairway leading up to it.\n\nAtreyu buried his head in his hands.\n\nNo one who reaches or has reached that pavilion can say how he got there. The last stretch of the way must come to him as a gift.\n\nSuddenly Atreyu was in the doorway. He went in \u2014 and found himself face to face with the Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes.\n\nShe was sitting, propped on many cushions, on a soft round couch at the center of the great round blossom. She was looking straight at him. She seemed infinitely frail and delicate. Atreyu could see how ill she was by the pallor of her face, which seemed almost transparent. Her almond-shaped eyes, the color of dark gold, were serene and untroubled. She smiled. Her small, slight body was wrapped in an ample silken gown which gleamed so white that the magnolia petals seemed dark beside it. She looked like an indescribably beautiful little girl of no more than ten, but her long, smoothly combed hair, which hung down over her shoulders, was as white as snow.\n\n_Bastian gave a start._\n\n_Something incredible had happened._\n\n_Thus far he had been able to visualize every incident of the Neverending Story. Some of them, it couldn't be denied, were very strange, but they could somehow be explained. He had formed a clear picture of Atreyu riding on the luckdragon, of the Labyrinth and the Ivory Tower._\n\n_These pictures, however, existed only in his imagination. But when he came to the Magnolia Pavilion, he_ saw _the face of the Childlike Empress \u2014 if only for a fraction of a second, for the space of a lightning flash. And not only in his thoughts, but with his eyes! It wasn't his imagination, of that Bastian was sure. He had even seen details that were not mentioned in the description, such as her eyebrows, two fine lines that might have been drawn with India ink, arching over her golden eyes, or her strangely elongated earlobes, or the way her head tilted on her slender neck. Bastian knew that he had never in all his life seen anything so beautiful as this face. And in that same moment he knew her name: Moon Child. Yes, beyond a doubt, that was her name._\n\n_And Moon Child had looked at him \u2014 at him, Bastian Balthazar Bux._\n\n_She had looked at him with an expression that he could not interpret. Had she too been taken by surprise? Had there been a plea in that look? Or longing? Or... what could it be?_\n\n_He tried to remember Moon Child's eyes, but was no longer able to._\n\n_He was sure of only one thing: that her glance had passed through his eyes and down into his heart. He could still feel the burning trail it had left behind. That glance, he felt, was embedded in his heart, and there it glittered like a mysterious jewel. And in a strange and wonderful way it hurt._\n\n_Even if Bastian had wanted to, he couldn't have defended himself against this thing that had happened to him. However, he didn't want to. Oh no, not for anything in the world would he have parted with that jewel. All he wanted was to go on reading, to see Moon Child again, to be with her._\n\n_It never occurred to him that he was getting into the most unusual and perhaps the most dangerous of adventures. But even if he had known this, he wouldn't have dreamed of shutting the book._\n\n_With a trembling forefinger he found his place and went on reading._\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck ten._\n\n# XI\n\n# _The Childlike Empress_\n\nKNITTING his brow, powerless to utter a single word, Atreyu stood gazing at the Childlike Empress. He had no idea how to begin or what to do. He had often tried to imagine this moment, he had prepared words and phrases, but they had all gone out of his head.\n\nAt length she smiled at him. Her voice when she spoke was as soft as the voice of a bird singing in its sleep.\n\n'You have returned from the Great Quest, Atreyu.'\n\nAtreyu hung his head.\n\n'Yes,' he managed to say.\n\nAfter a short silence she went on: 'Your lovely cloak has turned gray. Your hair is gray and your skin is like stone. But all that will be as it was, or better. You'll see.'\n\nAtreyu felt as if a band had tightened around his throat. All he could do was nod his head. Then he heard the sweet soft voice saying: 'You have carried out your mission...'\n\nWere these words meant as a question? Atreyu didn't know. He didn't dare look up to read the answer in her face. Slowly he reached for the golden amulet and removed the chain from his neck. Without raising his eyes, he held it out to the Childlike Empress. He tried to kneel as messengers did in the stories and songs he had heard at home, but his wounded leg refused to do his bidding. He fell at the Childlike Empress's feet, and there he lay with his face to the floor.\n\nShe bent forward, picked up AURYN, and let the chain glide through her fingers.\n\n'You have done well,' she said, 'and I am pleased with you.'\n\n'No!' cried Atreyu almost savagely. 'It was all in vain. There's no hope.'\n\nA long silence followed. Atreyu buried his face in the crook of his elbow, and his whole body trembled. How would she react? With a cry of despair, a moan, words of bitter reproach or even anger? Atreyu couldn't have said what he expected.\n\nCertainly not what he heard. Laughter. A soft, contented laugh. Atreyu's thoughts were in a whirl, for a moment he thought she had gone mad. But that was not the laughter of madness. Then he heard her say: 'But you've brought him with you.'\n\nAtreyu looked up.\n\n'Who?'\n\n'Our savior.'\n\nHe looked into her eyes and found only serenity. She smiled again.\n\n'Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes,' he stammered, now for the first time using the official words of address that Falkor had recommended. 'I... no, really... I don't understand.'\n\n'I can see that by the look on your face,' she said. 'But whether you understand or not, you've done it. And that's what counts, isn't it?'\n\nAtreyu said nothing. He couldn't even think of a question to ask. He stood there openmouthed, staring at the Childlike Empress.\n\n'I saw him,' she went on, 'and he saw me.'\n\n'When?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'Just as you came in. You brought him with you.'\n\nInvoluntarily Atreyu looked around.\n\n'Then where is he? I don't see anyone but you and me.'\n\n'Oh, the world is full of things you don't see. You can believe me. He isn't in our world yet. But our worlds have come close enough together for us to see each other. For a twinkling the thin wall between us became transparent. He will be with us soon and then he will call me by the new name that he alone can give me. Then I shall be well, and so will Fantastica.'\n\nAs the Childlike Empress was speaking, Atreyu raised himself with difficulty. He looked up to her as she lay on her bed of cushions. His voice was husky when he asked: 'Then you've known my message all along? What Morla the Aged One told me in the Swamps of Sadness, what the mysterious voice of Uyulala in the Southern Oracle revealed to me \u2014 you knew it all?'\n\n'Yes,' she said. 'I knew it before I sent you on the Great Quest.'\n\nAtreyu gulped.\n\n'Why,' he finally managed to ask, 'why did you send me then? What did you expect me to do?'\n\n'Exactly what you did,' she replied.\n\n'What I did...' Atreyu repeated slowly. His forehead clouded over. 'In that case,' he said angrily, 'it was all unnecessary. There was no need of sending me on the Great Quest. I've heard that your decisions are often mysterious. That may be. But after all I've been through I hate to think that you were just having a joke at my expense.'\n\nThe Childlike Empress's eyes grew grave.\n\n'I was not having a joke at your expense, Atreyu,' she said. 'I am well aware of what I owe you. All your sufferings were necessary. I sent you on the Great Quest \u2014 not for the sake of the message you would bring me, but because that was the only way of calling our savior. He took part in everything you did, and he has come all that long way with you. You heard his cry of fear when you were talking with Ygramul beside the Deep Chasm, and you saw him when you stood facing the Magic Mirror Gate. You entered into his image and took it with you, and he followed you, because he saw himself through your eyes. And now, too, he can hear every word we are saying. He knows we are talking about him, he knows we have set our hope in him and are expecting him. Perhaps he even understands that all the hardship you, Atreyu, took upon yourself was for his sake and that all Fantastica is calling him.'\n\nLittle by little the darkness cleared from Atreyu's face.\n\nAfter a while he asked: 'How can you know all that? The cry by the Deep Chasm and the image in the magic mirror? Did you arrange it all in advance?'\n\nThe Childlike Empress picked up AURYN, and said, while putting the chain around her neck: 'Didn't you wear the Gem the whole time? Didn't you know that through it I was always with you?'\n\n'Not always,' said Atreyu. 'I lost it.'\n\n'Yes. Then you were really alone. Tell me what happened to you then.'\n\nAtreyu told her the story.\n\n'Now I know why you turned gray,' said the Childlike Empress. 'You were too close to the Nothing.'\n\n'Gmork, the werewolf, told me,' said Atreyu, 'that when a Fantastican is swallowed up by the Nothing, he becomes a lie. Is that true?'\n\n'Yes, it is true,' said the Childlike Empress, and her golden eyes darkened. 'All lies were once creatures of Fantastica. They are made of the same stuff \u2014 but they have lost their true nature and become unrecognizable. But, as you might expect from a half-and-half creature like Gmork, he told you only half the truth. There are two ways of crossing the dividing line between Fantastica and the human world, a right one and a wrong one. When Fantasticans are cruelly dragged across it, that's the wrong way. When humans, children of man, come to our world of their own free will, that's the right way. Every human who has been here has learned something that could be learned only here, and returned to his own world a changed person. Because he had seen you creatures in your true form, he was able to see his own world and his fellow humans with new eyes. Where he had seen only dull, everyday reality, he now discovered wonders and mysteries. That is why humans were glad to come to Fantastica. And the more these visits enriched our world, the fewer lies there were in theirs, the better it became. Just as our two worlds can injure each other, they can also make each other whole again.'\n\nFor a time both were silent. Then she went on: 'Humans are our hope. One of them must come and give me a new name. And he will come.'\n\nAtreyu made no answer.\n\n'Do you understand now, Atreyu,' she asked, 'why I had to ask so much of you? Only a long story full of adventures, marvels, and dangers could bring our savior to me. And that was your story.'\n\nAtreyu sat deep in thought. At length he nodded.\n\n'Yes, Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes, now I understand. I thank you for choosing me. Forgive my anger.'\n\n'You had no way of knowing these things,' she answered. 'And that too was necessary.'\n\nAgain Atreyu nodded. After a short silence he said: 'But I'm very tired.'\n\n'You have done enough, Atreyu. Would you like to rest?'\n\n'Not yet. First I would like to see the happy outcome of my story. If, as you say, I've carried out my mission, why isn't the savior here yet? What's he waiting for?'\n\n'Yes,' said the Childlike Empress softly. 'What is he waiting for?'\n\n_Bastian felt his hands growing moist with excitement._\n\n_'I can't do it,' he said. 'I don't even know what I'm supposed to do. Maybe the name I've thought of isn't the right one.'_\n\n'May I ask you another question?' said Atreyu.\n\n'Of course,' she answered with a smile.\n\n'Why do you need a new name to get well?'\n\n'Only the right name gives beings and things their reality,' she said. 'A wrong name makes everything unreal. That's what lies do.'\n\n'Maybe the savior doesn't yet know the right name to give you.'\n\n'Oh yes he does,' she assured him.\n\nAgain they sat silent.\n\n_'I know it all right,' said Bastian. 'I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her. But I don't know what I have to do.'_\n\nAtreyu looked up.\n\n'Maybe he wants to come and just doesn't know how to go about it.'\n\n'All he has to do,' said the Childlike Empress, 'is to call me by my new name, which he alone knows. Nothing more.'\n\n_Bastian's heart pounded. Should he try? What if he didn't succeed? What if he was wrong? What if they weren't talking about him but about some entirely different savior? How could he be sure they really meant him?_\n\n'Could it be,' said Atreyu after a while, 'that he doesn't know it's him and not somebody else we're talking about?'\n\n'No,' said the Childlike Empress. 'Not after all the signs he has had. He can't be that stupid.'\n\n_'I'll give it a try,' said Bastian. But he couldn't get a word out of his mouth._\n\n_What if it actually worked? Then he would somehow be transported to Fantastica. But how? Maybe he would have to go through some sort of change. And what would that be like? Would it hurt? Would he lose consciousness? And did he really want to go to Fantastica? He wanted_ _to go to Atreyu and the Childlike Empress, but he wasn't at all keen on all those monsters the place was swarming with._\n\n'Maybe he hasn't got the courage,' Atreyu suggested.\n\n'Courage?' said the Childlike Empress. 'Does it take courage to say my name?'\n\n'Then,' said Atreyu, 'I can think of only one thing that may be holding him back.'\n\n'And what would that be?'\n\nAfter some hesitation Atreyu blurted out: 'He just doesn't want to come here. He just doesn't care about you or Fantastica. We don't mean a thing to him.'\n\nThe Childlike Empress stared wide-eyed at Atreyu.\n\n_'No! No!' Bastian cried out. 'You mustn't think that! It's not that at all. Oh, please, please, don't think that! Can you hear me? It's not like that, Atreyu.'_\n\n'He promised me he would come,' said the Childlike Empress. 'I saw it in his eyes.'\n\n_'Yes, that's true. And I will come soon. I just need time to think. It's not so simple.'_\n\nAtreyu hung his head and the two of them waited a long while in silence. But the savior did not appear, and there wasn't the slightest sign to suggest that he was trying to attract their attention.\n\n_Bastian was thinking of how it would be if he suddenly stood before them in all his fatness, with his bowlegs and his pasty face. He could literally see the disappointment in the Childlike Empress's face when she said to him: 'What brings_ you _here?'_\n\n_And Atreyu might even laugh._\n\n_The thought brought a blush to Bastian's cheeks._\n\n_Obviously they were expecting a prince, or at any rate some sort of hero. He just couldn't appear before them. It was out of the question. He would do anything for them. Anything but that!_\n\nWhen at last the Childlike Empress looked up, the expression of her face had changed. Atreyu was almost frightened at its grandeur and severity. He knew where he had once seen that expression: in the sphinxes.\n\n'There is one more thing I can do,' she said. 'But I don't like it, and I wish he wouldn't make me.'\n\n'What is that?' Atreyu asked in a whisper.\n\n'Whether he knows it or not, he is already part of the Neverending Story. He can no longer back out of it. He made me a promise and he has to keep it. But by myself I can't make him.'\n\n'Who in all Fantastica,' Atreyu asked, 'can do what you cannot?'\n\n'Only one person,' she replied. 'If he wants to. The Old Man of Wandering Mountain.'\n\nAtreyu looked at the Childlike Empress in amazement.\n\n'The Old Man of Wandering Mountain?' he repeated, stressing every word. 'You mean he exists?'\n\n'Did you doubt it?'\n\n'The old folk in our tent camps tell the children about him when they're naughty. They say he writes everything down in a book, whatever you do or fail to do, and there it stays in the form of a beautiful or an ugly story. When I was little, I believed it, but then I decided it was only an old wives' tale to frighten children.'\n\n'You never can tell about old wives' tales,' she said with a smile.\n\n'Then you know him?' Atreyu asked. 'You've seen him?'\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n'If I find him,' she said, 'it will be our first meeting.'\n\n'Our old folk also say,' Atreyu went on, 'that you never can know where the Old Man's mountain will be at any particular time. They say that when he appears it's always unexpectedly, now here, now there, and that you can only run across him by accident, or because the meeting was fated.'\n\n'That's true,' said the Childlike Empress. 'You can't look for the Old Man of Wandering Mountain. You can only find him.'\n\n'Does that go for you too?'\n\n'Yes,' she said, 'for me too.'\n\n'But what if you don't find him?'\n\n'If he exists I'll find him,' she said with a mysterious smile.\n\nHer answer puzzled Atreyu. Hesitantly he asked: 'Is he \u2014 is he like you?'\n\n'He is like me,' she replied, 'because he is my opposite in every way.'\n\nAtreyu saw that with such questions he would get nothing out of her. And another thought weighed on him.\n\n'You are deathly sick, Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes,' he said almost sternly. 'You won't go far by yourself. All your servants and courtiers seem to have abandoned you. Falkor and I would be glad to take you wherever you wish, but, frankly, I don't know if Falkor has the strength. And my foot \u2014 well, you've seen that it won't carry me.'\n\n'Thank you, Atreyu,' she said. 'Thank you for your brave and loyal offer. But I'm not planning to take you with me. To find the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, one must be alone. And even now Falkor is not where you left him. He has been moved to a place where his wounds will be healed and his strength renewed. And you too, Atreyu, will soon be in that same place.'\n\nHer fingers played with AURYN.\n\n'What place is that?'\n\n'There's no need for you to know that now. You will be moved in your sleep. And one day you will know where you were.'\n\n'But how can I sleep?' cried Atreyu, so shaken that he lost his sense of tact. 'How can I sleep when I know you may die any minute?'\n\nThe Childlike Empress laughed softly.\n\n'I'm not quite as forsaken as you think. I've already told you that there are some things you can't hope to understand. I have my seven Powers, which belong to me as your memory or courage or thoughts belong to you. They cannot be seen or heard, and yet they are with me at this moment. I shall leave three of them with you and Falkor to look after you, and I shall take the other four with me as my escort. You needn't worry, Atreyu. You can sleep easy.'\n\nAt these words, all the accumulated weariness of the Great Quest descended on Atreyu like a dark veil. Yet it was not the leaden weariness of exhaustion, but a gentle longing for sleep. He still had many questions to ask the Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes, but he felt that her last words had vanquished all his wishes but one, the wish for sleep. His eyes closed and, still in a sitting position, he glided into the darkness.\n\n_The clock in the steeple struck eleven._\n\nAs though far in the distance, Atreyu heard the Childlike Empress give an order in a soft voice. Then he felt powerful arms lifting him gently and carrying him away.\n\nFor a long time, all was dark and warm around him. Much later he half awoke when a soothing liquid touched his parched lips and ran down his throat. He had a vague impression that he was in a great cave with walls of gold. He saw the white luckdragon lying beside him. And then he saw, or thought he saw, a gushing fountain in the middle of the cave, encircled by two snakes, a light one and a dark one, which were biting each other's tail.\n\nBut then an invisible hand brushed over his eyes. The feel of it was infinitely soothing, and again he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.\n\nAt that moment, the Childlike Empress left the Ivory Tower. She lay bedded on soft silken cushions in a glass litter, which seemed to be moving under its own power, but was actually being carried by four of the Empress's invisible servants.\n\nThey crossed the Labyrinth garden, or rather, what was left of it, making frequent detours, since many of the paths ended in the Nothing.\n\nWhen at length they left the Labyrinth, the invisible carriers stopped. They seemed to be waiting for a command.\n\nThe Childlike Empress sat up on her cushions and cast a glance back at the Ivory Tower.\n\nThen, sinking back, she said: 'Keep going! Just keep going \u2014 no matter where.'\n\nBlown by the wind, her snow-white hair trailed behind the glass litter like a flag.\n\n# XII\n\n# _The Old Man of Wandering Mountain_\n\nLONG-THUNDERING avalanches descended from the heights, snow-storms raged between towering ice-coated summits, dipped into hollows and ravines, and swept howling onward over the great white expanse of the glaciers. Such weather was not at all unusual for this part of the country, for the Mountain of Destiny \u2014 that was its name \u2014 was the highest in all Fantastica, and its peaks literally jutted into the heights of heaven.\n\nNot even the most intrepid mountain climbers ventured into these fields of everlasting ice. It had been so very, very long since anyone had succeeded in climbing this mountain that the feat had been forgotten. For one of Fantastica's many strange laws decreed that no one could climb the Mountain of Destiny until the last successful climber had been utterly forgotten. Thus anyone who managed to climb it would always be the first.\n\nNo living creature could survive in that icy waste \u2014 except for a handful of gigantic ice-glumps \u2014 who could barely be called living creatures, for they moved so slowly that they needed years for a single step and whole centuries for a short walk. Which meant, of course, that they could only associate with their own kind and knew nothing at all about the rest of Fantastica. They thought of themselves as the only living creatures in the universe.\n\nConsequently, they were puzzled to the point of consternation when they saw a tiny speck twining its way upward over perilous crags and razor-sharp ridges, then vanishing into deep chasms and crevasses, only to reappear higher up.\n\nThat speck was the Childlike Empress's glass litter, still carried by four of her invisible Powers. It was barely visible, for the glass it was made of looked very much like ice, and the Childlike Empress's white gown and white hair could hardly be distinguished from the snow roundabout.\n\nShe had traveled many days and nights. The four Powers had carried her through blinding rain and scorching sun, through darkness and moonlight, onward and onward, just as she had ordered, 'no matter where.' She was prepared for a long journey and all manner of hardship, since she knew that the Old Man of Wandering Mountain could be everywhere or nowhere.\n\nStill, the four invisible Powers were not guided entirely by chance in their choice of an itinerary. As often as not, the Nothing, which had already swallowed up whole regions, left only a single path open. Sometimes the possibilities narrowed down to a bridge, a tunnel, or a gateway, and sometimes they were forced to carry the litter with the deathly ill Empress over the waves of the sea. These carriers saw no difference between liquid and solid.\n\nTireless and persevering, they had finally reached the frozen heights of the Mountain of Destiny. And they would go on climbing until the Childlike Empress gave them another order. But she lay still on her cushions. Her eyes were closed and she said nothing. The last words she had spoken were the 'no matter where' she had said on leaving the Ivory Tower.\n\nThe litter was moving through a deep ravine, so narrow that there was barely room for it to pass. The snow was several feet deep, but the invisible carriers did not sink in or even leave footprints. It was very dark at the bottom of this ravine, which admitted only a narrow strip of daylight. The path was on a steady incline and the higher the litter climbed, the nearer the daylight seemed. And then suddenly the walls leveled off, opening up a view of a vast white expanse. This was the summit, for the Mountain of Destiny culminated not, like most other mountains, in a single peak, but in this high plateau, which was as large as a whole country.\n\nBut then, surprisingly enough, a smaller, odd-looking mountain arose in the midst of the plateau. It was rather tall and narrow, something like the Ivory Tower, but glittering blue. It consisted of innumerable strangely shaped stone teeth, which jutted into the sky like great inverted icicles. And about halfway up the mountain three such teeth supported an egg the size of a house.\n\nBehind the egg large blue columns resembling the pipes of an enormous organ rose in a semicircle. The great egg had a circular opening, which might have been a door or a window. And in that opening a face appeared. The face was looking straight at the litter.\n\nThe Childlike Empress opened her eyes.\n\n'Stop!' she said softly.\n\nThe invisible Powers stopped.\n\nThe Childlike Empress sat up.\n\n'It's the Old Man of Wandering Mountain,' she said. 'I must go the last stretch of the way alone. Whatever may happen, wait here for me.'\n\nThe face in the circular opening vanished.\n\nThe Childlike Empress stepped out of the litter and started across the great snowfield. It was hard going, for she was barefooted, and there was an icy crust on the snow. At every step she broke through, and the ice cut her tender feet. The wind tugged at her white hair and her gown.\n\nAt last she came to the blue mountain and stood facing the smooth stone teeth.\n\nThe dark circular opening disgorged a long ladder, much longer than there could possibly have been room for in the egg. It soon extended to the foot of the blue mountain, and when the Childlike Empress took hold of it she saw that it consisted of letters, which were fastened together. Each rung of the ladder was a line. The Childlike Empress started climbing, and as she climbed from rung to rung, she read the words:\n\nTURN BACK! TURN BACK AND GO AWAY! FOR COME WHAT WILL AND COME WHAT MAY,\n\nNEVER IN ANY TIME OR PLACE MUST YOU AND I MEET FACE TO FACE. TO YOU ALONE, O CHILDLIKE ONE, THE WAY IS BARRED, TO YOU ALONE. TURNBACK, TURNBACK, FOR NEVER SHALL BEGINNING SEEK THE END OF ALL. THE CONSEQUENCE OF YOUR INTRUSION CAN ONLY BE EXTREME CONFUSION.\n\nShe stopped to rest and looked up. She still had a long way to go. So far she hadn't even gone halfway.\n\n'Old Man of Wandering Mountain,' she said aloud. 'If you don't want us to meet, you needn't have written me this ladder. It's your disinvitation that brings me.'\n\nAnd she went on climbing.\n\nWHAT YOU ACHIEVE AND WHAT YOU ARE IS RECORDED BY ME, THE CHRONICLER. LETTERS UNCHANGEABLE AND DEAD FREEZE WHAT THE LIVING DID AND SAID. THEREFORE BY COMING HERE TO ME YOU INVITE CATASTROPHE.\n\nTHIS IS THE END OF WHAT YOU ONCE BEGAN.\n\nYOU WILL NEVER BE OLD, AND I, OLD MAN,\n\nWAS NEVER YOUNG. WHAT YOU AWAKEN I LAY TO REST. BE NOT MISTAKEN: IT IS FORBIDDEN THAT LIFE SHOULD SEE ITSELF IN DEAD ETERNITY.\n\nAgain she had to stop to catch her breath.\n\nBy then the Childlike Empress was high up and the ladder was swaying like a branch in the snowstorm. Clinging to the icy letters that formed the rungs of the ladder, she climbed the rest of the way.\n\nBUT IF YOU STILL REFUSE TO HEED THE WARNING OF THE LADDER'S SCREED, IF YOU ARE STILL PREPARED TO DO WHAT IN TIME AND SPACE IS FORBIDDEN YOU,\n\nI WON'T ATTEMPT TO HOLD YOU BACK, THEN WELCOME TO THE OLD MAN'S SHACK.\n\nWhen the Childlike Empress had those last rungs behind her, she sighed and looked down. Her wide white gown was in tatters, for it had caught on every bend and crossbar of the message-ladder. Oh well, she had known all along that letters were hostile to her. She felt the same way about them.\n\nFrom the ladder she stepped through the circular opening in the egg. Instantly it closed behind her, and she stood motionless in the darkness, waiting to see what would happen next.\n\nNothing at all happened for quite some time.\n\nAt length she said softly: 'Here I am.' Her voice echoed as in a large empty room \u2014 or was it another, much deeper voice that had answered her in the same words?\n\nLittle by little, she made out a faint reddish glow in the darkness. It came from an open book, which hovered in midair at the center of the egg-shaped room. It was tilted in such a way that she could see the binding, which was of copper-colored silk, and on the binding, as on the Gem, which the Childlike Empress wore around her neck, she saw an oval formed by two snakes biting each other's tail. Inside this oval was printed the title:\n\n### The Neverending Story\n\n_Bastian's thoughts were in a whirl. This was the very same book that he was reading! He looked again. Yes, no doubt about it, it was the book he had in his hand. How could this book exist inside itself?_\n\nThe Childlike Empress had come closer. On the other side of the hovering book she now saw a man's face. It was bathed in a bluish light. The light came from the print of the book, which was bluish green.\n\nThe man's face was as deeply furrowed as if it had been carved in the bark of an ancient tree. His beard was long and white, and his eyes were so deep in their sockets that she could not see them. He was wearing a dark monk's robe with a hood, and in his hand he was holding a stylus, with which he was writing in the book. He did not look up.\n\nThe Childlike Empress stood watching him in silence. He was not really writing. His stylus glided slowly over the empty page and the letters and words appeared as though of their own accord.\n\nThe Childlike Empress read what was being written, and it was exactly what was happening at that same moment: 'The Childlike Empress read what was being written...'\n\n'You write down everything that happens,' she said.\n\n'Everything that I write down happens,' was the answer, spoken in the deep, dark voice that had come to her like an echo of her own voice.\n\nStrange to say, the Old Man of Wandering Mountain had not opened his mouth. He had written her words and his, and she had heard them as though merely remembering that he had just spoken. 'Are you and I and all Fantastica,' she asked, 'are we all recorded in this book?'\n\nHe wrote, and at the same time she heard his answer: 'No, you've got it wrong. This book _is_ all Fantastica \u2014 and you and I.'\n\n'But where is this book?'\n\nAnd he wrote the answer: 'In the book.'\n\n'Then it's all a reflection of a reflection?' she asked.\n\nHe wrote, and she heard him say: 'What does one see in a mirror reflected in a mirror? Do you know that, Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes?'\n\nThe Childlike Empress said nothing for a while, and the Old Man wrote that she said nothing.\n\nThen she said softly: 'I need your help.'\n\n'I knew it,' he said and wrote.\n\n'Yes,' she said. 'I supposed you would. You are Fantastica's memory, you know everything that has happened up to this moment. But couldn't you leaf ahead in your book and see what's going to happen?'\n\n'Empty pages' was the answer. 'I can only look back at what _has_ happened. I was able to read it while I was writing it. And I know it because I have read it. And I wrote it because it happened. The Neverending Story writes itself by my hand.'\n\n'Then you don't know why I've come to you?'\n\n'No.' And as he was writing, she heard the dark voice: 'And I wish you hadn't. By my hand everything becomes fixed and final \u2014 you too, Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes. This egg is your grave and your coffin. You have entered into the memory of Fantastica. How do you expect to leave here?'\n\n'Every egg,' she said, 'is the beginning of new life.'\n\n'True,' the Old Man wrote and said, 'but only if its shell bursts open.'\n\n'You can open it,' cried the Childlike Empress. 'You let me in.'\n\n'Your power let you in. But now that you're here, your power is gone. We are shut up here for all time. Truly, you shouldn't have come. This is the end of the Neverending Story.'\n\nThe Childlike Empress smiled. She didn't seem troubled in the least.\n\n'You and I,' she said, 'can't prolong it. But there is someone who can.'\n\n'Only a human,' wrote the Old Man, 'can make a fresh start.' 'Yes,' she replied, 'a human.'\n\nSlowly the Old Man of Wandering Mountain raised his eyes and saw the Childlike Empress for the first time. His gaze seemed to come from the darkest distance, from the end of the universe. She stood up to it, answered it with her golden eyes. A silent, immobile battle was fought between them. At length the Old Man bent over his book and wrote: 'For you too there is a borderline. Respect it.'\n\n'I will,' she said, 'but the one of whom I speak, the one for whom I am waiting, crossed it long ago. He is reading this book while you are writing it. He hears every word we are saying. He is with us.'\n\n'That is true!' she heard the Old Man's voice as he was writing. 'He too is part and parcel of the Neverending Story, for it is his own story.'\n\n'Tell me the story!' the Childlike Empress commanded. 'You, who are the memory of Fantastica \u2014 tell me the story from the beginning, word for word as you have written it.'\n\nThe Old Man's writing hand began to tremble.\n\n'If I do that, I shall have to write everything all over again. And what I write will happen again.'\n\n'So be it!' said the Childlike Empress.\n\n_Bastian was beginning to feel uncomfortable._\n\n_What was she going to do? It had something to do with him. But if even the Old Man of Wandering Mountain was trembling..._\n\nThe Old Man wrote and said: 'If the Neverending Story contains itself, then the world will end with this book.'\n\nAnd the Childlike Empress answered: 'But if the hero comes to us, new life can be born. Now the decision is up to him.'\n\n'You are ruthless indeed,' the Old Man said and wrote. 'We shall enter the Circle of Eternal Return, from which there is no escape.'\n\n'Not for us,' she replied, and her voice was no longer gentle, but as hard and clear as a diamond. 'Nor for him \u2014 unless he saves us all.'\n\n'Do you really want to entrust everything to a human?'\n\n'I do.'\n\nBut then she added more softly: 'Or have you a better idea?'\n\nAfter a long silence the Old Man's dark voice said: 'No.'\n\nHe bent low over the book in which he was writing. His face was hidden by his hood.\n\n'Then do what I ask.'\n\nSubmitting to her will, the Old Man of Wandering Mountain began telling the Neverending Story from the beginning.\n\nAt that moment the light cast by the pages of the book changed color. It became reddish like the letters that now formed under the Old Man's stylus. His monk's habit and the hood also took on the color of copper. And as he wrote, his deep, dark voice resounded.\n\n_Bastian too heard it quite clearly._\n\n_Yet he did not understand the first words the Old Man said. They sounded like: 'Skoob dlo rednaeroc darnoc lrac.'_\n\n_Strange, Bastian thought. Why is the Old Man suddenly talking a foreign language? Or was it some sort of magic spell?_\n\n_The Old Man's voice went on and Bastian couldn't help listening._\n\n'This inscription could be seen on the glass door of a small shop, but naturally this was only the way it looked if you were inside the dimly lit shop, looking out at the street through the plateglass door.\n\n'Outside, it was a gray, cold, rainy November morning. The rain ran down the glass and over the ornate letters. Through the glass there was nothing to be seen but the rain-splotched wall across the street.'\n\n_Bastian was rather disappointed. I don't know that story, he thought. That's not in the book I've been reading. Oh well, it only goes to show that I've been mistaken the whole time. I really thought the Old Man would start telling the Neverending Story from the beginning._\n\n'Suddenly the door was opened so violently that a little cluster of brass bells tinkled wildly, taking quite some time to calm down. The cause of this hubbub was a fat little boy of ten or twelve. His wet, dark-brown hair hung down over his face, his coat was soaked and dripping, and he was carrying a school satchel slung over his shoulder. He was rather pale and out of breath, but, despite the hurry he had been in a moment before, he was standing in the open doorway as though rooted to the spot.'\n\n_As Bastian read this and listened to the deep, dark voice of the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, a roaring started up in his ears and he saw spots before his eyes._\n\n_Why, this was all about him! And it was the Neverending Story. He, Bastian, was a character in the book which until now he had_ _thought he was reading. And heaven only knew who else might be reading it at the exact same time, also supposing himself to be just a reader._\n\n_And now Bastian was afraid. He felt unable to breathe, as though shut up in an invisible prison. He didn't want to read anymore, he wanted to stop._\n\nBut the deep, dark voice of the Old Man of Wandering Mountain went on,\n\n_and there was nothing Bastian could do about it. He held his hands over his ears, but it was no use, because the voice came from inside him. He tried desperately to tell himself \u2014 though he knew it wasn't true \u2014 that the resemblance to his own story was some crazy accident_ ,\n\nbut the deep, dark voice went on,\n\n_and ever so clearly he heard it saying:_\n\n'\"Where are your manners? If you had any, you'd have introduced yourself.\"\n\n'\"My name is Bastian,\" said the boy. \"Bastian Balthazar Bux.\"'\n\n_In that moment Bastian made a profound discovery. You wish for something, you've wanted it for years, and you're sure you want it, as long as you know you can't have it. But if all at once it looks as though your wish might come true, you suddenly find yourself wishing you had never wished for any such thing._\n\n_That is exactly how it was with Bastian._\n\n_Now that he was in danger of getting his wish, he would have liked best to run away. But since you can't run 'away' unless you have some idea where you're at, Bastian did something perfectly absurd. He turned over on his back like a beetle and played dead. He made himself as small as possible and pretended he wasn't there._\n\nThe Old Man of Wandering Mountain went on telling and writing the story of how Bastian had stolen the book, how he had fled to the schoolhouse attic and begun to read. And then Atreyu's Quest began all over again, he spoke with Morla the Aged One, and found Falkor in Ygramul's net beside the Deep Chasm, and heard Bastian's cry of fear. Once again he was cured by old Urgl and lectured by Engywook. He passed through the three magic gates, entered into Bastian's image, and spoke with Uyulala. And then came the Wind Giants and Spook City and Gmork, followed by Atreyu's rescue and the flight to the Ivory Tower. And in between, everything that Bastian had done, how he had lit the candles, how he had seen the Childlike Empress, and how she had waited for him in vain. Once again she started on her way to find the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, once again she climbed the ladder of letters and entered the egg, once again the conversation between her and the Old Man was related word for word, and once again the Old Man of Wandering Mountain began to write and tell the Neverending Story.\n\nAt that point the story began all over again \u2014 unchanged and unchangeable \u2014 and ended once again with the meeting between the Childlike Empress and the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, who began once again to write and tell the Neverending Story...\n\n_... and so it would go on for ever and ever, for any change in the sequence of events was unthinkable. Only he, Bastian, could do anything about it. And he would have to do something, or else he too would be included in the circle. It seemed to him that this story had been repeated a thousand times, as though there were no before and after and everything had happened at once. Now he realized why the Old Man's hand trembled. The Circle of Eternal Return was an end without an end._\n\n_Bastian was unaware of the tears that were running down his_\n\n_cheeks. Close to fainting, he suddenly cried out: 'Moon Child, I'm coming!'_\n\n_In that moment several things happened at once._\n\nThe shell of the great egg was dashed to pieces by some overwhelming power. A rumbling of thunder was heard. And then the storm wind came roaring from afar.\n\n_It blew from the pages of the book that Bastian was holding on his knees, and the pages began to flutter wildly. Bastian felt the wind in his hair and face. He could scarcely breathe. The candle flames in the seven-armed candelabrum danced, wavered, and lay flat. Then another, still more violent wind blew into the book, and the candles went out._\n\n_The clock in the belfry struck twelve._\n\n# XIII\n\n# _Perilin, the Night Forest_\n\nMOON CHILD, I'm coming!' Bastian repeated in the darkness. He felt something indescribably sweet and comforting flow into him from the name and fill his whole being. So he said it again and again: 'Moon Child! Moon Child! I'm coming! Moon Child, here I am.'\n\nBut where was he?\n\nHe couldn't see the slightest ray of light, but this was no longer the freezing darkness of the attic. This was a warm, velvety darkness in which he felt safe and happy.\n\nAll fear and dread had left him, ceased to be anything more than a distant memory. He felt so light and gay that he even laughed softly.\n\n'Moon Child, where am I?' he asked.\n\nHe no longer felt the weight of his body. He groped about and realized that he was hovering in mid-air. The mats were gone, and there was no ground under his feet.\n\nIt was a wonderful feeling, a sense of release and boundless freedom that he had never known before. He was beyond the reach of all the things that had weighed him down and hemmed him in.\n\nCould he be hovering somewhere in the cosmos? But in the cosmos there were stars and here there was nothing of the kind. There was only this velvety darkness and a wonderful, happy feeling he hadn't known in all his life. Could it be that he was dead?\n\n'Moon Child, where are you?'\n\nAnd then he heard a delicate, birdlike voice that answered him and that may have answered him several times without his hearing it. It seemed very near, and yet he could not have said from what direction it came.\n\n'Here I am, my Bastian.'\n\n'Is it you, Moon Child?'\n\nShe laughed in a strangely lilting way.\n\n'Who else would I be? Why, you've just given me my lovely name. Thank you for it. Welcome, my savior and my hero.'\n\n'Where are we, Moon Child?'\n\n'I am with you, and you are with me.'\n\nDream words. Yet Bastian knew for sure that he was awake and not dreaming.\n\n'Moon Child,' he whispered. 'Is this the end?'\n\n'No,' she replied, 'it's the beginning.'\n\n'Where is Fantastica, Moon Child? Where are all the others? Where are Atreyu and Falkor? And what about the Old Man of Wandering Mountain and his book? Don't they exist anymore?'\n\n'Fantastica will be born again from your wishes, my Bastian. Through me they will become reality.'\n\n'From my wishes?' Bastian repeated in amazement.\n\nHe heard the sweet voice reply: 'You know they call me the Commander of Wishes. What will you wish?'\n\nBastian thought a moment. Then he inquired cautiously: 'How many wishes have I got?'\n\n'As many as you want \u2014 the more, the better, my Bastian. Fantastica will be all the more rich and varied.'\n\nBastian was overjoyed. But just because so infinitely many possibilities had suddenly been held out to him, he couldn't think of a single wish.\n\n'I can't think of anything,' he said finally.\n\nFor a time there was silence. And then he heard the birdlike voice: 'That's bad.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'Because then there won't be any more Fantastica.'\n\nBastian made no answer. He felt confused. His sense of unlimited freedom was somewhat marred by the thought that everything depended on him.\n\n'Why is it so dark, Moon Child?' he asked.\n\n'The beginning is always dark, my Bastian.'\n\n'I'd awfully like to see you again, Moon Child. The way you were when you looked at me.'\n\nAgain he heard the soft lilting laugh.\n\n'Why are you laughing?'\n\n'Because I'm happy.'\n\n'Happy? Why?'\n\n'You've just made your first wish.'\n\n'Will you make it come true?'\n\nHe held out his hand and felt she was putting something into it. Something very small but strangely heavy. It was very cold and felt hard and dead.\n\n'What is it, Moon Child?'\n\n'A grain of sand,' she replied. 'All that's left of my boundless realm. I make you a present of it.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Bastian, bewildered. What on earth could he do with such a gift? If at least it had been something living.\n\nAs he was mulling it over, he felt something wriggling in his hand. He raised his hand to see what it was.\n\n'Look, Moon Child,' he whispered. 'It's glowing and glittering. And there \u2014 look! a little flame is coming out of it. No, it's not a grain of sand, it's a seed. It's a luminous seed and it's starting to sprout!'\n\n'Well done, my Bastian!' he heard her say. 'You see how easy it is for you.'\n\nBarely perceptible at first, the glow of the speck in Bastian's palm grew quickly, making the two child faces, so very different from each other, gleam in the velvety darkness.\n\nSlowly Bastian withdrew his hand, and the glittering speck hovered between them like a little star.\n\nThe seed sprouted so quickly that one could see it grow. It put forth leaves and a stem and buds that burst into many colored, phosphorescent flowers. Little fruits formed, ripened, and exploded like miniature rockets, spraying new seeds all around them.\n\nFrom the new seeds grew other plants, but these had different shapes. Some were like ferns or small palms, others like cacti, bullrushes, or gnarled trees. Each glowed a different color.\n\nSoon the velvety darkness all around Bastian and Moon Child, over and under them and on every side, was filled with rapidly growing luminous plants. A globe of radiant colors, a new, luminous world hovered in the Nowhere, and grew and grew. And in its innermost center Bastian and Moon Child sat hand in hand, looking around them with eyes of wonder.\n\nUnceasingly new shapes and colors appeared. Larger and larger blossoms opened, richer and richer clusters formed. And all this in total silence.\n\nSoon some of the plants were as big as fruit trees. There were fans of long emerald-green leaves, flowers resembling peacock tails with rainbow-colored eyes, pagodas consisting of superimposed umbrellas of violet silk. Thick stems were interwoven like braids. Since they were transparent, they looked like pink glass lit up from within. Some of the blooms looked like clusters of blue and yellow Japanese lanterns. And little by little, as the luminous night growth grew denser, they intertwined to form a tissue of soft light.\n\n'You must give all this a name,' Moon Child whispered.\n\nBastian nodded.\n\n'Perilin, the Night Forest,' he said.\n\nHe looked into the Childlike Empress's eyes. And once again, as at their first exchange of glances, he sat spellbound, unable to take his eyes off her. The first time she had been deathly ill. Now she was much, much more beautiful. Her torn gown was whole again, the soft-colored light played over the pure whiteness of the silk and of her long hair. His wish had come true.\n\nBastian's eyes swam. 'Moon Child,' he stammered. 'Are you well again?'\n\nShe smiled. 'Can't you see that I am?'\n\n'I wish everything would stay like this forever,' he said.\n\n'The moment is forever,' she replied.\n\nBastian was silent. He didn't understand what she had said, but he was in no mood to puzzle it out. He wanted only to sit there looking at her.\n\nLittle by little the thicket of luminous plants had formed a thick hedge around them. As though imprisoned in a tent of magic carpets, Bastian paid no attention to what was happening outside. He didn't realize that Perilin was growing and growing, that each and every plant was getting big or bigger. Seeds no bigger than sparks kept raining down and sprouted as they hit the ground.\n\nBastian sat gazing at Moon Child. He had eyes for nothing else.\n\nHe could not have said how much time had passed when Moon Child put her hand over his eyes.\n\n'Why did you keep me waiting so long?' he heard her ask. 'Why did you make me go to the Old Man of Wandering Mountain? Why didn't you come when I called?'\n\nBastian gulped.\n\n'It was because,' he stammered, 'I thought \u2014 all sorts of reasons \u2014 fear \u2014 well, to tell you the truth, I was ashamed to let you see me.'\n\nShe withdrew her hand and looked at him in amazement.\n\n'Ashamed? Why?'\n\n'B-because,' Bastian stammered, 'you \u2014 you must have expected somebody who was right for you.'\n\n'What's wrong with you?' she asked. 'Aren't you right for me?'\n\nBastian felt that he was blushing. 'I mean,' he said, 'somebody strong and brave and handsome \u2014 maybe a prince \u2014 anyway, not someone like me.'\n\nHe couldn't see her, for he had lowered his eyes, but again he heard her soft lilting laugh.\n\n'You see,' he said, 'Now you're laughing at me.'\n\nThere was a long silence, and when Bastian finally brought himself to look up, he saw that she was bending very close to him. Her face was grave.\n\n'Let me show you something, my Bastian,' she said. 'Look into my eyes.'\n\nBastian obeyed, though his heart was pounding and he felt dizzy.\n\nIn the golden mirror of her eyes, he saw, small at first as though far in the distance, a reflection which little by little grew larger and more distinct. It was a boy of about his own age; but this boy was slender and wonderfully handsome. His bearing was proud and erect, his face was noble, manly \u2014 and lean. He looked like a young prince from the Orient. His turban was of blue silk and so was the silver-embroidered tunic which reached down to his knees. His high boots, made of the softest red leather, were turned up at the toes. And he was wearing a silver-glittering mantle which hung down to the ground. But most beautiful of all were the boy's hands, which, though delicately shaped, gave an impression of unusual strength.\n\nBastian gazed at the image with wonder and admiration. He couldn't get enough of it. He was just going to ask who this handsome young prince might be when it came to him in a flash that this was his very own self \u2014 his reflection in Moon Child's golden eyes.\n\nIn that moment he was transported, carried out of himself, and when he returned, he found he had become the handsome boy whose image he had seen.\n\nHe looked down, and saw exactly what he had seen in Moon Child's eyes: the soft, red-leather boots, the blue tunic embroidered with silver, the resplendent long mantle. He touched his turban and felt his face. His face was the same too.\n\nAnd then he turned toward Moon Child.\n\nShe was gone!\n\nHe was alone in the round room which the glowing thicket had formed.\n\n'Moon Child!' he shouted. 'Moon Child!'\n\nThere was no answer.\n\nFeeling utterly lost, he sat down. What was he to do now? Why had she left him alone? Where should he go \u2014 that is, if he was free to go anywhere, if he wasn't caught in a trap?\n\nWhile he was wondering why Moon Child should have vanished without a word of explanation, without so much as bidding him goodbye, his fingers started playing with a golden medallion that was hanging from his neck.\n\nHe looked at it and let out a cry of surprise.\n\nIt was AURYN, the Gem, the Childlike Empress's amulet, which made its bearer her representative. Moon Child had given him power over every creature and thing in Fantastica. And as long as he wore that emblem, it would be as though she were with him.\n\nFor a long while Bastian looked at the two snakes, the one light, the other dark, which were biting each other's tail, and formed an oval. Then he turned the amulet over and to his surprise found an inscription on the reverse side. It consisted of four words in strangely intricate letters:\n\n### _Do What You Wish_\n\nThere had been no mention of such an inscription in the Neverending Story. Could it be that Atreyu hadn't noticed it?\n\nBut that didn't matter now. What mattered was that the words gave him permission, ordered him in fact, to do whatever he pleased.\n\nBastian approached the wall of luminous plants to see if he could slip through somewhere. To his delight he found that the wall could easily be thrust aside like a curtain. Out he stepped.\n\nIn the meantime, the night plants had kept on growing, gently but irresistibly, and Perilin had become a forest such as no human eye had ever beheld.\n\nThe great trunks were now as high and thick as church towers, and still growing. In places these shimmering, milky-white pillars were so close together that it was impossible to pass between them. And seeds were still falling like a shower of sparks.\n\nOn his way through the luminous forest, Bastian tried hard not to step on the glittering seeds that lay on the ground, but this soon proved impossible. There simply wasn't a foot's breadth of ground from which nothing was sprouting. So he stopped worrying and went wherever the giant trees left a path open for him.\n\nBastian was delighted at being handsome. It didn't bother him that there was no one to admire him. On the contrary, he was glad to have the pleasure all to himself. He didn't care a fig for being admired by the lugs who had always made fun of him. If he thought of them at all, it was almost with pity.\n\nIn this forest, where there were no seasons and no alternation of day and night, the feeling of time was entirely different from anything Bastian had ever known. He had no idea how long he had been on his way. But little by little his pleasure in being handsome underwent a change. He began to take it for granted. Not that he was any less happy about it; but now he had the feeling that he had never been any different.\n\nFor this there was a reason which Bastian was not to discover until much later. The beauty that had been bestowed on him made him forget, little by little, that he had ever been fat and bowlegged.\n\nEven if he had known what was happening, he would hardly have regretted the loss of this particular memory. As it happened, he didn't even realize that he had forgotten anything. And when the memory had vanished completely, it seemed to him that he had always been as handsome as he was now.\n\nAt that point a new wish cropped up. Just being handsome wasn't as wonderful as he had thought. He also wanted to be strong, stronger than anybody! The strongest in the world!\n\nWhile going deeper and deeper into the Night Forest, he began to feel hungry. He picked off a few of the strangely shaped luminous fruits and nibbled gingerly to see if they were edible. Edible was no word for it; some were tart, some sweet, some slightly bitter, but all were delicious. He ate as he walked, and felt a miraculous strength flowing into his limbs.\n\nIn the meantime the glowing underbrush around him had become so dense that it cut off his view on all sides. To make matters worse, lianas and aerial roots were becoming inextricably tangled with the thicket below. Slashing with the side of his hand as if it had been a machete, Bastian opened up a passage. And the breach closed directly behind him as if it had never been.\n\nOn he went, but the wall of giant tree trunks blocked his path.\n\nBastian grabbed hold of two great tree trunks and bent them apart. When he had passed through, the wall closed soundlessly behind him.\n\nBastian shouted for joy.\n\nHe was the Lord of the Jungle!\n\nFor a while he amused himself opening paths for himself, like an elephant that has heard the Great Call. His strength did not abate, he had no need to stop for breath. He felt no stitch in his side, and his heart didn't thump or race.\n\nBut after a while he wearied of his new sport. The next thing he wanted was to look down on his domain from above, to see how big it was.\n\nHe spat on his hands, took hold of a liana, and pulled himself up hand over hand, without using his legs, as he had seen acrobats do in the circus. For a moment a vision \u2014 a pale memory of the past \u2014 came to him of himself in gym class, dangling like a sack of flour from the bottommost end of the rope, while the rest of the class cackled with glee. He couldn't help smiling. How they would gape if they saw him now! They'd be proud to know him. But he wouldn't even look at them.\n\nWithout stopping once he finally reached the branch from which the liana was hanging, climbed up and straddled it. The branch gave off a red glow. He stood up and, balancing himself like a tightrope walker, made his way to the trunk. Here again a dense tangle of creepers barred his way, but he had no difficulty in opening up a passage through it.\n\nAt that height the trunk was still so thick that five men clasping hands could not have encircled it. Another, somewhat higher branch, jutting from the trunk in a different direction, was beyond his reach. So he leapt through the air, caught hold of an aerial root, swung himself into place, made another perilous leap, and grabbed the higher branch. From there he was able to pull himself up to a still higher one. By then he was high above the ground, at least three hundred feet, but the glowing branches and foliage still obstructed his view.\n\nNot until he had climbed to twice that height were there occasional spaces through which he could look around. But then the going became difficult, because there were fewer and fewer branches. And at last, when he had almost reached the top, he had to stop, for there was nothing to hold on to but the smooth, bare trunk, which was still as thick as a telegraph pole.\n\nBastian looked up and saw that the trunk or stalk ended some fifty feet higher up in an enormous, glowing, dark-red blossom. He didn't see how he could ever reach it, but he had to keep going, for he couldn't very well stay where he was. He threw his arms around the trunk and climbed the last fifty feet like an acrobat. The trunk swayed and bent like a blade of grass in the wind.\n\nAt length he was directly below the blossom, which was open at the top like a tulip. He managed to slip one hand between two of the petals and take hold. Then, pushing the petals wide apart, he pulled himself up.\n\nFor a moment he lay there, for by then he was somewhat out of breath. But then he stood up and looked over the edge of the great, glowing blossom, as from the crow's nest of a ship.\n\nThe tree he had climbed was one of the tallest in the whole jungle and he was able to see far into the distance. Above him he still saw the velvety darkness of a starless night sky, but below him, as far as he could see, the treetops of Perilin presented a play of colors that took his breath away.\n\nFor a long time Bastian stood there, drinking in the sight. This was his domain! He had created it! He was the lord of Perilin.\n\nAnd once again he shouted for joy!\n\n# XIV\n\n# _The Desert of Colors_\n\nNEVER had Bastian slept so soundly as in that glowing red blossom. When at last he opened his eyes, the sky overhead was still a velvety black. He stretched and was happy to feel miraculous strength in his limbs.\n\nOnce again, there had been a change in him. His wish to be strong had come true.\n\nWhen he stood up and looked out over the edge of the great blossom, Perilin seemed to have stopped growing. The Night Forest looked pretty much the same as when he had last seen it. He didn't know that this too was connected with the fulfillment of his wish, and that his memory of his weakness and clumsiness had been blotted out at the same time. He was handsome and strong, but somehow that wasn't enough for him. He also felt the need to be tough and inured to hardship like Atreyu. But how was he to come by that quality in this luminous garden, where all manner of fruit was to be had for the picking?\n\nThe first pearly streaks of dawn appeared over the eastern horizon. And with the rising of the light the phosphorescence of the night plants paled.\n\n'High time!' said Bastian aloud. 'I thought the day would never come.'\n\nHe sat down on the floor of the blossom and wondered what he should do. Climb down again and keep going? Of course, since he was lord of Perilin, no one could stop him from wandering around in it for days, if not for months or years. This jungle was so enormous he would never find his way out of it. But beautiful as he found the night plants, he didn't think this prospect would suit him in the long run. Exploring a desert \u2014 that would be something else again. The biggest desert in Fantastica. Yes, that would be something to be proud of.\n\nIn that same moment, a violent tremor shook the giant tree. The trunk bent, and a crackling, groaning sound could be heard. Bastian had to hold tight to keep from rolling out of his blossom, the stem of which tilted more and more, until at last it lay flat.\n\nThe sun, which had risen in the meantime, disclosed a vision of devastation. Hardly anything was left of all the enormous night plants. More quickly than they had sprung up they crumbled under the glaring sunlight into dust and fine, colored sand. Gigantic tree trunks collapsed as sand castles do when they dry out. Bastian's tree seemed to be the last still standing. But when he tried to steady himself by grasping at the petals of his flower, they crumbled in his hands and blew away like a cloud of dust. Now that there was nothing to obstruct the view, he saw how terrifyingly high up he was. He knew he would have to climb down as fast as possible, for the tree was likely to collapse at any moment.\n\nCautiously, he climbed out of the blossom and straddled the stem, which was now bent like a fishing pole. No sooner had he left the blossom than it broke off behind him and crumbled into dust in falling.\n\nEver so gingerly Bastian proceeded downward. Many a man would have panicked on seeing the ground so very far below, but Bastian was free from dizziness and his nerves were steel. Knowing that any abrupt movement might reduce the whole tree to dust, he crept along the bough and finally reached the place where the trunk became vertical. Hugging it, he let himself slide, inch by inch. Several times, great clouds of colored dust fell on him from above. There were no branches left, and what towering stumps remained crumbled when Bastian tried to use them for support. As he continued downward, the trunk became too big for him to hold. And he was still far above the ground. He stopped to think: How was he ever going to get down?\n\nBut then another tremor passed through the giant stump and relieved him of the need for further thought. What was left of the tree disintegrated and settled into a great mound of sand; Bastian rolled down the side of it in a wild whirl, turning a number of somersaults on the way, and finally came to rest at the bottom. He came close to being buried under an avalanche of colored dust, but he fought his way clear, spat the sand out of his mouth, and shook it out of his ears and clothes.\n\nWherever he looked, the sand was moving in slow streams and eddies. It collected into hills and dunes of every shape and size, each with a color of its own. Light-blue sand gathered to form a light-blue hill, and the same with green and violet and so on. Perilin, the Night Forest, was gone and a desert was taking its place; and what a desert!\n\nBastian had climbed a dune of purplish-red sand and all around him he saw nothing but hill after hill of every imaginable color. Each hill revealed a shade or tint that recurred in no other. The nearest was cobalt blue, another was saffron yellow, then came crimson red, then indigo, apple green, sky blue, orange, peach, mauve, turquoise blue, lilac, moss green, ruby red, burnt umber, Indian yellow, vermilion, lapis lazuli. And so on from horizon to horizon. And between the hills, separating color from color, flowed streams of gold and silver sand.\n\n'This,' said Bastian aloud, 'is Goab, the Desert of Colors.'\n\nThe sun rose higher and higher and the heat became murderous. The air over the colored sand dunes shimmered, and Bastian realized that he was in a tight spot. He could not stay in this desert, that was certain. If he didn't get out of it soon, he would die of hunger and thirst.\n\nHe took hold of the Childlike Empress's emblem in the hope that it would guide him. And then staunchly he started on his way.\n\nHe climbed dune after dune; hour after hour he plodded on, never seeing anything but hill after hill. Only the colors kept changing. His fabulous strength was no longer of any use to him, for desert distances cannot be vanquished with strength. The air was a searing blast from hell. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth and his face streamed with sweat.\n\nThe sun was a whorl of fire in the middle of the sky. It had been in the same place for a long time and didn't seem to move. That day in the desert was as long as the night in Perilin.\n\nBastian's eyes burned and his tongue felt like a piece of leather. But he didn't give up. His body had dried out, and the blood in his veins was so thick it could hardly flow. But on he went, slowly, with even steps, neither hurrying nor stopping to rest, as if he had had years of experience at crossing deserts on foot. He ignored the torments of thirst. His will had become as hard as steel, neither fatigue nor hardship could bend it.\n\nHe recalled how easily he had been discouraged in the past. He had begun all sorts of projects and given up at the first sign of difficulty. He had always been afraid of not getting enough to eat, or of falling ill, or having to endure pain. All that was far behind him.\n\nNo one before him had dared to cross Goab, the Desert of Colors, on foot, nor would anyone undertake to do so in the future. And most likely no one would ever hear of his exploit.\n\nThis last thought saddened Bastian. Goab seemed to be so inconceivably large he felt sure he would never come to the end of it. Despite his phenomenal endurance he was bound to perish sooner or later. That didn't frighten him. He would die with calm dignity like the hunters in Atreyu's country. But since no one ever ventured into this desert, the news of his death would never be divulged. Either in Fantastica or at home. He would simply be reported missing, and no one would ever know he had been in Fantastica or in the desert of Goab. All Fantastica, he said to himself, was contained in the book that the Old Man of Wandering Mountain had written. This book was the Neverending Story, which he himself had read in the attic. Maybe his present adventures and sufferings were in the book even now. And maybe someone else would read the book someday \u2014 maybe someone was reading it at that very moment. In that case, it must be possible to give that someone a sign.\n\nThe sand hill where Bastian was standing just then was ultramarine blue. And separated from it by a narrow cleft there was a fiery-red dune. Bastian crossed over to it, gathered up sand in both hands and carried it to the blue hill. Then he strewed a long line of red sand on the hillside. He went back, brought more red sand, and repeated the operation. Soon he had fashioned three enormous red letters against the blue ground:\n\n### _B B B_\n\nHe viewed his work with satisfaction. No reader of the Neverending Story could fail to see his message. So whatever happened to him now, someone would know where he had been.\n\nHe sat down to rest on the red hilltop. The three letters glittered bright in the desert sun.\n\nAnother piece of his memory of the old Bastian had been wiped out. He forgot that he had once been a namby-pamby, something of a crybaby, in fact. And he was ever so proud of his toughness. But already a new wish was taking form.\n\n'It's true that I fear nothing,' he said aloud, 'but what I still lack is true courage. Being able to endure hardships is a great thing. But courage and daring are something else again. I wish I could run into a real adventure, something calling for great courage. How grand it would be to meet some dangerous creature \u2014 maybe not as hideous as Ygramul, but much more dangerous. A beautiful, but very, very dangerous creature. The most dangerous creature in all Fantastica. I'd step right up to it and...'\n\nBastian said no more, for in that same moment he heard a roaring and rumbling so deep that the ground trembled beneath his feet.\n\nBastian turned around. Far in the distance he saw something that looked like a ball of fire. Moving with incredible speed, it described a wide arc around the spot where Bastian was sitting, then came straight toward him. In the shimmering desert air, which made the outline of things waver like flames, the creature looked like a dancing fire-demon.\n\nBastian was stricken with terror. Before he knew it, he had run down into the cleft between the red dune and the blue dune. But no sooner had he got there than he felt ashamed and overcame his fear.\n\nHe took hold of AURYN and felt all the courage he had wished for streaming into his heart.\n\nThen again he heard the deep roar that made the ground tremble, but this time it was near him. He looked up.\n\nA huge lion was standing on the fiery-red dune. The sun was directly behind him, and made his great mane look like a wreath of fire. This lion was not a tawny color like other lions, but as fiery red as the dune on which he was standing.\n\nThe beast did not seem to have noticed the boy, so much smaller than himself, who was standing in the cleft between the two dunes, but seemed to be looking at the red letters on the opposite hill. The great rumbling voice said: 'Who did this?'\n\n'I did,' said Bastian.\n\n'What is it?'\n\n'It's my initials,' said Bastian. 'My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\nThen for the first time the lion turned toward Bastian, who for a moment expected to be burned to a crisp by the flames that seemed to surround the lion. But his fear soon passed and he returned the lion's gaze.\n\n'I,' said the huge beast, 'am Grograman, Lord of the Desert of Colors. I am also known as the Many-Colored Death.'\n\nBastian felt the deadly power that flowed from the lion's eyes. But he did not avert his own.\n\nWhen they had measured their strength for some time, the lion looked down. With slow, majestic movements he descended from the dune. When he stepped onto the ultramarine sand, he too changed color, his coat and mane became blue. For a moment the huge beast stood facing Bastian, who had to look up at him as a mouse might look up at a cat. Then suddenly Grograman lay down and touched his head to the ground.\n\n'Master,' he said. 'I am your servant, I await your commands.'\n\n'I'd like to get out of this desert,' said Bastian. 'Can you manage that?'\n\nGrograman shook his mane.\n\n'No, master, that I cannot do.'\n\n'Why not?'\n\n'Because I carry the desert with me.'\n\nNot knowing what to make of this, Bastian asked: 'Isn't there somebody who can get me out of here?'\n\n'How could that be, master?' said Grograman. 'Where I am no other living creature can exist. My presence alone would suffice to reduce everybody \u2014 even the most powerful of creatures \u2014 into ashes for thousands of miles around. That's why I'm called the Many-Colored Death and Lord of the Desert of Colors.'\n\n'That's not so,' said Bastian. 'Everybody doesn't get burned up in your desert. Look at me.'\n\n'Because you are bearing the Gem, master. AURYN protects you \u2014 even from me, the deadliest creature in Fantastica.'\n\n'You mean that if I didn't have the Gem, I'd be reduced to ashes?'\n\n'That's how it is, master. That's what would happen, though personally I'd regret it. Because you're the first and only being who has ever spoken to me.'\n\nBastian touched the amulet. 'Thank you, Moon Child,' he said under his breath.\n\nGrograman stood up to his full height and looked down at Bastian.\n\n'I believe, master, that we have things to discuss. Perhaps I can acquaint you with certain secrets. And perhaps you can clear up the riddle of my existence for me.'\n\nBastian nodded. 'But first,' he said. 'Could you possibly get me something to drink? I'm very thirsty.'\n\n'Your servant hears and obeys,' said Grograman. 'Will you deign to sit on my back? I shall carry you to my palace, where you will find everything you need.'\n\nBastian climbed up on the lion's back and clutched the flaming mane in both hands. Grograman looked back at his passenger.\n\n'Hold on tight, master, I'm a swift runner. And one more thing: as long as you are in my domain and especially when you are with me \u2014 promise me that you will never for any reason lay down the amulet that protects you.'\n\n'I promise,' said Bastian.\n\nThe lion started off, at first at a slow, dignified gait, then faster and faster. To Bastian's amazement, the lion's coat and mane changed color with every new sand hill. But soon Grograman was making great leaps from hilltop to hilltop, and his coat changed color faster and faster. Bastian's eyes swam, and he saw all the colors at once as in a rainbow. The hot wind whistled around Bastian's ears and tugged at his mantle, which fluttered behind him. He felt the movements of the lion's muscles and breathed the wild, heady smell of the shaggy mane. The triumphant shout that escaped him resembled the cry of a bird of prey, and Grograman answered with a roar that made the desert tremble. For the moment these two different creatures were one. Bastian's heart and mind were in the clouds. He didn't come to himself until he heard Grograman saying: 'We have arrived, master! Will you deign to alight?'\n\nBastian jumped down from the lion's back and landed on the sandy ground. Before him he saw a cleft mountain of black rock. Or was it a ruined building? He didn't know, for the stones which made up the doorframes, walls, columns, and terraces of the building, as well as those that were lying about half buried in colored sand, were deeply creviced and smooth, as though the sandstorms of time had smoothed away all sharp edges and roughness.\n\n'This, master, is my palace \u2014 and my tomb,' Bastian heard the lion's voice saying. 'You are Grograman's first and only guest. Enter and make yourself at home.'\n\nThe sun hung low over the horizon, a great pale-yellow disk, shorn of its searing heat. Apparently the ride had taken much longer than it had seemed to Bastian. The truncated columns or spurs of rock, whichever they might be, cast long shadows. It would soon be night.\n\nAs Bastian followed the lion through a dark doorway leading into the palace, he had the impression that Grograman's steps sounded tired and heavy.\n\nAfter passing a dark corridor and up and down a number of stairways, they came at last to a large double door which seemed to be made of black rock. As Grograman approached, it opened of its own accord, and when they had both gone through, it closed behind them.\n\nNow they were in a large hall, or rather a cave, lit by hundreds of lamps whose flames resembled the play of colors on Grograman's coat. The floor was of colored tiles. At the center was a circular platform surrounded by steps, and on the platform lay an enormous black rock. Grograman seemed spent as he turned to Bastian.\n\n'My time is close at hand, master,' he said, hardly above a whisper. 'There won't be time for our talk. But don't worry, and wait for the day. What has always happened will happen once again. And perhaps you will be able to tell me why.'\n\nThen he pointed his head in the direction of a little gate at the other end of the cave.\n\n'Go in there, master. You will find everything in readiness. That room has been waiting for you since the beginning of time.'\n\nBastian went to the gate, but before opening it, he glanced back. Grograman had sat down on the black rock. He was as black as the stone. In a faint, far-off voice, he said: 'Quite possibly, master, you will hear sounds that will frighten you. Don't be afraid. As long as you carry the emblem, nothing can happen to you.'\n\nBastian nodded and passed through the gate.\n\nThe room he entered was magnificent. The floor was laid with soft, richly colored carpets. The graceful columns supporting the vaulted ceiling were covered with gold mosaic, which fragmented the varicolored light of the lamps. In one corner Bastian saw a broad divan covered with soft rugs and cushions of all kinds, surmounted by a canopy of azure-blue silk. In the opposite corner the stone floor had been hollowed to form a pool filled with golden liquid. On a low table stood bowls and dishes of food, a carafe full of some ruby-red drink, and a golden cup.\n\nBastian squatted down at the table and fell to. The drink had a tart, wild taste and was wonderfully thirst-quenching. The dishes were unknown to Bastian. Some looked like cakes or nuts, others like squash or melons, but the taste was entirely different. Sharp and spicy. Everything was delicious, and Bastian ate his fill.\n\nThen he took his clothes off \u2014 but not the amulet \u2014 and stepped into the pool. For a while he splashed about, washed himself, dived under, and came up puffing like a walrus. Then he discovered some strange-looking bottles at the edge of the pool. Thinking they must be bath oils, he poured a little of each into the water. Green, red, and yellow flames darted hissing over the surface, and a little smoke went up. It smelled of resin and bitter herbs. And then the flames died.\n\nAfter a while Bastian got out of the water, dried himself with the soft towels that lay ready, and put his clothes on. Suddenly he noticed that the lamps were not burning as brightly as before. And then he heard a sound that sent the cold shivers down his spine: a cracking and grinding, as though a rock were bursting under the pressure of expanding ice.\n\nBastian's heart pounded. He remembered that Grograman had told him not to be afraid.\n\nThe sound softened to a moan and soon stopped. It was not repeated, but the stillness was almost more terrible.\n\nDetermined to find out what had happened, Bastian opened the door of the bedchamber. At first he saw no change in the great hall, except that the lamplight now seemed somber and was pulsating like a faltering heartbeat. The lion was still sitting in the same attitude on the black rock. He seemed to be looking at Bastian.\n\n'Grograman!' Bastian cried. 'What's going on? What was that sound? Was it you?'\n\nThe lion made no answer and didn't move, but when Bastian approached him, the lion followed him with his eyes.\n\nHesitantly Bastian stretched out his hand to stroke the lion's mane, but the moment he touched it he recoiled in horror. It was hard and ice-cold like the black rock. And Grograman's face and paws felt the same way.\n\nBastian didn't know what to do. He saw that the black stone doors were slowly opening. He left the hall, but it wasn't until he had passed through the long dark corridor and was on his way up the stairs that he started wondering what he would do when he was outside. In this desert there couldn't be anyone capable of saving Grograman.\n\nBut it wasn't a desert anymore!\n\nWhichever way Bastian looked, he saw glittering dots. Millions of tiny plants were sprouting from the grains of sand which had become seeds again. Perilin the Night Forest was growing once more.\n\nBastian sensed that Grograman's rigidity was somehow connected with this transformation.\n\nHe went back to the cave. The light in the lamps was barely flickering. He went over to the lion, threw his arms around the huge neck, and pressed his face to the beast's face.\n\nThe lion's eyes were black and as dead as the rock. Grograman had turned to stone. The lights flared for an instant and went out, leaving the cave in total darkness.\n\nBastian wept bitterly. The stone lion was wet with his tears. In the end, the boy curled up between the great paws and fell asleep!\n\n# XV\n\n# _Grograman, the Many-Colored Death_\n\nO MASTER,' said the rumbling lion's voice. 'Have you spent the whole night like this?'\n\nBastian sat up and rubbed his eyes. He had been lying between the lion's paws, and Grograman was watching him with a look of amazement. His fur was still as black as the rock he was sitting on, but his eyes sparkled. The lamps in the cave were burning again.\n\n'Oh!' Bastian cried. 'I thought you had turned to stone.'\n\n'So I had,' the lion replied. 'I die with every nightfall, and every morning I wake up again.'\n\n'I thought it was forever,' said Bastian.\n\n'It always _is_ forever,' said Grograman mysteriously.\n\nHe stood up, stretched, and trotted about the cave. His fur shone more and more brightly in the colors of the mosaic floor. Suddenly he stopped still and looked at the boy.\n\n'Did you shed tears over me?' he asked.\n\nBastian nodded.\n\n'Then,' said the lion, 'you are not only the only being who has ever slept between the paws of the Many-Colored Death, but also the only being who has ever mourned his death.'\n\nBastian looked at the lion, who was trotting about again, and finally asked him in a whisper: 'Are you always alone?'\n\nAgain the lion stood still, but this time he did not turn toward Bastian. He kept his face averted and repeated in his rumbling voice: 'Alone!'\n\nThe word echoed through the cave.\n\n'My realm is the desert, and it is also my work. Wherever I go, everything around me turns to desert. I carry it with me. Since I am made of deadly fire, must I not be doomed to everlasting solitude?'\n\nBastian fell into a dismayed silence.\n\n'Master,' said the lion, looking at the boy with glowing eyes.\n\n'You who bear the emblem of the Childlike Empress, can you tell me this: Why must I always die at nightfall?'\n\n'So that Perilin, the Night Forest, can grow in the Desert of Colors,' said Bastian.\n\n'Perilin?' said the lion. 'What's that?'\n\nThen Bastian told him about the miraculous jungle that consisted of living light. While Grograman listened in fascinated amazement, Bastian described the diversity and beauty of the glimmering phosphorescent plants, their silent, irresistible growth, their dreamlike beauty and incredible size. His enthusiasm grew as he spoke and Grograman's eyes glowed more and more brightly.\n\n'All that,' Bastian concluded, 'can happen only when you are turned to stone. But Perilin would swallow up everything else and stifle itself if it didn't have to die and crumble into dust when you wake up. You and Perilin need each other.'\n\nFor a long while Grograman was silent.\n\n'Master,' he said then. 'Now I see that my dying gives life and my living death, and both are good. Now I understand the meaning of my existence. I thank you.'\n\nHe strode slowly and solemnly into the darkest corner of the cave. Bastian couldn't see what he did there, but he heard a jangling of metal. When Grograman came back, he was carrying something in his mouth. With a deep bow he laid this something at Bastian's feet.\n\nIt was a sword.\n\nIt didn't look very impressive. The iron sheath was rusty, and the hilt might have belonged to a child's wooden sword.\n\n'Can you give it a name?' Grograman asked.\n\nBastian examined it carefully.\n\n'Sikanda,' he said.\n\nIn that same moment the sword darted from its sheath and flew into his hand. The blade consisted of pure light and glittered so brightly that he could hardly bear to look at it. It was double-edged and weighed no more than a feather.\n\n'This sword has been destined for you since the beginning of time,' said Grograman. 'For only one who has ridden on my back, who has eaten and drunk of my fire and bathed in it like you, can touch it without danger. But only because you have given it its right name does it belong to you.'\n\n'Sikanda!' said Bastian under his breath as, fascinated by the gleaming light, he swung the sword slowly through the air. 'It's a magic sword, isn't it?'\n\n'Nothing in all Fantastica can resist it,' said Grograman, 'neither rock nor steel. But you must not use force. Whatever may threaten you, you may wield it only if it leaps into your hand of its own accord as it did now. It will guide your hand and by its own power will do what needs to be done. But if your will makes you draw it from its sheath, you will bring great misfortune on yourself and on Fantastica. Never forget that.'\n\n'I will never forget it,' Bastian promised.\n\nThe sword flew back into its sheath and again it looked old and worthless. Bastian grasped the leather belt on which the sheath hung and slung it around his waist.\n\n'And now, master,' Grograman suggested, 'let us, if you wish, go racing through the desert together. Climb on my back, for I must go out now.'\n\nBastian mounted, and the lion trotted out into the open. The Night Forest had long since crumbled into colored sand, and the morning sun rose above the desert horizon. Together they swept over the dunes - like a dancing flame, like a blazing tempest. Bastian felt as though he were riding a flaming comet through light and colors.\n\nToward midday Grograman stopped.\n\n'This, master, is the place where we met.'\n\nBastian's head was still reeling from the wild ride. He looked around but could see neither the ultramarine-blue nor the fiery-red hill. Nor was there any sign of the letters he had made. Now the dunes were olive green and pink.\n\n'It's all entirely different,' he said.\n\n'Yes, master,' said the lion. 'That's the way it is - different every day. Up until now I didn't know why. But since you told me that Perilin grows out of the sand, I understand.'\n\n'But how do you know it's the same place as yesterday?'\n\n'I feel it as I feel my own body. The desert is a part of me.'\n\nBastian climbed down from Grograman's back and seated himself on the olive-green hill. The lion lay beside him and now he too was olive green. Bastian propped his chin on his hand and looked out toward the horizon.\n\n'Grograman,' he said after a long silence. 'May I ask you a question?'\n\n'Your servant is listening.'\n\n'Is it true that you've always been here?'\n\n'Always!'\n\n'And the desert of Goab has always existed?'\n\n'Yes, the desert too. Why do you ask?'\n\nBastian pondered.\n\n'I don't get it,' he finally confessed. 'I'd have bet it wasn't here before yesterday morning.'\n\n'What makes you think that, master?'\n\nThen Bastian told him everything that had happened since he met Moon Child.\n\n'It's all so strange,' he concluded. 'A wish comes into my head, and then something always happens that makes the wish come true. I haven't made this up, you know. I wouldn't be able to. I could never have invented all the different night plants in Perilin. Or the colors of Goab - or you! It's all much more wonderful and real than anything I could have made up. But all the same, nothing is there until I've wished it.'\n\n'That,' said the lion, 'is because you're carrying AURYN, the Gem.'\n\n'But does all this exist only after I've wished it? Or was it all there before?'\n\n'Both,' said Grograman.\n\n'How can that be?' Bastian cried almost impatiently. 'You've been here in Goab, the Desert of Colors, since heaven knows when. The room in your palace was waiting for me since the beginning of time. So, too, was the sword Sikanda. You told me so yourself.'\n\n'That is true, master.'\n\n'But I - I've only been in Fantastica since last night! So it can't be true that all these things have existed only since I came here.'\n\n'Master,' the lion replied calmly. 'Didn't you know that Fantastica is the land of stories? A story can be new and yet tell about olden times. The past comes into existence with the story.'\n\n'Then Perilin, too, must always have been there,' said the perplexed Bastian.\n\n'Beginning at the moment when you gave it its name,' Grograman replied, 'it has existed forever.'\n\n'You mean that I created it?'\n\nThe lion was silent for a while. Then he said: 'Only the Childlike Empress can tell you that. It is she who has given you everything.'\n\nHe arose.\n\n'Master, it's time we went back to my palace. The sun is low in the sky and we have a long way to go.'\n\nThat night Grograman lay down again on the black rock, and this time Bastian stayed with him. Few words passed between them. Bastian brought food and drink from the bedchamber, where once again the little table had been laid by an unseen hand. He seated himself on the steps leading to the lion's rock, and there he ate his supper.\n\nWhen the light of the lamps grew dim and began to pulsate like a faltering heartbeat, he stood up and threw his arms around the lion's neck. The mane was hard and looked like congealed lava. Then the gruesome sound was repeated. Bastian was no longer afraid, but again he wept at the thought of Grograman's sufferings, for now he knew they would endure for all time.\n\nLater that night Bastian groped his way into the open and stood for a long while watching the soundless growth of the night plants. Then he went back into the cave and again lay down to sleep between the petrified lion's paws.\n\nHe stayed with Grograman for many days and nights, and they became friends. They spent many hours in the desert, playing wild games. Bastian would hide among the sand dunes, but Grograman always found him. They ran races, but the lion was a thousand times swifter than Bastian. They wrestled and there Bastian was the lion's equal. Though of course it was only in fun, Grograman needed all his strength to hold his own. Neither could defeat the other.\n\nOnce, after they had been wrestling and tumbling, Bastian sat down, somewhat out of breath, and said: 'Couldn't I stay with you forever?'\n\nThe lion shook his mane. 'No, master.'\n\n'Why not?'\n\n'Here there is only life and death, only Perilin and Goab, but no story. You must live your story. You cannot remain here.'\n\n'But how can I leave?' Bastian asked. 'The desert is much too big, I'd never get to the end of it. And you can't carry me out of it, because you take the desert with you.'\n\n'Only your wishes can guide you over the pathways of Fantastica,' said Grograman. 'You must go from wish to wish. What you don't wish for will always be beyond your reach. That is what the words 'far' and 'near' mean in Fantastica. And wishing to leave a place is not enough. You must wish to go somewhere else and let your wishes guide you.'\n\n'But I can't wish to leave here,' said Bastian.\n\n'You must find your next wish,' said Grograman almost sternly.\n\n'And when I find it,' Bastian asked, 'how will I be able to leave here?'\n\n'I will tell you,' said Grograman gravely. 'There is in Fantastica a certain place from which one can go anywhere and which can be reached from anywhere. We call it the Temple of a Thousand Doors. No one has ever seen it from outside. The inside is a maze of doors. Anyone wishing to know it must dare to enter it.'\n\n'But how is that possible if it can't be approached from outside?'\n\n'Every door in Fantastica,' said the lion, 'even the most ordinary stable, kitchen, or cupboard door, can become the entrance to the Temple of a Thousand Doors at the right moment. And none of these thousand doors leads back to where one came from. There is no return.'\n\n'And once someone is inside,' Bastian asked, 'can he get out and go somewhere?'\n\n'Yes,' said the lion. 'But it's not as simple as in other buildings. Only a genuine wish can lead you through the maze of the thousand doors. Without a genuine wish, you just have to wander around until you know what you really want. And that can take a long time.'\n\n'How will I find the entrance?'\n\n'You've got to wish it.'\n\nBastian pondered a long while. Then he said: 'It seems strange that we can't just wish what we please. Where do our wishes come from? What is a wish anyway?'\n\nGrograman gave the boy a long, earnest look, but made no answer.\n\nSome days later they had another serious talk.\n\nBastian had shown the lion the inscription on the reverse side of the Gem. 'What do you suppose it means?' he asked.\n\n'\"DO WHAT YOU WISH.\" That must mean I can do anything I feel like. Don't you think so?'\n\nAll at once Grograman's face looked alarmingly grave, and his eyes glowed.\n\n'No,' he said in his deep, rumbling voice. 'It means that you must do what you really and truly want. And nothing is more difficult.'\n\n'What I really and truly want? What do you mean by that?' 'It's your own deepest secret and you yourself don't know it.'\n\n'How can I find out?'\n\n'By going the way of your wishes, from one to another, from first to last. It will take you to what you really and truly want.'\n\n'That doesn't sound so hard,' said Bastian.\n\n'It is the most dangerous of all journeys.'\n\n'Why?' Bastian asked. 'I'm not afraid.'\n\n'That isn't it,' Grograman rumbled. 'It requires the greatest honesty and vigilance, because there's no other journey on which it's so easy to lose yourself forever.'\n\n'Do you mean because our wishes aren't always good? Bastian asked.\n\nThe lion lashed the sand he was lying on with his tail. His ears lay flat, he screwed up his nose, and his eyes flashed fire. Involuntarily Bastian ducked when Grograman's voice once again made the earth tremble: 'What do you know about wishes? How would you know what's good and what isn't?'\n\nIn the days that followed Bastian thought a good deal about what the Many-Colored Death had said. There are some things, however, that we cannot fathom by thinking about them, but only by experience. So it was not until much later, after all manner of adventures, that he thought back on Grograman's words and began to understand them.\n\nAt this time another change took place in Bastian. Since his meeting with Moon Child he had received many gifts. Now he was favored with a new one: courage. And again something was taken away from him, namely, the memory of his past timidity.\n\nSince he was no longer afraid of anything, a new wish began, imperceptibly at first, then more distinctly, to take shape within him: the wish to be alone no longer. Even in the company of the Many-Colored Death he was alone in a way. He wanted to exhibit his talents to others, to be admired and to become famous.\n\nAnd one night as he was watching Perilin grow, it suddenly came to him that he was doing so for the last time, that he would have to bid the grandiose Night Forest goodbye. An inner voice was calling him away.\n\nHe cast a last glance at the magnificently glowing colors. Then he descended to the darkness of Grograman's palace and tomb, and sat down on the steps. He couldn't have said what he was waiting for, but he knew that he could not sleep that night.\n\nHe must have dozed a little, for suddenly he started as if someone had called his name.\n\nThe door leading to the bedchamber had opened. Through the cleft a long strip of reddish light shone into the dark cave.\n\nBastian stood up. Had the door been transformed for this moment into the entrance of the Temple of a Thousand Doors? Hesitantly he approached the cleft and tried to peer through. He couldn't see a thing. Then slowly the cleft began to close. In a moment his only chance would pass.\n\nHe turned back to Grograman, who lay motionless, with eyes of dead stone, on his pedestal. The strip of light from the door fell full on him.\n\n'Goodbye, Grograman, and thanks for everything,' he said softly. 'I'll come again, I promise, I'll come again.'\n\nThen he slipped through the cleft, and instantly the door closed behind him.\n\nBastian didn't know that he would not keep his promise. Much much later someone would come in his name and keep it for him.\n\nBut that's another story and shall be told another time.\n\n# XVI\n\n# _The Silver City of Amarganth_\n\nPURPLE light passed in slow waves across the floor and the walls of the room. It was a hexagonal room, rather like the enlarged cell of a honeycomb. Every second wall had a door in it, and on the intervening walls were painted strange pictures representing landscapes and creatures who seemed to be half plant and half animal. Bastian had entered through one of the doors; the other two, to the right and left of it, were exactly the same shape, but the left-hand door was black, while the right-hand one was white. Bastian chose the white door.\n\nIn the next room the light was yellowish. Here again the walls formed a hexagon. The pictures represented all manner of contrivances that meant nothing to Bastian. Were they tools or weapons? The two doors leading onward to the right and left were the same color, yellow, but the left-hand one was tall and narrow, while the one on the right was low and wide. Bastian chose the left-hand one.\n\nThe next room was hexagonal like the others, but the light was bluish. The pictures on the walls were of intricate ornaments or characters in a strange alphabet. Here the two doors were the same color, but of different material, one of wood, the other of metal. Bastian chose the wooden door.\n\nIt is not possible to describe all the doors and rooms through which Bastian passed during his stay in the Temple of a Thousand Doors. There were doors that looked like large keyholes, and others that resembled the entrances to caves, there were golden doors and rusty iron doors, some were padded and some were studded with nails, some were paper-thin and others as thick as the doors of treasure houses; there was one that looked like a giant's mouth and another that had to be opened like a drawbridge, one that suggested a big ear and one that was made of gingerbread, one that was shaped like an oven door, and one that had to be unbuttoned. The two doors leading out of a room always had something in common - the shape, the material, the size, the color - but there was always some essential difference between them.\n\nBastian had passed many times from one hexagonal room to another. Every decision he made led to another decision that led to yet another decision. But after all these decisions he was still in the Temple of a Thousand Doors. As he went on and on, he began to wonder why this should be. His wish had sufficed to lead him into the maze, but apparently it was not definite enough to enable him to find the way out. He had wished for company. But now he realized that by company he had meant no one in particular. This vague wish hadn't helped him at all. Thus far his decisions had been based on mere whim and involved very little thought. In every case he might just as well have taken the other door. At this rate he would never find his way out.\n\nJust then he was in a room with a greenish light. Three of the six walls had variously shaped clouds painted on them. The door to the left was of white mother-of-pearl, the one on the right of ebony. And suddenly he knew whom he wished for: Atreyu!\n\nThe mother-of-pearl door reminded Bastian of Falkor the luckdragon, whose scales glistened like mother-of-pearl. So he decided on that one.\n\nIn the next room one of the two doors was made of plaited grass, the other was an iron grating. Just then Bastian was thinking of the Grassy Ocean where Atreyu was at home, so he picked the grass door.\n\nIn the next room he found two doors which differed only in that one was made of leather and the other of felt. Bastian chose the leather one.\n\nThen he was faced with two more doors, and again he had time to think. One was purple, the other olive green. Atreyu was a Greenskin and his cloak was made from the hide of a purple buffalo. A symbol such as Atreyu had had on his forehead and cheeks when Cairon came to him was painted in white on the olive-green door. But the purple door had the same symbol on it, and Bastian didn't know that Atreyu's cloak had been ornamented with just such symbols. That door, he thought, must lead to someone else, not to Atreyu.\n\nHe opened the olive-green door - and then he was outside.\n\nTo his surprise he found himself not in the Grassy Ocean but in a bright springtime forest. Sunbeams shone through the young foliage and played their games of light and shade on the mossy ground. The place smelled of earth and mushrooms and the balmy air was filled with the twittering of birds.\n\nBastian turned around and saw that he had just stepped out of a little forest chapel. For that moment its door had been the way out of the Temple of a Thousand Doors. Bastian opened it again, but all he saw was the inside of a small chapel. The roof consisted only of a few rotten beams, and the walls were covered with moss.\n\nBastian started walking. He had no idea where he was going, but he felt certain that sooner or later he would find Atreyu. The thought made him so happy that he whistled to the birds, who answered him and sang every merry tune that entered his head.\n\nA while later he caught sight of a group of figures in a clearing. As he came closer, they proved to be four men in magnificent armor and a beautiful lady, who was sitting on the grass, strumming a lute. Five richly caparisoned horses and a pack mule were standing in the background. A white cloth laid with all manner of viands and drink was spread out on the grass before the company.\n\nBefore joining the group, Bastian hid the Childlike Empress's amulet under his shirt. He thought it best to see what these people were up to before allowing himself to be recognized.\n\nThe men stood up and bowed low at his approach, evidently taking him for an Oriental prince or something of the kind. The fair lady nodded, smiled at him, and went on strumming her lute. One of the men was taller than the rest and more magnificently clad. He had fair hair that hung down over his shoulders.\n\n'I am Hero Hynreck,' he announced, 'and this lady is Princess Oglamar, daughter of the king of Luna. These men are my friends Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn. And what may your name be, young friend?'\n\n'I may not say my name - not yet,' Bastian replied.\n\n'A vow?' Princess Oglamar asked on a note of mockery. 'So young, and you've already made a vow?'\n\n'Have you come a long way?' Hero Hynreck inquired.\n\n'A very long way,' Bastian replied.\n\n'Are you a prince?' asked the princess with a gracious smile.\n\n'That I may not reveal,' said Bastian.\n\n'Well, welcome in any case to our gathering!' cried Hero Hynreck. 'Will you honor us by partaking of our repast?'\n\nBastian accepted with thanks, sat down, and began to eat.\n\nFrom the conversation between the lady and the four knights Bastian learned that a tournament was to be held in the large and magnificent Silver City of Amarganth, which was not far distant. From far and near the boldest heroes, the most skillful hunters, the bravest warriors, and all manner of adventurers as well, had come to take part. Only the three bravest and best, who defeated all the others, were to have the honor of joining in a long and perilous expedition, the aim of which was to find a certain person, the so-called Savior, who was known to be somewhere in one of the numerous regions of Fantastica. Thus far no one knew his name. It appeared that at some time in the past Fantastica had been struck by disaster, but that this Savior had appeared on the scene and saved it in the nick of time by giving the Childlike Empress the name of Moon Child, by which she was now known to everyone in Fantastica. Since then he had been wandering about the country unknown, and the purpose of the expedition was to find him and keep him safe by serving him as a kind of bodyguard. Only the bravest and ablest men would be chosen for the mission, since it seemed more than likely that formidable adventures awaited them.\n\nThe tournament at which the three were to be chosen had been organized by Querquobad, the Silver Sage - the city of Amarganth was always ruled by its oldest man or woman, and Querquobad was a hundred and seven years old. The winners, however, would not be selected by him, but by one Atreyu, a young Greenskin, who was then visiting Sage Querquobad. This Atreyu was to lead the expedition. For he alone was capable of recognizing the Savior, since he had seen him once in his magic mirror.\n\nBastian listened in silence. It wasn't easy for him, for he soon realized that this Savior was his very own self. And when Atreyu's name came up, his heart laughed within him, and he found it very hard not to give himself away. But he was determined to keep his identity a secret for the present.\n\nHero Hynreck, as it turned out, was not so much concerned with the expedition as with the heart of Princess Oglamar. Bastian had seen at a glance that he was head over heels in love with the young lady. For no apparent reason he kept sighing and casting mournful glances at her. And she would pretend not to notice. As Bastian learned later on, she had vowed to marry no one but the greatest of all heroes, who proved himself able to defeat all others. She wouldn't be satisfied with less. But how could Hero Hynreck prove that he was the greatest? After all, he couldn't just go out and kill someone who had done him no harm. And as for wars, there hadn't been any for ages. He would gladly have fought monsters or demons, he would gladly have brought her a fresh dragon's tail for breakfast every morning, but far and wide there were no monsters, demons, or dragons to be found. So naturally, when the messenger from Querquobad, the Silver Sage, had invited him to the tournament, he had accepted forthwith. But Princess Oglamar had insisted on coming along, for she wanted to see his performance with her own eyes.\n\n'Everybody knows,' she said with a smile, 'that heroes are not to be believed. They all tend to exaggerate their achievements.'\n\n'Exaggeration or not,' said Hero Hynreck, 'I can assure you that I'm a better man than this legendary Savior.'\n\n'How can you know that?' Bastian asked.\n\n'Well,' said Hero Hynreck, 'if the fellow was half as strong and brave as I am, he wouldn't need a bodyguard to take care of him. He sounds kind of pathetic to me.'\n\n'How can you say such a thing!' cried Oglamar with indignation. 'Didn't he save Fantastica from destruction?'\n\n'What of it!' said Hero Hynreck with a sneer. 'That didn't take much of a hero.'\n\nBastian decided to teach him a little lesson at the first opportunity.\n\nThe three other knights had merely fallen in with the couple en route. Hykrion, who had a bristling black moustache, claimed to be the most powerful swordsman in all Fantastica. Hysbald, who had red hair and seemed frail in comparison with the others, claimed that no one was quicker and more nimble with a sword than he. And Hydorn was convinced that he had no equal for endurance in combat. His exterior seemed to support his contention, for he was tall and lean, all bone and sinew.\n\nAfter the meal they prepared to resume their journey. The crockery and provisions were packed into the saddlebags. Princess Oglamar mounted her white palfrey and trotted off without so much as a backward look at the others. Hero Hynreck leapt on his coal-black stallion and galloped after her. The three other knights offered Bastian a ride on their pack mule, which he accepted. Whereupon they started through the forest on their splendidly caparisoned steeds, while Bastian brought up the rear. Bastian's mount, an aged she-mule, dropped farther and farther behind. Bastian tried to goad her on, but instead of quickening her pace, the mule stopped still, twisted her neck to look back at him, and said: 'Don't urge me on, sire, I've lagged behind on purpose.'\n\n'Why?' Bastian asked.\n\n'Because I know who you are.'\n\n'How can that be?'\n\n'When a person is only half an ass like me, and not a complete one, she senses certain things. Even the horses had an inkling. You needn't say anything, sire. I'd have been so glad to tell my children and grandchildren that I carried the Savior on my back and was first to welcome him. Unfortunately mules don't get children.'\n\n'What's your name?' Bastian asked.\n\n'Yikka, sire.'\n\n'Look here, Yikka. Don't spoil my fun. Could you keep what you know to yourself for the time being?'\n\n'Gladly, sire.'\n\nAnd the mule trotted off to catch up with the others.\n\nThe group were waiting on a knoll at the edge of the forest, looking down with wonderment at the city of Amarganth, which lay gleaming in the sunlight before them. From the height where they stood, the travelers had a broad view over a large, violet-blue lake, surrounded on all sides by similar wooded hills. In the middle of this lake lay the Silver City of Amarganth. The houses were all supported by boats, and the larger palaces by great barges. Every house and every ship was made of finely chiseled, delicately ornamented silver. The windows and doors of the palaces great and small, the towers and balconies, were all of finely wrought silver filigree, un-equaled in all Fantastica. The lake was studded with boats of all sizes, carrying visitors to the city from the mainland. Hero Hynreck and his companions hastened down to the shore, where a silver ferry with a magnificently curved prow was waiting. There was room in it for the whole company, horses, pack mule, and all.\n\nOn the way over, Bastian learned from the ferryman, whose clothes were of woven silver, that the violet-blue water of the lake was so salty and bitter that only silver, and a special kind of silver at that, could withstand its corrosive action for any length of time. The name of this lake was Moru, or Lake of Tears. In times long past the people of Amarganth had ferried their city to the middle of the lake to protect it from invasion, since ships of wood or iron were quick to disintegrate in the acrid water. And at present there was yet another reason for leaving Amarganth in the middle of the lake, for the inhabitants had got into the habit of regrouping their houses and moving their streets and squares about when the fancy struck them. Suppose, for instance, that two families, living at opposite ends of town, made friends or intermarried. Why, then they would simply move their silver ships close together and become neighbors.\n\nBastian would gladly have heard more, but the ferry had reached the city, and he had to get out with his traveling companions.\n\nTheir first concern was to find lodgings for themselves and their mounts - no easy matter, since Amarganth was literally overrun by visitors who had come from far and near for the tournament. At length they found lodgings in an inn.\n\nAfter taking the she-mule to the stable, Bastian whispered in her ear: 'Don't forget your promise, Yikka. I'll be seeing you soon again.'\n\nYikka nodded.\n\nThen Bastian told his traveling companions that he didn't wish to be a burden to them any longer and would look about the town on his own. After thanking them for their kindness, he took his leave. Actually he was intent on finding Atreyu.\n\nThe large and small boats were connected by gangplanks, some so narrow that only one person could cross them at a time, others as wide as good-sized streets. There were also arched bridges with roofs over them, and in the canals between the palace-ships hundreds of small boats were moving back and forth. But wherever you went or stood, you felt a gentle rise and fall underfoot, just enough to remind you that the whole city was afloat.\n\nThe visitors, who had literally flooded the city, were so varied and colorful that it would take a whole book to describe them. The Amarganthians were easy to recognize, for they all wore clothes of a silver fabric that was almost as fine as Bastian's mantle. Their hair too was silver; they were tall and well-built, and their eyes were as violet-blue as Moru, the Lake of Tears. Most of the visitors were not quite so attractive. There were muscle-bound giants with heads that seemed no larger than apples between their huge shoulders. There were sinister-looking night-rowdies, bold, solitary individuals whom, as one could see at a glance, it was best not to tangle with. There were flimflams with shifty eyes and nimble fingers, and berserkers with smoke coming out of their mouths and noses. There were topsy-turvies who spun like living tops and woodgoblins who trotted about on gnarled, crooked legs, carrying stout clubs over their shoulders. Once Bastian even saw a rock chewer, with teeth like steel chisels jutting out of his mouth. The silver gangplank bent under his weight as he came stomping along. But before Bastian could ask him if by any chance he was Pyornkrachzark, he had vanished in the crowd.\n\nAt length Bastian reached the center of the city, where the tournament was already in full swing. In a circular open space that looked like a giant arena, hundreds of contestants were measuring their strength, showing their mettle. Around the edges a crowd of onlookers egged the participants on, and the windows and balconies of the surrounding palace-ships were packed with enthusiasts. Some had even managed to climb up on the filigree-ornamented roofs.\n\nAt first Bastian paid little attention to the tournament. He was looking for Atreyu, feeling sure that he must be somewhere in the crowd. Then he noticed that the onlookers kept turning expectantly toward one of the palaces - especially when a contestant had performed some particularly impressive feat. But before he could get a good look at the palace, Bastian had to thrust his way across one of the bridges and climb a sort of lamppost.\n\nTwo silver chairs had been set up on a wide balcony. In one sat an aged man whose silver beard and hair hung down to his waist. That must be Querquobad, the Silver Sage. Beside him sat a boy of about Bastian's age. He was wearing long trousers made of soft leather, but he was bare from the waist up, and Bastian saw that his skin was olive green. The expression of his lean face was grave, almost stern. His long, blue-black hair was gathered together and held back by leather thongs. Over his shoulders he wore a purple cloak. He was looking calmly and yet somehow eagerly down at the arena. Nothing seemed to escape his dark eyes. Who could it be but Atreyu!\n\nAt that moment an enormous face appeared in the open balcony door behind Atreyu. It looked rather like a lion's, except that it had white mother-of-pearl scales instead of fur, and long white fangs jutted out of the mouth. The eyeballs sparkled ruby red, and when the head rose high above Atreyu, Bastian saw that it rested on a long, supple neck, from which hung a mane that looked like white fire. Of course, it was Falkor the luckdragon, and he seemed to be whispering something in Atreyu's ear, for Atreyu nodded.\n\nBastian slid down the lamppost. He had seen enough. Now he could watch the tournament.\n\n'Tournament' was hardly the right word. The contests that were in progress added up to something more like a big circus. There was a wrestling match between two giants, who twined their bodies into one huge knot that kept rolling this way and that; individuals of like or divergent species vied with one another in swordsmanship or in skill at handling the club or the lance, but none had any serious intention of killing his adversary. The rules called for fair fighting and the strictest self-control. Any contestant so misled by anger or ambition as to injure an opponent seriously would have been automatically disqualified.\n\nMany defeated combatants had left the arena when Bastian saw Hykrion the Strong, Hysbald the Swift, and Hydorn the Enduring make their appearance. Hero Hynreck and Princess Oglamar were not with them.\n\nBy then there were scarcely more than a hundred contestants left. Since these were a selection from among the best and strongest, Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn had a much harder time of it than they may have expected. It took all afternoon for Hykrion to prove himself the strongest among the strong, Hysbald the swiftest among the swift, and Hydorn the most enduring among the enduring. The onlookers applauded with a will and all three bowed in the direction of the balcony, where Silver Sage Querquobad and Atreyu were sitting. Atreyu was getting up to say something when yet another contestant appeared - Hynreck. An expectant silence fell and Atreyu sat down. Since only three men were to accompany him on his expedition, there was one too many in the field. One would have to withdraw.\n\n'Sires,' said Hynreck in a loud voice, 'I would not suggest that your strength can have been impaired by the little display you have just made of your abilities. Under the circumstances, however, it would be unworthy of me to challenge you singly. Since I have thus far seen no adversary up to my standards, I have not participated in the contests. Consequently, I am still fresh. If any of you should feel too exhausted, he is free to stand aside. Otherwise, I am prepared to face all three of you at once. Any objections?'\n\n'No!' replied all three in unison.\n\nA furious battle followed. Hykrion's blows had lost none of their force, but Hero Hynreck was stronger. Hysbald assailed him from all sides like streaks of lightning, but Hynreck was quicker. Hydorn tried to wear him down, but Hero Hynreck had greater endurance. After barely ten minutes all three were disarmed and all three bent their knees to Hero Hynreck. He looked proudly about him, evidently hoping for an admiring glance from his lady, who must have been somewhere in the crowd. The cheers of the onlookers swept over the arena like a hurricane and could no doubt be heard on the farthermost shore of Lake Moru.\n\nWhen the applause died down, Querquobad, the Silver Sage, stood up and asked in a loud voice: 'Does anyone wish to oppose Hero Hynreck?'\n\nA hush fell on the crowd. Then a boy's voice was heard: 'Yes! I do!'\n\nAll eyes turned toward Bastian. The crowd opened a path for him and he strode into the arena. Cries of amazement and pity were heard. 'How handsome he is!' 'What a shame!' 'This must be stopped!'\n\n'Who are you?' asked Silver Sage Querquobad.\n\n'I will reveal my name afterward,' said Bastian.\n\nHe saw that Atreyu had narrowed his eyes and was studying him closely, but had not yet made up his mind.\n\n'Young friend,' said Hero Hynreck. 'We have eaten and drunk together. Why do you want me to put you to shame? I pray you, withdraw your challenge and go away.'\n\n'No,' said Bastian. 'I meant what I said.'\n\nHero Hynreck hesitated a moment. Then he said: 'It would be wrong of me to measure myself in combat with you. Let us first see who can shoot an arrow higher.'\n\n'Very well!' said Bastian.\n\nA stout bow and an arrow were brought for each of them. Hynreck drew the bowstring and shot the arrow so high that the eye could not follow. At almost the same moment Bastian pulled his bowstring and shot his arrow after it.\n\nIt was some time before the arrows came down and fell to the ground between the two archers. Then it became evident that Bastian's red-feathered arrow had struck Hero Hynreck's blue-feathered arrow at its apogee with such force as to split it open and wedge itself into it.\n\nHero Hynreck stared at the telescoped arrows. He had turned rather pale, but his cheeks had broken out in red spots.\n\n'That can only be an accident,' he muttered. 'Let's see who does better with the foils.'\n\nHe asked for two foils and two decks of cards. Both were brought. He shuffled both decks of cards carefully.\n\nThen he threw one deck high into the air, drew his blade with the speed of lightning, and thrust. When all the other cards had fallen to the ground, it could be seen that he had struck the ace of hearts in the center of its one heart. And holding up his foil with the card spitted on it, he again looked about for his lady.\n\nThen Bastian tossed the other deck into the air and his blade flashed. Not a single card fell to the ground. He had pierced all fifty-two cards of the deck exactly in the middle and moreover in the right order - though Hero Hynreck had shuffled them ever so carefully.\n\nHero Hynreck looked at the cards. He said nothing, but his lips trembled.\n\n'But you won't outdo me in strength,' he stammered finally.\n\nA number of weights were still lying about from the previous contests. He seized the heaviest and slowly, straining every muscle, lifted it. But before he could set it down, Bastian had grabbed hold of him and lifted him along with the weight. Hero Hynreck's face took on a look of such misery that some of the onlookers could not repress a smile.\n\n'Thus far,' said Bastian, 'you have chosen the nature of our contests. Will you allow me to suggest something?'\n\nHero Hynreck nodded in silence. 'Nothing can daunt my courage.'\n\n'In that case,' said Bastian, 'I propose a swimming race. Across the Lake of Tears.'\n\nA breathless silence fell on the assemblage.\n\nHero Hynreck turned red and pale by turns.\n\n'That's no test of courage,' he expostulated. 'It's madness.'\n\n'I'm ready,' said Bastian.\n\nAt that Hero Hynreck lost his self-control.\n\n'No!' he shouted, stamping his foot. 'You know as well as I do that the water of Moru dissolves everything. It would be certain death.'\n\n'I'm not afraid,' said Bastian calmly. 'I've crossed the Desert of Colors. I've eaten and drunk the fire of the Many-Colored Death and bathed in it. I'm not afraid of any water.'\n\n'You're lying!' roared Hero Hynreck, purple with rage. 'No one in all Fantastica can survive the Many-Colored Death. Any child knows that.'\n\n'Hero Hynreck,' said Bastian slowly. 'Instead of calling me a liar, why not admit that you're just plain scared?'\n\nThat was too much for Hero Hynreck. Beside himself with rage, he drew his big sword from its sheath and flung himself on Bastian. Bastian stepped back. He was about to say a word of warning, but Hero Hynreck didn't leave him time. He struck out in earnest, and in that same moment the sword Sikanda leapt from its rusty sheath into Bastian's hand, and began to dance.\n\nWhat happened next was so amazing that not one of the onlookers would forget it as long as he lived. Luckily Bastian couldn't let go of the hilt and was obliged to follow all Sikanda's lightninglike movements. First it sliced Hero Hynreck's lovely armor into little pieces. They flew in all directions, but his skin was not even scratched. Hero Hynreck swung his sword like a madman in a desperate effort to defend himself, but he was blinded by Sikanda's whirling light, and none of his blows struck home. At length he was stripped to his underclothes, but still he went on fighting. And then Sikanda cut his weapon into little bits so quickly that what had been a whole sword only a moment before fell tinkling to the ground like a pile of coins. Hero Hynreck stared aghast at the useless hilt, dropped it, and hung his head. Sikanda left Bastian's hand and flew back into its rusty sheath.\n\nA cry of admiration rose from a thousand throats. The onlookers stormed the arena, seized Bastian, lifted him onto their shoulders, and carried him around in triumph. From his lofty perch Bastian looked for Hero Hynreck. He felt sorry for the poor fellow and wanted to give him a kind word; he hadn't intended to make such a fool out of him. But Hero Hynreck was nowhere to be seen.\n\nThen silence fell. The crowd moved aside. There stood Atreyu, smiling up at Bastian. Bastian smiled back. His bearers let him down from their shoulders. For a long while the two boys looked at each other in silence. Then Atreyu spoke:\n\n'If I still needed someone to accompany me on the search for the Savior of Fantastica, I would content myself with just this one, for he is worth more than a hundred others. But I need no companion, because there will be no expedition.'\n\nA murmur of surprise and disappointment was heard.\n\n'The Savior of Fantastica has no need of our protection,' Atreyu went on, raising his voice, 'for he can defend himself better than all of us together could defend him. And we have no need to look for him, because he has already found us. I didn't recognize him at first, for when I saw him in the Magic Mirror Gate of the Southern Oracle, he was different from now - entirely different. But I didn't forget the look in his eyes. It's the same look that I see now. I couldn't be mistaken.'\n\nBastian shook his head and said with a smile: 'You're not mistaken, Atreyu. It was you who brought me to the Childlike Empress to give her a new name. And for that I thank you.'\n\nAn awed whisper passed over the crowd like a gust of wind.\n\n'You promised,' Atreyu replied, 'to tell me your name, which is known to no one in Fantastica except the Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes. Will you tell us now?'\n\n'My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\nAt that the onlookers could contain themselves no longer. Their rejoicing exploded in a thousand cheers. Many of them started dancing. Bridges and gangplanks, the whole square for that matter, began to sway.\n\nLaughing, Atreyu held out his hand to Bastian. Bastian took it, and so - hand in hand - they went to the palace. Silver Sage Querquobad and Falkor the luckdragon were waiting on the palace steps.\n\nThat night the city of Amarganth staged the finest celebration in all its history. All who had legs, long or short, straight or crooked, danced, and all who had voices, sweet or sour, high or low, sang and laughed.\n\nWhen night fell, the Amarganthians lit thousands of colored lamps on their silver ships and palaces. And at midnight there were fireworks such as had never been seen in Fantastica. Bastian stood on the balcony with Atreyu. To the left and right of them stood Falkor and Silver Sage Querquobad, watching as sheaves of many-colored light and the Silver City's thousands of lamps were reflected in the dark waters of Moru, the Lake of Tears.\n\n# XVII\n\n# _A Dragon for Hero Hynreck_\n\nQUERQUOBAD, the Silver Sage, had slumped down in his chair asleep, for already the hour was late. Consequently, he missed an experience more beautiful and more extraordinary than any he had known in the hundred and seven years of his life. And so did many others in Amarganth, citizens as well as visitors, who, exhausted by the festivities, had gone to bed. Only a few were still awake, and those few were uniquely privileged:\n\nFalkor, the white luckdragon, was singing.\n\nHigh in the night sky, he flew in circles over the Lake of Tears, and let his bell-like voice ring out in a song without words, a simple, grandiose song of pure joy. The hearts of all those who heard it opened wide.\n\nAnd so it was with Bastian and Atreyu, who were sitting side by side on the broad balcony of Querquobad's palace. Neither had ever heard the song of a luckdragon before. Hand in hand, they listened in silent delight. Each knew that the other shared his feeling, a feeling of joy at having found a friend. And they took care not to spoil it with idle words.\n\nThe great hour passed. Falkor's song grew faint and gradually died away.\n\nWhen all was still, Querquobad woke up and excused himself: 'I'm afraid,' he said, 'that old men like me need their sleep. I'm sure you youngsters will forgive me, I must really be off to bed.'\n\nThey wished him a good night and Querquobad left them.\n\nAgain the two friends sat for a long while in silence, looking up at the night sky, where the luckdragon was still flying in great slow circles. From time to time he passed across the full moon like a drifting cloud.\n\n'Doesn't Falkor ever sleep?' Bastian asked finally.\n\n'He's asleep now,' Atreyu replied.\n\n'In the air?'\n\n'Oh yes. He doesn't like to stay in houses, even when they're as big as Querquobad's palace. He feels cramped. He's just too big and he's afraid of knocking things over. So he usually sleeps way up in the air.'\n\n'Do you think he'd let me ride him sometime?'\n\n'Of course he would,' said Atreyu. 'Though it's not so easy. You've got to get used to it.'\n\n'I've already ridden Grograman,' said Bastian.\n\nAtreyu nodded and looked at him with admiration.\n\n'So you said during your contest with Hero Hynreck. How did you tame the Many-Colored Death?'\n\n'I have AURYN,' said Bastian.\n\n'Oh!' said Atreyu. He seemed surprised, but he said nothing more.\n\nBastian took the Childlike Empress's emblem from under his shirt and showed it to Atreyu. Atreyu looked at it for a while. Then he muttered: 'So now you are wearing the Gem.'\n\nThinking he detected a note of displeasure, Bastian hastened to ask: 'Would you like to have it back?'\n\nHe started undoing the chain.\n\n'No!'\n\nAtreyu's voice sounded almost harsh, and Bastian wondered what was wrong. Atreyu smiled apologetically and repeated gently: 'No, Bastian, I haven't worn it in a long while.'\n\n'As you like,' said Bastian. Then he turned the amulet over. 'Look,' he said. 'Have you seen the inscription?'\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu. 'I've seen it, but I don't know what it says.'\n\n'How come?'\n\n'Greenskins can read tracks in the forest, but not letters.' This time it was Bastian who said: 'Oh!'\n\n'What does it say?' Atreyu asked.\n\n' \"DO WHAT YOU WISH,\"' Bastian read.\n\nAtreyu stared at the amulet.\n\n'So that's what it says.' His face revealed nothing, and Bastian couldn't guess what he was thinking.\n\n'If you had known,' he asked, 'would it have changed anything for you?'\n\n'No,' said Atreyu. 'I did what I wanted to do.'\n\n'That's true,' said Bastian, and nodded.\n\nAgain they were both silent for a time.\n\n'There's something I have to ask you,' said Bastian finally. 'You said I looked different from when you saw me in the Magic Mirror Gate.'\n\n'Yes, entirely different.'\n\n'In what way?'\n\n'You were fat and pale and you were wearing different clothes.'\n\nBastian smiled. 'Fat and pale?' he asked incredulously. 'Are you sure it was me?' 'Wasn't it?'\n\nBastian thought it over.\n\n'You saw me. I know that. But I've always been the way I am now.'\n\n'Really and truly?'\n\n'I should know. Shouldn't I?' Bastian cried.\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu, looking at him thoughtfully. 'YOU should know.'\n\n'Maybe it was a deforming mirror.'\n\nAtreyu shook his head.\n\n'I don't think so.'\n\n'Then how do you explain your seeing me that way?'\n\n'I don't know,' Atreyu admitted. 'I only know that I wasn't mistaken.'\n\nAfter that they were silent for a long while, and at length they went to sleep.\n\nAs Bastian lay in his bed, the head and foot of which were made of the finest silver filigree, his conversation with Atreyu ran through his head. Somehow it seemed to him that Atreyu was less impressed by his victory over Hero Hynreck and even by his stay with Grograman since he heard that he, Bastian, was wearing the Gem. And true enough, he thought, maybe his feats didn't amount to much, considering that he had the amulet to protect him. But he wanted to win Atreyu's wholehearted admiration.\n\nHe thought and thought. There had to be something that no one in Fantastica could do, even with the amulet. Something of which only he, Bastian, was capable.\n\nAt last it came to him: making up stories.\n\nTime and time again he had heard it said that no one in Fantastica could create anything new. Even the voice of Uyulala had said something of the kind. And just that was his special gift. He would show Atreyu that he, Bastian, was a great storyteller.\n\nHe resolved to prove himself to his friend at the first opportunity. Maybe the very next day. For instance, there might be a storytelling contest, and he would put all others in the shade with his inventions!\n\nOr better still: suppose all the stories he told should come true! Hadn't Grograman said that Fantastica was the land of stories and that even something long past could be born again if it occurred in a story.\n\nAtreyu would be amazed!\n\nAnd while picturing Atreyu's amazement, Bastian fell asleep.\n\nThe next morning, as they were enjoying a copious breakfast in the banquet hall of the palace, Silver Sage Querquobad said: 'We have decided to hold a very special sort of festival for the benefit of our guest, the Savior of Fantastica, and his friend, who brought him to us. Perhaps, Bastian Balthazar Bux, it is unknown to you that in keeping with an age-old tradition we Amarganthians have always been the ballad singers and storytellers of Fantastica. From an early age our children are instructed in these skills. When they grow to adulthood they journey from country to country for several years, practising their art for the benefit of all. Everywhere they are welcomed with joy and respect. But we have one regret: Quite frankly, our stock of stories is small. And many of us must share this little. But word has gone round - whether true or not, I don't know - that you, in your world, are famous for your stories. Is that the truth?'\n\n'Yes,' said Bastian. 'They even made fun of me for it.'\n\nSilver Sage Querquobad raised his eyebrows in disbelief.\n\n'Made fun of you for telling stories that no one had ever heard? How is that possible? None of us can make up new stories, and we, my fellow citizens and I, would all be infinitely grateful if you would give us a few. Will you help us with your genius?'\n\n'With pleasure,' said Bastian.\n\nAfter breakfast Bastian, Atreyu, and the Silver Sage went out to the steps of Querquobad's palace, where Falkor was already waiting for them.\n\nA large crowd had gathered, but on this occasion it included few of the outsiders who had come for the tournament and consisted largely of Amarganthians, men, women, and children, all comely and blue-eyed, and all clad in silver. Most were carrying stringed instruments, harps, lyres, guitars, or lutes, all of silver. For almost everyone there hoped to display his art in the presence of Bastian and Atreyu.\n\nAgain chairs had been put in place. Bastian sat in the middle between Querquobad and Atreyu, and Falkor stood behind them.\n\nQuerquobad clapped his hands. When the crowd fell silent, he announced: 'The great storyteller is going to grant our wish and make us a present of some new stories. Therefore, friends, give us your best, to put him in the right mood.'\n\nThe Amarganthians all bowed low. Then the first stepped forward and began to recite. After him came another and still others. All had fine, resonant voices and told their stories well.\n\nSome of their tales were exciting, others merry or sad, but it would take us too long to tell them here. In all, there were no more than a hundred different stories. Then they began to repeat themselves. Those who came last could only tell what their predecessors had told before them.\n\nBastian grew more and more agitated while waiting for his turn. His last night's wish had been fulfilled to the letter, and he could hardly bear the excitement of waiting to see whether everything else would come true as well. He kept casting glances at Atreyu, but Atreyu's face was impassive, showing no sign of what he might be thinking.\n\nAt length Querquobad bade his compatriots desist and turned to Bastian with a sigh: 'I told you, Bastian Balthazar Bux, that our stock of tales was small. It's not our fault. Won't you give us a few of yours?'\n\n'I will give you all the stories I've ever told,' said Bastian, 'for I can always think up new ones. I told many of them to a little girl named Kris Ta, but most I thought up only for myself. No one else has heard them. But it would take weeks and months to tell them all, and we can't stay with you that long. So I've decided to tell you a story that contains all the others in it. It's called \"The Story of the Library of Amarganth,\" and it's very short.' Then after a moment's thought he plunged in:\n\n'In the gray dawn of time, the city of Amarganth was ruled by a Silver Sagess named Quana. In those long-past days Moru, the Lake of Tears, hadn't been made yet, nor was Amarganth built of the special silver that withstands the water of Moru. It was still like other cities with houses of stone and wood. And it lay in a valley among wooded hills.\n\n'Quana had a son named Quin, who was a great hunter. One day in the forest Quin caught sight of a unicorn, which had a glittering stone at the end of its horn. He killed the beast and took the stone home with him. His crime (for it is a crime to kill unicorns) brought misfortune on the city. From then on fewer and fewer children were born to the inhabitants. If no remedy were found, the city would die out. But the unicorn couldn't be brought back to life, and no one knew what to do.\n\n'Quana, the Silver Sagess, sent a messenger to consult Uyulala in the Southern Oracle. But the Southern Oracle was far away. The messenger was young when he started out, but old by the time he got back. Quana had long been dead and her son Quin had taken her place. He too, of course, was very old, as were all the other inhabitants. There were only two children left, a boy and a girl. His name was Aquil, hers was Muqua.\n\n'The messenger reported what Uyulala's voice had revealed. The only way of preserving Amarganth was to make it the most beautiful city in all Fantastica. That alone would make amends for Quin's crime. But to do so the Amarganthians would need the help of the Acharis, who are the ugliest beings in Fantastica. Because they are so ugly they weep uninterruptedly, and for that reason they are also known as the Weepers. Their stream of tears wash the special silver deep down in the earth, and from it they make the most wonderful filigree.\n\n'All the Amarganthians went looking for the Acharis, but were unable to find them, for they live deep down in the earth. At length only Aquil and Muqua were left. They had grown up and all the others had died. Together they managed to find the Acharis and persuade them to make Amarganth the most beautiful city in Fantastica.\n\n'First the Acharis built a small filigree palace, set it on a silver barge, and moved it to the marketplace of the dead city. Then they made their streams of underground tears well up in the valley among the wooded hills. The bitter water filled the valley and became Moru, the Lake of Tears. On it the first silver palace floated, and in the palace dwelt Aquil and Muqua.\n\n'But the Acharis had granted the plea of Aquil and Muqua on one condition, namely, that they and all their descendants should devote their lives to ballad singing and storytelling. As long as they did so, the Acharis would help them, because then their ugliness would help to create beauty.\n\n'So Aquil and Muqua founded a library - the famous library of Amarganth - in which they stored up all my stories. They began with the one you have just heard, but little by little they added all those I have ever told, and in the end there were so many stories that their numerous descendants, who now inhabit the Silver City, will never come to the end of them.\n\n'If Amarganth, the most beautiful city in Fantastica, is still in existence today, it is because the Acharis and the Amarganthians kept their promise to each other - though today the Amarganthians have quite forgotten the Acharis and the Acharis have quite forgotten the Amarganthians. Only the name of Moru, the Lake of Tears, recalls that episode from the gray dawn of history.'\n\nWhen Bastian had finished, Silver Sage Querquobad rose slowly from his chair.\n\n'Bastian Balthazar Bux,' he said, smiling blissfully. 'You have given us more than a story and more than all the stories in the world. You have given us our own history. Now we know where Moru and the silver ships and palaces on it came from. Now we know why we have always, from the earliest times, been a people of ballad singers and storytellers. And best of all, we know what is in that great round building in the middle of the city, which none of us, since the founding of Amarganth, has ever entered, because it has always been locked. It contains our greatest treasure and we never knew it. It contains the library of Amarganth.'\n\nBastian himself could hardly believe it. Everything in his story had become reality (or had it always been? Grograman would probably have said: both!). In any event he was eager to see all this with his own eyes.\n\n'Where is this building?' he asked.\n\n'I will show you,' said Querquobad, and turning to the crowd, he cried: 'Come along, all of you! Perhaps we shall be favored with more wonders.'\n\nA long procession, headed by the Silver Sage, Bastian, and Atreyu, moved over the gangplanks connecting the silver ships with one another and finally stopped outside a large building which rested on a circular ship and was shaped like a huge silver box. The outside walls were smooth, without ornaments or windows. It had only one large door, and that door was locked.\n\nIn the center of the smooth silver door there was a stone set in a kind of ring. It looked like a piece of common glass. Over it the following inscription could be read:\n\nRemoved from the unicorn's horn, I lost my light. I shall keep the door locked until my light is rekindled by him who calls me by name.\n\nFor him I will shine a hundred years.\n\nI will guide him in the dark depths of Yor's Minroud.\n\nBut if he says my name a second time from the end to the beginning, I will glow in one moment with the light of a hundred years.\n\n'None of us can interpret this inscription,' said Querquobad. 'None of us knows what the words \"Yor's Minroud\" mean.\n\nNone of us to this day has ever discovered the stone's name, though we have all tried time and again. For we can only use names that already exist in Fantastica. And since these are all names of other things, none of us has made the stone glow or opened the door. Can you find the name, Bastian Balthazar Bux?'\n\nA deep, expectant silence fell on the Amarganthians and non-Amarganthians alike.\n\n'Al Tsahir!' cried Bastian.\n\nIn that moment the stone glowed bright and jumped straight from its setting into Bastian's hand. The door opened.\n\nA gasp of amazement arose from a thousand throats.\n\nHolding the glowing stone in his hand, Bastian entered the building, followed by Querquobad and Atreyu. The crowd surged in behind them.\n\nIt was dark in the large circular room and Bastian held the stone high. Though brighter than a candle, it was not enough to light the whole room but showed only that the walls were lined with tier upon tier of books.\n\nAttendants appeared with lamps. In the bright light it could be seen that the walls of books were divided into sections, bearing signs such as 'Funny Stories,' 'Serious Stories,' 'Exciting Stories,' and so on.\n\nIn the center of the circular room, the floor was inlaid with an inscription so large that no one could fail to see it:\n\nLIBRARY OF THE COLLECTED WORKS OF BASTIAN BALTHAZAR BUX\n\nAtreyu looked around in amazement. Bastian saw to his delight that his friend was overcome with admiration.\n\n'Is it true,' asked Atreyu, pointing at the silver shelves all around, 'that you made up all those stories?'\n\n'Yes,' said Bastian, slipping Al Tsahir into his pocket.\n\nAtreyu could only stand and gape.\n\n'I just can't understand it,' he said.\n\nThe Amarganthians had flung themselves on the books and were leafing through them or reading to one another. Some sat down on the floor and began to learn passages by heart.\n\nNews of the great event spread through the whole city like wildfire.\n\nAs Bastian and Atreyu were leaving the library, they ran into Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn.\n\n'Sir Bastian,' said the red-haired Hysbald, evidently the deftest of the three not only with the sword but with his tongue as well, 'we have heard about your incomparable gifts, and humbly pray you: Take us into your service and let us accompany you on your further travels. Each one of us longs to acquire a story of his own. And though you surely have no need of our protection, you may derive some advantage from the service of three such able and willing knights. Will you have us?'\n\n'Gladly,' said Bastian. 'Anyone would be proud of such companions.'\n\nThe three knights wished to swear fealty by Bastian's sword, but he held them back.\n\n'Sikanda,' he explained, 'is a magic sword. No one can touch it without mortal peril, unless he has eaten, drunk, and bathed in the fire of the Many-Colored Death.'\n\nSo they had to content themselves with a friendly handshake.\n\n'What has become of Hero Hynreck?' Bastian asked.\n\n'He's a broken man,' said Hykrion.\n\n'Because of his lady,' Hydorn added.\n\n'Perhaps you can do something to help him,' said Hysbald.\n\nAll five of them went to the inn where they had stopped on their arrival in Amarganth and where Bastian had brought Yikka to the stable.\n\nWhen they entered, one man was sitting there, bent over the table, his hands buried in his fair hair. The man was Hynreck.\n\nEvidently he had had a change of armor in his luggage, for the outfit he was now wearing was rather simpler than the one that had been cut to pieces the day before.\n\nIn response to Bastian's greeting, he merely stared. His eyes were rimmed with red.\n\nWhen Bastian asked leave to sit down with him, he shrugged his shoulders, nodded, and sank back in his chair. Before him on the table was a sheet of paper, which looked as if it had been many times crumpled and smoothed out again.\n\n'Can you forgive me?' said Bastian.\n\nHero Hynreck shook his head.\n\n'It's all over for me,' he said mournfully. 'Here. Read it.'\n\nHe pushed the note across the table, and Bastian read it.\n\n'I want only the best. You have failed me. Farewell.'\n\n'From Princess Oglamar?' Bastian asked.\n\nHero Hynreck nodded.\n\n'Immediately after our contest, she mounted her palfrey and rode off to the ferry. God knows where she is now. I'll never see her again.'\n\n'Can't we overtake her?'\n\n'What for?'\n\n'Maybe she'll change her mind.'\n\nHero Hynreck gave a bitter laugh.\n\n'You don't know Princess Oglamar,' he said. 'I trained more than ten years to acquire my different skills. With iron discipline I avoided everything that could have impaired my physique. I fenced with the greatest fencing masters and wrestled with the greatest wrestlers, until I could beat them all. I can run faster than a horse, jump higher than a deer. I am best at everything - or rather, I was until yesterday. At the start she wouldn't honor me with a glance, but little by little my accomplishments aroused her interest. I had every reason to hope - and now I see it was all in vain. How can I live without hope?'\n\n'Maybe,' Bastian suggested, 'you should forget Princess Oglamar. There must be others you could love just as much.'\n\n'No,' said Hero Hynreck. 'I love Princess Oglamar just because she won't be satisfied with any but the greatest.'\n\n'I see,' said Bastian. 'That makes it difficult. What _could_ you do? Maybe you could take up a different trade. How about singing? Or poetry?'\n\nHynreck seemed rather annoyed. 'No,' he said flatly. 'I'm a hero and that's that. I can't change my profession and I don't want to. I am what I am.'\n\n'I see,' said Bastian.\n\nAll were silent for a time. The three knights cast sympathetic glances at Hero Hynreck. They understood his plight. Finally Hysbald cleared his throat and turned to Bastian.\n\n'Sir Bastian,' he said. 'I think you could help him.'\n\nBastian looked at Atreyu, but Atreyu had put on his impenetrable face.\n\n'A hero like Hynreck,' said Hydorn, 'is really to be pitied in a world without monsters. See what I mean?'\n\nNo, Bastian didn't see. Not yet at any rate.\n\n'Monsters,' said Hykrion, winking at Bastian and stroking his huge moustache, 'monsters are indispensable if a hero is to be a hero.'\n\nAt last Bastian understood.\n\n'Listen to me, Hero Hynreck,' he said. 'When I suggested giving your heart to another lady, I was only putting your love to the test. The truth is that Princess Oglamar needs your help right now, and that no one else can save her.'\n\nHero Hynreck pricked up his ears.\n\n'Is that true, Sir Bastian?'\n\n'It's true, as you will soon see. Only a few minutes ago Princess Oglamar was seized and kidnapped.'\n\n'By whom?'\n\n'By one of the most terrible monsters that have ever existed in Fantastica. The dragon Smerg. She was riding across a clearing in the woods when the monster saw her from the air, swooped down, lifted her off her palfrey's back, and carried her away.'\n\nHynreck jumped up. His eyes flashed, his cheeks were aglow. He clapped his hands for joy. But then the light went out of his eyes and he sat down.\n\n'That's not possible,' he said. 'There are no more dragons anywhere.'\n\n'You forget, Hero Hynreck, that I come from far away. From much farther than you have ever been.'\n\n'That's true,' said Atreyu, joining in for the first time.\n\n'And this monster really carried her away?' Hero Hynreck cried. Then he pressed both hands to his heart and sighed: 'Oh, my adored Oglamar! How you must be suffering! But never fear, your knight is coming, he is on his way. Tell me, what must I do? Where must I go?'\n\n'Far, far from here,' Bastian began, 'there's a country called Morgul, or the Land of the Cold Fire, because flames there are colder than ice. How you are to reach that country, I can't tell you, you must find out for yourself. In the center of Morgul there is a petrified forest called Wodgabay. And in the center of that petrified forest stands the leaden castle of Ragar. It is surrounded by three moats. The first is full of arsenic, the second of steaming nitric acid, and the third is swarming with scorpions as big as your feet. There are no bridges across them, for the lord of the leaden castle is Smerg, the winged monster. His wings are made of slimy skin and their spread is a hundred feet. When he isn't flying, he stands on his hind legs like a gigantic kangaroo. He has the body of a mangy rat and the tail of a scorpion, with a sting at the end of it. The merest touch of that sting is fatal. He has the hind legs of a giant grasshopper. His forelegs, however, which look small and shriveled, resemble the hands of a small child. But don't let them fool you, there's a deadly power in those hands. He can pull in his long neck as a snail does its feelers. There are three heads on it. One is large and looks like the head of a crocodile. From its mouth he can spit icy fire. But where a crocodile has its eyes, it has two protuberances. These are extra heads. One resembles the head of an old man. With it he can see and hear. But he talks with the second head, which has the wrinkled face of an old woman.'\n\nWhile listening to this description, Hero Hynreck went pale.\n\n'What was this monster's name?' he asked.\n\n'Smerg,' Bastian repeated. 'He has been wreaking his mischief for a thousand years. Because that's how old he is. It's always a beautiful maiden that he kidnaps, and she has to keep house for him until the end of her days. When she dies, he kidnaps another.'\n\n'Why haven't I ever heard of this dragon?'\n\n'Smerg flies incredibly far and fast. Up to now he has always chosen other parts of Fantastica for his raids. Besides, they only happen once in every fifty years or so.'\n\n'Hasn't any of these maidens ever been rescued?'\n\n'No, that would take a very special sort of hero.'\n\nThese words brought the color back to Hero Hynreck's cheeks. And remembering what he had learned about dragons, he asked: 'Has this Smerg a vulnerable spot?'\n\n'Oh,' said Bastian, 'I almost forgot. In the bottommost cellar of Ragar Castle there's a lead ax. It's the only weapon Smerg can be killed with, so naturally he guards it well. You have to cut off the two smaller heads with it.'\n\n'How do you know all this?' asked Hero Hynreck.\n\nBastian didn't have to answer, for at that moment cries of terror were heard in the street.\n\n'A dragon!' - 'A monster!' - 'Up there in the sky!' - 'Horrible!' - 'He's coming this way!' - 'Run for your lives!' - 'No, he's already got somebody!'\n\nHero Hynreck rushed out into the street, and all the others followed.\n\nUp in the sky something that looked like a giant bat was flapping its enormous wings. For a moment, as it came closer, he looked exactly as Bastian had just made him up. And in his two shriveled, but oh so dangerous little arms, he was clutching a young lady, who was screaming and struggling with all her might.\n\n'Hynreck!' she screamed. 'Hynreck! Hynreck, my hero! Help!'\n\nAnd then they were gone.\n\nHynreck had already brought his black stallion from the stable and boarded one of the silver ferries that crossed to the mainland.\n\n'Faster! Faster!' he could be heard shouting at the ferryman. 'I'll give you anything you ask! But hurry!'\n\nBastian looked after him and muttered: 'I only hope I haven't made it too hard for him.'\n\nAtreyu cast a sidelong glance at Bastian. Then he said softly: 'Maybe we should get going too.'\n\n'Going where?'\n\n'I brought you to Fantastica,' said Atreyu. 'I think I ought to help you find the way back to your own world. You mean to go back sooner or later, don't you?'\n\n'Oh,' said Bastian. 'I hadn't thought about it. But you're right, Atreyu. Yes, of course you are.'\n\n'You saved Fantastica,' Atreyu went on. 'And it seems to me you've received quite a lot in return. I have a hunch that you're aching to go home and make your own world well again. Or is there something that keeps you here?'\n\nBastian, who had forgotten that he hadn't always been strong, handsome, and brave, replied: 'No, I can't think of anything.'\n\nAtreyu gave his friend a thoughtful look, and said: 'It may be a long, hard journey. Who knows?'\n\n'Yes,' Bastian agreed. 'Who knows? We can start right now if you like.'\n\nThen the three knights had a short friendly argument, because each claimed the privilege of giving Bastian his horse. Bastian soon settled the matter by asking them for Yikka, their pack mule. Of course, they thought her unworthy of Bastian, but he insisted, and in the end they gave in.\n\nWhile the knights were making ready for the journey, Bastian and Atreyu went to Querquobad's palace to thank the Silver Sage for his hospitality and bid him goodbye. Falkor the luckdragon, who was waiting for Atreyu outside the palace, was delighted to hear they were leaving. Cities just didn't appeal to him - even if they were as beautiful as Amarganth.\n\nSilver Sage Querquobad was deep in a book he had borrowed from the Bastian Balthazar Bux Library.\n\n'I'm sorry you can't stay longer,' he said rather absently.\n\n'It's not every day that a great author like you comes to see us. But at least we have your works to console us.'\n\nWhereupon they took their leave.\n\nAfter seating himself on Falkor's back Atreyu asked Bastian: 'Didn't you want to ride Falkor?'\n\n'Later,' said Bastian. 'Now Yikka is waiting for me. And I've given her my promise.'\n\n'Then we'll wait for you on the mainland,' cried Atreyu.\n\nThe luckdragon rose into the air and was soon out of sight.\n\nWhen Bastian returned to the inn, the three knights were ready. They had taken the pack saddle off Yikka and replaced it with a richly ornamented riding saddle. Yikka didn't learn why until Bastian came over and whispered in her ear: 'You belong to me now, Yikka.'\n\nAs the ferry carried them away from the silver city, the old pack mule's cries of joy resounded over the bitter waters of Moru, the Lake of Tears.\n\nAs for Hero Hynreck he actually succeeded in reaching Morgul, the Land of the Cold Fire. He ventured into the petrified forest of Wodgabay, crossed the three moats of Ragar Castle, found the lead ax, and slew the dragon Smerg. Then he brought Oglamar back to her father. At that point she would gladly have married him. But by then he didn't want her anymore. That, however, is another story and shall be told another time.\n\n# XVIII\n\n# _The Acharis_\n\nRAIN was coming down in buckets. The black, wet clouds hung so low they seemed almost to graze the heads of the riders.\n\nThen big, sticky snowflakes began to fall, and in the end it was snowing and raining in one. The wind was so strong that even the horses had to brace themselves against it. The riders' cloaks were soaked through and flapped heavily against the backs of the beasts.\n\nFor the last three days they had been riding over a desolate high plateau. The weather had been getting steadily worse, and the ground was a mixture of mud and sharp stones that made for hard going. Here and there the monotony of the landscape was broken by clumps of bushes or of stunted wind-bowed trees.\n\nBastian, who rode in the lead on his mule Yikka, was fairly well off with his glittering silver mantle, which, though light and thin, proved to be remarkably warm and shed water like a duck. The low-slung body of Hykrion the Strong almost vanished in his thick blue woolen coat. The delicately built Hysbald had pulled his great loden hood over his red hair. And Hydorn's gray canvas cloak clung to his gaunt frame.\n\nYet in their rather crude way the three knights were of good cheer. They hadn't expected their adventure with Sir Bastian to be a Sunday stroll. Now and then, with more spirit than art, they sang into the storm, sometimes singly and sometimes in chorus. Their favourite song seemed to be one that began with the words:\n\n'When that I was a little tiny boy,  \nWith hey, ho, the wind and the rain...'\n\nAs they explained, this had been sung by a human who had visited Fantastica long years before, name of Shexper, or something of the sort.\n\nThe only one in the group who didn't seem to mind the cold and the rain was Atreyu. On Falkor's back he rode high above the clouds, flying far ahead to reconnoiter and rejoining the company from time to time to report on what he had seen.\n\nThey all, even the luckdragon, believed they were looking for the road that would take Bastian back to his world. Bastian thought so too. He himself didn't realize that he had agreed to Atreyu's suggestion only to oblige his friend and that wasn't what he really wanted. But the geography of Fantastica is determined by wishes, which may or may not be conscious. And since it was Bastian who led the way, they were actually going deeper and deeper into Fantastica, heading for the Ivory Tower at its very center. What the consequences for him would be, he wouldn't learn until much later. For the present, neither he nor his companions had any idea where they were going.\n\nBastian's thoughts were busy with a different problem.\n\nOn the second day of their journey, in the forests surrounding the Lake of Tears, he had seen unmistakable traces of the dragon Smerg. Some of the trees had been turned to stone, no doubt by contact with the monster's ice-cold fire. And the prints of the giant grasshopper feet were clearly discernible. Atreyu, who was skilled in woodcraft, had seen other tracks as well, those of Hero Hynreck's horse. Which meant that Hynreck was close on the dragon's heels.\n\n'That doesn't really thrill me,' said Falkor, rolling his ruby-red eyes. 'Monster or not, this Smerg is a relative of mine - a distant one, to be sure, but a relative all the same.' He was only half in jest.\n\nThey had not followed Hero Hynreck's track but had taken a different direction, since their supposed aim was to find Bastian's way home.\n\nAnd now Bastian was asking himself: Had it really been such a good idea to invent a dragon for Hero Hynreck? True, Hynreck had needed a chance to show his mettle. But was it certain that he would win? What if Smerg killed him? And what about Princess Oglamar? Yes, of course, she had been haughty, but was that a reason for getting her into such a fix? And on top of all that, how was he to know what further damage Smerg might do in Fantastica? Without stopping to think, Bastian had created an unpredictable menace. It would be there long after he was gone and quite possibly kill or maim any number of innocents. As he knew, Moon Child drew no distinction between good and evil, beautiful and ugly. To her mind, all the creatures in Fantastica were equally important and worthy of consideration. But had he, Bastian, the right to take the same attitude? And above all, did he wish to?\n\nNo, Bastian said to himself, he had no wish to go down in the history of Fantastica as a creator of monsters and horrors. How much finer it would be to become famous for his unselfish goodness, to be a shining model for all, to be revered as the 'good human' or the 'great benefactor.' Yes, that was what he wanted.\n\nThe country became mountainous, and Atreyu, returning from a reconnaissance flight, reported that a few miles ahead he had sighted a glen which seemed to offer shelter from the wind. In fact, if his eyes had not deceived him, there were several caves round about where they could take refuge from the rain and snow.\n\nIt was already late afternoon, high time to find suitable quarters for the night. So all the others were delighted at Atreyu's news and spurred their mounts on. They were making their way through a valley, possibly a dried-out riverbed, enclosed in mountains which grew higher as the travelers advanced. Some two hours later they reached the glen, and true enough, there were several caves in the surrounding cliffs. They chose the largest and made themselves as comfortable as they could. The three knights gathered brushwood and branches that had been blown down by the storm, and soon they had a splendid fire going in the cave. The wet cloaks were spread out to dry, the beasts were brought in and unsaddled, and even Falkor, who ordinarily preferred to spend the night in the open, curled up at the back of the cave. All in all, it wasn't such a bad place to be in.\n\nWhile Hydorn the Enduring tried to roast a big chunk of meat over the fire and the others watched him eagerly, Atreyu turned to Bastian and said: 'Tell us some more about Kris Ta.'\n\n'About what?' Bastian asked.\n\n'Your friend Kris Ta, the little girl you told your stories to.'\n\n'I don't know any little girl by that name,' said Bastian. 'And what makes you think I told her stories?'\n\nOnce again Atreyu had that thoughtful look.\n\n'Back in your world,' he said slowly, 'you used to tell lots of stories, some to her and some to yourself.'\n\n'How do you know that, Atreyu?'\n\n'You said so yourself. In Amarganth. And you also said that people made fun of you for it.'\n\nBastian stared into the fire.\n\n'That's true,' he muttered. 'I did say that. But I don't know why. I can't remember.'\n\nIt all seemed very strange.\n\nAtreyu exchanged glances with Falkor and nodded gravely as though something one of them had said had now been proved true. But he said nothing more. Evidently he didn't wish to discuss such matters in front of the three knights.\n\n'The meat's done,' Hydorn announced.\n\nHe cut off a chunk for each one and they all began to eat. 'Done' was a gross exaggeration. The meat was charred on the outside and raw on the inside, but under the circumstances there was no point in being picky and choosy.\n\nFor a while they were all busy chewing. Then Atreyu said to Bastian: 'Tell us how you came to Fantastica.'\n\n'You know all about that,' said Bastian. 'It was you who brought me to the Childlike Empress.'\n\n'I mean before that,' said Atreyu. 'In your world. Where did you live and how did it all happen?'\n\nThen Bastian told how he had stolen the book from Mr Coreander, how he had carried it off to the schoolhouse attic and begun to read. When he came to Atreyu's Great Quest, Atreyu motioned him to stop. He didn't seem interested in what the book said about him. What interested him in the extreme was the how and why of Bastian's visit to Mr Coreander and of his flight to the attic of the schoolhouse.\n\nBastian racked his brains, but about those things he could remember nothing more. He had forgotten everything connected with the fact that he had once been fat and weak and cowardly. His memory had been broken into bits, and the bits seemed as vague and far away as if they had concerned an entirely different person.\n\nAtreyu asked for other memories, and Bastian spoke about the days when his mother was still alive, about his father and his home, about school and the town he lived in - as much as he remembered.\n\nThe three knights had fallen asleep, and Bastian was still talking. It surprised him that Atreyu should take such an interest in the most everyday happenings. Maybe it was because of the way Atreyu listened that these everyday things took on a new interest for Bastian, as though they contained a secret magic that he had never noticed before.\n\nAt last he ran out of memories. It was late in the night, the fire had died down. The three knights were snoring softly. Atreyu sat there with his inscrutable look, as though deep in thought.\n\nBastian stretched out, wrapped himself in his silver mantle, and had almost fallen asleep when Atreyu said softly: 'It's because of AURYN.'\n\nBastian propped his head on his hand and looked sleepily at his friend.\n\n'What do you mean by that?'\n\n'The Gem,' said Atreyu, as though talking to himself, 'doesn't work the same with humans as with us.'\n\n'What makes you think that?'\n\n'The amulet gives you great power, it makes all your wishes come true, but at the same time it takes something away: your memory of your world.'\n\nBastian thought it over. He didn't feel as if anything had been taken away from him.\n\n'Grograman told me to find out what I really wanted. And the inscription on AURYN says the same thing. But for that I have to go from one wish to the next without ever skipping any. That's why I need the Gem.'\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu. 'It gives you the means, but it takes away your purpose.'\n\n'Oh well,' said Bastian, undismayed. 'Moon Child must have known what she was doing when she gave me the amulet. You worry too much, Atreyu. I'm sure AURYN isn't a trap.'\n\n'No,' said Atreyu. 'I don't think so either.'\n\nAnd after a while he added: 'Anyway, it's good we're looking for the way back to your world. We are, aren't we?'\n\n'Oh yes,' said Bastian, already half asleep.\n\nIn the middle of the night he was awakened by a strange sound. He had no idea what it was. The fire had gone out and he was lying in total darkness. Then he felt Atreyu's hand on his shoulder and heard him whisper: 'What's that?'\n\n'I don't know,' Bastian whispered back.\n\nThey crept to the mouth of the cave and listened.\n\nA great many creatures seemed to be trying to fight back their sobs. There was nothing human about it, and it didn't sound like animals in pain. Starting as a whisper, it swelled to a sigh, then ebbed and rose, ebbed and rose. Never had Bastian heard anything so mournful.\n\n'If at least we could see something,' Atreyu whispered.\n\n'Wait,' said Bastian. 'I've got Al Tsahir.'\n\nHe took the glittering stone from his pocket and held it high. It gave hardly more light than a candle, but in its faint glow, the friends saw enough to make their skin crawl with horror.\n\nThe whole glen was alive with hideous, foot-long worms, who looked as if they had been wrapped in soiled rags. Slimy little limbs protruded from the folds in their skin. At one end, two lidless eyes peered out from under the rags, and from every eye flowed tears. Thousands of tears. The whole glen was wet with them.\n\nThe moment the light from Al Tsahir hit them, the creatures froze, and the friends were able to see what they had been doing. At the center of the glen stood a tower of the finest silver filigree - more beautiful and more valuable than any building Bastian had seen in Amarganth. Some of the wormlike creatures had evidently been climbing about on the tower, joining its innumerable parts. But at present they all stood motionless, staring at the light of Al Tsahir.\n\nA ghoulish whisper passed over the glen: 'Alas! Alas! What light has fallen on our ugliness? Whose eye has seen us? Cruel intruder, whoever you may be, have mercy, take that light away.'\n\nBastian stood up.\n\n'I am Bastian Balthazar Bux. Who are you?' 'We are the Acharis. We are the unhappiest beings in all Fantastica.'\n\nBastian said nothing and looked in dismay at Atreyu.\n\n'Then,' he said, 'it's you who created Amarganth, the most beautiful city in Fantastica?'\n\n'Yes!' the creatures cried. 'But take that light away! And don't look at us! Have mercy!'\n\n'And with your weeping you made Moru, the Lake of Tears?'\n\n'Master,' they groaned, 'it's true. But we'll die of shame and horror if you make us stand in this light. Why must you add to our torment? We've never done anything to you.'\n\nBastian put Al Tsahir back in his pocket and again the night was as black as pitch.\n\n'Thank you!' cried the mournful voices. 'Thank you for your merciful kindness.'\n\n'I want to talk with you,' said Bastian. 'I want to help you.'\n\nHe was almost sick with disgust, but he felt very sorry for the poor things. It was clear to him that they were the creatures he had mentioned in his story about the origin of Amarganth, but here again he couldn't be sure whether they had always been there or whether they owed their existence to him. In the latter case, he was responsible for their misery. But either way he was determined to help them.\n\n'Oh, oh!' the plaintive voices whimpered. 'No one can help us.'\n\n'I can,' said Bastian. 'I have AURYN.'\n\nAt that, they all seemed to stop weeping at once.\n\n'Where have you come from?' Bastian asked.\n\nA chorus of many voices whispered: 'We live in the lightless depths of the earth to hide our ugliness from the sun, and there we weep all day and all night. Our tears wash the indestructible silver out of the bedrock, and from it we spin the filigree you have seen. On the darkest nights we mount to the surface, and these caves are our coming-out places. Up here we join together the sections we've made down below. We've come tonight because it was dark enough for us to work without seeing one another. We work to make amends to the world for our ugliness, and that comforts us a little.'\n\n'But you're not to blame for your ugliness,' said Bastian.\n\n'Oh, there are different ways of being to blame,' the Acharis replied. 'In what you do. In what you think... We're to blame for just living.'\n\n'How can I help you?' Bastian asked. He felt so sorry for them that he could hardly hold back his own tears.\n\n'Ah, great benefactor!' the Acharis cried. 'You've got AURYN. With AURYN you can save us - we have only one thing to ask of you. Give us different bodies!'\n\n'Don't worry,' said Bastian. 'I will. Here's my wish: That you shall fall asleep. That when you wake up, you shall crawl out of your skins and turn into bright-colored butterflies. That you shall be lighthearted and happy. And that, beginning tomorrow, you shall no longer be the Acharis, the Everlasting Weepers, but the Shlamoofs, the Everlasting Laughers.'\n\nBastian awaited their answer, but no sound came from the darkness.\n\n'They've fallen asleep,' Atreyu whispered.\n\nThe two friends went back into their cave. Hysbald, Hydorn, and Hykrion were still snoring gently. They had slept through the whole incident.\n\nBastian lay down. He was extremely pleased with himself.\n\nSoon all Fantastica would learn of the good deed he had done. It had really been unselfish, since no one could claim that he had wished anything for himself. There would be nothing to mar the glory of his goodness.\n\n'What do you think, Atreyu?' he whispered.\n\nAtreyu was silent for a while. Then he replied: 'I only wonder what it may have cost you.'\n\nNot until somewhat later, after Atreyu had fallen asleep, did it dawn on Bastian that his friend had been referring, not to his self-abnegation, but to his loss of memory. But he gave the matter no further thought and fell asleep in joyful anticipation of the morrow.\n\nThe next morning the three knights woke him up with their cries of amazement.\n\n'Would you look at that! My word, even my old mare is giggling.'\n\nThey were standing in the mouth of the cave, and Atreyu was with them. But Atreyu wasn't laughing.\n\nBastian got up and went out.\n\nThe whole glen was crawling and flitting and tumbling with the most comical little creatures he had ever seen. They all had bright-colored butterfly wings on their backs and were wearing the weirdest outfits - some checkered, some striped, some ringed, some dotted. All their clothes looked either too loose or too tight, too big or too small, and they were pieced together every which way. Nothing was right and there were patches all over, even on the wings. No two of these creatures were alike. They had faces like clowns, splotched with every imaginable color, little round red noses or absurdly long ones, and enormous rubbery mouths. Some wore top hats, others peaked caps. Some had only three brick-red tufts of hair, and some had shiny bald heads. Most were sitting or hopping about on the delicate filigree tower, or dangling from it, doing gymnastics, and in general doing their best to wreck it.\n\nBastian ran out to them.\n\n'Hey, you guys!' he shouted. 'Cut that out! You can't do that!' The creatures stopped and looked down at him. One at the very top of the tower asked: 'What did he say?'\n\nAnd one from further down replied: 'The whatchamaycallim says we can't do this.'\n\n'Why does he say we can't do it?' asked a third.\n\n'Because you just can't!' Bastian screamed. 'You can't just smash everything up!'\n\n'The whatchamaycallim says we can't smash everything up,' the first butterfly-clown informed the others.\n\n'We can too!' said another, tearing a big chunk out of the tower.\n\nHopping about like a lunatic, the first called down to Bastian: 'We can too!'\n\nThe tower swayed and creaked alarmingly.\n\n'Hey, what are you doing?' Bastian shouted. He was angry and he was frightened, but at the same time he had all he could do to keep from laughing.\n\nThe first butterfly-clown turned to his companions. 'The whatchamaycallim wants to know what we're doing.'\n\n'What _are_ we doing?' asked another.\n\n'We're having fun,' said a third.\n\n'But the tower will collapse if you don't stop!' Bastian screamed.\n\n'The whatchamaycallim,' the first clown informed the others, 'says the tower will collapse if we don't stop.'\n\n'So what?' said another.\n\nAnd the first called down: 'So what?'\n\nBastian was speechless, and before he could find a suitable answer, all the butterfly-clowns on the tower began to do a sort of aerial round dance. But instead of holding hands they grabbed one another by the legs or collars, while some simply whirled head over heels through the air. And all bellowed and laughed.\n\nThe act that the winged creatures were putting on was so lighthearted and comical that Bastian gave up trying to hold back his laughter.\n\n'But you can't do that,' he called to them. 'The Acharis made it and it's beautiful.'\n\nThe first butterfly-clown turned back to the others. 'The whatchamaycallim says we can't do it.'\n\n'We can do anything that's not forbidden!' cried another, turning somersaults in the air. 'And who's going to forbid us? We're the Shlamoofs!'\n\n'Who's going to forbid us anything?' all cried in chorus. 'We're the Shlamoofs!'\n\n'I am!' cried Bastian.\n\n'The whatchamaycallim,' the first clown explained to the others, 'says \"I.\"'\n\n'You?' said the others. 'How can you forbid us anything?'\n\n'No,' said the first. 'Not I. The whatchamaycallim says \"he.\"'\n\n'Why does the whatchamaycallim say \"he\"?' the others wanted to know. 'And who is he saying \"he\" to in the first place?'\n\n'Who are you saying \"he\" to?' the first butterfly-clown called down to Bastian.\n\n'I didn't say \"he,\" Bastian screamed, half fuming, half laughing. 'I said I forbid you to wreck this tower.'\n\n'He forbids us,' said the first clown to the others, 'to wreck this tower.'\n\n'Who does?' inquired one who had just turned up from the far end of the glen.\n\n'The whatchamaycallim,' the others replied.\n\n'I don't know any whatchamaycallim,' said the newcomer. 'Who is he anyway?'\n\nThe first sang out: 'Hey, whatchamaycallim, who are you anyway?'\n\n'I'm not a whatchamaycallim,' said Bastian, who by then was moderately angry. 'I'm Bastian Balthazar Bux, and I turned you into Shlamoofs so you wouldn't have to cry and moan the whole time. Last night you were still miserable Acharis. It wouldn't hurt to show your benefactor some respect.'\n\nThe Shlamoofs all stopped hopping and dancing at once and stood gaping at Bastian. A breathless silence fell.\n\n'What did the whatchamaycallim say?' whispered a butterfly-clown at the edge of the crowd, but his next-door neighbor cracked him on the head so hard that his hat slid down over his eyes and ears, and all the others went: 'Psst!'\n\n'Would you be so kind as to repeat all that very slowly and distinctly,' the first butterfly-clown requested.\n\n'I am your benefactor!' cried Bastian.\n\nThis threw the Shlamoofs into an incredible state of agitation. One passed the word on to the next and in the end the innumerable creatures, who up until then had been scattered all over the glen, gathered into a knot around Bastian, shouting in one another's ears.\n\n'Did you hear that? He's our bemmafixer! His name is Nastiban Baltebux! No, it's Buxian Banninector. Rubbish, it's Saratit Buxibem! No, it's Baldrian Hix! Shlux! Babeltran Billy-scooter! Nix! Flax! Trix!'\n\nBeside themselves with enthusiasm, they shook hands all around, tipped their hats to one another, and raised great clouds of dust by slapping one another on the back or belly.\n\n'We're so lucky!' they cried. 'Three cheers for Buxifactor Zanzibar Bastelben!'\n\nScreaming and laughing, the whole great swarm shot upward and whirled away. The hubbub died down in the distance.\n\nBastian stood there hardly knowing what his right name was.\n\nBy that time he wasn't so sure he had really done a good deed.\n\n# XIX\n\n# _The Traveling Companions_\n\nSUNBEAMS were fighting their way through the cloud cover as the travelers started out that morning. At last the rain and wind had let up. In the course of the morning the travelers ran into two or three sudden showers, but then there was a marked improvement in the weather, and it seemed to grow warmer by the minute.\n\nThe three knights were in a merry mood; they laughed and joked and played all sorts of tricks on one another. But Bastian seemed quiet and out of sorts as he rode ahead on his mule. And the knights had far too much respect for him to break in on his thoughts.\n\nThe rocky high plateau over which they were riding seemed endless. But little by little the trees became larger and more frequent.\n\nAtreyu had noticed Bastian's bad humor. When he and Falkor started on their usual reconnaissance flight, he asked the luckdragon what he could do to cheer his friend up. Falkor rolled his ruby-red eyeballs and answered: 'That's easy \u2013 didn't he want to ride on me?'\n\nWhen some time later the little band rounded a jutting cliff, they found Atreyu and the luckdragon lying comfortably in the sun.\n\nBastian looked at them in amazement.\n\n'Are you tired?' he asked.\n\n'Not at all,' said Atreyu. 'I just wanted to ask if you'd let me ride Yikka for a while. I've never ridden a mule. It must be wonderful, because you never seem to get sick of it. I'll lend you my old Falkor in return.'\n\nBastian flushed with pleasure.\n\n'Is that true, Falkor?' he asked. 'You wouldn't mind carrying me?'\n\n'Of course not, all-powerful sultan,' said the dragon with a wink. 'Hop on and hold tight.'\n\nWithout touching the ground, Bastian vaulted directly from mule to dragon back and clutched the silvery-white mane as Falkor took off.\n\nBastian hadn't forgotten how Grograman had carried him through the Desert of Colors. But riding a white luckdragon was something else again. If sweeping over the ground on the back of the fiery lion had been like a cry of ecstasy, this gentle rising and falling as the dragon adjusted his movements to the air currents was like a song, now soft and sweet, now triumphant with power. Especially when Falkor was looping the loop, when his mane, his fangs, and the long fringes on his limbs flashed through the air like white flames, it seemed to Bastian that the winds were singing in chorus.\n\nToward noon they sighted the others and landed. The ground party had pitched camp beside a brook in a sunlit meadow. There was a flatbread to eat and a kettle of soup was cooking over a wood fire. The horses and the mule were grazing nearby.\n\nWhen the meal was over, the three knights decided to go hunting, for supplies, especially of meat, were running low. They had heard the cry of pheasants in the thicket, and there seemed to be hares as well. Knowing the Greenskins to be great hunters, they asked Atreyu to join them, but he declined. Thereupon the knights took their long bows, buckled on their quivers full of arrows, and went off to the woods.\n\nAtreyu, Falkor, and Bastian stayed behind.\n\nAfter a short silence, Atreyu suggested: 'How about telling us a little more about your world, Bastian?'\n\n'What would interest you?' Bastian asked.\n\nAtreyu turned to the luckdragon: 'What do you say, Falkor?'\n\n'I'd like to hear something about the children in your school,' said the dragon.\n\nBastian seemed bewildered. 'What children?' he asked.\n\n'The ones who made fun of you,' said Falkor.\n\n'Children who made fun of me?' Bastian repeated. 'I don't know of any children \u2013 and I'm sure no child would have dared to make fun of me.'\n\nAtreyu broke in: 'But you must remember that you went to school.'\n\n'Yes,' said Bastian thoughtfully. 'I remember school. Yes, that's right.'\n\nAtreyu and Falkor exchanged glances.\n\n'I was afraid of that,' Atreyu muttered.\n\n'Afraid of what?'\n\n'You've lost some more of your memory,' said Atreyu gravely. 'This time it came of changing the Acharis into Shlamoofs. You shouldn't have done that.'\n\n'Bastian Balthazar Bux,' said the luckdragon \u2013 and his tone seemed almost stern \u2013 'if my advice means anything to you, stop using the power that AURYN gives you. If you don't, you're likely to lose your last memories, and without memory how will you ever find your way back to where you came from?'\n\n'To tell the truth,' said Bastian, 'I don't want to go back anymore.'\n\nAtreyu was horrified. 'But you have to go back. You have to go back and straighten out your world so humans will start coming to Fantastica again. Otherwise Fantastica will disappear sooner or later, and all our trouble will have been wasted.'\n\nAt that point Bastian felt rather offended. 'But I'm still here,' he protested. 'It's been only a little while since I gave Moon Child her new name.'\n\nAtreyu could think of nothing to say. But then Falkor spoke up. 'Now,' he said, 'I see why we haven't made the slightest progress in finding Bastian's way back. If he himself doesn't want to...'\n\n'Bastian,' said Atreyu almost pleadingly. 'Isn't there anything that draws you? Something you love? Don't you ever think of your father, who must be waiting for you and worrying about you?'\n\nBastian shook his head.\n\n'I don't think so. Maybe he's even glad to be rid of me.'\n\nAtreyu looked at his friend in horror.\n\n'The way you two carry on!' said Bastian bitterly. 'You almost sound as if you wanted to get rid of me too.'\n\n'What do you mean by that?' asked Atreyu with a catch in his voice.\n\n'Well,' said Bastian. 'You seem to have only one thing on your minds: getting me out of Fantastica as quickly as possible.'\n\nAtreyu looked at Bastian and slowly shook his head. For a long while none of them said a word. Already Bastian was beginning to regret his angry words. He himself knew they were unjust.\n\nThen Atreyu said softly: 'I thought we were friends.'\n\n'You were right!' Bastian cried. 'We are and always will be. Forgive me. I've been talking nonsense.'\n\nAtreyu smiled. 'You'll have to forgive us, too, for hurting your feelings. We didn't mean it.'\n\n'Anyway,' said Bastian. 'I'm going to take your advice.'\n\nAfter a while the three knights returned with several partridges, a pheasant, and a hare. When the party started out again, Bastian was riding Yikka.\n\nIn the afternoon, they came to a forest consisting entirely of tall, straight evergreens, which formed, high overhead, a green roof so dense that a ray of sunlight seldom reached the ground. That may have been why there was no underbrush.\n\nThe soft, smooth forest floor was pleasant to ride on. Falkor had resigned himself to trotting along with the company, because if he had flown above the treetops with Atreyu, he would undoubtedly have lost sight of the others.\n\nAll afternoon they rode through the dark-green twilight. Toward nightfall they spied a ruined castle on a hilltop. They climbed up to it and in the midst of all the crumbling walls and turrets, halls and passageways, they found a vaulted chamber that was in fairly good condition. There they settled down for the night. It was redheaded Hysbald's turn to cook, and he proved to be much better at it than his predecessor. The pheasant he roasted over the fire was as tasty as you please.\n\nThe next morning they resumed their journey. All day they rode through the forest, which looked the same on all sides. It was late in the day when they noticed that they must have been riding in a great circle, for ahead of them they saw the ruins of the castle they had left in the morning, but this time they were approaching it from a different direction.\n\n'This has never happened to me before!' said Hykrion, twirling his black moustache.\n\n'I can't believe my eyes!' grumbled Hysbald, stalking through the ruins on his long, thin legs.\n\nBut so it was. The remains of yesterday's dinner left no room for doubt.\n\nAtreyu and Falkor said nothing, but their thoughts were hard at work. How could they have made such a mistake?\n\nAt the evening meal \u2013 this time it was roast hare, prepared more or less competently by Hykrion \u2013 the three knights asked Bastian if he would care to impart some of his memories of the world he came from. Bastian excused himself by saying he had a sore throat, and since he had been very quiet all that day, the knights believed him. After suggesting a few effective remedies, they lay down to sleep.\n\nOnly Atreyu and Falkor suspected what Bastian was thinking.\n\nEarly in the morning they started off again. All day they rode through the forest, trying their best to keep going in a straight line. But at nightfall they were back at the same ruined castle.\n\n'Well, I'll be!' Hykrion blustered.\n\n'I'm going mad!' groaned Hysbald.\n\n'Friends,' said Hydorn disgustedly, 'we might as well throw our licenses in the trash bin. Some knights errant we turned out to be!'\n\nOn their first night at the castle, Bastian, knowing that Yikka liked to be alone with her thoughts now and then, had found her a special little niche. The company of the horses, who could think of nothing to talk about but their distinguished ancestry, upset her. That night, after Bastian had taken her back to her place, she said to him: 'Master, I know why we're not getting ahead.'\n\n'How can you know that, Yikka?'\n\n'Because I carry you, master. And because I'm only half an ass, I feel certain things.'\n\n'So, according to you, why is it?'\n\n'You don't want to get ahead, master. You've stopped wishing for anything.'\n\nBastian looked at her in amazement.\n\n'You are really a wise animal, Yikka.'\n\nThe mule flapped her long ears in embarrassment.\n\n'Do you know which way we've been going?'\n\n'No,' said Bastian. 'Do you?'\n\nYikka nodded.\n\n'We've been heading for the center of Fantastica.'\n\n'For the Ivory Tower?'\n\n'Yes, master. And we made good headway as long as we kept going in that direction.'\n\n'That's not possible,' said Bastian. 'Atreyu would have noticed it, and certainly Falkor would have. But they didn't.'\n\n'We mules,' said Yikka, 'are simple creatures, not in a class with luckdragons. But we do have certain gifts. And one of them is a sense of direction. We never go wrong. That's how I knew for sure that you wanted to visit the Childlike Empress.'\n\n'Moon Child...' Bastian murmured. 'Yes, I would like to see her again. She'll tell me what to do.'\n\nThen he stroked the mule's white nose and whispered: 'Thanks, Yikka. Thanks.'\n\nNext morning Atreyu took Bastian aside.\n\n'Listen, Bastian. Falkor and I want to apologize. The advice we gave you was meant well \u2013 but it was stupid. We just haven't been getting ahead. Falkor and I talked it over last night. You'll be stuck here and so will we, until you wish for something. It's bound to make you lose some more of your memory, but that can't be helped, there's nothing else you can do. We can only hope that you find the way back before it's too late. It won't do you any good to stay here. You'll just have to think of your next wish and use AURYN's power.'\n\n'Right,' said Bastian. 'Yikka said the same thing. And I already know what my next wish will be. Let's go, I want you all to hear it.'\n\nThey rejoined the others.\n\n'Friends,' said Bastian in a loud voice. 'So far we have been looking in vain for the way back to my world. Now I've decided to go and see the one person who can help me find it. That one person is the Childlike Empress. Our destination is now the Ivory Tower.'\n\n'Hurrah!' cried the three knights in unison.\n\nBut then Falkor's bronze voice rang out: 'Don't do it, Bastian Balthazar Bux. What you wish is impossible. Don't you know that no one can meet the Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes more than once? You will never see her again.'\n\nBastian clenched his fists.\n\n'Moon Child owes me a lot,' he said angrily. 'I'm sure she won't keep me away.'\n\n'You'll see,' Falkor replied, 'that her decisions are sometimes hard to understand.'\n\nBastian felt the color rising to his cheeks. 'You and Atreyu,' he said, 'are always giving me advice. You can see where your advice has got us. From now on I'll do the deciding. I've made up my mind, and that's that.'\n\nHe took a deep breath and went on a little more calmly: 'Besides, you always speak from your point of view. You two are Fantasticans and I'm a human. How can you be sure that the same rules apply to me as to you? It was different when Atreyu had AURYN. And who else but me is going to give the Gem back to Moon Child? No one can meet her twice, you say. But I've already met her twice. The first time we saw each other for only a moment, when Atreyu went into her chamber, and the second time when the big egg exploded. With me everything is different. I _will_ see her a third time.'\n\nAll were silent. The knights because they didn't know what it was all about, Atreyu and Falkor because they were beginning to have doubts.\n\n'Well,' said Atreyu finally, 'maybe you're right. We have no way of knowing how the Childlike Empress will deal with you.'\n\nAfter that they started out, and before noon they reached the edge of the forest.\n\nBefore them lay sloping meadows as far as the eye could see. Soon they came to a winding river and followed its course.\n\nAgain Atreyu and Falkor explored the country, describing wide circles around their slow-moving companions. But both were troubled and their flight was not as light and carefree as usual. Looking ahead, they saw that the country changed abruptly at a certain point in the distance. A steep slope led from the plateau to a low-lying, densely wooded plain and the river descended the slope in a mighty waterfall. Knowing that the riders couldn't hope to get that far before the next day, the two scouts turned back.\n\n'Falkor,' Atreyu asked, 'do you suppose the Childlike Empress cares what becomes of Bastian?'\n\n'Maybe not,' said Falkor. 'She draws no distinctions.'\n\n'Then,' said Atreyu, 'she is really a...'\n\n'Don't say it,' Falkor broke in. 'I know what you mean, but don't say it.'\n\nFor a while Atreyu was silent. Then he said: 'But he's my friend, Falkor. We've got to help him. Even against the Childlike Empress's will, if we have to. But how?'\n\n'With luck,' the dragon replied, and for the first time the bronze bell of his voice seemed to have sprung a crack.\n\nThat evening the company chose a deserted log cabin on the riverbank as their night lodging. For Falkor, of course, it was too small, and he preferred to sleep on the air. The horses and Yikka also had to stay outside.\n\nDuring the evening meal Atreyu told the others about the waterfall and the abrupt change in the country. Then he added casually: 'By the way, we're being followed.'\n\nThe three knights exchanged glances.\n\n'Oho!' cried Hykrion, giving his black moustache a martial twirl. 'How many are they?'\n\n'I counted seven behind us,' said Atreyu. 'But even if they ride all night they can't be here before morning.'\n\n'Are they armed?' asked Hysbald.\n\n'I couldn't tell,' said Atreyu, 'but there are more coming from other directions. I saw six in the west, nine in the east, and twelve or thirteen are coming from up ahead.'\n\n'We'll wait and see what they want,' said Hydorn. 'Thirty-five or thirty-six men would hardly frighten the three of us \u2013 much less Sir Bastian and Atreyu.'\n\nOrdinarily Bastian ungirt the sword Sikanda before lying down to sleep. But that night he kept it on and slept with his hand on the hilt. In his dreams he saw Moon Child smiling at him and her smile seemed full of promise. If there was any more to the dream, he forgot it by the time he woke up, but his vision encouraged him in his hope of seeing her again.\n\nGlancing out of the door of the cabin, he saw seven blurred shapes through the mist that had risen from the river. Two were on foot, the others mounted on different sorts of steeds. Bastian quietly awakened his companions.\n\nThe knights unsheathed their swords, and together they stepped out of the cabin. When the figures waiting outside caught sight of Bastian, the riders dismounted and all seven went down on their left knees, bowed their heads and cried out: 'Hail and welcome to Bastian Balthazar Bux, the Savior of Fantastica!'\n\nThe newcomers were a weird-looking lot. One of the two who had come on foot had an uncommonly long neck and a head with four faces, one pointed in each of the four directions. The first was merry, the second angry, the third sad, and the fourth sleepy. All were rigid and unchanging, but he was able at any time to face forward with the one expressing his momentary mood. This individual was a four-quarter troll, sometimes known as a moody-woody.\n\nThe second pedestrian was what is known in Fantastica as a headfooter. His head was connected directly with his long, thin legs, there being neither neck nor trunk. Headfooters are always on the go and have no fixed residence. As a rule, they roam about in swarms of many hundreds, but from time to time one runs across a loner. They feed on herbs and grasses. The one that was kneeling to Bastian looked young and red-cheeked.\n\nThe three creatures riding on horses no larger than goats were a gnome, a shadowscamp, and a blondycat. The gnome had a golden circlet around his head and was obviously a prince. The shadowscamp was hard to recognize, because to all intents and purposes he consisted only of a shadow cast by no one. The blondycat had a catlike face and long golden-blond curls that clothed her like a coat. Her whole body was covered with equally blond shaggy fur. She was no bigger than a five-year-old child.\n\nAnother, who was riding on an ox, came from the land of the Sassafranians, who are born old and die when they have grown (that is, dwindled) to infancy. This one had a long white beard, a bald head, and a heavily wrinkled face. By Sassafranian standards, he was a youngster, about Bastian's age.\n\nA blue djinn had come on a camel. He was tall and thin and was wearing an enormous turban. His shape was human, but his bare torso with its bulging muscles seemed to be made of some glossy blue metal. Instead of a nose and mouth, he had a huge, hooked eagle's beak.\n\n'Who are you and what do you want?' Hykrion asked rather brusquely. Despite the ceremonious greeting, he wasn't quite convinced of the visitors' friendly intentions. He still had his hand on his sword hilt.\n\nThe four-quarter troll, who up until then had been keeping his sleepy face foremost, now switched to the merry one. Ignoring Hykrion, he addressed himself to Bastian:\n\n'Your Lordship,' he declared, 'we are princes from many different parts of Fantastica, and we have all come to welcome you and ask for your help. The news of your presence has flown from country to country, the wind and the clouds speak your name, the waves of the sea proclaim your glory, and every last brooklet is celebrating your power.'\n\nBastian cast a glance at Atreyu, but Atreyu looked at the troll unsmilingly and almost severely.\n\n'We know,' the blue djinn broke in, and his voice sounded like the rasping cry of an eagle, 'we know that you created Perilin, the Night Forest, and Goab, the Desert of Colors. We know you have eaten and drunk the fire of the Many-Colored Death and bathed in it, something that no one else in Fantastica could have done and still lived. We know that you passed through the Temple of a Thousand Doors, and we know what happened in the Silver City of Amarganth. We know, my lord, that there is nothing you cannot do. When you make a wish, your wishes come to pass. And so we invite you to come and stay with us and favor us with a story of our own. For none of our nations has a story.'\n\nBastian thought it over, then shook his head. 'I can't do what you ask of me just yet. I'll help you later on. But first I must go to the Childlike Empress. I hope you will join us and help me to find the Ivory Tower.'\n\nThe creatures didn't seem at all disappointed. After brief deliberation they agreed to accompany Bastian on his journey. Whereupon the procession, which by now had the look of a small caravan, started out again.\n\nThroughout the day they were joined by new adherents, not only those Atreyu had sighted the day before, but many more. There were goat-legged fauns and gigantic night-hobs, there were elves and kobolds, beetle riders and three-legses, a man-sized rooster in jackboots, a stag with golden antlers who walked erect and wore a Prince Albert. Many of the new arrivals bore no resemblance whatsoever to human beings. There were helmeted copper ants, strangely shaped wandering rocks, flute birds, who made music with their long beaks, and there were three so-called puddlers, who moved by dissolving into a puddle at every step and resuming their usual form a little farther on. But perhaps the most startling of all was a twee, whose fore- and hindquarters had a way of running about independently of one another. Except for its red and white stripes it looked rather like a hippopotamus.\n\nSoon the procession numbered at least a hundred. And all had come to welcome Bastian, the Savior of Fantastica, and beg him for a story of their own. But the original seven told the others that they would first have to go to the Ivory Tower, and all were agreed.\n\nHykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn rode with Bastian in the lead of the now rather impressive procession.\n\nToward evening they came to a waterfall. Leaving the plateau, they made their way down a winding mountain trail, at the end of which they found themselves in a forest of tree-sized orchids with enormous spotted blossoms. These blossoms looked so frightening that when the travelers stopped for the night, they decided to post sentries.\n\nBastian and Atreyu gathered some of the deep, soft moss that lay all about and made themselves a comfortable bed. Falkor protected the two friends by lying down in a circle around them. The air was warm and heavy with the strange and none too pleasant scent of the orchids. That scent seemed fraught with evil.\n\n# XX\n\n# _The Seeing Hand_\n\nTHE dewdrops on the orchids glistened in the morning sun as the caravan started out again. The night had been uneventful except that more and more emissaries kept trailing in. The procession now numbered close to three hundred.\n\nThe farther they went into the orchid forest, the stranger grew the shapes and colors of the flowers. And soon Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn discovered that the fears which had led them to post sentries had not been entirely groundless. For many of the orchids were carnivorous and big enough to swallow a whole calf. True, they could not move of their own volition \u2013 it hadn't been really necessary to post sentries \u2013 but if something or someone touched them, they snapped shut like traps. And several times when a blossom seized the hand, foot, or mount of a fellow traveler the knights were obliged to draw their swords and hack the blossom to pieces.\n\nThroughout the ride Bastian was besieged by all sorts of fantastic creatures who tried to attract his attention or at least get a look at him. But Bastian rode on in withdrawn silence. A new wish had come to him, and for the first time it was one that made him seem standoffish and almost sullen.\n\nHe felt that despite their reconciliation Atreyu and Falkor were treating him like a child, that they felt responsible for him and thought he had to be led by the nose. But come to think of it, hadn't they been that way from the start? Oh yes, they were friendly enough, but they seemed to feel superior to him for some reason, to regard him as a harmless innocent who needed protecting. And that didn't suit him at all. He wasn't innocent, he wasn't harmless, and he'd soon show them. He wanted to be dangerous, dangerous and feared. Feared by all \u2013 including Atreyu and Falkor.\n\nThe blue djinn \u2013 his name, incidentally, was Ilwan \u2013 elbowed his way through the crush around Bastian, crossed his arms over his chest, and bowed.\n\nBastian stopped.\n\n'What is it, Ilwan? Speak!'\n\n'My lord,' said the djinn in his eagle's voice. 'I've been listening in on the conversations of our new traveling companions. Some of them claim to know this part of the country and their teeth are chattering with fear.'\n\n'What are they afraid of?'\n\n'This forest of carnivorous orchids, my lord, belongs to Xayide, the wickedest and most powerful sorceress in all Fantastica. She lives in Horok Castle, also known as the Seeing Hand.'\n\n'Tell the scaredy-cats not to worry,' said Bastian, 'I'm here to protect them.'\n\nIlwan bowed and left him.\n\nA little later Falkor and Atreyu, who had flown far ahead, returned to Bastian. The procession had stopped for the noonday meal.\n\n'I don't know what to make of it,' said Atreyu. 'Three or four hours' journey from here, in the middle of the orchid forest, we saw a building that looks like a big hand jutting out of the ground. There's something sinister about it, and it's directly in our line of march.'\n\nBastian told them what he had heard from Ilwan.\n\n'If that's the case,' said Atreyu, 'wouldn't it be more sensible to change our direction?'\n\n'No,' said Bastian.\n\n'But there's no reason why we should tangle with this Xayide. I think we should steer clear of her.'\n\n'There is a reason,' said Bastian.\n\n'What reason?'\n\n'Because I feel like it,' said Bastian.\n\nAtreyu looked at him openmouthed. The conversation stopped there because Fantasticans were crowding in from all sides to get a look at Bastian. But when the meal was over, Atreyu rejoined Bastian. Trying to make it sound casual, he suggested: 'How about taking a ride with Falkor and me?'\n\nBastian realized that Atreyu wanted a private talk with him. They hoisted themselves up on Falkor's back, Atreyu in front, Bastian behind him, and the dragon took off. It was the first time the two friends had flown together.\n\nOnce they were airborne, Atreyu said: 'It's been hard seeing you alone these days. But we have to talk things over, Bastian.'\n\n'Just as I thought,' said Bastian with a smile. 'What's on your mind?'\n\nAtreyu began hesitantly. 'Have we come to this place and are we heading where we are because of some new wish of yours?'\n\n'I imagine so,' said Bastian rather coldly.\n\n'That's what Falkor and I have been thinking,' said Atreyu. 'What kind of wish is it?'\n\nBastian made no answer.\n\n'Don't get me wrong,' said Atreyu. 'It's not that we're afraid of anything or anyone. But we're your friends, and we worry about you.'\n\n'No need to,' said Bastian still more coldly.\n\nFalkor twisted his neck and looked back at them.\n\n'Atreyu,' he said, 'has a sensible suggestion. I advise you to listen to him, Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\n'Some more of your good advice?' said Bastian with a sardonic smile.\n\n'No, Bastian,' said Atreyu. 'No advice. A suggestion. You may not like it at first. But think it over before you turn it down. We want to help you, and we've been wondering how. The whole trouble is the way the Childlike Empress's amulet affects you. Without AURYN's power you can't wish yourself ahead, but with AURYN's power you're losing yourself and forgetting where you want to go. Pretty soon, unless we do something about it, you won't have any idea where you're going.'\n\n'We've already been through that,' said Bastian. 'So what?'\n\n'When I was wearing the Gem,' said Atreyu, 'it was entirely different. It guided me and it didn't take anything away from me. Maybe because I'm not a human and I have no memory of the human world to lose. In other words, it helped me and did me no harm. So here's what I suggest: Let me have AURYN and trust me to guide you. What do you say?'\n\nBastian replied instantly: 'I say no!'\n\nAgain Falkor looked back.\n\n'Couldn't you at least think it over for a moment?'\n\n'No!' said Bastian.\n\nFor the first time Atreyu grew angry.\n\n'Bastian,' he said, 'think sensibly! You can't go on like this! Haven't you noticed that you've changed completely? You're not yourself anymore.'\n\n'Thanks,' said Bastian. 'Thank you very much for minding my business all the time. But frankly, I can get along without your advice. In case you've forgotten, _I_ saved Fantastica, and Moon Child entrusted her power to _me._ She must have had some reason for it, because she could have let you keep AURYN. But she took it away from you and gave it to me. I've changed, you say. Yes, my dear Atreyu, you may be right. I'm no longer the harmless innocent you take me for. Shall I tell you the real reason why you want me to give up AURYN? Because you're just plain jealous. You don't know me yet, but if you go on like this \u2013 you'll get to know me.'\n\nAtreyu did not reply. Falkor's flight had suddenly lost all its buoyancy, he seemed to be dragging himself through the air, sinking lower and lower like a wounded bird.\n\nAt length Atreyu spoke with difficulty.\n\n'Bastian,' he said. 'You can't seriously believe what you've said. Let's forget about it. As far as I'm concerned, you never said it.'\n\n'All right,' said Bastian, 'let's forget it. Anyway, I didn't start the argument.'\n\nFor a time they rode on in silence.\n\nIn the distance Horok Castle rose up from the orchid forest. It really did look like a giant hand with five outstretched fingers.\n\n'But there's something I want to make clear once and for all,' said Bastian suddenly. 'I've made up my mind. I'm not going back at all. I'm going to stay in Fantastica for good. I like it here. So I can manage without my memories. And if it's the future of Fantastica you're worried about, I can give Moon Child thousands of new names. We don't need the human world anymore.'\n\nFalkor banked for a U-turn.\n\n'Hey!' Bastian shouted. 'What are you doing? Fly ahead! I want to see Horok close up!'\n\n'I can't,' Falkor gasped. 'I honestly can't go on!'\n\nOn their return to the caravan they found their traveling companions in a frenzy of agitation. They had been attacked by a band of some fifty giants, covered with black armor that made them look like enormous two-legged beetles. Many of the traveling companions had fled and were just beginning to return singly or in groups; others had done their best to defend themselves, but had been no match for the armored giants. The three knights, Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, had fought heroically, but without making a dent in any of their assailants. In the end they had been disarmed and dragged away in chains. One of the armored giants had shouted in a strangely metallic voice:\n\n'Xayide, the mistress of Horok Castle, sends greetings to Bastian Balthazar Bux, the Savior of Fantastica, and makes the following demands: \"Submit to me unconditionally and swear to serve me with body and soul as my faithful slave. Should you refuse, or should you attempt to circumvent my will by guile or stratagem, your three friends Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn will die a slow, shameful, and cruel death by torture. You have until sunrise tomorrow to make up your mind.\" That is the message of Xayide, the mistress of Horok Castle. It has been duly delivered.'\n\nBastian bit his lips. Atreyu and Falkor had wiped all expression off their faces, but Bastian knew exactly what they were thinking. What he minded most was their mask of secrecy. But this was hardly the time to have it out with them. That could wait. Instead, he addressed the company in a loud voice: 'I will never give in to Xayide's blackmail! We must set the prisoners free, and without delay.'\n\n'It won't be easy,' said Ilwan, the blue djinn with the eagle beak. 'All of us together are no match for those black devils. And even if you, my lord, and Atreyu and his luckdragon were to lead us into battle, it would take us too long to capture Horok Castle. The lives of the three knights are in Xayide's hands. She will kill them the moment she finds out that we are attacking.'\n\n'Then we mustn't let her find out,' said Bastian. 'We must take her by surprise.'\n\n'How can we do that?' asked the four-quarter troll, putting forward his angry face, which was rather terrifying. 'Xayide is crafty. I'm sure she has an answer for anything we can think up.'\n\n'I agree,' said the prince of the gnomes. 'There are too many of us. If we move on Horok Castle, she's sure to know it. Even at night so large a troop movement can't be kept secret. She has her spies.'\n\n'Good,' said Bastian. 'We'll fool her with the help of her spies.'\n\n'How can we do that, my lord?'\n\n'The rest of you will start off in a different direction, to make her think we've given up trying to free the prisoners and we're running away.'\n\n'And what will become of the prisoners?'\n\n'I'll attend to that with Atreyu and Falkor.'\n\n'Just the three of you?'\n\n'Yes,' said Bastian. 'That is, if Atreyu and Falkor agree to come with me. If not, I'll go alone.'\n\nThe traveling companions looked at him with admiration. Those closest to him passed his words on to those further back in the crowd.\n\n'My lord,' the blue djinn cried out, 'regardless of whether you conquer or die, this will go down in the history of Fantastica.'\n\nBastian turned to Atreyu and Falkor. 'Are you coming, or have you got some more of your suggestions?'\n\n'We're coming,' said Atreyu.\n\n'In that case,' Bastian decreed, 'the caravan must start moving while it's still light. You must hurry \u2013 make it look as if you were in flight. We'll wait here until dark. We'll join you tomorrow morning \u2013 with the three knights or not at all. Go now.'\n\nAfter taking a respectful leave of Bastian, the traveling companions started out. Bastian, Atreyu, and Falkor hid in a clump of orchid trees and waited for nightfall.\n\nIn the late afternoon a faint jangling was heard and five of the black giants approached the abandoned camp. They seemed to be all of black metal, even their faces were like iron masks, and their movements were strangely mechanical. All stopped at once, all looked in the direction where the caravan had gone. Then without a word, all marched off in step.\n\n'My plan seems to be working,' Bastian whispered.\n\n'There were only five,' said Atreyu. 'Where are the others?'\n\n'The five are sure to communicate with the rest,' said Bastian.\n\nAt length, when it was quite dark, Bastian, Atreyu, and Falkor crept from their hiding place, and Falkor rose soundlessly into the air with his two riders. Flying as low as possible over the orchid forest to avoid being seen, he headed in the direction they had taken that afternoon. The darkness was impenetrable, and they wondered how they would ever find the castle. But a few minutes later Horok appeared before them in a blaze of light. There seemed to be a lamp in every one of its thousand windows. Evidently Xayide wanted her castle to be seen. But that was only reasonable, for she was expecting Bastian's visit \u2013 a different sort of visit, to be sure.\n\nTo be on the safe side, Falkor glided to the ground among the orchids, for his pearly-white scales would have reflected the glow of the castle.\n\nUnder cover of the trees they approached. Outside the gate, ten of the armored guards were on watch. And at each of the brightly lit windows stood one of them, black, motionless, and menacing.\n\nHorok Castle was situated on a rise from which the orchid trees had been cleared. True enough, it was shaped like an enormous hand. Each finger was a tower, and the thumb was an oriel surmounted by yet another tower. The whole building was many stories high, and the windows were like glittering eyes looking out over the countryside. It was known with good reason as the Seeing Hand.\n\n'The first thing we have to do,' Bastian whispered into Atreyu's ear, 'is locate the prisoners.'\n\nAtreyu nodded and told Bastian to stay there with Falkor. Then he crawled soundlessly away. He was gone a long time.\n\nWhen he returned, he reported: 'I've been all around the castle. There's only this one entrance, and it's too well guarded. But I've discovered a skylight high up at the tip of the middle finger that seems to be unguarded. Falkor could easily take us up there, but we'd be seen. The prisoners are probably in the cellar. At any rate, I heard a long scream of pain that seemed to come from deep down.'\n\nBastian thought hard. Then he whispered: 'I'll try to reach that skylight. Meanwhile you and Falkor must keep the guards busy. Make them think we're trying to get in by the gate. But don't do any more. Don't get into a fight. Keep them here as long as you can. Give me a few minutes' time before you do anything.'\n\nAtreyu pressed his friend's hand in silence. Then Bastian took off his silver mantle and slipped away through the darkness. He had almost circled the castle when he heard Atreyu shouting:\n\n'Attention! Bastian Balthazar Bux, the Savior of Fantastica, is here. He has come not to beg Xayide for mercy, but to give her a last chance to release the prisoners. If she sets them free, her miserable life will be spared!'\n\nLooking around the corner of the castle, Bastian caught a glimpse of Atreyu, who had put on the silver mantle and coiled his blue-black hair into a kind of turban. To anyone who didn't know the two boys very well there was a certain resemblance between them.\n\nFor a moment the armored giants seemed undecided. Then Bastian could hear in the distance the metallic stamping of their feet as they rushed at Atreyu. The shadows in the windows also began to move as the guards left their posts to see what was going on. And many more of the armored giants poured out through the gate. When the first had almost reached Atreyu, he slipped nimbly away and a moment later appeared over their heads, riding Falkor. The armored giants brandished their swords and leapt high in the air, but they couldn't reach him.\n\nBastian started climbing the wall. Here and there he was helped by outcroppings and window ledges, but more often he had to hold fast with his fingertips. Higher and higher he climbed; once the jutting stone he had set his foot on crumbled away and left him hanging by one hand, but he pulled himself up, found a hold for his other hand, and kept climbing. When at last he reached the towers he made better progress, for they were so close together that he could push himself up by bracing himself between them.\n\nAt length he reached the skylight and slipped through. True enough, there was no guard in the tower room, heaven knows why. Opening a door, he came to a narrow winding staircase and started down. When he reached the floor below, he saw two black guards standing at a window watching the excitement outside. He managed to pass behind them without attracting their notice.\n\nOn he crept, down more stairways, through passages and corridors. One thing was certain. Those armored giants might have been great fighters, but they didn't amount to much as guards.\n\nAt last the cold and the musty smell told him he was in the cellar. Luckily all the guards seemed to have raced upstairs in pursuit of the supposed Bastian Balthazar Bux. Torches along the walls lit the way for him. Lower and lower he went. He had the impression that there were as many floors below the ground as above. Finally he came to the bottommost cellar and soon found the dungeon where Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn were languishing. It was a pitiful sight.\n\nThey were hanging by their wrists over what seemed to be a bottomless pit. The long iron chains that held them were connected by way of overhead rollers with a winch, but the winch was fastened with a great padlock and couldn't be budged. Bastian stood perplexed.\n\nThe three prisoners' eyes were closed. They seemed to be asleep or unconscious. Then Hydorn the Enduring opened his left eye and sang out: 'Hey, friends. Look who's here!'\n\nThe others managed to open their eyes and a smile crossed their lips.\n\n'We knew you wouldn't leave us in the lurch!' cried Hydorn.\n\n'How can I get you down?' Bastian asked. 'The winch is locked.'\n\n'Just take your sword and cut the chains,' said Hysbald.\n\n'And drop us into the pit?' said Hykrion. 'That's not such a good idea.'\n\n'Anyway,' said Bastian, 'I can't draw my sword. I can't use Sikanda unless it jumps into my hand.'\n\n'That's the trouble with magic swords,' said Hydorn. 'When you need them, they go on strike.'\n\n'Hey!' Hysbald whispered. 'The guards had the key to that winch. Where could they have put it?'\n\n'I remember a loose stone,' said Hykrion. 'But I couldn't see very well while they were hoisting me up here.'\n\nBastian looked and looked. The light was dim and flickering, but after a while he discovered a stone flag that was not quite even with the rest. He lifted it cautiously, and there indeed was the key.\n\nHe opened the big padlock and removed it from the winch. Then slowly he began to turn. It creaked and groaned so loud that the armored giants must have heard it by then if they weren't totally deaf. Even so, there was nothing to be gained by stopping. Bastian went on turning until the three knights were level with the floor, though still over the pit. Then, after swinging them to and fro until their feet touched the ground, he let them down. They stretched out exhausted and showed no inclination to move. Besides, they still had the heavy chains on their wrists.\n\nBastian had little time to think, for metallic steps came clanking down the stone stairs. The guards! Their armor glittered in the torchlight like the carapaces of giant insects. All with the same movement, they drew their swords and rushed at Bastian.\n\nThen at last Sikanda leapt from the rusty sheath and into his hand. With the speed of lightning the blade attacked the first of the armored giants and hacked him to pieces before Bastian himself knew what was happening. It was then that he saw what the giants were made of. They were hollow shells of armor. There was nothing inside! He had no time to wonder what made them move.\n\nBastian was in a good position, for only one giant at a time could squeeze through the narrow doorway of the dungeon, and one at a time Sikanda chopped them to bits. Soon their remains lay piled up on the floor like enormous black eggshells. After some twenty of them had been disposed of, the rest withdrew, evidently in the hope of waylaying Bastian in a position more favorable to themselves.\n\nTaking advantage of the breathing spell, Bastian let Sikanda cut the shackles from the knights' wrists. Hykrion and Hydorn dragged themselves to their feet and tried to draw their swords, which strangely enough had not been taken away from them, but their hands were numb from the long hanging and refused to obey them. Hysbald, the most delicate of the three, wasn't even able to stand by himself. His two friends had to hold him up.\n\n'Never mind,' said Bastian. 'Sikanda needs no help. Just stay behind me and don't get in my way.'\n\nThey left the dungeon, slowly climbed the stairs, and came to a large hall. Suddenly all the torches went out. But Sikanda shone bright.\n\nAgain they heard the heavy metallic tread of many armored giants.\n\n'Quick!' cried Bastian. 'Back to the stairs! This is where I'm going to fight.'\n\nHe couldn't see whether the three knights obeyed his order and there was no time to find out, because Sikanda was already dancing in his hand. The entire hall was ablaze with its sharp white light. The assailants managed to push Bastian back from the top of the stairs and to attack him from all sides, yet not one of their mighty blows touched him. Sikanda whirled around him so fast that it looked like hundreds of swords. And a few moments later he was surrounded by a heap of shattered black armor in which nothing stirred.\n\n'Come on up!' Bastian cried to his companions.\n\nThe three knights stood gaping on the stairs. Hykrion's moustache was trembling. 'I've never seen anything like it!' he cried.\n\n'Something to tell my grandchildren!' Hysbald stammered.\n\n'The only trouble,' said Hydorn mournfully, 'is that they won't believe you.'\n\nBastian stood there with sword in hand, wondering what to do next. Suddenly it sprang back into its sheath.\n\n'The danger seems to be over,' he said.\n\n'At least the part that calls for a sword,' said Hydorn. 'What do we do now?'\n\n'Now,' said Bastian, 'I want to make this Xayide's acquaintance. I've got a bone to pick with her.'\n\nAfter climbing several more flights of stairs, Bastian and the knights reached the ground floor, where Atreyu and Falkor were waiting for them in a kind of lobby.\n\n'Well done, you two!' cried Bastian, slapping Atreyu on the back.\n\n'What's become of the armored giants?' asked Atreyu.\n\n'Hollow shells!' said Bastian contemptuously. 'Where's Xayide?'\n\n'Up in her magic throne room,' answered Atreyu.\n\n'Come along,' said Bastian, taking the silver mantle which Atreyu held out to him. And all together, including Falkor, they climbed the broad stairway leading to the upper floors.\n\nWhen Bastian, followed by his companions, entered the magic throne room, Xayide arose from her red-coral throne. She was wearing a long gown of violet silk, and her flaming red hair was coiled and braided into a fantastic edifice. Her face and her long, thin hands were as pale as marble. There was something strangely disturbing about her eyes. It took Bastian a few moments to figure out what it was \u2013 they were of different colors, one green, one red. She was trembling, evidently in fear of Bastian. He looked her straight in the face and she lowered her long lashes.\n\nThe room was full of weird objects whose purpose it was hard to determine. There were large globes covered with designs, sidereal clocks, and pendulums hanging from the ceiling. There were costly censers from which rose heavy clouds of different-colored smoke, which crept over the floor like fog.\n\nThus far Bastian hadn't said a word. That seemed to shatter Xayide's composure, for suddenly she threw herself on the floor in front of him, took one of his feet and set it on her neck.\n\n'My lord and master!' she said in a deep voice that sounded somehow mysterious. 'No one in Fantastica can withstand you. You are mightier than the mighty and more dangerous than all the demons together. If you wish to take revenge on me for being too stupid to recognize your greatness, trample me underfoot. I have earned your anger. But if you wish once again to demonstrate your far-famed magnanimity, suffer me to become your obedient slave, who swears to obey you body and soul. Teach me to do what you deem desirable and I will be your humble pupil, obedient to your every hint. I repent of the harm I tried to do you and beg your mercy!'\n\n'Arise, Xayide!' said Bastian. He had been very angry, but her speech pleased him. If she had really acted out of ignorance and really regretted it so bitterly, then it was beneath his dignity to punish her. And since she even wished to learn what he deemed desirable, he could see no reason to reject her plea.\n\nXayide arose and stood before him with bowed head. 'Will you obey me unconditionally,' he asked, 'however hard you may find it to do my bidding? Will you obey me without argument and without grumbling?'\n\n'I will, my lord and master,' said Xayide. 'You will see there is nothing we cannot accomplish if we combine my artifices and your power.'\n\n'Very well,' said Bastian. 'Then I will take you into my service. You will leave this castle and go with me to the Ivory Tower, where I am expecting to meet Moon Child.'\n\nFor a fraction of a second Xayide's eyes glowed red and green, but then, veiling them with her long lashes, she said: 'I am yours to command, my lord and master.'\n\nThereupon all descended the stairs. Once outside the castle, Bastian observed: 'The first thing to do is find our traveling companions. Goodness knows where they are.'\n\n'Not very far from here,' said Xayide. 'I've led them slightly astray.'\n\n'For the last time,' said Bastian.\n\n'For the last time,' she agreed. 'But how will we get there? Do you expect me to walk? Through the woods and at night?'\n\n'Falkor will carry us,' said Bastian. 'He's strong enough to carry us all.'\n\nFalkor raised his head and looked at Bastian. His ruby-red eyes glittered.\n\n'I'm strong enough, Bastian Balthazar Bux,' boomed the bronze bell-like voice. 'But I will not carry that woman.'\n\n'Oh yes, you will,' said Bastian. 'Because I command it.'\n\nThe luckdragon looked at Atreyu, who nodded almost imperceptibly. But Bastian had seen that nod.\n\nAll took their places on Falkor's back, and he rose into the air.\n\n'Which way?' he asked.\n\n'Straight ahead,' said Xayide.\n\n'Which way?' Falkor asked again, as if he hadn't heard.\n\n'Straight ahead!' Bastian shouted. 'You heard her.'\n\n'Do as she says,' said Atreyu under his breath. And Falkor complied.\n\nHalf an hour later \u2013 already the dawn was graying \u2013 they saw innumerable camphres down below and the luckdragon landed. In the meantime many more Fantasticans had turned up and a lot of them had brought tents. The camp, spread out on a wide, flower-strewn meadow at the edge of the orchid forest, looked like a tent city.\n\n'How many are you now?' Bastian asked.\n\nIlwan, the blue djinn, who had taken charge of the caravan in Bastian's absence, replied that he had not yet been able to make an exact count, but that he guessed there were close to a thousand. 'And there's something else to report,' he added. 'Something rather strange. Soon after we pitched camp, shortly before midnight, five of those armored giants appeared. But they were peaceful and they've kept to themselves. Of course, no one dared to go near them. They brought a big litter made of red coral. But it was empty.'\n\n'Those are my carriers,' said Xayide in a pleading tone to Bastian. 'I sent them ahead last night. That's the pleasantest way to travel. If it does not displease you, my lord.'\n\n'I don't like the look of this,' Atreyu interrupted.\n\n'Why not?' said Bastian. 'What's your objection?'\n\n'She can travel any way she likes,' said Atreyu drily. 'But she wouldn't have sent her litter here last night if she hadn't known in advance that she'd be coming here. She had planned the whole thing. Your victory was really a defeat. She purposely let you win. That was her way of winning you over.'\n\n'Enough of this!' cried Bastian, purple with anger. 'I didn't ask for your opinion. You make me sick with your lecturing. And now you question my victory and ridicule my magnanimity.'\n\nAtreyu was going to say something, but Bastian screamed at him: 'Shut up and leave me be! If the two of you aren't satisfied with what I do and the way I am, go away. I'm not keeping you. Go where you please! I'm sick of you!'\n\nBastian folded his arms over his chest and turned his back on Atreyu. The Fantasticans who had gathered around were dumbfounded. For a time Atreyu stood silent. Up until then Bastian had never reprimanded him in the presence of others. He was so stunned he could hardly breathe. He waited a while, then, when Bastian did not turn back to him, he slowly walked away. Falkor followed him.\n\nXayide smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile.\n\nIn that moment Bastian's memory of having been a child in his world was effaced.\n\n# XXI\n\n# _The Star Cloister_\n\nUNINTERRUPTEDLY new emissaries from all parts of Fantastica poured in to swell the army of those accompanying Bastian on his march to the Ivory Tower. It proved impossible to take a count, because new ones kept arriving while the counting was in progress. Each morning an army several thousand strong got under way. And each night it set up the strangest tent city imaginable. Since Bastian's traveling companions varied enormously in shape and size, some of their night lodgings might have been mistaken for circus tents, while others, at the opposite end of the scale, were no bigger than a thimble. Their vehicles also showed astonishing variety, ranging from common covered wagons and diligences to the most extraordinary rolling barrels, bouncing balls, and crawling containers with automotive legs.\n\nOf all the tents the most magnificent was the one that had been procured for Bastian. The shape and size of a small house, it was made of lustrous, many-colored silk, embroidered with gold and silver. A flag affixed to the roof was decorated with Bastian's coat of arms, a seven-armed candelabrum. The inside was furnished with soft blankets and cushions. Bastian's tent was always set up at the center of the camp. And the blue djinn, who had become his factotum, stood guard at the entrance.\n\nAtreyu and Falkor were still among the host of Bastian's companions, but since the public reprimand he hadn't exchanged a word with them. Secretly, he was waiting for Atreyu to give in and apologize. But Atreyu did nothing of the kind. Nor did Falkor show any inclination to humble himself before Bastian. And that, said Bastian to himself, was just what they must learn to do. If they expected him to back down they had another think coming; his will was of steel. But if they gave in, he'd welcome them with open arms. If Atreyu knelt down to him, he would lift him up and say: Don't kneel to me, Atreyu, you are and remain my friend...\n\nBut for the time being Atreyu and Falkor brought up the rear of the procession. Falkor seemed to have forgotten how to fly; he trudged along on foot and Atreyu walked beside him, most of the time with bowed head. A sad comedown for the proud reconnaissance flyers. Bastian wasn't happy about it, but there was nothing he could do.\n\nHe began to be bored riding the mule Yikka in the lead of the caravan, and took to visiting Xayide in her litter instead. She received him with a great show of respect, gave him the most comfortable seat, and squatted down at his feet. She could always think of something interesting to talk about, and when she noticed that he disliked speaking of his past in the human world, she stopped questioning him about it. Most of the time she smoked her Oriental water pipe. The stem looked like an emerald-green viper, and the mouthpiece, which she held between her marble-white fingers, suggested a snake's head. She seemed to be kissing it as she smoked. The clouds of smoke which poured indolently from her mouth and nose changed color with every puff, from blue to yellow, to pink, to green, and so on.\n\n'Xayide,' said Bastian on one of his visits, looking thoughtfully at the armored giants who were carrying the litter. 'There's something I've been wanting to ask you.'\n\n'Your slave is listening,' said Xayide.\n\n'When I fought your guards,' said Bastian, 'I discovered that there was nothing inside their shell of armor. So what makes them move?'\n\n'My will,' said Xayide with a smile. 'It's because they're empty that they do my will. My will can control anything that's empty.'\n\nShe turned her red and green gaze on Bastian. For a moment it gave him a strangely eerie feeling, but quickly she lowered her lashes.\n\n'Could I control them with my will?' he asked.\n\n'Of course you could, my lord and master,' she replied. 'You could do it a hundred times better than I. I am as nothing beside you. Would you care to try?'\n\n'Not now,' said Bastian, who was rather frightened at the idea. 'Maybe some other time.'\n\n'Tell me,' said Xayide. 'Do you really enjoy riding an old mule? Wouldn't you rather be carried by beings you can move with your will?'\n\n'But Yikka likes to carry me,' said Bastian almost peevishly. 'It gives her pleasure.'\n\n'Then you do it to please her?'\n\n'Why not?' said Bastian. 'What's wrong with that?'\n\nXayide let some green smoke rise from her mouth.\n\n'Oh, nothing at all, my lord. How can anything you do be wrong?'\n\n'What are you driving at, Xayide?'\n\nShe bowed her head of flaming red hair.\n\n'You think of others too much, my lord and master,' she whispered. 'No one is worthy to divert your attention from your own all-important development. If you promise not to be angry, I will venture a piece of advice: Think more of your own perfection.'\n\n'What has that got to do with Yikka?'\n\n'Not much, my lord. Hardly anything. Just this: she's not a worthy mount for someone as important as you. It grieves me to see you riding such an undistinguished animal. All your traveling companions are surprised. You alone, my lord and master, seem unaware of what you owe to yourself.'\n\nBastian said nothing, but Xayide's words had made an impression.\n\nNext day, as the procession with Bastian and Yikka in the lead was passing through lush rolling meadows, interspersed here and there by small copses of fragrant lilac, he decided to take Xayide's advice.\n\nAt noon, when the caravan stopped to rest, he patted the old mule on the neck and said: 'Yikka, the time has come for us to part.'\n\nYikka let out a cry of dismay. 'Why, master?' she asked. 'Have I done my job so badly?' And tears flowed from the corners of her dark eyes.\n\n'Not at all,' Bastian hastened to reassure her. 'You've been carrying me so gently all this time, you've been so patient and willing that I've decided to reward you.'\n\n'I don't want any other reward,' said Yikka. 'I just want to go on carrying you. How could I wish for anything better?'\n\n'Didn't you once tell me it made you sad that mules can't have children?'\n\n'Yes,' said Yikka, 'because when I'm very old I'd like to tell my children about these happy days.'\n\n'Very well,' said Bastian. 'Then I'll tell you a story that will come true. And I'll tell it only to you, to you and no one else, because it's your story.'\n\nThen he took hold of one of Yikka's long ears and whispered into it: 'Not far from here, in a little lilac copse, the father of your son is waiting for you. He's a white stallion with the white wings of a swan. His mane and his tail are so long they touch the ground. He has been following you secretly for days, because he's immortally in love with you.'\n\n'With me?' cried Yikka, almost frightened. 'But I'm only a mule, and I'm not as young as I used to be.'\n\n'In his eyes,' said Bastian in an undertone, 'you're the most beautiful creature in all Fantastica just as you are. And also perhaps because you've carried me. But he's very bashful, he doesn't dare approach you with all these creatures about. You must go to him or he'll die of longing for you.'\n\n'Myohmy!' Yikka sighed. 'Is it as bad as all that?'\n\n'Yes,' Bastian whispered in her ear. 'And now, goodbye, Yikka. Just run along, you'll find him.'\n\nYikka took a few steps, but then she looked back again.\n\n'Frankly,' she said. 'I'm kind of scared.'\n\n'There's nothing to worry about,' said Bastian with a smile. 'And don't forget to tell your children and grandchildren about me.'\n\n'Thank you, master,' said Yikka, and off she went.\n\nFor a long while Bastian looked after her as she hobbled off. He wasn't really happy about sending her away. He went to his luxurious tent, lay down on the soft cushions, and gazed at the ceiling. He kept telling himself that he had made Yikka's dearest wish come true. But that didn't make him feel any better. A person's reason for doing someone a good turn matters as much as the good turn itself.\n\nBut that made no difference to Yikka, for she really did find the white, winged stallion. They married and she had a son who was a white, winged mule. His name was Pataplan and he made quite a name for himself in Fantastica, but that's another story and shall be told another time.\n\nFrom then on Bastian traveled in Xayide's litter. She even offered to get out and walk alongside so as to give him every possible comfort, but that was more than Bastian would accept. So they sat together in the comfortable red-coral litter, which from then on led the procession.\n\nBastian was still rather gloomy and felt a certain resentment toward Xayide for persuading him to part with his mule. He kept answering her in monosyllables, so that no real conversation was possible. Xayide soon realized what the trouble was.\n\nTo guide his thoughts into different channels, she said brightly: 'I would like to make you a present, my lord and master, if you deign to accept one from me.'\n\nShe rummaged under her cushions and found a richly ornamented casket. As Bastian tingled with eagerness, she opened it and took out a belt with chain links. Each link as well as the clasp was made of clear glass.\n\n'What is it?' Bastian asked.\n\n'It's a belt that makes its wearer invisible. But if you want it to belong to you, my lord, you must give it its name.'\n\nBastian examined it. 'The belt Ghemmal,' he said then.\n\nXayide nodded. 'Now it is yours,' she said with a smile. Bastian took the belt and held it irresolutely in his hand.\n\n'Would you like to try it now?' she asked. 'Just to see how it works?'\n\nTo Bastian's surprise, the belt was a perfect fit. But it gave him a most unpleasant feeling not to see his own body. He wanted to take the belt off, but that wasn't so easy since he could see neither the buckle nor his own hands.\n\n'Help!' he cried in a panic, suddenly afraid that he would never find the buckle and would remain invisible forever.\n\n'You have to learn to handle it,' said Xayide. 'I had the same trouble at first. Permit me to help you, my lord and master.'\n\nShe reached into the empty air. A moment later she had unfastened the belt and Bastian was relieved to see himself again. He laughed, while Xayide drew smoke from her water pipe and smiled.\n\nIf nothing else, she had cheered him up.\n\n'Now you are safe from harm,' she said gently, 'and that means more to me than you can imagine.'\n\n'Harm?' asked Bastian, still slightly befuddled. 'What sort of harm?'\n\n'Oh, no one can contend with you,' Xayide whispered. 'Not if you are wise. The danger is inside you, and that's why it's hard to protect you against it.'\n\n'Inside me? What does that mean?'\n\n'A wise person stands above things, he neither loves nor hates. But you, my lord, set store by friendship. Your heart should be as cold and indifferent as a snow-covered mountain peak, and it isn't. That's why someone can harm you.'\n\n'Someone? What someone?'\n\n'Someone you still care for in spite of all his insolence.'\n\n'Speak more plainly.'\n\n'That rude, arrogant little savage from the Greenskin country, my lord.'\n\n'Atreyu?'\n\n'Yes, and that outrageous, impertinent Falkor!'\n\n'You think they'd want to harm me?' Bastian could hardly keep from laughing.\n\nXayide bowed her head and said nothing.\n\n'I'll never believe that,' said Bastian. 'I won't listen to another word.'\n\nXayide still said nothing. She bowed her head still lower.\n\nAfter a long silence Bastian asked: 'What do you suppose Atreyu is plotting?'\n\n'My lord,' Xayide whispered. 'I wish I hadn't spoken.'\n\n'Well, now that you've started,' Bastian cried, 'tell me everything. Stop beating about the bush. What do you know?'\n\n'I tremble at your anger, my lord,' Xayide stammered, and true enough, she was all atremble. 'But even if it costs me my life, I will tell you. Atreyu is plotting to take the Childlike Empress's amulet away from you, by stealth or by force.'\n\nFor a moment Bastian could hardly breathe.\n\n'Can you prove it?' he asked.\n\nXayide shook her head.\n\n'My knowledge,' she murmured, 'is not of the kind that can be proved.'\n\n'Then keep it to yourself,' said Bastian, the blood rising to his face. 'And don't malign the truest, bravest boy in all Fantastica.'\n\nWith that he jumped out of the litter and left her.\n\nXayide's fingers played with the snake's head and her green-and-red eyes glowed. After a while she smiled again. Violet smoke rose from her mouth and she whispered: 'You will see, my lord and master. The belt Ghemmal will show you.'\n\nWhen the camp was set up that night, Bastian went to his tent. He ordered Ilwan, the blue djinn, not to admit anyone, and especially not Xayide. He wanted to be alone and to think.\n\nWhat the sorceress had told him about Atreyu hardly seemed worth troubling his head about. He had something else on his mind: those few words she dropped about wisdom.\n\nHe had been through so much; he had known joy and fear, discouragement and triumph; he had rushed from wish fulfillment to wish fulfillment, never stopping to rest. And nothing had brought him calm and contentment. To be wise was to be above joy and sorrow, fear and pity, ambition and humiliation. It was to hate nothing and to love nothing, and above all to be utterly indifferent to the love and hate of others. A truly wise man attached no importance to anything. Nothing could upset him and nothing could harm him. Yes, to be like that would be his final wish, the wish that would bring him to what he really wanted. Now he thought he understood what Grograman had meant by those words. And so he wished to become wise, the wisest being in Fantastica.\n\nA little later he stepped out of his tent.\n\nThe moon cast its light on a landscape that he had scarcely noticed up until then. The tent city lay in a hollow ringed about by strangely shaped mountains. The silence was complete. The hollow was fairly well wooded, while on the mountain slopes the vegetation became more sparse and farther up there was none at all. The peaks formed all manner of figures, almost as though a giant sculptor had shaped them. No breeze was blowing and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The stars glittered and seemed nearer than usual.\n\nAt the top of one of the highest peaks Bastian made out a sort of cupola. It seemed to be inhabited, for it gave off a faint light.\n\n'I've noticed it too, my lord,' said Ilwan in his rasping voice. He was standing at his post by the entrance to the tent. 'What can it be?'\n\nHe had no sooner spoken than Bastian heard a strange cry in the distance. It suggested the long-drawn-out hooting of an owl, but it was deeper and louder. It sounded a second and then a third time, but now there were several voices.\n\nOwls they were indeed, six in number, as Bastian was soon to find out. Coming from the direction of the cupola, they glided at an incredible speed on almost motionless wings. Soon they were close enough for Bastian to see how amazingly large they were. Their eyes glittered, and their erect ears were capped with bundles of down. The flight was soundless, but as they landed, a faint whirring of their wings could be heard.\n\nThen they were sitting on the ground in front of Bastian's tent, swiveling their heads with their great round eyes in all directions. Bastian went up to them.\n\n'Who are you?' he asked, 'and who are you looking for?'\n\n'We were sent by Ushtu, the Mother of Intuition,' said one of the six owls. 'We are messengers from Ghigam, the Star Cloister.'\n\n'What sort of cloister is that?' Bastian asked.\n\n'It is the home of wisdom,' said another of the owls, 'where the Monks of Knowledge live.'\n\n'And who is Ushtu?' Bastian asked.\n\n'One of the Three Deep Thinkers who direct the cloister and instruct the monks,' said a third owl. 'We are the night messengers, which puts us in her department.'\n\n'If it were daytime,' said the fourth owl, 'Shirkry, the Father of Vision, would have sent his messengers, who are eagles. And in the twilight hours between day and night, Yisipu, the Son of Reason, sends his messengers, who are foxes.'\n\n'Who are Shirkry and Yisipu?'\n\n'They are the other Deep Thinkers, our Superiors.'\n\n'And what are you doing here?'\n\n'We are looking for the Great Knower,' said the sixth owl. 'The Three Deep Thinkers know he is in this tent city and have sent us to beg him for illumination.'\n\n'The Great Knower?' asked Bastian. 'Who's that?'\n\n'His name,' replied all six owls at once, 'is Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\n'You've found him,' said Bastian. 'It's me.'\n\nThey bowed low, which because of their jerky movements looked almost comical in spite of their great size.\n\n'The Three Deep Thinkers,' said the first owl, 'beg you humbly and respectfully to visit them. They hope you will solve a problem they have been trying in vain to solve all their long lives.'\n\nBastian stroked his chin thoughtfully.\n\n'Very well,' he answered after a while. 'But I must take my two disciples with me.'\n\n'There are six of us,' said the owl. 'Two of us will carry each one of you.'\n\nBastian turned to the blue djinn.\n\n'Ilwan,' he said. 'Bring me Atreyu and Xayide.'\n\nThe djinn bowed and went his way.\n\n'What is this problem they want me to solve?' Bastian asked.\n\n'O Great Knower,' said one of the owls, 'we are only poor ignorant messengers. We don't even belong to the lowest rank of the Monks of Knowledge. How could we possibly have cognizance of the problem which the Deep Thinkers in all their long lives have been unable to solve?'\n\nA few minutes later Ilwan came back with Atreyu and Xayide. On the way he had told them what it was all about.\n\nAs he stood before Bastian, Atreyu asked in an undertone: 'Why me?'\n\n'Indeed,' said Xayide. 'Why him?'\n\n'You will find out,' said Bastian.\n\nWith admirable foresight, the owls had brought trapezes, one for every two owls. Bastian, Atreyu, and Xayide sat on the bars, and the great night birds, each holding a trapeze rope in its claws, rose into the air.\n\nWhen the travelers reached the Star Cloister of Ghigam, they found that the great cupola was only the uppermost part of a large building composed of many cubical compartments. It had innumerable little windows and its outer wall might have been taken for the continuation of a sheer cliff. An unbidden visitor could hardly have gained admittance to the place.\n\nThe cubical compartments contained the cells of the Monks of Knowledge, the libraries, the refectories, and the lodgings of the messengers. The meeting hall, where the Three Deep Thinkers delivered their lectures, was situated under the cupola.\n\nThe Monks of Knowledge were Fantasticans of all kinds, from every part of the realm. But anyone wishing to enter the cloister had to break off all contact with family and country. The lives of these monks were hard and frugal, devoted exclusively to knowledge. The community was far from accepting all applicants. The examinations were difficult and the Three Deep Thinkers set the highest standards. Thus there were seldom more than three hundred monks in the cloister at one time, but these were by far the most intelligent persons in all Fantastica. Occasionally the community dwindled to seven members, but even then there was no thought of relaxing the entrance requirements. At the moment the monks and monkesses numbered roughly two hundred.\n\nWhen Bastian, followed by Atreyu and Xayide, was led into the large lecture hall, he saw a motley assortment of Fantasticans, who differed from his own retinue only in that they all were dressed in rough dark-brown monk's robes. A wandering cliff or a tiny must have looked very strange in such an outfit.\n\nThe Superiors of the order, the Three Deep Thinkers, were built like humans except for their heads. Ushtu, the Mother of Intuition, had the head of an owl; Shirkry, the Father of Vision, the head of an eagle; and Yisipu, the Son of Reason, the head of a fox. They sat in raised stone chairs and looked enormous. The sight of them seemed to intimidate Atreyu and even Xayide. But Bastian stepped right up to them.\n\nWith a motion of his head, Shirkry, who was evidently the oldest of the three and was sitting in the middle, indicated an empty chair facing the Deep Thinkers. Bastian sat down in it.\n\nAfter a prolonged silence, Shirkry spoke. He spoke softly, but his voice sounded surprisingly deep and full.\n\n'Since time immemorial we have been pondering the enigma of our world. Yisipu's reasonings in the matter are different from Ushtu's intuitions, and Ushtu's intuitions differ from my vision, which in turn is different from Yisipu's reasonings. This is intolerable and must not be allowed to go on. That is why we have asked the Great Knower to come here and instruct us. Are you willing?'\n\n'I am,' said Bastian.\n\n'Then, O Great Knower, hear our question: What is Fantastica?'\n\nAfter a short silence Bastian replied: 'Fantastica is the Neverending Story.'\n\n'Give us time to understand your answer,' said Shirkry. 'Let us meet again here tomorrow at the same hour.'\n\nSilently the Three Deep Thinkers and the Monks of Knowledge arose, and all left the hall.\n\nBastian, Atreyu, and Xayide were led to guest cells, where a simple meal awaited them. Their beds were wooden planks covered with rough woolen blankets. Though this didn't matter to Bastian and Atreyu, Xayide would have liked to conjure up a more comfortable bed. But she soon found to her dismay that her magic powers were without effect in this cloister.\n\nLate the following night the monks and the Three Deep Thinkers met again in the great meeting hall. Once again Bastian occupied the high seat. Xayide and Atreyu sat to the left and right of him.\n\nThis time it was Ushtu, the Mother of Intuition, who scrutinized Bastian with her great owl's eyes and said: 'We have meditated on your answer, O Great Knower. But a new question has occurred to us. If, as you say, Fantastica is the Neverending Story, where is the Neverending Story to be found?'\n\nAfter a short silence Bastian replied: 'In a book bound with copper-colored silk.'\n\n'Give us time to understand your words,' said Ushtu. 'Let us meet again tomorrow at the same hour.'\n\nWhen they had gathered in the meeting hall the following night, Yisipu, the Son of Reason, took the floor.\n\n'Again we have meditated on your answer, O Great Knower,' he said. 'And again a new question comes to perplex us. If our world, Fantastica, is a Neverending Story and if this Neverending Story is in a book bound in copper-colored silk \u2013 where then is this book?'\n\nAfter a short silence Bastian replied: 'In the attic of a schoolhouse.'\n\n'O Great Knower,' said the fox-headed Yisipu, 'we do not doubt the truth of what you say. But now we would like to ask you to let us see this truth. Can you do that?'\n\nBastian thought it over. Then he said: 'I believe I can.'\n\nAtreyu looked at Bastian with surprise. Xayide too had a questioning look in her red-and-green eyes.\n\n'Let us meet again tomorrow night at the same hour,' said Bastian. 'But not here. Let us meet on the roof of the Star Cloister. And then you must keep your eyes fixed on the heavens.'\n\nThe following night was as clear as the three before it. At the appointed hour the Three Deep Thinkers and all the Monks of Knowledge were gathered on the roof of the Star Cloister. Atreyu and Xayide, who had no idea what Bastian was up to, were there too.\n\nBastian climbed to the top of the great cupola and looked around. For the first time he saw the Ivory Tower far off on the horizon, shimmering in the moonlight.\n\nHe took the stone Al Tsahir from his pocket. It sent out a soft glow. He then called to mind the inscription he had seen on the door of the Amarganth Library:\n\n... But if he says my name a second time\n\nfrom the end to the beginning,\n\nI will glow in one moment with the light of a hundred years.\n\nHe held the stone up high and cried out: 'Rihast-la!' At that moment there came a flash of lightning so bright that the stars paled and the dark cosmic space behind them was illumined. And that space was the schoolhouse attic with its age-blackened beams. In a moment the vision passed and the light of a hundred years was gone. Al Tsahir had vanished without a trace.\n\nIt was some time before the eyes of those present, including Bastian's, became accustomed to the feeble light of the moon and the stars.\n\nShaken by what they had seen, all gathered in the great lecture hall. Bastian was the last to enter. The Monks of Knowledge and the Three Deep Thinkers arose from their seats and bowed low to him.\n\n'I have no words,' said Shirkry, 'with which to thank you for that flash of illumination, O Great Knower. For in that mysterious attic I glimpsed a being of my own kind, an eagle.'\n\n'You are mistaken, Shirkry,' said the owl-faced Ushtu with a gentle smile. 'I saw the creature plainly. It was an owl.'\n\n'You are both mistaken,' cried Yisipu, his eyes aflame. 'That being is a relative of mine, a fox.'\n\nShirkry raised his hands in horror.\n\n'Here we are back where we started!' he said. 'You alone, O Great Knower, can answer this new question. Which of us is right?'\n\nSmiling serenely, Bastian replied: 'All three.'\n\n'Give us time to understand your answer,' said Ushtu.\n\n'All the time you wish,' Bastian replied, 'for we shall be leaving you now.'\n\nBitter disappointment could be read on the faces of the Three Deep Thinkers and of the Monks of Knowledge. They implored Bastian to stay longer, or better still, forever, but with a rather disrespectful shrug he declined.\n\nWhereupon the six messengers carried him and his two disciples back to the tent city.\n\nThat night the usual harmony of the Three Deep Thinkers was disturbed by a first radical difference of opinion, which years later led to the breakup of the community. Then Ushtu the Mother of Intuition, Shirkry the Father of Vision, and Yisipu the Son of Reason each founded a cloister of his own. But that is another story and shall be told another time.\n\nThat night Bastian lost all memory of having gone to school. The attic and the stolen book bound in copper-colored silk vanished from his mind. And he even stopped asking himself how he had come to Fantastica.\n\n# XXII\n\n# _The Battle for the Ivory Tower_\n\nVIGILANT scouts returned to camp, reporting that the Ivory Tower was not far off and could be reached in two or at the most three days' marches.\n\nBut Bastian seemed irresolute. He kept ordering rest stops, but before the troops were half settled he would make them start out again. No one knew why he was behaving so strangely, and no one dared ask him. Since his great feat at the Star Cloister he had been unapproachable, even for Xayide. All sorts of conjectures were rife, but most of the traveling companions were quite willing to obey his contradictory orders. Great wise men, they thought, often strike the common run of people as unpredictable. Atreyu and Falkor were equally at a loss. The incident at the Star Cloister had baffled them completely.\n\nWithin Bastian two feelings were at war, and he was unable to silence either one. He longed to meet Moon Child. Now that he was famous and admired throughout Fantastica, he could approach her as an equal. But at the same time he was afraid she would ask him to return AURYN to her. And what then? Would she try to send him back to the world he had almost forgotten? He didn't want to go back. And he wanted to keep the Gem. But then he had another idea. Was it so certain that she wanted it back? Maybe she would let him have it as long as he wished. Maybe she had made him a present of it and it was his for good. At such moments he could hardly wait to see her again. He rushed the caravan on. But then, assailed by doubts, he would order a stop and think it all over again.\n\nAfter alternating forced marches and prolonged delays, the procession finally reached the edge of the famous Labyrinth, the immense flower garden with its winding avenues and pathways. On the horizon the Ivory Tower gleamed white against the gold-shimmering evening sky.\n\nAwed by the splendor and beauty of the sight, the army of Fantasticans stood silent. And so did Bastian. Even Xayide's face showed a look of wonderment, which had never been seen before and which soon vanished. Atreyu and Falkor, who were in the rear of the procession, remembered how different the Labyrinth had looked the last time they had seen it: wasted with the ravages of the Nothing. Now it was greener and more flourishing than ever before.\n\nBastian decided to go no farther that day and the tents were pitched for the night. He sent out messengers to bring greetings to Moon Child and let her know that he would be arriving at the Ivory Tower next day. Then he lay down in his tent and tried to sleep. He tossed and turned on his cushions, his worries left him no peace. But he was far from suspecting that this would be his worst night since coming to Fantastica.\n\nToward midnight, soon after falling into a restless sleep, he was awakened by excited whisperings outside his tent. He got up and went out.\n\n'What's going on?' he asked sternly.\n\n'This messenger,' replied Ilwan, the blue djinn, 'claims he is bringing you news so important that it can't wait until tomorrow.'\n\nThe messenger, whom Ilwan had picked up by the collar, was a nimbly, a creature bearing a certain resemblance to a rabbit, except that its coat was of bright-colored feathers instead of fur. Nimblies are among the swiftest runners in Fantastica, and can cover enormous distances with incredible speed. When running they become almost invisible except for the trail of dust clouds they leave behind them. That is why the nimbly had been chosen as messenger. After running to the Ivory Tower and back in next to no time, he was desperately out of breath when the djinn set him down in front of Bastian.\n\n'Forgive me, sire,' he said, bowing and panting. 'Forgive me if I make so bold as to disturb your rest, but you would have every reason to be displeased with me if I failed to do so. Moon Child is not in the Ivory Tower; she has not been there for a long, long time, and no one knows where she is.'\n\nSuddenly Bastian felt cold and empty inside. 'You must be mistaken. That can't be.'\n\n'The other messengers will tell you the same thing when they get back, sire.'\n\nAfter a long silence Bastian said tonelessly: 'Thank you. Dismissed.'\n\nHe went back into his tent, sat down on his bed, and buried his head in his hands. This seemed impossible. Moon Child must have known he was on his way to her. Could it be that she didn't want to see him again? Or had something happened to her? No, how could anything happen to her in her own realm?\n\nBut the fact remained: she was gone, which meant that he didn't have to return AURYN to her. At the same time he felt bitterly disappointed that he wouldn't be seeing her again. Whatever her reasons may have been, he found her behavior unbelievable, no, insulting.\n\nThen he remembered what Falkor and Atreyu had told him: that no one could meet the Childlike Empress more than once.\n\nThe thought made him so unhappy that he suddenly longed for Atreyu and Falkor. He needed someone to talk to, to confide in.\n\nThen he had an idea: If he put on the belt Ghemmal and made himself invisible, he could enjoy their comforting presence without mentioning the humiliation he felt.\n\nHe opened the ornate casket, took out the belt, and put it on. Then, after waiting until he had got used to the unpleasant sensation of not seeing himself, he went out and wandered about the tent city in search of Atreyu and Falkor. Wherever he went he heard excited whispers, figures darted from tent to tent, here and there several creatures were huddled together, talking and gesticulating. By then the other messengers had returned, and the news that Moon Child was not in the Ivory Tower had spread like wildfire.\n\nAtreyu and Falkor were under a flowering rosemary tree at the very edge of the camp. Atreyu was sitting with his arms folded, looking fixedly in the direction of the Ivory Tower. The luckdragon lay beside him with his great head on the ground.\n\n'That was my last hope,' said Atreyu. 'I thought she might make an exception for him and let him return the amulet. Now all is lost.'\n\n'She must know what she's doing,' said Falkor.\n\nAt that moment Bastian located them and sat down invisibly nearby.\n\n'Is it certain?' Atreyu murmured. 'He mustn't be allowed to keep AURYN!'\n\n'What will you do?' Falkor asked. 'He won't give it up of his own free will.'\n\n'Then I'll have to take it from him,' said Atreyu.\n\nAt those words Bastian felt the ground sinking from under him.\n\n'That won't be easy,' he heard Falkor saying. 'But if you do take it, I trust that he won't be able to get it back.'\n\n'That's not so sure,' said Atreyu. 'He'll still have his great strength and his magic sword.'\n\n'But the Gem would protect you,' said Falkor. 'Even against him.'\n\n'No,' said Atreyu. 'I don't think so. Not against him.'\n\n'And to think,' said Falkor with a grim laugh, 'that he himself offered it to you on your first night in Amarganth.'\n\nAtreyu nodded. 'I didn't realize then what would happen.'\n\n'How are you going to take it from him?' Falkor asked.\n\n'I'll have to steal it,' said Atreyu.\n\nFalkor's head shot up. With glowing ruby-red eyes he stared at Atreyu, who hung his head and repeated in an undertone: 'I'll have to. There's no other way.'\n\nAfter a long silence Falkor asked: 'When?'\n\n'It will have to be tonight. Tomorrow may be too late.'\n\nBastian had heard enough. Slowly he crept away. His only feeling was one of cold emptiness. Everything was indifferent to him now, just as Xayide had said.\n\nHe went back to his tent and took off the belt Ghemmal. Then he bade Ilwan bring him the three knights, Hysbald, Hykrion, and Hydorn. As he paced the ground waiting, it came to him that Xayide had foreseen it all. He hadn't wanted to believe her, but now he was obliged to. Xayide, he now realized, was sincerely devoted to him. She was his only true friend. But there was still room for doubt. Perhaps Atreyu wouldn't actually carry out his plan. Maybe he had already repented. In that case Bastian wouldn't ever mention it \u2013 though friendship now meant nothing to him. That was over and done with.\n\nWhen the three knights appeared, he told them he had reason to believe that a thief would come to his tent that night. When they agreed to keep watch and lay hands on the thief whoever he might be, he went to Xayide's coral litter. She lay sound asleep, attended by her five giants in their black armor, who stood motionless on guard. In the darkness they looked like five boulders.\n\n'I wish you to obey me,' Bastian said softly.\n\nInstantly, all five turned their black iron faces toward him.\n\n'Command us, master of our mistress,' said one in a metallic voice.\n\n'Do you think you can handle Falkor the luckdragon?' Bastian asked.\n\n'That depends on the will that guides us,' said the metallic voice.\n\n'It is my will,' said Bastian.\n\n'Then there is no one we cannnot handle,' was the answer.\n\n'Good. Then go close to where he is.' He pointed. 'That way. As soon as Atreyu leaves him, take him prisoner. But keep him there. I'll have you called when I want you.'\n\n'Master of our mistress,' the metallic voice replied, 'it shall be done.'\n\nThe five black giants marched off in step. Xayide smiled in her sleep.\n\nBastian went back to his tent. But once in sight of it, he hesitated. If Atreyu should really attempt to steal the Gem, he didn't want to be there when they seized him.\n\nHe sat down under a tree nearby and waited, wrapped in his silver mantle. Slowly the time passed, the sky paled in the east, it would soon be morning. Bastian was beginning to hope that Atreyu had abandoned his project when suddenly he heard a tumult in his tent. And a moment later Hykrion led Atreyu out with his arms chained behind his back. The two other knights followed. Bastian dragged himself to his feet and stood leaning against the tree.\n\n'So he's actually done it,' he muttered to himself.\n\nThen he went to his tent. He couldn't bear to look at Atreyu, and Atreyu too kept his eyes to the ground.\n\n'Ilwan,' said Bastian to the blue djinn. 'Wake the whole camp! I want everyone here. And tell the black giants to bring Falkor.'\n\nThe djinn hurried off with the rasping cry of an eagle. Wherever he went, the denizens of the tents large and small began to stir.\n\n'He didn't defend himself at all,' said Hykrion, with a movement of his head toward Atreyu, who was standing there motionless with eyes downcast. Bastian turned away and sat down on a stone.\n\nBy the time the five armored giants appeared with Falkor, a large crowd had gathered. At the approach of the stamping metallic steps, the crowd opened up a passage. Falkor was not chained, and the armed guards were not holding him, but merely marching to the left and right of him with drawn swords.\n\n'He offered no resistance, master of our mistress,' said one of the metallic voices.\n\nFalkor lay down on the ground at Atreyu's feet and closed his eyes.\n\nA long silence followed. Creatures poured in from the camp and craned their necks to see what was going on. Only Xayide was absent. Little by little the whispering died down. All eyes shuttled back and forth between Bastian and Atreyu, who stood motionless, looking like stone statues in the gray morning light.\n\nAt length Bastian spoke.\n\n'Atreyu,' he said. 'You tried to steal Moon Child's amulet and take it for yourself. And you, Falkor, were an accomplice to his plan. Not only have you both been untrue to our old friendship, you have also been guilty of disobedience to Moon Child, who gave me the Gem. Do you confess your wrong?'\n\nAtreyu cast a long glance at Bastian; then he nodded.\n\nBastian's voice failed him. It was some time before he could go on.\n\n'I have not forgotten, Atreyu, that it was you who brought me to Moon Child. I have not forgotten Falkor's singing in Amarganth. So I will spare your lives, the lives of a thief and of a thief's accomplice. Do what you will. Just so you go away, the farther the better, and never let me lay eyes on you again. I banish you forever. I have never known you.'\n\nHe bade Hykrion remove Atreyu's chains. Then he turned away.\n\nAtreyu stood motionless for a long while. Then he cast another glance at Bastian. It looked as if he wanted to say something, but changed his mind. He bent down to Falkor and whispered something in his ear. The luckdragon opened his eyes and sat up. Atreyu jumped on his back and Falkor rose into the air. He flew straight into the brightening morning sky, and though his movements were heavy and sluggish, he soon vanished in the distance.\n\nBastian went to his tent and threw himself down on his bed.\n\n'At last you have achieved true greatness,' said a soft voice. 'Now you've stopped caring for anything; now nothing can move you.'\n\nBastian sat up. It was Xayide. She was squatting in the darkest corner of the tent.\n\n'You?' said Bastian. 'How did you get in?'\n\nXayide smiled.\n\n'O my lord and master, no guards can shut me out. Only your command can do that. Do you wish to send me away?'\n\nBastian lay back and closed his eyes. After a while he muttered: 'It's all the same to me. Go or stay!'\n\nFor a long while she watched him from under her half-lowered lids. Then she asked: 'What are you thinking about, my lord and master?'\n\nBastian turned away and did not reply.\n\nIt was plain to Xayide that this was no time to leave him to himself. In such a mood he was capable of slipping away from her. She must comfort him and cheer him up \u2013 in her own way. For she was determined to hold him to the course she had planned for him \u2013 and for herself. And she knew that in the present juncture no magical belts or tricks would suffice. It would take stronger medicine, the strongest medicine available to her, namely, Bastian's secret wishes. She sat down beside him and whispered in his ear: 'When, O lord and master, will you go to the Ivory Tower?'\n\n'I don't know,' said Bastian. 'What can I do there if Moon Child is gone?'\n\n'You could go and wait for her.'\n\nBastian turned to face Xayide.\n\n'Do you think she'll be back?'\n\nHe had to repeat his question more insistently before Xayide replied: 'No, I don't believe so. I believe she has had to leave Fantastica forever, and that you, my lord and master, are her successor.'\n\nSlowly Bastian sat up and looked into Xayide's red-and-green eyes. It was some time before he grasped the full meaning of her words.\n\n'I!?' he gasped. And his cheeks broke out in red spots.\n\n'Do you find the idea so frightening?' Xayide whispered. 'She gave you the emblem of her power. Now she has left you her empire. Now, my lord and master, you will be the Childlike Emperor. It is only your right. You not only saved Fantastica by your coming, you also created it! All of us \u2013 I too! \u2013 are your creatures. Why should you, the Great Knower, fear to take the power that is rightfully yours?'\n\nBastian's eyes glowed with a cold fever. And then Xayide spoke to him of a new Fantastica, a world molded in every detail to Bastian's taste, where he could create and destroy just as he pleased, where every creature, good or bad, beautiful or ugly, wise or foolish, would be the product of his will alone, and he would reign supreme and inscrutable, playing an everlasting game with the destinies of his subjects.\n\n'Then alone,' she concluded, 'will you be truly free, free from all obstacles, free to do as you please. Weren't you trying to find out what you really and truly want? Well, now you know.'\n\nThat same morning they broke camp, and led by Bastian and Xayide in the coral litter, the great procession set out for the Ivory Tower. A well-nigh endless column moved along the twining paths of the Labyrinth. In the late afternoon, when the head of the column reached the Ivory Tower, the last stragglers had barely entered the great flowering maze.\n\nBastian could not have wished for a more festive reception, On every roof and battlement stood elves with gleaming trumpets, blaring away at the top of their lungs. The jugglers juggled, the astrologers proclaimed Bastian's greatness and good fortune, the bakers baked cakes as big as mountains, the ministers and councilors escorted the coral litter through the teeming crowd on the High Street, which wound in an ever-narrowing spiral up the conical tower to the great gate leading into the palace. Followed by Xayide and the dignitaries, Bastian climbed the snow-white steps of the broad stairway, traversed halls and corridors, passed through a second gate, through a garden full of ivory animals, trees, and flowers, mounted higher and higher, crossed a bridge, and passed through the last gate. He was heading for the Magnolia Pavilion at the very top of the tower. But the blossom was closed and the last stretch of the way was so steep and smooth that no one could climb it.\n\nBastian remembered that the wounded Atreyu had not been able to climb that slope, not by his own strength at least, because no one who has ever reached the Magnolia Pavilion can say how he got there. For this victory must come as a gift.\n\nBut Bastian was not Atreyu. If anyone was now entitled to bestow the gift of this victory, it was he. And he had no intention of letting anything stop him.\n\n'Bring workmen,' he commanded. 'I want them to cut steps in this smooth surface. I wish to make my residence up there.'\n\n'Sire,' one of the oldest councilors ventured to object, 'that is where our Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes lives when she is here.'\n\n'Do as you're told!' Bastian roared at him.\n\nThe dignitaries turned pale and shrank back from him. But they obeyed. Workmen arrived with mallets and chisels. But try as they might, they couldn't so much as chip the smooth surface of the dome. The chisels leapt from their hands without leaving the slightest dent.\n\n'Think of something else,' said Bastian angrily. 'My patience is wearing thin.'\n\nThen he turned away, and while waiting for the Magnolia Pavilion to be made accessible, he and his retinue, consisting chiefly of Xayide, the three knights, Hysbald, Hykrion, and Hydorn, and Ilwan, the blue djinn, took possession of the remaining rooms of the palace.\n\nThat same night he summoned all the ministers and councilors who had served Moon Child to a meeting in the large, circular hall where the congress of physicians had once met. There he informed them that the Golden-eyed Commander of Wishes had left him, Bastian Balthazar Bux, power over the endless Fantastican Empire, and that he was now taking her place. In conclusion he demanded perfect obedience.\n\n'Even, or I might say especially,' he added, 'when my decisions are beyond your understanding. For I am not of your kind.'\n\nHe then announced that in exactly seventy-seven days he would crown himself Childlike Emperor of Fantastica and that the event would be celebrated with such splendor that it would outshine anything ever done in Fantastica. And he ordered the councilors to send messengers forthwith to every part of the realm, for he wished every nation of the Fantastican Empire to be represented at his coronation.\n\nThereupon Bastian withdrew, leaving the councilors and other dignitaries alone with their bewilderment.\n\nThey didn't know what to do. What they had heard sounded so monstrous that for a long while they could only stand there silently, hanging their heads. Then they began to deliberate. And after many hours, they came to the conclusion that they would have to obey Bastian's commands, for he bore the emblem of the Childlike Empress, and that that entitled him to obedience regardless of whether Moon Child had really abdicated in his favor or whether this was just another of her unfathomable decisions. And so the messengers were sent and all Bastian's orders were carried out.\n\nHe himself took no further interest in the coronation, but left all the details to Xayide, who kept the whole court so busy that hardly anyone had time to think.\n\nDuring the next days and weeks Bastian spent most of his time in the room he had chosen, staring into space and doing nothing. He would have liked to wish for something or make up a story to amuse himself, but nothing occurred to him. He felt hollow and empty.\n\nAt length he hit on the idea of wishing for Moon Child to come to him. If he was really all-powerful, if all his wishes came true, she would have to obey him. For whole nights he sat there whispering: 'Moon Child, come! You must come! I command you to come!' He thought of her glance, which had lain in his heart like a glittering treasure. But she did not come. And the more he tried to make her come, the fainter became his memory of that glitter in his heart, until in the end all was darkness within him.\n\nHe convinced himself that everything would come right again if only he could be in the Magnolia Pavilion. Time and again, he went up to the workmen and tried to spur them with promises or threats, but all to no avail. Ladders broke, nails bent, chisels split.\n\nHykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, with whom Bastian would gladly have chatted or played games, were as good as useless. In the deepest cellar of the Ivory Tower they had discovered wine. There they sat day and night, drinking, playing dice, bellowing silly songs, or quarreling, and as often as not attacking one another with their swords. Sometimes they staggered up and down the High Street, molesting the fairies, elves, and other female denizens of the Tower.\n\n'What do you expect, sire?' they said when Bastian found fault with them. 'You must give us something to do.'\n\nBut Bastian couldn't think of anything and bade them wait until his coronation, though he himself couldn't have said what difference that would make.\n\nLittle by little the weather changed for the worse. Sunsets of liquid gold became more infrequent. Almost always the sky was gray and overcast, not a breeze stirred, the air grew sultry and lifeless.\n\nThe day appointed for the coronation was near. The messengers returned. Some brought delegates from remote corners of Fantastica. But others arrived empty-handed, for many of the nations refused out of hand to be represented at the ceremony. And in some countries there had been veiled or open rebellion.\n\nBastian stared into space.\n\n'Once you are emperor,' said Xayide, 'you will put the house in order.'\n\n'I want them to want what I want,' said Bastian.\n\nBut already Xayide had hurried off to make new arrangements.\n\nAnd then came the day of the coronation that did not take place. It went down in the history of Fantastica as the day of the bloody battle for the Ivory Tower.\n\nThere was no dawn that morning; the sky was too covered with thick, leaden-gray clouds. The air was almost too heavy to breathe.\n\nWorking hand in hand with the Ivory Tower's fourteen masters of ceremony, Xayide had drawn up an elaborate program for the celebration.\n\nBeginning early in the morning, bands on all the streets and squares played music such as had never been heard in the Ivory Tower \u2013 strident yet monotonous. None who heard it could help jiggling his feet and dancing. The musicians wore black masks. No one knew who they were or where Xayide had found them.\n\nEvery roof and housefront was decorated with bright-colored flags and pennants, but they hung sadly limp, for there was no wind. Along the High Street and on the wall around the palace hundreds of pictures had been set up, ranging in size from small to enormous, and all showed the same face \u2013 Bastian's.\n\nSince the Magnolia Pavilion was still inaccessible, Xayide had prepared another site for the coronation. The throne was to be installed at the foot of the ivory steps near the palace gate where the winding High Street ended. Thousands of golden censers were smoldering, and the smoke, with its lulling yet exciting fragrance, drifted slowly up the steps and down the High Street, finding its way into every last nook and cranny. The armored giants were everywhere. Only Xayide knew how she had managed to multiply the five she had left into such an army. And as if that were not enough, fifty of them were mounted on gigantic horses, which were also made of black metal and moved in perfect unison.\n\nThe armored horsemen escorted a throne up the High Street in a triumphal procession. It was as big as a church door and consisted entirely of mirrors of every size and shape. Only the cushion on the seat was covered with copper-colored silk. Strangely, this enormous glittering object glided up the spiral street unaided, without being pushed or pulled; it seemed to have a life of its own.\n\nWhen it stopped at the great ivory gate, Bastian stepped out of the palace and sat down on it. In the midst of all that glitter and splendor he looked like a tiny doll. The crowd of onlookers, who were held back by a cordon of armored giants, burst into cheers, but for some inexplicable reason their cheers sounded thin and shrill.\n\nThen began the most tedious and wearisome part of the ceremony. The messengers and delegates from all over the Fantastican Empire had to form a line, which extended from the mirror throne down the entire spiraling High Street and deep into the labyrinthine garden. Every single delegate, when his turn came, had to bow down before the throne, touch the ground three times with his forehead, kiss Bastian's right foot, and say: 'In the name of my nation and my species I beseech you, to whom we all owe our existence, to crown yourself Childlike Emperor of Fantastica.'\n\nThis had been going on for two or three hours when a sudden tremor passed through the crowd. A young faun came dashing up the High Street, reeled with exhaustion, pulled himself together, ran till he reached Bastian, and threw himself on the ground, gasping for breath. Bastian bent down to him.\n\n'How dare you interrupt this august ceremony!'\n\n'War, sire!' cried the faun. 'Atreyu has gathered a host of rebels and is on his way here with three armies. They demand that you give up AURYN. If you will not, they mean to take it by force.'\n\nThe rousing music and the shrill cries of jubilation gave way to a deathly silence. Bastian turned pale.\n\nThen the three knights, Hysbald, Hykrion, and Hydorn, appeared on the run. They seemed to be in a remarkably good humor.\n\n'At last there's something for us to do, sire,' all three cried at once. 'Leave it to us. Just get on with your celebration. We'll round up a few good men and get after those rebels. We'll teach them a lesson they won't forget so soon.'\n\nAmong the thousands of creatures present quite a few were utterly useless for military purposes. But most were able to handle some weapon or to fight with their teeth or claws. All these gathered around the three knights, who led their army away. Bastian remained behind with the not-so-martial multitude, to complete the ceremony. But his heart was no longer in it. Time and again his eyes veered toward the horizon, which he could see from his throne. Great clouds of dust showed him that Atreyu's army was no joke.\n\n'Don't worry,' said Xayide, who had stepped up to Bastian. 'My armored giants haven't begun to fight yet. They'll defend your Ivory Tower. No one can stand up to them, except for you and your sword.'\n\nA few hours later the first battle reports came in. Atreyu had enlisted almost all the Greenskins, at least two hundred centaurs, eight hundred and fifty rock chewers, five luckdragons led by Falkor, who kept attacking from the air, a squadron of giant eagles, who had flown from the Mountains of Destiny, and innumerable other creatures, even a sprinkling of unicorns.\n\nThough far inferior in numbers to the troops led by the knights Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, Atreyu's army fought so vigorously that they were soon approaching the Ivory Tower.\n\nBastian wanted to go out and lead his army in person, but Xayide advised against it.\n\n'O lord and master,' she said, 'it is unseemly for the Emperor of Fantastica to take up arms. Leave that to your faithful subjects.'\n\nAll day the battle raged. The entire Labyrinth became a trampled, blood-soaked battlefield. By late afternoon, despite the stubborn resistance of Bastian's army, the rebels had reached the foot of the Ivory Tower.\n\nThen Xayide sent in her armored giants, both mounted and on foot, and they wrought havoc among Atreyu's followers.\n\nA detailed account of the battle for the Ivory Tower would take us too far. To this day Fantasticans sing countless songs and tell innumerable stories about that day and night, for everyone who took part saw it in his own way. Certain of the stories have it that Atreyu's army included several white magicians, who had the power to oppose Xayide's black magic. Of this we have no certain knowledge, but that would explain how, in spite of the armored giants, Atreyu and his followers were able to take the Ivory Tower. But there is another, more likely explanation: Atreyu was fighting not for himself, but for his friend, whom he was trying to save by defeating him.\n\nThe night of the battle was starless, full of smoke and flames. Fallen torches, overturned censers, and shattered lamps had set the Tower on fire in many places. The fighters cast eerie shadows. Weapons clashed and battle shouts resounded. Everywhere, through the flames and the darkness, Bastian searched for Atreyu.\n\n'Atreyu!' he shouted. 'Atreyu, show yourself! Stand up and fight! Where are you?'\n\nBut the sword Sikanda didn't budge from its sheath.\n\nBastian ran from room to room of the palace, then out on the great wall, which at that point was as wide as a street. He was heading for the outer gate where the mirror throne stood \u2013 now shattered into a thousand pieces \u2013 when he saw Atreyu, sword in hand, coming toward him.\n\nThey stood face to face, and still Sikanda did not budge.\n\nAtreyu put the tip of his sword on Bastian's chest.\n\n'Give me the amulet,' he said. 'For your own sake.'\n\n'Traitor!' cried Bastian. 'You are my creature! I created the whole lot of you! Including you! So how can you rebel against me? Kneel down and beg forgiveness.'\n\n'You're mad!' cried Atreyu. 'You didn't create anything! You owe everything to Moon Child! Give me AURYN!'\n\n'Take it if you can.'\n\nAtreyu hesitated.\n\n'Bastian,' he said. 'Why do you force me to defeat you in order to save you?'\n\nBastian tugged at the hilt of his sword. He tugged with all his might and finally managed to draw Sikanda from its sheath. But it did not leap into his hand of its own accord, and at the same moment a sound was heard, a sound so terrible that even the warriors on the High Street outside the gate stood as though frozen to the spot, looking up at the two adversaries. Bastian recognized that sound. It was the hideous cracking and grinding he had heard when Grograman turned to stone. Sikanda's light went out. And then Bastian remembered how the lion had predicted what would happen if someone were to draw the sword of his own will. But by then it was too late to turn back.\n\nAtreyu tried to defend himself with his own sword. But wielded by Bastian, Sikanda cut it in two and struck Atreyu in the chest. Blood spurted from a gaping wound. Atreyu staggered back and toppled from the wall. But at that moment a white flame shot through the swirling smoke, caught Atreyu in his fall, and carried him away. The white flame was Falkor, the luckdragon.\n\nBastian wiped the sweat from his brow with his mantle and saw that its silver had turned black, as black as the night. Still with the sword Sikanda in hand, he left the wall and went down to the palace courtyard.\n\nWith Bastian's victory over Atreyu, the fortunes of war shifted. The rebel army, which had seemed sure of victory a moment before, took flight. Bastian felt as if he were caught in a terrible dream and could not wake up. His victory left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, but at the same time he felt wildly triumphant.\n\nWrapped in his black mantle, clutching the bloody sword, he passed slowly down the High Street. The Ivory Tower was blazing like an enormous torch. Hardly aware of the roaring flames, Bastian went on till he reached the foot of the Tower. There he found the remnants of his army waiting for him in the devastated Labyrinth \u2013 now a far-flung battlefield strewn with the corpses of Fantasticans. Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn were there too, the last two seriously wounded. Ilwan, the blue djinn, was dead. Xayide, holding the belt Ghemmal, was standing beside his corpse.\n\n'He saved this for you, O lord and master,' she said.\n\nBastian took the belt, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.\n\nSlowly he passed his eyes over his companions. Only a few hundred were left. More dead than alive, they looked like a conclave of ghosts in the flickering light of the fires,\n\nAll had their faces turned toward the Ivory Tower, which was collapsing piece by piece. The Magnolia Pavilion at the top flared, its petals opened wide, and one could see that it was empty. Then it too was engulfed by the flames.\n\nBastian pointed his sword at the heap of flaming ruins and his voice cracked as he declared: 'This is Atreyu's doing! For this I will pursue him to the ends of the world!'\n\nHoisting himself up on one of the gigantic metal horses, he cried: 'Follow me!'\n\nThe horse reared, but he bent it to his will and galloped off into the night.\n\n# XXIII\n\n# _The City of the Old Emperors_\n\nWHILE Bastian was racing through the pitch-black night miles ahead, his companions were still making preparations for departure. Most were exhausted and none had anything approaching Bastian's strength and endurance. Even the armored giants on their metallic horses had a hard time getting started, and the foot sloggers couldn't manage to fall into their mechanical tramp-tramp-tramp. Xayide's will, which moved them, seemed to have reached the limits of its power. Her coral litter had been devoured by flames. A new conveyance had been built out of shattered weapons and charred planks from the Ivory Tower, but it looked more like a gypsy wagon than a litter. The rest of the army hobbled and shuffled along as best they could. Even Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn, who had lost their horses, had to hold one another up. No one spoke, but they all knew they would never be able to overtake Bastian.\n\nOn he galloped through the darkness, his black mantle flapping wildly in the wind, the metallic limbs of his gigantic horse creaking and grinding at every movement as the great hooves pounded the earth.\n\n'Gee up!' cried Bastian. 'Gee up! Gee up!'\n\nThe horse wasn't running fast enough for him. He was determined to overtake Atreyu and Falkor at all costs, even if it meant riding this metallic monster to its death.\n\nHe wanted vengeance! He would have attained the goal of all his wishes if Atreyu hadn't interfered. Bastian had not become Emperor of Fantastica. And for that he would make Atreyu repent.\n\nThe joints of Bastian's metallic steed ground and creaked louder and louder, but still it obeyed its rider's will.\n\nBastian rode for hours and hours through the endless night. In his mind's eye he saw the flaming Ivory Tower. Over and over he lived the moment when Atreyu had set the point of his sword to his chest. And then for the first time he asked himself why Atreyu had hesitated. Why, after all that had happened, couldn't he bring himself to strike Bastian and take AURYN by force? And suddenly Bastian thought of the wound he had inflicted on Atreyu and the look in Atreyu's eyes as he staggered and fell.\n\nBastian put Sikanda, which up until then he had been clutching in his fist, back into its rusty sheath.\n\nIn the first light of dawn he saw he was on a heath. Dark clumps of juniper suggested motionless groups of gigantic hooded monks or magicians with pointed hats.\n\nAnd then suddenly, in the midst of a frantic gallop, Bastian's metal steed burst into pieces.\n\nBastian lay stunned by the violence of his fall. When he finally picked himself up and rubbed his bruised limbs, he found himself in the middle of a juniper bush. He crawled out into the open. The fragments of the horse lay scattered all about, as though an equestrian monument had exploded.\n\nBastian stood up, threw his black mantle over his shoulders, and with no idea where he was going, started walking in the direction of the rising sun.\n\nBut a glittering object was left behind in the juniper bush: the belt Ghemmal. Bastian was unaware of his loss and never thought of the belt again. Ilwan had saved it from the flames for nothing.\n\nA few days later Ghemmal was found by a blackbird, who had no suspicion of what this glittering object might be. She carried it to her nest, but that's the beginning of another story that shall be told another time.\n\nAt midday Bastian came to a high earthen wall that cut across the heath. He climbed to the top of it. Behind it, in a craterlike hollow, lay a city. At least the quantity of buildings made Bastian think of a city, but it was certainly the weirdest one he had ever seen.\n\nThe buildings seemed to be jumbled every which way without rhyme or reason, as though they had been emptied at random out of a giant sack. There were neither streets nor squares nor was there any recognizable order.\n\nAnd the buildings themselves were crazy; they had 'front doors' in their roofs, stairways which were quite inaccessible and ended in the middle of nowhere; towers slanted, balconies dangled vertically, there were doors where one would have expected windows, and floors in the place of walls. Bridges stopped halfway, as though the builders had suddenly forgotten what they were doing. There were towers bent like bananas and pyramids standing on their tips. In short, the whole city seemed to have gone mad.\n\nThen Bastian saw the inhabitants \u2013 men, women, and children. They were built like ordinary human beings, but dressed as if they had lost the power to distinguish between clothing and objects intended for other purposes. On their heads they wore lampshades, sand pails, soup bowls, wastepaper baskets, or shoe boxes. Their bodies were swathed in towels, carpets, big sheets of wrapping paper, or barrels.\n\nMany were pushing or pulling handcarts with all sorts of junk piled up on them, broken lamps, mattresses, dishes, rags, and knick-knacks. Others were carrying enormous bales slung over their shoulders.\n\nThe farther Bastian went into the city, the thicker became the crowd. But none of the people seemed to know where they were going. Several times Bastian saw someone dragging a heavily laden cart in one direction, then after a short time doubling back, and a few minutes later changing direction again. Everybody was feverishly active.\n\nBastian decided to speak to one of these people.\n\n'What's the name of this place?'\n\nThe person let go his cart, straightened up, and scratched his head for a while as though thinking it over. Then he went away, abandoning his cart, which he seemed to have forgotten. But a few minutes later, a woman took hold of the cart and started off with it. Bastian asked her if the junk was hers. The woman stood for a while, deep in thought. Then she too went away.\n\nBastian tried a few more times but received no answer.\n\nSuddenly he heard someone giggling. 'No point in asking them,' said the giggler. 'They can't tell you anything. One might, in a manner of speaking, call them the Know-Nothings.'\n\nBastian turned toward the voice and saw a little gray monkey sitting on a window ledge, or rather on what would have been a window ledge if the window hadn't been upside down. The animal was wearing a mortarboard with a dangling tassel and seemed to be busy counting something on his fingers and toes. When he had finished, he grinned and said: 'Sorry to keep you waiting, sir, but there was something I had to figure out.'\n\n'Who are you?' Bastian asked.\n\n'My name is Argax,' said the little monkey, lifting his mortarboard. 'Pleased to meet you. And with whom have I the pleasure?'\n\n'My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\n'Just as I thought,' said the monkey, visibly pleased.\n\n'And what is the name of this city?' Bastian inquired.\n\n'It hasn't actually got a name,' said Argax. 'But one might, in a manner of speaking, call it the City of the Old Emperors.'\n\n'Old Emperors?' Bastian repeated with consternation. 'Why, I don't see anybody who looks like an Old Emperor.'\n\n'You don't?' said the monkey with a giggle. 'Well, believe it or not, all the people you've seen were Emperors of Fantastica in their time \u2013 or wanted to be.'\n\nBastian was aghast.\n\n'How do you know that, Argax?'\n\nThe monkey lifted his mortarboard and grinned.\n\n'I, in a manner of speaking, am the superintendent here.'\n\nBastian looked around. Not far away an old man had dug a pit. He put a lighted candle into it, then shoveled earth over the candle.\n\nThe monkey giggled. 'What would you say to a little tour of the town, sir? To get acquainted, in a manner of speaking, with your future residence.'\n\n'No,' said Bastian. 'What are you talking about?'\n\nThe monkey jumped up on his shoulder. 'Let's go,' he whispered. 'It's free of charge. You've already paid the admission fee.'\n\nBastian obeyed the monkey's orders, though he would rather have run away. He grew more miserable with every step. He watched the people and was struck by the fact that they didn't talk. They were all so busy with their own concerns that they didn't even seem to see one another.\n\n'What's wrong with them?' Bastian asked. 'Why are they so odd?'\n\n'Nothing odd about them!' said Argax. 'They're just like you, in a manner of speaking, or rather, they were in their time.'\n\nBastian stopped in his tracks. 'What do you mean by that? Do you mean that they're humans?'\n\nArgax jumped up and down on Bastian's shoulder. 'Exactly!' he said gleefully.\n\nBastian saw a woman in the middle of the street trying to spear peas with a darning needle.\n\n'How did they get here? What are they doing here?'\n\n'Oh, there have always been humans who couldn't find their way back to their world,' Argax explained. 'First they didn't want to, and now, in a manner of speaking, they can't.'\n\nBastian looked at a little girl who was struggling to push a doll's carriage with square wheels.\n\n'Why can't they?' he asked.\n\n'They'd have to wish it. And they've stopped wishing. They used up their last wish for something else.'\n\n'Their last wish?' said Bastian, going deathly pale. 'Can't a person go on wishing as long as he pleases?'\n\nArgax giggled again. Then he tried to take off Bastian's turban and pick lice out of his hair.\n\n'Stop that!' Bastian cried. He tried to shake the little monkey off, but Argax held on tight and squealed with pleasure.\n\n'No! No!' he chattered. 'You can only wish as long as you remember your world. These people here used up all their memories. Without a past you can't have a future. That's why they don't get older. Just look at them. Would you believe that some of them have been here a thousand years and more? But they stay just as they are. Nothing can change for them, because they themselves can't change anymore.'\n\nBastian watched a man who had lathered a mirror and was starting to shave it. Once that might have struck him as funny; now it made him break out in gooseflesh.\n\nHe hurried on and soon realized that he was going deeper into the city. He wanted to turn back, but something drew him onward like a magnet. He began to run and tried to get rid of the bothersome gray monkey, but Argax clung fast and even spurred him on: 'Faster! Faster!'\n\nBastian stopped running. He realized that he couldn't escape.\n\n'You mean,' he asked, gasping for breath, 'that all these people here were once Emperors of Fantastica, or wanted to be?'\n\n'That's it,' said Argax. 'All the ones who can't find their way back try sooner or later to become Emperor. They didn't all make it, but they all tried. That's why there are two kinds of fools here. Though the result, in a manner of speaking, is the same.'\n\n'What two kinds? Tell me, Argax! I have to know!'\n\n'Easy does it,' said the monkey, giggling as he tightened his grip on Bastian's neck. 'The one kind gradually used up their memories. And when they had lost the last one, AURYN couldn't fulfill their wishes anymore. After that, they came here, in a manner of speaking, automatically. The others, the ones who crowned themselves emperor, lost all their memories at one stroke. So the same thing happened: AURYN couldn't fulfill their wishes anymore, because they had none left. As you see, it comes to the same thing. Here they are, and they can't get away.'\n\n'Do you mean that they all had AURYN at one time?'\n\n'Naturally!' said Argax. 'But they forgot it long ago. And it wouldn't help them anymore, the poor fools!'\n\n'Was it...' Bastian hesitated. 'Was it taken away from them?'\n\n'No,' said Argax. 'When someone crowns himself emperor, it simply vanishes. Obviously, because how, in a manner of speaking, can you use Moon Child's power to take her power away from her?'\n\nBastian felt wretched. He would have liked to sit down somewhere, but the little gray monkey wouldn't let him.\n\n'No, no, our tour isn't done yet. The best is yet to come! Keep moving!'\n\nBastian saw a boy with a heavy hammer trying to drive nails into a pair of socks. A fat man was trying to paste postage stamps on soap bubbles. They kept bursting, but he went on blowing new ones.\n\n'Look!' Bastian heard the giggling voice of Argax and felt his head being twisted by the monkey's little hands. 'Look over there! It's so amusing!'\n\nBastian saw a large group of people, men and women, young and old, all in the strangest clothes. They didn't speak, each one was alone with himself. On the ground lay a large number of cubes, and there were letters on all six sides of the cubes. The people kept jumbling the cubes and then staring at them.\n\n'What are they doing?' Bastian whispered. 'What sort of game is that?'\n\n'It's called the jumble game,' answered Argax. He motioned to the players and cried out: 'Good work, children! Keep at it! Don't give up!'\n\nThen, turning back to Bastian, he whispered in his ear: 'They can't talk anymore. They've lost the power of speech. So I thought up this game for them. As you see, it keeps them busy. It's very simple. If you stop to think about it, you'll have to admit that all the stories in the world consist essentially of twenty-six letters. The letters are always the same, only the arrangement varies. From letters words are formed, from words sentences, from sentences chapters, and from chapters stories. Now take a look. What do you see there?'\n\nBastian read:\n\nH G I K L O P F M W E Y V X Q\n\nY X C V B N M A S D F G H J K L O A\n\nQ W E R T Z U I O P U\n\nA S D F G H J K L O A\n\nM N B V C X Y L K J H G F D S A\n\nU P O I U Z T R E W Q A S\n\nQ S E R T Z U I O P U A S D A F\n\nA S D F G H J K L O A Y X C\n\nU P O I U Z T R E W Q\n\nA O L K J H G F D S A M N B V\n\nG K H D S R Z I P\n\nQ E T U O U S F H K O\n\nY C B M W R Z I P\n\nA R C G U N I K Y O\n\nQ W E R T Z I O P L U A S D\n\nM N B V C X Y A S D\n\nL K J U O N G R E F G H I\n\n'Yes, of course,' said Argax with a giggle, 'it usually makes no more sense than that. But if you keep at it for a long time, words turn up now and then. Not very brilliant words, but still words. \"Spinachcramp,\" for instance, or \"sugarbrush,\" or \"nosepolish.\" And if you play for a hundred years, or a thousand or a hundred thousand, the law of chances tells us that a poem will probably come out. And if you play it forever, every possible poem and every possible story will have to come out, in fact every story about a story, and even this story about the two of us chatting here. It's only logical, don't you think?'\n\n'It's horrible,' said Bastian.\n\n'I wouldn't say that,' said Argax. 'It depends on your point of view. It keeps these people, in a manner of speaking, busy. And anyway, what else can we do with them in Fantastica?'\n\nFor a long time Bastian watched the players in silence. Then he asked under his breath: 'Argax, you know who I am, don't you?'\n\n'Of course I do. Is there anyone in Fantastica who doesn't?'\n\n'Tell me one thing, Argax. If I had become emperor yesterday, would I already be here now?'\n\n'Today or tomorrow,' said the monkey. 'Or next week. One way or another, you'd have ended up here.'\n\n'Then Atreyu saved me?'\n\n'You've got me there,' the monkey admitted.\n\n'But if he had succeeded in taking the Gem away from me, what would have happened then?'\n\nThe monkey giggled again.\n\n'You'd have ended up here, in a manner of speaking, all the same.'\n\n'Why?'\n\n'Because you need AURYN to find the way back. But frankly, I don't believe you'll make it.'\n\nThe monkey clapped his little hands, lifted his mortarboard, and grinned.\n\n'Tell me, Argax, what must I do?'\n\n'Find a wish that will take you back to your world.'\n\nAfter a long silence Bastian asked: 'Argax, can you tell me how many wishes I have left?'\n\n'Not very many. In my opinion three or four at the most. And that will hardly be enough. You're beginning rather late, and the way back isn't easy. You'll have to cross the Sea of Mist. That alone will cost you a wish. What comes next I don't know. No one in Fantastica knows what road you people must take to get back to your world. Maybe you'll find Yor's Minroud, that's the last hope for people like you. But I'm afraid that for you it's, in a manner of speaking, too far. Be that as it may, you will, just this once, find your way out of the City of the Old Emperors.'\n\n'Thanks, Argax,' said Bastian.\n\nThe little gray monkey grinned.\n\n'Goodbye, Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\nWith one leap Argax vanished into one of the crazy houses. He had taken Bastian's turban with him.\n\nFor a while Bastian stood motionless. He was so stunned by what he had just heard that he couldn't decide what to do. All his plans had collapsed at one stroke. His thoughts seemed to have been stood on end \u2013 like the pyramid he had seen. What he had hoped was his ruin and what he had feared his salvation.\n\nAt the moment only one thing was clear to him: he must get out of this insane city. And never come back!\n\nHe started through the jumble of crazy buildings. He soon discovered that it was much harder to get out than to get in. Time and time again he lost his way and found himself back in the center of the city. It took him all afternoon to reach the earthworks. Then he ran out into the heath and kept going until black night \u2013 as black as the night before \u2013 forced him to stop. Exhausted, he collapsed under a juniper tree and fell into a deep sleep. And while he slept, the memory that he could once make up stories left him.\n\nAll night he had the same unchanging vision before his eyes: Atreyu, with the gaping wound in his chest, stood there looking at him in silence.\n\nAwakened by a thunderclap, Bastian started up. Deep darkness lay all around him, but the massive clouds that had been gathering for days had been thrown into wild disorder. Lightning flashed, thunder shook the earth, the storm wind howled over the heath and the juniper trees were bowed to the ground. Rain fell in dense sheets.\n\nBastian arose and stood there wrapped in his black mantle; the water ran down his face.\n\nLightning struck a tree directly in front of him and split the gnarled trunk. The branches went up in flames, the wind blew a shower of sparks over the heath. In a moment they were doused by the rain.\n\nThe crash had thrown Bastian to his knees. He dug into the earth with both hands. When the hole was big enough, he unslung the sword Sikanda and put it in.\n\n'Sikanda,' he said. 'I am taking leave of you forever. Never again shall anyone draw you against a friend. No one shall find you here, until what you and I have done is forgotten.'\n\nHe filled in the hole and covered it over with moss and branches, lest anyone should discover it.\n\nAnd there Sikanda lies to this day. For not until far in the future will one come who can wield it without danger \u2013 but that is another story and shall be told another time.\n\nBastian went his way through the darkness.\n\nToward morning the storm abated, the wind died down, and there was no other sound than the rain dripping from the trees.\n\nThat night was the beginning of a long, lonely journey for Bastian. He no longer wished to return to his traveling companions or Xayide. Now he wanted to find the way back to the human world \u2013 but he didn't know how or where to look for it. Was there somewhere a gate, a bridge, a mountain pass that would take him back?\n\nHe had to wish for it, that he knew. But he had no power over his wishes. He felt like a diver who is searching the bottom of the sea for a sunken ship, but keeps being driven to the surface before he can find anything.\n\nHe also knew that he had few wishes left, so he was careful not to use AURYN. He was determined to sacrifice his last few remaining memories only if he felt sure that this would help him get back to his world.\n\nBut wishes cannot be summoned up or kept away at will. They come from deeper within us than good or bad intentions. And they spring up unannounced.\n\nAnd so, before he knew it, a new wish arose within him and little by little took form.\n\nFor days and nights he had been wandering all alone. And because of being alone, he yearned to belong to some sort of community, to be taken into a group, not as a master or victor or as any special sort of person, but merely as one among many, perhaps as the smallest or least important, provided his membership in the community was unquestioned.\n\nAnd then one day he came to a seacoast. Or so he thought at first. He was standing on the edge of a sheer cliff, and before him lay a sea of congealed white waves. It was some time before he realized that these waves were not really motionless, but were moving very slowly, that there were currents and eddies that moved as imperceptibly as the hands of a clock.\n\nHe had come to the Sea of Mist!\n\nBastian walked along the cliff. The air was warm and slightly damp. There was not the slightest breeze. It was early morning and the sun shone on the snow-white surface of the fog, which extended to the horizon.\n\nHe walked for several hours. Toward noon he espied a small town some distance from the shore. Supported by piles, it formed a sort of island in the Sea of Mist. The long, arching bridge connecting the town with the rocky coast swayed gently as Bastian crossed it.\n\nThe houses were relatively small. The doors, windows, and stairways all seemed to have been made for children. And indeed, the people moving about the streets were no bigger than children, though they all seemed to be grown men with beards or women with pinned-up hair. As Bastian soon noticed, these people looked so much alike that he could hardly tell them apart. Their faces were dark brown like moist earth and they looked calm and gentle. When they saw Bastian, they nodded to him, but none spoke. Altogether they seemed a silent lot; the place was humming with activity, yet he seldom heard a cry or a spoken word. And never did he see any of these people alone; they always went about in groups if not in crowds, locking arms or holding one another by the hand.\n\nWhen Bastian examined the houses more closely, he saw that they were all made of a sort of wicker, some crude and some of a finer weave, and that the streets were paved with the same kind of material. Even the people's clothing, he noticed, their trousers, skirts, jackets, and hats were of wickerwork, though these were artfully woven. Everything in the town seemed to be made of the same material.\n\nHere and there Bastian was able to cast a glance into the artisans' workshops. They were all busy weaving, making shoes, pitchers, lamps, cups, and umbrellas of wickerwork. But never did he see anyone working alone, for these things could be made only by several persons working together. It was a pleasure to see how cleverly they coordinated their movements. And as they worked, they usually sang some simple melody without words.\n\nThe town was not very large, and Bastian had soon come to the edge of it. There he saw hundreds of ships of every size and shape. The town was a seaport, but of a most unusual kind, for all these ships were hanging from gigantic fishing poles and hovered, swaying gently, over a chasm full of swirling white mist. These ships, made of wickerwork like everything else, had neither sails nor masts nor oars nor rudders.\n\nBastian leaned over the railing and looked down into the Sea of Mist. He was able to gauge the length of the stakes supporting the town by the shadows they cast on the white surface below.\n\n'At night,' he heard a voice beside him say, 'the mists rise to the level of the town. Then we can put out to sea. In the daytime the sun reduces the mist and the level falls. That's what you wanted to know, isn't it, stranger?'\n\nThree men were leaning against the railing beside Bastian. They seemed gentle and friendly. They got to talking and in the course of his conversation with them Bastian learned that the town was called Yskal or Basketville. Its inhabitants were known as Yskalnari. The word meant roughly 'the partners.' The three were mist sailors. Not wishing to give his name for fear of being recognized, Bastian introduced himself as 'Someone.' The three sailors told him the Yskalnari had no names for individuals and didn't find it necessary. They were all Yskalnari and that was enough for them.\n\nSince it was lunchtime, they invited Bastian to join them, and he gratefully accepted. They went to a nearby inn, and during the meal Bastian learned all about Basketville and its inhabitants.\n\nThe Sea of Mist, which they called the Skaidan, was an enormous ocean of white vapor, which divided the two parts of Fantastica from each other. No one had ever found out how deep the Skaidan was or where all this mist came from. It was quite possible to breathe below the surface of the mist, and to walk some distance on the bottom of the sea near the coast, where the mist was relatively shallow, but only if one was tied to a rope and could be pulled back. For the mist had one strange property: it fuddled one's sense of direction. Any number of fools and daredevils had died in the attempt to cross the Skaidan alone and on foot. Only a few had been rescued. The only way to reach the other side was in the ships of the Yskalnari.\n\nThe wickerwork, from which the houses, implements, clothing, and ships of Yskal were made, was woven from a variety of rushes that grew under the surface of the sea not far from the shore. These rushes \u2013 as can easily be gathered from the foregoing \u2013 could be cut only at the risk of one's life. Though unusually pliable and even limp in ordinary air, they stood upright in the sea, because they were lighter than the mist. That was what made the wickerwork ships mistworthy. And if any of the Yskalnari chanced to fall into the mist, his regular clothing served the purpose of a life jacket.\n\nBut the strangest thing about the Yskalnari, so it struck Bastian, was that the word 'I' seemed unknown to them. In any case, they never used it, but in speaking of what they thought or did always said 'we.'\n\nWhen he gathered from the conversation that the three sailors would be putting out to sea that night, he asked if he could ship with them as a cabin boy. They informed him that a voyage on the Skaidan was very different from any other ocean voyage, because no one knew how long it would take or exactly where it would end up. When Bastian said that didn't worry him, they agreed to take him on.\n\nAt nightfall the mists began to rise and by midnight they had reached the level of Basketville. The ships that had been dangling in midair were now floating on the white surface. The moorings of the one on which Bastian found himself \u2013 a flat barge about a hundred feet long \u2013 were cast off, and it drifted slowly out into the Sea of Mist.\n\nThe moment he laid his eyes on it, Bastian wondered what propelled this sort of ship, since it had neither sails nor oars nor propeller. He soon found out that sails would have been useless, for there was seldom any wind on the Skaidan, and that oars and propellers do not function in mist. These ships were moved by an entirely different sort of power.\n\nIn the middle of the deck there was a round, slightly raised platform. Bastian had noticed it from the start and taken it for a sort of captain's bridge. Indeed, it was occupied throughout the voyage by two or more sailors. (The entire crew numbered fourteen.) The men on the platform held one another clasped by the shoulders and looked fixedly forward. At first sight, they seemed to be standing motionless. Actually they were swaying very slowly, in perfect unison \u2013 in a sort of dance, which they accompanied by chanting over and over again a simple and strangely beautiful tune.\n\nAt first Bastian regarded this song and dance as some sort of ceremony, the meaning of which escaped him. Then, on the third day of voyage, he asked one of his three friends about it. Evidently surprised at Bastian's ignorance, the sailor explained that those men were propelling the ship by thought-power.\n\nMore puzzled than ever, Bastian asked if some sort of hidden wheels were set in motion.\n\n'No,' one of the sailors replied. 'When you want to move your legs, you have only to think about it. You don't need wheels, do you?'\n\nThe only difference between a person's body and a ship was that to move a ship at least two Yskalnari had to merge their thought-powers into one. It was this fusion of thought-powers that propelled the ship. If greater speed was desired, more men had to join in. Normally, thinkers worked in shifts of three; the others rested, for easy and pleasant as it looked, thought-propulsion was hard work, demanding intense and unbroken concentration. But there was no other way of sailing the Skaidan.\n\nBastian became the student of the mist navigators and learned the secret of their cooperation: dance and song without words.\n\nLittle by little, in the course of the long voyage, he became one of them. During the dance he felt his thought-power merging with those of his companions to form a whole, and this gave him a strange and indescribable sense of harmony and self-forgetfulness. He felt accepted by a community, at one with his companions \u2013 and at the same time he totally forgot that the inhabitants of the world from which he came, and to which he was seeking the way back, were human beings, each with his own thoughts and opinions. Dimly he remembered his home and parents, but nothing more.\n\nHis wish to be no longer alone had come true. But now, deep in his heart, a new wish arose and began to make itself felt.\n\nOne day it struck him that the Yskalnari lived together so harmoniously, not because they blended different ways of thinking, but because they were so much alike that it cost them no effort to form a community. Indeed, they were incapable of quarreling or even disagreeing, because they did not regard themselves as individuals. Thus there were no conflicts or differences to overcome, and it was just this sameness, this absence of stress that gradually came to pall on Bastian. Their gentleness bored him and the unchanging melody of their songs got on his nerves. He felt that something was lacking, something he hungered for, but he could not yet have said what it was.\n\nThis became clear to him sometime later when a giant mist crow was sighted. Stricken with terror, the sailors vanished below deck as fast as they could. But one was not quick enough; the monstrous bird swooped down with a cry, seized the poor fellow, and carried him away in its beak.\n\nWhen the danger was past, the sailors emerged and resumed their song and dance, as though nothing had happened. Their harmony was undisturbed, and far from grieving, they didn't waste so much as a word on the incident.\n\n'Why should we grieve?' said one of them when Bastian inquired. 'None of us is missing.'\n\nWith them the individual counted for nothing. No one was irreplaceable, because they drew no distinction between one man and another.\n\nBastian, however, wanted to be an individual, a someone, not just one among others. He wanted to be loved for being just what he was. In this community of Yskalnari there was harmony, but no love.\n\nHe no longer wanted to be the greatest, strongest, or cleverest. He had left all that far behind. He longed to be loved just as he was, good or bad, handsome or ugly, clever or stupid, with all his faults \u2013 or possibly because of them.\n\nBut what was he actually like?\n\nHe no longer knew. So much had been given to him in Fantastica, and now, among all these gifts and powers, he could no longer find himself.\n\nHe stopped dancing with the mist sailors. All day long and sometimes all night as well, he sat in the prow, looking out over the Skaidan.\n\nAt last the crossing was completed and the mist ship docked. Bastian thanked the Yskalnari and went ashore.\n\nThis was a land full of roses, there were whole forests of roses of every imaginable color. A winding path led through the endless rose garden, and Bastian followed it.\n\n# XXIV\n\n# _Dame Eyola_\n\nXAYIDE'S end is soon told, but hard to understand and full of contradictions like many things in Fantastica. To this day many scholars and historians are racking their brains for an explanation of what happened, while some deny the whole incident or try to interpret it out of existence. Here we shall simply state the facts, leaving others to explain them as best they can.\n\nJust as Bastian was arriving at the town of Yskal, Xayide and her black giants reached the spot where his metallic horse had collapsed under him. In that moment she suspected that she would never find him, and her suspicions became a certainty when she came to the earthen wall and saw Bastian's footprints on it. If he had reached the City of the Old Emperors, he was lost to her plans, regardless of whether he stayed there or whether he managed to escape. In the first case, he would become powerless like everyone there, no longer able to wish for anything \u2013 and in the second, all wishes for power and greatness would die within him. For her, Xayide, the game was over in either case.\n\nShe commandered her armored giants to halt. Strangely, they did not obey but marched on. She flew into a rage, jumped out of her litter, and ran after them with outstretched arms. The armored giants, foot soldiers and riders alike, ignored her commands, turned about, and trampled her with their feet and hooves. At length, when Xayide had breathed her last, the whole column stopped like run-down clockwork.\n\nWhen Hysbald, Hydorn, and Hykrion arrived with what was left of the army, they saw what had happened. They were puzzled, because they knew it was Xayide's will alone that had moved the hollow giants. So, they thought, it must have been her will that they should trample her to death. But knotty problems were not the knights' forte, so in the end they shrugged their shoulders and let well enough alone. But what were they to do next? They talked it over and, deciding that the campaign was at an end, discharged the army and advised everyone to go home. They themselves, however, felt bound by the oath of fealty they had sworn to Bastian and resolved to search all Fantastica for him. That was all well and good, but which way were they to go? They couldn't agree, so deciding that each would search separately, they parted and hobbled off each in a different direction. All three had countless adventures, and Fantastica knows numerous accounts of their futile quest. But these are other stories and shall be told another time.\n\nFor years the hollow, black-metal giants stood motionless on the heath not far from the City of the Old Emperors. Rain and snow fell on them, they rusted and little by little sank into the ground, some vertically, some at a slant. But to this day a few of them can be seen. The place is thought to be cursed, and travelers make a wide circle around it. But let's get back to Bastian.\n\nWhile following the winding path through the rose garden, he saw something that amazed him, because in all his wanderings in Fantastica he had never seen anything like it. It was a pointing hand, carved from wood. Beside it was written: 'To the House of Change.'\n\nWithout haste Bastian took the direction indicated. He breathed the fragrance of the innumerable roses and felt more and more cheerful, as though looking forward to a pleasant surprise.\n\nAt length he came to a straight avenue, bordered by round trees laden with red-cheeked apples. At the end of the avenue a house appeared. As he approached it, Bastian decided it was the funniest house he had ever seen. Under a tall, pointed roof that looked rather like a stocking cap, the house itself suggested a giant pumpkin. The walls were covered with large protuberances, one might almost have said bellies, that gave the house a comfortably inviting look. There were a few windows and a front door, but they seemed crooked, as though a clumsy child had cut them out.\n\nOn his way to the house, Bastian saw that it was slowly but steadily changing. A small bump appeared on the right side and gradually took the shape of a dormer window. At the same time a window on the left side closed and little by little disappeared. A chimney grew out of the roof and a small balcony with a balustrade appeared over the front door.\n\nBastian stopped still and watched the changes with surprise and amusement. Now he understood why the place was called the House of Change.\n\nAs he stood there, he heard a warm, pleasant voice \u2013 a woman's \u2013 singing inside.\n\n'A hundred summers to a day\n\nWe have waited here for you.\n\nSeeing that you've found the way,\n\nIt must certainly be you.\n\nYour hunger and your thirst to still,\n\nAll is here in readiness.\n\nYou shall eat and drink your fill,\n\nSheltered in our tenderness.\n\nRegardless whether good or bad,\n\nYou've suffered much and traveled far.\n\nTake comfort for the trials you've had.\n\nWe'll have you just the way you are.'\n\nAh! thought Bastian. What a lovely voice! If only that song were meant for me!\n\nThe voice began again to sing:\n\n'Great lord, I pray, be small again,\n\nBe a child and come right in.\n\nDon't keep standing at the door,\n\nYou are welcome here, and more.\n\nEverything for many a year\n\nHas been ready for you here.'\n\nBastian felt irresistibly drawn by that voice. He felt sure the singer must be a very friendly person. He knocked at the door and the voice called out:\n\n'Come in, come in, dear boy!'\n\nHe opened the door and saw a small but comfortable room. The sun was streaming in through the windows. In the middle of the room there was a round table covered with bowls and baskets full of all sorts of fruits unknown to Bastian. At the table sat a woman as round and red-cheeked and healthy-looking as an apple.\n\nBastian was almost overpowered by a desire to run to her with outstretched arms and cry: 'Mama, Mama!' But he controlled himself. His mama was dead and was certainly not here in Fantastica. This woman, it was true, had the same sweet smile and the same trustworthy look, but between her and his mother there was little resemblance. His mother had been small and this woman was large and imposing. She was wearing a broad hat covered with fruits and flowers, and her dress was of some sort of bright, flowered material. It was some time before Bastian realized that it consisted of leaves, flowers, and fruits.\n\nAs he stood looking at her, he was overcome by a feeling that he had not known for a long time. He could not remember when and where; he knew only that he had sometimes felt that way when he was little.\n\n'Sit down, dear boy,' said the woman, motioning him to a chair. 'You must be hungry. Do have a bite to eat.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Bastian. 'You're expecting a guest. I've only come here by accident.'\n\n'Really?' said the woman with a smile. 'Oh well, it doesn't matter. You can have a bite to eat all the same. Meanwhile I'll tell you a little story. Go on, don't stand on ceremony.'\n\nBastian took off his black mantle, laid it on a chair, and hesitantly reached for a fruit. Before biting into it, he asked: 'What about you? Aren't you eating? Or don't you care for fruit?'\n\nThe woman laughed heartily, Bastian didn't know why.\n\n'Very well,' she said after composing herself. 'If you insist, I'll have something to keep you company, but in my own way. Don't be frightened.'\n\nWith that she picked up a watering can that was on the floor beside her, held it over her head, and sprinkled herself.\n\n'Oh!' she said. 'That _is_ refreshing!'\n\nNow it was Bastian's turn to laugh. Then he bit into the fruit and instantly realized that he had never eaten anything so good. He took a second fruit and that was even better.\n\n'You like it?' asked the woman, watching him closely.\n\nBastian couldn't answer because his mouth was full. He chewed and nodded.\n\n'I'm glad,' the woman said. 'I've taken a lot of pains with that fruit. Eat as much as you please.'\n\nBastian took a third fruit, and that was a sheer delight. He sighed with well-being.\n\n'And now I'll tell you the story,' said the woman. 'But don't let it stop you from eating.'\n\nBastian found it hard to listen, for each new fruit gave him a more rapturous sensation than the last.\n\n'A long, long time ago,' the flowery woman began, 'our Childlike Empress was deathly ill, for she needed a new name, and only a human could give her one. But humans had stopped coming to Fantastica, no one knew why. And if she had died, that would have been the end of Fantastica. Then one day \u2013 or rather one night \u2013 a human came after all. It was a little boy, and he gave the Childlike Empress the name of Moon Child. She recovered, and in token of her gratitude she promised the boy that all his wishes in her empire would come true \u2013 until he found out what he really and truly wanted. Then the little boy made a long journey from one wish to the next, and each one came true. And each fulfillment led to a new wish. There were not only good wishes but bad ones as well, but the Childlike Empress drew no distinction; in her eyes all things in her empire are equally good and important. In the end the Ivory Tower was destroyed, and she did nothing to prevent it. But with every wish fulfillment the little boy lost a part of his memory of the world he had come from. He didn't really mind, for he had given up wanting to go back. So he kept on wishing, but by then he had spent all his memories, and without memories it's not possible to wish. So he had almost ceased to be a human and had almost become a Fantastican. He still didn't know what he really and truly wanted. It seemed possible that his very last memories would be used up before he found out. And if that happened, he would never be able to return to his own world. Then at last he came to the House of Change, and there he would stay until he found out what he really and truly wanted. You see, it's called the House of Change not only because it changes itself but also because it changes anyone who lives in it. And that was very important to the little boy, because up until then he had always wanted to be someone other than he was, but he didn't want to change.'\n\nAt this point she broke off, because her visitor had stopped chewing and was staring openmouthed.\n\n'If that one doesn't taste good,' she said with concern, 'just put it down and take another.'\n\n'W-what?' Bastian stammered. 'Oh no, it's delicious.'\n\n'Then everything's fine,' said the woman. 'But I forgot to tell you the name of the little boy, who had been expected so long at the House of Change. Many in Fantastica called him simply \"the Savior,\" others \"the Knight of the Seven-armed Candelabrum,\" or \"the Great Knower,\" or \"Lord and Master.\" But his real name was Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\nThe woman turned to Bastian with a smile. He swallowed once or twice and said very softly: 'That's my name.'\n\n'Well then!' said the woman, who didn't seem the least surprised.\n\nSuddenly the buds on her hat and dress burst into bloom.\n\n'But,' said Bastian hesitantly, 'I haven't been in Fantastica a hundred years.'\n\n'Oh, we've been waiting for you much longer than that,' said the woman. 'My grandmother and my grandmother's grandmother waited for you. You see, now someone is telling _you_ a story that is new, even though it's about the remotest past.'\n\nBastian remembered Grograman's words. That had been at the beginning of his journey. And now suddenly it seemed to him that a hundred years had indeed elapsed since then.\n\n'But by the way, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Dame Eyola.'\n\nBastian repeated the name several times before he was able to pronounce it properly. Then he took another fruit. He bit into it, and as usual thought the one he was eating was the most delicious of all. But then he noticed with some alarm that there was only one left.\n\n'Do you want more?' asked Dame Eyola, who had caught his glance. When Bastian nodded, she plucked fruit from her hat and dress until the bowl was full again.\n\n'Does the fruit grow on your hat?' Bastian asked in amazement.\n\n'Hat? What _are_ you talking about?' cried Dame Eyola. But then she understood and broke into a loud, hearty laugh. 'So you think it's a hat I've got on my head? Not at all, dear boy. It all grows out of me. Just as your hair grows out of you. That should show you how glad I am that you've finally come. That's why I'm flowering and bearing fruit. If I were sad, I'd wither. But come now, don't forget to eat.'\n\nBastian was embarrassed. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Is it all right to eat something that comes out of somebody?'\n\n'Why not?' asked Dame Eyola. 'Babies drink milk that comes out of their mothers. There's nothing better.'\n\n'That's true,' said Bastian with a slight blush. 'But only when they're very little.'\n\n'In that case,' said Dame Eyola, beaming, 'you'll just have to get to be very little again, my dear boy.'\n\nBastian took another fruit and bit into it. Dame Eyola was delighted and bloomed more than ever.\n\nAfter a short silence she said: 'I think it would like us to move into the next room. I believe it may have arranged something for you.'\n\n'Who?' Bastian asked, looking around.\n\n'The House of Change,' said Dame Eyola, as if that were the most natural thing in the world.\n\nAnd indeed a strange thing had happened. The living room had changed without Bastian noticing that anything was going on. The ceiling had moved upward, while three of the walls had come close to the table. There was still room on the fourth side, where there was a door, which now stood open.\n\nDame Eyola rose, and then he saw how big she was.\n\n'We'd better go,' she suggested. 'It's very stubborn. Opposition is useless if it has thought up a surprise. We may as well let it have its way. It usually means well.'\n\nBastian followed her through the door, but took the fruit bowl with him as a precaution.\n\nHe found himself in a large dining room that looked somehow familiar. Only the furniture seemed strange \u2013 the table and especially the chairs were so large that he couldn't possibly have sat in them.\n\n'Fancy that!' said Dame Eyola with a chuckle. 'The House of Change is always thinking up something new. Now for your benefit it has provided a room as it must look to a small child.'\n\n'You mean,' said Bastian, 'that this room wasn't here before?'\n\n'Of course not. The House of Change is very wide-awake, you see. This is its way of taking part in our conversation. I think it's trying to tell you something.'\n\nThen she sat down in one of the chairs at the table, while Bastian tried in vain to climb up on the other. Dame Eyola had to pick him up and put him on it, but even then his nose was barely level with the tabletop. He was glad he had taken the bowl of fruit, and kept it on his lap. If it had been on the table, it would have been beyond his reach.\n\n'Do you often have to change rooms this way?' he asked.\n\n'Not often,' said Dame Eyola. 'Never more than three or four times a day. Sometimes the House of Change _will_ have its little jokes, and then the rooms are suddenly reversed, the floor on top and the ceiling at the bottom, that sort of thing. But it's only being bumptious and it stops when I give it a piece of my mind. All in all, it's a well-behaved house and I feel very comfortable in it. We have good laughs together.'\n\n'But isn't it dangerous?' Bastian asked. 'For instance, if you're asleep at night and the room gets smaller and smaller?'\n\n'What nonsense, dear boy!' cried Dame Eyola, pretending to be angry. 'It's very fond of me, and it's fond of you too. It's glad to have you here.'\n\n'What if it takes a dislike to somebody?'\n\n'No idea,' she replied. 'What questions you ask! There's never been anyone here but you and me.'\n\n'Oh!' said Bastian. 'Then I'm your first guest?'\n\n'Of course!'\n\nBastian looked around the enormous room.\n\n'This room doesn't seem to go with the house. It didn't look so big from outside.'\n\n'The House of Change,' said Dame Eyola, 'is bigger inside than out.'\n\nMeanwhile night was falling, and it was growing darker and darker in the room. Bastian leaned back in his big chair and propped his head on his hands. He felt deliciously sleepy.\n\n'Why,' he asked, 'did you wait so long for me, Dame Eyola?'\n\n'I always wanted a child,' she said, 'a child I could spoil, who needed my tenderness, a child I could care for \u2013 someone like you, my darling boy.'\n\nBastian yawned. He felt irresistibly lulled by her sweet voice.\n\n'But,' he objected, 'you said your mother and grandmother waited for me.'\n\nDame Eyola's face was now in the darkness.\n\n'Yes,' he heard her say. 'My mother and my grandmother also want a child. They never had one but I have one now.'\n\nBastian's eyes closed. He barely managed to ask: 'How can that be? Your mother had you when you were little. And your grandmother had your mother.'\n\n'No, my darling boy,' said the voice hardly above a whisper. 'With us it's different. We don't die and we're not born. We're always the same Dame Eyola, and then again we're not. When my mother grew old, she withered. All her leaves fell, as the leaves fall from a tree in the winter. She withdrew into herself. And so she remained for a long time. But then one day she put forth young leaves, buds, blossoms, and finally fruit. And that's how I came into being, for I was the new Dame Eyola. And it was just the same with my grandmother when she brought my mother into the world. We Dames Eyola can only have a child if we wither first. And then we're our own child and we can't be a mother anymore. That's why I'm so glad you're here, my darling boy...'\n\nBastian spoke no more. He had slipped into a sweet half-sleep in which he heard her words as a kind of chant. He heard her stand up and cross the room and bend over him. She stroked his hair and kissed him on the forehead. Then he felt her pick him up and carry him out in her arms. He buried his head in her bosom like a baby. Deeper and deeper he sank into the warm sleepy darkness. He felt that he was being undressed and put into a soft, sweet-smelling bed. And then he heard her lovely voice singing far in the distance:\n\n'Sleep, my darling, good night.\n\nYour sufferings are past.\n\nGreat lord, be a little child at last.\n\nSleep, my darling, sleep tight.'\n\nWhen he woke up the next morning, he felt better and happier than ever before. He looked around and saw that he was in a cozy little room \u2013 lying in a crib. Actually, it was a very large crib, or rather it was as large as a crib must look to a baby. For a moment this struck him as ridiculous, because he certainly wasn't a baby anymore, and he was still in possession of all the powers and gifts that Fantastica had given him. The Childlike Empress's amulet was still hanging from his neck. But in the very next moment he stopped caring whether it was ridiculous or not. No one but him and Dame Eyola would ever find out, and they both knew that everything was just as it should be.\n\nHe got up, washed, dressed, and left the room. A flight of wooden steps took him to the big dining room, which had turned into a kitchen overnight. Dame Eyola had breakfast all ready for him. She too was in high spirits, her flowers were in full bloom. She sang and laughed and even danced around the kitchen table with him. After breakfast she sent him outside to get some fresh air.\n\nIn the great rose garden around the House of Change it was summer, a summer that seemed eternal. Bastian sauntered about, watched the bees feasting on the flowers, listened to the birds that were singing in every rosebush, played with the lizards, which were so tame that they crawled up on his hand, and with the hares, which let him stroke them. From time to time he crept under a bush, smelled the sweet scent of the roses, blinked up at the sun, and thinking of nothing in particular, let the time glide by like a brook.\n\nDays became weeks. He paid no attention. Dame Eyola was merry, and Bastian surrendered himself to her motherly care and tenderness. It seemed to him that without knowing it he had long hungered for something which was now being given him in abundance. And he just couldn't get enough of it.\n\nHe spent whole days rummaging through the House of Change from attic to cellar. He never got bored, because the rooms were always changing and there was always something new to discover. Clearly the house was at pains to entertain its guest. It produced playrooms, railway trains, puppet theaters, jungle gyms. There was even a big merry-go-round.\n\nOr else he would explore the surrounding country. But he never went too far from the House of Change, for suddenly he would be overcome by a craving for Dame Eyola's fruit, and when that happened, he could hardly wait to get back to her and eat his fill.\n\nIn the evening they had long talks. He told her about all his adventures in Fantastica, about Perilin and Grograman, about Xayide and Atreyu, whom he had wounded so cruelly and perhaps even killed.\n\n'I did everything wrong,' he said. 'I misunderstood everything. Moon Child gave me so much, and all I did with it was harm, harm to myself and harm to Fantastica.'\n\nDame Eyola gave him a long look.\n\n'No,' she said. 'I don't believe so. You went the way of wishes, and that is never straight. You went the long way around, but that was _your_ way. And do you know why? Because you are one of those who can't go back until they have found the fountain from which springs the Water of Life. And that's the most secret place in Fantastica. There's no simple way of getting there.'\n\nAfter a short silence she added: 'But every way that leads there is the right one.'\n\nSuddenly Bastian began to cry. He didn't know why. He felt as if a knot in his heart had come open and dissolved into tears. He sobbed and he sobbed and couldn't stop. Dame Eyola took him on her lap and stroked him. He buried his face in the flowers on her bosom and wept until he was too tired to weep anymore.\n\nThat evening they talked no more.\n\nBut next day Bastian brought up the subject again.\n\n'Do you know where I can find the Water of Life?'\n\n'On the borders of Fantastica.'\n\n'I thought Fantastica had no borders.'\n\n'It has, though. Only they're not outside but inside. In the place where the Childlike Empress gets all her power from, but where she herself cannot go.'\n\n'How am I to find the way there?' asked Bastian. 'Isn't it too late?'\n\n'There's only one wish that can take you there: your last.'\n\nBastian was terrified. 'Dame Eyola \u2013 all the wishes that have come true thanks to AURYN have made me forget something. Will it be the same with this one?'\n\nShe nodded slowly.\n\n'But if I don't notice it!'\n\n'Did you notice it other times? Once you've forgotten something you don't know you ever had it.'\n\n'What am I forgetting now?'\n\n'I'll tell you at the proper time. If I told you now, you'd hold on to it.'\n\n'Must I lose everything?'\n\n'Nothing is lost,' she said. 'Everything is transformed.'\n\n'But then,' said Bastian in alarm, 'I ought to hurry. I shouldn't be staying here.'\n\nShe stroked his hair.\n\n'Don't worry. It will take time, but when your last wish is awakened, you'll know it \u2013 and so will I.'\n\nFrom that day on something began indeed to change, though Bastian himself noticed nothing at first. The transforming power of the House of Change was taking effect. But like all true transformations, it was as slow and gentle as the growth of a plant.\n\nThe days in the House of Change passed, and it was still summer. Bastian still enjoyed letting Dame Eyola spoil him like a child. Her fruit still tasted as delicious to him as at the start, but little by little his craving had been stilled. He ate less than before. Dame Eyola noticed, though she never mentioned it. He also felt that he had had his fill of her care and tenderness. And as his need for them dwindled, a longing of a very different kind made itself felt, a desire that he had never felt before and that was different in every way from all his previous wishes: the longing to be capable of loving. With surprise and dismay he recognized that he could not love. And the wish became stronger and stronger.\n\nOne evening as they were sitting together, he spoke of it to Dame Eyola.\n\nAfter listening to him, she said nothing for a long while. She looked at Bastian with an expression that puzzled him.\n\n'Now you have found your last wish,' she said finally. 'What you really and truly want is to love.'\n\n'But why can't I, Dame Eyola?'\n\n'You won't be able to until you have drunk of the Water of Life,' she said. 'And you can't go back to your own world unless you take some of it back for others.'\n\nBastian was bewildered. 'But what about you?' he asked. 'Haven't you drunk of it?'\n\n'No,' said Dame Eyola. 'It's different for me. I only needed someone to whom I could give my excess.'\n\n'But isn't that love?'\n\nDame Eyola pondered a while, then she said: 'It was the effect of _your_ wish.'\n\n'Can't Fantasticans love? Are they like me?' he asked anxiously.\n\nShe answered: 'There are some few creatures in Fantastica, so I'm told, who get to drink of the Water of Life. But no one knows who they are. And there is a prophecy, which we seldom speak of, that sometime in the distant future humans will bring love to Fantastica. Then the two worlds will be one. But what that means I don't know.'\n\n'Dame Eyola,' Bastian asked, 'you promised that when the right moment came you'd tell me what I had to forget to find my last wish. Has the time come?'\n\nShe nodded.\n\n'You had to forget your father and mother. Now you have nothing left but your name.'\n\nBastian pondered.\n\n'Father and mother?' he said slowly. But the words had lost all meaning for him. He had forgotten.\n\n'What must I do now?' he asked.\n\n'You must leave me. Your time in the House of Change is over.'\n\n'Where must I go?'\n\n'Your last wish will guide you. Don't lose it.'\n\n'Should I go now?'\n\n'No, it's late. Tomorrow at daybreak. You have one more night in the House of Change. Now we must go to bed.'\n\nBastian stood up and went over to her. Only then, only when he was close to her, did he notice that all her flowers had faded.\n\n'Don't let it worry you,' she said. 'And don't worry about tomorrow morning. Go your way. Everything is just as it should be. Good night, my darling boy.'\n\n'Good night, Dame Eyola,' Bastian murmured.\n\nThen he went up to his room.\n\nWhen he came down the next day, he saw that Dame Eyola was still in the same place. All her leaves, flowers, and fruits had fallen from her. Her eyes were closed and she looked like a black, dead tree. For a long time he stood there gazing at her. Then suddenly a door opened.\n\nBefore going out, he turned around once again and said, without knowing whether he was speaking to Dame Eyola or to the house or both: 'Thank you. Thank you for everything.'\n\nThen he went out through the door. Winter had come overnight. The snow lay knee-deep and nothing remained of the flowering rose garden but bare, black thornbushes. Not a breeze stirred. It was bitter cold and very still.\n\nBastian wanted to go back into the house for his mantle, but the doors and windows had vanished. It had closed itself up all around. Shivering, he started on his way.\n\n# XXV\n\n# _The Picture Mine_\n\nYOR, the blind miner, was standing beside his hut, listening for sounds on the snow-covered plain around him. The silence was so complete that his sensitive hearing picked up the crunching of footsteps in the snow far in the distance. And he knew that the steps were coming his way.\n\nYor was an old man, but his face was beardless and without a wrinkle. Everything about him, his dress, his face, his hair, was stone gray. As he stood there motionless, he seemed carved from congealed lava. Only his blind eyes were dark, and deep within them there was a glow, as of a small, bright flame.\n\nThe steps were Bastian's. When he reached the hut, he said: 'Good day. I've lost my way. I'm looking for the fountain the Water of Life springs from. Can you help me?'\n\nThe miner replied in a whisper: 'You haven't lost your way. But speak softly, or my pictures will crumble.'\n\nHe motioned to Bastian, who followed him into the hut.\n\nIt consisted of a single small, bare room. A wooden table, two chairs, a cot, and two or three wooden shelves piled with food and dishes were the only furnishings. A fire was burning on an open hearth, and over it hung a kettle of soup.\n\nYor ladled out soup for himself and Bastian, put the bowls on the table, and with a motion of his hand invited his guest to eat. They ate in silence.\n\nThen the miner leaned back. His eyes looked through Bastian and far into the distance as he asked in a whisper: 'Who are you?'\n\n'My name is Bastian Balthazar Bux.'\n\n'Ah, so you still know your name.'\n\n'Yes. And who are you?'\n\n'I am Yor; people call me the blind miner. But I am blind only in the daylight. In the darkness of my mine, I can see.'\n\n'What sort of mine is it?'\n\n'The Minroud Mine, they call it. It's a picture mine.'\n\n'A picture mine?' said Bastian in amazement. 'I never heard of such a thing.'\n\nYor seemed to be listening for something.\n\n'And yet,' he said, 'it's here for just such as you. For humans who can't find the way to the Water of Life.'\n\n'What kind of pictures are they?' Bastian asked.\n\nYor shut his eyes and was silent for a while. Bastian didn't know whether to repeat his question. Then he heard the miner whisper: 'Nothing gets lost in the world. Have you ever dreamed something and when you woke up not known what it was?'\n\n'Yes,' said Bastian. 'Often.'\n\nYor nodded. Then he stood up and beckoned Bastian to follow him. Before they left the hut, he dug his fingers into Bastian's shoulders and whispered: 'But not a word, not a sound, understand? What you are going to see is my work of many years. The least sound can destroy it. So tread softly and don't talk.'\n\nBastian nodded and they left the hut. Behind it there was a wooden headframe, below which a shaft descended vertically into the earth. Passing these by, the miner led Bastian out into the snow-covered plain. And there in the snow lay the pictures, like jewels bedded in white silk.\n\nThey were paper-thin sheets of colored, transparent isinglass, of every size and shape, some round, some square, some damaged, some intact, some as large as church windows, others as small as snuffbox miniatures. They lay, arranged more or less according to size and shape, in rows extending to the snowy horizon.\n\nWhat these pictures represented it was hard to say. There were figures in weird disguise that seemed to be flying through the air in an enormous bird's nest, donkeys in judge's robes, clocks as limp as soft butter, dressmaker's dummies standing in deserted, glaringly lighted squares. There were faces and heads pieced together from animals and others that made up a landscape. But there were also perfectly normal pictures, men mowing a wheat field, women sitting on a balcony, mountain villages and seascapes, battle scenes and circus scenes, streets and rooms and many, many faces, old and young, wise and simple, fools and kings, cheerful and gloomy. There were gruesome pictures, executions and death dances, and there were comical ones, such as a group of young ladies riding a walrus or a nose walking about and being greeted by passersby.\n\nThe longer Bastian looked at the pictures, the less he could make of them. He and Yor spent the whole day walking past row after row of them, and then dusk descended on the great snowfield. Bastian followed the miner back to the hut. After closing the door behind them Yor asked in a soft voice: 'Did you recognize any of them?'\n\n'No,' said Bastian.\n\nThe miner shook his head thoughtfully.\n\n'Why?' Bastian asked. 'What are they?'\n\n'They are forgotten dreams from the human world,' Yor explained. 'Once someone dreams a dream, it can't just drop out of existence. But if the dreamer can't remember it, what becomes of it? It lives on in Fantastica, deep under our earth. There the forgotten dreams are stored in many layers. The deeper one digs, the closer together they are. All Fantastica rests on a foundation of forgotten dreams.'\n\nBastian was wide-eyed with wonderment. 'Are mine there too?' he asked.\n\nYor nodded.\n\n'And you think I have to find them?'\n\n'At least one,' said Yor. 'One will be enough.'\n\n'But what for?' Bastian wanted to know.\n\nNow the miner's face was lit only by the faint glow of the hearth fire. Again his blind eyes looked through Bastian and far into the distance.\n\n'Listen to me, Bastian Balthazar Bux,' he said. 'I'm no great talker. I prefer silence. But I will answer this one question. You are looking for the Water of Life. You want to be able to love, that's your only hope of getting back to your world. To love \u2013 that's easily said. But the Water of Life will ask you: Love whom? Because you can't just love in general. You've forgotten everything but your name. And if you can't answer, it won't let you drink. So you'll just have to find a forgotten dream, a picture that will guide you to the fountain. And to find that picture you will have to forget the one thing you have left: yourself. And that takes hard, patient work. Remember what I've said, for I shall never say it again.'\n\nAfter that he lay down on his wooden cot and fell asleep. Bastian had to content himself with the hard, cold floor. But he didn't mind.\n\nWhen he woke up the next morning feeling stiff in all his joints, Yor was gone \u2013 to the mine, no doubt, Bastian decided. He took a dish of the hot soup, which warmed him but didn't taste very good. Too salty. It made him think of sweat and tears.\n\nThen he went out into the snow-covered plain and walked past the pictures. He examined one after another attentively, for now he knew how important it was, but he found none that meant anything in particular to him.\n\nToward evening Yor came up from the mine. Bastian saw him step out of the pit cage. In a frame on his back he was carrying different-sized sheets of paper-thin isinglass. Bastian followed him in silence as he went far out into the plain and carefully bedded his new finds in the soft snow at the end of a row. One of the pictures represented a man whose chest was a birdcage with two pigeons in it, another a woman of stone riding on a large turtle. One very small picture showed a butterfly with letters on its wings. And many more, but none meant anything to Bastian.\n\nBack in the hut with the miner, he asked: 'What will become of the pictures when the snow melts?'\n\n'It's always winter here,' said Yor.\n\nThey had no other conversation that evening.\n\nIn the following days Bastian kept searching among the pictures for one with some special meaning for him \u2013 but in vain. In the evening he sat in the hut with the miner. Since the miner kept silent, Bastian got into the habit of saying nothing, and little by little he adopted Yor's careful way of moving for fear of making the pictures crumble.\n\n'Now I've seen all the pictures,' Bastian said one night. 'None of them is for me.'\n\n'That's bad,' said Yor.\n\n'What should I do?' Bastian asked. 'Should I wait for you to bring up new ones?'\n\nYor thought it over, then he shook his head.\n\n'If I were you,' he whispered, 'I'd go down into the mine and dig for myself.'\n\n'But I haven't got your eyes,' said Bastian. 'I can't see in the dark.'\n\n'Weren't you given a light for your long journey?' Yor asked, looking through Bastian. 'A sparkling stone or something that might help you now?'\n\n'Yes,' said Bastian sadly. 'But I used Al Tsahir for something else.'\n\n'That's bad,' Yor said again.\n\n'Then what do you advise?' Bastian asked.\n\nAfter a long silence the miner replied: 'Then you'll just have to work in the dark.'\n\nBastian shuddered. He still had all the strength and fearlessness AURYN had given him, but the thought of crawling on his belly in the black underground darkness sent the shivers down his spine. He said nothing more and they both lay down to sleep.\n\nThe next morning the miner shook him by the shoulders.\n\nBastian sat up.\n\n'Eat your soup and come with me,' said Yor.\n\nBastian obeyed.\n\nHe followed the miner to the shaft and got into the pit cage with him. Together they rode down into the mine. At first a faint beam of light followed them down the shaft, but it vanished as the cage went deeper. Then a jolt signaled that they had reached the bottom.\n\nHere below it was much warmer than on the wintry plain. The miner walked very fast, and trying to keep up for fear of losing him in the darkness, Bastian was soon covered with sweat. They twined their way over endless passages and galleries, which sometimes opened out into spacious vaults, as Bastian could tell by the echo of their footfalls. Several times Bastian bruised himself against jutting stones or wooden props, but Yor took no notice.\n\nOn this first day and for several that followed, the miner, by wordlessly guiding Bastian's hand, instructed him in the art of separating the paper-thin leaves of isinglass from one another and picking them up. There were tools for the purpose, they felt like wooden or horn spatulas, but Bastian never saw them, for when the day's work was done they stayed down in the mine.\n\nLittle by little he learned to find his way in the darkness. A new sense that he could not have accounted for taught him to distinguish one gallery from another. One day Yor told him silently, with the mere touch of his hands, to work alone in a low gallery, which he could enter only by crawling. Bastian obeyed. It was very close and cramped, and above him lay a mountain of stone.\n\nCurled up like an unborn child in its mother's womb, he lay in the dark depths of Fantastica's foundations, patiently digging for a forgotten dream, a picture that might lead him to the Water of Life.\n\nSince he could see nothing in the eternal night of the mine, he could not choose or come to any decision. He could only hope that chance or a merciful fate would eventually lead him to a lucky find. Evening after evening he brought what he had managed to gather from the Minroud Mine into the failing daylight. And evening after evening his work had been in vain. But Bastian did not complain or rebel. He had lost all self-pity. Though his strength was inexhaustible, he often felt tired.\n\nHow long this painful work went on it is hard to say, for such labor cannot be measured in days and months. Be that as it may, one evening he brought to the surface a picture. It moved him so deeply the moment he looked at it that he needed all his self-control to keep from letting out a cry of surprise that would have crumbled the picture to dust.\n\nOn the fragile sheet of isinglass \u2013 it was not very large, about the size of a usual book page \u2013 he saw a man wearing a white smock and holding a plaster cast in one hand. His posture and the troubled look on his face touched Bastian to the heart. But what stirred him the most was that the man was shut up in a transparent but impenetrable block of ice.\n\nWhile Bastian looked at the picture that lay before him in the snow, a longing grew in him for this man whom he did not know, a surge of feeling that seemed to come from far away. Like a tidal wave, almost imperceptible at first, it gradually built up strength till it submerged everything in its path. Bastian struggled for air. His heart pounded, it was not big enough for so great a longing. That surge of feeling submerged everything that he still remembered of himself. And he forgot the last thing he still possessed: his own name.\n\nLater on, when he joined Yor in the hut, he was silent. The miner was silent too, but for a long while he faced Bastian, his eyes once again seeming to look through him and far into the distance. And for the first time since Bastian had come, a smile passed briefly over the miner's stone-gray features.\n\nThat night, tired as he was, the boy who no longer had a name could not sleep. He kept seeing the picture before his eyes. It was as though this man wanted to say something to him but could not, because of the block of ice he was imprisoned in. The boy without a name wanted to help him, wanted to make the ice melt. As in a waking dream he saw himself hugging the block of ice, trying in vain to melt it with the heat of his body.\n\nBut then all at once he heard what the man was trying to say to him; he heard it not with his ears but deep in his heart.\n\n'Please help me! Don't leave me! I can't get out of this ice alone. Help me! Only you can help me!'\n\nWhen they awoke next morning at daybreak, the boy without a name said to Yor: 'I won't be going down into the mine with you anymore.'\n\n'Are you going to leave me?'\n\nThe boy nodded. 'I'm going to look for the Water of Life.'\n\n'Have you found the picture that will guide you?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Will you show it to me?'\n\nAgain the boy nodded. They went out into the snow where the picture lay. The boy looked at it, but Yor directed his blind eyes at the boy's face, as though looking through it into the distance. For a long while he seemed to be listening for some sound. At length he nodded.\n\n'Take it with you,' he whispered, 'and don't lose it. If you lose it, or if it is destroyed, you will have nothing left in Fantastica. You know what that means.'\n\nThe boy who no longer had a name stood with bowed head and was silent for a while. Then he said just as softly: 'Thank you, Yor, for what you have taught me.'\n\nThey pressed each other's hands.\n\n'You've been a good miner,' Yor whispered. 'You've worked well.'\n\nThen he turned away and went to the mine shaft. Without turning around he got into the pit cage and descended into the depths.\n\nThe boy without a name picked the picture out of the snow and plodded out into the snow-covered plain.\n\nHe had been walking for many hours. Yor's hut had long since disappeared below the horizon. On all sides there was nothing to be seen but the endless snow-covered plain. But he felt that the picture, which he was holding carefully in both hands, was pulling him in a certain direction.\n\nRegardless of how far it might be, he was determined to follow this pull, for he was convinced that it would take him to the right place. Nothing must hold him back. He felt sure of finding the Water of Life.\n\nSuddenly he heard a clamor in the air, as though innumerable creatures were screaming and twittering. Looking up into the sky, he saw a dark cloud like a great flock of birds. But when the flock came closer, he saw what it really was and terror stopped him in his tracks.\n\nIt was the butterfly-clowns, the Shlamoofs.\n\nMerciful heavens! thought the boy without a name. If only they haven't seen me! They'll shatter the picture with their screams!\n\nBut they had seen him.\n\nLaughing and rollicking, they shot down and landed all around him in the snow.\n\n'Hurrah!' they croaked, opening wide their motley-colored mouths. 'At last we've found him! Our great benefactor!'\n\nThey tumbled in the snow, threw snowballs at one another, turned somersaults, and stood on their heads.\n\n'Be still! Please be still!' the boy without a name whispered in desperation.\n\nThe whole chorus screamed with enthusiasm: 'What did he say?' \u2013 'He said we were too still!' \u2013 'Nobody ever told us that before!'\n\n'What do you want of me?' asked the boy. 'Why won't you leave me alone?'\n\nAll whirled around him, cackling: 'Great benefactor! Great benefactor! Do you remember how you saved us, when we were the Acharis? Then we were the unhappiest creatures in all Fantastica, but now we're fed up with ourselves. At first what you did to us was a lot of fun, but now we're bored to death. We flit and we flutter and we don't know where we're at. We can't even plan any decent games, because we haven't any rules. You've turned us into preposterous clowns, that's what you've done. You've cheated us!'\n\n'I meant well,' said the horrified boy.\n\n'Sure, you meant well by yourself,' the Shlamoofs shouted in chorus. 'Your kindness made you feel great, didn't it? But we paid the bill for your kindness, you great benefactor!'\n\n'What should I do?' the boy asked. 'What do you want of me?'\n\n'We've been looking for you,' screamed the Shlamoofs with grimacing clown faces. 'We wanted to catch you before you could make yourself scarce. Now we've caught you, and we won't leave you in peace until you become our chief. We want you to be our Head Shlamoof, our Master Shlamoof, our General Shlamoof! You name it.'\n\n'But why?' the boy asked imploringly.\n\nThe chorus of clowns screamed back: 'We want you to give us orders. We want you to order us around, to make us do something, to forbid us to do something. We want you to give us an aim in life!'\n\n'I can't do that. Why don't you elect one of your number?'\n\n'No, we want you. You made us what we are.'\n\n'No,' the boy panted. 'I have to go! I have to go back!'\n\n'Not so fast, great benefactor!' cried the butterfly-clowns. 'You can't get away from us. You think you can sneak away from Fantastica, don't you? You'd like that, wouldn't you?'\n\n'But I'm at the end of my rope,' the boy protested.\n\n'What about us?' the chorus replied.\n\n'Go away!' cried the boy. 'I can't bother with you anymore.'\n\n'Then you must turn us back!' cried the shrill voices. 'Then we'd rather be Acharis. The Lake of Tears has dried up, Amarganth is on dry land now. And no one spins fine silver filigree anymore. We want to be Acharis again.'\n\n'I can't!' the boy replied. 'I no longer have any power in Fantastica.'\n\n'In that case,' the whole swarm bellowed, whirling and swirling about, 'we'll kidnap you!'\n\nHundreds of little hands seized him and tried to lift him off the ground. The boy struggled with might and main and the butterflies were tossed in all directions. But like angry wasps they kept coming back.\n\nSuddenly in the midst of this hubbub a low yet powerful sound was heard \u2013 something like the booming of a bronze bell.\n\nIn a twinkling the Shlamoofs took flight and their cloud soon vanished in the sky.\n\nThe boy who had no name knelt in the snow. Before him, crumbled into dust, lay the picture. Now all was lost. Now nothing could lead him to the Water of Life.\n\nWhen he looked up, he saw, blurred by his tears, two forms in the snow. One was large, the other small. He wiped his eyes and took another look.\n\nThe two forms were Falkor, the white luckdragon, and Atreyu.\n\n# XXVI\n\n# _The Water of Life_\n\nZIGZAGGING unsteadily, scarcely able to control his feet, the boy who had no name took a few steps toward Atreyu. Then he stopped. Atreyu did nothing, but watched him closely. The wound in his chest was no longer bleeding.\n\nFor a long while they faced each other. Neither said a word. It was so still they could hear each other's breathing.\n\nSlowly the boy without a name reached for the gold chain around his neck and divested himself of AURYN. He bent down and carefully laid the Gem in the snow before Atreyu. As he did so, he took another look at the two snakes, the one light, the other dark, which were biting each other's tail and formed an oval. Then he let the amulet go.\n\nIn that moment AURYN, the golden Gem, became so bright, so radiant that he had to close his eyes as though dazzled by the sun. When he opened them again, he saw that he was in a vaulted building, as large as the vault of the sky. It was built from blocks of golden light. And in the middle of this immeasurable space lay, as big as the ramparts of a town, the two snakes.\n\nAtreyu, Falkor, and the boy without a name stood side by side, near the head of the black snake, which held the white snake's tail in its jaws. The rigid eye with its vertical pupil was directed at the three of them. Compared to that eye, they were tiny; even the luckdragon seemed no larger than a white caterpillar.\n\nThe motionless bodies of the snakes glistened like some unknown metal, the one black as night, the other silvery white. The havoc they could wreak was checked only because they held each other prisoner. If they let each other go, the world would end. That was certain.\n\nBut while holding each other fast, they guarded the Water of Life. For in the center of the edifice they encircled there was a great fountain. Its beam danced up and down and in falling created and dispersed thousands of forms far more quickly than the eye could follow. The foaming water burst into a fine mist, in which the golden light was refracted with all the colors of the rainbow. The fountain roared and laughed and rejoiced with a thousand voices.\n\nAs though parched with thirst, the boy without a name looked at the water \u2013 but how was he to reach it? The snake's head did not move.\n\nThen Falkor raised his head. His ruby-red eyeballs glittered.\n\n'Do you understand what the Water is saying?' he asked.\n\n'No,' said Atreyu. 'I don't.'\n\n'I don't know why,' said Falkor. 'But I understand perfectly. Maybe because I'm a luckdragon. All the languages of joy are related.'\n\n'What does the Water say?' Atreyu asked.\n\nFalkor listened closely, and slowly repeated what he heard:\n\n'I am the Water of Life,\n\nOut of myself I grow.\n\nThe more you drink of me,\n\nThe fuller I will flow.'\n\nAgain he listened awhile. Then he said: 'It keeps saying: \"Drink! Drink! Do what you wish!\"'\n\n'How can we get to it?' Atreyu asked.\n\n'It's asking us our names,' Falkor reported.\n\n'I'm Atreyu!' Atreyu cried.\n\n'I'm Falkor!' cried Falkor.\n\nThe boy without a name was silent.\n\nAtreyu looked at him, then took him by the hand and cried: 'He's Bastian Balthazar Bux!'\n\n'It asks,' Falkor translated, 'why he doesn't speak for himself.'\n\n'He can't,' said Atreyu. 'He has forgotten everything.'\n\nFalkor listened again to the roaring of the fountain.\n\n'Without memory, it says, he cannot come in. The snakes won't let him through.'\n\nAtreyu replied: 'I have stored up everything he told us about himself and his world. I vouch for him.'\n\nFalkor listened.\n\n'It wants to know by what right?'\n\n'I am his friend,' said Atreyu.\n\nAgain Falkor listened attentively.\n\n'That may not be acceptable,' he whispered to Atreyu. 'Now it's speaking of your wound. It wants to know how that came about.'\n\n'We were both right,' said Atreyu, 'and we were both wrong. But now Bastian has given up AURYN of his own free will.'\n\nFalkor listened and nodded.\n\n'Yes,' he said. 'It accepts that. This place is AURYN. We are welcome, it says.'\n\nAtreyu looked up at the enormous golden dome.\n\n'Each of us,' he whispered, 'has worn it around his neck \u2013 you too, Falkor, for a while.'\n\nThe luckdragon motioned him to be still and listened again to the sound of the Water. Then he translated:\n\n'AURYN is the door that Bastian has been looking for. He carried it with him from the start. But \u2013 it says \u2013 the snakes won't let anything belonging to Fantastica cross the threshold. Bastian must therefore give up everything the Childlike Empress gave him. Otherwise he cannot drink of the Water of Life.'\n\n'But we are in her sign!' cried Atreyu. 'Isn't she herself here?'\n\n'It says that Moon Child's power ends here. She is the only one who can never set foot in this place. She cannot penetrate to the center of AURYN, because she cannot cast off her own self.'\n\nAtreyu was too bewildered to speak.\n\n'Now,' said Falkor, 'it's asking whether Bastian is ready.'\n\nAt that moment the enormous black snake's head began to move very slowly, though without releasing the white snake's tail. The gigantic bodies arched until they formed a gate, one half of which was black and the other white.\n\nAtreyu took Bastian by the hand and led him through the terrible gate toward the fountain, which now lay before them in all its grandeur. Falkor followed. As they advanced, one after another of Bastian's Fantastican gifts fell away from him. The strong, handsome, fearless hero became again the small, fat, timid boy. Even his clothing, which had been reduced almost to rags in the Minroud Mine, vanished and dissolved into nothingness. In the end he stood naked before the great golden bowl, at the center of which the Water of Life leapt high into the air like a crystal tree.\n\nIn this last moment, when he no longer possessed any of the Fantastican gifts but had not yet recovered his memory of his own world and himself, he was in a state of utter uncertainty, not knowing which world he belonged to or whether he really existed.\n\nBut then he jumped into the crystal-clear water. He splashed and spluttered and let the sparkling rain fall into his mouth. He drank till his thirst was quenched. And joy filled him from head to foot, the joy of living and the joy of being himself. He was newborn. And the best part of it was that he was now the very person he wanted to be. If he had been free to choose, he would have chosen to be no one else. Because now he knew that there were thousands and thousands of forms of joy in the world, but that all were essentially one and the same, namely, the joy of being able to love.\n\nAnd much later, long after Bastian had returned to his world, in his maturity and even in his old age, this joy never left him entirely. Even in the hardest moments of his life he preserved a lightheartedness that made him smile and that comforted others.\n\n'Atreyu!' he cried out to his friend, who was standing with Falkor at the edge of the great golden bowl. 'Come on in! Come and drink! It's wonderful!'\n\nAtreyu laughed and shook his head.\n\n'No,' he called back. 'This time we're only here to keep you company.'\n\n'This time?' Bastian asked. 'What do you mean by that?'\n\nAtreyu exchanged a glance with Falkor. Then he said: 'Falkor and I have already been here. We didn't recognize the place at first, because we were asleep when we were brought here and when we were taken away. But now we remember.'\n\nBastian came out of the water.\n\n'Now I know who I am,' he said, beaming.\n\n'Yes,' said Atreyu, and nodded. 'And now I recognize you. Now you look the way you did when I saw you in the Magic Mirror Gate.'\n\nBastian looked up at the foaming, sparkling water.\n\n'I'd like to bring my father some,' he shouted. 'But how?'\n\n'I don't think you can do that,' said Atreyu. 'It's not possible to carry anything from Fantastica across the threshold.'\n\n'For Bastian it is!' said Falkor, whose voice had resumed its full bronze resonance. 'He can do it.'\n\n'You really are a luckdragon,' said Bastian.\n\nFalkor motioned him to be still while he listened to the roaring voice of the Water.\n\nThen he said: 'The Water says you must be on your way now and so must we.'\n\n'Which is my way?' Bastian asked.\n\n'Out through the other gate,' Falkor answered. 'Where the white snake's head is lying.'\n\n'All right,' said Bastian. 'But how will I get out? The white head isn't moving.'\n\nIndeed, the white snake's head lay motionless. It held the black snake's tail in its jaws and stared at Bastian out of its great eyes.\n\n'The Water asks you,' Falkor translated, 'whether you completed all the stories you began in Fantastica.'\n\n'No,' said Bastian. 'None of them really.'\n\nFalkor listened awhile. His face took on a worried look.\n\n'In that case, it says, the white snake won't let you through. You must go back to Fantastica and finish them all.'\n\n'All the stories?' Bastian stammered. 'Then I'll never be able to go back. Then it's all been for nothing.'\n\nFalkor listened eagerly.\n\n'What does it say?' Bastian wanted to know.\n\n'Hush!' said Falkor.\n\nAfter a while he sighed and said: 'It says there's no help for it unless someone promises to do it in your place. But no one can do that.'\n\n'I can! I will!' said Atreyu.\n\nBastian looked at him in silence. Then he fell on his neck and stammered: 'Atreyu! Atreyu! I'll never forget this!'\n\nAtreyu smiled.\n\n'That's good, Bastian. Then you won't forget Fantastica either.'\n\nHe gave him a brotherly pat on the back, then quickly turned around and headed for the black snake's gate, which was still upraised and open as when they had entered.\n\n'Falkor,' said Bastian. 'How will you and Atreyu finish the stories I have left behind?'\n\nThe white dragon winked one of his ruby-red eyes and replied: 'With luck, my boy! with luck!'\n\nThen he followed his friend and master.\n\nBastian watched as they passed through the gate on their way back to Fantastica. They turned again and waved to him. Then as the black snake's head sank to the ground, Atreyu and Falkor vanished from Bastian's sight.\n\nNow he was alone.\n\nHe turned towards the white snake's head. It had risen and the snake's body now formed a gate just as the black snake's body had done.\n\nQuickly Bastian cupped his hands, gathered as much of the Water of Life as he could hold, ran to the gate, and flung himself into the empty darkness beyond.\n\n'Father!' he screamed. 'Father! I \u2013 am \u2013 Bastian \u2013 Balthazar \u2013 Bux!'\n\n_'Father! Father! I \u2013 am \u2013 Bastian \u2013 Balthazar \u2013 Bux!'_\n\n_Still screaming, he found himself in the schoolhouse attic, which long, long ago he had left for Fantastica. At first he didn't recognize the place, and because of the strange objects around him, the stuffed animals, the skeleton, and the paintings, he thought for a brief moment that this might be a different part of Fantastica. But then, catching sight of his school satchel and the rusty seven-armed candelabrum with the spent candles, he knew where he was._\n\n_How long could it have been since he started on his long journey through the Neverending Story? Weeks? Months? Years? He had once read about a man who had spent just an hour in a magic cave. When he returned home, a hundred years had passed, and of all the people he had known as a child he remembered only one, and he was an old old man._\n\n_Bastian was aware of the gray daylight, but he could not make out whether it was morning or afternoon. It was bitter cold in the attic, just as on the night of Bastian's departure._\n\n_He disentangled himself from the dusty army blankets, put on his shoes and coat, and saw to his surprise that they were as wet as they had been the day when it had rained so hard._\n\n_He looked for the book he had stolen that day, the book that had started him on his adventure. He was determined to bring it back to that grumpy Mr Coreander. What did he care if Mr Coreander punished him for stealing it, or reported him to the police? A person who had ridden on the back of the Many-Colored Death didn't scare so easily. But the book wasn't there._\n\n_Bastian looked and looked. He rummaged through the blankets and looked in every corner. Without success. The Neverending Story had disappeared._\n\n_'Oh well,' Bastian finally said to himself. 'I'll have to tell him it's gone. Of course he won't believe me. There's nothing I can do about that, I'll just have to take the consequences. But maybe he won't even remember the book after all this time. Maybe the bookshop isn't even there anymore.'_\n\n_He would soon find out how much time had elapsed. If when he passed through the schoolhouse the teachers and pupils he ran into were unknown to him, he would know what to expect._\n\n_But when he opened the attic door and went down the stairs, there wasn't a sound to be heard. The building seemed deserted. And then the school clock struck nine. That meant it was morning, so classes must have begun._\n\n_Bastian looked into several classrooms. All were empty. When he went to a window and looked down into the street, he saw a few pedestrians and cars. So the world hadn't come to an end._\n\n_He ran down the steps and tried to open the big front door, but it was locked. He went to the janitor's office, rang the bell and knocked, but no one stirred._\n\n_What was he to do? He couldn't just wait for someone to turn up. Even if he had spilled the Water of Life, he wanted to go home to his father._\n\n_Should he open a window and shout until somebody heard him and had the door opened? No, that would make him feel foolish. It occurred to him that he could climb out of a window, since the windows could be opened from the inside. But the ground-floor windows were all barred. Then he remembered that in looking out of the second-floor window he had seen some scaffolding. Evidently the fa\u00e7ade was being refurbished._\n\n_Bastian went back up to the second floor and opened the window. The scaffolding consisted only of uprights with boards placed horizontally between them at intervals. He stepped out on the top board, which swayed under his weight. For a moment his head reeled and he felt afraid, but he fought his dizziness and fear. To someone who had been lord of Perilin, this was no problem, even if he had lost his fabulous strength and even though the weight of his little fat body was making things rather hard for him. Calmly and deliberately he found holds for his hands and feet and climbed down. Once he got a splinter in his hand, but such trifles meant nothing to him now. Though slightly overheated and out of breath, he reached the street in good shape. No one had seen him._\n\n_Bastian ran home. He ran so hard that the books and pens in his satchel jiggled and rattled to the rhythm of his steps. He had a stitch in his side, but in his hurry to see his father he kept on running._\n\n_When at last he came to the house where he lived, he stopped for a moment and looked up at the window of his father's laboratory. Then suddenly he was seized with fear. For the first time it occurred to him that his father might not be there anymore._\n\n_But his father was there and must have seen him coming, for when Bastian rushed up the stairs, his father came running to meet him. He spread out his arms and Bastian threw himself into them. His father lifted him up and carried him inside._\n\n_'Bastian, my boy!' he said over and over again. 'My dear little boy, where have you been? What happened to you?'_\n\n_A few minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table and Bastian was drinking hot milk and eating breakfast rolls, which his father had lovingly spread with butter and honey. Then the boy noticed that his_ _father's face was pale and drawn, his eyes red and his chin unshaven. But otherwise he looked the same as he had long ago, when Bastian went away. And Bastian told him so._\n\n_'Long ago?' his father asked in amazement. 'What do you mean?'_\n\n_'How long have I been gone?'_\n\n_'Since yesterday, Bastian. Since you went to school. But when you didn't come home, I phoned your teachers and they told me you hadn't been there. I looked for you all day and all night, my boy. I feared the worst, I put the police on your trail. Oh God, Bastian! What happened? I've been half crazy with worry. Where have you been?'_\n\n_Then Bastian began to tell his father about his adventures. He told the whole story in great detail. It took many hours._\n\n_His father listened as he had never listened before. He understood Bastian's story._\n\n_At about midday he interrupted Bastian for a little while. First he called the police to tell them his son had come home and that everything was all right. Then he made lunch for both of them, and Bastian went on with his story. Night was falling by the time Bastian came to the Water of Life and told his father how he had wanted to bring him some but had spilled it._\n\n_It was almost dark in the kitchen. His father sat motionless. Bastian stood up and switched on the light. And then he saw something he had never seen before._\n\n_He saw tears in his father's eyes._\n\n_And he knew that he had brought him the Water of Life after all._\n\n_Bastian's father sat him down on his lap and hugged him. When they had sat like that for a long while, his father heaved a deep sigh, looked into Bastian's face, and smiled. It was the happiest smile Bastian had ever seen on his face._\n\n_'From now on,' said his father, 'everything is going to be different between us. Don't you agree?'_\n\n_Bastian nodded. He couldn't speak. His heart was too full._\n\n_Next morning the winter's first snow lay soft and clean on Bastion's windowsill. The street sounds that came to him were muffled._\n\n_'Do you know what, Bastian?' said his father at breakfast. 'I think we two have every reason to celebrate. A day like this happens only once in a lifetime \u2013 and some people never have one. So I suggest that we do something really sensational. I'll forget about any work and you needn't go to school. I'll write an excuse for you. How does that sound?'_\n\n_'School?' said Bastian. 'Is it still operating? When I passed through the building yesterday, there wasn't a soul. Not even the janitor was there.'_\n\n_'Yesterday?' said his father. 'Yesterday was Sunday.'_\n\n_Bastian stirred his cocoa thoughtfully. Then he said in an undertone: 'I think it's going to take me a little while to get used to things again.'_\n\n_'Exactly,' said his father. 'And that's why we're giving ourselves a little holiday. What would you like to do? We could go for a hike in the country or we could go to the zoo. Either way we'll treat ourselves to the finest lunch the world has ever seen. This afternoon we could go shopping and buy anything you like. And tonight \u2013 how about the theater?'_\n\n_Bastian's eyes sparkled. Then he said firmly: 'Wonderful! But there's something I must do first. I have to go and tell Mr Coreander that I stole his book and lost it.'_\n\n_Bastian's father took his hand._\n\n_'If you like,' he said, 'I'll attend to that for you.'_\n\n_'No,' said Bastian. 'It's my responsibility. I want to do it myself. And I think I should do it right away.'_\n\n_He stood up and put on his coat. His father said nothing, but the look on his face was one of surprise and respect. Such behavior in Bastian was something new._\n\n_'I believe,' he said finally, 'that I too will need a little time to get used to things.'_\n\n_Bastian was already in the entrance hall. 'I'll be right back,' he called. 'I'm sure it won't take long. Not this time.'_\n\n_When he came to Mr Coreander's bookshop, his courage failed him after all. He looked through the pane with the ornate lettering on it. Mr Coreander was busy with a customer, and Bastian decided to wait. He walked up and down outside the shop. It was snowing again._\n\n_At last the customer left._\n\n_'Now!' Bastian commanded himself._\n\n_Remembering how he had gone to meet Grograman in Goab, the Desert of Colors, he pressed the door handle resolutely._\n\n_Behind the wall of books at the far end of the dimly lit room he heard a cough. He went forward, then, slightly pale but with grave composure, he stepped up to Mr Coreander, who was sitting in his worn leather armchair as he had been at their last meeting._\n\n_For a long time Bastian said nothing. He had expected Mr Coreander to go red in the face and scream at him:' Thief! Monster!' or something of the kind._\n\n_Instead, the old man deliberately lit his curved pipe, screwed up his eyes, and studied the boy through his ridiculous little spectacles. When the pipe was finally burning, he puffed awhile, then grumbled: 'What is it this time?'_\n\n_'I...' Bastian began haltingly. 'I stole a book from you. I meant to return it, but I can't, because I lost it, or rather \u2013 well, I haven't got it anymore.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander stopped puffing and took his pipe out of his mouth._\n\n_'What sort of book?' he asked._\n\n_'The one you were reading the last time I was here. I walked off with it. You were telephoning in the back room, it was lying on the chair, and I just walked off with it.'_\n\n_'I see,' said Mr Coreander, clearing his throat. 'But none of my books is missing. What was the title of this book?'_\n\n_'It's called the Neverending Story,' said Bastian. 'It's bound in_ _copper-colored silk that shimmers when you move it around. There are two snakes on the cover, a light one and a dark one, and they're biting each other's tail. Inside it's printed in two different colors \u2013 and there are big beautiful capitals at the beginning of the chapters.'_\n\n_'This is extremely odd,' said Mr Coreander. 'I've never had such a book. You can't have stolen it from me. Maybe you swiped it somewhere else.'_\n\n_'Oh no!' Bastian assured him. 'You must remember. It's \u2013' He hesitated, but then he blurted it out. 'It's a magic book. While I was reading it, I got into the Neverending Story, and when I came out again, the book was gone.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander watched Bastian over his spectacles._\n\n_'Would you be pulling my leg, by any chance?'_\n\n_'No,' said Bastian in dismay. 'Of course not. I'm telling you the truth. You must know that.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander thought for a while, then shook his head._\n\n_'Better tell me all about it. Sit down, boy. Make yourself at home.'_\n\n_He pointed his pipe stem at a second armchair, facing his own, and Bastian sat down._\n\n_'And now,' said Mr Coreander, 'tell me the whole story. But slowly, if you please, and one thing at a time.'_\n\n_And Bastian told his story._\n\n_He told it a little more briefly than he had to his father, but since Mr Coreander listened with keen interest and kept asking for details, it was more than two hours before Bastian had done._\n\n_Heaven knows why, but in all that long time they were not disturbed by a single customer._\n\n_When Bastian had finished, Mr Coreander puffed for a long while, as though deep in thought. At length he cleared his throat, straightened his little spectacles, looked Bastian over, and said: 'One thing is sure: You didn't steal this book from me, because it belongs neither to me nor to you nor to anyone else. If I'm not mistaken, the book itself comes from_ _Fantastica. Maybe at this very moment \u2013 who knows? \u2013 someone else is reading it.'_\n\n_'Then you believe me?' Bastian asked._\n\n_'Of course I believe you,' said Mr Coreander. 'Any sensible person would.'_\n\n_'Frankly,' said Bastian, 'I didn't expect you to.'_\n\n_'There are people who can never go to Fantastica,' said Mr Coreander, 'and others who can, but who stay there forever. And there are just a few who go to Fantastica and come back. Like you. And they make both worlds well again.'_\n\n_'Oh,' said Bastian, blushing slightly. 'I don't deserve any credit. I almost didn't make it back. If it hadn't been for Atreyu I'd have been stuck in the City of Old Emperors for good.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander nodded and puffed at his pipe._\n\n_'Hmm,' he grumbled. 'You're lucky having a friend in Fantastica, God knows, it's not everybody who can say that.'_\n\n_'Mr Coreander,' Bastian asked. 'How do you know all that? I mean \u2013 have you ever been in Fantastica?'_\n\n_'Of course I have,' said Mr Coreander._\n\n_'But then' said Bastian, 'you must know Moon Child.'_\n\n_'Yes, I know the Childlike Empress,' said Mr Coreander, 'though not by that name. I called her something different. But that doesn't matter.'_\n\n_'Then you must know the book!' Bastian cried.' Then you_ have _read the Neverending Story.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander shook his head._\n\n_'Every real story is a Neverending Story.' He passed his eyes over the many books that covered the walls of his shop from floor to ceiling, pointed the stem of his pipe at them, and went on_ :\n\n_'There are many doors to Fantastica, my boy. There are other such magic books. A lot of people read them without noticing. It all depends on who gets his hands on such books.'_\n\n_'Then the Neverending Story is different for different people?'_\n\n_'That's right,' said Mr Coreander. 'And besides, it's not just books. There are other ways of getting to Fantastica and back. You'll find out.'_\n\n_'Do you think so?' Bastian asked hopefully. 'But then I'd have to meet Moon Child again, and no one can meet her more than once.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander leaned forward and lowered his voice._\n\n_'Let an old Fantastica hand tell you something, my boy. This is a secret that no one in Fantastica can know. When you think it over, you'll see why. You can't visit Moon Child a second time, that's true. But if you can give her a new name, you'll see her again. And however often you manage to do that, it will be the first and only time.'_\n\n_For a moment Mr Coreander's bulldog face took on a soft glow, which made it look young and almost handsome._\n\n_'Thank you, Mr Coreander,' said Bastian._\n\n_'I have to thank you, my boy,' said Mr Coreander. 'I'd appreciate it if you dropped in to see me now and then. We could exchange experiences. There aren't many people one can discuss these things with.'_\n\n_He held out his hand to Bastian. 'Will you?'_\n\n_'Gladly,' said Bastian, taking the proffered hand. 'I have to go now. My father's waiting. But I'll come and see you soon.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander took him to the door. Through the reversed writing on the glass pane, Bastian saw that his father was waiting for him across the street. His face was one great beam._\n\n_Bastian opened the door so vigorously that the little glass bells tinkled wildly, and ran across to his father._\n\n_Mr Coreander closed the door gently and looked after father and son._\n\n_'Bastian Balthazar Bux,' he grumbled. 'If I'm not mistaken, you will show many others the way to Fantastica, and they will bring us the Water of Life.'_\n\n_Mr Coreander was not mistaken._\n\n_But that's another story and shall be told another time._\n\n# ABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\n**Michael Ende** was born in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany, in 1929. After attending drama school, he worked variously as an actor, playwright, director, and film critic. His first novel for children, _Jim Knopf and Lukas the Engine Driver_ , published in 1960 in Germany, won much critical acclaim. In 1973, he published the award-winning children's novel, _Momo. The Neverending Story_ was first published in Germany in 1979, where it was the number-one best-seller for three years. Ende lived in Rome until his death in 1995.\n\n# _What's next on  \nyour reading list?_\n\n[Discover your next  \ngreat read!](http:\/\/links.penguinrandomhouse.com\/type\/prhebooklanding\/isbn\/9780525556046\/display\/1)\n\n* * *\n\nGet personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.\n\nSign up now.\n  1. Cover\n  2. Title Page\n  3. Copyright\n  4. Contents\n  5. I: Fantastica in Danger\n  6. II: Atreyu's Mission\n  7. III: Morla the Aged One\n  8. IV: Ygramul the Many\n  9. V: The Gnomics\n  10. VI: The Three Magic Gates\n  11. VII: The Voice of Silence\n  12. VIII: The Wind Giants\n  13. IX: Spook City\n  14. X: The Flight to the Ivory Tower\n  15. XI: The Childlike Empress\n  16. XII: The Old Man of Wandering Mountain\n  17. XIII: Perilin, the Night Forest\n  18. XIV: The Desert of Colors\n  19. XV: Grograman, the Many-Colored Death\n  20. XVI: The Silver City of Amarganth\n  21. XVII: A Dragon for Hero Hynreck\n  22. XVIII: The Acharis\n  23. XIX: The Traveling Companions\n  24. XX: The Seeing Hand\n  25. XXI: The Star Cloister\n  26. XXII: The Battle for the Ivory Tower\n  27. XXIII: The City of the Old Emperors\n  28. XXIV: Dame Eyola\n  29. XXV: The Picture Mine\n  30. XXVI: The Water of Life\n  31. About the Author\n\n  1. Cover\n  2. Table of Contents\n  3. Chapter\n  4. Cover\n\n  1. \n  2. \n  3. \n  4. \n  5. \n  6. \n  7. \n  8. \n  9. \n  10. \n  11. \n  12. \n  13. \n  14. \n  15. \n  16. \n  17. \n  18. \n  19. \n  20. \n  21. \n  22. \n  23. \n  24. \n  25. \n  26. \n  27. \n  28. \n  29. \n  30. \n  31. \n  32. \n  33. \n  34. \n  35. \n  36. \n  37. \n  38. \n  39. \n  40. \n  41. \n  42. \n  43. \n  44. \n  45. \n  46. \n  47. \n  48. \n  49. \n  50. \n  51. \n  52. \n  53. \n  54. \n  55. \n  56. \n  57. \n  58. \n  59. \n  60. \n  61. \n  62. \n  63. \n  64. \n  65. \n  66. \n  67. \n  68. \n  69. \n  70. \n  71. \n  72. \n  73. \n  74. \n  75. \n  76. \n  77. \n  78. \n  79. \n  80. \n  81. \n  82. \n  83. \n  84. \n  85. \n  86. \n  87. \n  88. \n  89. \n  90. \n  91. \n  92. \n  93. \n  94. \n  95. \n  96. \n  97. \n  98. \n  99. \n  100. \n  101. \n  102. \n  103. \n  104. \n  105. \n  106. \n  107. \n  108. \n  109. \n  110. \n  111. \n  112. \n  113. \n  114. \n  115. \n  116. \n  117. \n  118. \n  119. \n  120. \n  121. \n  122. \n  123. \n  124. \n  125. \n  126. \n  127. \n  128. \n  129. \n  130. \n  131. \n  132. \n  133. \n  134. \n  135. \n  136. \n  137. \n  138. \n  139. \n  140. \n  141. \n  142. \n  143. \n  144. \n  145. \n  146. \n  147. \n  148. \n  149. \n  150. \n  151. \n  152. \n  153. \n  154. \n  155. \n  156. \n  157. \n  158. \n  159. \n  160. \n  161. \n  162. \n  163. \n  164. \n  165. \n  166. \n  167. \n  168. \n  169. \n  170. \n  171. \n  172. \n  173. \n  174. \n  175. \n  176. \n  177. \n  178. \n  179. \n  180. \n  181. \n  182. \n  183. \n  184. \n  185. \n  186. \n  187. \n  188. \n  189. \n  190. \n  191. \n  192. \n  193. \n  194. \n  195. \n  196. \n  197. \n  198. \n  199. \n  200. \n  201. \n  202. \n  203. \n  204. \n  205. \n  206. \n  207. \n  208. \n  209. \n  210. \n  211. \n  212. \n  213. \n  214. \n  215. \n  216. \n  217. \n  218. \n  219. \n  220. \n  221. \n  222. \n  223. \n  224. \n  225. \n  226. \n  227. \n  228. \n  229. \n  230. \n  231. \n  232. \n  233. \n  234. \n  235. \n  236. \n  237. \n  238. \n  239. \n  240. \n  241. \n  242. \n  243. \n  244. \n  245. \n  246. \n  247. \n  248. \n  249. \n  250. \n  251. \n  252. \n  253. \n  254. \n  255. \n  256. \n  257. \n  258. \n  259. \n  260. \n  261. \n  262. \n  263. \n  264. \n  265. \n  266. \n  267. \n  268. \n  269. \n  270. \n  271. \n  272. \n  273. \n  274. \n  275. \n  276. \n  277. \n  278. \n  279. \n  280. \n  281. \n  282. \n  283. \n  284. \n  285. \n  286. \n  287. \n  288. \n  289. \n  290. \n  291. \n  292. \n  293. \n  294. \n  295. \n  296. \n  297. \n  298. \n  299. \n  300. \n  301. \n  302. \n  303. \n  304. \n  305. \n  306. \n  307. \n  308. \n  309. \n  310. \n  311. \n  312. \n  313. \n  314. \n  315. \n  316. \n  317. \n  318. \n  319. \n  320. \n  321. \n  322. \n  323. \n  324. \n  325. \n  326. \n  327. \n  328. \n  329. \n  330. \n  331. \n  332. \n  333. \n  334. \n  335. \n  336. \n  337. \n  338. \n  339. \n  340. \n  341. \n  342. \n  343. \n  344. \n  345. \n  346. \n  347. \n  348. \n  349. \n  350. \n  351. \n  352. \n  353. \n  354. \n  355. \n  356. \n  357. \n  358. \n  359. \n  360. \n  361. \n  362. \n  363. \n  364. \n  365. \n  366. \n  367. \n  368. \n  369. \n  370. \n  371. \n  372. \n  373. \n  374. \n  375. \n  376. \n  377. \n  378. \n  379. \n  380. \n  381. \n  382. \n  383. \n  384. \n  385. \n  386. \n  387. \n  388. \n  389. \n  390. \n  391. \n  392. \n  393. \n  394. \n  395. \n  396. \n  397. \n  398. \n  399. \n  400. \n  401. \n  402. \n  403. \n  404. \n  405. \n  406. \n  407. \n  408. \n  409. \n  410. \n  411. \n  412. \n  413. \n  414. \n  415. \n  416. \n  417. \n  418. \n  419. \n  420. \n  421. \n  422. \n  423. \n  424. \n  425. \n  426. \n  427. \n  428. \n  429. \n  430. \n  431. \n  432. \n  433. \n  434. \n  435. \n  436. \n  437. \n  438. \n  439. \n  440. \n  441. \n  442. \n  443.\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nROAD TRIP\n\nRWANDA\n**ALSO BY WILL FERGUSON**\n\nTRAVEL MEMOIRS\n\n_Beyond Belfast:_\n\n_A 560-Mile Walk Across Northern Ireland on Sore Feet_\n\n_Hitching Rides with Buddha:_\n\n_A Journey Across Japan_\n\n_Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw:_\n\n_Travels in Search of Canada_\n\nFICTION\n\n_419_\n\n_Spanish Fly_\n\n_Happiness\u2122_\n\nHUMOUR\n\n_Canadian Pie_\n\n_How to Be a Canadian_ (with Ian Ferguson)\n\n_Why I Hate Canadians_\n\nCHRISTMAS MEMOIR\n\n_Coal Dust Kisses_\n\nAS EDITOR\n\n_The Penguin Anthology of Canadian Humour_\n\nAS SONGWRITER\n\nLyricist for the songs \"Con Men and Call Girls, Part One,\" \"When the Circus Comes to Town,\" and \"Losin' Hand\" on the Tom Philips music CD _Spanish Fly_\nROAD TRIP\n\nRWANDA\n\n**A Journey into the New Heart of Africa**\n\n**WILL FERGUSON**\n\nCONTENTS\n\nAUTHOR'S NOTE\n\n**Rusumo Falls**\n\nPART ONE\n\n**A Thousand Hills**\n\nPART TWO\n\n**\"We Are All Rwandans\"**\n\nPART THREE\n\n**King Kong & the Shroud of Turin**\n\nPART FOUR\n\n**The Road to Rusumo**\n\nSOURCES\n\nACKNOWLEDGMENTS\n**AUTHOR'S NOTE**\n\nIN 2006, RWANDA REORGANIZED its administrative boundaries, merging twelve smaller provinces into five larger ones. Regional cities and towns that bore the names of the older provinces had their names changed as well. This can be confusing for visitors, especially those with an interest in Rwandan history. Books and testimonies about the genocide, for example, do not refer to \"Huye\" but Butare, not to \"Rubavu\" but Gisenyi. I've employed the older names throughout, while acknowledging the new ones in parentheses. On the maps, I have reversed this, listing the current names followed by _\"formerly_...\"\n**RUSUMO FALLS**\n\nTHE BRIDGE AT THE END OF RWANDA crosses the Akagera River in a single, graceful arc: a thin span joining the scrub hills of southern Rwanda with those of northern Tanzania.\n\nBelow the bridge, a drama is playing out. The milk-tea waters of an otherwise languid river narrow suddenly into the bottleneck of Rusumo Falls, a tumult more heard than seen. Only a trace of mist hints at the waterfall's presence.\n\nTransport trucks from Tanzania rumble across the bridge, the din from their engines drowning out the sound of water, but Rusumo is always there, just out of sight.\n\nI want to walk out onto the bridge and peer down at the falls but I can't, even though the two Rwandan soldiers posted there\u2014a young man and a young woman in heavy olive-green uniforms, rifles slung over shoulders, faces sheened in perspiration\u2014shrugged and gave me a weary \"go ahead\" wave when I asked. Just don't go past the middle of the bridge, they advised, because after that I would be Tanzania's concern.\n\nThis is the crux of the conundrum I face: I have permission, but I don't. Or rather, I have two conflicting sets of permission, one granted by the soldiers at the bridge, the other being withheld by an officious little man who has disappeared with my passport and papers. Normally, I would say take your cues from the people who are armed\u2014in my experience, an AK-47 generally trumps a stamp pad\u2014but one never wants to underestimate the power of a mid-level bureaucrat to ruin one's day.\n\nSo.\n\nI do not walk onto the bridge.\n\nInstead I sit, sticky-shirted in the heat, under the rapidly diminishing slice of shade afforded by the corrugated overhang of the roof at the Rwanda Customs and Immigration\u2014well, _hall_ is too grand a word. _Bungalow_ is more accurate. It's a squat, cement-walled structure with a warren of offices in the back and a pair of bank-teller-type windows out front where forms are duly shuffled and stamped.\n\nA procession of tired-looking Tanzanian truck drivers, paperwork in hand, moves past me. And is there anything more wilted or damp in this world than the paperwork of a Tanzanian truck driver? At times, this procession becomes a crush of bodies, the air pungent with perspiration, and as the men push through, they give me sympathetic nods and deeply curious looks. A _muzungu_ , flesh the colour of boiled pork, forced to wait? Unfathomable.\n\nI appreciate their concern, even if none of the drivers offer to smuggle me across. Under a sack of coffee beans, say.\n\nSo I sit here, marinating in the heat, and I wonder what has become of Jean-Claude. I wonder whether he has been arrested. I wonder whether I will be arrested. More importantly, I wonder what we're going to do about lunch.\n\nI'm stuck in a no man's land, the term a tad misleading at a border crossing packed with drivers and vehicles, trucks wedged in every which way like a giant game of Jenga. At the top of the hill, Rwandan taverns are cooing promises of Primus beer and welcoming shade. But I can't retreat and I can't move forward. I can only wait.\n\nAs one hour drips by, then another, I make friends with a succession of Tanzanian truck drivers. They speak French, Swahili, and a bit of Kinyarwanda, with a smattering of English thrown in more for style than substance.\n\nFortunately, I speak Truck Driver, a form of male-speak found in most countries. Using a range of gestures (often involving eyebrows, puffed-cheek exhalations, and the pantomimed fanning of one's brow), we are able to come to an agreement, for example, that it is very hot out. We likewise agree that a beer would be good right about now. We are also in favour of women. Other points covered include: man, is it hot; too hot, really; someone should sell beer down here, they'd make a lot of money; women, eh? Cor!\n\nThey ask me where I'm from. Really? They have a cousin\/aunt\/uncle\/brother-in-law there! Is it hot like this in my country? And can I sponsor them? Truck driving is hard work, you see. Too hard. And the women in my country? Are they, _you know_ , heh heh? (That last query is delivered non-verbally for the most part, involving the further artful use of eyebrows along with a leering grin, a leering grin being the International Symbol for _Women, eh? Cor blimey!_ )\n\nHiding under a sack of coffee beans is looking better and better. Maybe I'll become a truck driver's turn boy, one of those assistants who guide the massive rigs into car parks. Maybe I'll work my way up to my own rig, become a mythical figure, a wild-eyed muzungu of the plains, crazy from the heat, who made a fortune selling Primus beer outside of immigration offices. They'd write songs about me. Women would run alongside, waving as I passed. Boy, is it hot. Someone should really sell beer down here. They'd make good money.\n\nBefore I can slip dreamily into that other life, Jean-Claude reappears, mightily irked by the slow-motion ordeal he's been put through.\n\nHe's had enough of the Rwandan customs official, that small hovering man who has followed him out and is now pleading for us to wait. This insubstantial gentleman needs to hear from his superiors in the district office on what to do about us. But today is Saturday, and no one is answering the phone.\n\n\"It is a simple request,\" Jean-Claude says to him. \"Can we go out on the bridge and take photographs or not?\"\n\nBut our hovering official doesn't know. He is caught in an administrative no man's land of his own.\n\n\"Are you detaining us?\" Jean-Claude demands. \"Are you placing us under arrest? I didn't think so.\" He turns to me. \"Come on, let's go.\"\n\nWe walk out onto the bridge, leaving the anxious clerk behind, wringing his hands to no avail.\n\n\"Did he want a bribe?\" I ask.\n\n\"This is Rwanda,\" Jean-Claude says. \"We don't pay bribes.\"\n\nThe two soldiers nod as we pass.\n\nJean-Claude and I walk out to where the river is spilling over the boulder-strewn narrows, water splaying across the rocks. Murky currents. Earth-scented air. A permanent rainbow. _This is where the bodies would have tumbled_...\n\nAs trucks roll by, the bridge bounces with a disconcerting sproinginess.\n\n\"I remember that!\" Jean-Claude says with a sudden smile. \"I remember it bouncing. I thought it was just my imagination!\"\n\nHe has never seen this bridge before, though he remembers it well. When he crossed twenty years ago, he was hiding under coffee sacks in the back of a transport truck.\n\n\"What would they have done?\" I ask. \"If they had caught you?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he says. \"They would have killed me.\"\n\nHe says this without rancour or melodrama, but as a simple statement of fact. _If they'd caught me, they would have killed me_.\n\nPART ONE\n\n**A THOUSAND HILLS**\n**1**\n\nI FIRST MET JEAN-CLAUDE MUNYEZAMU on a summery field in Calgary seven years earlier. Our children were on the same under-five community soccer team ( _\"Go Tigers!\"_ ) and Jean-Claude was one of the volunteer coaches, though coaching kids at that age amounted primarily to making sure they were at least running in the same direction. Jean-Claude and I became friends; our wives became friends, our children as well.\n\nWhen I found out where he was from, one of the first things I asked him\u2014which I cringe at, even now\u2014was \"So you're from Rwanda? Are you a... Tutsi or a Hutu?\"\n\nHe smiled softly. \"Tutsi.\"\n\nI did a quick calibration in my head: _In Rwanda, did the Tutsis kill the Hutus, or did the Hutus kill the Tutsis?_ That's how little I knew. I had only vague recollections of one of the worst mass killings in human history.\n\nAt their home in southwest Calgary, Jean-Claude's wife Christine would cook bubbling stews served with _ugali_ , a loaf-like communal dumpling torn and dipped. Over tall glasses of ginger-laced tea\u2014a Rwandan specialty\u2014Jean-Claude would urge me to visit his country someday.\n\n\"Rwanda is beautiful,\" he'd say, and Christine would agree. \"You have to see it! Take your boys.\"\n\n\"We'll go there together,\" Jean-Claude said. \"We'll bring soccer equipment to donate.\"\n\nI hesitated, not for reasons of safety\u2014but of sadness. I'd always maintained that a sense of humour can be found in any destination, no matter how bruised, how battered, and that through humour we can find a sense of shared humanity. But Rwanda?\n\nThrough Jean-Claude, I'd gotten to know Calgary's Rwandan community, and through them I had gained the smallest glimpse into the terrors of the 1994 genocide against the Tutsis of Rwanda, when over the course of one hundred horrific days, upward of one million men, women, and children were butchered under the racially charged ideology of Hutu Power. More than 75 percent of the Tutsi population inside Rwanda was wiped out and almost all Hutu political moderates executed in what has been described by analysts as \"the most efficient and complete genocide of modern times.\" Also targeted were independent journalists, lawyers, human rights investigators, members of the opposition\u2014anyone on the wrong side of power. But whereas political opponents had been killed for what they believed, Tutsis were killed simply for having been born. This is the key distinction of a genocide. The Tutsis were not targeted as individuals; they were targeted as a group. It was a deliberate, well-planned, organized undertaking. _One million people in one hundred days_. It was a killing rate five times higher than that attained by the Nazis.\n\nA young Rwandan woman in Calgary, speaking softly, told me how she'd survived the carnage as a little girl by climbing under the \"buddies.\" But no\u2014not buddies. In her lovely accent, so rounded and rich, she was referring not to buddies, but _bodies_.\n\nWhenever I describe Jean-Claude as a genocide survivor, he quietly corrects me. \"I'm not a survivor, I'm an escapee. There is a big difference.\" He was never hunted through the marshes, hacked at by machetes. He never hid under the dwindling warmth of _buddies_.\n\nJean-Claude's mother had died when he was little, so when his father passed away in 1993, Jean-Claude, as a young man of nineteen, knew there was nothing keeping him in Rwanda.\n\n\"As a Tutsi, it was oppressive. You were a second-class citizen. You were targeted constantly.\" Dark clouds were forming. Practice massacres had already occurred in the outlying regions. The walls were closing in, and a sense of dread pervaded every transaction as the radio and newspapers exhorted Rwanda's Hutu majority to \"stop having mercy\" on the Tutsis. Fortunately for Jean-Claude, he had a brother in Kenya, and that would prove to be his escape hatch. He scraped together enough money to pay a truck driver to smuggle him across the border into Tanzania under a cargo of coffee beans, past armed soldiers and then overland to Mombasa.\n\nThe genocide in Rwanda began ten months later.\n\nJean-Claude Munyezamu had made it out alive. His brothers and cousins, his uncles and nephews, were not so lucky. An older sister and her infant child were rescued by UN peacekeepers from a church just before the killers swarmed in. \"She lives with that\u2014with the trauma of that\u2014every day,\" Jean-Claude told me.\n\nJean-Claude reached Canada by a circuitous route that took him first through Tanzania and Kenya, and then as an aid volunteer to Somalia and Sudan, until finally\u2014and most daunting of all, perhaps\u2014he landed in Montreal in the middle of February. \"When I arrived it was minus thirty-two and I was wearing a hoodie. It was the warmest jacket I could find. I grew up on the equator, and when I got out of the airport it felt like the cold was sucking the air out of my lungs.\" He laughed. \"I wondered if I should not have stayed in Africa.\"\n\nGranted permanent residency status, he settled in Alberta, worked as a meat cutter, an oil-rig worker, a taxi driver, learned English, and attained his Canadian citizenship. He began volunteering at Calgary homeless shelters and, in his spare time, set up Soccer Without Boundaries, a volunteer-run program for immigrant and refugee children. The goal was to help them integrate into their local communities through an open-door sports program\u2014and it worked. Very well, in fact. I helped out with his soccer club now and then, was thanked profusely and far in excess of whatever minor assistance I'd provided, and through it got to know parents and children from countries as far afield as\u2014and this is just a partial tally, mind you\u2014Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, Egypt, Lebanon, Somalia, Sudan, Congo, Burundi, Rwanda, Pakistan, Ethiopia, Korea, the Philippines, Uruguay, and Colombia.\n\nToday, Jean-Claude sits on the Premier's Council on Culture. He has received the Queen's Diamond Jubilee Medal for his work with youth. He is married, with three children. A father, a husband, a community organizer, a soccer coach. And a genocide escapee.\n\n**2**\n\nRUSUMO FALLS IS A FATEFUL BOTTLENECK, for it was at Rusumo, where the river narrows, that an obscure German count first crossed over into the Kingdom of Rwanda. This was in 1894. Other explorers had skirted the edge of this remote realm; none had entered.\n\nRwanda lies in the crosshairs of Africa. Known as the \"Land of a Thousand Hills,\" it is the true heart of the continent, the last region to be reached by Europeans, one never impacted by the slave trade, located along the farthest watersheds of the Congo and Nile rivers.\n\nWhat the German count discovered surprised him. Here, in the deepest reaches of Africa, was a complex, highly organized, semi-feudal society with a divine king, or _mwami_ , in the centre and a network of aristocrats, courtiers, prefects, and vassals radiating outward from his majesty's royal court. It was highly bureaucratic as well, with an administration divided into four levels: prefecture, district, hilltop, and local commune. Every hill had its chiefs, every chief his delegate. Every farm, every home, every house was accounted for.\n\nRwanda was\u2014and still is\u2014the most densely populated country in continental Africa: fertile soil and a fertile populace as well. The culture was cohesive and tightly controlled, and the people were known throughout the region for being law-abiding and compliant\u2014traits that mark Rwanda, for better or worse, right through to today. A Hutu lawyer, struggling to explain how so many of his fellow countrymen could be incited to mass murder, admitted, \"Conformity is very deep, very developed here. In Rwanda, everyone obeys authority.\"\n\nIn many ways, the roots of the 1994 genocide were planted by that first German count pushing across the narrow gap at Rusumo Falls, filling in the last part of the map. Even before the Germans appeared, the mercantile empires of Europe had divided Africa among themselves, drawing presumptuously decisive lines on cartographical charts, claiming tracts of land so vast they defied the imagination. Rwanda was claimed by Germany without anyone from Germany ever having set foot in it; the kingdom was so remote it took nearly ten years before even that first count arrived. Of course, he didn't _tell the_ mwami he had come to claim a kingdom. It was a scouting mission as much as anything, an act of stealth, the opening gambit of a slowly constricting campaign.\n\nAlthough Rwanda was part of German East Africa, German rule didn't last. During World War I, Belgian troops occupied the kingdom, and with Germany's defeat, the colony was handed over to Belgium, which had been ruling the Congo next door in what can only be called a reign of terror. Rwanda was\u2014and still is\u2014one of the most culturally homogeneous nations in Africa: everyone spoke the same language, followed the same religion, shared the same territory. It was certainly more united and homogeneous, both linguistically and culturally, than was Belgium. Or Germany, for that matter.\n\nSociety was divided into numerous clans and two main social classes: the minority Tutsis, who were traditionally cattle herders, and the Hutu majority, who were farmers. Rwanda's royal lineage was drawn exclusively from the Tutsis, who made up roughly 16 percent of the population, though some estimates put the Tutsi population closer to 20 percent. A small number of pygmy hunter-gatherers, known as the Twa, lived in the forests, making up less than 1 percent of the population.\n\nThe Tutsi herders held a higher social status than Hutu farmers, who were often involved with them in a master\u2013client relationship. (The word _Hutu_ signifies \"subject\" or \"servant,\" whereas _Tutsi_ refers to someone rich in cattle.) But the obligations went both ways, and the system was so intricate that it was referred to as \"intertwined fingers.\"\n\nIt's important to note that \"wealthy\" was not synonymous with \"Tutsi.\" Tutsis of high lineage were a minority even among their own people. Most were just as poor and put-upon as their Hutu neighbours, and intermarriage was common enough not to be an issue. It's also important to note that Hutu and Tutsi do not represent different ethnic groups, and certainly not different \"tribes.\" The defining markers of ethnicity\u2014a separate language, territory, religion, or culture\u2014simply don't apply. There was no \"Hutuland,\" no \"Tutsiland\"; no Hutu language, no Tutsi dialect. The two groups didn't even have distinct surnames, unlike in Northern Ireland, say, where the gaping Protestant\u2013Catholic divide, based on competing histories and differing religious affiliations, is easily divined; in Belfast a \"Johnston\" or a \"Murphy,\" a \"Billy\" or a \"Seamus,\" knows immediately which side of the divide the other is on. In Rwanda the categories were more fluid than that; if a Hutu farmer owned enough cattle, for example, he became a Tutsi.\n\nEuropean culture, however, steeped as it was in the proto-fascist ideals of Social Darwinism, was obsessed with notions of race, and in Rwanda the colonial rulers decided that the Tutsi were a separate \"race\" from the Hutu. This was part of a pernicious strain of historical quackery known as the \"Hamitic hypothesis,\" though _myth_ would be a more accurate term.\n\nBaffled when faced with a developed society in the heart of darkest Africa, the Europeans concluded that Rwandan civilization must have come from somewhere _else_. The Tutsis, being taller, lighter skinned, finely featured, and thinner nosed, were considered more \"European\" in appearance, making them, almost by definition in European eyes, superior to the shorter, squatter, broader faced, darker skinned \"Negroid\" Hutus. The Hamitic hypothesis posited that the Tutsis were not \"real\" Africans but rather a lost tribe of Israel, having migrated south from Egypt or Ethiopia as the descendants of Ham, Noah's outcast son. Missionaries embraced this bit of Biblical nonsense, and in doing so granted the Tutsi aristocracy a privileged place in an imperially sanctioned racial hierarchy. Throughout the Bantu region of Africa, this bizarre myth was used to explain\u2014or rather, explain _away_ \u2014all signs of civilization, from the use of iron tools to advanced political systems to monotheistic beliefs, but only in Rwanda and neighbouring Burundi did it become so entrenched, so corrosive.\n\nWhether their much-ballyhooed physiological differences\u2014which are not in any way universal; Rwandans themselves are notoriously inaccurate when it comes to guessing who is a Tutsi and who is a Hutu based solely on appearance\u2014were due to generations of dietary divergence or are in fact the genetic relic of some distant and now-forgotten migration is really a moot point. Any separate origins that might have explained the difference in appearance between Tutsi and Hutu are lost in the mists of time. Their language and culture are now the same. It is worth repeating: Tutsi and Hutu are _social categories_ , not ethnicities.\n\nCertainly, on either end of the spectrum are people who look more \"Hutu\" and those who look more \"Tutsi,\" but most exist in the muddled middle. As a vice-president of the former Rwandan National Assembly confessed, \"Even _we_ can't tell us apart.\" And these physical differences are shrinking as lifestyles change\u2014a telling detail, suggesting as it does that such traits may indeed be the lingering inheritance of an aristocratic diet over that of the commoners, a distinction between milk-drinking pastoralists and hard-working agriculturalists who consumed more grains and root vegetables. (As a French social geographer has pointed out, the difference in height recorded between Hutu and Tutsi was \"exactly the same difference that existed in France between a conscript and a senator in 1815.\")\n\nThis may seem esoteric, but so much of what followed was predicated on exactly these myths and perceived physical differences. During the genocide, people were killed simply for being tall. And one of Jean-Claude's cousins survived because, being short and heavy-set, he was able to bluff his way through the killers' roadblocks by passing himself off, in an angry huff, as a Hutu.\n\nIt was the Germans who first decided that the Tutsis were a more highly evolved \"race,\" but it was the Belgians who brought the idea to fruition, making race _the_ defining aspect of colonial policy in Rwanda. In an eerie foreshadowing of Nazi racial studies, Belgian scientists armed with calipers and clipboards set about measuring the nose length and cranial capacity of Africans, carefully recording height and gradations of skin colour and then classifying subjects into two mutually exclusive groups. _\"Unlike the Tutsi, the Hutu have a wide brachycephalic skull,\"_ a typical entry might read. (The black-and-white photographs of these experiments are unsettling, to say the least.) When in doubt, the Belgians counted cows; if someone owned enough cattle he became \"Tutsi.\" In the 1930s, Belgium began issuing racial ID cards marked HUTU or TUTSI, which every Rwandan was required by law to present. In 1994, these same identity cards would become death warrants.\n\nWhile the mwami himself was traditionally drawn from a Tutsi line, as were his cattle chiefs, the land chiefs were often Hutu and the war chiefs were either. Any given hill might have three different subchiefs overseeing it. Under Belgian rule, that changed. The Hutu chiefs were deposed, one after another, and replaced with Tutsis, and when, as they had in the Congo, the Belgians brought in a system of forced labour and mandatory cash crops, the Tutsis were exempted\u2014just as the Hutu were systematically excluded from positions of power and privilege.\n\nIn imposing forced labour, whether to pick crops, build roads, drain swamps, or clear land, the Belgians favoured strips of sun-dried hippopotamus hide as their primary means of persuasion, and the era of Belgian rule in Rwanda became known as \"the time of the whip.\" The Hutu bore the brunt of it. Tutsi overseers, meanwhile, were forced to push the peasantry to greater and greater limits. \"Whip them or we will whip you\" was the directive they were given as Rwanda became one vast work camp. The inner heart of Africa may have avoided the slave trade of previous centuries, but not its modern manifestations.\n\nAverage Tutsis were hardly pampered. The vast majority remained, as always, just as poor as their Hutu neighbours. Resentment bubbled and boiled nonetheless, and so, on the eve of Rwandan independence in 1962, when Belgium suddenly threw its support behind \"majority rule\" (meaning Hutu), payback was inevitable.\n\nInstead of rejecting the Hamitic hypothesis, Hutu nationalists took it further, citing it as evidence that the Tutsis were foreign interlopers, a \"race of invaders that does not belong in Rwanda.\" Under the clarion cry of the Hutu Manifesto, the Hutu peasantry was presented as the \"pure\" race of Rwanda, its true inhabitants, an oppressed majority. Instead of replacing the racial stereotypes of colonial rule, the Hutu Social Revolution reinforced them, embracing the very myths that had been used against them.\n\nRwanda was declared a republic and its monarchy abolished. (A largely symbolic act, as the king had long been reduced to near-figurehead status.) The Hutu majority took power\u2014with a vengeance. The new nationalist government immediately began purging Tutsis from public office. Racial quotas were imposed, ID cards retained, and violence against Tutsis actively encouraged. A culture of impunity took hold, and what had begun as a cry for justice turned into a lust for revenge; and oh how often are those two ideas\u2014justice and revenge\u2014conflated. A UN Commission warned early on that Rwanda was now in the grip of a regime that employed measures bordering on \"Nazism against the Tutsi minority.\"\n\nThe first massacres aimed at cleansing Rwanda of its Tutsi population had happened even before independence was granted. In the years that followed, the situation only got worse. More than 100,000 Tutsis fled, spilling into refugee camps in Burundi, Uganda, and the Congo. This was only the first wave. The number would eventually top a million as the Tutsi diaspora became Africa's largest and longest-running refugee crisis, one that created a nation-in-exile, a stateless state yearning for return, with the Tutsis as the self-described \"Jews of Africa.\" Sadly, the parallel would not end there.\n\nWhen Tutsi exiles in Burundi launched a series of raids into Rwanda, crossing the border under cover of darkness to attack military posts before melting back into the night, the Hutu government responded in vicious fashion, butchering Tutsi civilians by the score. In December 1963 alone, more than 10,000 people were murdered. British philosopher Bertrand Russell described the atrocities in Rwanda as \"the most horrible and systematic massacres we have witnessed since the extermination of the Jews by the Nazis.\" As a French witness noted, \"The goal was not just to loot but to kill, to exterminate all those that bore the Tutsi designation.\"\n\nAfter Rwanda's minister of defence, Juv\u00e9nal Habyarimana, a northern Hutu, seized power in 1973, the country was drawn increasingly into the French sphere of influence, with France effectively replacing Belgium as the country's primary patron. Under the banner cry of _la Francophonie_ , Rwanda was seen as a bulwark against creeping Anglo-American influences in the region, and the French government happily supplied arms, cash, and military training to the Habyarimana regime, racist doctrines and ethnic quotas be damned.\n\nLike the boiling of the apocryphal frog, restrictions on Tutsis increased by increments as the heat was slowly turned up. Access to travel, employment, and higher education was severely limited. Having been excluded almost entirely from political life and the military as well, Tutsis in Rwanda carved out a niche for themselves in the private sector instead. But any success they had was resented\u2014murderously so. Like the Jews in pre-war Germany, the Tutsis of Rwanda were accused of hoarding wealth, of secretly controlling the banking system, of being cunning and conniving, treacherous and traitorous.\n\nAnd when the refugees outside of Rwanda began pressing the government for the right of return\u2014a right guaranteed under the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights\u2014Habyarimana replied brusquely that Rwanda \"was full,\" and that they could not come home.\n\nThe next time, they would not ask. They would come.\n\n**3**\n\nIN 1988, TUTSI EXILES IN UGANDA formed a rebel army, the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF). Several prominent Hutu opposition leaders, having fled the decaying Habyarimana regime, joined their ranks. (Although founded among the Tutsi diaspora, the RPF saw itself as a pan-Rwandan movement whose goal was to topple the Habyarimana regime and end the politics of ethnic identity. Their mantra, often repeated, was \"Our fight is with the government of Rwanda, not the Hutu.\") Among the leaders was a skinny, relentlessly serious young officer who had grown up in the refugee camps of Uganda across from the misted mountains of Rwanda, _that Promised Land, just out of reach_. His parents had fled the anti-Tutsi violence in Rwanda thirty years earlier, carrying him across as a toddler. He was a descendant of the Tutsi aristocracy, his name was Paul Kagame, and he would change the course of history.\n\nIn 1990, the RPF launched a surprise attack from Uganda. The initial invasion was beaten back with the help of French troops and helicopters, but it sent shock waves through the halls of power nonetheless. President Habyarimana had always had an uneasy relationship with the Hutu extremists inside his own party, and in the panicked aftermath of the attack, he lost control of them entirely. Within two weeks of the RPF invasion, government officials were secretly discussing\u2014and organizing\u2014the mass killing of Tutsis.\n\nBy 1992, the Belgian ambassador was warning that a secretive cabal within Habyarimana's inner circle was preparing \"the extermination of the Tutsis of Rwanda.\" His report was promptly ignored. French newspapers likewise raised the alarm that Hutu leaders were planning a \"final solution\" to the ethnic problem\u2014echoing quite intentionally the Nazi wording. In 1993, Paris-based magazine _Lib\u00e9ration_ alerted readers that \"in the far hills of Rwanda... France is supporting a regime which for two years, with militias and death squads, has been trying to organize the extermination of the minority Tutsis.\" The coming holocaust was not an unforeseen event; it was well documented, well prepared, and well known far in advance. Genocide is never spontaneous. It takes planning, it takes _intent_.\n\nThe RPF, meanwhile, had regrouped. They pushed deep into Rwandan territory, sending hundreds of thousands of Hutu refugees fleeing before their advance. The RPF had expected to be greeted as liberators; instead they were seen as foreign invaders. Amid the stampeding fears of this invasion, a \"re-conquest\" in the eyes of Hutu extremists, anti-Tutsi sentiment reached its apogee under a racial ideology known as Hutu Power.\n\nAn endless barrage of radio and newspaper propaganda portrayed Tutsis as cockroaches\u2014 _inyenzi_ , a term first used to describe the cross-border raids of the 1960s\u2014and as snakes, racially impure subhumans worthy of eradication. Genocide, after all, is always preceded by propaganda, and in Rwanda the media played a shameful, dishonest role in what followed. The 1994 genocide against the Tutsis was the result of _decades_ of indoctrination. Think of what the Nazis were able to achieve\u2014the hatred and vile scapegoating, the yellow stars and horrors of the Holocaust\u2014in just twelve years. Now imagine the propaganda and brainwashing going on for generations, and you will understand how toxic Rwandan society had become.\n\nG\u00e9rard Prunier, a French scholar of East African history, notes, \"It is not because of its 'primitiveness' that Rwanda could suffer from a genocide; quite the contrary... In Rwanda, all the preconditions for a genocide were present: a well-organized civil service, a small tightly-controlled land area, a disciplined and orderly population, reasonably good communications and a coherent ideology containing the necessary lethal potential.\"\n\nUnder the tactically precise leadership of Paul Kagame, the RPF had fought its way to the outskirts of Kigali, Rwanda's capital, before falling back. A distraught Habyarimana, with his back to the wall and his options severely limited, had finally given in and signed a wide-ranging peace agreement in Arusha, Tanzania. The Arusha Accords, as they were known, included the right of return for all Rwandan refugees, integration of the RPF into the armed forces, and the creation of a broad-based transitional government that would include moderates and members of the opposition in Cabinet, leading toward a democratically elected parliament. As a sweeping blueprint for change, with extensive political, legal, social, and military reforms, the Arusha Accords would have transformed Rwanda\u2014had they been implemented.\n\nThe peace agreement also contained a provision for a UN mission to oversee the transition to democratic rule, during which French troops supporting the Habyarimana regime would be required to withdraw. The RPF had assumed that the presence of UN peacekeepers would protect the Tutsi minority. They were wrong.\n\nHutu extremists saw the Arusha Accords as nothing less than capitulation, and they denounced Habyarimana as a traitor and an accomplice. Colonel Th\u00e9oneste Bagosora, a Hutu Power hardliner, had stormed out of the peace negotiations, saying he was going back to Rwanda to prepare _\"Apocalypse deux\"_ \u2014a second apocalypse. Bagosora would prove to be a man of his word.\n\nAn internal U.S. intelligence report warned that if the peace process failed, half a million people could die. As it turned out, the report was overly optimistic in its estimate. Even as the Arusha Accords were being finalized, homes in Kigali were being marked with X's. This was merely for a census, government officials insisted. Only Tutsi homes were being marked.\n\nWhen Canadian general Rom\u00e9o Dallaire was informed that he would be overseeing a peacekeeping mission to Rwanda, he thought, _Great!_ , and then asked, \"That's in Africa, isn't it?\"\n\nThe UN arrived in December 1993 with few supplies and a limited mandate, one that explicitly forbade military intervention. General Dallaire had requested a minimum of 4,500 troops. He received 2,500. They were cobbled together from twenty-four different countries, and included office staff and unarmed military observers: a motley, poorly prepared, minimally equipped assortment of men and women tasked with keeping peace in one of the most volatile regions of the world. This was peacekeeping on the cheap, run on a shoestring, and Dallaire found himself constantly short of fuel, vehicles, ammunition\u2014even food.\n\nPortents soon surfaced. A highly placed informant dubbed \"Jean-Pierre\" whispered to Dallaire that death lists of Tutsi civilians and Hutu opposition members were being compiled and that illegal arms were being stockpiled in defiance of the Arusha Accords. He warned Dallaire that there were plans afoot to kill Belgian peacekeepers as well, with the Hutu Power extremists reasoning\u2014correctly, as it turned out\u2014that at the first sign of casualties, Belgium would cut and run. (Belgian troops made up the core of the mission, and were the best trained and best equipped; extremists knew that losing them would gut the UN presence.) Dallaire faxed UN headquarters in New York, informing them of the warnings he'd received and saying that he was preparing to raid the alleged cache and seize the weapons. The response was immediate and unequivocal: Dallaire was to do no such thing. Such actions were outside his mandate. He was instead to turn the information over to the Rwandan government\u2014the very people who were stockpiling the weapons. The UN raid never went ahead, and Jean-Pierre was never heard from again.\n\nIncredibly, even as hate radio station RTLM was openly calling for the mass extermination of Tutsis, French weapons kept arriving via various conduits. French troops may have been withdrawn under the terms of the Arusha Accords, but France itself provided arms, cash, training, and logistical support to the genocidal regime before, during, and even _after_ the killings. The Habyarimana government had started importing shipments of machetes from China as well, under the guise of \"agricultural implements\"; these were distributed to Hutu militias and neighbourhood groups. In the lead-up to the genocide, more than half a million machetes were brought in, one for every three Hutu adult males. A propaganda newspaper headline asked: WHAT WEAPON SHALL WE USE TO CONQUER THE INYENZI COCKROACHES ONCE AND FOR ALL? Beside it was a picture of a machete.\n\nOn April 6, 1994, President Habyarimana's plane was shot out of the sky.\n\nHe was returning from a one-day summit in Dar es Salaam. Also on board were several of the president's key advisers and confidants, his chief of staff, his private secretary, his head of presidential security, and even his personal physician, as well as the president of neighbouring Burundi who had, fatefully, asked for a ride home. Habyarimana had made it clear that upon his return to Kigali he would\u2014 _finally_ \u2014be swearing in the broad-based transitional government required under the Arusha Accords. Had his plane touched down, it would have signalled the end of Hutu Power.\n\nAnd so, as the presidential Falcon 50 jet came in low on its final approach to the Kigali airport, ground-to-air missiles streaked into the night sky. The jet exploded in mid-air, with the wreckage crashing into the grounds of the Presidential Palace.\n\nA 2012 French judicial inquiry would determine that the missiles had been fired from inside the Kanombe military base, where Colonel Bagosora had once been in charge of the anti-aircraft battery. Bagosora would have been well-versed in the flight path the president's plane would follow as it went directly over the base, but to this day, no one knows for certain who pulled the trigger. What we do know is that the death of Habyarimana was the signal for Bagosora's apocalypse to begin.\n\nExtremist news editorials and Hutu Power radio broadcasts had been predicting just such an event. The editors at the _Kangura_ newspaper had declared that President Habyarimana would be assassinated, not by treacherous Tutsis, but at the hands of Hutu citizens enraged at his betrayal. HABYARIMANA WILL DIE IN MARCH ran one banner headline. They were off by only six days. Soldiers at Camp Kigali had also heard rumours that the president was going to be killed.\n\nOn April 3, RTLM radio had predicted, with ominous confidence, that \"a little something\" would happen in Kigali over Easter. \"On April 7th and 8th you will hear the sound of bullets and grenades exploding.\" They were off by only one day. Within an hour of Habyarimana's death, the systematic slaying of prominent Hutus who'd supported the Arusha Accords had begun. Under the directives of the Presidential Guard, crowds quickly assembled and headed straight for the homes of the ruling party's political opponents. \"Things happened very rapidly,\" Dallaire's chief of staff would later recall. \"As if they had been rehearsed.\"\n\nColonel Bagosora moved swiftly to install an interim government and eliminate potential rivals. The president's death wasn't merely an assassination, it was a coup d'\u00e9tat, and dawn found the colonel addressing a mob of armed militias near the airport. \"Erect roadblocks at the roundabouts, let no one escape,\" he ordered. \"Hunt the Tutsis down, house after house.\" _\"Muhere ruhande,\"_ he had said, meaning, \"Go about it systematically,\" the way one might pull weeds or clear brush.\n\nAmong the first to die was Agathe Uwilingiyimana, Rwanda's prime-minister-in-waiting, a moderate Hutu who had been named transitional leader under the peace accords. She was waiting for Habyarimana to return so that she could be sworn in. As a former schoolteacher and minister of education, she'd tried to end ethnic quotas in public schools and had been physically attacked for it. Although Hutu, she had refused to identify herself as such, saying, \"I am a Rwandese and I am a person. I have a role to play in my country and it does not matter whether I am a man or a woman, a Hutu or a Tutsi.\" They killed her in a particularly brutal fashion.\n\nThe UN soldiers from Belgium and Ghana who had been sent to protect Agathe Uwilingiyimana were quickly disarmed and taken as captives to the Camp Kigali army barracks, where the Ghanaians were released and the Belgians beaten, then murdered. They were being killed even as General Dallaire sped by en route to a meeting with Colonel Bagosora to negotiate their release. Dallaire would later collect their ten bodies, laid out like sacks of potatoes, at the hospital morgue.\n\nA mass evacuation of expats was soon underway. Within four days, almost 4,000 foreign nationals had been airlifted to safety, and within a week Belgium\u2014just as Hutu Power ideologues predicted\u2014had pulled out of Rwanda, abandoning thousands of terrified civilians who had been under their protection. As soon as the Belgians rolled away, the killers rushed in. It was an ignoble retreat, to say the least.\n\nThe killings spread quickly across the country. Roadblocks went up and ID cards were demanded, with Tutsis executed on the spot. (The lack of a card was usually taken as evidence of guilt.) Occasionally, the victims had their feet chopped off first to \"cut them down to size,\" a mocking reference to the tall nature of Tutsis. Machete-wielding members of youth militia groups, many of whom had been trained by French troops and who were known collectively as _interahamwe_ , \"those who work together,\" roamed the streets hooting for blood, carrying lists of names. Others, armed with homemade clubs studded by nails, chased their victims from house to house, room to room, as neighbours killed neighbours and coworkers hunted down former friends. Property that belonged to the victims was often handed over to the people who had killed them, giving a strong economic incentive to the carnage as well. The genocide was, in the words of one commentator, \"a licence to loot.\"\n\nEveryone was targeted, even children\u2014 _especially_ children. \"The child of a snake is still a snake!\" the propagandists cried, reminding listeners constantly that Paul Kagame had been only two years old when his family escaped to Uganda. They must not make the same mistake again. _\"Rip up the weeds by the roots! Wipe them out completely!\"_ This was the message: _Leave none to tell the story_. Once the genocide got underway, a fearful logic compelled it forward. The necessity for complete eradication took hold; you couldn't allow any witnesses to survive, and you had to implicate every Hutu in the crime. The guilt would be shared; no one would be spared.\n\nRwanda became an abattoir as UN troops looked on in horror. Thousands of bodies dumped into rivers floated downstream, where they tumbled over Rusumo Falls and eventually washed up on the shores of Lake Victoria to the stunned disbelief of their Ugandan neighbours. Hundreds of bodies, without end. \"By early May,\" journalist Linda Melvern writes, \"an estimated 5,000 a day were coming down the Akagera River.\" And all of it sanctioned by the screeching voices on the radio, exhorting the racially pure Hutu to wipe out the traitorous Tutsi minority.\n\nRTLM became known as \"Radio Machete,\" providing names, addresses, and even licence plate numbers and makes of the vehicles belonging to those \"cockroaches\" and \"collaborators\" who needed killing. Radio announcers would direct hunters to the hiding places, to the schools and churches, to the homes of \"soft\" Hutus rumoured to be giving shelter to Tutsis, marking them all for death. RTLM even sent out calls to bulldozer drivers when it came time to prepare mass burial pits. \"The graves are still half-empty! Who will help us fill them up?\" the announcers asked, appealing to the population to work ever harder. In Rwanda, radio was like the Voice of God, and it was common to see Hutu militias manning the barricades with a bloodied machete in one hand and a portable FM radio in the other. As Dallaire noted, \"The _g\u00e9nocidaires_ used the media like a weapon.\" The radio and the machete: these were the two primary tools of the genocide, one to give the orders, the other to carry them out. (Given the role the media played throughout the genocide, heavy restrictions now exist in Rwanda forbidding any hint of \"divisiveness.\" Rwandans are not as enamoured as we in the West are with the notion of an unfettered, unbridled media\u2014understandably so, perhaps.)\n\nEven as the Belgians were pulling out, Dallaire was asking for more troops, arguing that with just 5,000 soldiers and an expanded mandate he could stop the slaughter. He received neither. Instead, the UN voted to slash Dallaire's mission, reducing it by 90 percent to a token force of just 270 \"observers.\" Journalist Scott Peterson, on the ground through much of it, noted that \"Rwanda was the first ever case in which the UN responded to a crisis by _reducing_ its commitment.\" (In the end, Dallaire managed to keep 470 personnel, due largely to the unflinching support of countries like Ghana and Tunisia, who stood firm. The men and women of Ghana's peacekeeping force in particular almost singlehandedly salvaged the mission.)\n\nThe United States had just suffered a humiliating defeat in Somalia, and the Clinton administration had no stomach for further humanitarian interventions in Africa; the photo ops were bad. Do you remember those images of the bodies of dead American soldiers being dragged through the streets of Mogadishu? Rwanda paid the price for that. The White House refused even to use the word \"genocide\" when referring to what was happening; the most they would admit was that \"acts of genocide _may_ have occurred.\" When a reporter tartly asked, \"How many 'acts of genocide' does it take to make a genocide?\" the administration refused to answer. Had the U.S. acknowledged that a genocide was occurring, the UN Security Council would have been required to act under the terms of its own Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. Instead, the United States, backed by Great Britain, blocked all attempts at expanding the mission.\n\nA panel of military experts later concluded that Dallaire had been correct in his assessment: 5,000 troops early on, with minimal air cover and a more robust mandate, was all it would have taken to prevent at least half of the deaths that occurred; 500,000 people might have been saved. Dallaire laid the blame squarely on three members of the Security Council: the U.S., the U.K., and France. \"The blood is on their hands,\" he wrote.\n\nOutgunned, outmanned, and often surrounded, the beleaguered UN peacekeepers\u2014unable to stop the killings\u2014focused instead on protecting those already under their care while negotiating prisoner exchanges and arranging temporary ceasefires. Although the mission itself is considered a failure, more than 16,000 lives were saved by Rom\u00e9o Dallaire's small band of blue berets. Among them: Jean-Claude's sister and her baby boy.\n\n**4**\n\nPRIOR TO THE GENOCIDE, Rwanda was known, if at all, as the site of Dian Fossey's groundbreaking research into the endangered mountain gorillas of the Virunga rainforests. In trying to come to terms with Rwanda, I found myself at one point chapter-hopping among three different books: _Gorillas in the Mist_ , Fossey's celebrated account of her time in Rwanda; _Conspiracy to Murder_ , Linda Melvern's powerful rendering of the genocide; and _Rwanda, Inc_. by business analysts Patricia Crisafulli and Andrea Redmond, subtitled _How a Devastated Nation Became an Economic Model for the Developing World_.\n\nI felt like one of the blind sages of Indian lore, groping my way toward an understanding of an elephant in the dark: here the wall of its flank, there the tree trunks of its legs, the serpent of its trunk, the fly-whisk of its tail. How to reconcile these radically different versions of a country that has become a shorthand for failure, on par with Waterloo or Vietnam? _We don't want this turning into another Rwanda_ , we say now. But to which Rwanda are we referring? Given the country's remarkable turnaround, shouldn't we hope for more nations in Africa to follow Rwanda's lead, for more countries to become \"another Rwanda\"? Or is today's Rwanda the oppressive dictatorship that its exiled critics claim?\n\nThe 1994 genocide ended, as all genocides do, not through economic sanctions or UN resolutions or heartfelt good intentions, but through armed intervention. When the killings began, the RPF called off its ceasefire and fought its way into Kigali, forcing the g\u00e9nocidaires to flee westward into Zaire (as the Congo was then known). It took three months, but the government finally fell. The RPF had defeated an armed force twice its size, one backed by sophisticated French weaponry and\u2014in the earlier stages and the latter\u2014French troops as well.\n\nTo the victors came not the spoils, but the wreckage of a failed state. The RPF had taken control of a ruined city. A ruined nation. Corpses clogged the rivers and the irrigation ditches, and lay rotting in heaps in schoolyards and soccer fields. A terrible silence had descended upon the country.\n\nCanadian journalist Hugh McCullum, in Rwanda during the genocide, recalled the challenges the country now faced: \"Nearly a million people had been killed, about three million were refugees and another two million were internally displaced. Africa's most densely populated country had become a ghost state.... The RPF was faced with a bankrupt, depopulated, frightened and traumatized population with none of the infrastructure of government in place.\"\n\nThe Central Bank had been ransacked and its treasury looted, Rwanda's entire reserve of hard currency seized by the departing regime when it fled. The basic institutions of society\u2014sanitation, electrical grids, medical care, policing, judiciary\u2014were either crippled or nonexistent. When the RPF swore in a broad-based coalition government required under the Arusha Accords, Rwanda had no money, no working telephone lines, no electricity, no working offices. The World Bank reported that after the genocide Rwanda was now the poorest nation on earth.\n\nThe turnaround since then has been nothing short of miraculous. Indeed, the very seeds of Rwanda's rebirth lay in its destruction; the genocide had left the country bare, a tabula rasa waiting to be rewritten.\n\nIf there is one lesson that African history teaches us, it is this: _The Western model doesn't work here_. And if madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, the West's approach to Africa has been marked by madness. Following the apocalypse of 1994, desperate to rebuild, Rwanda looked east, not west. Where had similar countries been devastated, reduced to rubble and abject poverty\u2014only to pull themselves out of the ruins? The answer: Asia. Japan after Nagasaki and Hiroshima; South Korea and Taiwan after civil war, invasion, and partition. Or how about the emerging Southeast Asian markets of Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Vietnam, and Thailand, which have taken off over the last twenty years, following Japan and South Korea's lead? If Asia could do it, why not Africa? If Singapore, why not Rwanda? It was Asia, after all, that was once the world's economic basket case, not Africa. It was Asia that was considered hopeless: overpopulated, underdeveloped, and culturally unsuited for modernity\u2014or so we were told. (The same Confucian values used to explain why Asia could never compete economically with the rest of the world are now being cited to explain why Asia has been so remarkably successful. Academics are nothing if not pliable.) In 1969, Africa's GDP per capita was higher than Asia's. South Korea's GDP was once at the same level as Sierra Leone's. Not anymore.\n\nIn light of this, Rwanda has modelled its recovery on the Asian example. Geographically, Rwanda\u2014a small, landlocked, mountainous country\u2014is the \"Switzerland of Africa,\" which is exactly how early European travellers described it. But socially and economically, it is rebranding itself as \"Africa's Singapore\": a tightly controlled, politically stable, economically innovative, autocratic democracy dominated by a single party. (In the last election, the ruling RPF won 41 of 53 elected seats.) If Rwanda's success baffles Western commentators, it is precisely because it is not predicated on a Western model.\n\nIn defiance of African stereotypes, _Economist_ magazine has heralded Rwanda as one of the most business-friendly countries in the world, one \"blessedly free of red tape,\" noting that \"no African country has done more to curb corruption. Ministers have been jailed for it.\" Corruption has long been the bane of African political culture, and Rwanda has tackled this head-on. By 2013, Transparency International had ranked Rwanda as the least corrupt nation in Africa and in the top fifty nations globally. Its ranking has fluctuated since then but is still considerably higher than that of many European states. _Greece, Italy, I'm looking at you_.\n\nEven the doom-and-gloom stalwarts at the World Bank, a group not known for their rah-rah boosterism of African economies, placed Rwanda among the top ten nations in the world in which to start a new business.\n\nI could go on\u2014and I think I will.\n\nThe World Bank also ranks Rwanda among the world's top nations when it comes to the _ease_ of doing business, which includes registering property, obtaining permits, paying taxes, trading across borders, enforcing contracts, and more. To help this along, the Rwanda Development Board (RDB) has set up a \"one-stop\" centre for processing all the permits and paperwork required to incorporate. In Rwanda, a new business can usually be registered and fully ready in as little as six hours and for a nominal fee, free if it's done online.\n\nThe RDB itself is modelled directly on the Singapore Economic Development Board, a government department designed to seek out and actively encourage foreign partnerships in hospitality, manufacturing, and infrastructure. Even the country's new nickname, \"Rwanda Inc.,\" suggesting as it does government and business working closely together, with private and public sectors in sync (rather than in opposition to each other), draws to mind Asian parallels and similar references to \"Japan Inc.\"\n\nThe country's long-term goals include turning Rwanda into a regional financial hub, parlaying its reputation for stringent business practices and a lack of corruption into establishing itself as a banking destination as well. _A financial_ Switzerland, in other words.\n\nOn a smaller scale is the \"value added\" axiom Rwanda has adopted. (This use of simple guiding principles, rules of thumb rather than sweeping ideological agendas, is also very Japanese\/Korean\/Singaporean in its approach.) Instead of shipping raw materials out of the country, the goal now is to add value to them beforehand. For example, whereas Rwanda had once exported raw coffee beans to other countries, where the crops were then washed, sorted, and resold at a much higher price, Rwandan coffee companies, with government backing, have now built more than 240 washing stations across the country, where the beans are cleaned and outer hulls removed. The final product is sorted by grade and quality before it's shipped, all of which greatly adds to its value. The result? A 33 percent increase in income from coffee exports in a single year.\n\nRwanda is still one of the world's poorest countries, with an annual budget heavily dependent on foreign aid and an economy still overly reliant on subsistence farming. But with the government's Vision 2020 blueprint, the aim is to transform Rwanda into a middle-income, knowledge-based economy, one that is competitive regionally and globally. Vision 2020 presents a wide-ranging and ambitious agenda, one focusing on poverty reduction, gender equality, compulsory education, universal health care, skills-based training, and local development initiatives.\n\nHere are some more highlights, presented in convenient bullet form:\n\n\u2022Over the last five years, more than one million people in Rwanda have been lifted out of poverty\u2014in a country of 11 million. By 2020, it's projected that more than 70 percent of the population will be above the base poverty line.\n\n\u2022The economy has been growing by an average of 7 percent a year and has almost doubled in size over the last ten.\n\n\u2022Where literacy rates were at barely 50 percent prior to the genocide, today 97 percent of children are enrolled in primary education, which in Rwanda runs from Grade 1 to 9. According to UNICEF, these are the highest enrolment rates in Africa, with more than 70 percent of the students completing Grade 9. Rwanda now spends more on education than it does on the military. University enrolment is nearing 80,000, compared to just 3,000 before the genocide.\n\n\u2022Early childhood mortality has been reduced by 80 percent, one of the steepest declines ever recorded. The UN credits Rwanda with having saved 590,000 children between 2000 and 2015.\n\n\u2022Ambitious immunization and anti-malaria campaigns, together with a community-based health insurance system and a rapidly rising life expectancy (average life expectancy in Rwanda is now 65 years, up from 48 in 1990), have earned Rwanda accolades from the World Health Organization. And although Rwanda continues to suffer from a serious shortage of doctors and other health care workers, more than 97 percent of the population now has medical coverage, the highest in Africa. A quarter of the national budget goes to health care, which is again the highest proportion of any state in Africa.\n\n\u2022Rwanda has also received awards from the UN for addressing issues of gender-based violence and women's rights. The country's innovative \"one-stop\" centres for women, offering legal, health, reproductive, and protective services under one roof, have been rightfully lauded, as has Rwanda's use of microloans for widows and women in poverty to help them launch small businesses. _With just a little bit of capital and some training, they will make their own opportunities:_ this is the guiding principle, the rule of thumb, behind these small loans. It might just as easily be applied to Rwanda as a whole.\n\nI could go on\u2014but I won't.\n\nI do realize that Africa is littered with similar \"blueprints for success\" and \"visions for a brighter tomorrow,\" but Vision 2020 is no chimera: Rwanda is meeting its targets, is on track, and is even ahead of schedule in several areas. Still overly reliant on foreign aid, true, but working hard to change that.\n\nThe Rwandan approach, a seemingly contradictory combination of progressive social programs and centralized decision making, coupled with radically _de_ centralized governance, is based on a staunchly pro-business philosophy in which enterprise is rewarded and rules are respected. Socially progressive _pro_ -business policies? Centralized decentralized decision making? It's enough to make your head spin\u2014 _if you_ were to try to force it into a pre-set political philosophy. But instead of \"left wing\" or \"right wing,\" Rwanda has been pre-eminently pragmatic. An example: In Singapore, gum on the sidewalks was becoming a problem, so chewing gum was outlawed. Simple, yes? Likewise Rwanda's ban on plastic bags. These non-biodegradable tumbleweeds seen clotting up fence posts and littering the windblown cityscapes of Africa are illegal in Rwanda. And the laws are taken seriously. Walk down the street swinging a plastic bag, and you risk arrest and a fine of $150. Shop owners foolish enough to stock plastic bags face jail time. In Rwanda, it's paper or cloth only, with polythene bags confiscated at the airport with a seriousness usually reserved for baggies filled with weed. There. Problem solved.\n\nRwanda's approach to homosexuality is equally revealing. Unlike in neighbouring countries such as Tanzania, Burundi, and Uganda, or Cameroon and Nigeria, where gay citizens can be imprisoned, beaten, and even threatened with execution, Rwanda's post-genocide constitution explicitly recognizes all citizens as having equal rights and the same legal protections. When influential evangelical church leaders in Rwanda tried to pressure the government into introducing harsh anti-gay laws similar to those recently passed in Uganda (where tabloid newspapers began publishing the names and addresses of \"notorious homosexuals\" to be ostracized and attacked, in much the same way that Hutu Power newspapers in Rwanda had once published lists of Tutsis), the government of Rwanda refused. They knew too well the consequences of targeting one segment of society, of singling out one specific group of people.\n\nIn Rwanda, the ethnic ID cards are long gone, and it is now prohibited to publicly identify or denounce someone as \"Tutsi\" or \"Hutu.\" In private, among friends and family, you may refer to yourself however you like, but the public sphere is a different matter. The official policy is now \"one people, one language, one culture, one Rwanda.\" And in much the same way that Germany, France, and other European nations introduced laws prohibiting Nazi symbols and any denial of the Holocaust after World War II, Rwanda has brought in strict laws concerning genocide denial. Fomenting social divisions or propagating a racial ideology is treated very seriously. And just as, after the catastrophe of Mussolini, Italy made it a crime to publish or promote any \"apologia for fascism,\" in Rwanda the ethnically based doctrine of \"Hutu Power\" is outlawed.\n\nIt is important to remember that Hutu Power is an _ideology_ , not an ethnic identity. So when misguided commentators in the West lecture Rwanda about the need for \"reconciliation\" between the government and supporters of Hutu Power, try replacing the phrase \"Hutu Power\" with \"Nazi propagandists,\" and see how far you get. When people speak about reclaiming Hutu identity (as opposed to a pan-Rwandan identity), keep in mind that this divide was entrenched for generations and always in opposition to that of \"Tutsi.\" Try floating the idea of reintroducing yellow stars for Jews and see the type of reaction this garners, or try arguing that it's your ethnic right as an Aryan to promote a pure-race ideology. The West routinely demands a malleability in Rwandans that they would never expect of themselves.\n\nFrom poverty reduction to increased literacy, from economic growth to environmental reforms, from women's rights to universal health care, Rwanda's recovery has been remarkable, and the person responsible for much of it is the same person who ended the genocide: the controversial and always divisive Paul Kagame.\n\nAs the RPF commander who spearheaded the advance that toppled the Hutu Power government, President Kagame is loved and loathed in equal parts. Hailed as a hero, denounced as a dictator, he is a polarizing figure, inevitably described as a \"strongman,\" but one who is nonetheless credited with bringing about Rwanda's extraordinary reconstruction.\n\nAddressing an American university, the perpetually dour and stick-thin Kagame (he always reminds me of a high school chemistry teacher who's called you into his office because he's disappointed with your grades) repeatedly stressed, \"There is no magic formula.\" Instead, he spoke about the importance of individual Rwandans working with each other in a _collective_ commitment. He was invoking the Rwandan tradition of communal effort, of obeying authority, of following the rules\u2014the same traits the g\u00e9nocidaires had employed to such devastating effect\u2014to help rebuild the country. The goal is to use these cultural mores for constructive rather than destructive purposes, in much the same way that Germanic traits of meticulousness and efficiency, which the Nazis exploited so well, and the Japanese sense of collective identity and a strong work ethic, which the Imperial army took advantage of, would later be harnessed for _economic_ rather than militaristic aims. If countries like Germany and Japan, Korea and Vietnam, have turned themselves around\u2014helped by generous dollops of foreign aid, it should be noted\u2014why not Rwanda?\n\nSocial mobilization, cultural homogenyeity, effective bureaucratic organization, and an emphasis on group obligations over personal entitlements: the \"Rwandan miracle,\" as it is known, is very much in the Asian tradition. In words that could easily have come from the podium of any Japanese post-war leader, Kagame insisted that \"national prosperity will be achieved only through a people's capacity to work together, to find common ground, a common cause, a common purpose. There has not been _a_ Rwandan miracle, as such,\" he noted, \"but millions.\"\n\nIt was time to see this miracle firsthand.\n\n**5**\n\nI ARRIVED IN KIGALI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT to the cool embrace of an equatorial night, surfing my way into the main terminal with a crowd of passengers who were apparently under the impression it was a footrace to the baggage carousel.\n\nJean-Claude had arrived a few days earlier, and he greeted me with a handshake and a hale \"Welcome to Rwanda!\"\n\nOlder travel accounts describe the Kigali airport as cavernous and half-empty, but those days are long gone; the airport has burst its seams like stuffing from a pillow.\n\n\"They are building a new one,\" Jean-Claude shouted as we manoeuvred my bags through the full-court press of passengers at the terminal. (Entire families, it seemed, had come out to greet arriving relatives and see others off.) \"It will be south of the city. Much bigger. Much better.\"\n\nThe relocation was overdue. Rwanda had clearly outgrown its original airport, and in more ways than one: this was the landing strip President Habyarimana's plane was approaching when it was shot down, the missiles fired from a military base that still sits beside it. It was from that base that the first killings had been unleashed as well; the neighbourhoods around the airport were among the first to be \"ethnically cleansed\" of Tutsis. So this airport, in a very real sense, was ground zero of the genocide.\n\nOutside, Jean-Claude led me across the parking lot to where a Toyota 4x4 was jammed into an undersized stall.\n\n\"Land Cruiser GXR,\" he said. \"I picked it up from the rental office this morning.\"\n\nIt would be our home on wheels, our refuge, our albatross, our means of escape, and our dauntless beast over the course of the next three weeks.\n\nInching out of the airport with Jean-Claude at the wheel, we were soon swept into the street lights and leafy darkness of Kigali at night. The silhouettes of tall buildings were arranged along the crest of hills above us like giant chess pieces: the square rooks of hotels, the ornately curled knights of foreign embassies, and the rounded bishop of a new convention centre, a striking-looking structure, imminent and still hidden under scaffolding\u2014the urban equivalent of gift-wrap.\n\nKigali is draped across a loose federation of hills, and the city's main thoroughfares often run along high-wire ridges before dropping suddenly into the valleys below. This layout\u2014the dip and drop, the ridges and sloping descents, the whorls and loops\u2014makes driving through the city akin to navigating a fingerprint.\n\nJean-Claude flung us into a valley and then down a curved street\u2014all streets in Kigali curve; finding a straight one would be a feat\u2014before a final funhouse drop brought us to the Republika Caf\u00e9.\n\nThe Republika, with its large deck and glowing patio lights, is a local landmark. \"Very good food,\" Jean-Claude assured me.\n\nIt didn't hurt, of course, that the owner was stunningly attractive.\n\nRegal and welcoming, Solange Katarebe is a towering beauty of a woman. Formerly a director of Rwandan Tourism and National Parks and now an entrepreneur, Solange was one of the many confident, smart, and engaging women we would encounter over the next few weeks: running enterprises, overseeing government departments, finalizing business deals, managing conservation programs, running hotels. If the country was firing on all cylinders, it was women who were often as not priming the pumps, gunning the engine.\n\nNor was this wishful thinking on my part. By law, one-third of all national representatives in Rwanda must be women; in actuality, the number elected is even greater. It currently sits at 64 percent, the highest in the world, making Rwanda the only parliament on earth where women outnumber men. A third of the Cabinet is female, including the ministers of agriculture, energy, health, labour, and foreign affairs.\n\nRwanda's new constitution also sets a minimum of 30 percent women on the boards of all publicly listed companies. Half of the country's fourteen Supreme Court justices are women, and the World Economic Forum's \"global gender gap\" report\u2014an evaluation based on economic participation and opportunity, educational attainment, health and survival, and political empowerment\u2014ranks Rwanda in the top ten nations _worldwide_ for women.\n\nWhich is to say, Solange was no anomaly.\n\nShe wafted from table to table, laughing, chatting, topping up drinks, waving for new ones, and revising tabs accordingly. The beef skewers were dripping with flavour, and Jean-Claude and I raised a toast to the start of our journey, me with Primus beer, Jean-Claude with bottled water. (Jean-Claude doesn't drink alcohol, something I would learn to begrudgingly accept and eventually forgive.)\n\n\"Finally!\" Jean-Claude said. It seemed we had been talking about this trip since before we met.\n\nThe flickering lights of Kigali formed constellations on the hills across from us, and the beer was as sweet as summer air.\n\n_Finally_.\n\n**6**\n\nJEAN-CLAUDE WAS LIVING IN KENYA when the genocide began.\n\nA teenager on the cusp of his twentieth birthday, he was, as he puts it, \"No longer a boy, but not quite a man.\" Having crossed the bridge at Rusumo Falls, he'd made his way to the humid port city of Mombasa looking for his brother, only to find out that his brother was no longer there. Rwandans living in the city helped Jean-Claude track him down.\n\n\"My brother Sa\u00efd was in Nairobi, was working as a truck driver. He had been hired by the UN, or maybe Red Cross or CARE International\u2014I don't remember which\u2014to deliver supplies to Somalian refugees. There was civil war in Somalia and the refugee camp, it was near the border.\"\n\nThis was around the time of Black Hawk Down, when U.S. forces were running for cover, disengaging themselves with unseemly haste from further humanitarian interventions in Africa. Somalia was notoriously dangerous and unstable.\n\n\"My brother said, 'Wanna come?' I said, 'Sure!' So I jumped in and off we went. It was a long trip. Very long. This was my first time to see the desert, first time to see camels too. Everything was so different from Rwanda. It was all sand; there was no trees, there was no nothing. And flat. We drove, like, five, six days to get to that place and there was nothing there. Just people. These refugees had not even tents. I was puzzled. How can they live in this environment? I couldn't believe anyone could survive in that area. You know, I felt sorry for them.\"\n\nWhile Sa\u00efd arranged for the cargo to be unloaded, Jean-Claude made friends with some of the children in the camp.\n\n\"I showed these kids how to make a soccer ball from plastic bags. There was so much rubbish and plastic blowing around, so what you do, basically, is you take one plastic bag and you put it inside another, then another. There was this kind of twine, you know when they ship stuff, to tie it? I showed these kids how to use that to tighten the plastic, to make it like a real soccer ball. Once I did that, the kids flocked at me. Every child wanted to have their own soccer ball. So I showed them how to make more and more.\" He smiles even now at the memory of it. \"We couldn't talk to each other, we didn't speak the same language. But through soccer, we could become friends, and I said to myself, 'You know what? I think I will come back.'\"\n\nAnd even though Jean-Claude and his brother were robbed at gunpoint by desert bandits on their way home\u2014\"They took my shoes! And those were nice shoes. They were Mizuno running shoes. I hated losing those shoes\"\u2014Jean-Claude knew he had found his calling. He returned on his own to the Somali camps, this time as a volunteer with an NGO connected to CARE International.\n\n\"This American woman at the NGO, she wanted to set up schools for the kids. She needed to identify who used to be a teacher back in Somalia and also to see how many children there was, how many were alone, how many had no mother, no father. So I thought, 'We can use soccer to find this information.' Instead of going to these thousands of people in the camp, calling, 'Parents, bring your children!' the children will come to us. We organized them into teams, according to ages, same as how you would organize a soccer league. I was cataloguing the children's names, where they are from, did they have family, parents. And these kids? They were having fun playing soccer. I stayed in that camp probably for a month. It was very hot. Daytime, it was in the forties. Nighttime, was cold. Then the rainy season came and we couldn't get out! We got stuck for almost two more months in that camp.\" He laughed. \"Even today, I still know many Somali words.\"\n\nWhen Jean-Claude returned to Kenya, he found that Sa\u00efd had left again, this time for Congo.\n\n\"He went to Congo, and I went to Sudan, almost by accident. There was a French organization, maybe Swiss. I went to their headquarters in Nairobi looking for a job, and when I was there, I overheard someone was talking about how they needed a driver to go to a refugee camp, is called Kakuma. It was in northern Kenya near the border with Sudan. So I said, 'Hey, I can drive!' They said, 'Really?' I said, 'Yeah.'\"\n\nWe were sitting in a caf\u00e9 in Kigali, and the waiter brought me a cup of coffee, spiced with ginger. Jean-Claude asked for pineapple juice.\n\n\"But didn't you have to pass a road test?\" I asked. \"Or have some sort of licence for that?\"\n\n\"Oh, they were desperate. They needed someone to go right away, so my driving test was this: I sat in a car with the guy and he said, 'Okay, drive.' We drove to an industrial area where this truck, maybe one-ton, was parked. We filled it with diesel and he gave me some money and he said, 'Okay, you are going to Kakuma.'\"\n\nIt was 1,200 kilometres from Nairobi to the Sudanese refugee camp.\n\n\"I did it in two days. I was bringing, I think, medicine and something to do with sheeting. I was not supposed to bring back that truck, just leave it there and return by bus.\"\n\nBut then luck intervened. When Jean-Claude arrived, he discovered that the same American woman he'd worked with in the Somali camp was there. She was delighted to see Jean-Claude and asked him to stay and set up another soccer program to help her catalogue students and identify youth at risk. \"I've been trying,\" she told him, \"but I can't do it. Organizing teams and making plastic-bag soccer balls is harder than it looks.\"\n\nSo once again, Jean-Claude began manufacturing soccer equipment out of scrap materials and calling kids in for the games. The camp was in the Turkana region, near the arid reaches of southern Sudan.\n\n\"It was like there was no border between Kenya and Sudan at that time. In the camp, it was not a good life, it was very bad. They ate poorly compared to the Somalian refugees I saw before, were malnourished compared to the Somalian kids, and I found this work was very tough. They were living kind of makeshift lives. Some built shelters with dry branches, some with just pieces of whatever they could find, with nothing on top. And there were scorpions. Everywhere! I was nervous to sleep there at night.\"\n\nJean-Claude later crossed into South Sudan as part of a Red Cross aid convoy. \"We went to Lokichogio, to a camp where there was a vaccination program.\" Again, Jean-Claude used soccer to draw the refugees out. \"I started organizing teams for the kids. But before they could take part, they had to have a vaccination. That was the rule. Worked very well. Not only for vaccinations. You know, there is value to feeling you are part of a team. Kids are kids everywhere, and soccer is a language they understand.\"\n\nJean-Claude's experiences in Sudan contrasted sharply with those in the Somali camps. \"South Sudan was hostile. It was a broken-down society. People had no sense of social obligation. There was no one in the community you could trust, no one you could respect. In Somalia, you could go to see the elders or the imams at the mosque when there was a problem. In Sudan, it was a kind of anarchy. They saw death for a long time those people, first fighting against the north\u2014the Arab region who had dominated them so badly, like slaves really\u2014and then fighting each other. It was a kind of tribal war, one tribe killing another. In Somalia, this kind of anarchy had not started\u2014not yet. But in Sudan, if you were Dinka, you were Dinka. You had nothing to do with the Nuers. The Nuer was your enemy to the very end. That was the one rule they had. The only one. For anything else, there was no rules.\"\n\nAfter his tour of duty as a volunteer in South Sudan, Jean-Claude returned to Sa\u00efd's apartment in Nairobi, feeling concerned about the animosities he had witnessed in the camps. \"I made friends in Sudan, was worried about what would happen to them.\" But that would pale in comparison to what was coming in his own country.\n\nOn his first night back in Kenya, the genocide in Rwanda began.\n\n\"It was 5:30 in the morning, and my neighbour Esmaili, he was Congolese, he knocked the door and woke me up. He said, 'Did you hear the news?' I said, 'What news?' He said, 'The president of Rwanda, he has died, together with the president of Burundi. His plane was shot down.' And I thought, 'Oh my God.' I knew this was going to be bad. This is what everybody was preparing for. This is what the radio was predicting. I remembered my Hutu neighbours in Kigali\u2014those youth militias\u2014saying with a big grin, 'We're gonna kill you guys, all of you!' It was not a secret. When they returned from their training camps, they said, 'We're gonna finish you off. You Tutsis, none of you are gonna be left. You are planning to kill us, you are planning to kill the president, but we are gonna kill you first.' So when I heard what had happened, I thought, ' _This is it_. This is what they were preparing for.'\"\n\nThe Rwandan diaspora in Nairobi gathered at a church called Sainte Th\u00e9r\u00e8se, trying amid the panic and rumours to sort out what was happening back home. Some thought the crisis would soon pass. Others feared the worst. Very few were sanguine at the prospects; the future seemed to have opened up like a dark maw.\n\n\"There was some, was studying in Kenya. Their families, all of them, were back in Rwanda. These students felt cut off. Afraid. One said, very quietly, 'I was talking to my mom right now on the phone and she said they killed our neighbours next door, and now they were coming to our house and then\u2014and then the phone cut off.' When we heard that, everybody kind of was in shock.\"\n\nMany of these students and expats were now stranded, alone and without funds, and without family to turn to.\n\n\"They became homeless in an instant. Many of them came to stay with me and my brother. Anyone who doesn't have somewhere to stay, they came to stay with us. There was a time we were seven people in that one-room apartment! Seven with one table to share.\" He laughed. \"And it was a small apartment even when it was just me and my brother. But you know, my brother never minded, even though he was the one paying the rent. I remember that, how kind he was.\"\n\nAs the genocide unfolded on television, Rwandans huddled around their TV sets, watching in disbelief and horror.\n\n\"We could recognize people on TV. We could recognize neighbourhoods. There was one family I knew, was living near the soccer stadium. They had a house there. I knew this family very well and I saw their house is being looted on television, saw someone carrying their mattress. And I knew this person, too.\" Jean-Claude leaned in and looked me in the eyes, still baffled by it, twenty years later. \"The last person you would expect to loot, to steal, was that guy. He was working for the government, for the civil service, a middle-class guy. When I saw him carrying a mattress on his head, stealing from his neighbours, I knew right away that my friends were dead. This guy, he had a machete in his belt. And I thought, _'My country has gone mad.'_ \"\n\n\"Did you call your family? Your brothers, your sister?\"\n\n\"They didn't have a telephone. I tried to phone our neighbour, someone who might know what is happened to my family, but it was impossible to find any information. In my mind, everything went in slow motion. The United Nations had evacuated some Rwandese to Kenya, and they were living in these makeshift tents at the Nairobi airport, so I went there to see if I could find news. I recognized people I knew and I could see they were in shock. I don't know how to say it, except they were _blank_. Some were the only survivors, the only ones who made it. _'They killed my whole family. I escaped by jumping the fence at the airport, but my children couldn't get over the fence and my wife_... _I don't know where they are.'_ Everybody had different stories, everybody had a broken heart. You would find Hutus also who were fleeing the war with their whole family, including this one guy who had been a minister in the government, a moderate Hutu. He went to Switzerland, I think.\"\n\n\"A Hutu among the Tutsis? Was there tension between those who'd escaped?\"\n\n\"Of course. Imagine someone has lost her entire family and here is a government minister with all of his. Imagine you have lost every one of your children, but here is someone who has all of hers. It was very tough.\" Jean-Claude finished his pineapple juice, placed the empty glass on the table in front of him. \"I knew: _I have to go back_.\"\n\n\"To Rwanda?\"\n\n\"To Rwanda.\"\n\nThe RPF had taken control of the eastern regions, were routing the armed forces and youth militias of a collapsing regime. The tide had turned, and the g\u00e9nocidaires knew it.\n\n\"I had to go. I felt a kind of guilt of not being there, for being safe when everyone else is in such danger. I thought, 'If I can get to Kigali, maybe I can find my sister, my brothers, my cousins, my family.'\"\n\nJean-Claude took a long-distance coach to Uganda and from there made his way to the border.\n\n\"I crossed over at a place called Katuna, between Uganda and Rwanda. The RPF, they weren't letting many people come into the country, saying it's too dangerous\u2014unless you had some training to help people, were a nurse or something. There were so many injured people, if you could say 'I know how to put on a band-aid,' oh, they took you right away. They called you doctor and sent you in. For me, I saw there was so many cars stuck at the border with no people to drive them. Some cars, they were there since 1990. So I told them, 'I can drive any type of thing. Motorcycle, sedan, one-ton truck. Anything, I can drive it. Let me.' So this guy talked to another guy, he said, 'Okay, see that truck over there?' It was a pickup truck, a Daihatsu. Was blue, but had been painted black to camouflage it\u2014black, but you could see the blue showing through. It was a big truck. And he said to me, 'You are going to take that truck to Kigali.'\"\n\nThis was at a time when there was still fighting in the capital. I asked Jean-Claude, \"What was your reaction, when they told you where you would be going?\"\n\n\"I said, 'Thank you.'\"\n\n\"And the cargo?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nothing. Was empty. But they needed vehicles near the front, near the fighting, to move the men in and the injured out, to move supplies around.\"\n\nAnd so, barely twenty years old, Jean-Claude Munyezamu set about driving a pickup truck into a war zone.\n\n\"I had three people squeezed in beside me. Two was military, one was civilian. They had their radio on, were listening the whole time. We drove toward Kigali, and when we reached that place called Nyachonga, is maybe forty kilometres from Kigali, I started seeing signs of the genocide. The fields were very green. Nothing had been harvested. The roads were quiet. Everywhere, it was kind of peaceful and very silent, because the Hutu militias had fled and the RPF had already moved on. But when we get to Nyachonga... You know, the interahamwe used to have a major roadblock in that place.\"\n\nThere was a long pause. So long, I thought perhaps he had finished telling his story.\n\n\"There were so many bodies, Will. You can't imagine. You really can't. Lying in fields. Beside the road. Piled on top of each other. It looked like piles of laundry. I slowed the truck down, and when I realized what it was, I said, 'Oh no, oh no.' The others in the vehicle, they looked at me and said, 'You came from where?' I said, 'I came from Kenya.' And they said, 'Prepare yourself. This is nothing. You're gonna see much worse than this.'\"\n\nOn the table between us, wet rings marked the places where Jean-Claude had rested his glass. He drew his finger through them, watched the lines disappear.\n\n\"And they were right,\" he said. \"It got worse. Much worse.\"\n\nAs they neared the outskirts of Kigali, Jean-Claude could see tracer fire across the skyline, could hear the clatter of gunfire, the subterranean thump of mortar shells hitting unseen targets.\n\n\"We passed abandoned checkpoints, saw people chopped. Some, they had no heads. Some, no feet. Some were just pieces of bone and skin.\"\n\nIt was July 3, 1994. Kigali had fallen to the RPF, but pockets of resistance remained, among them the feared Presidential Guards who were making a last stand, holding on till they too were forced to retreat, leaving behind only death and the wreckage of a ruined state.\n\n\"As we drove through the city, I thought, ' _Rwanda is finished_. This is not a country anymore.' I thought maybe this is how the Roman Empire ended. Maybe this is how Egyptian civilization ended. Maybe they just killed themselves.\"\n\nAny sense of victory was muted.\n\n\"You would see these young RPF soldiers, boys who had been fighting since 1990 to reach Kigali, and you would see them, sitting on the doorsteps of their burned homes looking defeated with their rifles propped up beside them, heads down, like this. Their eyes were empty. I don't know how to describe it. Just empty. Many of these soldiers, they were my age. Some had been fighting since they were sixteen. I spoke with a few of them; they said it felt like they fought for nothing.\"\n\nJean-Claude spent two weeks in Kigali his first time back. \"The pickup truck I was driving, it had no owner, so this vehicle became mine while I was there. We were looking for people's relatives and other survivors\u2014we collected so many children who were in the bushes or hiding with Hutu neighbours. I found out my sister Claudine was still alive.\"\n\nAlong with their brother Emmanuel, she had taken refuge at Sainte Famille church in the middle of Kigali. She had her youngest child, a baby boy, with her.\n\n\"My brother Emmanuel tried his best. He tried to protect Claudine, tried to protect her baby.\"\n\nCrowding in with 8,000 other desperate people, Emmanuel and Claudine found themselves surrounded by taunting interahamwe militias who tormented them for weeks on end under the sadistic watch of Father Wenceslas Munyeshyaka. A Catholic priest who liked to swagger about with a pistol strapped to his hip, he provided \"death lists\" to the militias and Presidential Guards, who would then raid the church to drag out targeted Tutsis and Hutu moderates. It was a slow, incremental slaughter. Twenty people killed one day. Forty the next. The church had become a concentration camp, and Father Wenceslas began forcing young girls and women into providing sex in exchange for their lives. Caught in the crossfire, the church grounds were later hit by RPF shells, killing a dozen more.\n\n\"My sister was still nursing her baby. When the UN arrived to evacuate people, they started with the women and children. My sister was in the first convoy. I think it was the only convoy that got through.\"\n\nHis brother Emmanuel didn't make it.\n\n\"He put my sister and her baby on the truck, and he said, 'Go. I will follow. I will find you.'\"\n\nBut as soon as the trucks left, the massacres began anew. Thousands died at Sainte Famille under the raptorial gaze of Father Wenceslas. Among the dead, Jean-Claude's brother Emmanuel.\n\n\"We don't know where his body is. When the killers were done, they brought in those excavators to dig a mass grave and they dumped the bodies in it. Later, the RPF exhumed the bones, but we don't know which ones are his.\"\n\n\"You found your sister?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"And how was she?\"\n\nHe thought about this a moment. \"Shattered.\"\n\n**7**\n\nKIGALI IS NO LONGER the hollow shell of a city that the RPF inherited or that Jean-Claude drove through in a daze, bodies still littering the streets.\n\nThose same streets are now very safe, very clean\u2014famously so. Travellers in Africa are always taken aback at how _tidy_ Kigali is. Glass towers are spinning themselves into existence on the dizzying pirouette of construction cranes, but even with the city's population topping a million and growing daily, there are no sprawling slums, no shantytown ghettos stretching into the distance, no garbage pickers living on smouldering hills of trash. This is urban Africa reimagined, something jaded old African hands complain about. Kigali is too clean, they say. Too well-mannered, too manicured. In a word\u2014too _livable_. Even its layout, with clusters of business centres arranged on separate hilltops, gives the Rwandan capital the feel of a much smaller city. A collection of towns, as it were.\n\nJean-Claude and I would use Kigali as our base, falling back to the city between extended excursions to the remoter regions of Rwanda, and it was always a pleasure to return. Through a contact of Jean-Claude, we'd rented a spacious, fifth-floor apartment in Kigali's Kacyiru district in a building owned and operated by Rwanda's national pension fund. (I liked that the rent we paid went to the Rwanda Social Security Board rather than a private company.) My bedroom looked out over the city, leafy green even in the dry season. Although Kigali, like most of Rwanda, is high enough to be outside the more serious malarial zones (the mosquitoes that carry malaria prefer warmer, lower-lying climes), I still took my anti-malarial pills every morning and slept beneath a cascade of silk netting every night, feeling not unlike a drowsy Southern belle.\n\nI would often wake in the early hours as dawn was tiptoeing in. I would slip free of my netting and pad down the hall to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee and take it out on the balcony, where I would watch Kigali stir and come to life.\n\nThe city revealed itself in layers, shapes appearing like memories in the morning mist. Flowers and ferns. Eucalyptus trees, silhouetted above the rooftops. It was as though they'd built a city in the middle of a garden.\n\nThe haze would give way to light, veils removed one by one to the crescendo of birdsong: whistles and cheeps, melodies musical and not-so-musical. Some echoed the sound of water dripping, others were like question marks given voice. Some birds cooed, some chuckled. Some had songs halfway between a sigh and a sob. It was a far cry from the feuding magpies and cacophonous crows back home. One treetop resident, in the foliage directly below our balcony, would call out, \"Wait a week! Wait a week!\" and I would think, _Wait a week for what?_\n\nKigali is a city of brisk mornings, of early risers. It's purposeful. Older ladies in bent-back postures appear at first light, sweeping the sidewalks by hand, and the _whisk, whisk, whisk_ of their straw brooms feels unnaturally loud in the fragrant hour. On the packed clay of the alleyway below, a security guard tries to coax a kiss from his would-be girlfriend. She declines and walks away, head high, only to stop and throw a smile back his way before she disappears. Just enough to encourage him to try again tomorrow.\n\nChildren walk down the alley to school: girls singing their way to class, boys tromping behind, all of them colour-coded by uniform, laughing and shouting, hurrying along. The parade peaks... then peters out. There's a long pause, and then a single ten-year-old boy comes running, shirt untucked, flip-flops slapping air, books bouncing.\n\nEvery morning I watched the same flow of students pass by, and every morning I saw the same boy, always running, always late. I think about him sometimes, even now. I wonder if he ever made it to class on time.\n\n**8**\n\nKIGALI'S TOWN CENTRE is as lumpy as the rest of the city. This country is famous for its hills, granted, but somehow I thought they'd have staked out at least one flat piece of land to balance their high-rise hotels and office towers upon. But in Kigali there is no flat piece of land; you're always walking up or walking down, except perhaps along the marshy flats of the river below. That stretch is prone to flooding, though, and\u2014until fairly recently\u2014crocodiles.\n\nStrapped into our Toyota 4x4, we followed the contours of Kigali into the downtown core as motorcycle taxis\u2014\"taxi-motos\"\u2014bobbed in and out with a boldness that bordered on bravado. Their minibus competitors, farting along merrily and weighted down with customers, vied for position. Everything was in motion, even the buildings it seemed. New shops were popping up even as we passed; it was like a time-lapse film on double-speed. One such establishment advertised itself proudly as \"The New Better Shop,\" and the name stuck with me. Seemed redundant on first glance, but no. There is _new_ , but not necessarily better. There is _better_ , but not necessarily new. But this is Kigali\u2014and everything was _new better_.\n\nJean-Claude marvelled at this on the drive in: the wide paved thoroughfares, the polished shimmer of new businesses. \"It's amazing,\" he said, hands on the wheel, eyes cranked to the skyline (disconcertingly so, I admit). No matter. Even distracted by the city, he threaded his way through with aplomb.\n\nWe changed some money, purchased pay-as-you-go cell phones and refillable bottles of filtered water: the usual accoutrements of modern travel. The streets of Kigali were heaving with commerce. The entire city seemed filled with a sense of possibilities being seized. Rwanda, I'd been told, is a nation of incipient entrepreneurs, and this fact jostled up against me at every turn.\n\nRwandans are also famously beautiful, famously handsome\u2014and slightly haughty, it must be said, at least here in the capital. This is the image Rwandans have across East Africa: long-limbed, elegant, and ever-confident\u2014and oh, how often those last two go together. Much as I hate to propagate stereotypes, I had to concur.\n\n\"Is there a convention of supermodels in town this weekend?\" I asked.\n\nJean-Claude laughed.\n\nUgandan comedian Anne Kansiime opened a recent show in Kigali by saying, \"You know, back home in Uganda I'm actually very beautiful\u2014and surprisingly tall. Here, it is a different story.\" I had sympathy for Ms. Kansiime. I'd never felt more dishevelled or stumpy than I did shuffling about the streets of Kigali.\n\nGlass office towers, reflecting a blue deeper than the sky they were catching, lined up alongside low-riding shops and overladen stalls. Two versions of Kigali, wedged against each other, often occupying the same space: the Kigali of clay walls and small shops, and that of glass-tower bank centres. Beauty salons and auto parts. Storefront racks of bright-yellow soccer jerseys ( _\"Go Amavubis!\"_ ). Trays filled with children's toys. Soft drinks and running shoes. Fanned displays of magazines. Plumbing gewgaws and electronic gadgets were piled up on sidewalk stalls as the city's street hawkers moved through, selling phone-card top-ups and Holy Bibles of various value: white leather deluxe, red vinyl pocketbook, and everything in between.\n\nSeveral new department stores had opened, and in the downtown Nakumatt we came across HD plasma TVs for sale alongside a wide selection of\u2014Jean-Claude couldn't believe this\u2014treadmills.\n\nTreadmills?\n\n\"Now, that\u2014 _that_ is a good sign!\" he said. You know an economy is taking root, you know people truly have disposable income when, in the words of Jean-Claude, \"they can waste their money on a walking machine. This is Kigali!\" he exclaimed. \"Who needs a treadmill? You are _always_ walking. Up and down, every day, even on a short trip to the store.\"\n\nIn a lane behind Nakumatt, Jean-Claude bumped into someone he once knew, a soft-spoken older businessman named Paul Ruhamyambuga. He was, I later learned, something of a local legend in Kigali.\n\nWhile the rest of the city\u2014indeed, the country\u2014still lay in ruins, Mr. Ruhamyambuga was already imagining its restoration. In a public display of confidence, he built the City Plaza office building amid the rubble, sending a message to investors, to the world\u2014but most importantly, to the people\u2014that this was _not_ the end. A new city would rise.\n\nThe Jean-Claude he'd known had been a gawky teenager living in Kenya. \"The same, but different,\" Mr. Ruhamyambuga said, laughing with genuine warmth on meeting the Jean-Claude of today, the Jean-Claude who'd returned. While the two of them spoke in Kinyarwanda, sharing confidences and small remembrances, I looked up at the tinted glass of the City Plaza office tower with its clamorous jumble of small shops crowding in below.\n\nJean-Claude turned to me and said, \"I remember when this was the tallest building in Kigali.\"\n\nOnce a landmark of the recovery, the City Plaza is now just one building in among the shinier, higher hilltop towers of this new and better Kigali. _You'd hardly have known there was ever a war_...\n\n**9**\n\nFOLLOWING THAT FIRST FORAY into Rwanda after the genocide, Jean-Claude returned to Nairobi, bringing news to families of their loved ones back home.\n\n\"Not all the news was good,\" he notes.\n\nThere was still a pressing need for vehicles and supplies back in Rwanda, and Jean-Claude made the run between Kenya and Kigali ten times or more, ferrying people and goods back and forth, helping to gather children and reunite families\u2014there are people he helped who stay in touch with him to this day. His journeys had a dash of Mad Max about them. \"The situation was still very unstable,\" he said. \"Many of the side roads were filled with landmines. The remote villages were still being attacked.\"\n\nBut a different sort of adventure was about to begin, although Jean-Claude didn't know it at the time. During evening services at Nairobi's Good Shepherd church, he spotted a strikingly beautiful young woman named Christine Karebwayire. She was new to the city, studying at the technical college, and was living nearby with her aunt.\n\nChristine was born into the diaspora. Her parents had fled Rwanda in 1959\u2014during the _first_ genocide against the Tutsis. They'd settled in Burundi and then later in Tanzania, though it might as well have been in Limbo. Although successful in their new life, they were still stateless citizens occupying a liminal world.\n\n\"In Nairobi, the Rwandan community was holding an overnight service once a month,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"It would start maybe at nine o'clock, with greetings and testimonies. Every new person who came, they introduced themself. It was mostly social. It was kind of like open-mike night. I knew almost everybody who was Rwandese living in Nairobi. At that time, I was among the longest-running members of that congregation, so when I saw Christine, I thought, 'Oh my goodness, who is this?' I never seen her before.\"\n\nNot all of Christine's extended family had left Rwanda. Her uncle was a prominent church official, Canon Alphonse Karuhije, dean of Kigali's Anglican cathedral. Denied the rank of bishop by a Hutu rival, he was killed on church grounds during the genocide after being betrayed by a fellow priest.\n\nHis wife, Christine's aunt Thacienne, had escaped the carnage by the slimmest of margins: having gone to visit family in Tanzania over Easter, she was out of the country when the president's plane was shot down. Canon Karuhije had driven his wife and their five children to the border crossing at Rusumo Falls, had said goodbye, then taken a bus back to Kigali while she continued on with the children. He was returning to the city to oversee Easter Mass. His family would never see him again.\n\nChristine's aunt, now widowed, was in Nairobi awaiting sponsorship from the Anglican Church for her and her children to go to Winnipeg. Christine was staying with them while she studied at the college, hoping someday to become a nurse.\n\n\"Was it love at first sight?\" I asked Jean-Claude.\n\n\"You know,\" he said, \"I wasn't thinking that way. At this time, I was taking care of some children who had been separated from their mother, and I was paying school fees for other ones. I had too many things going on, too many responsibilities.\"\n\nHe remembers the car, though. Vividly. \"Christine's aunt still had her husband's sedan, the one she drove out of Rwanda. Was a Peugeot 505. French-built. Very good car.\"\n\nHer aunt needed a mechanic, Jean-Claude helped her find one at a good price, and soon he was spending time with her and her niece.\n\n\"Cars and soccer,\" I said. \"Seems like half your life has been tied to those two, JC.\"\n\nHe laughed. \"I think so.\"\n\nWhen Christine's aunt left for Canada with her children, Christine moved into an apartment with five other students to continue her studies.\n\n\"I used to tease her because she grew up in Tanzania, so she spoke Kinyarwanda mixed with Swahili. Sometimes she didn't know that it wasn't correct. She would use a Tanzanian word and I would tease her about this, saying, 'What is that? That is not Kinyarwanda.'\" (Note the disingenuous use of the past tense on Jean-Claude's part. He _still_ teases her about this.) \"So what's happened is, we became kind of friends. We started hanging out together, then it started to be kind of dating. I remember our first date. It was in the afternoon and she came from school to meet me, still in her school uniform. We went to a fish and chips place, and then after we took a bus to the zoo.\" He smiled. \"It was a good day.\"\n\n\"Do you remember which animals you saw?\"\n\nHe thought about this. \"No. Not really.\"\n\nA simple story of boy meets girl, except that it was set against the backdrop and fallout of an African holocaust. The courtship of Jean-Claude and Christine was a reminder of what the Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski, who covered countless wars and rebellions in Africa, described as \"this beautiful and heartening thing, this obstinate, heroic human striving for normality.\" The normality of spending time with someone you like, of going on a date. Of taking a bus together, of visiting a zoo.\n\nAnd then the unexpected: Jean-Claude received sponsorship from a Catholic diocese in Montreal, which meant he would be leaving Africa for a new life in Canada. He promptly asked Christine to marry him.\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"She said no.\"\n\n\"What? Why?\"\n\n\"That's what I wanted to know! I asked her why and she said, 'I'm not ready to get married. I'm gonna finish my studies. I'm gonna be a nurse.' So I said, 'You can still be a nurse, only now you will be a nurse who is married.' But she said, 'Oh, I think that would be very hard. Let's just continue to be friends instead.'\"\n\nBut then Christine made a serious mistake. She talked to her friends. She told them Jean-Claude had asked for her hand in marriage and that she'd declined.\n\n\"She told the other girls?\"\n\n\"Of course she did! Can you imagine _any_ girl, a boy asks her to marry him and she says no, and she's not gonna tell her friends about it? Of course she told them! Soon everybody in the Rwandan community knew.\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"My supporters, they began to lobby on my behalf. They told her, 'You are crazy! You should have said yes!'\"\n\nHis supporters also advised Jean-Claude, on the sly, to maybe try one more time. And so, just before he departed for Montreal, he asked her again. This time she said yes.\n\nChristine came to Canada six months later, having finished her schooling. She moved first to Winnipeg to live with her beloved aunt and then to Calgary to marry Jean-Claude. The ceremony was at a local church, with Christine resplendent in her wedding gown. I've seen the photos; it's clear why Jean-Claude was so smitten.\n\nThere was a Rwandan aspect to the ceremony as well. \"I bought her family a cow,\" he said. \"Is a tradition in Rwanda. The groom presents one to the bride's family. So I sent a cow to her family in Africa.\"\n\n\"What, like by Fedex?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"No, I sent the money to buy one. Was an Ankole cow\u2014they call it the 'Cattle of Kings.' Very elegant animals.\"\n\nHere was the trajectory of lives lived and roads intersecting, of a wedding dress and a kingly gift, and it all started with a truck rumbling across that bridge at Rusumo Falls with a teenage stowaway on board, heart pounding, hidden under heavy sacks of coffee, escaping a coming apocalypse.\n\n**10**\n\nTHE BOULEVARD THAT RAN PAST our apartment in Kigali, palmy in every sense of the word, lacked even the faintest speck of litter. Widows and elderly women are allotted specific sections of major streets, are paid a stipend to keep them clean\u2014and Lord help you if you absent-mindedly drop a candy wrapper on their stretch of pavement. I'd been warned several times that the whisk brooms these ladies wielded could also be used in a pedagogically punitive manner.\n\nJean-Claude and I went for a walk along this ridge-top boulevard one morning, with Jean-Claude pointing out the flora along the way: avocado trees and pears, hanging heavy with fruit; jacaranda with their pi\u00f1ata-like pods ready to burst in a spray of flowers.\n\n\"My father,\" Jean-Claude said, \"his passion was trees. He knew everything about them. With his brother Adalbert he grafted oranges and lemons onto the same plant. One tree with two different fruits, the neighbours were amazed.\"\n\nJean-Claude's grandfather had been a member of the Royal Army of King Rwabugiri and was on hand when the German count crossed into the Kingdom of Rwanda and made first contact.\n\n\"My grandfather, his name was Rugaju, and he was sent east with the son of the king, the prince, to keep the Germans in check. The Germans were already in Tanzania\u2014Tanganyika, they called it back then. My grandfather's main assignment was to keep the Germans from crossing into Rwanda.\"\n\nThe Akagera River marked the outer limits of the kingdom, and the mwami set up a military outpost not far from Rusumo Falls. Jean-Claude's grandfather was granted land in a nearby village. This was where Jean-Claude's father was born.\n\n\"My family still has land in that area, it's still our village. You know, in Africa, everyone, even if they are born and raised in the city, they will have a traditional village that they call home. Mine is in the east, in Rundu village.\"\n\nJean-Claude's father, Ferdinand, was a scholar and a botanist whose talents were recognized early on. \"He was sent to Tanzania to learn how to plant coffee plantations when that was first being introduced into Rwanda. He was among the first people to learn how to do that, and he travelled all over the country doing those kinds of work, teaching people how to plant coffee beans and then later eucalyptus.\"\n\nHis father settled in Kigali with his brother Adalbert, down by the river in a neighbourhood now known as Gisozi.\n\n\"My father and Uncle Adalbert were the first people to live there.\"\n\nAs a leading arborist, Jean-Claude's father was something of a Johnny Appleseed as well, planting trees tirelessly across Rwanda. \"There are forests even now,\" Jean-Claude said, \"that my father planted. When I pass by them, I can still see my father moving about very carefully, examining each tree, nodding. He was a very thoughtful person. Conversations with him were always about serious matters. My uncle Adalbert, he was more open. I think he knew how to talk to children better than my dad. My uncle lived next door. I had many cousins.\"\n\nJean-Claude and I walked along the spacious sidewalks of Umuganda Avenue as early-morning pedestrians clipped past at a brisk pace in crisp white shirts. Minibuses veered in and out, stopping to pack more passengers in or unload others. The city was like a giant clock winding _up_ rather than down.\n\n\"My neighbourhood, the place I grew up, it's over there, on the other side.\" Jean-Claude pointed across the rolling heights of Kigali to a hill opposite, layered with homes. In between, sloping into the valley and then swooping back up the other side, were the rooftops of other homes, so close together as to be overlapping.\n\nWe'd reached the Kacyiru roundabout, tidy and well-tended. A circular garden flowing with traffic, it once marked the frontline in the Battle of Kigali, with RPF soldiers hunkered down on one side, exchanging gunfire with members of the elite Presidential Guards on the other. For three months this roundabout had been in the middle of a war zone. _If no one had told you_...\n\nOn a whim, Jean-Claude suggested we walk to his old neighbourhood, through the streets below us, across the river, and then up the other side.\n\n\"Hmmm. Looks far,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, but I know a shortcut. I remember a certain way to go.\"\n\nSo we left the wide boulevard of Umuganda Avenue, with its fountain-pen palm trees and its rise-and-shine, starch-shirted commuters, and plunged into the residential area below. A steep path led us into a labyrinth of low-lying clay-brick homes, tightly packed. Every building seemed to be propping up the one next to it, and the lane we were walking down was narrow enough at times that I could have run my hands along both sides.\n\nWe had entered a different Kigali. Smaller, clustered, more intimate. The smell of lye soap and wet charcoal: pots scrubbed and cooking fires doused. The raspy cry of a rooster. A young mother tossing wash-water from a basin onto the ground as her toddler, as toddlers are wont to do, toddles by, beaming at the power of his own locomotion. She begins laying out her hand-wrung laundry on a thorny hedge to dry, keeps a sideward eye on us as we pass. An elderly lady in a patterned apron and matching head scarf sweeps an already clean threshold of hypothetical dirt. (The entire neighbourhood being made of clay, sweeping for dust must be more an existential than a pragmatic endeavour.) She looks up at us, is startled into a smile, eyes lost in a nest of wrinkles, as we squeeze by.\n\nA cadre of young men striding uphill stop as well, taken aback by the sight of us coming down; it was as though Jean-Claude and I were blithely cutting through their living rooms, which in a way I suppose we were. Troops of schoolchildren, startled in mid-gambol, stood gape-eyed and O-mouthed, with the bolder among them venturing a quick \"Good morning, teacher. How are you? I am fine\" as we passed. Learning English in the classroom has given Rwandan students the habit of addressing English speakers, regardless of who they are, as \"teacher.\" This is usually delivered in a single impressive burst: _\"Goo'moaning'teacha'howreyoomfine,\"_ after which they scramble back to the laughter and breathless congratulations of their peers. _\"Muzungu! Muzungu! He talked to a muzungu!\"_ It would be the highlight of their morning, would grow with each telling I'm sure. Some of the smaller children, always with the most encrusted noses it seemed, stopped to force moist handshakes on me, to which I always obliged. Mental note: _Buy hand sanitizer_.\n\n_Muzungu_ is a Swahili word, borrowed by the Rwandese. I assumed it meant \"handsome fellow\" or \"look yonder at that dapper chap!\" because wherever I went, I heard it time and time again, heralding my arrival, departure, existence. The response in Kigali was mild. They see muzungus all the time\u2014not in their local neighbourhoods, maybe, but downtown, fanning themselves in front of banks and hotels, counting bills at the money-changers, looking sweaty and perplexed. Outside of Kigali, however, the refrain of \"Muzungu!\" would increase dramatically, become almost constant, a sort of background chorus. (When I say to Rwandans, \"Muzungu must mean good-looking, right?\" they always get a pained look on their faces. \"No, no, no,\" they explain, \"it means white person,\" as though I were so dense I hadn't figured that out. So then I have to explain I was only joking, which elicits even more brow-knitting concern. At one point, I tried doubling down\u2014\"Muzungu means super-sexy movie star, right?\"\u2014but the response was the same, \"No, no, no, it means...\")\n\nOur path through the maze of clay-walled homes grew steeper with every ankle-rolling step, turning my initial canter into an extended downward stumble as I tried not to trip myself into an uncontrolled forward rush.\n\nWe came out of this rabbit warren of homes onto the side of another, lower thoroughfare. \"I remember this road!\" Jean-Claude said. \"It's paved now. And wider. But it wasn't like this when I was growing up. It used to be so dusty. We would be choking in the dry season.\"\n\nMemories came quicker now. On passing a newly built gas station, Jean-Claude read the sign and said, \"I know him! I know the owner. I knew him as a boy. He taught himself mechanics in his backyard. He has done very well.\" And as we drew closer to the river: \"We used to play along these banks, in those marshes. There were only three cars in our neighbourhood. None of this was paved.\"\n\nThe marshlands of Jean-Claude's youth have largely been filled in. \"There was more water,\" he said, somewhat sadly. But there is always more water in our childhood. More water and taller buildings.\n\nWe walked across the busy Kinamba overpass, vehicles clipping by in both directions, and Jean-Claude said, \"This is where my cousin died. They threw her over the side with the other Tutsis. She was a long time dying. They could hear her crying for two days is what I'm told.\"\n\nDuring the genocide, this overpass was the site of one of the most notorious roadblocks in Kigali. Here, Hutu Power youths tormented and targeted specific people early on, before the more widespread indiscriminate killings began. As the weeks went by, the dead piled up below, began to decompose in the heat; no _buddies_ saved her.\n\nJean-Claude's old neighbourhood of Gisozi was on the other side of this overpass, and as we pushed our way through a crowd of workers trundling toward a nearby lumberyard, the air became spiced with the scent of sawdust and cut wood. The road angled uphill and we walked, leaning into our ascent, until we came to a potholed, packed-clay lane branching off from the main road.\n\n\"This is the street,\" Jean-Claude said. \"This is where I grew up.\"\n\nHis old neighbourhood was now a construction site. The past was under repair, but a few of the older buildings still stood, acting as wary benchmarks on a vastly changed map. It took some time, but with the help of a few young men who lived on the street, we did manage to find a remnant of Jean-Claude's family home. \"Just this part,\" he said, laying a hand on its whitewashed texture. A corner incorporated into another building. \"These two walls, these were part of our house.\"\n\nJean-Claude was four or five when his mother died.\n\n\"I try to find her face, but I can't. I remember her clothes and her voice\u2014I remember how she spoke, very calm, very kind\u2014I remember her calling my brother when he was outside, telling him that the supper was ready. I remember her sending me to get him. I even remember she was feeding me with a spoon when I was little and how this food that she cooked, we call it _igihembe_ , kind of like a lentil, was so tasty. I remember all of those things, but I can't remember her face.\"\n\nShe died in Uganda. She had family there, and when she became ill they sent for her, because Uganda, as a former British colony, had more advanced medical care.\n\n\"She went to Uganda,\" he said. \"And she never came back.\"\n\nJean-Claude was playing outside with his older brother the day he found out.\n\n\"It was raining and we had to come inside, and when we did there was so many people there, aunts and uncles, neighbours. They went very quiet when we came in and my dad called us into the room, me and my brother, and he said, 'I just want to tell you that your mother has passed away.' But I didn't know what that means. I was thinking, 'Okay, so am I gonna see her now?' After that, I asked my cousin and she explained to me. She said, 'It means you will never see her again. They are going to put her in a box in the ground.' That was when I knew my mother was gone and wouldn't be coming back... My dad was a single parent from that moment until he died.\"\n\nJean-Claude's mother had been his father's second wife\u2014he was separated from his first\u2014and the house was filled with the comings-and-goings of step-cousins and assorted siblings.\n\n\"I was the second youngest. There were four children from the first marriage, five with my mom.\"\n\n\"A big family.\"\n\n\"Yes. Always there were people in this house. It was very crowded, but was fun.\"\n\nWhile we stood looking at the remaining walls of Jean-Claude's childhood home, he recited the names of various brothers and sisters, \"Claudine, Marie-Gorette, my brother Elis\u00e9, Denise, Jean-Baptiste, Emmanuel,\" speaking more to himself than to anyone.\n\nBy this point, we were surrounded by young men in undershirts and flip-flops: temporary workers from the looks of it, pants caked with dry mud. We'd attracted a gathering of schoolchildren as well. They followed us down the lane, walking when we walked, stopping when we stopped, looking where we looked. \"Scoot! You'll be late for school,\" Jean-Claude admonished, but school pales in excitement to having a real! live! muzungu set loose in your neighbourhood. At one point a sedan angrily pushed its way through the crowd, the driver casting disapproving glares our way.\n\nThe young men who had helped Jean-Claude locate the partial walls of his old home wanted to be paid for their assistance. Jean-Claude scoffed at this. \"For helping someone, you think you deserve money? Do you think that is the correct way to act?\" He asked them this in Kinyarwanda. Admonished, they stared at their feet with hangdog expressions.\n\nJean-Claude looked back at that last remaining piece of his childhood.\n\n\"Time to go,\" he said after a moment.\n\nNow, the problem with walking _down_ , into a valley, say, is that eventually you have to walk back _up_ , and I was already tired. The sun was itching its prickly heat along the nape of my neck and my throat had grown starchy with thirst.\n\nNo matter. \"We'll follow the river, then cross back farther down, at the next bridge. We can go up the other side over there.\" Jean-Claude pointed out the route we would follow. It would allow us to avoid having to backtrack and would turn our cross-city hike into one extended loop.\n\nThus began the long trudge back, as on a treadmill.\n\nThe road that ran alongside the river, paved as well and busy with traffic, took us past the marshy meadows that formed a bowl in the bottom of Kigali's many hills.\n\n\"The Red Cross owns all of this,\" Jean-Claude said. It would have been prime real estate, save for the constant flooding and the boggy soil, to say nothing of the crocodiles. (Kigali's crocodiles had departed, but one never knows.)\n\nIn a grassy field, a scrawny dog was cavorting with a cow and her calf\u2014at least, that's how the dog saw it, nipping and yapping, in and out of the fray, tail wagging. For the cow it was more akin to harassment; she lowered her head repeatedly, trying to butt the dog clear, but the mutt would scramble aside, sporting that loopy grin dogs wear when caught up in their own hijinks. A tired-looking man in a floppy hat with a long branch resting on his shoulder, a cattle herder by the looks of it, was even now making his way across the field to end the \"fun.\"\n\nDogs are a rare sight in Rwanda, but it wasn't always so. The country once abounded in them, but in the aftermath of the genocide, Rwanda's dogs began running in feral packs, attacking the wounded, eating the dead, chewing on the bones. The advancing RPF instigated a cull, shooting dogs on sight. Today, Rwanda has fewer than almost any country in Africa, maybe the world.\n\nSomething stops Jean-Claude cold.\n\nIn an irrigation ditch he sees a tattered red jacket, clogged in the mud.\n\nJean-Claude stared at it, didn't move, barely breathed. Then: \"I'm sorry. It's just\u2014for a moment I thought...\"\n\nI knew what he thought. He thought it was 1994 all over again. He thought it was a dead body, decomposing. But there were no bodies in the water. Only a discarded jacket. We walked on in silence before Jean-Claude spoke.\n\n\"That's what they looked like,\" he said quietly. \"The bodies. They looked like piles of old clothes.\"\n\nOld clothes and dogs dining on human flesh.\n\nWe crossed a bridge to the other side of the river, started our ascent. Along the way we passed a Twa pottery market. The Twa, or \"pygmies\" as they are known in the West, are the invisible people of Rwanda. Where the Tutsis were cattle owners and the Hutu farmers, the Twa were hunter-gatherers. They lived in the nation's forest fringes, distinct from Rwanda's other two solitudes, but during the genocide the Twa were often targeted, too, for no other reason than, Well, why not? Since we're killing minority groups anyway...\n\nThe Twa remain on the periphery of Rwandan society, even though the national government, to its credit, has launched a development program aimed at addressing this imbalance. A purpose-built \"cultural village,\" where Twa arts and customs are preserved, albeit in a vaguely dioramic form, has been built near Lake Kivu, and new pottery markets, such as the one Jean-Claude and I passed, have been established. Twa pottery is rightly famous, and the line of oversized urns\u2014made of clay, strong and delicate at the same time\u2014attested to their skill. I desperately wanted to buy some but couldn't imagine how I'd ever get them home in one piece.\n\nLarge homes crowded the incline as we walked up, up, up. The lingering effects of jet lag and my own deskbound, ass-in-chair lifestyle were catching up to me as I struggled to suck air into my lungs with less and less success. My chest wouldn't inflate all the way.\n\nIt was a thigh-straining walk, with long zigs and slow zags, and when we finally stopped for something cold to drink at a roadside stall\u2014I staggered up to the counter waving a fistful of Rwandan francs, gasping for _amazi_ (a word I would use often)\u2014a pair of passing motorcycle taxi boys took pity and pulled over. They were looking for a fare, of course, but I imagined they were also concerned about my well-being. I was just about to pant, \"Gentlemen, I will gladly pay whatever it takes to get me to the top of the next hill, here is my wallet, take from it whatever amount you wish,\" when Jean-Claude intervened, magnanimously waving them off. We were fine, he explained. We didn't need a ride.\n\nAs the taxi-moto boys pulled away with a suit-yourself shrug, Jean-Claude saw the stricken look on my face. \"Don't worry,\" he assured me, \"we're almost there.\" And by \"almost,\" he meant another forty-five minutes of slow, steady walking.\n\nMy chest-whistling soundtrack had cast a pall over the proceedings, for I knew full well that in just a few weeks' time we'd be hiking the towering rainforests of the Virunga volcanoes in search of Rwanda's famed, and famously remote, mountain gorillas. If a stroll through the streets of Kigali knocked me out, it didn't bode well. I decided to blame it on the altitude. The country's average elevation is 2,725 metres above sea level\u2014and the lairs of the mountain gorillas are higher still, often 4,000 metres or more. Kigali itself was a \"mile high,\" as they say.\n\n\"Once I ( _wheeze_ ) get acclimatized ( _wheeze_ ) to these higher elevations, I'll ( _wheeze_ ) be fine ( _wheeze_ ),\" I said.\n\nBy the time we got back to our apartment, my lungs were burning from oxygen deprivation and the noonday sun had singed my skin, leaving it an amusing shade of ros\u00e9. It had been a three-hour \"stroll\" by my count.\n\n**11**\n\nSOLACE MINISTRIES RAN A GUEST HOUSE across the alleyway from the apartment building we were staying in. (Our balcony looked down onto their courtyard.) Solace Ministries also provided a lunch and supper buffet, and when Jean-Claude and I were in Kigali, we often took our meals there, a breezy commute of about ten steps, out the back gate and across the clay-packed alley. Slices of fruit, rich Rwandan coffee, cheese and pastries, omelettes made to order. And when Jean-Claude was away in the evenings, visiting his sister or old acquaintances, I would go on long walks through our neighbourhood that always seemed to end at Solace in time for coffee and cake.\n\nAt Solace Ministries, women gather to share their stories. Soft-spoken tales of siblings slaughtered, of husbands hacked down, of mutilations and machetes, of rape and the children born of rape. The woman who ran the office at Solace told us we could sit in and listen if we liked, that we were welcome to hear their stories, but it felt too intrusive. I watched from the wings instead, and even though they spoke in Kinyarwanda, the pain in their voices was unmistakable.\n\nIt was a daily _aide-m\u00e9moire_ of what survivors still face. Every day, Jean-Claude and I would pass the hall of widows and every day were reminded of the ineluctable logic of hatred. Of hatred, taken to its natural conclusion. Of hatred incubated, encouraged, allowed to run free.\n\nSometimes the longest walk of the day was the ten steps across the alleyway to Solace.\n\n**12**\n\nBEYOND ITS GARDEN-LIKE ROUNDABOUTS and well-swept streets, the scars of the genocide are still evident in Rwanda's capital. You need only to look.\n\nFrom the shell-pocked walls of the nation's parliament buildings (where the bullet-hole points of impact have been left as a reminder of the Battle of Kigali, a street-by-street campaign marked by stalemates and sudden sallies, reminiscent of the Siege of Leningrad) to the splattered plaster at the military barracks where the ten Belgian peacekeepers were killed, the capital at times feels like an open-air memorial.\n\nThe Belgian monuments, one for each of the soldiers, are understated and poignant, but with a simmering anger in evidence. The families have never forgiven General Dallaire for not storming in and taking the base by force, a wholly unrealistic option considering that the captured Belgian peacekeepers were being held in what was essentially a military fortress with more than 1,500 armed soldiers on hand, well-equipped and fully armed. (The UN, by contrast, had barely forty-seven rounds per person, which would have lasted three minutes at most in a pitched battle.) But no matter. Grief is never rational, and the families of the dead peacekeepers have written their anguish onto the walls of the building where the massacre occurred, maintained now as a memorial by the Belgian embassy.\n\nOn a chalkboard inside, preserved under plexiglass, is the heartfelt but misguided _j'accuse:_ \"General Dallaire\u2014have you no eyes, no heart?\" The families might have better focused their anger on the French government of Fran\u00e7ois Mitterrand, which trained and armed the very soldiers who murdered their sons and husbands, or perhaps have looked more critically at Belgium's own colonial legacy, in both Rwanda and the Congo, but that would be to diminish the pain of those who lost loved ones\u2014a pain shared, quite literally, by _millions_ of Rwandan women, children, men.\n\nScars on buildings, scars on skin.\n\nThe man Jean-Claude rented our vehicle from had a thick line running across his neck, ear to ear, like a rubbery rope: the distinct slash of a machete.\n\nScars of the flesh and of the spirit.\n\nThe scars that remember, the scars that remain.\n\nRwanda's national genocide memorial is just up the road from Jean-Claude's childhood home. If, as Stalin infamously noted, one death is a tragedy but a million is just a statistic, the Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre strives to put a human face on those numbers, tries to stop them from becoming a mere tally, numbly recited, emptied of meaning.\n\nInside are snapshots and photographs. Candid moments, class photos, wedding portraits, Sunday schools, and graduations. The faces of families, of children, of mothers, husbands, lovers. Gone.\n\nActs of kindness and bravery are commemorated as well: an elderly Hutu woman named Zula Karuhimbi bluffed her local band of killers with nothing more than confidence and a reputation for being a crank. Seventy-one years old, Zula had given refuge to more than twenty frightened Tutsis in her rundown home, including infants. When the interahamwe militias showed up, armed with machetes and demanding she step aside so they could search her hovel on rumours she was harbouring Tutsis, she said, \"Be my guest.\" But be warned, she added. _\"I have supernatural powers.\"_ The killers scoffed, but as an old woman living alone, Zula already had a disquieting reputation. She was known to work with traditional medicines. Was she also a witch? Probably not. But did they really want to take the chance? Zula, diminutive, defiant, looked the killers in the eyes, stared down any doubts they might have had, told them, \"If you want to die, go inside. I have powers, and evil spirits will swallow you up.\" Not one of the mob was brave enough to risk it. They swaggered off, vowing to come back later\u2014but never did. The Tutsis hiding inside survived.\n\nDismas Mutezintare singlehandedly saved 400 Tutsi children and adults at an orphanage. Where is his Hollywood movie? A Muslim man named Yahaya Nsengiumva saved thirty. When asked why, he said it was simple: \"The Koran tells us that saving one life is like saving the whole world.\"\n\nBut the saddest room in all of Rwanda is the Children's Room at the Kigali museum. If you were to roll all the pain, all the senselessness of what happened, into a ball the size of your fist and lodge it deep in your stomach, you will feel it here, in this room. It is calm and softly lit.\n\n**_Fabrice Murinzi Minega_**  \n---  \nAge: | 8  \nFavourite sport: | Swimming  \nFavourite sweets: | Chocolate  \nBest friend: | His mum  \nBehaviour: | Gregarious  \nCause of death: | Bludgeoned with club\n\nThere are no bodies in this room, no human remains, only the illuminated photographs of children lining the walls. And beneath each photograph, an introduction.\n\n**_Aurore Kirezi_** |   \n---|---  \nAge: | 2  \nFavourite drink: | Milk  \nFavourite game: | Hide-and-seek with her big brother  \nBehaviour: | Very talkative  \nCause of death: | Burnt alive at the Gikondo Chapel\n\nHere is a photo of a little boy running in short pants, his name is Patrick; the little girl in a pretty dress beaming at the camera is Aurore. Here is Chandelle on her birthday, Hubert on his bicycle.\n\n**_Fabrice Cyemezo_**  \n---  \nAge: | 15 months  \nFavourite food: | Rice with milk  \nFavourite animal: | Cat  \nEnjoyed: | Making gestures  \nFavourite word: | Auntie  \nCause of death: | Killed at Muhoro Church\n\nLooking back on the events of 1994, Rwandan poet and genocide survivor F\u00e9licien Ntagengwa penned words that often appear at memorials, above doorways, on altars: _Iyo uza kwimenya \/ nanjye ukamenya \/ ntuba waranyishe_. \"If you really knew me, and you really knew yourself, you would not have killed me.\"\n\n**13**\n\nAS JEAN-CLAUDE AND CHRISTINE settled into their new life in Calgary, a baby boy soon followed. Jean-Claude was working as a meat cutter at the sprawling Cargill plant in High River, which made for a long commute down a winter highway in a rattling second-hand Hyundai.\n\n\"But they were paying me nine bucks an hour!\" he told me with a laugh. \"For an immigrant from Africa, nine bucks an hour right away? I thought, _'This is good!'_ \"\n\nWe were sharing ugali dumplings at a roadside caf\u00e9 as Jean-Claude reminisced about his days in High River, half a world and a lifetime away, it seemed.\n\n\"This meat-packing plant, it was _huge_. Like its own city. Very clean, very efficient too. Cows came in one side alive and left the other side wrapped, sorted, packed, and ready to be shipped. Nothing was wasted. Me? I was fine until I visited the kill floor, where the cows are cut and drained. I saw them being pushed in through that little gate and the cows were pushing back, fighting to avoid it. It was terrible. They _knew_. It was very hard for me to watch because, you know, for Rwandese, cows are kind of like a treasure. Not sacred like in India, but sort of. We don't eat them, we keep them. So for me, it was difficult.\" Suddenly nine dollars an hour didn't seem like very much. \"I worked at that meat plant for three years. I still don't eat hamburgers even now.\"\n\nGetting Jean-Claude to grab a beer and a burger had been pretty much out of the question back in Canada, even though I'd explained to him several times how beer and burgers were two of our national food groups. Now I knew why.\n\nIt was during his time as a meat cutter that Jean-Claude began volunteering at Calgary homeless shelters.\n\n\"I wanted to meet people. I was studying at the college, but my English was not improving as much as I wanted. It was strange. Working at the Cargill meat plant, there was no way you can tell you are in Canada. Almost no one was speaking English. During lunch break there was the Vietnamese table, there was the Filipino table, the Sudanese table, the Ethiopian table. One guy is from Congo, another one is from Haiti, another from Sierra Leone. And so on. No one was integrating; it was like they were in separate worlds.\"\n\nSo he began volunteering at Mustard Seed, a downtown Calgary shelter.\n\n\"I was naive. I couldn't see how anybody can be homeless in Canada. How can someone be poor in such a country like this? But at Mustard Seed I met many people, good people, some had bad luck, some had problems with drugs or abuse, some had been in jail. They all had a story to tell and I would listen, try to help.\"\n\nJean-Claude managed to get one fellow, a former accountant who'd had a mental breakdown and become homeless, a job as a meat cutter at the Cargill plant, even driving him to the interview in High River.\n\n\"This guy, he said to me, 'Jean-Claude, why should I bother, no one is gonna hire me,' and I said, 'Of course not! Not if you look like that!' He was a mess. I told him he had to shave and shower and get cleaned up, and I got him a suit from Goodwill for his interview. He was a very smart man, and seeing him in a suit, he was like a different person. When he got his first paycheque he bought me lunch. He said, 'Getting a paycheque makes you feel worthwhile, makes you feel like a human being.' Later, I found out he has left the meat-cutting plant and is working as an accountant for a big company. He called me and he said, 'Guess what!' You know, Will, sometimes just a small thing can change everything.\"\n\nJean-Claude went on to volunteer at Inn from the Cold, which provided families with hot meals and holiday dinners. They even helped kids with their homework.\n\n\"These events were very fun, like a family atmosphere. We even had movie nights in the basement of a community hall. There were other kids to play with, so they didn't feel alone in their situation. For a moment you could see that these children are able to forget they are homeless or sad.\"\n\nJean-Claude eventually left the Cargill meat-processing plant and signed on as a community resource worker for people with mental disabilities. \"Helping with their banking, driving them to shopping or the swimming pool, that kind of thing. This work was very satisfying. I enjoyed it so much, but the pay was too low and I couldn't support my family on it.\" So after a lucrative but exhausting tour of duty in the Alberta oil patch\u2014\"Very tiring, very dirty, and I was away from home too much\"\u2014he began driving taxi instead.\n\n\"First I was a special needs driver, taking kids with disabilities. Was very rewarding, but I had to switch to regular fares. The hours were more flexible.\"\n\nHe needed to take care of his own children while Christine studied for her certificate in practical nursing. And yet, even with this, he still found time to volunteer as a coach at our local soccer club. (Meanwhile, I feel good about myself if I drop a toonie into a Salvation Army tin at Christmastime.)\n\nIt was around this time that Jean-Claude also noticed something about his local neighbourhood. It had extensive subsidized housing for lower-income families and refugees, but not much else. \"Children from everywhere,\" as he put it. \"With nothing to do.\"\n\nMany of the families had come to Canada from the same refugee camps in Sudan and Somalia that Jean-Claude had visited years before, or had escaped persecution in Syria and Ethiopia, violence in Colombia and Afghanistan, poverty in the Philippines. The parents were often working two jobs and had no time to think about how to involve their children in the community.\n\n\"So these kids, they were just hanging around. In the park or on the street, every night, every weekend. I wondered, when they go to school on Monday and the other children say, 'Oh, I went skiing' or 'I went swimming,' what will they say? When the teacher asks, 'What did you do on the weekend?' what will they tell her?\"\n\nSo one Saturday, Jean-Claude dragged out a bag filled with secondhand soccer balls and plastic cones and began pacing out a field in their local park. The Saturday Soccer Club was born. It was free and it was fun and everyone was welcome, no matter their age or ability\u2014but they had to be respectful and they had to take the club seriously. The boys and girls in the Saturday Soccer Club ran drills, practised scrimmages, worked on their passing, their shooting, their set plays. Soon he had more than a hundred children involved, with an entire team of volunteers overseeing it. Jean-Claude can be very persuasive, and before long he had FIFA-trained youth coaches volunteering their time, too. Other clubs donated shoes and shin guards, and a local car wash sponsored their jerseys.\n\nThe Saturday Soccer Club ran all year, indoor and out, and as talented players emerged they were snatched up by competitive leagues (which gladly waived their fees). Soccer is a sport that crosses international borders. Whether you are from Colombia or Egypt, Syria or Congo, Somalia or Sudan, everyone speaks the language, everyone knows the game.\n\nValerie Fortney, columnist with the _Calgary Herald_ , wrote a feature article on the club, and soon the kids were mini-celebrities, appearing in the _Calgary Journal_ , too, as well as on CBC and Shaw TV. The club has grown. It's now called Soccer Without Boundaries and is in the process of attaining full charitable status (so if you're looking for a place to make a donation, hint hint).\n\nJean-Claude was awarded the Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee Medal for his work and was asked to join the Premier's Council on Culture specifically to look at how to integrate new Canadians into their community through similar programs.\n\n\"And now,\" Jean-Claude notes proudly, \"when the teacher asks the kids, 'What did you do on the weekend?' they tell their teacher, 'I played soccer. I'm on a team.'\"\n\n**14**\n\nWE HEADED SOUTH FROM KIGALI amid the city's morning crush. Everyone was yielding to everybody and nobody was yielding to anyone: a paradox worthy of Zeno. It was less a rush hour than an ongoing, imminent multi-car pileup that never _quiiiite_ happened. Car horns bleating. Diesel engines roaring. Pedestrians dodging through. At one point an oncoming truck veered directly into our lane, lights flashing, horn sounding, before swinging back onto its side of the road. Head-on collision averted? Check. Muzungu in cardiac arrest? Ditto.\n\n\"He should have been more patient,\" Jean-Claude advised.\n\nA gurgling noise came from the back of my throat, which Jean-Claude took as assent.\n\n\"Exactly,\" he said.\n\nThe motorbike bravado boys were out in full force, performing their usual acts of death-defying derring-do with a studied nonchalance. As we passed yet another young man with yet another young woman hanging onto him, Jean-Claude said, sort of wistfully, \"It must be a wonderful job, driving a taxi-moto at that age. Never boring.\"\n\nWe'd already noticed how, when they had a particularly pretty passenger on board, the boys would handle their bikes more jerkily than usual, gunning and braking in sudden lurches and stuttering false starts, causing the young women in question to squash up against them on the slow-down and then hold on even tighter on the acceleration.\n\n\"It's not entirely innocent, is it?\" I said, and Jean-Claude agreed.\n\nWere I still a young man, unencumbered by notions of my own mortality, driving a motorcycle taxi up and down the hilly curves of Kigali would be a fine way to earn a living. There was apparently only one female taxi-moto driver in the city\u2014the papers had done a story on her\u2014and we did see the occasional old guy (by which I mean \"over thirty\"), but generally this was a young man's sport. Who else would be mad enough to weave through oncoming traffic like that?\n\nI'd also come to realize that Rwanda's ubiquitous traffic police, paced out every four feet or so, were mainly ornamental. They stood on guard, ever vigilant, rifles at the ready\u2014doing absolutely nothing. Even when we passed a truly spectacular snarl-up that was crying out for a bold stride and a sternly raised hand, nothing happened. Not that it mattered. Trying to control the flow of vehicles in Kigali would have been like trying to control a flash flood. And anyway, directing traffic didn't seem to fall under their auspices. Case in point: the snarl-up I just mentioned. A giant backhoe had slipped off a flatbed truck and was now sitting half on the asphalt and half on the flatbed's fallen gate. Leaning at a severely lopsided angle, shovel raised like the Karate Kid in mid-pose, it looked ready to topple over at any moment. Traffic had ground to a halt in both directions, and the backhoe's operator had climbed in and was now\u2014rather cleverly, I thought\u2014trying to use the backhoe's own digger to push the machine up, to pivot the rig back onto the truck. Unfortunately, it wasn't working. If anything, it was causing the backhoe to teeter even more precariously.\n\nFortunately, a crowd of onlookers had gathered to provide the driver with helpful advice. Their suggestions went oddly unappreciated, though, to go by the operator's muttered invective as he yanked first one lever, then another. The heavy treads of the backhoe were starting to chew up the asphalt. Surely, I thought, this is where Kigali's traffic police will spring into action! This is what they'd been training for, waiting for! But no, they just watched like everyone else. Forget the machine guns, I thought. Give them whistles.\n\nThe traffic, like water, finally found its own way past, flowing through a nearby gas station parking lot as the crowd of onlookers grew ever thicker and ever more helpful.\n\nThe plan had been that Jean-Claude would drive in the cities and I would take over once we got on the highway. That scheme, concocted so confidently over road maps back home, quickly changed. Rwanda, as noted, is the most densely populated nation in continental Africa. There are 11 million people crowded into a country the size of Vermont, and at any one time 10 million of them are walking alongside the road you happen to be driving on. Including the highways.\n\nEven as Kigali fell away, the pedestrians never faltered. The pavement was pullulating with them: men in shimmering suits, schoolchildren en route to class, women with woven baskets high on head, moving by with a consummate ease, and all of them using the highway like a hallway, walking beside traffic, into traffic, _through_ traffic.\n\nI had a sickening feeling in my gut. \"Jean-Claude,\" I said, \"I can't do it. If I get behind the wheel, I'll kill somebody, I know it.\"\n\n\"Don't worry,\" he replied. \"I enjoy driving.\"\n\nI felt terrible for having welched on our agreement, though Christine would later laugh off my guilty apologies. \"He was relieved you didn't try to drive,\" she told me. \"He doesn't like other people driving. He's a terrible passenger.\"\n\nI still felt bad, though.\n\nVillages in Rwanda tend to cluster around any excuse for a community\u2014a local market, a rural intersection, a water pump, a slightly wider stretch of road\u2014and although most were of the same \"clay boxes packed in tightly\" arrangement, the shops themselves were often painted in cymbal crashes of colour. This was a side benefit of Rwanda's booming telecommunications market. Everybody in Rwanda, it seemed, from modest goat herder to titan-like business tycoon, owned their own cell phone, and several large service providers had staked their claim on Rwanda's burgeoning IT sector\u2014visually, as well. In much the same way that Pepsi and Coca-Cola provide signs for small-town corner stores back home, with their product name prominently displayed, Rwanda's cell phone companies will happily paint any shop, anywhere, in any village, be it a butcher's, an apothecary, or a beauty salon, so long as it's adorned with their brand name and, just as importantly, decked out in their company's colours: red for Airtel, blue for Tigo, yellow for MTN, and green for Tigo's money-transfer service. Painted top to bottom, you will find solid-yellow beauty salons, blue bicycle repair shops, and green drugstores endlessly repeated in blocks of colour: _red, blue, yellow, green; red, blue, yellow, green_.\n\nRwandan villages used to be rather drab, Jean-Claude said. \"Just brownish-red clay. Very dull and dusty.\" But their shopping areas had now been transformed into cubist compositions, lively and bright. (I don't know who is winning the business war, but Tigo seems to be winning the paint war. Blue was generally the preferred colour.)\n\nJean-Claude and I had MTN phones, so our team colour was yellow, though I do confess I preferred the rich red of Airtel, at least when it came to storefronts. If nothing else, the competition among Rwanda's cell phone providers had been a boon for paint supply companies. Memo to self: _Buy stock in Rwandan paints_.\n\nAs we drove on, the grassy bogs of the southern marshes opened up in front of us. If you imagine Rwanda as a tablecloth, and picture a hand pushing across it, the north and west would be where the fabric folds in on itself, bunching up, forming pleated hills and highlands. The southeast corner of the tablecloth would be flatter, lower, less wrinkled.\n\nWe'd entered the papyrus swamps of the Bugesera, where some of the most prolonged and horrific massacres of the genocide occurred. Here, in the Bugesera marshlands, the killings stretched on and on into endless days of hunter and hunted, predator and prey. Even today, tillers turn up human bones in the muck.\n\nThe Bugesera is also where French journalist Jean Hatzfeld compiled his heartbreaking trilogy of testimonies gathered from survivors and killers alike: _Into the Quick of Life, The Strategy of Antelopes_ , and _A Time for Machetes_ , that last collection also published under the title _Machete Season: The Killers in Rwanda Speak_.\n\nIt's a murky landscape, the Bugesera, lush and treacherous at the same time, a grassy wet terrain of hillocks and soft recesses, where thousands upon thousands of women and children fled only to be hunted down, tormented, tortured, chopped.\n\n\"The club is more crushing, but the machete is more natural,\" one of the killers, a farmer, later explained. \"The Rwandan is accustomed to the machete from childhood. Grab a machete\u2014that is what we do every morning. We cut sorghum, we prune banana trees, we hack out vines, we kill chickens... In the end, a man is like an animal: you give him a whack on the head or the neck, and down he goes.\"\n\n\"We no longer saw them as human beings,\" another killer recalled. \"They were abandoned by everyone, even God.\"\n\nAnd though it's difficult to imagine, those who took cover in the sparse forests above the swamps fared even worse. Exposed, trapped on all sides, they were easier to surround, easier to catch. On Kayumba Hill, they started out with 6,000 and ended with twenty.\n\nThe daily massacres lasted for weeks on end, became almost routine. The Hutu men would gather in their local town square or soccer field each morning, plan their day, arrange to flush out a certain area or to chase the Tutsis into an ambush, and would then set off in columns, singing.\n\n\"We could hear them coming,\" one survivor recalled.\n\nAt night, after the day's killings, the interahamwe and others would celebrate with home-brewed beer, driving minivans fluttering with flags up and down the village streets as though they'd won a soccer championship.\n\n\"They were slaughtering our cattle and having barbecues every night. We could hear their songs, could see the smoke rising up from the feasts they were enjoying while we crawled about in the mud digging up root vegetables in the dark.\" When the wind shifted, the Tutsis in the swamps could catch the smell of meat being grilled.\n\nDescriptions of the starving and ragged people who came out of the marshes after the RPF arrived and the killers had fled often emphasized their animalistic appearance. This was something the killers commented upon as well, even though, as one of the survivors noted bitterly, \"We were not the ones who acted like animals.\"\n\n**15**\n\nSUGAR CANE AND MARSHY PLAINS. Papyrus islands in a sea of reeds. A secretive river twists through; we caught glimpses of muddy water in the grass, snaking around this hillock and that. There is beauty here as well: sun-dappled Monet arrangements of lily pads; flamingos lifting off, improbably white against the green; pelicans taking flight; storks in still water.\n\nThe clay-hut homes we drove by looked spectral, seeping smoke from every crack, every open paneless window.\n\n\"Cooking fires,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"Gets very smoky inside. Lots of bronchial problems.\"\n\nWe passed banana-burdened bicycles shepherded by gaunt men, faces thinly stretched, peddlers in every sense. Vignettes appeared and were gone: a procession of brightly wrapped women, gourds perfectly balanced, walking to their local market like a royal cort\u00e8ge. A little boy with a goat on a tether pulls\u2014and is pulled in turn.\n\nWe have come looking for a pair of churches, at Ntarama and Nyamata. A red earth road branches off from the main highway, and Jean-Claude follows the ruts past one crossroads tavern named Le Calme Bar, another named Rendez-vous.\n\nAn old man offered us a broken smile, more gum than tooth in his grin. He was leaning on a staff and wearing a traditional floppy-brimmed hat that marked him as a Tutsi cattle herder. _Had he survived in the swamps? In the hills?_\n\nWhen the killings started, Tutsis crowded into the small red-brick church in Ntarama, seeking sanctuary under its sheet-metal roof. This was God's house. They thought they would be safe here, that the sanctity of the site would protect them. But they were wrong. The killers allowed the Tutsis to gather, encouraged it even. It would make it easier to kill them when the time came. There would be no need to run them down in the marshes, no need to track them through the boggy grass. In Ntarama they would be corralled into one spot, like livestock. Nor did they need ID cards to separate Tutsis from Hutu; in villages like Ntarama, everyone knew everyone. These were their neighbours.\n\nJean-Claude pulled over and parked, and we walked up a grassy path to where the church stood in a shaded grove of trees. On the front of the building, blister marks from the grenades were still visible. Sledgehammered holes in the walls showed where the killers had punched their way through the bricks, with scorch marks fanning upward from the openings, making the church look like a kiln. It brought to mind images of Auschwitz. Of ovens.\n\nThe people inside had fought back with what few weapons they had, with bricks and stones and their bare hands. The killers had grenades and machetes and clubs impaled with nails. Then the Presidential Guard arrived. Those few who managed to break through the circle fled to the marshes, where fresh horrors awaited.\n\nInside Ntarama church, a broken cross leans through a window. ID cards marked TUTSI, a handful of coins, a pair of eyeglasses, and a few discarded shoes were scattered in front of the altar. Caskets draped in cloth were lined up on the bench-like pews. These caskets held the symbolic remains of a hundred victims, representing just a small portion of the 5,000 who died here. Above the coffins the rafters were hung with the matted clothing of victims, a memorial more haunting than any statistic.\n\nBehind the main building were the church kitchen and the Sunday school. Piles of debris. Flip-flops. Broken plates. A wall where the children were killed. _\"The child of a snake is still a snake!\"_ Toddlers and babies-in-arms, battered into nothingness, followed by immolation. A large cooking pot, brittle from the fire, lay heaped amid the everyday aspects of life. Mouldering blankets, foam mattresses, a fallen kitchen cabinet, a child's slipper, a hairbrush, a ladle\u2014all of it rendered in grey by fire and dust. The bodies have been removed, but the rest remains as it was twenty years before. Outside, the rest of Rwanda marched ever onward, but here the past was ever-present. In the stillness, time had slowed to a trickle.\n\nBefore I left for Rwanda, I met with Lynn Gran. She was with the Nature Conservancy of Canada but had previously worked for Oxfam, which was among the first NGOs to enter Rwanda immediately after the genocide.\n\n\"No one wanted to go, so I volunteered,\" she said. \"To this day, I really don't know why. I had a six-year-old son and a two-year-old daughter back in Canada.\"\n\nLynn crossed into Rwanda under harrowing conditions and was taken to a church just like this one. When she arrived, the bodies were still piled up inside.\n\n\"I didn't want to be there. It felt too personal. But I was told, 'You are here to bear witness to what happened.' The iron gates of the church were mangled\u2014you can imagine the force used to blow it open and how it would have felt to be inside. When we entered it was dark, and I had to stand a moment to let my eyes adjust. The smell was overpowering. Bodies were heaped everywhere, in the pews, on the floor, with their clothes decomposing. As I moved through the dark, I tripped, and when I looked down it was a woman's leg. I started to cry. I started to cry and I couldn't stop.\"\n\nThere were children's toys and human heads on the altar.\n\n\"They'd beheaded them and then lined them up and left them there. I'm not a religious person. Spiritual, I suppose. Not religious. But when I was in that church, I knew.\"\n\n\"Knew what?\" I asked.\n\n\"That I was in the presence of evil.\"\n\n**16**\n\nTHE HUB TOWN for the Bugesera region is Nyamata. Once a grim spot with a grim reputation\u2014dripping on the edge of malarial swamps in the wet season, choking on dust and drought in the dry\u2014Nyamata today is a city revived. Many of the marshy meadows have been reclaimed. The major roads are paved, and trade is humming.\n\nNyamata may have the widest main street in Rwanda. It forms a spacious boulevard lined with shop fronts and idling buses, with taxi-motos and their lower-end bicycle equivalents. Loud ad hoc market negotiations flared and faded. Escalating arguments, sudden laughter. Women splitting the crowds, moving through, baskets on head, babies on back. Twenty-four-hour gas stations chugging out petrol, pharmacies and finance centres, taverns and beauty salons, cobblers and charcoal vendors, butchers and bakers and\u2014somewhere in there, I'm sure\u2014candlestick makers, or kerosene sellers at least, which would be the Rwandan equivalent. We parked and waded through the streets, past the Heroes Pub and the Red Lion Tavern, the internet caf\u00e9s and auto-parts emporiums\u2014all sporting fresh paint\u2014down to a soft bower where the girls sashayed and the young men ached.\n\nThere were rows of lively little taverns, all leading to the same small square with its plaque reminding us that in Rwanda you cannot escape 1994, even on a boy-beguiling promenade or a sit-and-stretch park bench. This town\u2014this park\u2014was once a hub of a different sort, the epicentre of Bugesera's genocidal pogroms, a focal point and meeting ground for the killers.\n\n_We could hear them singing as they gathered, singing and beating their drums as they came toward us. One day they followed one path, the next day another. They grew silent only when they were about to attack, as they did not want to give away their positions_.\n\nThe killers burned even the photo albums after they'd looted a house, wanting to erase not only the people who had died there but any trace that they had ever existed. Had the RPF advance been delayed even a week longer, it is likely there would have been not a single Tutsi left in the Bugesera\u2014and no witnesses either.\n\nToday, convicted killers wander the streets of Nyamata freely, as they do elsewhere in Rwanda. A presidential pardon released thousands of lower-ranked g\u00e9nocidaires from prison, for reasons not so much of mercy as mathematics.\n\nIn the aftermath of the genocide, an International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) was set up in neighbouring Tanzania to prosecute the key figures involved in the genocide. Colonel Bagosora, for one, was captured in Cameroon trying to cash traveller's cheques he'd looted from the Rwanda state treasury. He was then transported to the ICTR, where he was charged and convicted in the murder of the ten Belgian peacekeepers, as well as in the death of Prime Minister Agathe Uwilingiyimana and others. (He was also indicted for the assassination of President Habyarimana, but the evidence wasn't conclusive enough for a conviction.)\n\nThe overwhelming majority of cases, though, were tried in Rwanda. More than 120,000 people were held in squalid, unsanitary conditions in a prison system designed for 15,000. Rwanda's decimated judicial system was overwhelmed. At one point, it was estimated that it would have taken 200 years to process all the cases before the courts.\n\nIt soon became clear that to execute everyone responsible would have required a genocide of its own. During the RPF advance, thousands of people accused of being involved with the killings had been summarily executed in extra-judicial killings (which led to at least 400 RPF soldiers being arrested), and in 1998 twenty-two of the Hutu Power ringleaders were marched out to face firing squads. But passing a death sentence on 120,000 people? That was not an option. Instead, Rwanda did something remarkable: it abolished capital punishment and reinstituted traditional _gacaca_ or \"patch of grass\" courts instead, wherein the lesser accused and their victims' families would meet face-to-face under the direction of locally chosen judges. Punishment would be decided by the community, and confession and repentance would mitigate sentencing. The goal was truth and reconciliation; it was an imperfect solution to an almost intractable problem.\n\nIn 2003, President Kagame went even further, signing the first in a series of sweeping presidential decrees that would see more than 30,000 rank-and-file g\u00e9nocidaires released. Often only contrition, \"re-education,\" and regular community service were required to make amends for their crimes\u2014much to the anguish of survivors, who were now forced to live alongside the men who had killed their families or done horrible things to them and their loved ones. These survivors are re-traumatized every time they pass one of their former tormentors on a cattle path or run into them at the market or in a bar, drinking banana beer in the darkened corners, watching.\n\nIn Nyamata, the church lies in a quiet area on the outside of town. It's larger than the one in nearby Ntarama, though it shares the same modest brick-wall and sheet-metal-roof design. As in Ntarama, thousands of frightened people crammed themselves into the church here when the madness began. Like those who had sought refuge at Ntarama, they thought the killers wouldn't attack a house of worship. And like those who sought refuge in Ntarama, they were wrong.\n\nInside the shadow-box interior: an altar cloth draped in the sepia stains of dried blood; a baptismal font pocked with bullet holes; a punctured ceiling letting in spikes of sun with Mary in the half-light, hands held out somewhere between embrace and surrender. Our Lady of the Sorrows.\n\nAt Nyamata, the clothes of the victims have been left on the pews. Mounds of mouldering cloth, twenty years later: it is a visceral image, a fist constricting around your heart. A heart wrapped in thorns. The taste of rust permeates. Scattered across the altar are the rosaries and hymnals of the dead, and everywhere, those death-sentence identity cards marked TUTSI.\n\nBehind Nyamata church, in underground crypts that smell of earth and old root cellars, the recovered skulls and accompanying bones of 10,000 dead have been exhumed and are now lined up on shelves. When you descend the narrow stairs into the claustrophobic confines of these vaults, you expect it to be eerie, but it isn't. It's not fearful. It's sad, devastatingly so. It's a sadness deeper than hymns, heavier than dirt, as numbing as novocaine.\n\nStanding in the sunlight again, Jean-Claude and I were quiet for a long while.\n\nI didn't know what to say, and when Jean-Claude finally spoke, his voice sounded distant and faint, like someone on the other side of a wall. \"The new airport they're building, it will be near here.\"\n\nI nodded.\n\n\"It will be better. When it's finished.\"\n\nI nodded again.\n\nWe'd seen signs of the coming boom on our drive in: pre-emptory hotels in place, incongruous four-lane thoroughfares running through banana plantations. Once the Bugesera International Airport opened, this region would become a key commercial zone, charged with energy. As we drove back through the falling dusk toward the lights of Kigali, all I could hope was that once the businessmen and tourists began pouring in, to be shuttled by sedan and air-conditioned coach from Rwanda's sleek new airport to the conference centres in the capital, some of them would find the time to make a small detour to the churches nearby at Ntarama and Nyamata, to stand awhile among the ghosts of Rwanda's past.\n\nPART TWO\n\n**\"WE ARE ALL RWANDANS\"**\n**17**\n\nTHE TRANSPORT TRUCKS THAT BLAST past us on blind corners advertise the specific leap of faith they are making. On the back, sides, and front of their vehicles: ornate messages written in florid curlicues and rooster-plume hues.\n\nJean-Claude helped decipher the religious affiliations as they blurred by.\n\n\" _Bwana Asifiwe_ , that's Swahili,\" he said, shouting to be heard. \"It means 'Praise the Lord,' so we can tell that driver is a born-again Christian. And that one is in Kinyarwanda. _Imana Niyonkuru_. It means 'God Is Great!' So we know that truck driver is Muslim.\"\n\nMinibus drivers had their own theological good-luck slogans, often in English and painted in the same plum-berry purples and parrot greens: ONLY GOD and TRUST GOD and GOD IS KING and THE LORD IS GOD.\n\n_Trust God_ , I thought. _But maybe check the brakes while you're at it_.\n\nOne minibus was aptly named \"Patience.\" A tanker truck rumbled by with its motto, written in French, proclaiming JESUS IS MY SAVIOUR, while the taxicab following in its slipstream boasted a cheerfully informal THANKS GOD.\n\nOther forms of faith vied for our attention as well. Amid the entreaties to Jesus, God, and Allah were trucks and minibuses emblazoned with the names \"Messi\" and \"Iniesta,\" \"Rooney\" and \"Ronaldo.\" Appeals to the soccer gods of Barcelona and Manchester, Arsenal and Madrid, they were given the same divine radiance.\n\n\"A different type of saviour,\" I shouted.\n\nJean-Claude laughed. \"That's true. Soccer is like a religion here, especially the English Premier League. The players are like saints. And I don't know which faith is stronger!\"\n\nWe were heading west, out of the city. The motorcycle taxi boys had given way to heavier traffic, but the pedestrians remained undaunted. Women in bright patterns, hips swaying, with gourds and gunnysacks balancing on their heads, glided through, avoiding oncoming vehicles with a matador's ease. A roadside cobbler worked on a pair of men's shoes while the customer, in suit and tie, stood patiently in stocking feet on a piece of cardboard.\n\nFrom Kigali, the road dipped into a marshy flood plain, then climbed back into the hills\u2014up, up, up. My ears popped, then popped again. Every bend in the road had a sign warning of a sharp turn ahead, but I didn't know why they'd bothered; they could simply have posted one sign at the start with \"etc.\" written underneath it. This was less a highway than a series of corners joined together.\n\n_Land of a thousand hills_ , and we were going to cross them all.\n\nWe occasionally got stuck behind the black-cloud coughs of a transport truck trailing bicyclists who had hitched rides on the back like suckerfish on a shark, one hand on the vehicle's rear bumper, the other on their handlebars. These bicyclists would often have passengers\u2014and sometimes these passengers would have babies wrapped tightly onto their backs. It was like watching a Flying Fellini circus act. Jean-Claude always held back in case one of the bicycles fell in front of our tires.\n\n\"The truck drivers don't mind when bicyclists catch a ride like that,\" Jean-Claude assured me. \"It's like giving someone a lift. With so many steep hills, you have to.\"\n\nThe highway curved through contoured heights, layered in green. Rice paddies filled the valleys below, stirring up memories of Indonesia, of southern Japan. It was all very familiar. And for good reason: agronomists from Asia had been brought in to improve rice cultivation. With so much of the population still supporting itself through subsistence farming, local governments were looking to increase crop diversification as well. They were also investing in programs to prevent soil erosion and loss of forest habitat. It was the start of what's being heralded as Rwanda's Green Revolution.\n\nHomes scaled the steep slopes above us in acts of architectural audacity that defied both gravity and common sense. The sheet-metal rooftops were like mirrors in the heat, reflecting the sun so sharply that it hurt your eyes to look at them. These were the rooftops of the new and improved, cement-walled homes that were going up across Rwanda, replacing the crumbling mud walls and clay roof tiles of another era. The new buildings, simple designs reminiscent of Monopoly pieces, were part of a massive public housing initiative. It is one thing to admire the folkloric appeal of traditional mud-dried homes, another to live in them. Asking Africans to preserve these is like asking North Americans to remain in sod huts.\n\nA light rain had settled the dust and brought out the greens in the fields. Pineapples and plantain. The silvery grey of eucalyptus. In the fall-away glens below us, the treetops swayed like feather dusters.\n\nMarkets, large and small, passed by as the traffic pushed us through a series of ridge-top villages, with the street stalls and storefronts crowding in against each other. _Red, green, yellow, blue_. Children broke like birds around us, running alongside our vehicle, flippity-flop, yelling, _\"Muzungu, muzungu!\"_ I held my hand outside the window, let the wind carry it, riding updrafts.\n\nWe came through a narrow cleft in the hills and dropped suddenly into Gitarama.\n\nGitarama City (or Muhanga, as it is now known) feels like a simplified rendering of Kigali: same hills (only hillier), same incongruous office towers arranged on the hilltops, same hairpin turns buckling through, same kinetic energy\u2014just tighter, more compact. The same women, umbrellas raised to the heat, bundles on head and babies on back, moved through with the same poise, only more so. (There being fewer sidewalks in Gitarama, the streets required even more pirouetting, traffic-avoiding matador moves than Kigali.)\n\nGitarama was the home of Rwanda's first president, Gr\u00e9goire Kayibanda, co-author of the Hutu Manifesto. It was here that the leaders of the Hutu Social Revolution declared Rwanda a republic, and it was here also that Kayibanda died, assassinated in slow motion. Overthrown in a military coup, Kayibanda was locked inside his house with his wife and left to starve to death by his successor and former prot\u00e9g\u00e9, Juv\u00e9nal Habyarimana.\n\nToday, anti-corruption billboards in Gitarama City exhort the population to stay united, work together, get tested for HIV. Other billboards featured strongly worded warnings about gender-based violence, reminding husbands, YOUR WIFE IS NOT YOUR PROPERTY.\n\nGovernment employees had gathered in reluctant ranks in front of their workplaces to exercise.\n\n\"It is required for all public employees,\" Jean-Claude said. \"Every Friday at two o'clock.\"\n\nMandatory office calisthenics: it was very much comparable to what one sees in Japan or South Korea. I could almost hear the familiar _\"Ichi, ni, san!\"_ as we passed.\n\nOffice workers, women in constricting skirts and soft-middled men in neckties, trying desperately to touch their toes. It was an endearing sight.\n\nBeyond the exercising bureaucrats, we passed a newly painted mosque, followed in quick succession by a Pentecostal Revival Hall and a large Seventh-Day Adventist compound, with several other churches and chapels in between. Muslim men in embroidered caps and flowing white robes poured past as a fluster of nuns hurried the other way. A Catholic priest stopped in a doorway to mop his brow with a handful of handkerchief.\n\nOther sanctuaries were on tap as well: taverns and pubs with inviting names like Rest Stop Tranquile and Calm Yourself Bar. They offered pockets of quiet among the crowded, traffic-choked streets of the city. Theirs was a promise of oasis, of transient salvation. Throughout our trip, whenever Jean-Claude stopped to stretch, I would wander off to find a tavern. I liked Rwandan pubs, even if their patrons weren't overly gregarious, were often reserved. This, of course, was undoubtedly due to my presence; to be a muzungu in Africa is to exist in an observer-affected universe, and the dynamic of any place shifted when I walked in. Still, I found the taverns welcoming, if a little wary, sort of like strolling into one of the many clenched pubs in Northern Ireland.\n\nRwandan taverns were always much larger than they looked on the outside. The front, usually just a slab of adobe, opened up onto a warren of smaller rooms arranged around a central, packed-earth courtyard. The reaction when I entered was always entertaining: the bartender's perfectly executed double take, the surreptitious glances exchanged between customers, the silence pregnant with unasked questions. \"Hello, everybody!\" I'd say cheerfully, and they would nod, mumble _\"Bonjour.\"_\n\nThe toilets in these taverns were usually of the squat and strain variety: a simple hole in the floor with a bucket beside to sluice it with. (One brought one's own squashed roll of pocketed toilet paper. Handy travel tip #1.) I was fine with this. Only problem was, every now and then, at the more \"upscale\" taverns, they would employ a young woman to sweep and clean and, yes, sluice the toilets for guests after they'd used them. I really, _really_ didn't want to take advantage of this service. \"No, honest, I'll sluice my own toilet, just point me in the direction of the bucket and I'll\u2014No, really! Don't go in there!\" I would say, trying to block the young woman's entry. This would rouse the perplexed curiosity of other people in the bar, who would crane their heads to peer down the hallway and see what all the commotion was about. _Muzungus were weird, no doubt about it_.\n\nSadly, as much as I appreciated their clay-cooled interiors and oversized, underchilled bottles of beer, as the trip went on I found myself visiting these taverns less and less. Being of chatty Oirish stock, I don't enjoy drinking alone, and I could never inveigle Jean-Claude into joining me for a lukewarm pint of Primus.\n\n\"You go ahead,\" he'd say. \"We'll meet back here later.\"\n\nAs we drove past the beckoning bars of Gitarama City, which looked sleek and urbane, and almost certainly featured luxurious indoor plumbing rather than a sluice bucket, I made yet another sally, asking Jean-Claude for the umpteenth time, \"Are you _sure_ you don't drink? And more to the point, are you sure you don't want to start?\"\n\nHe laughed on the mistaken assumption that I was joking. \"You know, Will, I have never had even a single drink of alcohol in my life, ever.\"\n\n\"So how do you know you don't like it? Maybe if you gave it a try...\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think Christine\"\u2014his wife and fellow teetotaller\u2014\"would be very happy.\"\n\n\"Who's going to tell her?\" I asked, taking on the role of the proverbial devil-on-one's-shoulder. To no avail, alas. I even tried countering with an appeal to Proverbs 31:6, one of the few Biblical passages my father ever quoted\u2014 _\"Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those in need\"_ (or Boodles Gin in my dad's case)\u2014again, to no effect.\n\nI really have to work on my \"corrupting the souls of others\" technique.\n\n**18**\n\nSOUTH OF GITARAMA CITY, on a palm-lined avenue, we came to Kabgayi Cathedral, seat of the country's first Catholic bishop and still a fulcrum of faith in Rwanda.\n\nKabgayi is referred to as the \"Vatican of Rwanda,\" and its cathedral is an understated yet stately affair, rising up cleanly from the open grounds around it, red bricks and a raised metal roof, with a seminary, a hospital, and a convent attached\u2014as well as a small, half-forgotten museum in behind the main building that was chock-ablock with eclectic pre-colonial relics, each labelled in French with fountain-pen ink under dust as thick as dryer lint. This museum alone was reason enough to stop. The buffet was just a bonus.\n\nA word or two about Rwandan buffets: before we left Kigali, we'd stopped in at the RDB office to pick up the park permits and paperwork for our trip. The head of Tourism and Conservation was an engaging young woman named Rica Rwigamba.\n\n\"We see Rwanda as a _boutique_ tourist destination\" is how she put it. The RDB wasn't looking for free-wheeling budget travellers or youth hostel layabouts. No rat-tailed backpackers, no low-end bus tours. Instead, Rwanda was positioning itself as a higher-end, lower-impact, eco-friendly travel destination with fewer guests staying longer\u2014and spending more money. \"Quality not quantity\" was the rule of thumb in attracting visitors. They wanted to become a Botswana rather than a Kenya. A Costa Rica rather than a Mexico.\n\n\"We'd rather get $1,000 from a single visitor than $100 from ten different people\" was how one tour company operator explained it.\n\nRica agreed. \"We're a small country and our main attractions revolve around conservation. There is a limit to the number of people we can bring in.\"\n\nThe biggest challenge?\n\n\"Building a service-based economy,\" she said with a weary sigh.\n\nRwanda's hotels and restaurants were notorious for their slow, almost languid service. A two-hour wait for a meal wasn't uncommon. The rest of the country was crackling with energy, but the service sectors hadn't caught up, even though tourism revenue had grown exponentially over the last five years.\n\nAcross the hall from Rica's office was that of Vivian Kayitesi, yet another smart, educated, engaging young woman. Vivian was the RDB's head of Investment Promotion and Implementation, and she concurred with Rica. \"Oh, it's a challenge,\" she said, with the same sort of sigh Rica had given.\n\nChanging a country's core cultural perceptions about the value of prompt and attentive service was a difficult undertaking. \"But an important one,\" she stressed. \"Not only for tourists, but for Rwandans also. In the public sector, too. In government departments, we should be able to expect certain standards of service.\"\n\nMuch is made of Rwanda's high population density, as though the country were a ticking demographic time bomb. But Rwanda's population density is less than that of South Korea and roughly on par with that of Holland, and no one is fretting about the Dutch homeland being \"full.\" The Rwandan diaspora continues to return; opportunities abound, and no one is turned away. More than three million people have repatriated since 1994. They come from France and Germany, from Belgium and Switzerland, from neighbouring African countries, and from Canada, the U.S., and the U.K., and they bring with them a new energy, new ideas, and much-needed skill sets. They often find work in banking and hospitality, in IT and education. Today, Rwanda has one of the most international populations in Africa, at least in the larger cities like Kigali and Gitarama. And members of this diaspora, coming home in some cases after generations abroad in North America or Europe, have rankled at the often lackadaisical approach that's greeted them when they arrive. It was the members of this diaspora, impatient and pushing for better customer service, who had been spearheading the move to establish higher standards\u2014even if it was something as simple as showing up for an event on time.\n\nThe goal is to transform Rwanda into not only a knowledge-based economy but a middle-income, service-based economy as well. It's been a long, uphill slog from the sounds of it. Rica and Vivian were both members of the diaspora, exiles returned, determined to help rebuild and reshape their country, yet frustrated at times in their efforts. Which brings us back to the Rwandan talent for buffets. (You thought I'd forgotten the topic at hand.)\n\nWith the economy and country on the move, the average Rwandan can no longer afford to take the entire afternoon off to eat lunch. The solution? A sharp increase in the number of buffets. Rwandan cuisine, with its simmering pots of _matoke_ plantain, its slow-roasted goat brochettes and beef stews served on shovelfuls of rice, its skewered tilapia and the belly-ballast of ugali dumplings, lent itself well to buffet-style eateries.\n\nSimple ingredients in rich sauces, cauldrons of spiced soups and savoury stews: Rwandan fare was simple, yet still hearty\u2014with one notable exception. I speak here of the ongoing travesty that is Rwandan chicken. How to describe the experience of ordering \"chicken\" in Rwanda? Imagine something that is not so much fried as _dried_ , a sort of chicken jerky, stringy and sinewy, more bone than meat and with a skin the thickness\u2014and taste\u2014of broiled bark, though with less nutritional value. Faced with such an offering, one tries in vain to tear off a few measly orts from the withered drumsticks, only to end up gnawing on the bones, which are actually more edible than the rest of the bird.\n\nThese were birds that spent their lives dodging traffic on swift, scrawny legs. \"Rwandan chickens are marathon runners,\" Jean-Claude liked to joke.\n\nSo when he and I discovered that Kabgayi Cathedral ran a guest house _and_ a lunch buffet, we astutely avoided the chicken... while lunging into everything else. I made several trips, trying a bit of this, a bit of that.\n\nThe staff who topped up the heat trays and ran the till and cleared the tables took an abiding interest in what I was putting on my plate every time I went up. I ascribed their fascination to cultural curiosity\u2014I was, after all, the only pink face in the crowd.\n\nJean-Claude, meanwhile, had noticed the sheer amount of food his fellow Rwandans were piling onto their plates. He found it mildly embarrassing.\n\n\"Look how much they are putting on,\" he said, under his breath. \"Even dessert at the same time!\" Pastry and pineapple heaped onto the same dish as the stewed meat and fried vegetables, with everything on top of everything. He shook his head at the gaucheness of it.\n\nJean-Claude and I were more genteel, taking modest portions over several forays. The fruit trays were especially inviting. Jean-Claude kept going back for more passion fruit.\n\n\"These are so hard to find in Canada! And when you do, they are very expensive and are not tasty,\" he said, scooping out the jelly-like seedy pulp of _just one more_. (By the end of the trip, I'd begun to suspect that the real name for passion fruit was \"just one more.\")\n\nI, meanwhile, was captivated by the cantaloupes, a fruit I don't even like\u2014at least, not in the woody, fibrous, fruit-cocktail-filler version I was used to back home. Here, the melons were mouth-meltingly good; it was like eating slices of summer.\n\nFilled to the brim with mangoes and passion fruit, to say nothing of the stewed plantain and kebabs, we finally decided to see the actual cathedral.\n\nAn airy interior. Cool and muggy at the same time. The stained-glass light that streamed in formed coloured shafts on the cathedral's Stations of the Cross, which lined the walls in mosaic-work arrangements. The power of the mob, the suffering of the innocent. A carpenter from Galilee, forced to carry the instrument of his own impending death, whipped by cords, mocked by the crowds. Here, he stumbles. Here, he rises. Here, he falters amid small acts of mercy: a drink of water, a shoulder to share the burden. It might well have been the Stations of Rwanda.\n\nDuring the genocide, tens of thousands of people packed themselves into the ecclesiastical grounds and cavernous interior of Kabgayi Cathedral, asking for mercy. But as at Sainte Famille in Kigali, where Jean-Claude's brother and sister had sought refuge, Kabgayi instead became a concentration camp. Soldiers came in daily to drag away victims\u2014some identified on lists, others at random\u2014or to choose a frightened woman from the crowd to sate other appetites. As the days turned to weeks, starvation and disease took its toll. Skeletal thin, the bodies began to pile up.\n\nChurch and state have always been intimately linked in Rwanda. After the conversion of the Tutsi king in 1943, the entire population followed suit, making it one of the quickest and most thorough mass conversions ever recorded, described by missionaries as a \"tornado.\" Almost overnight, Rwanda had become a Christian kingdom in the heart of Africa.\n\nPresident Kayibanda of Hutu Manifesto notoriety was a devout Catholic and former seminarian, and following Rwanda's independence the Catholic Church became the de facto state religion, intricately tied to the Hutu government. Juv\u00e9nal Habyarimana, the man who overthrew Kayibanda, was a devout Catholic as well, and he strengthened these ties even more. Under two successive dictatorships, the Catholic Church became the most powerful organization in Rwanda (after the government itself). The archbishop sat on the central committee of the ruling party, and the Church had a lock on education. It supported ethnic ID cards and racial quotas and actively encouraged the insidious Hamitic myth that had entrenched these divisions. High-ranking bishops were often outspoken in their support of the genocidal regime, arguing that Tutsis were irredeemably \"bad\" by nature, a form of original sin, a mark of Cain.\n\n\"Regrettably, the Church took the side of the political regime,\" Rwandan human rights commissioner Tom Ndahiro writes. \"It did not denounce political and social injustices, nor did it condemn the first killings, nor those which followed.\"\n\nIndeed, many who took part thought they were doing the will of the Church. Rwandan theologian Laurien Ntezimana explained it thusly: \"Rwandese know how to obey but they do not know how to dialogue.... The church has always exalted the virtue of obedience, and if you talk to ordinary people they will tell you that many of the massacres happened because they blindly obeyed the authorities.\"\n\nMany individual priests and pastors, nuns and deacons, risked their lives to protect Tutsis and denounce the violence. But they did so without the official sanction or support of the Church, and they paid the price. More than 200 nuns and priests were killed during the genocide, a quarter of the country's clergy, and many of them died in a state of grace. But the sad fact is that many high-ranking priests, bishops, and even nuns took part in the killings, encouraging the gangs, providing information, and even picking up a club themselves when needed. Prominent Catholic, Anglican, and Seventh-Day Adventist clergy have all been implicated. Several have been arrested and convicted. Many more are still on the lam, fugitives from the truth.\n\nBy the time the genocide began, Rwanda was the most Christianized country in Africa. Fully 90 percent identified themselves as Christian, and of these, 65 percent belonged to the Catholic Church. Hutus and Tutsis went to the same Sunday services, sat on the same pews, sang from the same hymnals. In previous genocidal campaigns, Tutsis had run to the churches and been safe there. But this time, there would be no shelter. The places where victims should have received sanctuary\u2014hospitals, schools, and especially churches\u2014became prime killing fields. During the genocide, more people were killed in churches and on church grounds than anywhere else.\n\nUnder crowded and filthy conditions, without water or food, the ragged people inside Kabgayi Cathedral prayed and prayed for a salvation that never came.\n\nOn the complicity of the churches in Rwanda, Christian philosopher David P. Gushee came to a crushing conclusion: \"Long study of the Holocaust, and now fresh study of the Rwandan genocide, has led me to the heartbroken realization that the presence of Churches in a country guarantees exactly _nothing_. The self-identification of people with the Christian faith guarantees exactly _nothing_. All of the clerical garb and regalia, all of the structures of religious accountability... guarantee exactly _nothing_.\"\n\nThose few who managed to survive the Dachau of Kabgayi were rescued not by UN troops but by the RPF. Under the directives of Paul Kagame, the RPF's main force had continued its advance, sweeping around Kigali while the battle for the capital still raged, and then pushing forward, driving a wave of refugees in front of them. Hundreds of thousands of Hutu civilians, fearful that the RPF was intent on exterminating them in the same way they had tried to exterminate the Tutsis, had fled, emptying villages and leaving the landscape eerily quiet. There would be no \"revenge genocide,\" but those who had taken part in the killings had reason to fear the RPF's arrival. RPF soldiers often dealt harshly with alleged perpetrators. At one point, Kagame had to issue a direct order to his troops to stop these summary executions. Even then, revenge killings and massacres continued as the advancing RPF forces came across the charred bodies of family and friends. Imagine a Jewish army invading Germany in 1944 only to discover the gas chambers and mass graves, the emaciated prisoners in Nazi concentration camps. Now imagine telling them to show restraint.\n\nAs the RPF closed in, the interahamwe militia and government troops at Kabgayi went on a final killing frenzy before they retreated, leaving mountains of dead bodies behind. The RPF soldiers took possession not of a cathedral but a slaughterhouse. More than 30,000 people lay dead in the region around Kabgayi. Later estimates put it as high as 64,000\u2014and yes, you read those numbers right.\n\nThe Catholic Archbishop of Kigali was there to greet the RPF. A former collaborator with the Habyarimana regime, the archbishop was now very ingratiating, very obsequious to the new rulers. He was shot and killed, along with three other bishops and ten priests, by the RPF soldiers assigned to guard them\u2014something that outraged the Catholic Church much more than the murder of women and children that had just occurred in the same area. (Try as I may, I've never understood why the life of a priest is worth more than that of a child.) The four soldiers responsible\u2014teenagers, according to the RPF, who had lost their families in the genocide and blamed the Church\u2014were duly arrested, with one killed trying to escape. Or so it is claimed. The outcome of their courts martial remains murky and difficult to determine.\n\nAs Jean-Claude and I left Kabgayi Cathedral, a site of mass murder and madness, I thought again about the meaning of buffets and the understandable yet profoundly unfair demands being made by Rwandan returnees on those who survived the horrors of 1994.\n\nMembers of the diaspora have been pivotal to the country's remarkable turnaround: they've injected capital and technological know-how into a Rwandan society cauterized by violence, and the results have been electric, like the jolt of a defibrillator to a dying heart. These returnees are building hotels and running banks and launching enterprises with an undeniable vigour. But lost amid the noise and excitement, the breathless sense of opportunity that is everywhere in evidence, is the fact that this is still a traumatized country. To ask a people who have suffered through something as unspeakable as a genocide to now perk up and join the boosterism of a new and improved Rwanda may be asking too much.\n\n\"There are tensions, for sure,\" Jean-Claude said, \"between the people that were here in the genocide and those people who grew up outside. It is like a kind of wall. The people on the other side have trouble imagining what it was like.\"\n\nMany survivors of the genocide are barely getting by. They move through life feeling numb, tormented by memories, often mired in poverty and pain. For them to watch as Rwandan exiles from other countries come swooping in, enjoying a material success untroubled by bad dreams and waking nightmares, well, it can rankle.\n\nI now saw Rwandan buffets for what they were: an attempted solution to a deep social divide. Not between Tutsi and Hutu, not even between expat expectations and embedded cultural habits, but between the newly arrived and those still reeling, between the lucky and the wounded.\n\nJean-Claude was no longer with the Catholic Church, but still considered himself a Christian. It remained a big part of who he was. Being a typical, vaguely non-religious North American, I was puzzled by his ongoing commitment.\n\nAs we drove through the beautiful hills of Rwanda, I asked him, \"How do you do it? How do you keep your faith after something like that?\"\n\n\"It can be difficult,\" he admitted. \"We have a saying in Rwanda, kind of like a proverb. _'Imana yilirwa ahandi igataha i Rwanda.'_ It means, in the daytime God travels far away, but at night he returns to Rwanda. Every night he comes home to these hills. God sleeps in Rwanda.\"\n\n**19**\n\nLUCK COMES IN MANY GUISES.\n\n\"When my brother Elis\u00e9 was ten years old he was kidnapped by Somali truck drivers,\" Jean-Claude said. \"It was his good fortune. And mine.\"\n\nWe were sitting in a small caf\u00e9 taking respite from the road, Jean-Claude with his inevitable bottled water, me with my equally inevitable Primus beer.\n\n\"I was maybe six years old when he was snatched,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"This was after my mother died. What happened was, near my auntie's house, there was a motor park for international trucking companies with these big trucks, and the drivers they were from Kenya, Tanzania, Congo, Somalia. Lots of people everywhere. Somalians were known for long-distance driving, and me and my brother, we looked like we were Somalian. Our hair was very soft, our features were narrow, we were thinner. Even today, if I walk down a street in Calgary and a Somali sees me, he tries to speak to me in the Somalian language.\"\n\nThe truck drivers were convinced that Jean-Claude and his brother were the offspring of a Somali man and a local woman, probably forgotten, possibly abandoned.\n\n\"They thought maybe a truck driver had been with a girl and then he just ran away, or maybe didn't even know that he has children here, or maybe he did, but went away, had an accident, and has died and never came back. They thought _something_ must have happened. For them it was like, _These children, they are our children_. They asked me and my brother if we wanted a ride in their truck. They said we could, but only if we really were Somalian. My brother Elis\u00e9, he wanted a ride in one of these big trucks, so he said, 'Yeah, we're from Somalia.' He got in. And we lost him. For me, I didn't talk with the Somalis because I was little and my auntie always said, 'Stay away from those truck drivers!' But my brother, he wasn't shy like that.\"\n\nWhen Jean-Claude's father found out what had happened, he was distraught.\n\n\"He knew Somalians took my brother, so a search went out. But they couldn't find the trail. They even sent a message to Uganda because the main highway was going there, was passing through. But the Uganda police, they asked, 'Okay, which truck? Which driver? What's the licence plate?' We didn't know.\"\n\n\"That must have been horrible.\"\n\n\"Oh, it was devastating. For the whole family. Especially, I missed him. We used to play together, we used to fight, we used to laugh. If anyone was being a bully to me, I would call Elis\u00e9. He was my big brother. Losing him was very tough.\"\n\n\"What became of him?\"\n\n\"We didn't know, not for many years. But what we found out was, this truck driver and his wife adopted him as their son. He was raised as a Muslim. They changed his name to Sa\u00efd. Hussein Sa\u00efd Abdi. A completely Somalian name. He learned to speak Somalian fluently. He grew up in that environment.\"\n\n\"Was he treated well?\"\n\n\"Oh, very well. They loved him too much. And when the family moved to Kenya, my brother went too. He was working with his Somali dad, driving trucks.\"\n\nEight years after he first disappeared, Elis\u00e9 returned. Or rather, _Sa\u00efd_ returned.\n\n\"He just showed up at our house. It was a shock. He had driven a truck to Kigali, so he came to see us. We were very surprised, because here he was almost a man now, eighteen years, no longer a child.\"\n\n\"Did he stay?\"\n\n\"He was planning to, yes. But after three months, he said 'I'm going home.' He didn't fit in here anymore, so he went back to Kenya. He was a truck driver and his work and business was there, so he left.\"\n\n\"Your dad must have been heartbroken.\"\n\n\"I think more he was thankful just to know what happened to his son, to know that nothing bad had befallen him.\"\n\nAnd so, once again, Jean-Claude's brother drove away.\n\n\"That could just as easily have been you,\" I said. \"Had you gotten into that truck when you were six.\"\n\nJean-Claude nodded. \"Would have been a very different life,\" he said. \"Very different.\"\n\nLater on, his brother Sa\u00efd sent a letter to their dad, along with a photograph of himself in Nairobi. No address, just a photo. But in the background was a clue, and it was this clue that Jean-Claude would eventually pursue across eastern Africa.\n\nWhen Jean-Claude crossed the bridge at Rusumo Falls, it was this brother he was searching for, and it was this brother who would give him shelter during the genocide. Somali kidnappers had inadvertently saved Jean-Claude's life\u2014and Sa\u00efd's.\n\n**20**\n\nFROM THE CATHEDRAL, we drove south on a spool of asphalt that curled across the hills like a loosely unrolled ribbon. We were heading for the royal court of Nyanza, historical seat of the Rwandan monarchy.\n\nBy lining up royal genealogies and historical events with specific solar eclipses, the founding of the Kingdom of Rwanda can be dated between 1312 and 1532. According to legend, it originated even earlier, with the rule of the semi-mythical Mwami Gihanga, whose father was descended from Heaven. Gihanga's kingdom began as a small fiefdom on Gasabo Hill but quickly spread, bringing neighbouring communes under its control.\n\nThus began a cycle of warrior kings and pastoralists, conquerors and consolidators, of rulers known as \"Bwimba the Great\" and \"Ndoli the Restorer,\" as well as the less fortunately monikered \"Yuhi the Senile,\" poet king.\n\nWhat started as a loose affiliation of warring clans became an expanding hegemony, one that would extend northward into what is now Uganda and westward to the rainforests of the Congo, having reached\u2014quite tangibly\u2014the end of the world. (According to Rwandan cosmology, Rwanda sat in the centre of the universe, and the dense forests of the Congo, which held up the sky, marked the outer edge of the inhabited world. Beyond that lay only endless jungle, deeper and deeper, into darkness.)\n\nRwandans were the Romans of central Africa, holding back invasions from Burundi and other adversarial kingdoms while building an impenetrable line of forts along the frontiers, which gave rise to the proverb _\"U Rwanda ruratera ntiruterwa.\"_ (\"Rwanda is never attacked, but always attacks.\") Every citizen was considered _ingabo_ , a \"defender of Rwanda,\" and the symbol of royal authority was the Kalinga drum, which was adorned, not too subtly, with the testicles of the king's defeated enemies.\n\nThe royal intrigues of Rwanda's ruling families would rival those of Shakespeare. Its inner court was home to oracles and soothsayers, tax collectors and clan leaders, chieftains and courtiers, musicians and magicians, fortune tellers and wine stewards, with dynastic poets ever present, singing praises of the king in verse.\n\nIt was to the site of this royal court that Jean-Claude and I were now heading.\n\nGetting to Nyanza proved tricky, however, if only because\u2014at the exact moment I said, \"Y'know, the road's not as congested out here, maybe I should drive\"\u2014we got caught in a duel of the minibuses.\n\n\"Uh-oh,\" said Jean-Claude, which, given the unruffled nature of his temperament, was tantamount to a primal scream.\n\nA pair of competing buses were battling for control of the road, careening wildly as they jockeyed for position, speeding up, slowing down, slamming on their brakes and cutting each other off as they raced to pluck up passengers before their competition could reach them. We were caught in the middle like townspeople at a gunfight as first one minibus then the next zoomed by\u2014only to cut in and fall back. All of this on roads that Evel Knievel would balk at, on corners that skirted the sides of dead-drop slopes. The villages below were very small.\n\nI swallowed my earlier offer and never suggested I take the wheel again. It was all I could do to pry my fingers from the dashboard. _Uh-oh_ , indeed. I wish I could say this was the only minibus duel we saw during our trip, but no, it became so common an occurrence that I rarely shit myself more than, oh, once or twice a day.\n\nThe road was lined with eucalyptus trees. This was not, I realized now, for reasons of aesthetics or erosion control, but of safety. These trees acted like guardrails, something that became evident when we passed the wreck of a car propped up by splintered trees above the sudden-death fields far below.\n\nAnd then we entered the silent green tunnel of a bamboo forest, and all was good again. Bamboo has that effect. It soothes the heart, blots up sunlight, softens sounds.\n\nComing out of this bamboo tunnel, the views opened up. It was breathtaking. Sculpted hills stood muted in the mist. Patchwork fields and contoured heights. It again brought to mind images of Asia. Even the cries of _\"Muzungu!\"_ that greeted us whenever we got out to stretch or buy a bottle of Fanta might easily have been the schoolboy gasp of _\"Gaijin!\"_ that still greets travellers in rural Japan.\n\nThe similarities were fleeting, though, and this was decidedly Africa, decidedly Rwanda. Banana leaves shredded by the wind. Dust and diesel. Women in beautiful patterns. Small children with bundled twigs and jerry cans of water balanced on their heads. Overloaded bicycles. Water-pump gatherings. African smiles, and everyone impeccably dressed. These images were repeated on every turn, and were equally captivating every time: variations on a larger theme.\n\nEach hill revealed another valley, every valley another town. As we drove past roadside markets and crossroad crowds, truck drivers en route to the Burundian border barrelled through, scattering goats and chickens with their air-horn blasts.\n\nAnd then\u2014into Nyanza.\n\nOnce an ancient court, Nyanza today is a newly anointed district capital. A flurry of billboard exhortations greeted us on our arrival: \"REPORT FAMILY VIOLENCE!\" \"TEST FOR HIV!\" \"PROTECT OUR CHILDREN.\" \"WORK TOGETHER STAY UNITED.\" \"UNLEASH YOUR POTENTIAL.\"\n\nNyanza had once had a Wild West reputation, but new hotels and office towers were now springing up, polished glass reflecting the surrounding hills. The streets bustled with activity, as though the entire town was late for a meeting.\n\nThe royal compound at Nyanza, just outside of town, is a much reduced reconstruction, though still striking in its pre-colonial, wholly non-Western layout: a series of conical, beehive-shaped structures constructed from tightly woven straw, arranged inside a high wooden palisade. The buildings resembled the traditional coil-woven _agaseke_ baskets of Rwandan women. (The newly built Convention Centre in Kigali, a conical, highly stylized modernist structure, was inspired by these same agaseke baskets, a national emblem so important they've been given a place of pride on Rwanda's coat of arms.)\n\nBehind the royal residence was a pair of smaller but equally elegant outbuildings: a milk hut and a beer hut, in which would have dwelled, respectively, a milk maid and the royal brewmaster, milk being the iconic drink of the Tutsi royalty and banana beer being a Rwandan delicacy. The man and woman responsible for the beer and milk were, by order of royal decree, virgins who were never allowed to marry. (Though you have to wonder, with the two huts being in such close proximity, whether the milk maid and the beer boy ever met up late at night to relieve certain urges.)\n\nInside the main royal residence, Jean-Claude and I met a group of young Scottish women who were touring Rwanda. They were the ones who told us about the virginal prerequisites of said milky lass and her beery counterpart, as had been explained to them by the Rwandan guide inside.\n\nA pair of virgins? \"Couldn't do that in Glasgow,\" one of them snorted.\n\n\"Aye, not enough candidates like,\" the others laughed.\n\nThey were dressed in loose cotton, damp from the heat, with faces even pinker than mine. University students working as volunteers with a local NGO, they had nothing but good things to say about Rwanda. \"My dad, he used to work in Liberia,\" one of them said, \"and he was right worried when I signed up. Gave me all this advice on safety precautions and security and the like. Didn't need any of it. Feels safer here than back home in Dundee.\"\n\nLike the typical Rwandan tavern, the interior of the royal residence was much roomier than it appeared from the outside, both coolly shaded and unusually aromatic. Enormous wooden beams provided the framework for the straw-woven exterior. (It was akin to stepping inside a geodesic dome.) And the aroma that permeated the walls? A spiced combination of incense and wet earth, it was actually the odour of dried cow-dung braziers. \"They feed the cattle herbs and flowers to create a nice smell,\" the guide explained.\n\nAs our eyes adjusted to the smoky dark, details emerged: Twa pottery, woven mats, hanging partitions, the lowered entrance and raised sleeping quarters of the king.\n\nThe tour guide, a lanky young man with commendable English, was enlivened by the presence of all these young women and steered his talk accordingly. The sexual predilections of the king's matrimonial bed were covered in great detail (and to the keen interest of his audience, it should be noted). Rwanda's more virile mwamis, he explained, were able to juggle multiple wives and several courtesans over a single night, bringing them in discreetly, one by one, through the side door and then up onto the royal bed\u2014a round, voluptuously cushioned platform that needed only a mirrored ceiling and some Barry White to complete its _boom-chika-bow-wow_ vibe. The girls were egging the lad on, asking all sorts of leading questions and being generally saucy in a way that only Scotswomen can. By my estimation, the topics covered by the tour guide were: the geopolitical foundations of Rwanda's pre-colonial political system: 2 percent; the amorous inner workings of the royal bedchambers: 98 percent. And even then, I may have been overly generous in my estimate of the former.\n\nWith the sad wisdom that comes from age, I wanted to pull this young man aside and say, \"You do realize nothing's going to happen, right? These young women are on a schedule, so even if they were up for it there's no way you'd be able to arrange a tryst, let alone a succession of them, let alone convince them to queue up outside your bedroom. The logistics alone would make it all but impossible.\"\n\nStill, a boy's gotta dream, I suppose. Maybe it was the soft light or the delicate scent of dried cow dung that brought out the romantic in me, but I decided not to intervene. Instead, Jean-Claude and I went back outside, leaving our young guide to his bevy of admirers (a.k.a. band of snorting lassies).\n\nAnkole cattle were grazing in a meadow behind the royal compound. These cows, graceful, almost feline, are known as Watusi in North America, after \"Tutsi.\" They are renowned for their beauty: long thin hooves, delicate deer-like features with soft dewlaps\u2014and prominent humps on the males. But what truly sets Ankole cattle apart are their horns. Although originally for defence and body cooling, selective aesthetic breeding over hundreds of years has produced not so much horns as _tusks_. They can reach a staggering two metres in length (surpassing the tusks of many elephants, in fact), and some are so curved they almost meet at the top, forming elongated ovals and heart-shaped outlines. Others form lyres. All are impressive.\n\nAmong the pastoralist Tutsis, the Ankole cattle were symbols of status, a form of \"walking wealth\" prized more for the envy they engendered than for their milk. (The small-uddered Ankole cattle actually produce very little.) They are rarely slaughtered; killing a fertile cow would be like burning money. It's only when they have reached their elder years, or have been injured beyond recovery, that they are reluctantly taken away, their soft leather used for drums, their horns converted into flute-like musical instruments.\n\nThese were the cows that Jean-Claude had referred to as the \"Cattle of Kings,\" and certainly the golden Ankole grazing in the meadow behind Nyanza Courts seemed exceptionally regal to me. Elegant and gentle, sociable and highly intelligent (they are easily trained to recognize their names when their herders sing them), they were a far cry from the lunk-headed, lumbering Holsteins I knew back home\u2014even if said Holsteins do provide more milk and better meat. The cows I'd seen sparring with that mutt back in Kigali were of the square-chested Holstein variety. I don't imagine the cur would have tried the same antics with a more nimble-footed, long-horned Ankole.\n\nAs noted earlier, Ankole cattle lay at the cultural heart of the Tutsi social class, which is precisely why they were targeted by Hutu Power militias. During the genocide, a wholesale slaughter took place, with the animals butchered for prime cuts of meat and the rest left to rot in the fields. Twenty years on, the population of the Ankole is only now recovering.\n\nThe last great king of Rwanda was Kigeri IV Rwabugiri. A severe and unforgiving man, Rwabugiri, having ascended to the throne in 1853, launched a series of military and political campaigns that would extend his authority over a region twice as large as present-day Rwanda, reaching deep into the Congo and as far north as Lake Edward in present-day Uganda. King Rwabugiri spearheaded more than fourteen different military expeditions, forcing neighbouring kingdoms to bow down and pay tribute. His reign would be the high-water mark of the Tutsi ascendency. He crushed rebellions in the northwest and established the complex system of governance, from province to district to hill, that is still in existence today. A warrior in his own right, Rwabugiri was also, in a sense, the Bureaucratic King\u2014albeit one given to public executions over minor perceived slights. Rwabugiri would rule for more than forty years and was still in power, elderly but able, when the first German explorers arrived.\n\nOur band of young Scotswomen had now joined us in the meadow, to the wistful regret of the guide inside the king's chambers, I was sure. We walked up the hill together to a very different royal residence.\n\nAlthough the Belgian-built colonial manor house is only fifty steps or so from the older royal court, it might have been a world away, which I suppose it was. Built in 1932 for a now-acquiescent King of Rwanda, it is thoroughly Western in style, right down to its incongruous\u2014and undersized\u2014bathtub. (The final Tutsi monarch stood almost seven feet tall; how he managed to fold himself into that boxy little tub is a mystery for the ages.) Long and low, the building's doorways and windows opened to views of the hills across from it. A melancholy place, caught in a calming crosswind, it marks the end of many things. The last kings of Rwanda lived here.\n\nRwabugiri died in 1895, soon after the Germans arrived. His death created a dangerous power vacuum, which Germany took advantage of, moving in from Tanzania (or Tanganyika, as it was then known) and claiming the nearby Tutsi kingdom of Burundi as well.\n\nThe hapless son who succeeded Rwabugiri got caught up in a War of the Roses\u2013style struggle between monarchists and rival clans, complete with pretenders to the throne and would-be usurpers. He was ousted in a palace coup and forced to commit ritualistic suicide. This prolonged civil war among the inner circles of the royal court sapped the strength of the monarchy at the very moment the Europeans were making their move. It was a time of cabals and cults, of prophetesses and messianic leaders. One of Rwabugiri's widows fled northward into the mountains with a band of loyal retainers, proclaiming herself Queen of Ndorwa and vowing to expel all encroaching Europeans from Rwanda.\n\nIn the end, an ambitious but distant heir named Musinga wrested power from a competing clan to claim the throne. Musinga allied himself with the Germans to defeat his rivals; he even sent men to fight for Germany against the Belgians in East Africa during World War I. But he had backed the wrong horse, and with Germany's defeat, Rwanda was handed over to Musinga's former foes.\n\nBelgium's relationship with the monarch was tetchy at best. A Belgian commander complained early on that Musinga was \"scorning the orders we give him.\" Clearly appalled at the sovereign's impudence, the commander noted that the king \"intends to play the leading part in politics of his country and to relegate the European authorities to the background.\" That would not do! The Belgians arrested Musinga at gunpoint and threw him in jail, releasing him only in the face of a public revolt. But the damage had been done. The aura of divine power surrounding the king was gone forever. Muzungus were now calling the shots, and when this same king, the last \"pagan monarch\" of Rwanda, refused to be baptized, he was deposed in 1931 and replaced by one of his more compliant sons, Charles Pierre, who had already adopted Western clothes and customs. It was Charles's public embrace of Christianity that sparked the mass conversion of Rwanda. And when King Mutara III Rudahigwa, as Charles was now known, proved troublesome, he too would be removed from the equation.\n\nCharles had become increasingly disillusioned. He chafed under Belgian control and openly questioned the ethnic ID cards Belgium had imposed, insisting, \"There are no objective criteria whereby one can distinguish Hutu from Tutsi.\" While travelling in Burundi, Charles Rudahigwa was invited to dinner by the Belgian authorities to discuss these matters. He took a few bites of his meal and became violently ill. A Belgian doctor was called in; King Rudahigwa was given an injection and died soon after. Another version of these events begins with the king complaining of a migraine but ends in the same manner: a visit from a Belgian doctor, a mysterious injection, sudden death. Was it simply an accident? An allergic reaction, perhaps? Or a cerebral hemorrhage? Possibly. But his death did pave the way for the 1959 Hutu Social Revolution, which abolished the monarchy and proclaimed Rwanda a republic under Belgium's new policy of \"majority rule.\" With Rudahigwa's death, many observers suspected Belgium was simply clearing the deck chairs before handing over power to the Hutu.\n\nNyanza Hill is where the Rwanda of old came to an end, and for all the fusty feudalism of the ancient regime, it is worth noting that prior to 1959, over the course of 600 years of meticulously maintained oral history, there was not a single case of systematic violence between Hutus and Tutsis. Most violence was between competing clans, not \"ethnic\" groups. And most of that was regional as well. The north and southwest were never fully subjugated, and rebellions often flared up. As the French scholar G\u00e9rard Prunier noted, \"It was a centre versus periphery affair and not one of Tutsi versus Hutu.\" Rwandan kings could be cruel and capricious; they were not genocidal. That fatal cleave occurred under colonial rule, aided and abetted by European notions of race and racial superiority.\n\nIt was Rwandans who planned the 1994 genocide and Rwandans who carried it out. Ultimate responsibility lies squarely with them. As the respected Hutu journalist and Catholic priest Andr\u00e9 Sibomana put it, \"Men are products but not prisoners of their history. They decide themselves what to do.\" But it's also important to be aware of both the colonial context and the role Western nations played in making the genocide possible. At Nyanza Hill, two very different royal manors and two very different traditions are in evidence.\n\nAs Jean-Claude and I walked back down through grassy fields, past feline cattle and the woven palaces of a lost Rwanda, I heard a sharp _kii_ and looked up to see a bird of prey turning lazy, lethal circles in the sky. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the laughter of Scottish women growing fainter and fainter.\n\n**21**\n\nSPEAKING OF THE SCOTS, here is the story of how I became world famous in Butare City for forty-seven minutes. That was the length of time needed for my rise to fame and fall from grace to run its course.\n\nButare (now known as Huye) is a university town, and when we stopped at a grocery store on the outskirts of the city, I was pleased to find a small selection of academic books for sale in among the soft drinks and snacks. While Jean-Claude ran to the bank, I poked about the dusty shelves and discovered a military history of pre-colonial Rwanda, including its many kings. Delighted at my find, I took the book up to the counter along with a raisin bun and a bottle of conveniently pre-warmed Fanta.\n\nI am, supposedly, a professional writer. Which means\u2014according to my reading of Revenue Canada regulations, anyway\u2014that every scrap of reading material I ever purchase, up to and including the placemats at my local Chinese restaurant (\"You are born under the sign of the Dragon. You are compatible with Horse, Rat, and Rooster\"), counts as research and is, therefore, gloriously tax deductible.\n\nSo when I made my purchase, I asked for a receipt.\n\nRwandans, I would discover, are terrifically talented when it comes to writing up a bill of sale. They almost seem to enjoy the challenge, asking themselves, _\"All righty then. Let's see just how elaborate and labour-intensive we can make this.\"_ Shopkeepers will often have a large carbon-copy pad from 1942 for exactly this purpose, in which they painstakingly write out such crucial details as your name, nationality, address (while in Rwanda), address (in home country), phone number, age, height, weight, blood type, shoe size, date of birth, mother's maiden name, favourite singer, pet peeves, hobbies (if applicable), date of birth (again, just to be safe), preferred use of a salad fork, etc. When asking for a receipt in Rwanda, it's a good idea to allot the bulk of one's afternoon to complete the transaction.\n\nI should also remind readers of a seemingly unrelated but important point made earlier: Rwandans _love_ English Premier League soccer. They're crazy for it. In Kigali, when I went to buy a Rwanda National Soccer jersey as a souvenir for my son, the shop owner attempted to talk me out of it, saying, \"The Amavubi are having a terrible season. Why don't you buy a Chelsea jersey instead? Or maybe Tottenham? They're doing well this year. Or how about a nice Arsenal jersey?\" They were all the same price, so it's not as if he was attempting to upsell me. I tried to explain to him that I hadn't come all the way to Africa to buy a Chelsea FC soccer jersey, but he couldn't see my point and remained perplexed even as he rang up the sale.\n\nSo\u2014when I gave the shopkeeper in Butare my surname for the receipt he was filling in, he looked up and said, \"Ferguson? Like Alex Ferguson?\"\n\nNow, for those of you (i.e., North Americans) who may not know who Alex Ferguson is, that Rwandan shopkeeper was referring to the legendary manager of Manchester United, a towering figure in the world of soccer who has been knighted by the Queen, no less. Having grown up in a soccer-free zone (i.e., northern Alberta in the 1970s), I'd never heard of _Sir_ Alex Ferguson until my wife and I happened to name our oldest son Alex. It was sheer coincidence, you understand, but soon enough, British friends were saying, \"Alex Ferguson! That's fantastic! You must be a real football fan!\" (as the rest of the world mistakenly calls soccer). They were baffled by my lack of enthusiasm. It was, I learned, like meeting someone whose last name is Gretzky and who had named his son \"Wayne,\" only to look at you blankly when you said, \"Like the hockey player!\" _The hockey who?_\n\nIn Rwanda, Alex Ferguson is a highly respected figure. You catch him in sports magazines and on BBC TV, an older, good-looking fellow often seen yelling at his players. The clerk at that shop didn't think I _was_ Alex Ferguson; that would have been ridiculous.\n\n\"No,\" I said with a laugh. \"No relation.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"But the funny thing is, my son is named Alex.\"\n\n\"Son?\"\n\n\"That's right. _He's_ Alex Ferguson. Just a fluke, of course. Who knew my kid had a famous name? I sure as heck didn't.\"\n\nAnd I left, thinking the matter was done.\n\nJean-Claude and I stopped for lunch at a nearby caf\u00e9, and then headed back to where our vehicle was parked. What we didn't realize was that word had spread, anticipation was mounting.\n\nAs we approached the Land Cruiser, our pace slowed. We could see the shopkeeper standing there, beaming, pen and paper in hand. He asked, somewhat breathlessly, if I might sign my name for him. More and more people appeared, the entire street it seemed, all smiling at me with the same enthusiasm. Several of them had their phones out, camera mode ready, making \"Can I take one?\" gestures.\n\nWe were flummoxed. Jean-Claude had a long and, from the sounds of it, highly convoluted conversation with the shopkeeper in Kinyarwanda. He then pulled me to one side and asked in a hushed and\u2014it must be said\u2014slightly accusatory tone, \"Will, did you tell these people you are Alex Ferguson's son?\"\n\n\"What? God, no.\"\n\n\"But that's what they think. They are asking if they can take their picture with you, get your autograph.\"\n\nI was probably the most famous person ever to stop by that little shop, even if it was under false pretenses.\n\n\"What should I do?\" I whispered to Jean-Claude.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nJean-Claude and I seriously considered having me shake a few hands, slap a few backs, pose for a few selfies, scribble a few signatures that looked vaguely like _\"Alex Ferguson's son, Esq.\"_ and then leave with a munificent wave of the hand. One hated to pop their bubble. But then I thought, What if word spreads? What if, God forbid, it ends up in the papers? _Alex Ferguson's son tours Rwanda!_\n\nAnd so, against my better instincts, we fessed up to my true (non) identity. Even then, it took some doing for Jean-Claude to convince the group that I was _not_ Alex Ferguson's offspring. When he finally did, their expressions soured. They seemed to think I'd been trying to pull a fast one on them (to what end?), and as they grumpily dispersed, several of them shot _highly_ disapproving glares our way. (I say \"our\" because Jean-Claude was fully implicated by this point.)\n\nSigh.\n\n\"Maybe I should have just signed some autographs,\" I said as we limped away in our 4x4, chests deflated.\n\nJean-Claude agreed. \"I think that would have been better. They were a little bit angry at being tricked.\"\n\n_Tricked?_ But, but\u2014oh, never mind.\n\nEven worse, my Icarus-like arc had reaped no benefits, no rewards, not a single beer cadged or meal on the house proffered. Next time.\n\n**22**\n\nRWANDA, \"LAND OF A THOUSAND HILLS,\" is also renowned as an Empire of Primates, and the first ones I saw were not in the forest but on the road. As we drove into Butare, a monkey scampered across, baby bouncing on its back like a rodeo clown atop a runaway steer. I shouted for Jean-Claude to stop the vehicle as I scrambled to unsheath my camera\u2014a reaction, I soon learned, that was like squealing with delight at the sight of a squirrel in Canada.\n\nWhen we pulled over, a welcoming committee of white-throated L'Hoest's monkeys greeted us. I burst out of the 4x4 like a primate paparazzo, unleashing a salvo of shots in rapid-fire bursts. More and more monkeys appeared, some of them looking awfully shifty, like potential pickpockets\u2014and appropriately so, as it turned out, because Butare, Jean-Claude informed me, used to be where the majority of pickpockets in Rwanda came from. The citizens of Butare, hailing as they do from a university town, considered themselves smarter than average as well, a lethal combination. \"People in Butare are born with a high school education, it's what we say,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"But keep your hand on your wallet.\"\n\nI filled up half a memory card with near-identical photos, and we set off again, leaving our white-bearded, fleet-footed friends behind. As the roads grew more congested, the traffic, counter-intuitively, grew quicker. A battered hatchback from the Better Driving School lurched out in front of us, a nervous young woman clutching the steering wheel with a terrified grasp. Her instructor was teaching her to drive by having her plunge right in, the way our grandparents supposedly learned to swim\u2014anecdotally anyway. _\"Rowed us out to the middle of the lake and tossed us over, said 'See you at the shore.'\"_\n\n\"Did I tell you how I learned to drive?\" Jean-Claude asked.\n\n\"Blindfolded on a tightrope, I'm guessing.\"\n\nBut no.\n\n\"Was at a soccer field in Kigali. It was packed dirt, red clay, where we used to play. This guy, he owned a Volkswagen\u2014I don't know how it was still running, everything inside had been replaced with wood: the floor, the handles, even the gas pedal, it all was wood. This car had nothing. No insurance, no registration. It was manual transmission, too, so maybe even the gears were made from wood! For fifty francs he would let you drive it once around the field, and it didn't matter how old you were. If you could reach the gas pedal, you could drive. And if you couldn't reach the gas pedal, you could sit on someone's lap. Also, there was someone had a motorcycle. Was cheaper. You could drive it around the soccer field for twenty francs.\"\n\n\"You didn't need a learner's licence?\"\n\n\"We weren't driving on the street.\"\n\n\"But\u2014weren't kids playing soccer in the middle of the field?\"\n\n\"Oh yes, but we were careful. We went around the edge.\" He said this as though it were the most reasonable statement one could make about letting children drive a motorcycle and patchwork Volkswagen around a field filled with other children chasing a ball.\n\nJean-Claude saved up any scraps of money he could get\u2014\"If my father gave me a few francs to see a soccer game, I would save the money and sneak into the stadium instead, or I would deliver notes between teenage boys and the girls they liked and they would pay me. City kids always know how to find a little cash here, there\"\u2014and he'd use this money to drive the motorcycle on the soccer field, going round and round and round and round. He was twelve or thirteen at the time.\n\n\"I wanted to drive the car, but this was expensive. So I came to be friends with the owner. He liked to take a nap, listening to the kids driving his car. Even sleeping, he was counting. He knew how many rounds. But also he had to collect the money, or send someone with a five-litres jug to bring back gas for the car, so I said to him, 'I will take care of the business. Just give me a free round.' It became my responsibility. He could sleep and I could learn how to drive.\"\n\nWith that, Jean-Claude steered us into the heart of Butare, the city leaning in from all sides, full of life.\n\nWhen the genocide began, Butare had been an island of sanity amid a welter of madness. The prefecture was the only province in Rwanda with a Tutsi governor, and he refused to issue the order to clean out the \"cockroaches,\" calling instead for level heads and reason to prevail. This insanity would soon pass, he assured the populace.\n\nGiven hope, Tutsis flooded into the region from all over, believing they would be protected. Butare, after all, was a centre of higher learning, known for its tolerance, its inclusiveness, and its sizable Tutsi population, a city where the Hutus and Tutsis got along. Among the southern Hutu of Butare, a burgeoning grassroots movement was even calling for full equality. Surely the killings would not reach Butare.\n\nThe calm lasted two weeks. Outraged at the governor's refusal to follow orders, Rwanda's Hutu Power interim government sent in the Presidential Guard to have him arrested. He was executed, along with his family. As a more obedient governor was being sworn in, trucks rolled up. Youth militias and French-trained soldiers climbed out. They had work to do.\n\nOne of the first to die was the eighty-year-old widow of Charles Mutara III Rudahigwa, the Queen Dowager Rosalie Gicanda. Known as a \"people's queen,\" Rosalie was a much-loved figure, and her execution sent a signal to the entire Tutsi population: no one was safe. The killings in Butare\u2014especially on the campuses\u2014were notably brutal, as Hutu students tortured Tutsi classmates, as professors betrayed their fellow teachers, as moderate journalists and intellectuals were rounded up. Hutu professors who had proven unpopular or students who were too successful and thus resented by their peers\u2014or who simply lived on campus alongside Tutsis\u2014were also purged. Entire villages in the outlying areas were laid to waste, the homes looted, possessions plundered. Genocide can be lucrative.\n\nThe zealous enthusiasm the professors and their students showed for killing people provides a secular parallel to David Gushee's lament: _The presence of universities in a community, the self-identification of people as scholars in the pursuit of knowledge, of understanding, guarantees exactly_ nothing...\n\n**23**\n\nRWANDAN GOATS ARE SURPRISINGLY AGILE.\n\n\"Did you notice?\" Jean-Claude asked. \"They look both ways before they cross the street.\"\n\nHe was right, though I imagine goats that didn't look both ways would have been weeded out rather quickly. The road we were on rose higher and higher as we left Butare. The air was thinner, as was the asphalt; potholes in the pavement revealed pockets of soft red earth underneath.\n\nMotorcycle taxis gave way to scooters. Scooters gave way to bicycles-for-hire, pulling goods and passengers over never-ending humps of hill. And finally, even the bicycles disappeared, replaced by bare feet and head-balanced burdens.\n\nWe were entering the country's remote western region, the Ozarks of Rwanda in a sense. Pedestrians still crowded the roads, but the traffic consisted almost entirely of us. We passed the occasional public bus, riding low and packed with people, but for long stretches we were the only vehicle in sight. A nice change from the PRAISE GOD! trucks that had bullied past us on the main routes, but it actually made driving more dangerous. Having fewer vehicles on the road made people oblivious to our approach. And they weren't as adept at dodging oncoming traffic as pedestrians elsewhere were. Several times children ran alongside us, perilously close, daring each other to touch our truck as we rumbled past. When this happened, Jean-Claude would come to a stop and scold them until they withdrew, looking downcast.\n\n\"It's a dangerous game,\" Jean-Claude said.\n\nIt was also evidence of how rare traffic was in the villages we were rolling through. By the time we reached Karambi, the dust on our truck was mottled with fingerprints. We had planned to stop there for some food-stall victuals, but a rural pig auction was underway in the town's main square, and the odour was so overpowering that we rolled up our windows, tried not to inhale, and pushed on.\n\nThe road wound through fields terraced in ascending curves, lush and green all the way up. In the flooded rice paddies below, water reflected the sky like panes of glass. We were now deep into La Zone Turquoise and the tragic history that this region entailed.\n\nAs the old regime collapsed, the RPF had continued its advance across the killing grounds of Rwanda, scattering the interahamwe and government armed forces. With the end of the genocide in sight, France decided to intervene. They announced they would be sending a fully equipped, heavily armed \"humanitarian\" mission into western Rwanda to secure a safe zone to protect\u2014who, exactly? Although Op\u00e9ration Turquoise was ostensibly about saving lives, in reality it was about stopping the RPF and, failing that, providing cover for France's retreating Hutu Power allies: political leaders and high-ranking military officers, government functionaries, and members of the militia and their families, together with a wealth of weaponry and Rwanda's entire reserve of hard currency. The explicit aim was to counterattack later and reclaim the country.\n\nAs journalist Philip Gourevitch notes, \"From the moment they arrived, and wherever they went, the French forces supported and preserved the same local political leaders who had presided over the genocide.\"\n\nThe creation of La Zone Turquoise, as the area under French control was known, effectively allowed the organizers of the genocide to escape. They moved en masse into eastern Zaire (as the Congo was then known), where they were given unconditional support by that country's notorious dictator, President Mobutu, another loyal French ally.\n\nHuman Rights Watch had tracked at least five shipments of weapons and heavy armour delivered by France to the Hutu Power regime at the height of the killings. The French did not arrest a single g\u00e9nocidaire or war criminal and even aided many of them in their getaway. General Dallaire was convinced that the real goal of Op\u00e9ration Turquoise was to split Rwanda in two, like Cyprus, with France's Hutu Power allies ensconced on one side and the English-speaking Ugandan Tutsis of the RPF on the other. Certainly, when French troops did arrive, the interahamwe militias\u2014many still covered in blood\u2014took to the streets dancing and singing. \"Our French brothers have arrived! They are coming to save us!\" Flags were all aflutter. WELCOME FRENCH HUTUS! read the banners.\n\n\"You Hutu girls, wash yourselves and put on your best dresses to welcome our French allies,\" the announcers on Radio RTLM crowed. \"The Tutsi girls are all dead, so now you have your chance!\"\n\nOne of the French soldiers would later complain that he was fed up with being \"cheered along by murderers.\"\n\nFrench troops did indeed set up refugee camps and are credited with having protected perhaps 10,000 Tutsis, maybe more. But their presence cost more lives than it saved. Some of the most complete ethnic cleansings in Rwanda occurred inside the French \"safe\" zone. Unhindered by UN witnesses or RPF incursions, and emboldened by what they took to be France's tacit support, the killers within La Zone Turquoise were able to complete their work with a thoroughness not possible elsewhere. Entire populations of Tutsis were wiped out.\n\n\"What was achieved by Op\u00e9ration Turquoise,\" Linda Melvern writes in _Conspiracy to Murder_ , \"was in fact nothing less than a resurgence in the genocide.... It provided a sanctuary for the killers.\"\n\nFran\u00e7ois Mitterrand, president of France and the man behind many of the African policies implemented at that time, brushed it off: with a perfectly executed Gallic shrug, I imagine. \"In countries such as these,\" he said, \"genocide is not so important.\"\n\nAs we drove in to Murambi, a goat looked right, then left, and then scampered across the road.\n\n**24**\n\nEVEN IN THIS LAND OF PANORAMAS, the rounded summit of the Murambi Technical School stands out. A beautiful symmetry is at play: grassy meadows slope away, giving the school a full 360-degree view of the seven hills surrounding it.\n\nThis very beauty would be the cause of Murambi's infamy. There was no escaping from this hilltop, no secret route, no thick forests or papyrus swamps to flee to: just a wide-open emptiness exposed on all sides. Tidy rows of blond-brick buildings are lined up on top: classrooms and dormitories, would-be lecture halls.\n\nThe school was brand new and had not yet opened when the killings began. Local administrators encouraged Tutsis in the area to seek refuge there. As would become clear, this was done not out of concern for their safety but to better round up the targeted populace in one convenient, central location. More than 50,000 people crowded in on Murambi Hill. Only a dozen survived.\n\nThey fought back as best they could. Armed with rocks and sticks, the men formed a circle around the women and children, held the militias at bay. But then the soldiers came. They surrounded the school, cut off water and food, began handing out grenades to the interahamwe. The attacks lasted for days at a time. Victims of the Murambi massacre were eventually bulldozed into open pits and then buried under packed soil. Many of them were still alive when this happened. Later, French forces would set up camp at Murambi and turn this newly flattened surface into a sports field, would play volleyball on top of these mass graves.\n\nAfter the genocide ended, the burial pits at Murambi were exhumed, and a disconcerting discovery was made: having been packed together so tightly, the remains had mummified under the heat and compression. Contorted in their death throes, the bodies were packed into each other, leather-skinned and macabre.\n\nThousands of these ghostly white figures, preserved in lime, are now laid out, row after row, on wooden platforms inside the classrooms of the Murambi Technical School. As you move silently from one building to the next, a chalky smell clings to you. The heat is stultifying. You don't want to look, but at the same time, you can't avoid it. Your eye is drawn to these endless tableaux. Elongated, etiolated figures, reverse silhouettes with tufts of hair sticking to the skulls. Severed tendons, broken femurs. Many of the bodies are torqued and twisted, with mouths open, arms raised as though fending off a blow. These are the ones who were buried alive, and the terror of their final moments lives on. Several are caught in mid-scream, like real-life renderings of Edvard Munch. Others, already dead when buried, lie like stacks of firewood.\n\nIn _We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families_ , Philip Gourevitch describes the dead of Rwanda as aesthetically attractive, which for him only added to the affront of these sites. \"There was no getting around it,\" he notes. \"The skeleton is a beautiful thing.\" But I must confess, as I moved from room to room, feeling fogbound and forlorn, the beauty eluded me. These weren't statues at Murambi, these were people\u2014people whose lives had been cut short in the ugliest manner possible. There was no beauty here, only a crushing sense of loss.\n\nThe hardest to enter was the Children's Room, where the bodies of infants and toddlers, some found still clinging to their mothers, were laid out on the tables like small offerings. Of the thousands of bodies I saw at Murambi that day, the one that haunts me most was that of a child, maybe two or three, with his tiny hands held over his face. As a father, I knew this posture, knew it with a stomach-blow of recognition. When you're little, you believe that if you can't see something bad, it can't see you either. The child had died with his eyes tightly shut, hands covering his face. It's the desperate strategy of children confronting monsters, but it only works when the monsters are imaginary.\n\nJean-Claude and I were the only two visitors at Murambi that afternoon. Blue skies, clear views. Hills on all sides. Surrounded.\n\nThe thin, angular young man who walked us through the quiet carnage had escaped a similar massacre by, in his words, \"running.\" He was just twelve when the genocide began, he told us, and when the killings started, he ran. He ran and he ran and they did not catch him. He ran and he ran, and he is running still. His head bobbed when he talked, he spoke in dull monotones, could not make eye contact. He recited his story and that of Murambi's as if repeating a redemptive mantra. I imagine it's as much compulsive as it is therapeutic, the need to tell these stories, to tell them again and again.\n\nAnd again.\n\nA sign near one of the open excavation pits reads, with pointed understatement, FRENCH SOLDIERS PLAYED VOLLEY ON THIS SPOT. The museum at Murambi included photographs of French soldiers training interahamwe death squads.\n\nIt was time to leave. The sun was lying low across the grassy fields, and as our guide walked us down to the front gate to let us out, a blond, sun-tousled young man with a rucksack showed up, asking if he could sneak in. He was from Sweden, was down from Kigali for the day, and he wanted to see the bodies. \"Just five minutes. I will be quick. I promise.\" No, he was told. It was closing time. He would have to return during regular hours. But he had travelled all this way, he said, and wouldn't be able to come back. He was leaving Rwanda tomorrow. The young man coaxed and pleaded, tried to charm his way in\u2014and was clearly expecting to be admitted. But the hours of operation at the Murambi Genocide Memorial were clearly posted, and it was time to close up.\n\nJean-Claude and I gave the young Swedish man a ride to the nearest bus centre. He had been travelling around East Africa, was based out of Uganda. \"Too many rules in Rwanda,\" he said with a breezy smile.\n\nI asked him if, in Sweden, people who showed up at a museum or national memorial after hours would be admitted. Well, no, he said. So why should Rwanda be any different?\n\nHe seemed like an affable enough chap, admirably unflustered and travelling light, but I couldn't shake the feeling he had expected to be allowed in solely because he was white. That might have worked elsewhere in Africa. Perhaps. But not here. Not in Rwanda. And for good reason. Figuratively, historically, politically, the West has been playing volley on top of Rwanda's graves for many years.\n\nAt Murambi, the lime had turned the dead the one colour that might have saved them.\n\n**25**\n\nWE FOLLOWED A NARROW ROAD into Gikongoro (now known as Nyamagabe), and along the way passed workers in a field who were dressed in what appeared to be pyjamas.\n\n\"Pink is for the long-term prisoners,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"Orange is for the ones who are going to be released soon.\"\n\n\"So any g\u00e9nocidaires among them would be in pink?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"And both colours are easy to see against the green, if they try to run.\"\n\nPyjamaed prisoners chopping at the earth, churning the rust-coloured soil.\n\nAt Gikongoro Town, three sharp ridges converge, high above the valleys below. A topographical high-wire act, it's an improbable place to build a community, let alone one with a cantilevered hotel hanging over one side and a market spilling out on the other. Being the town drunk in Gikongoro must be a perilous undertaking; one wobbly false step and you would be somersaulting downward a long while.\n\nWe'd come to Gikongoro to find childhood friends of Jean-Claude, friends he hadn't seen in twenty years. Several confused phone calls, false turns, and head-scratching dead ends finally got us onto a rutted road outside of town, where we pulled into a yard and were met by beaming, floodlight smiles. Clementine, who was a few years younger than Jean-Claude, her brother Eric, nicknamed Petite, and their mother, Immacul\u00e9e, had come out to greet us.\n\n\"We thought you were dead!\" the mother exclaimed. And in Rwanda, this is no mere turn of phrase.\n\nThey were thrilled to see him. Several times the mother, in mid-laughter, reached out and touched his arm, softly, almost as if to reassure herself that he was indeed real.\n\nThey'd known Jean-Claude as a boy who often dropped by their neighbourhood in Kigali. \"He was like a little bird\" is how their mother put it. But while Jean-Claude's ethnic identity card was marked TUTSI, theirs had been marked HUTU. And that would make all the difference.\n\nClementine had lost her father and seen her country destroyed and rebuilt. She divided her time between an apartment in Kigali and this modest home in Gikongoro, where her mother and brother now lived. She held a bachelor's degree in economics, was working toward her master's, had been employed at the Ministry of Infrastructure and later at the Ministry of Finance, in economics, and was now the administrative assistant at a nearby United Nations refugee camp housing Congolese who had fled the violence next door.\n\nThe back of our Land Cruiser was weighted down by several duffle bags stuffed with gear: uniforms, goalie gloves and jerseys, deflated soccer balls, and more, all brand new and donated by the Calgary Foothills Soccer Club. Jean-Claude had lugged these bags all the way from Canada, intending to donate them to schools in Rwanda. On hearing that thousands of Congolese children were playing without proper equipment at the refugee camp where Clementine worked, he decided to split his inventory, bringing half here.\n\nThrough Clementine, Jean-Claude and I had contacted the UN Head of Camp, and he had invited us to visit, to deliver the soccer equipment in person and speak with the kids directly.\n\nBut before we headed to the regional UN office in Gikongoro, I thought I'd get some inside dirt on Jean-Claude. While he and Clementine's mother were talking, I sidled up beside Clementine.\n\n\"You remember Jean-Claude?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course. I only had ten years when he left, but I remember him so much.\"\n\n\"What was he like? Any secrets you can share? Troubles he got into. That sort of thing. I promise I won't tell.\"\n\n\"Secrets?\"\n\n\"Bad things he did as a kid.\"\n\n\"Oh no! He was very kind, I remember. Very kind and social. Kind, intelligent, social. Very friendly. And very calm.\"\n\n\"So he hasn't changed.\"\n\nShe looked over at him and smiled. \"He hasn't changed.\"\n\n**26**\n\nBEFORE THE EUROPEANS ARRIVED and began parcelling off sections of it to neighbouring colonies, the Kingdom of Rwanda included broad swaths of what is now eastern Congo. The entire Lake Kivu district, which is now divided between the two countries, was once Rwandan territory, and more than 400,000 Rwandese descendants\u2014the Banyamulenge, as they are known\u2014still live in eastern Congo today, where they are often targeted, attacked, scapegoated, and killed.\n\nWhere tiny Rwanda is one of the most culturally homogeneous countries in Africa, the vast republic of Congo is among its most heterogeneous. Apart from being a geographical description, it's hard to define what \"Congolese\" even means. As a palimpsest of overlapping claims and cultures, Congo is less a nation than a border drawn on a map. It encompasses one of the world's greatest rainforest basins and is ruled by a distant capital. The city of Kinshasa sits on the other side of Congo, some 1,500 kilometres away from the Lake Kivu district, with an endless jungle dividing them. The capital is more overlord than caretaker. Eastern Congo is, in a very real sense, a colony of Kinshasa.\n\nIt's important to remember that the Hutu Power extremists who launched the genocide were not destroyed so much as routed. They have regrouped in the Lake Kivu district of eastern Congo under the Orwellian-named \"Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda\" (usually given with its French acronym, FDLR), and they have continued their campaign to destabilize Rwanda.\n\nThe ominous presence of the FDLR in eastern Congo has been countered by the appearance of the M23 rebels, a group of Tutsi Congolese soldiers who mutinied against the Congolese army and are named for a March 23, 2009, peace accord they signed, which they say has yet to be implemented.\n\nThe M23 have a ruthless reputation, and the Congolese government has accused Rwanda of supplying arms to the rebels, something the Rwandan government has denied with a wide-eyed innocence that isn't fooling anyone. Rwanda, just as pointedly, has asked why the UN and the Democratic Republic of Congo haven't been pursuing the genocidal ideologues of the FDLR with the same enthusiasm they've shown for fighting the M23. The Congolese government, meanwhile, has been giving aid and ammunition to the FDLR to help \"guard their eastern door.\" To complicate matters further, there were at least ten other separate, distinct rebel groups operating in Congo's North Kivu province alone, a mishmash of competing acronyms too difficult to sort out here.\n\nAmid this sabre-rattling brinkmanship, the people in the Lake Kivu region of Congo have been caught, literally at times, in the crossfire. The conflict is about more than protecting minorities or defeating the remnants of a genocidal regime; it is fuelled by the region's diamond, gold, and coltan reserves, the latter being a rare mineral used in cell phones and video game consoles. Which is to say, to blood diamonds and blood oil, we can now add the consumer demand for faster cell phones and better PlayStation controls. South Africa, Uganda, Tanzania, and other countries have also elbowed their way into Congo's Lake Kivu region, making it a free-for-all at times. This is a Gordian knot of the first order.\n\nHundreds of thousands of refugees have fled the ongoing violence, and more than 35,000 of them have ended up in Rwanda. The UN has set up several camps to house them, including one in the small town of Kigeme, just west of Gikorongo.\n\nAnd so, with our Land Cruiser loaded down with soccer gear, Jean-Claude, Clementine, and I drove to the UN headquarters nearby, a tidy gated home with pleasant views across the hills, where we were met by Urooj Saifi, the Canadian Head of Camp.\n\nOriginally from Pakistan, now of Oakville, Ontario, Urooj had been with the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) for twenty-two years, starting in Iraq just after the first Gulf War. But nothing prepared him for the Kigeme refugee camp.\n\nHe had arrived earlier in the year to confront a full crush of humanity. \"It was a shock,\" he admits. \"The camp was designed to hold a maximum of fifteen thousand, and we were already over that. There was very little space, with everyone living on top of each other. It was... a challenge.\"\n\nI liked Urooj. He spoke quietly, thoughtfully. \"Come,\" he said. \"I'll introduce you to Deo, my Rwandan counterpart. He's the camp manager.\"\n\nDeo Ntirenganya was more serious and slightly guarded. We shook hands with a quick clench. Jean-Claude had presented me to Deo, misguidedly perhaps, as \"an important journalist\" here to investigate \"the situation in Rwanda.\"\n\nTrue, _Canadian Geographic_ magazine had asked me to write an article about my trip, and I'd printed up a lavish stack of business cards, which I'd been dealing out with a generous hand and on the slightest provocation. (The cards stated that I was \"on assignment.\") Unfortunately, as I've learned, nothing clenches administrative jaws\u2014or handshakes\u2014quicker than meeting a journalist.\n\nUrooj introduced us to his wife, who was elegant and gracious, as well as their daughter, who was visiting with some of her schoolmates from university in Edinburgh. Urooj's wife also seemed wary about my intentions, but happily Urooj was not.\n\n\"You can talk to anyone you like, ask whatever you wish,\" he said as we changed vehicles, loading the duffle bags and ourselves into the back of a UN jeep for the short but bumpy ride upward to Kigeme Camp. (Hard to imagine, but Kigeme was even higher in the hills than the already ear-popping Gikongoro.) The road grew steeper and steeper, sides flanking away. We were above the clouds now, and the sun opened up like a fan.\n\n\"Kigeme Camp is something unique,\" Urooj said, turning around to talk to me. \"It's a new way of thinking about refugees.\"\n\nThe crowds along the roadside grew thicker, leaving barely a lane's worth of space for our vehicle to squeeze through at times. I leaned up as the truck inched its way along. \"So these people, they're all...\"\n\nUrooj nodded. \"From the camp.\"\n\nOn one of the few flat patches of dirt available, a hundred or more raggedy children, barefoot and shouting, were playing with a soccer ball cobbled together from scraps of foam mattress wrapped in twine. They were calling for passes and sending sprawling shots between bamboo-rigged goalposts. Hundreds of feet kicking up clouds of red dust. We could taste the peppery earth as we passed.\n\n\"It's very congested,\" Urooj said, voice rising to be heard. \"Most other places with refugee camps have more space, a lot of open land. Not Rwanda.\"\n\nThe driver pulled over and we climbed out. The UN site was divided between two hilltop summits, with rows of clay-walled huts and the blue tents of the UN scaling the hills on both sides. We walked uphill, through further crowds of people.\n\nKigeme Camp sits on the edge of a rainforest, deep in the humid heart of Africa. But we were there in the dry season and the sun had baked the gumbo roads into a hardened terra-cotta clay.\n\n\"Rainy season is very tough,\" Urooj said, answering the question I was about to ask.\n\nKigeme Camp was crowded, but not in despair.\n\n\"This camp is meant to be a showcase,\" Urooj explained. A template for Rwanda, and potentially the world. \"The goal,\" he said, \"is integration, not isolation.\"\n\nRefugees at Kigeme Camp are given full legal protection under the same constitution that governs Rwandans. Any children born in the camp, regardless of ethnic background, are given Rwandan citizenship and birth certificates.\n\n\"This camp, and the others in Rwanda, are joint ventures,\" said Urooj. \"The UN,\" he reminded me, \"has to be invited in. We are guests. We have to remember that.\"\n\nThe problems facing the Congolese refugees at Kigeme Camp were daunting, and Deo ticked them off for me as we walked: nutrition, medical attention, child safety, education, employment, overcrowding. Daunting, but again, not insurmountable.\n\nIn refugee zones elsewhere in the world, schooling and medical care are typically provided inside the confines of the camp, with residents limited in their ability to travel outside it or to seek employment beyond. At Kigeme, they can come and go as they wish\u2014\"They are not prisoners,\" as Deo put it\u2014and are actively encouraged to look for outside employment. They are also allowed to sell or barter whatever supplies they accumulate. Indeed, a small market economy had already taken root; on the walk in, we passed stalls set up by some of the more enterprising residents to sell extra soap, candy, packets of laundry powder. Urooj stopped to buy some sweets, and the price immediately jumped 400 percent. He laughed, haggled the seller down to a mere 300 percent. A small victory, for both sides.\n\nChildren jostled in, smiling, laughing, running away when I said, _\"Bonjour, comment \u00e7a va?\"_ (Thereby using up my entire stock of high school French in one throw.)\n\n\"These kids attend school outside the camp as part of the Rwandan school system, following the regular curriculum,\" Urooj said. This included lessons in English.\n\nI pulled out a notepad and pen. If I was going to present myself as a journalist, I might as well do it properly. \"And how are the local schools coping with this huge influx of children?\" I asked.\n\n\"Very well. We expanded the existing schools in this area,\" he explained. \"There are five thousand refugee children from Kigeme Camp in school, and we built sixty-two new classrooms to accommodate them. We provide them with school uniforms and shoes as well, and we helped pay salaries to hire the extra teachers.\"\n\nAnd medical care?\n\n\"We have a small clinic inside the camp for basic health issues: malnutrition, pregnancy care, vaccinations. For anything else, we refer them to the local Rwandan health centre at the district hospital.\"\n\nThe UNHCR had helped recruit and train extra health workers as well.\n\n\"The hospital itself is very close,\" Urooj said. \"Walking distance from the camp.\"\n\nIn many ways, the camp was now part of the community. And rather than seeing the refugees as a drain, the people here, in one of the poorest regions of Rwanda, were seeing tangible benefits in hosting the Congolese: extra classrooms, extra teachers, better medical access.\n\n\"It's working very well,\" Urooj said. \"But employment remains a big challenge.\"\n\nDeo agreed. \"There are people with master's degrees in the camps who can't find work. We are talking to the local business community to see how these educated people can use their training and abilities, instead of wasting their talents. If one person in the camps gets a job, five families benefit.\"\n\nThe initial emergency had stabilized, and Urooj and Deo were now looking at quality of life, as opposed to basic survival needs. \"Skill development, handicap needs, trades. Some of the women are now employed by the camp to sew school uniforms instead of having us buy them from a supply company. It saves the camp a bit of money and provides some income for the women. Many of their husbands were killed, so this income is important.\"\n\nOn the day we arrived, a group of women were attending classes on how to use a new fuel-efficient stove that would be distributed throughout the camp. These stoves, manufactured by a German NGO, had a parabolic design that retained 80 percent of their wood-burning heat. With charcoal in short supply, this increased efficiency was crucial. The women, sent as delegates, listened intently to the instructions so that they in turn could teach their neighbours.\n\nIn addition to thousands of widows, there were thousands of orphans in the camp. Restless children who needed guidance, who needed team building, who needed a sense of belonging. In a word: soccer.\n\nThe camp had organized its own league, all ages, with boys' and girls' teams that regularly challenged neighbouring villages to matches. The sport was well-organized, with volunteer coaches and referees from the camp, regular practices, games... and an utter lack of equipment. Many of the balls they played with were made from inflated condoms, pilfered from the camp's medical kits and bound with strips of scrap taken from UN gunnysacks. The balls were inflated, ingeniously I thought, with medical syringes. They had a nice bounce to them, but were still a far cry from the real thing.\n\nAs the day cooled, Jean-Claude lugged out the duffle bags: roughly 200 soccer uniforms in total, along with goalie gear, deflated balls, and a proper pump. Kids crowded in as the coaches handed out uniforms, noting which numbers went to which kids. The players pulled on their new jerseys and assembled, grinning, looking like the teams they were. Jean-Claude was asked to say a few words.\n\n\"Have fun. Play fair. And remember, being a refugee is not a crime,\" he said. \"Having less doesn't make you a lesser person. Remember, you are the lucky ones. You have the chance to go to school and make something of yourself. Working hard will give you power and a voice. Who knows, there could be a future president among you! Or a future Messi!\"\n\nHis reference to the Argentine soccer star drew a loud cheer from the kids, and afterward I was invited to interview some of the players. Their coach, a Congolese refugee like the others, recommended I speak with a sixteen-year-old striker named Steven Nshizirungu and a goalkeeper named Eric Iradukunda, also sixteen. Stephen and Eric were exemplary players, I was told, dedicated, well-behaved, helpful with the younger children.\n\n\"You can ask them their story,\" Jean-Claude suggested. \"Why they came to this camp.\" But I couldn't. I just couldn't.\n\nIt would have ruined the alchemy of that moment, would have soured the giddy and simple joy of kids suiting up. Of looking _like a real team_. Of having _real soccer balls_. It would have been gauche to confront them with a journalist's horrible and inevitable questions: So tell me, are both your parents dead? How did they die? Did you watch them die? Who killed them, do you know?\n\nNo. None of that. Instead, I decided that these would be _sports_ interviews. This would not be about geopolitical forces beyond their control, but about something very much under their auspices: the handling of a soccer ball, the clarity of a crossover, the sudden strike, the blocked shot, the floating perfection of a chipped-in goal. After all, if they were going to become soccer stars, they had better get used to dealing with the media.\n\nWhen I asked the crowd of kids who their best player was on the girls' team, the response was immediate. A solid-looking sixteen-year-old player named Appoline Nyiramugisha was pushed to the front, looking equal parts embarrassed and proud.\n\nAppoline was a striker and by all accounts formidable.\n\n\"Could you score on Eric?\" I asked. \"On a penalty kick?\"\n\nShe looked him over, slowly, delivered a withering one-word assessment. \"Certainly.\"\n\nThis brought cheers from the girls and loud protests from the boys. But when I asked Appoline who her soccer role model was, which women's player she looked up to, she didn't understand the question. She was puzzled by it, in fact.\n\nAppoline Nyiramugisha didn't know there was such a thing as professional women's soccer players. When I told her there most certainly was, and that, if she kept at it, she might make a living at soccer when she got older, her smile looked as though it were lit from within. (If in the future, a Congolese player named Appoline is tearing up the women's pro-soccer pitch, you will know where she got her start.)\n\nI told her: \"The best women's soccer player in the world is a Canadian. Her name is Christine Sinclair, and she's a striker like you. So when people ask you, Who do you play like? you tell them _I play like Christine Sinclair_.\"\n\nShe practised the name, said it aloud several times. Smiled.\n\nAnd so passed the rest of the afternoon, not in talk of war or hardships or pain, but of something much more important: soccer.\n\nAs the sun softened and evening settled on the hills, as the smell of cooking fires drifted across, Jean-Claude and I said our goodbyes to the kids and met up with Urooj and the others for the steep descent back to the jeep.\n\nThe younger children in the camp had grown bolder, with the more brazen among them risking a hurried burst of English; they'd figured out quickly enough that I didn't speak French. Their greetings were thrown my way like an unexploded water balloon\u2014 _\"Good morning teacher how are you I am fine!\"_ \u2014as the kids in question ran back to squeals of congratulations from their friends. That they were using the exact phrasing the kids in Kigali did was a testament to the fact that they were now part of the Rwandan school curriculum.\n\nUrooj stopped, looked back at the hills above us. He said, \"Good things are happening here.\"\n\nBut Kigeme was still a camp, and these were still refugees.\n\n\"The real solution,\" Deo said back at the UN office, \"is political.\" The turmoil in Congo needed to be resolved.\n\n\"Remember,\" he said, \"these refugees are civilians. They are innocent of any crimes. They had homes, farms, shops. They had full lives. They were established. What do they need, more than anything? What do they want, more than anything? They want to go home.\"\n\n**27**\n\nA SMALL SIGN, caught in the fleeting headlights of dusk, it might have flitted past unnoticed, save for the weight of its message: RIVER CONGO\u2013RIVER NILE DIVIDE: STREAMS FLOWING WEST OF THESE HILLS FLOW INTO THE RIVER CONGO, WHILE THOSE TOWARD THE EAST FLOW INTO THE RIVER NILE.\n\nWe were travelling along Africa's central watershed. The farthest capillaries of the continent's two major arteries came within metres of touching\u2014here, on this remote forest ridge. The great rivers of Africa, sorting themselves out. On one side of the road, rain and runoff were channelled west, through a vast rainforest and a labyrinthine delta, into the warm currents of the equatorial Atlantic; water on the other side ran east and then north, through deserts and swamps, over waterfalls and past pyramids, before emptying at last into the Mediterranean.\n\nJean-Claude and I had been following this watershed without realizing it, along a thin strip of asphalt, the forest pressing in from both sides. Seeing the sign for the Congo\u2013Nile divide, we pulled over to mug for photographs. Tripod and self-timer. Flash frames in the jungle. We considered a shot of Jean-Claude peeing on one side of the road and me on the other, but decided it might not convey the dignity of the moment properly.\n\nAll around us, the forest seemed to be breathing. Cold mist. A mossy smell, part soil, part soggy rot. The taste of mulch and wet leaves. I could hear something whuffling about in the underbrush.\n\nIt was a shame I'd come to Rwanda in the dry season. This is what everyone kept telling me. They bemoaned my timing, arriving in the red-dust days of the dry. \"You should have come in March or November, or in June, right after the rainy season has ended when everything is green.\" I would say, \"It looks green now.\" But they would say, \"No. You haven't seen green. After the rains, _that_ \u2014that is green.\"\n\nBut Rwanda seemed plenty green to me, even in the dry season. Nyungwe Forest in particular seemed to defy the notion of seasons.\n\n\"There is no dry season in Nyungwe,\" I'd been told. \"Even when it's dry, it's wet.\"\n\nNyungwe is where the moist air of the Congo River pushes up against the cooler alpine heights of Rwanda's western mountains. These peaks catch the heavy underbelly of these clouds, splitting them open. Much of the country's groundwater starts here, in these forests, these mountains. In Nyungwe, the annual rainfall is measured in _metres_.\n\nSoon after the sign marking the Congo\u2013Nile divide, we came upon sheaves of broad leaves that had been laid across the road; Jean-Claude quickly geared down as we drove over them. It looked like a clumsy attempt at a highwayman-style ambush, but in actuality was a warning.\n\n\"It's for safety,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"When there's an accident, it is required by law. You must put out leaves to tell the other drivers.\" We slowed up, came around a corner, and there it was: a single-vehicle accident. A transport truck had jackknifed on a sharp turn. No injuries, thankfully, but a great deal of collateral damage. In Jungle vs. Truck Driver, round one had clearly gone to the jungle. The transport truck had slammed sideways into the trees and was now impaled on broken branches.\n\nThe driver, on muddy hands and knees, was trying to wrap the truck's front-winch cable around the axle. He'd already looped the same cable around a large tree trunk and back again, and was clearly planning to hoist the vehicle out under its own steam. It seemed sort of like trying to fly by grabbing hold of one's belt loops and pulling upward, but then again, physics never was my long suit.\n\nWe slowed to a crawl, passing a long-distance bus that was idling on the other side. We had just enough space to squeeze through on the road, but the bus did not. Several passengers had disembarked and were watching the proceedings with frowny-faced interest, poised to leap in with helpful advice at a moment's notice. These passengers were, it goes without saying, of the male persuasion. The women were tending to young children, juggling bundles, preparing food, adjusting shoulder slings. It's a failing of their sex, but they didn't seem to appreciate the art of unsolicited advice. (Men. We're sort of philanthropists that way.)\n\nWe were deep in the protected realm of a national park, and the road, although paved, was exceedingly narrow at certain points. There were times it felt as though we were being swallowed whole by a python, our Land Cruiser a lump moving through a serpentine intestinal tract.\n\n\"Nyungwe has a reputation,\" Jean-Claude said. \"For being scary. A lot of legends. Ghosts and creatures that can flip over cars. For Rwandans, it's like a haunted forest.\"\n\nHa ha, I laughed. Ha ha.\n\nNeither of us said anything for a long while. _Maybe that's what had thrown that transport truck off the road earlier. It had seemed odd, a vehicle suddenly tossing itself into the jungle like that_.\n\nThe air became cooler the higher we went. Bits of mist were caught in the forest canopy, like cotton batting. In the rear-view mirror, the jungle closed behind us. Smatterings of flowers, mad dabs of purple and red among the feathered ferns and tangled vines, flickered past. Scents swirled through the open window, some sweet, some skunky. The silvery leaves of the eucalyptus tree had their own distinct aroma: partly pine, mainly menthol. A medicinal scent. It gave the air a tiger-balm tinge.\n\nThere was one smell, though, that Jean-Claude racked his memory trying to identify. \"Did you catch that?\" he would ask. \"Just now. _There_. Again. Is some kind of plant. Smells like roasted peanuts. I know that smell.\" He never was able to identify it, though. Perhaps it was more a presence than a scent, the echo of something long gone.\n\n\"It's not there anymore,\" he said. \"But I know it. I know that smell.\"\n\nThe road folded in on itself, twisting and turning, almost meeting on the way back. Dizzying views. Stomach-sloshing corners. A low rumble of thunder as the sky cleared its throat. Flashes of light behind the clouds. The road ahead of us was drenched, potholes filled with splash-pockets of water. We were driving into the aftermath of a thunder shower, and tattered debris, blown by wind, was freshly scattered across the road. At every bend we expected to come upon a storm in progress, but we never did. It was like following the path of an advancing army. With each slash of lightning, the thunderclap that followed was farther and farther away. Rwanda was one of the lightning capitals of the world, a place of frequent and sudden strikes. _Forget car-flipping phantasms_ , I thought. _Let's hope the tires on our 4x4 are insulation enough if we get hit_.\n\nAs we wound our way back down into the lower forest, away from potential lightning strikes and car-tossing gremlins, a carpet of bright green appeared: tea plantations, carved out of the jungle. We drove between these tightly rounded hedges, and they seemed to glow in the half-light.\n\nThe road branched off and a gate appeared. Jean-Claude brought the Land Cruiser to a halt as a night watchman, rifle slung loosely over his shoulder, ambled out to check our names against a list. He nodded, shunted the barrier aside, and gave us a sleepy raised-palm wave as we passed. We drove deeper into tea, splitting a sea of green with the prow of our truck.\n\nThings you don't expect to find in the middle of a rainforest: valet parking.\n\nThere is no place in Rwanda quite like Nyungwe Forest Lodge. Clean, modernist lines with African decor, an infinity pool, and a dining-room veranda offering sublime views. Five-star elegance with a low-impact design: the lodge has received environmental accreditation for its low carbon footprint. When Jean-Claude and I pulled up, we were greeted with hot face towels, pineapple juice served in chilled glasses, and a valet to park our vehicle.\n\n\"Here's to roughing it in Africa,\" we said, clinking glasses.\n\nI hadn't come to Nyungwe Forest Lodge merely to soak up the good life, though. No sir. I was on assignment, remember. Jean-Claude and I were here to carry out a socioeconomic investigation of strategic marketing paradigms. (Whatever that meant.) If this required our own private elevated cabins with full bath and cumulus pillows, so be it.\n\nOn the restaurant's veranda we further toasted our good fortune: me with a light Riesling, Jean-Claude with his infernal alcohol-free mineral water. We stretched out our legs under linen tablecloths, dined on the views (and the filet of beef, that too), then retired to our respective cabins, following a path through a sea of tea. A German family pushed past us, impatient to start relaxing. A silver-coin moon hung in the air, and above the lights of the lodge, the Nyungwe mountains formed layered horizons, overlapping in gradations of torn blue. A mood so splendid not even the Germans could ruin it, and that's saying a lot.\n\n**28**\n\nI WOKE TO THE CHIRPLE AND TRILL of tropical birds, the scamper of monkeys across tiled rooftops, the wry chuckle of primates in the trees. My cabin, sitting on stilts, looked out at a wall of forest. The jungle began two feet from my balcony.\n\nI went for an early-morning walk, met the same German family tromping purposefully toward the lodge, circled back, and ate breakfast as far from them as possible. Jean-Claude showed up soon after, looking spry and surprisingly refreshed. \"I dreamed I was driving,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh. Would you like me to...\" I offered half-heartedly.\n\n\"Are you kidding? I'm enjoying this.\"\n\nNyungwe Forest Lodge has won international awards for hotel design, and the person overseeing the operation was another one of those smart, educated young women Rwanda seemed to specialize in. I stopped by to see her after breakfast.\n\nAlice Kampire had been with the lodge for three years, since it first opened. She was originally the financial supervisor, but had been moved to assistant manager, in charge of customer service. The hardest part, she told me, was keeping staff. Having been trained at the highest level, employees often jumped ship to work at other hotels or to launch businesses of their own. Hoteliers, chefs, and niche-market tour company ventures have all sprung from Nyungwe Forest Lodge.\n\n\"We are like a training ground,\" Alice said with a half-sigh. \"But,\" she shrugged, \"it's good for them to grow. And other people are always joining. Many want to work here, so we can pick the best.\"\n\nI'd seen this firsthand over breakfast. When I asked the waiter if they had multi-grain toast, I was told that sadly, no, they had only white or brown. When the meal arrived\u2014slices of fresh fruit, soft-poached eggs with sausage, and caramelized slices of plantain\u2014the toast that accompanied it was exactly what we would call \"multi-grain.\" When I mentioned this to the waiter, he pulled out a pencil and recorded the information for future reference. \"And whole wheat?\" he asked. \"What is that? Sometimes American tourists ask for whole wheat.\"\n\nHe was planning to open a caf\u00e9 on the shores of Lake Kivu, he confided, one that would cater to international guests. \"You will come? When it's open?\" It wasn't really a question, the way he said it. Of course I would. Why wouldn't I? His place would have multigrain _and_ whole wheat.\n\nI thought it best not to mention to Alice that she was about to lose yet another staff member. I did, however, consider canvassing her opinion about the socioeconomic importance of strategic marketing paradigms, but, given that I didn't understand the question myself, decided against it.\n\n\"Ready for the monkeys?\" she asked.\n\n\"I am,\" I said, then added knowingly, \"and for the _chimpanzees_ , too.\" I'd already learned, childhood readings of _Curious George_ to the contrary, that chimpanzees are not technically \"monkeys.\" They are apes, a fact I liked to drop into conversations whenever possible.\n\nJean-Claude and I had booked two nights at the lodge, with primate treks lined up on both days. We'd be starting with the monkeys. The apes would come later.\n\nThirteen distinct species of primate make their home in the forested hills of Rwanda, and Nyungwe Forest contains almost every species save gorillas, a remarkable concentration.\n\nAfter putting together our day packs, we drove\u2014note the ongoing use of the royal \"we\"; Jean-Claude drove, I jotted down insights and observations\u2014to the park's main office to meet up with a trio of guides, two of whom were disquietingly armed. Rebels were operating in Congo, I'd been told, but Congo wasn't that close, surely.\n\n\"The rifles are in case of animals,\" one of the guides explained.\n\n\"What kinds of animals?\"\n\n\"Oh, all kinds.\"\n\nAs the other armed guide passed by, he whispered cryptically, \"Not for animals.\"\n\nThe pursuit of monkeys is a strange undertaking. You go crashing through the underbrush like the clumsy, ground-bound primate you are, engaged in a dogged steeplechase. To what end? Primarily for the amusement of our nimbler airborne cousins, I suspect.\n\nAt the lodge I'd seen fleeting tufts of fur bounding from rooftop to rooftop and into the forest, but those were more heard than seen: the sound of monkeys being monkeys. Out here, on trails so faint they seemed to exist mainly in the imagination of our guides, we were tracking a troop of acrobatic colobus as they leapt from branch to branch far overhead, their white-tipped tails flipping us the bird. We were, apparently, playing an extended game of monkey tag, which is as exhausting as it sounds. Whenever we stopped, hands on knees, panting, they would stop as well, waiting for us to catch our breath before starting the game anew.\n\nAt one point, we came upon a scruffy band of mangabeys hanging out in the lower branches. These monkeys were smaller but scrappier than other species, our guide told us, and the rest of the forest tended to leave them alone. Unlike the gentle-eyed vervets, which everybody else picked on, no one messed with the mangabeys. (I noted how the high-flying colobus monkeys gave the mangabeys a wide berth when they passed them in the forest. _\"That's right, pal, keep movin'.\"_ )\n\n\"If one mangabey gets hurt, the others will fight off anyone who comes near,\" our guide said. \"They are tough little monkeys.\"\n\nThe mangabeys watched us pass with a jaundiced eye. Jaundiced in every sense of the word; their gaze seemed yellow and liquid, as though raw from late-night poker marathons and cigarette smoke. I half-expected to see roll-your-own cheroots dangling from their lips. If monkeys could get tattoos, the mangabeys would be first in line.\n\nPersonally, I was hoping to spot the aptly named owl-faced monkey, if only because they look so sadly comical with their morose eyes and long white stripe down the middle of their noses, but none appeared. Damn rude of them not to show up. Didn't they know we were on a schedule?\n\nThe monkeys that we did see were of the taunting variety. There was something about the sight of a telephoto lens that inspired them. They'd be sitting on a branch in perfect profile, dramatically backlit by a shaft of sun, peering at the far horizon with a look of ancient monkey wisdom, only to bolt the moment I raised my viewfinder. I have an entire catalogue of monkey-butt photographs. Blurred tails. A bunch of leaves where a monkey just was. That sort of thing.\n\nThe trail we were allegedly following traced a line of gummy clay through tanglements of foliage, the air redolent with the smell of growth and decay, of rot and rebirth feeding off each other.\n\n\"Path must be slick in the rainy season,\" I gasped, unsnagging myself again from the grasp of Rwanda's prehensile vines.\n\n\"Yes. Very muddy. But more greener,\" said our lead guide, waving a disappointed hand at the towering stands of beauty surrounding us. \"You should have come after the rains. It's much nicer. More green.\"\n\nThe fluted trunks of strombosia trees rose like cathedral columns under the ceiling of sunshade canopy. _Were these the trees that inspired Rwandan legends about the forests of the Congo holding up the sky?_ Monkeys fed on the nutlike fruit of the strombosia, gnawing off the outside and tossing away the pits. The trails were scattered with them.\n\nA white-bearded L'Hoest's monkey, looking every bit the wizened old hermit, watched us as we came out onto a rutted road. The colobus assembled in the leaves above us, waiting for us to come back and play. When we didn't, they gave a collective shrug and went off to look for some vervets to beat up.\n\nAs we stood on the road chugging water, a band of Twa villagers appeared, walking uphill at a slow, steady pace, bundles on heads, dressed in loose cloth, shoulders bare. They lived in these forests, in remote communities barely linked to the outside world. I was fairly sure one of our own guides was Twa himself (he barely came up to my chest and moved through the forest with an ease the other guides must have envied), but there was no way to ask him without causing all sorts of awkwardness. As the villagers approached, our guide raised his hand in greeting. He spoke with them softly for a moment, nodding when they pointed down the road. More monkeys that way. He thanked them, and we strode off with renewed vigour.\n\nSeveral hours and an enlightening conversation about leopards later\u2014 _\"Yes, there are leopards in these forests, but rarely seen, we'd be 'lucky' if we actually met one, and no the rifles are not for leopards, they are for... other things\"_ \u2014we arrived back at the main road. Our Land Cruiser was waiting right where we'd left it.\n\nOn the assumption that leopards strike from behind, picking off the laggards, I'd pushed my way to the middle of the line, leaving Jean-Claude to pull up the rear. We ended our day with a canopy walk, where a series of ropelike bridges was strung between the tree-tops like a laundry line.\n\nBird calls and the chirr of insects. Vertigo views. The sudden bombastic shake of a tree as a monkey leapt through the leaves below. _Finally, we have the high ground on the little buggers_. One monkey, on hearing our heavy footsteps above, looked up with an expression of abject befuddlement\u2014 _\"What on earth are you doing way up there?\"_ \u2014before scurrying away.\n\nThe canopy below seemed soft and fluffy, as though, if you took a swan dive over the edge, you might bounce on its quilt-like softness. I stood awhile, gently swinging, looking down. We could hear the whoop of monkeys in the distance and, nearer at hand, the panicked cries of a heavy-hipped woman being coaxed onto the cat's cradle of the canopy walk by her barrel-bellied husband.\n\nI'd chatted with them earlier. They ran a boarding school in Kigali, were here on holiday, and as such represented the growing number of Rwandans travelling within their own country: domestic tourists, a sure sign of a nascent middle class. Though, given the woman's shrieks and deathlike grip on the swaying cables, I don't imagine she had quite as positive a take on the matter.\n\n\"What was she saying?\" I asked Jean-Claude afterward. \"In Kinyarwanda.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he said. \"Many bad things. Mainly about her husband.\"\n\n\"This is where the rest of my life began.\" Jean-Claude on the bridge over Rusumo Falls.\n\nA fateful bottleneck in the Akagera River.\n\nBullet holes at Camp Kigali where the Belgian peacekeepers were killed.\n\nAftermath of an attack: the communal kitchen at Ntarama.\n\nPutting faces to statistics at the Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre.\n\nThe clothing of victims piled in front of the bullet-scarred tabernacle at Nyamata Church.\n\nCoffins on the pews at Ntarama. The clothing of victims hangs from the rafters.\n\n\"I ran and I ran and they could not catch me.\" Survivor on Murambi Hill.\n\nTwo very different palaces. Belgian-built residence of the last kings of Rwanda.\n\nThe mwami's residence in the Royal Courts of Nyanza.\n\nYoung entrepreneur at the Kigeme refugee camp.\n\n\"They are not prisoners.\" A community takes shape at Kigeme Camp.\n\nJean-Claude with some of the newly suited future soccer stars of Kigeme refugee camp.\n\nOur 4\u00d74 at the end of the known world. The rainforests of the Congo were once thought to hold up the sky.\n\nTrail guide in the Rwandan rainforest. A paint-by-numbers where every colour is green.\n\nIf monkeys could get tattoos, mangabeys would be first in line.\n\n\"Many bad things. Mainly about her husband.\" Canopy walk at Nyungwe.\n\nView from the entranceway of Nyungwe Forest Lodge.\n\nThe art of hitchhiking: Betty, Grace, and Anuarite, the three students we gave a ride to.\n\nDust in the jungle. Our 4\u00d74 marked with fingerprints.\n\n**29**\n\nTHE CHIMPANZEES PROVED MORE MANAGEABLE. Now there's a sentence you don't often read!\n\nWe gathered in the early hours the next morning, an assortment of travellers, all yawns and neck cricks, awaiting instruction. Destinations were confirmed, with some groups bound for waterfalls, others for a summit, still others setting off in search of chimps. A second vehicle would be joining Jean-Claude and me on our trek, an equally dusty 4x4 carrying a psychiatrist from Toronto named Lorne and his indomitable daughter Adriana. Lorne and Adriana had been travelling across East Africa after Adriana's tour of duty as a volunteer in Tanzania ended. She was fifteen and dauntless. Also prone to carsickness, which made their ongoing road trip tough at times. She spent much of it bobble-headed in the backseat.\n\nOver the course of their father-daughter expedition, they'd observed some interesting contrasts between the countries they visited. \"When we crossed into Rwanda,\" Lorne noted, with a nod to their driver, \"everything changed. It was suddenly very clean. The quality of the roads immediately improved, and the police checkpoints simply... stopped.\"\n\nTravellers in Africa so often get used to the mild but constant harassment of police officers and border officials wheedling people for bribes that the sudden absence of this in Rwanda is almost unnerving.\n\n\"Rwanda has a very different vibe,\" Lorne said.\n\nAdriana was more ambivalent about it. Echoing the tousle-haired Swede we'd met earlier, she said, with a sigh, \"There are too many rules in Rwanda.\"\n\nLorne and I exchanged looks. _Ah, youth. When you get older, you won't find messy inefficiency quite so charming_.\n\nWe headed south just before dawn, driving through the tunnel of our own headlights. The road curved sleepily through one village, then the next.\n\nIt would take more than an hour to get to the trailhead in Cyamudongo, where a band of twenty-five chimps was living in a protected enclave of montane, \"cloud,\" forest. It was Sunday, and as if on cue, hundreds of women appeared, dressed in proud patterns, dragging their husbands in ill-fitting suits behind them. Off to church.\n\nWith a jar, the pavement ended.\n\nOur two-vehicle convoy had left the main road and turned onto rougher routes. As we rattled across corduroy surfaces, the father-daughter vehicle in front of us disappeared into a kickback of powdered clay. Our wipers smeared a slurry of mud across the glass, opening up a narrow view. Steep sides dropped away on either side. We were ridge running, half-blind.\n\n\"Don't worry,\" said Jean-Claude, referring to the rows of trees along the side. \"We have guardrails.\"\n\nThe road crested, and we were soon deep in forest again. The vehicle ahead rolled to a stop and we pulled up alongside. When I opened my door, clay fountained off. _Dust in the jungle_. A strange combination.\n\nA pair of trail guides were waiting for us, trim young men dressed in the dark-green uniforms of Rwanda's National Park Service.\n\n\"Welcome to Cyamudongo. From here,\" they said, \"we will walk. This could take an hour, maybe more, maybe less. Probably more.\"\n\nAnother vehicle appeared, and four more people climbed out, Spanish students touring the region. This brought our tally to eight, which was the cap for these treks. The motto, as always, was small numbers, low impact.\n\nThe path was wide and easy to follow. It ran flat for a while and then headed down a steep incline, where the thick roots of trees formed natural steps. When we came upon a pile of monkey poop, we got very excited.\n\n\"Not monkey poop,\" the guide corrected us. \" _Chimpanzee_ poop.\"\n\nNot that it mattered. _Click-whirr, click-whirr, click_. Said poop was immortalized in a flurry of photographs from numerous angles while our guides stood to one side, trying not to shake their heads in wonderment. Like the Twa villagers we'd met in the jungle the day before, they must have thought we were more than a bit batty.\n\n_Forget the primates_ , I thought. _You could tour their poop_. I made a mental note to get rich on this later.\n\nBy now, I had the feeling that our guides\u2014fully trained in forest conservation\u2014were also a wee bit hungover. They were besieged with yawns and bleary of eye. When a bird of prey similar to the one I'd seen at the royal court _kiied_ above us, swooping low and then arcing up and away, I said, \"I've seen that bird before. Is that a hawk or an eagle?\"\n\nThe guide I was walking beside mumbled \"Yes.\"\n\nUm.\n\n\"So... is it a hawk? Or is it an eagle?\" (I don't know why I needed to know; I'm not a birdwatcher or anything.)\n\n\"It's uh\u2014it's a hawk-eagle,\" the guide said.\n\nReally? \"A hawk-eagle?\"\n\n\"That's right.\"\n\nMental note: _Check to see if there really is such a thing as a hawk-eagle_.\n\n\"Sometimes hawk-eagles catch baby monkeys,\" he added helpfully. \"They take them right from the trees.\"\n\n\"You mean, they take baby _chimpanzees_ ,\" I said.\n\nHe shrugged. _Tomayto, tomahto_.\n\nWe came upon more poop, fresher than the last batch, and with anticipation mounting on every step, we stumble-walked through the forest, eyes everywhere except on the trail, ready to catch sight of these mysterious forest denizens.\n\nWe needn't have worried. When you come across chimps, you know it. They are, as Jean-Claude put it, \"the teenagers of the forest.\" Noisy, gratuitously destructive, endlessly argumentative, fully obsessed with bodily functions, and constantly laughing at their own antics. You hear them long before you see them: that reverberating hooting pant, the _ooo-ooo-ooo-ah-ah-ah_ , from the soundtrack of every Tarzan movie. It's a sound that tingles the spine when you hear it, gets louder, more pitched as you draw nearer. And then suddenly, right in front of you, is a tree full of chimps. I don't know if you remember the classic children's book _Go, Dog. Go!_ , but it ends with a dog party! A big dog party! on top of an enormous umbrella-like tree. That's what it was like. A chimp party! A big chimp party! Thirty or so primates with party hats and cake and noisemakers had congregated on a single massive tree.\n\nWe spent an hour watching them as they scrambled from branch to branch, fighting, hooting, mating (eww), grooming, feeding, picking at their anuses. The whole gamut of the chimpanzee lifestyle was on proud display that day.\n\nThey seemed able-footed, but the guides assured us that chimps did fall from trees now and then. \"Sometimes, when they try to jump, they miss. And if they are too high up, they can be killed by the fall.\"\n\nJean-Claude figured that must be the single most embarrassing way to die if you're a monkey: falling from a tree.\n\n\"If the neighbours ask,\" Jean-Claude whispered, \"I will bet the chimpanzee's family will say to them 'He died fighting a leopard,' or had a heart attack.\"\n\nAnything but falling from a tree.\n\nI don't know why we were whispering. It's not as if we were at a chimp funeral; the entire tree was in a ruckus. We were standing on a spongy mat of moss and mulch, and when I climbed over a fallen tree trunk to get a closer look, I didn't notice that I was now standing on top of\u2014\n\nThe guide tapped my shoulder and said, at the exact moment I felt the first burning stings on my ankles, \"Fire ants. You should maybe move.\"\n\nThough, of course, by that point I was already running in circles, mid-air, swatting at my ankles. I may have said something as well. Something along the lines of _\"Gettim off me! Gettim off me!\"_\n\nJean-Claude told me later that several chimps had stopped to watch. \"They were very entertained,\" he said.\n\nShortly before it was time to go, I spotted a solitary chimp sitting on a low branch, lips pursed in a pensive manner as he looked into the middle distance, one long arm hanging down. As I drew closer, the guide again tapped my shoulder. \"Maybe not too close,\" he said. He gestured to the chimp's dangling hand and what was cupped inside it: a moist lump of poop, ready for the flinging. And there he was, looking oh-so-innocent, hoping I would come... just... a little... bit... closer.\n\n\"Was he really going to?\" I asked.\n\n\"Probably.\"\n\nChimpanzees have thirty kinds of sounds to communicate with, from breathy pants to sudden screeches to low growls. They organize hunting parties against colobus monkeys, the guide said as we tromped back toward the trailhead.\n\n\"There are wars going on in these forests?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"All the time.\"\n\n**30**\n\nOUR JOURNEY TO SEE THE CHIMPS had taken us to the edge of the Burundian border. At one point, when I asked the guide which way Burundi lay, he pointed to the next mountain and said, \"Other side.\"\n\nBurundi and Rwanda existed as separate\u2014but mirrored\u2014Tutsi\u2013Hutu kingdoms for centuries prior to European arrival. The Germans lumped them together into a single administrative unit known as \"Ruanda-Urundi.\" Belgium continued this policy, but when the two countries gained independence, their destinies diverged\u2014dramatically.\n\nIn many ways, Burundi and Rwanda are distorted reflections of each other. Much like Rwanda, Burundi was a centralized, semi-feudalistic society with two main social classes: Tutsi herders and Hutu farmers, with the ruling kings drawn from the Tutsi class. But whereas in Rwanda the Hutu majority took control after independence, in Burundi the Tutsi minority dug in. Drawing lessons from the 1959 massacre of Tutsis in neighbouring Rwanda, the ruling elite in Burundi tightened their grip, slaughtering Hutu civilians on any pretext, with every failed rebellion or attempt at raising a political opposition.\n\nMulti-party rule in Burundi eventually signalled the end of Tutsi hegemony, but the Tutsi elite would not go down without a fight. In the same month that the Arusha Accords were signed, ending Rwanda's civil war, Burundi elected its first Hutu president. It boded well for democracy in the region. But just four months after he was elected, the new president was assassinated by Tutsi army officers. When the Hutu population rose up, the government responded with a further slaughter of Hutu citizens under a series of scorched-earth pogroms. Hundreds of thousands fled into Rwanda, bringing with them warnings of Tutsi Power. The message was clear: _\"Do not trust the Tutsis!\"_ Burundi and Rwanda were caught in an echo chamber, each one's outrages fuelling the fears and intransigence of the other, a _danse macabre_ in which both sides led, both sides followed. The two countries were, in G\u00e9rard Prunier's memorable description, \"opposite ends of a political seesaw.\"\n\nIn Calgary, I once mistakenly referred to a pastor Jean-Claude had introduced me to as being Rwandan. He wasn't. He was from Burundi. \"But don't worry,\" the pastor laughed. \"This is a very easy mistake to make. In Burundi, you see, we are always copying Rwanda. They kill _their_ president, we have to kill _our_ president. _They_ have a genocide, we have to have one too.\"\n\nJean-Claude and the pastor from Burundi had a good chuckle over this. Gallows humour, I suppose, but true.\n\nIn Burundi, massacres followed counter-massacres in a cycle of violence that feeds itself even now. Burundi was never laid low the way Rwanda was, but it has never rebuilt itself, either. It remains mired in corruption and poverty, with political turmoil and ethnic tensions flaring up constantly.\n\nIf Rwanda today has too many rules, Burundi has too few. The same surveys that routinely place Rwanda among the least corrupt nations in Africa inevitably place Burundi among the worst. Rwanda's economy is growing; Burundi's is stagnant. It remains among the poorest countries on the continent. And even today, along this border, in these remote hills and clandestine forests, secret wars are being waged.\n\n**31**\n\nJEAN-CLAUDE AND I SAID a reluctant farewell to the five-star luxury of Nyungwe Forest Lodge, knowing that every subsequent lodging would suffer by comparison. _\"Glacier-chilled strawberries topped with papaya, you say? At Nyungwe Forest Lodge they had glacier-chilled strawberries topped with papaya_ and _a selection of sliced cantaloupe arranged in festive formations, but I suppose this will have to do.\"_\n\nThe hotel staff had washed the Land Cruiser for us without our asking\u2014the ol' girl gleamed\u2014and as we wound our way through neon-green fields of tea beneath smoke-coloured mountains, an early-morning mist settled on the landscape. It felt as if we were starring in a truck commercial.\n\nJean-Claude told me about a dream he'd been having, in which he and I were being chased by a mob of people. \"I couldn't see who they were, just that they wanted to kill us.\"\n\n\"Us?\" I asked. \"What the hell did I do?\"\n\n\"Guilt by association,\" Jean-Claude said with a laugh. \"Your skin is so light maybe they thought you were a Tutsi.\"\n\n\"Well, keep me out of your nightmares, okay?\"\n\nHe smiled. \"Oh, I can't promise that.\"\n\nWhat must it be like to come back to this landscape, to this land, and dream of faceless people chasing you? I couldn't begin to imagine.\n\nHaving left Nyungwe National Park, we came to a T in the road, freshly paved in both directions with a new market alongside. Women bustled about, setting up shop for the day.\n\n\"Buhinga,\" said Jean-Claude. \"That's the name of this place.\"\n\nIt wasn't even on the map. Formerly a huddle of clay huts, today it is a crossroads town teeming with trade.\n\n\"I was out here once, many years ago,\" Jean-Claude said. \"It's changed.\"\n\n\"For the better?\"\n\nHe looked at me as if I were mad. \"Of course.\"\n\nThey used to hunt Tutsis along the muddy trails outside of Buhinga. Now they were shopping at a new, purpose-built market on freshly paved roads, a reminder that in Rwanda the past was never something to feel nostalgic about. There were no \"good old days\" to pine for.\n\nJean-Claude turned onto wider roads, pointed us north.\n\nBeyond the red-clay escarpments of Buhinga, we got our first clear views of Lake Kivu in the distance. Then, as quickly as it appeared, Kivu was gone, disappearing behind leafy stands of banana trees. Every yard seemed to have several of these oversized plants out front, surrounding and at times obscuring the homes behind them. The tightly bunched bananas formed rubbery green chandeliers.\n\n\"Out here, if you have an extra foot of land, you plant a banana tree.\"\n\nIt felt as though someone had overturned a giant bowl of lettuce on us. The leaves hung down, slapping the sides of the Land Cruiser as we passed. And with every break in the greenery, every gap in the hills, a backdrop of blue.\n\nLess a lake than an inland sea, Kivu divides the Democratic Republic of Congo from that of Rwanda, and as the road grew steeper, we found ourselves looking over across the dramatic headlands of Ijwi Island. The island sits on the Congo side of the great divide, and with the mist that had pooled on the lake, Ijwi seemed to be floating on a fog bank. Other islands hovered above the water as well, but as the sun climbed higher, the mist on Lake Kivu melted away and the Congo emerged, full force, on the far side of the lake. _The end of the known world_.\n\nBeginning a slow descent into the next valley, we passed through the town of Kagano where a new church was taking shape: jerry-rigged scaffolding and red-brick walls the same colour as the soil. Faith, under construction. Like the crossroads community of Buhinga, Kagano sported a brand-new market as well, with freshly painted shops in earthen reds and tawny yellows. (The brighter phone-company-sponsored colours hadn't yet reached this remote region.) A quarry works was taking bloodless bites from the side of a hill as men in sweat-stained undershirts shovelled gravel into wooden containers. A young girl stepped back to watch us pass.\n\nThe road seemed to fall out from under us; we came down so fast I could feel the drop in my stomach. On a marshy plain, the Kamiranzovu flowed into Lake Kivu in a coffee-swirl of silt. We crossed the river on a rickety bridge of dubious integrity, past hordes of small children who were cannonballing off the sides.\n\n\"Morning bath time,\" said Jean-Claude. \"Really just a chance to play.\"\n\nBanyan trees lined the banks of the Kamiranzovu. They looked like plants that, triffid-like, had somehow learned to walk, ambulatory trees struggling to free themselves from reechy waters. We drove alongside Lake Kivu, a polished plane with islands embedded, before starting our ascent anew.\n\nThis would set the pattern for the rest of the day, as we cut across the rise-and-fall fjords of Lake Kivu, climbing over high ridges then slaloming back down the other side, crossing the mouth of a marshy river or stream that emptied into the lake and then climbing back up again over the next row of serrated hills.\n\nAt the RDB tourism office back in Kigali, Rica Rwigamba had confided in me, with a slightly abashed laugh, that the bureau was planning to package this route as the \"Rwanda Riviera.\" It seemed a bit of harmless hubris at the time, but having travelled it, I concur. The scenery along Lake Kivu stands with the best of the Mediterranean.\n\nHowever, as we soon discovered, the road itself wasn't ready for tourists.\n\nIt started off well enough. We'd been driving over asphalt that unfurled as smoothly as silk, an image that was particularly apt because we were, as Jean-Claude noted, travelling on a \"Chinese highway.\"\n\nChina's all-in move into Africa is one of the least-known stories on the continent. Across sub-Saharan Africa, hundreds of thousands of Chinese workers are pouring in, building bridges and dams and massive infrastructure projects: all part of China's long-term strategy to supplant the West as Africa's main trade partner while gaining access to the continent's vast resources. China needs fuel, minerals, raw materials. Africa needs roads, infrastructure, and, to judge by the number of Chinese-made trinkets that have swamped the area, cheap manufactured goods as well. More and more local markets in Africa have come to resemble dollar stores. Africa is not just a source of resources for China but a source of consumers as well.\n\nIn stark contrast to the stance the West takes, at least _pretending_ to make human rights a precondition for favoured trade status, China makes no such demands. (Given their own track record, how could they?) China will happily work with anyone, anywhere, from dictators to struggling democracies, no strings attached. But Rwanda's cooperation comes with stringent conditions, the most important of which is that large-scale projects hire and train a local workforce.\n\nAs we rolled toward what would turn out to be the End of Asphalt, we passed Rwandan surveyors and work crews widening the road base, grading the surfaces, pushing the blacktop ever forward. Chinese supervisors in hard hats and putty-grey uniforms worked alongside, and an open field rumbled with cumbersome trucks and massive earthmovers, looking not unlike a gathering of brontosauri. A few of the younger Rwandan drivers-in-training looked slightly terrified behind the controls, even with a Chinese instructor beside them hanging off the door, but most were thundering about with gusto, shifting gears and communicating\u2014how exactly?\n\n\"The Chinese learn to speak Kinyarwanda,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"They take lessons before they come.\"\n\nIn Africa, the Chinese have circumvented English as the default mode of trade and are communicating with workers in their own language, a feat the West never mastered. From the first German colonizers, through Belgium and France, to Rwanda's current membership in the English-speaking Commonwealth of Nations, the language of business has always depended on what the current political alignment happened to be. As Jean-Claude put it, \"My grandfather learned German, my father learned French, I learned English.\"\n\nEuropeans had always expected Africans to learn their language; the Chinese were the first to meet them halfway. They have made it reciprocal as well, opening \"Confucius Centres\" in several African countries, including Rwanda, where students can learn Chinese culture and language for free.\n\nOn the road north, we passed Chinese dormitories, simple structures with high walls and carefully cultivated rice paddies out front. Behind those doors there would be chopsticks and rice wine, Chinese DVDs and photos of sweethearts back in Shanghai. These were cultural outposts we were passing, where Asia and Africa met, and this stretch of road was the only one where, on seeing my sweaty pink face in the window, children ran alongside shouting _\"Nihau! Nihau!\"_ rather than the usual _\"Goo'moaning'teacha!\"_\n\nThat's right. Out here on Lake Kivu, in the remote would-be Rwanda Riviera of central Africa, I was assumed to be Chinese. It made sense: what else could I be? The only muzungus these kids ever saw were Chinese work crews. I clearly wasn't Rwandese, _ipso facto_... Personally, I loved it. I took to shouting _\"Nihau!\"_ back at them with what I presumed was a fluent Mandarin accent. I even toyed with the idea of getting out and really messing with their heads by introducing myself as Alex Ferguson's son. _\"Alex Ferguson is Chinese?\"_\n\nComing upon one construction site, I caught the eye of a weary-looking Chinese worker. He was taking a break, squatting beside the asphalt, elbow resting on his knees as he smoked the stub of a cigarette, and he gave me a nod as we drove by. Just a pair of muzungus passing on the road.\n\nThe highway was pushing prosperity ahead of it. You could see this in both the number and the quality of new rooftops: sheets of metal, catching the light above crumbling clay walls. And in many cases, not clay but cement, freshly painted. The Rwandans who drove the work trucks were well-paid, and they in turn were injecting income back into the local economy. New homes employed local builders, and builders required supplies. More cash meant more caf\u00e9s. More caf\u00e9s meant more refrigerators, more Fanta to stock, more food to sell. And as we drove north along this Chinese highway, motorcycles began to appear, shiny and new, dipping and weaving with an undeniable \u00e9lan.\n\nFinancial institutions with tinted glass had popped up amid every clutch of homes, it seemed, offering business loans and compound savings accounts with the latest interest rates posted out front, while girls in traditional head wraps herded goats past the front doors. I realize that at this point one is expected to wax elegiac about the woeful effect of wealth on traditional cultures and the \"loss of innocence\" that comes with it. But I've never subscribed to the notion that poverty is quaint or that isolation is somehow ennobling. And anyway, this is Rwanda. There is very little innocence left to lose.\n\n**32**\n\nSOMETHING ELSE WAS GOING ON, just below the surface. The Rwanda Riviera was about to become a conduit for information technology as well.\n\nThe government was taking advantage of highway construction to run fibre-optic and electrical cables up the length of Lake Kivu. A narrow trench had been cut beside the asphalt, and as the road pushed through, braided cables were being unspooled into the earth alongside it. Jean-Claude and I would follow these cables for hundreds of miles. It was a remarkable undertaking for such a rugged and remote region. The goal, of course, was to bring the world to Rwanda, with full internet access for the entire nation, even in the dusty boondocks\u2014especially in the dusty boondocks.\n\nThis embrace of the wider world is also reflected in the country's open-door visa policies. Rwanda is a key member of the East African Community (EAC), which hopes to create a NAFTA-style free-trade zone encompassing Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda, Tanzania, and Kenya. The aim is to lower tariffs and increase cross-border trade throughout the region. This would include shared visas and, potentially, a shared currency as well. Rwanda wants to take things even further, and has been calling on all African states to eliminate barriers to trade, study, and travel in order to encourage the open exchange of goods, people, and ideas. Rwanda has led by example, with an open-door visa policy for _all_ Africans, not just members of the EAC.\n\nRwanda today is one of the only countries in the world that issues automatic visas to all African nationals at point of entry. When asked why he'd brought in such sweeping changes, President Kagame answered, \"Common sense and enlightened self-interest.\"\n\nEnlightened self-interest, the notion that what's in the public's best interest is also in the individual's, motivates much of what Rwanda does. This is seen not simply as a way to claim a better future, but to avoid sinking back into a darker past. The strategy\u2014socially, economically, politically\u2014is predicated on a single overriding obsession: to prevent another genocide from occurring. If everyone is invested in the success of the country, if everyone has a stake in its prosperity, they won't be tempted to tear it down.\n\nEven the laws mandating the percentage of women in parliament and on the Supreme Court are based on this notion. The belief is that if women had had a greater say in government policy, there would never have been a genocide in the first place. And much as I hate to pander to preconceptions about gender, and knowing full well that many women _were_ involved, taunting the victims, urging their husbands onward, taking an active role in the lootings, even operating as genocidal militia leaders, the killings themselves were almost exclusively a male undertaking\u2014from the top all the way down. It's hard to imagine a parliament with 64 percent women approving the wholesale slaughter of children.\n\nThis is also the reasoning behind Rwanda's full-scale investment in information technology. If the genocide was caused by ignorance and isolation, change that: connect the populace to a larger network, allow trade to move freely across borders, remove travel restrictions, encourage entrepreneurs, reward initiative. These were more than just fibre-optic cables being unspooled. This was a thin line of hope.\n\nIf you're going to dream, dream big.\n\nRwanda already had widespread Wi-Fi coverage in public buildings, hotels, schools, and bus centres, and it was now positioning itself to become a major IT and telecommunications hub as well. To that end, the government signed a massive public\u2013private partnership with South Korea's KT Corporation to provide high-speed 4G internet access to 95 percent of the population by 2018. But of course, access alone isn't enough. Rwanda also aims to have the internet in 70 percent of households on the same timeline.\n\nThe fibre-optic cables Jean-Claude and I were driving alongside represented just a small part of a 3,000-kilometre network crisscrossing the country. Rwanda has signed onto the One Laptop per Child initiative as well. More than 200,000 laptops have been distributed to hundreds of schools across the country, among the highest levels of any country involved in the program.\n\nIt's all very ambitious, considering that almost 80 percent of Rwandan homes are still not connected to a national power grid. How do you introduce the internet to villages that are without electricity? Easy. Solar-powered battery chargers. The Rwandan Board of Education, together with a U.S. aid organization, provides low-cost solar panels to schools and community centres across Rwanda so that they can charge laptops, DVD players, and even cell phones (which are used in schools for remote audio instruction programs, such as second-language learning). Many of these schools have no light bulbs, yet can access Google. Thomas Edison has yet to reach them, but Bill Gates has already arrived.\n\nRwanda is attempting something extraordinary: to leapfrog directly from the agricultural age into the information age, bypassing the industrial stage entirely. It may seem unrealistic, but Asian countries have done it. As one young Rwandan IT entrepreneur gushed, prematurely perhaps, \"Rwanda is the Silicon Valley of Africa!\" Singapore, Switzerland, and now Silicon Valley: if nothing else, Rwanda may well be the first truly postmodern country in Africa.\n\n_\"Nihau, nihau!\"_ the children yell as they run beside us. Nihau indeed.\n\n**33**\n\nAS WE CONTINUED NORTHWARD, keeping pace with the cables and drawing ever nearer to the dreaded End of Asphalt, I was reminded of something President Kagame said: \"The internet today is not a luxury. It is a public utility as much as water and electricity.\"\n\nKagame is known to be something of a techno-geek himself, commanding a huge following on Twitter and championing IT at every turn. He's been dubbed \"the digital president,\" though a more accurate nickname might be the one the business community gave him. They refer to him not as the president of Rwanda, but its \"CEO.\" It's often said that Kagame runs the country like a corporation, making sure every director is accountable for their department\u2014and to their shareholders. It's about return on investment, streamlining production, increasing market shares. I was struck when speaking to public employees and government officials by how often they referred to their constituents, and the Rwandan people in general, as \"stakeholders.\"\n\nAs the CEO of Rwanda, Kagame is focused on what could best be described as \"results-based management,\" though he uses an older Rwandan term to describe the process. Historically, Rwanda had a custom known as _imihigo_ , wherein chiefs and village leaders would stand before their people and proclaim the goals they wished to achieve that year, and then be held responsible for meeting them. Kagame has brought back imihigo in modern form to ensure that the appointed mayors\u2014or _bourgmestres_ , as they were once known\u2014and other local administrators and regional heads are made accountable to their constituents.\n\nIn a ceremony that's broadcast on television and radio, these leaders make public vows\u2014involving three-year, five-year, and annual plans\u2014and then sign an imihigo contract, which is available online for anyone to read. Their goals have to be ambitious but also measurable and attainable. They might include adding so many classrooms or planting so many trees or distributing a certain number of contraceptives under a family planning program; they might involve paving roads or relocating homes built on a flood plain. If leaders fail to meet their imihigo goals, they are reprimanded or even replaced. (The tenure of mayors in Rwanda is notoriously short.) Those who do meet their goals are feted and publicly praised.\n\nAs a member of the Ministry of Local Government put it, \"People wouldn't understand if you talk about 'performance contracts,' but if you say _imihigo_ they understand.\"\n\nPresident Kagame sees his role very clearly: \"People can complain, but I have a job to do, and that is to give Rwandans security, development, and opportunity.\"\n\n_Note:_ Not \"life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,\" but \"security, development, and opportunity.\" Spoken like a true CEO.\n\nOr are these the words of a dictator?\n\nOpen-door visa policies, full internet access, the free flow of trade and information, a zero-tolerance policy for corruption, the abolition of the death penalty\u2014these are not the actions one normally associates with a totalitarian regime. Yet this is precisely the criticism levelled at Paul Kagame: that he is, in fact, presiding over a ruthless dictatorship. And therein lies the Great Paradox of today's Rwanda.\n\nIn 1994, this small landlocked country was, with no exaggeration, _the worst place on earth_. An open-air abattoir, a failed state, a gutted nation, Rwanda was a land left in genocidal ruin. Today, across the board\u2014in terms of child mortality, health care, education, women's rights, poverty reduction\u2014it's leading the way in Africa. The World Economic Forum places Rwanda among the best countries in the world when it comes to good governance, with accountability \"built into the system.\"\n\nBut \"good governance\" is not the same as \"democratic.\"\n\nThe accusation that Paul Kagame is running a dictatorship rests primarily on four pillars: freedom of the press, or lack thereof; the constraints placed on opposition parties; an intolerance for dissent; and most disturbingly, what appears to be the targeted assassination of political opponents both at home and abroad.\n\nHuman Rights Watch, a respected non-partisan organization, may applaud Rwanda's success, but it warns that progress in the social, health care, and economic realms has not been matched in the political arena, that freedom of expression and association is still too tightly controlled. So effective is the RPF's grip on the political sphere that Amnesty International has raised the alarm that Rwanda is in danger of becoming\u2014in tone, if not in fact\u2014a one-party state.\n\nThese are serious charges, yet Kagame has brushed them aside, saying, \"If you don't want to be criticized, say nothing, do nothing and be nothing. I have no desire of doing nothing.\"\n\nLove him or hate him, no one is neutral when it comes to Paul Kagame. His exiled former head of the military has denounced President Kagame as being \"worse than Gaddafi.\" A former economic adviser, also in exile, describes the president as \"no better than Stalin\"\u2014which seems a bit much, considering that Joseph Stalin was responsible for the death of 20 million people, while Paul Kagame led an army that ended a genocide. Even Human Rights Watch credits him with that. If nothing else, Kagame is an equal-opportunity intimidator: prominent Hutus and Tutsis alike have fallen out of favour with him and paid the price. The two men mentioned above? Both are Tutsi, both former RPF insiders.\n\nOn paper, Rwanda has very liberal legislation regarding the media. The country has passed an access to information law, and the media operates under a self-regulated body. But the same constitution that guarantees freedom of speech also forbids propagating \"divisionism,\" which can include merely reporting on issues that involve ethnic, racial, or regional conflict. This \"shoot-the-messenger\" mentality can often inhibit the free discussion of ideas.\n\nThe government cites the murderous hate propaganda of the Hutu Power media as a cautionary tale about allowing unbridled free speech, but critics say that this is simply a smokescreen aimed at stifling honest debate. Human rights organizations warn that government accusations of \"stirring up ethnic divisions\" or propagating a genocidal ideology are being used like a bludgeon to silence opponents.\n\nCertainly, the media in Rwanda _seems_ lively enough. There is a proliferation of private radio (thirty-three stations at last count, while during the genocide the country had only two: a government-run station and the infamous RTLM, both of which promoted ethnic violence). Rwanda has several new television stations, and a wide range of newspapers, both domestic and from across East Africa, are readily available\u2014to say nothing of online access. This isn't exactly North Korea we're talking about. Or Cuba, for that matter.\n\nOne of the news stories I was following while I was in Rwanda was about a knuckle-rapping the government had received. As reported in the papers, the woman heading the Office of the Ombudsman, Aloysie Cyanzayire, was seeking to recover public funds from anti-corruption cases the government had brought forward and lost. Legal experts in the judiciary scolded the government for wasting public money by rushing to prosecute without gathering sufficient evidence first. A fairly mundane story, but its significance shouldn't be overlooked: the government of Rwanda had been going through the courts, not acting by fiat or decree, but through proper judicial process\u2014and had been _losing_. The government was reprimanded for this and, most importantly perhaps, the press had been reporting it. Can you imagine any of that occurring in a country like Putin's Russia? Or Castro's Cuba?\n\nOne article I read while perusing the local papers criticized the government for providing too much public funding to the agricultural sector, arguing that these subsidies were undermining private initiatives. (Imagine a newspaper in Cuba running that story!) Another item, on the front page no less\u2014slow news day, I'm guessing\u2014listed complaints by regional administrators about the amount of money the national government allotted for them to complete their projects, arguing that it wasn't enough. DISTRICTS BLAME MISSED TARGETS ON ALLOCATION GAPS screamed the headline. Sleepy yet? My point, for those of you still awake, is that none of these news stories are unduly remarkable, yet all challenge the notion that Rwanda is some sort of Stalinist state.\n\nWhen I was in Rwanda, President Kagame got in hot water for remarks he'd made at a local youth association when he suggested that the children of g\u00e9nocidaires should ask for forgiveness on behalf of their community (meaning \"on behalf of all Hutus\"). This elicited sharp rebukes in the media and from survivors' groups as well, who pointed out that the Rwandan constitution is very explicit: criminal responsibility is _individual_ and cannot be transferred or extended to other parties\u2014certainly not to an entire group. \"We have children who are below nineteen,\" one newspaper editorial read. \"They were not even born when the genocide was being committed by their relatives, so one cannot ask them to apologize for crimes that they never committed.\" The same newspaper presented the other side as well, quoting a lawyer who argued that in Rwandan culture, \"When people commit mistakes in your name, your ethnicity, you have a duty to apologize on behalf of your people.\" Such an apology would aid reconciliation, he said. The debate was aired in public, in the press.\n\nSo, on the surface anyway, Rwanda's media seems robust. But journalists on the ground tell a different story, one of threats (veiled and not-so-veiled), of political interference and harassment, with a resulting tendency toward \"self-censorship\" when faced with a story that might be damaging to the ruling RPF. Democracy Watch and the advocacy organization Reporters Without Borders both rank Rwanda very low in their freedom of the press index\u2014162 out of 180 countries, at last count. The Committee to Protect Journalists has been equally outspoken, accusing the Rwandan government of imprisoning and even killing journalists it considered troublesome. In the past, the government has closed down newspapers, once during an election campaign while its editors faced a variety of trumped-up charges.\n\nBut it's also worth remembering that at the height of the genocide, the United States refused to take out the broadcast tower, or even jam the signals, of hate-radio RTLM, which was openly calling for the mass murder of Tutsis, even though the American military was the only presence in the region with the capability to block them. The Clinton administration cited \"freedom of speech.\" So now, when the West calls for an unfettered press in Rwanda, it is perhaps not surprising that this is received with stony silence. This doesn't excuse the constraints put on reporters, or attacks on individuals\u2014of course it doesn't\u2014but it does go a long way toward explaining them. Like the clergy, journalists played an active role in promulgating the genocide. It is a distrust born of history.\n\n**34**\n\nHUMAN RIGHTS ORGANIZATIONS have also accused the Rwandan government of suppressing political opposition, of quashing attempts to launch new parties, and of co-opting those few that do exist. The government often clamps down on the opposition in the lead-up to elections, usually on the pretext of preventing ethnic division.\n\nOne opposition leader, Victoire Ingabire of the UDF-Inkingi Party, met with one of the leaders of the outlawed FDLR (the Hutu Power rebels in eastern Congo, a group classified by the UN as a terrorist organization) and later complained that the Hutus who died in the genocide had not been commemorated properly. (She made her comments while standing in front of the genocide museum in Kigali, which explicitly states that many Hutus also died.) She was arrested and eventually sentenced to eight years in prison on charges of mobilizing ethnic divisions, promoting a \"genocide ideology,\" and collaborating with the FDLR. When she appealed, her sentence was extended to fifteen years.\n\nThe notion that opposition parties are a healthy and needed aspect of political life has never really taken root in Rwanda, where criticism of the government is often considered tantamount to treason. Kagame has purged his own party as well, so often in fact that one begins to suspect that having government ministers arrested is his version of a Cabinet shuffle. When Kagame's former chief of intelligence, a fellow Tutsi, was implicated in a movement to overthrow the government (something the man's supporters adamantly deny), he fled the country, only to turn up dead in a South African hotel room, strangled.\n\nAsked point-blank if he had ordered the hit on his former spy chief, President Kagame replied with typical bluntness, \"No. But I wish we had. I really wish it,\" later adding\u2014at a Sunday prayer meeting, no less\u2014\"You cannot betray Rwanda and get away with it. There are consequences.\" Not a warm and fuzzy guy, our Paul.\n\nMake no mistake. There is a war going on in the shadows, and dozens of government opponents have been forcibly \"disappeared.\" A former prosecutor, a human rights investigator, the vice-president of one of the main opposition parties, and a journalist investigating the attempted assassination of one of Kagame's opponents have all been killed. Anyone with even a passing connection to the FDLR is immediately suspect, and in much the same way that Israel can shut down criticism of its policies by slapping an \"anti-Semite\" label on it, in Rwanda opponents of the ruling party are routinely denounced as \"genocide deniers\" and carted away. And the parallel goes even further than that. Although presented as the \"Singapore of Africa,\" Rwanda is seen by some as an African Israel. \"A country,\" in the words of journalist Geoffrey York, \"that rose from the ashes of a holocaust to become militarily the strongest in its region, often in conflict with its neighbours and unafraid to pursue its enemies abroad.\"\n\nThe dilemma inherent in the West's relationship with Kagame is often posed as a question: _\"Paul Kagame: Rwanda's saviour or strongman?\"_ as though the two were mutually exclusive. Or, as the _Washington Post_ put it: \"Does Rwanda's economic prosperity justify President Kagame's political repression?\"\n\nOnce again, we may be looking through the wrong end of the telescope. We should perhaps be turning our attention east instead, to countries where these contradictory traits are all too common. If you wish to critique the autocratic nature of Rwanda, you probably need to look to Asia to find the proper parallel: to Japan historically, South Korea recently, and Singapore inevitably. Rather than being just another second-rate, tinpot despot in the tradition of a Mugabe or a Mobutu, an Obote or an Emperor Bokassa, Paul Kagame is closer to being the Rwandan Lee Kuan Yew. Lee was the father of modern Singapore, who took his country from poverty-riven backwater to first-world economic powerhouse in a single generation, a man who famously believed in democracy but not too much democracy.\n\n_New York Times_ columnist David Brooks summed up the reality of today's Rwanda by reminding readers that Kagame has \"publicly embraced the Singaporean style of autocracy, which has produced tangible economic progress,\" while still noting that \"those of us who champion democracy might hope that freedom, pluralism and democracy can replace chaos. But the best hope may be along South Korean lines, an authoritarian government that softens over time.\"\n\nJoseph Sebarenzi, a thoughtful and articulate genocide escapee from the Lake Kivu district, was Speaker of the Rwandan Parliament for three years in the post-genocide era. During that time, he strove to assert the parliament's autonomy and legal supremacy over the office of the presidency. \"A real government of checks and balances,\" as he put it. Sebarenzi failed, and having failed, ran afoul of Kagame. Forced to flee Rwanda, he later wrote a memoir about his childhood, the genocide, and his protracted political struggles with President Kagame, titled _God Sleeps in Rwanda_. Sebarenzi describes Rwanda as \"a nation of wounded souls,\" and warns that \"Rwanda moved from a single-party system under President Habyarimana to a cosmetic multi-party system under President Kagame. Before war broke out in 1990, Habyarimana's regime was hailed as a model of development and stability in Africa. But that was an illusion.... Similarly, today Kagame's regime is hailed by the international community as a model of stability and economic development.\"\n\nThis is a chilling passage, if it were true. But I'm not sure it is. It strikes me as an example of false equivalence. Rwanda under Habyarimana was indeed a darling of foreign aid, but that's where the comparison ends. Habyarimana and his cronies filled their own pockets and emptied the nation's coffers while fomenting ethnic divisions and allowing the cancer of corruption to flourish. There are valid criticisms to be made of today's Rwanda, but denouncing Kagame as a dictator on par with Habyarimana\u2014or Stalin or Gaddafi, for that matter\u2014is neither helpful nor accurate.\n\nIn Rwanda's most recent parliamentary election, the RPF garnered 76 percent of the vote. But in the presidential election, held separately, Kagame won with a whopping 93 percent, which raised eyebrows to say the least. It was the sort of result usually claimed by leaders in the former Communist bloc. But here's the weird part\u2014an independent Gallup poll came back with some surprising results: 77 percent of Rwandans felt they enjoyed a high degree of freedom of expression, association, and personal autonomy, and 94 percent\u2014fourth highest in the world\u2014expressed confidence in their national government. So perhaps Kagame's election results were not as off-kilter as we might think. (Jean-Claude comments, \"If you knew what the country was like before, compared to how it is now, you wouldn't be surprised by those results, Will.\") But the poll's most significant finding was in measuring _hope_. A full 93 percent of Rwandans believe that hard work will allow you to get ahead. This is a staggering wellspring of optimism, and it hardly suggests, as one dissident claimed, a gulag state filled with \"11 million prisoners.\"\n\nWhat worries me is not that Rwanda is a Stalinist state whose people are paralyzed with fear\u2014it's not, and those who claim it is are indulging in hyperbole\u2014but that so much of its tightly controlled, Asian-style recovery is centred on the will of one man. _Apr\u00e8s Kagame, le d\u00e9luge?_\n\nIf there even is an apr\u00e8s Kagame.\n\nRwanda's constitution limits the presidential mandate to two terms of seven years each. Having served as vice-president and minister of defence, Paul Kagame was elected president in 2003 and then again in 2010, which means his second and final term will end in 2017. (If you're reading this in the future, you know better than I how it turned out.) But there are already growing calls, carefully orchestrated and presented as \"popular demand,\" for parliament to rewrite the constitution and allow Kagame to rule indefinitely\u2014or at least long enough to see his Vision 2020 blueprint through to completion. Kagame himself has rejected this offer. Repeatedly. But rumours are rife that he will allow himself to be \"talked into\" staying by the so-called will of the people.\n\nWhatever happens, the presidential election of 2017 will be a watershed moment in Rwandan democracy. Will the office change hands peacefully\u2014or will the rules be rewritten to allow Kagame a third term? And if a third, what about a fourth? Or a fifth? This is a Pandora's box waiting to be opened. If you can rewrite your country's foundational rules to suit one leader, what's to stop the next leader from doing the same, or the next? What's to stop a future president from reneging on legal restraints entirely in order to bring back ethnic quotas, to start classifying the populace once again as Hutu or Tutsi? These are the dangers of having an Etch-a-Sketch constitution. Canada is a peaceful and prosperous nation not because of the quality of our leaders (snort) but on the strength of our institutions, and Rwanda will truly be secure only when it can survive lesser leaders, when it doesn't need to rely on having a President Kagame at the helm. If the institutions of state are well-entrenched and unassailable, you can survive less-inspired leaders in the future; you can even survive incompetence. You should be able to put the most inept, stumblebum person you like in power without bringing down the entire structure. Africa is littered with once prosperous states ruined by initially successful men who changed the rules to suit themselves. Here's hoping Rwanda doesn't join their ranks.\n\nSomething else I worry about. At the refugee camp we'd visited earlier, a pair of formal portraits greet you when you enter the main office: one of Ant\u00f3nio Guterres, head of the UNHCR, and the other of President Paul Kagame. The photographs hang side by side on the wall, and yet there is something slightly off about this pair of framed photographs, something askew. Then I spotted it: President Kagame's portrait was set _slightly higher_ than that of Guterres. Maybe an inch or two, but still noticeable.\n\nI'd said to Urooj, the UN Head of Camp, \"I see you put President Kagame's portrait above that of the UN's.\"\n\nI thought I was joking, but no.\n\n\"We had to,\" Urooj admitted. \"When we open a new office, we always put up a portrait of the head of UNHCR. It's standard practice. But in Rwanda we were told we had to put up President Kagame's portrait as well. And when we did, we were then told we had to move the president's picture _up_ , so it would sit above the other one. And so, we did.\"\n\nIt wasn't a big deal to Urooj. Raising a presidential portrait by a couple of inches seemed a simple enough gesture to make, an easy point of protocol to concede. But it gave me a shiver nonetheless. As with other countries in Africa, portraits of His Excellency the President of Rwanda stare down at the populace from the walls of government offices and private businesses. You see him in hotels and coffee shops. In bakeries and banks. That's fine, but Rwanda isn't supposed to be like other countries. This is supposed to be a country that's reinventing itself as a progressive, modern nation\u2014not a regressive realm prone to the cult of personality. When government functionaries are using measuring tapes to see whose portrait is hanging higher than whose, it doesn't bode well. It hints at something unsettling bubbling just below the surface.\n\n**35**\n\nWE WERE HIGH ABOVE LAKE KIVU when the asphalt ended, suddenly and without fanfare, as we left the blacktop and slammed onto rougher roads.\n\nThe unspooling of fibre-optic and electrical cables continued, running in anticipation alongside the unpaved route, but the earth-movers and Chinese engineers were gone; we had outstripped them.\n\nOther than a single bus coming at us downhill, straining in low gear, there was no other traffic. Children were chasing rusted bicycle rims, kept rolling with the deft flick of a stick. They stopped to stare as we passed, letting the rims wobble and fall, too dumbstruck to wave back. The welcoming cry of _\"Nihau!\"_ was gone, as we juddered and jounced across roads rutted and ruined.\n\nWashboard striations and molar-loosening thumps. At times the road threw us forward, then slammed us back, doing its best to buck us off, it seemed. The lake below was a distant haze of blue. _We miss a corner up here, and we'll be a long time falling..._\n\n\"Is a good thing we're driving a 4x4!\" Jean-Claude shouted, and I agreed, one hand on the ceiling, the other on the dash.\n\nAround the next bend we saw the toll these roads could take. A local bus had hit a rut, hard, and had broken down. The driver's turn boy was ambling downhill with a sheaf of leaves cradled in his arms. When he saw our vehicle, he was so startled that he flung the requisite warning leaves down in front of us like a scene from Palm Sunday, and then waved frantically for us to slow down, in case we hadn't spotted the enormous vehicle stranded in the middle of the road.\n\nThe passengers had filed off the bus, and were watching as the driver grappled with a chain. One of the front tires had been wrenched upward at a violent tilt.\n\n\"The axle is broken,\" Jean-Claude said. \"That's not good.\"\n\nWe pulled over to talk to the bus driver, but he wasn't in the mood for any help. Someone had been sent by bicycle to rouse the nearest repairman, and the driver waved us through impatiently.\n\nOver the next hump of hill, we came upon a crowd of people waiting for the very bus that had broken down.\n\n\"It's going to be a long wait,\" Jean-Claude said to me with a sympathetic shake of his head.\n\nAs we slowed down, a high school student in a neatly ironed blouse stepped from the crowd and thrust her hand out at our passing vehicle, wagging her fingers into her upturned palm almost in a \"come here\" gesture. She smiled, dazzlingly bold, as her friends stood back, laughing.\n\nI was puzzled. It looked like she was asking for money. \"Is she asking for money?\"\n\n\"Not money, a ride. It's how we hitchhike in Rwanda, not with our thumb. We do like that.\" On impulse, he pulled over. \"Let's give her a ride. We're going that way anyway.\"\n\nAs soon as the crowd realized we were offering a lift, a mob scene erupted. You'd have thought we were the last helicopter out of Vietnam. One pushy fellow elbowed past women and children, forcing his way to the front, where he grabbed hold of my side mirror and refused to let go. On the mistaken assumption that, being a muzungu, I was somehow in charge, he began wheedling me directly, imploring all the angels and Saints in Heaven in carefully enunciated French (we were in the former Zone Turquoise, after all), pleading for a ride.\n\n\"Hey, don't ask me,\" I said. \"Talk to my friend. He's the one driving.\"\n\nJean-Claude was adamant. The student was the one who had asked for a ride, so she could choose who was coming. With our own luggage and duffle bags of soccer gear weighing us down, we had space for only three people in the back. There were at least half a dozen girls in her group, so they had a quick huddle, decided who would go with us and who would stay behind. They were heading home from boarding school and had their beds with them: foam mattresses rolled up and tied with twine. The three young women who climbed into the backseat had agreed to take the other girls' mattresses with them, which were then shoved in through our rear window, filling what little space we had left.\n\nWedged in, with three well-mannered students in tow, we headed for the other side of the mountain.\n\nThe students were named Betty, Grace, and Anuarite. They were Congolese refugees from a camp similar to the one we'd visited at Kigeme, and though there was a school nearer to them, they attended class out here because it was more academically suitable. One of them was studying accounting, another business. The third wanted to go into engineering. And not just any sort of engineering; she wanted to be a _civil_ engineer, \"but not for the bridge.\" If I followed her heavily accented English, she wanted to be \"an engineer for the chemical surface.\" \"Like paint?\" I asked. No, not for the paint, for the business. So, industrial? Exactly! So, like, industrial paints? No, no, for the chemicals. So... chemical engineering? No, not chemical engineering, engineering _for_ the chemical. And so on. I'll spare you the details. I eventually gave up, much to my relief and hers too, I'm sure. They were speaking to me in their third language, after all\u2014French and their local Congolese dialect taking precedence\u2014while I was speaking in a language I'd long since forgotten (high school chemistry).\n\nJean-Claude chatted with them in French via the rear-view mirror. They told him about the term that had just ended, the teachers they liked, the teachers they didn't, the subjects they found easiest, the ones they found hardest, and about life in the camp. They lived in canvas tents that got very cold at night. They were missing parts of their families. Parents. Siblings. They had made new friends in the camp. Had left old ones behind. They found it tiring travelling back and forth between the refugee camp and the boarding school on buses that often broke down, but all three agreed it was worth it.\n\nWe were still following the braided IT cables, though by now the road itself was little more than a sandy trail. At times the Land Cruiser sank into it, with our wheels barely churning us through.\n\nThe pedestrians we encountered agreed: this was a walking path, not a road. It was as though we were driving a truck down a private hallway, and those who stepped aside did so with marked resentment. The adults, that is; the children once again ran beside us, daring each other to touch our vehicle. Jean-Claude pulled over several times to scold them.\n\nWe followed this road to the heights of Hanika, an improbable town balanced between sheer inclines. No guardrails, of course. _Maybe they should have put those in before they started with the fibre optics_ , I thought. If nothing else, were we to plunge over the side, we would have had a beautiful view on the way down.\n\nThe lake grew larger. Fingers of land reaching out, fingers of water reaching back.\n\nDown, down, down we went, into the sand-bedevilled town of Kibingo. We were still high in the hills above Lake Kivu, yet the road itself was so sandy it had dunes. It was a remarkable juxtaposition, akin to finding a tropical beach suspended in the mountains. A surfer's town, Kibingo; just mind that first drop.\n\nThe roads were so soft it felt as though we were driving over flour. Eucalyptus trees and the wind-shredded leaves of banana plants were completely dusted in it, prematurely grey. And the clustered homes we passed, small as dovecotes, were whitewashed with the stuff, painted pale intentionally.\n\n\"Mixed with water, it makes good paint,\" Jean-Claude said.\n\nA final plunge, of the non-fatal variety, took us back to water's edge. We rattled across another river\u2014little more than a trickle in the dry season, brackish green and murky\u2014over a jerry-rigged bridge that was lashed together primarily with old rope and good intentions. Out on the lake, a three-man pirogue drifted across the surface. The cast of a net. The turn of a road. And they were gone, and so were we.\n\nAt the next saddleback of hill we came to a rural intersection. One of the girls leaned up, tapped Jean-Claude on the shoulder.\n\nWe pulled over to say our goodbyes. From here the girls would hike uphill to the refugee camp, a two-and-a-half-hour trek along a narrow footpath. Before they could load up on mattresses and school bags, I asked if I could take their picture.\n\nThey said \"Sure!\"\u2014and instantly struck a pose, arms draped over shoulders with a sudden confidence. They asked to see the photo. I scrolled back, showed them. They frowned, asked for another take, adjusted their poses accordingly. On the third try, I finally got it right. \"Yes!\" they said. \"That's the one.\" Then: \"Can you send us a copy?\"\n\nLet's pause here a moment to consider my advanced age (pushing fifty at the time) and the clutch of assumptions surrounding the terms \"refugee\" and \"refugee camps.\" Given these factors, it is perhaps understandable that I would have a certain notion about how this would play out. I would return to my home, sadder but wiser, would think of these young women, so full of hope, so full of promise. I would print three copies of the photograph I took, wrap them carefully in wax paper and seal them in an envelope, would send it \"to Betty and her two friends\" c\/o the United Nations. A supply plane would airdrop it in, along with foodstuffs and medicines, wherein the children at the camp would crowd around to watch as this treasure was slowly unwrapped. The wonderment in Betty's eyes would be felt an ocean away where, as I puttered about in my garden shed, I would suddenly stop, feel the flutter of wings, and know, in my heart, _The photos have arrived_. The girls' spirits would be lifted, as would mine. Perhaps a single tear would form in the corner of my eye, but, gruff fellow that I am, I would rub it away brusquely with the heel of my hand, allowing myself only a small but satisfied smile. _The photos have arrived_.\n\nHere's what actually happened:\n\nMe, speaking slowly and carefully so that the portentous nature of what I was saying would not be lost: \"Yes. I can send you copies of the photograph.\"\n\nGirls: \"Great.\"\n\nMe: \"And how shall I mail it? Shall I send it to the camp? Or maybe to your boarding school?\"\n\nGirls: \"Can you email it to us instead? That would be easier.\"\n\nYes, in the world we live in, Congolese refugees in the western rainforests of Rwanda have email addresses. _Of course_ they have email addresses. They're students at a high school. The school has a computer. And the kids there all have hotmail accounts. Or Yahoo. Or Gmail.\n\nI transferred the photo they'd selected onto Jean-Claude's smartphone, and he then sent it as an attachment to one of the girls' accounts. Done.\n\n\"Thanks!\" they said and then headed off, mattresses stacked on their heads, bouncing with every step, into a future I couldn't even begin to predict.\n\n**36**\n\nINKLINGS OF PROSPERITY, in the form of sheet-metal rooftops, returned as we neared the lakeside city of Kibuye (now known as Karongi). The evening sun was coming in low across the fields, limning the trees and hilltops with gold.\n\nDriving through a small valley, we came upon a catchment of older homes that stood hollowed out amid tall grass, with scorched walls and fanned stains of charcoal rising above each darkened window. The rooftops were missing, the yards overgrown.\n\nTutsi homes.\n\nJean-Claude stopped so we could investigate the ruins. A goat was ripping up grass inside one of the shells. Small birds flitted through. These were haunted homes, left abandoned, with owners long gone and with few surviving relatives to reclaim them.\n\nWe drove on, into silence.\n\nMore and more shops began to appear. The outskirts of Kibuye clustered closer. Storefront facades once again proclaimed their cell phone company allegiances: that familiar green, red, yellow, blue. We were back on blacktop, and the sudden smoothness provided much-needed succour to my bruised tailbone and saucer-stacked spinal column.\n\n\"That was a fun road to drive,\" Jean-Claude said. \"But I'm glad we are through it.\"\n\nTraffic circles sent us into the centre of town, past several new office buildings perched on hillocks of land scarcely wider than they were. In the cooling breeze of evening, everybody in Kibuye seemed to be out for a stroll. Long considered a getaway for Rwanda's moneyed set, the city had a faded charm about it: patio lights bobbing on the wind, late-night taverns and French caf\u00e9s, but no sense of urgency. It was busy, but in a languid sort of way, as resort towns often are.\n\nOn the way in, we had passed Gatwaro Stadium. \"I lost a friend there, in that stadium,\" Jean-Claude said.\n\nThe friend's name was Jean-N\u00e9pomsc\u00e8ne, but everyone called him Nepo.\n\n\"I met him in Kenya. He was a student. He was preparing for university, and we became good friends. He used to take me to Wimpy's. Do you know Wimpy's? It's like a British fast food, very popular in Nairobi at that time. Of all the people who died, Nepo makes me the saddest, because he didn't have to be here. He came back for his uncle's funeral. It was dangerous, and he didn't want to go, but his family pressured him. They told him, 'The UN is here, don't worry. It's safe.' So he went back and that was that. Two days later the president's plane was shot down.\"\n\nTwenty thousand people died in Gatwaro Stadium. Among them, a kind-hearted student named Nepo.\n\nKibuye had been a Tutsi town deep inside the French \"humanitarian\" zone, which meant the killings here were even more thorough than usual. Indeed, the eradication of Tutsis in Kibuye and its outlying regions came very close to reaching a \"final solution.\"\n\nNone of this was reflected in the beauty of the town, though, which was situated among the palm trees and corrugated coves of Lake Kivu. Jean-Claude and I checked in at the Moriah Hill Resort, an older but comfortable hotel built on a bay that was dotted with islands. When we dropped in at the hotel's large, and largely empty, restaurant, we came upon two of our cohorts from the chimpanzee trek: the psychiatrist from Toronto, Lorne, with his daughter Adriana.\n\nThey'd been enjoying a leisurely two-hour wait for dinner. Thus warned away, Jean-Claude and I went to a nearby church-run lodge, the Bethany, where we dined on _isombe_ , stewed cassava leaves and eggplant. No beer though, as alcohol was not served at Bethany due to the Presbyterian dictates of its hosts. The service proved much speedier here; we waited only an hour for our bowl of stewed leaves. We headed back to our hotel only to find Lorne still waiting for his supper, elbows on table, jaw resting on open palms, a Job-like resignation in his eyes. There were no other guests in the restaurant by that point, Adriana having given up and gone back to her room, so why on earth it was taking that long remained a mystery. Perhaps they were waiting for the eggs to hatch so that they could raise the chickens to put on the skewers. Jean-Claude pulled a chair up to join Lorne while I went for a walk along the lake. I wanted to say, _\"Use some reverse psychology on 'em, Lorne ol' boy! I mean, that's your field, right? Maybe say in a loud voice, 'I sure don't want any supper tonight. No sir! And nobody better bring me any!'\"_ But given that he'd already wasted three hours waiting for whatever it was he'd ordered, I feared he might not appreciate my finely tuned japery.\n\nI followed my feet to Lake Kivu instead. Cat tongues of waves, lapping at the shore. A wind, stirring the trees. Lights and laughter across the water. The moon was like a searchlight, sweeping the waves for a wreck that had long since vanished.\n\nHow do you reconcile the barbarity and beauty of such a place? Could you? _Should you?_\n\nA small boat puttered by, more shadow than real, leaving a swirl of light in its wake. I tossed a stone, heard it plunk. Took off my shoes, rolled up my pant legs, and waded out into shallow waves. I stood awhile in Lake Kivu, toes gripping and releasing sand. On other hotel patios on other inlets, Rwandan families were relaxing. I could hear their strangely disembodied voices, muffled but still boisterous.\n\nFamilies had drowned themselves in this lake. Families drowned themselves rather than be raped or hunted or chopped down piece by piece to the mocking jeers of their neighbours. Families drowned themselves. _In this lake_.\n\nI thought of the students who'd hitched a ride with us earlier and of the killings and deprivations that were occurring in Congo even now. I thought of people forced to flee. Those three young women would contribute to Rwanda's success, would work in business, accounting, computers, and\u2014well, some sort of chemical engineering. Their arrival was Rwanda's gain, Congo's loss. Suddenly Rwanda's open-door policies made perfect sense. These people were not a burden, they were an asset. This was _value added_. This was Rwanda.\n\n**37**\n\nJUST ABOUT MY ONLY CLAIM to fame is that I am a descendant of Scottish explorer David Livingstone. A paltry example of pride by proxy, to be sure, and one that would be more impressive had Livingstone not died scurvy-ridden and half-mad, dressed in tattered rags with teeth rotting and an arm crimped from a lion attack years earlier. There was no lucrative Livingstone estate, no snooty inheritance for me and my siblings to squabble over. More's the pity. David Livingstone was but a humble missionary, and a damn poor one at that; the records indicate that over the course of twenty-eight years in Africa, he converted a grand total of 1 (one) person.\n\nDuring his extended treks across central Africa, the saintly Livingstone would sire\u2014then promptly abandon\u2014several illegitimate children with African women, in between praying for their eternal souls, of course. A contradictory character to say the least. Missionary? Hardly. He was an explorer, first and foremost: a driven, obsessive Scotsman with a streak of masochism who was determined to unlock one of the greatest, most pointless quests of his day, the source of the River Nile\u2014or die trying. He never did unlock the secrets of the Nile, but he did succeed handsomely in the latter, dying a tragically avoidable and painfully drawn-out death.\n\nThe Nile is the longest river in the world, flowing more than 6,700 kilometres out of the heart of Africa, through nine different countries. It replenishes the flood plains of Egypt, making it a well-spring of civilization. Its source was one of the world's enduring mysteries. The ancient Greeks tried to find it. Roman emperors sent expeditions inland and failed. As did the Egyptians, the Persians, and others. But it was the English who really picked up the flag and ran with it. The search for the Source of the Nile would become a fixation in Victorian England.\n\nThe greatest explorer of his era, Richard Burton, set out to solve the riddle once and for all. He was accompanied by a thoroughly unlikeable fellow named John Hanning Speke, an early proponent of the Hamitic hypothesis who often wrote about the racial inferiority of the African \"Negroid.\"\n\nBurton was convinced that the source of the Nile lay near Lake Tanganyika. Speke remained unconvinced, and when Burton was laid low with malarial fever, he pushed on without him, heading north instead to become the first European to set eyes upon the vast reaches of Lake Victoria. This was in 1858. Speke hurried back to England ahead of Burton to claim his laurels and, following a second expedition to Lake Victoria, declared, \"The Nile is settled!\" But it wasn't.\n\nA bitter enmity took root between Burton's camp and Speke's, with each man seeking to ruin the other's reputation and destroy his claim. So intense was their rivalry that the Royal Geographical Society decided to hold a Great Debate on the matter in 1864. But on the day of the main event, only hours before it was to begin, Speke had gone hunting and had discharged a shotgun into his own heart while crossing a stile. That was the official version, anyway. Many suspected he had taken his own life rather than face Burton on the podium.\n\nWith the matter still not resolved, the Royal Geographical Society sent respected doctor\/missionary David Livingstone in to confirm or refute Burton's claim that the Nile began at Lake Tanganyika. But Livingstone was convinced the source lay even farther south, and he disappeared into the jungle. Years went by with no word from Livingstone, and as public concern grew, an American newspaper, with much fanfare, sent a Welsh-born reporter by the name of Henry Morton Stanley in to find him. Stanley tracked Livingstone down to an Arab trading post, where he greeted the malnourished and dysentery-ravaged Scotsman with what are arguably the most famous words uttered in the history of British exploration: _\"Jesus, David, you look like shit.\"_ No. The words, of course, were _\"Dr. Livingstone, I presume?\"_\n\nStanley urged Livingstone to return with him, but the doctor refused. His obsession had taken hold of him, and he pushed on, still seeking that elusive wellspring. He died eighteen months later, his quest unanswered. Stanley went on to greater fame, leading an epic cross-African trek that at one point saw him skirting the outer edges of the kingdom known as Rwanda. He'd set up camp on Lake Ihema, in what is now Akagera National Park, but when he attempted to cross over, he was met with a volley of arrows from the mwami's army and decided, what with discretion being the better part of et cetera, he would move on instead. Later, as an agent of King L\u00e9opold, Stanley would help secure the Congo for the Belgian monarch, but the Nile remained unsolved.\n\nIn 1937, a German explorer traced the headwaters to a small spring in Burundi, a site that has been commemorated ever since, but this marked only the _southernmost_ point of the River Nile. Incredibly, the _farthest_ reach of the Nile\u2014the source, in other words\u2014would remain unknown until 2006, when a British-led expedition traced the Nile in its entirety, using GPS satellites to pinpoint it to a remote mountainous hill south of Kibuye City, just inside the northern tip of Nyungwe National Park.\n\nThis would be our next destination.\n\n**38**\n\nI WOKE TO THE SOUND of wind searching my room. I'd left the balcony open to catch a night breeze off the lake, and I lay there awhile watching the aurora borealis movements of the curtains, feeling calmly elated.\n\nToday, I would do my forebear proud. Today, I would reach the uppermost limits of the River Nile, for which stout-hearted men had long strived, many to perish, others to be driven mad with malnutrition and malaria, starved and crippled in body and spirit. But first I had to get some breakfast. One can't go about conquering the Mighty Nile on an empty stomach.\n\nAnd so, after a hearty meal followed by coffee so buttery rich it might have come from the gods themselves, we set out, Jean-Claude having once again passed on a cuppa joe.\n\nHow was this possible? How could anyone from Rwanda not drink coffee? Rwandan coffee has won international awards. It was all very strange.\n\n\"I'm just not a coffee drinker\" was how he put it.\n\nNo matter. Onward and upward.\n\nKibuye is a leafy town, jumbled in around the hills of Lake Kivu, and as the road wound upward in loops and lariats, we had sidelong views of the rolling landscape below.\n\nThe road alternated between a boulder-strewn obstacle course and a clay trail so loamy and soft the 4x4 struggled to get traction.\n\n\"Would hate to try this in the rainy season,\" Jean-Claude said, ratcheting the gears ever higher.\n\nWe were once again ascending to the top of Rwanda, but the top of Rwanda never arrived. Every time we thought we'd reached the ceiling, there was more ceiling beyond. The slopes became steeper and the terraced fields narrower, until they formed the thinnest ribbons of green possible, outlining the elevations like a life-sized contour map.\n\nCattle were following these contour lines with a gingerly step.\n\n\"More mountain goat than cattle,\" I said, and Jean-Claude agreed.\n\n\"Most of this\"\u2014he was referring to the fields below\u2014\"is coffee. With some sweet potatoes, over there. That's cabbage.\"\n\nWe passed a band of young men in baggy pants and broken flip-flops, grinning at the world, lugging kerosene containers on their shoulders.\n\n\"Banana beer,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"They rinse the jugs out, use them to ferment mashed-up bananas. The containers are plastic, so they expand with the gases.\" We could see several that had their sides blown up like balloons.\n\n\"Moonshine!\" I said. \"Home brew.\"\n\n\"Exactly.\" Then, just in case I was getting any ideas, \"It's better not to drink it.\"\n\nAs we drove through the Gisovu tea plantations, the world grew lush. Women with wicker baskets slung across their backs were moving through the topiary fields, harvesting the tea leaves by hand. Miniature pickup trucks buzzed about like bumblebees, darting from the nearby warehouses to the endless hand-sculpted hedges and back again. It was a striking arrangement: pastoral, yet busy; bucolic, but all business.\n\nSoon after, we came to the town of Gisovu itself. Shops lined both sides of a single street, and the storefronts were painted a soft shade of blue, giving the place a melancholy feel.\n\nWe stopped for a bit of bellyfare: sticky buns and bottles of Fanta, pulled lukewarm from a fridge. (How Rwandan refrigeration is able to maintain warm drinks is a puzzle I was never able to unravel.) Not a particularly welcoming town, Gisovu. Jean-Claude and I were eyed with a curiosity that bordered on the antagonistic. Even the roadside barbers paused, clippers in mid-air, waiting for me to do something interesting. Oh, if only I could juggle. _\"Alex Ferguson's son juggles?\"_\n\nBeyond Gisovu, the fields gave way to forest. Pine and eucalyptus. Dark-green needles and the silvery-blue shimmer of leaves. We had reached Nyungwe National Park from the other side.\n\nA rough road took us to a clearing where a hiking trail disappeared into the trees. The signpost\u2014in English only, appropriately, given the overwhelmingly British nature of the obsession\u2014identified the Source of the Nile as that-a-way.\n\nI don't know why Livingstone had such trouble finding it. I mean, there was a sign and everything.\n\nIt was still a national park, though, and we needed to check in first. This involved a long bumpy drive to a park office, returning with a pair of park rangers, Joseph and Antoine, who would accompany us on our quest. Nice enough blokes, even if their main task involved leading us down the only marked path in the forest. But this too was appropriate. After all, any such undertaking traditionally required a contingent of Gunga Din\u2013type porters to cut a path through the jungle for pith-helmeted Englishmen adorned with well-waxed handlebar moustaches and long-bore rifles who would later lounge about the campfire, swishing brandy whilst making snide comments about the natives, regaling all and sundry about their time amongst the Zulu and how it wasn't half so bad as this. One couldn't set off without one's entourage.\n\nFurthermore, given my own claim to Nile fame, I thought it apropos to present the account of my Death-Defying Exploration and Subsequent Discoverie Most Fortunate of the Mysterious Source of the River Nyle, Whence So Many a Valiant Standard-Bearer of Empire Has Perished in Quests Thereof with Perils Unparalleled and Dangers Most Foul, in the proper style.\n\nTHE DISCOVERY OF THE SOURCE OF THE NILE, BY ME. AND ONLY ME.\n\n**Tuesday, July 23rd: Heading Out**\n\nI feel it prudent to tally the many torments of which I have been forced to endure if only so that my example may act as a deterrent to anyone who might be tempted to follow, foolishly, in my footsteps.\n\nI woke this day feeling somewhat queasy, both from trepidation at what lies ahead and from the malaria pills I have been taking, an ordeal which\u2014it should be noted\u2014Mr. Livingstone never had to face, for there was no such thing as malaria pills in his day. He simply got malaria and never had to worry about forgetting to take his pills or having a slightly upset stomach afterward. Lucky, lucky chap. Even then, stricken as I was with an almost crippling nausea, did my faithful guides offer to carry me? They did not.\n\n**10:19 a.m.:** We gather our day packs and strike out, single file, into the deepest heart of Africa.\n\n**10:20 a.m.:** We stop at a park bench to adjust our boot laces, poorly tied boot laces being one of the leading causes of death among explorers. That and lions.\n\n**10:21 a.m.:** Forced to step over cow dung on the trail. Is this but a foreshadow of the travails we have yet to face? (Note the etymological relationship between \"travail\" and \"travel.\")\n\n**10:23 a.m.:** We pass a line of electrical towers running through the forest. This would suggest that someone may have been here before us. Dastardly Arab traders no doubt, attempting to undermine the prerogatives of the British Empire, hup hup.\n\n**10:24 a.m.:** Entering a forest of pine and eucalyptus. Fragrant and foreboding. One of the guides falls in beside me (our single-file discipline is already starting to collapse!) and points out a drum tree. _Umuvumu_. \"They can be hollowed out, to make music,\" he tells me. \"Royal drums?\" I ask. \"Yes, for intore dancers.\" These would be the same drums that Rwandan kings used to adorn _with the testicles of their enemies!_ I fear an ambush and do not wish to see my fear-shrunken testes adorning any percussive instrument, royal or otherwise.\n\n**10:38 a.m.:** The trail begins to slope downward under trellises of vine. The path beneath our feet is layered with pine needles, which might seem rustic were it not for the fact that tree roots are lurking beneath this seemingly innocent blanket. I nearly trip several times. (Difficult to walk whilst clutching both hands pre-emptively over one's testicles.)\n\n**10:39 a.m.:** The sound of water! Oh joy! Have we reached the Source of the Nile already? My heart leaps like a salmon in a clear Scottish stream only to be dashed upon the rocks of disappointment, for it is not the sound of water I hear, but only the wind. I'm not sure how much longer I can carry on, parched and harried by thirst as I am.\n\n\"Jean-Claude, can I have some of your water? My bottle's way at the bottom of my rucksack, sort of hard to reach.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" he says. Hands bottle over. Crisis averted.\n\n**10:42 a.m.:** A slight incline up.\n\n**10:43 a.m.:** A slight incline down.\n\n**10:44 a.m.:** As the day drags on, I grow suspicious of my supposedly \"loyal\" companion, Jean-Claude. He seems to be pulling ahead with every stride. Determined to reach the Source of the Nile before me, perchance?\n\n**10:46 a.m.:** Wilderness exploration is simply a matter of learning to read the signs correctly. We have come upon one such clue, a noticeboard with a large arrow and the words FURTHEST SOURCE OF THE NILE THIS WAY painted on it\u2014which, after careful study, I decipher to mean that the coveted wellspring of the Nile lies farther ahead, perhaps in the direction indicated by the arrow. (There is only the one trail, so that helps as well.) _\"This way!\"_ I say with bold initiative. My entourage, however, has pushed on by this point, and I must scurry to catch up. Are they plotting to abandon me in the woods? One must stay on one's toes (figuratively speaking, of course; toe-walking in the jungle is never a good idea).\n\n**10:47 a.m.:** The trail begins a long, steep descent. Knowing that this same descent will become an _ascent_ on our return only adds to the mental anguish I am under.\n\n**10:48 a.m.:** Egads! Wildlife rooting about in the underbrush! We have come upon a bush pig, normally nocturnal, tusks down, snuffling around. Looking for truffles perhaps? (Ah, what I wouldn't give for a plate of truffles right about now. Maybe a dash of sherry.) Having not had the foresight to bring a long-bore rifle with us, we are not able to shoot said creature in a properly perfunctory manner, but must instead creep past so as \"not to frighten him.\"\n\n**10:50 a.m.:** Our way is barred! Oh, fie on you, cruel fates! We have reached what I fear is an insurmountable obstacle: a tree branch has fallen across our path. I am about to turn back when one of our steadfast guides strides forward and lifts said branch, tossing it to one side. \"Heavy winds last night,\" he notes. We continue, spirits buoyed, but also burdened (buoyed _and_ burdened!) with the knowledge that we shall now have to make up for lost time. The Matter of the Fallen Branch has delayed us a good twenty-eight seconds by my count. Will we ever be able to make this up? I am not confident we can, but I put on a brave face and carry on against increasingly demoralizing odds.\n\n**10:52 a.m.:** Monkey spoor has replaced cow flops as the obstacle of choice. High in the trees above us I spot them leaping, long-tailed and lithe, treetop to treetop, mocking our slow, lugubrious progress below. Oh, for a long-bore rifle right about now!\n\n**10:53 a.m.:** The trail begins to descend at an even steeper angle than before. True, there are stairs carved into it, but they are inconsistently sized, which only increases the ordeal. I am not sure how much longer I can continue.\n\n**10:57 a.m.:** The dangers we face continue to multiply. Our guides point out a tall stand of stinging nettles. They also point out something they refer to as a \"tomato fruit,\" telling us that \"birds plant it, and when the fruit turns red, you can eat it.\" The tomato fruits here are still green, but at least now I know what I shall dine upon should we become lost or if our expedition takes too long or if I get a little peckish and find that the sandwiches the hotel packed have not provided sufficient sustenance. Always prepare for the worst! This is the first rule of exploration. The second is: when your hotel is packing you a lunch, ask for an extra sandwich.\n\nThe ground grows squelchier as we descend. Through the trees I see a wooden sign and a small pond. Could it be...?\n\n**11:03 a.m.:** Success! Huzzahs all round!\n\nA hand-painted notice, set in a secluded hollow of forest, informs us that THIS IS THE FURTHEST SOURCE OF NILE RIVER. Little more than a puddle, really. A mountain spring pooled amid mud and mulch, but if it is a puddle, it is a majestic puddle nonetheless, epic in its importance. The world's most sought-after puddle, as it were. Men died, legends were born, empires made, and lives ruined in search of this very puddle. We dip our hands into the cold water, scoop up the Nile, drink it from our palms. It tastes of glory. Clear, clean glory. A splendid milestone, and one\u2014it should also be noted\u2014which David Livingstone was never able to enjoy. I'd achieved that which my venerable forebear never did; this is, in its way, strangely poignant.\n\nAnd let the record show that although _technically_ Jean-Claude arrived at the Source of the Nile at 11:01 a.m., two minutes before I did, I had spotted said puddle through the trees a full four minutes prior to that. Which is to say, I was the first to _see_ the Source of the Nile. Therefore, as I'm sure we can all agree, I should receive sole credit for the discovery.\n\nJean-Claude, unfortunately, seems to be operating under the misconception that \"we\"\u2014meaning he and I equally, if you can imagine such a thing\u2014have reached the Source of the Nile \"together.\" (In his exact words, \"We made it!\" _We_.)\n\nIn the face of such unabashed effrontery, there is but one course of action available to me. I mustn't dally. I must return to civilization immediately and start a campaign to discredit Jean-Claude's claims and destroy his reputation.\n\n\"We did indeed,\" I say, with just the faintest sliver of a smile.\n\n**39**\n\nBACK AT OUR HOTEL ON LAKE KIVU, Jean-Claude started an international incident with a single posting on Facebook.\n\nIt seemed innocuous enough. He'd put up a photo with the message: \"Here I am at the farthest point of the Nile. Sorry Burundi, but the Nile River actually starts in Rwanda!\"\n\nHe then went to sleep not knowing he'd stirred a hornet's nest. Throughout the night angry responses began to pile up. The Rwandan and Burundian communities are intertwined\u2014they're cultural cousins, after all\u2014and word had spread quickly.\n\nThe retorts that set Jean-Claude's Facebook account on fire were of the exclamatory \"Wrong!!! The Source of the Nile is in Burundi! Look at a map, JC!! Burundi is clearly further south than Rwanda and is therefore further away! Case closed!! No appeal!\" variety.\n\nJean-Claude posted a reply reminding everyone that this was not conjecture on his part; a British survey team had located the exact spot using GPS. No one was placated, however. Some smelled a conspiracy. Who were these British surveyors really working for? Everyone knew that Britain favoured Rwanda over Burundi, and a series of increasingly peeved messages flew back and forth across the Atlantic, rhetoric escalating rapidly. It might well have ended in a full-blown political crisis, with ambassadors recalled, lecterns thumped, pyrrhic trade sanctions incurred, and armies massing along the borders, had Jean-Claude not played his trump card.\n\n\"Listen. I visited the geographic source of the Nile with a descendant of David Livingstone, and\"\u2014here Jean-Claude was relying on my expertise as a Fine Arts major\u2014\"he agrees.\" Game, set, and match.\n\nWith that, the protests slowed to a trickle. The flame war flickered and died, but not without a few final forlorn barbs from the Burundians. \"You Rwandans already have everything else. Now you want the Nile too? Can't you at least give us that?\"\n\nJean-Claude's reply? A very Canadian \"Sorry. But no.\"\n\n**40**\n\nWE RETURNED TO GISOVU the next day, following a route first through valleys thick with tea and then high over exposed, raw-knuckle heights.\n\nAt times, it was not clear whether these were roads we were travelling along or simply desiccated riverbeds that had been baked into a hard red clay by the kiln heat of the dry season.\n\nWe had entered the shadowy green hills of Bisesero.\n\nWhen the genocide began, any resistance was soon smothered. Unarmed people, cornered in churches or picked off at roadblocks, were up against well-trained mobs equipped with machetes, grenades, and guns. It was a one-sided slaughter, and those who did fight back\u2014and there were many\u2014were quickly overcome.\n\nBut up here, in the remote and mountainous Bisesero region, the people banded together, falling back to higher ground. Far behind French lines, lost in La Zone Turquoise, the Tutsis in Bisesero were under no illusion that the UN or anyone else in the international community would rescue them. The Tutsis of Bisesero staged the longest, most resolute and sustained resistance seen in Rwanda. This was a heroic landscape. Heroic, and tragic.\n\nAt Bisesero, the Tutsis armed themselves with farming tools. They dug in, set up perimeters, kept the women and children in the middle. They laid traps of their own, ambushing their attackers, fighting them off hand to hand. But time was against them, and as the siege of Bisesero wore on, week after week, through heavy rains and cold nights, starvation and fatigue took their toll. The people's energy was sapped, and the resistance began to falter.\n\nMore than 50,000 people took refuge on that mountain. Of those, only 1,437 are known to have survived. France's role in Bisesero was particularly shameful. When French troops arrived, the survivors thought they were finally going to be rescued. They came out from hiding only to be told by the soldiers to stay put. \"We'll be back in three days,\" the soldiers promised. And then the French... left.\n\nThere is a photograph on display at the Bisesero memorial. It shows Hutu militias taunting a ragged crowd of starving women and children while French soldiers in a jeep look on. Moments after this photo was taken, the French withdrew. The Tutsis fled, and the Hutu militias pursued. The final massacre at Bisesero had begun. All the French had done was to inadvertently flush out targets, making it easier for the g\u00e9nocidaires to do their job.\n\nYou think I'm being unduly harsh? Perhaps. So I will give final word on the matter to a pair of respected French figures. Author and intellectual Bernard-Henri L\u00e9vy states, unequivocally, that \"France bears political and moral responsibility for the sadly foreseeable chain of monstrous events that unfolded on its watch.... The sooner France's politicians admit to their responsibility for failures during the Rwandan genocide, the better.\" And the former French foreign minister, Bernard Kouchner, co-founder of M\u00e9decins Sans Fronti\u00e8res and in Rwanda himself during the genocide, has publicly called on France to apologize for what it did. Belgium and the United States have apologized. France never has.\n\nThe reason the resistance at Bisesero could be sustained for so long was that the terrain was so inaccessible. Muyira Hill, where most of the fighting took place, is crowded with boulders, cleaved by cliffs, tangled with forest, pocked with bogs, and interlaced with twisting trails that favoured those who knew the lay of the land. Indeed, so rugged is the terrain on Muyira Hill that the Bisesero genocide memorial had to be built on the hill beside it. Even there, the buildings are set at a steep angle.\n\nAt Bisesero, 1,400 skulls are arranged twelve rows deep on a series of elevated platforms. Walking among them, you can identify how people died. Some skulls had been crushed, others impaled. Some bore the puncture holes of nail-studded clubs, others had bullet holes in the back. Many carried the killing slash of a machete, and others were blackened with soot.\n\n\"Burned alive,\" Jean-Claude explained, his voice barely above a whisper.\n\nThe security guard at the Bisesero memorial was a soft-spoken man in his early thirties named F\u00e9licien Nzabamwita. He'd been born in Bisesero, had spent his entire life in these hills, and he accompanied us as we walked among the buildings.\n\nF\u00e9licien was thirteen years old when his family heard the news that President Habyarimana was dead. \"It was mayhem,\" he said quietly. \"Mobs began burning houses and demolishing homes right away. The older people told us this was not the first time. It had happened before. We just needed to band together, and in three or four days it would stop.\"\n\nBut it didn't stop.\n\n\"The older men began organizing people, telling them how they'd done it in the past, where to position ourselves, how to keep the women and children behind the lines, how to fight back without putting ourselves at risk. The younger men would draw the attackers away, running past them, leading them in the opposite direction of where people were hiding.\"\n\nAt the beginning of May, the attacks ceased.\n\n\"It was very quiet for two weeks. But on the 13th of May, they returned. They came from all over. When you looked out you could see them everywhere, all around us. There were so many it looked like grass covering the hills. Buses brought in military men and they began shooting rockets into the mountain, killing so many people. It shattered the rocks.\"\n\nThe Tutsis moved their sick and wounded, along with the younger children and the elderly, into a cave to protect them. When the French arrived, the soldiers called everyone out.\n\n\"We thought, 'We are saved! We are not going to die. They have come to rescue us.' People came out from hiding everywhere. They were starving and tired, but now they had hope. But the interahamwe were watching, and now they knew how many of us there were. They could see where we had been hiding, and as soon as the French left, they attacked. They attacked and they never stopped. By the time the French came back, there were very few people left alive.\"\n\nF\u00e9licien was badly wounded during the final assault, but recovered. Physically, at least.\n\n\"Today, I have a wife and two children. I try to work hard. I do what I can and forget what I can't. But when I went to get married, I could see what the genocide had done. In Rwanda, a wedding is supposed to be about bringing together families. The groom's relatives will go to meet the bride's and get their blessing, and the two families will sit beside each other at the ceremony to celebrate. But at my wedding there was no one there for me. I had no family. My mother, my father, my older brothers and my little sister, six children, they all died. I was the only one left.\" He looked across the green hills of Bisesero. \"That was a difficult moment.\"\n\n**41**\n\nREVEREND ATHANASE SEROMBA, the Catholic priest at Nyange church, had a problem.\n\nFollowing the plane crash that killed President Habyarimana, the massacre of Tutsis had spread across Rwanda like a brush fire buffeted by strong winds. In Nyange, Father Seromba sent urgent word to the Tutsis in his parish to gather at the church. They would be safe there, he promised. Those who were being sheltered by their Hutu neighbours should come out of hiding as well, to join their brethren in the House of God. More than 2,000 people crowded into the Nyange church, desperate and frightened.\n\nThe problem that presented itself to Reverend Seromba was this: How to kill these people in the most efficient manner possible? Grenades? Frontal assault? Set the interior on fire? The church was made of brick; that might work, it might turn the building into an oven. Or should he simply starve them out? The church was completely surrounded, and the streets were ringed with roadblocks, but with a few weak-willed Hutus still sneaking food into the church at night, starvation could take some time. The priest met with local authorities\u2014the bourgmestre, an inspector with the judicial police, a judge, leaders of the local militia\u2014to mull over their options.\n\nThe church at Nyange was a solid Gothic structure built in 1935, with a heavy tower and thick doors. Previous attacks had been repelled. Every sortie had left scores of Tutsis dead, but as a group, the Tutsis had stubbornly refused to die. Gasoline had been sprayed through a window and a banana-leaf torch thrown in, but with recent rains, and the people inside quickly smothering the flames, that had been ineffective. A waste of good fuel. Grenades created only pockets of destruction\u2014those thrown at the door barely scorched the wood\u2014and those few times when the church had been breached and the killers had managed to swarm in with clubs and machetes, they were beaten back. It was most annoying.\n\nA bulldozer had been brought over from a construction site to dig a mass grave, and this presented Father Seromba with a possible solution. Why not simply pull down the church on top of their tall Tutsi heads? That should, in his words, \"clean up the rubbish.\" So a second bulldozer was brought in, and the drivers were given their instructions: start with the main wall. Topple the tower and the roof will follow.\n\nWhen the drivers balked\u2014not out of concern for the people inside, but over desecrating a House of God\u2014they were reassured by the priest not to worry. The chalice and Bible had already been removed, so it was no longer a church. Just a pile of bricks, waiting to be dismantled. Once the cockroaches inside had been killed, Seromba promised he would build a new church.\n\nThe attack began on April 16, 1994. The bulldozers pushed in, collapsing one side of the building, then another. The people cowering within were crushed under the weight of the debris. Some escaped into the tower and were trapped there when it fell, with a mighty groan, in a cloud of dust and mortar. Small children survived longer in the rubble; their cries could be heard even as the wreckage was being bulldozed clear. Those who tried to flee were chopped down outside with machetes and clubs, with sharpened bamboo and spike-headed spears. The broken bodies were then rolled into open pits along with wreckage from the church. Of the almost 2,000 people who fled to Nyange church, only six are known to have survived.\n\nFather Seromba went on to have an exemplary career with the Church, relocating to Italy where he continued preaching the gospel in the Florence area. He was sheltered and protected for years by the hierarchy in Rome, before finally being arrested and extradited on charges of genocide by the International Criminal Tribunal in Arusha. In 2008, an initial sentence of fifteen years was extended on appeal to life imprisonment.\n\nThe bourgmestre who had spearheaded the attacks was captured in Congo, having eluded capture for more than fourteen years. He was caught fighting alongside the FDLR. Other perpetrators of the Nyange atrocities are still at large and, contrary to Father Seromba's promise, the church has never been rebuilt.\n\nToday, the empty grounds form a vacant lot in the heart of the community. Nyange itself is a prosperous arrangement of tidy shops strategically located on the main road between Kibuye and Kigali, high above contoured fields. With its alpine air and pine trees, Nyange feels almost Swiss. It is a Catholic community, still. A monument to the Virgin Mary remains the town centrepiece, but of all the sermons Reverend Seromba preached, the one he never seemed to have gotten around to was that of a single man confronting a murderous mob, telling them, \"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.\"\n\nThere is another monument in the town of Nyange, one that honours neither emptiness nor virgin births, but something smaller. Smaller, but in some ways stronger, more astonishing. Certainly more real.\n\nNyange Secondary School is off the main road, not far from the church. Jean-Claude and I had to stop to let a herd of goats cross. The well-scrubbed storefronts of the main town fell away as we followed a dusty lane along a steep slope. We could see banana trees and the adobe tiles of rooftops directly below us. The Land Cruiser rolled down the lane until we reached what looked like a dead end.\n\nA large metal gate was drawn across the road. We'd arrived unannounced, as was our habit, but were met graciously nonetheless. An elderly security guard rolled open the gate for us. He was a sun-varnished man with crooked limbs and an equally crooked smile, and he followed us in.\n\nNyange Secondary is a boarding school with red-brick dormitories and long, low classrooms arranged around a central courtyard. It seemed sleepy and safe. A Rwandan flag flapped on a listless wind as students milled about discussing upcoming exams with a hushed nervousness. A few were scribbling furiously in their notebooks.\n\nThe school's Master of Discipline (his translation of his job title) came out to meet us. Title aside, he was a soft-spoken younger teacher of uncertain English who invited us in for tea. We were introduced to the school's office manager, a formidably regal woman named Yvette who rose to accept us with the deportment of a queen in the presence of cap-wringing chimney sweeps.\n\nHaving made our introductions, we were taken through the grounds.\n\nNyange Secondary School has impeccably high standards and a solid academic reputation. More than 250 students from across Rwanda, boys and girls alike, come here to study. Here's a sample question posted, in English, outside one of the classrooms:\n\n_S6 ACCOUNTANCY: PRACTICAL EXAM INTERVIEW TOPICS_.\n\n_The student will be required to complete the following and discuss:_\n\n1.Calculate the net profit and net loss\n\n2.Prepare the final accounts\n\n3.Close and reopen the company accounts\n\n4.Design the documents relating to remuneration of employees\n\n5.Participate in the certification of accounting entries\n\n6.Calculate the tax due within the time limits\n\nIt's important to recall that the killings in Rwanda didn't stop when the genocide officially ended. It wasn't a clean cessation, in the manner of a book being closed. Far from it. The leaders of the defeated Hutu Power government-in-exile had fallen back to Zaire, and over the next decade they continued to launch cross-border assaults against civilians, with Hutu and Tutsi alike caught in the middle. When Tutsis were massacred, random Hutus were killed in retaliation by enraged lynch mobs, which was the whole point of the initial attacks: to stir up ethnic divides. Genocide survivors were stalked down and killed (\"finishing the job,\" as it was known) while isolated farms were looted and public buses ambushed. This ongoing terror campaign had left western Rwanda in a state of near collapse. The entire region was in turmoil.\n\nSo on March 18, 1997, when students at Nyange Secondary, having gathered for an evening prep class, heard gunshots nearby, they assumed it was RPF soldiers and Hutu Power rebels exchanging fire. Many of them felt secure knowing they were protected by a gate. They didn't realize it was their own school that was under attack, or that they themselves had been targeted.\n\nNyange, you see, was a mixed school. Hutus and Tutsis were both welcome, and the two sides got on well. This infuriated the Hutu Power rebels. When you trafficked in hatred you couldn't allow that. The school was about to be taught a lesson\u2014or at least, that was the plan. In fact, a very different lesson was about to unfold, a lesson in the strength of the human spirit.\n\nMen armed with grenades and automatic weapons slipped through nearby Mukura Forest and fell upon Nyange Secondary School, killing the night watchman and storming a classroom, shouting for the students to segregate themselves.\n\n\"We want the Tutsis on the left, Hutus on the right!\" they yelled.\n\nThe students knew what that meant.\n\nNo one said a word, so the armed men repeated their command. \"Hutus on the right, Tutsis on the left!\"\n\nA Grade 12 student, Marie-Chantal Mujawamahoro, stood up. Speaking on behalf of her classmates, she replied to the gunmen with a single forceful word: \"No.\"\n\n_No?_ Their attackers were taken aback by this. _What do you mean, no?_\n\n\"No,\" she said quietly. \"We won't do it. There are no Hutus or Tutsis here. We are all Rwandans.\"\n\nThe other students agreed, murmuring the same answer. \"We are all Rwandans.\"\n\nSo the gunmen dragged one of their classmates from the crowd, a girl named Seraphine, who by chance came from a Tutsi family. They killed Seraphine in front of her classmates and then repeated their demand, screaming now: \"We know there are Tutsis among you! Divide yourselves! Hutu on the right, Tutsis on the left.\"\n\nAgain the students refused.\n\n\"We won't do it!\" Marie-Chantal yelled back.\n\nThis time it was a boy named Sylvestre who stood up and repeated the words his classmates had spoken. _\"Twese turi abanyarwanda.\"_ We are all Rwandans.\n\nThe gunmen shot another student, a boy this time.\n\nFlustered and livid, and not knowing who were Tutsis and who were Hutus, the men attacked indiscriminately, lobbing a grenade into the classroom from outside and then firing on the wounded through the smoke. Six students died in the attack, two boys and four girls. Several others were severely wounded, some for life. One of the students, Theodette Abayisenga, lost a leg in the attack; it was mangled so badly by the grenade she had to have it amputated. She now oversees the district's People with Disabilities program and continues to speak on behalf of reconciliation, reminding audiences that they are all Rwandans. She was one of the students who, had she betrayed her classmates, could have walked free.\n\nToday, the room where the attack occurred is still in use, defiantly so to my mind. Students there were studying for their exams when Jean-Claude and I came by. The blast from the grenade still speckles the walls inside, and bullet holes are still visible in the sheet-metal roofing. The students in the classroom looked up at me from their notebooks.\n\n\"I just wanted to wish you luck,\" I said. \"On your test.\"\n\nThey nodded. _\"Murakoze.\"_ Thank you.\n\nBehind the school sits the grave of Marie-Chantal. Located on a knoll looking out over the valley below, it is, perhaps, the most beautiful monument in all of Rwanda. Not in size or grandeur, but in spirit.\n\nOf the million who lost their lives we might, I feel, give name to six here. These are students who died three years _after_ the genocide was supposed to have ended, who died for refusing to betray their classmates, for refusing to label themselves Hutu or Tutsi, for refusing to take part in such a rigged and evil game:\n\nMarie-Chantal Mujawamahoro | Grade 12  \n---|---  \nSylvestre Bizimana | Grade 12  \nB\u00e9atrice Mukambaraga | Grade 12  \nSeraphine Mukarutwaza | Grade 11  \nHel\u00e8ne Benimana | Grade 11  \nValens Ndemeye | Grade 11\n\nThese students remind us that the older animosities are generational. Rwanda today is a remarkably young country; an estimated 60 percent of the population are under the age of twenty-five. They are the first generation in one hundred years to grow up without the artificial construct of a Hutu\u2013Tutsi divide as the defining aspect of their lives. They have never known ID cards or racial quotas or hate radio or propaganda cartoons depicting one segment of their population as cockroaches. They are coming of age in a new Rwanda, a better Rwanda. Those pessimists in the West and elsewhere who insist that Rwanda's \"one people, one language, one culture\" policy is pure folly, doomed to fail (one gets the feeling certain commentators are almost cheering on another ethnic clash), do not realize that the world has changed. The ground has shifted beneath their feet. Sheer demographics and twenty years of growth and opportunity, of _hope_ , have helped dismantle the old paradigms. The six students who died at Nyange didn't die in vain.\n\nI think perhaps it was on that day, March 18, 1997, at 8:00 p.m., at a boarding school in western Rwanda, that the genocide finally came to a close.\n\nPART THREE\n\n**KING KONG & THE SHROUD OF TURIN**\n**42**\n\nSMOKY EYES PEER THROUGH GREEN LEAVES. Furry figures appear, curious and calm, throat-catchingly near. _Gorillas in our midst_.\n\nOur journey to see the mountain gorillas of the Virunga rain-forests began in a suitably roundabout way. Leaving the grounds of Nyange Secondary School, Jean-Claude and I continued across the map in connect-the-dots fashion. But now we were carrying a passenger. Not a hitchhiker catching a lift at the end of the day, but a fully accredited driver and guide with nothing to do.\n\nThe fee for renting a vehicle in Rwanda, as in much of Africa, generally includes the cost of a driver. Making your way through the mountainous roads of a Thousand Hills is no simple task, and most visitors opt to have someone else behind the wheel. Lorne and his daughter had been travelling with the same fellow since Tanzania, I believe. But having Jean-Claude on the driver's side meant there'd been no overriding reason to avail ourselves of this service.\n\nMy role as navigator, meanwhile, had been primarily to sit with the map unfolded on my lap, looking at the scenery and checking off the towns we passed through whilst agreeing with whatever Jean-Claude said. As in: \"This doesn't look right...\" Me: \"No, it does not.\" Alternatively: \"Wait, I think that's the road we're supposed to take over there!\" Me: \"I concur.\" Jean-Claude: \"You know, I have a hunch about this. If we turn left instead of right, we should come back to the main highway.\" Me: \"I agree. I also have a hunch.\"\n\nBut faced with a long northern loop, up to Congo and then east along the Virunga Mountains, I finally convinced a reluctant Jean-Claude to let us take on a driver. This service was included in the price, so I figured we might as well take advantage.\n\n\"I can climb in the back,\" I said. \"He can drive. You can relax.\"\n\nJean-Claude was dubious, and not without cause, it must be said. The driver the rental company sent us looked to be, oh, about twelve years old. His name was Patrice. A sweet kid, dressed in an over-starched, olive-green uniform several sizes too big\u2014\"Don't worry, you'll grow into it,\" I imagine the car rental company had assured him\u2014which only accentuated his undersized presence.\n\nThe two of them would take turns, it was decided, even though Patrice had expected to drive the entire way and was a bit baffled by Jean-Claude's plan. Even then, he was at the wheel only twenty minutes\u2014if that\u2014before Jean-Claude announced it was time to switch. Patrice pulled over, and we all shuffled positions. Me to the front passenger seat, Patrice crawling into the back, Jean-Claude returning to where he clearly wanted to be. _Christine was right_ , I thought. _He really doesn't passenger well_. I wondered if it had something to do with how he had escaped as a teenager: as cargo, hidden, not in control, his life dependent on other drivers. It seemed there was an act of reclamation going on.\n\nMarooned in the backseat, Patrice would occasionally lean up to provide an interesting tidbit about this or that. He carried a well-thumbed guide to _Birds of Rwanda_ and was constantly trying to point out red-footed falcons or pink-bellied pelicans, spot-breasted ibises and scarlet-chested sunbirds and what have you, as we sped by without stopping, or even slowing down. He seemed disappointed when that line of conversation fizzled\u2014at first we feigned interest, but when Jean-Claude and I were deep in conversation, we didn't even bother turning our heads to look, but just made vague _mm-hmm_ sounds. Patrice did confirm the existence of the \"hawk-eagle,\" though, which was about the extent of my interest. Gradually he lapsed into silence, and then sleep. (Later, I found out he'd been misinformed that I was \"an important journalist here to write about birdwatching.\" He must have thought I was the least committed birdwatcher on the planet.)\n\nNo matter. On we went.\n\nPatrice dozed, Jean-Claude drove, and all was well.\n\nMuch more problematic was that in accordance with company policy, Patrice ate separately from us whenever we stopped. This struck me as ridiculous, but no matter how often we tried to call him over to our table, he gently declined. It was an understandable rule, I suppose. The car rental office arranged for separate accommodations for their drivers and provided them with an allowance for meals, and they didn't want them importuning clients. But still.\n\n\"C'mon,\" I would urge. \"Join us. Have a drink. The goat brochettes are excellent. Grab some. We won't tell. I promise.\"\n\nJean-Claude tried as well, cajoling Patrice in Kinyarwanda, but with no better results. I can't tell you how awkward this was, especially when we were the only customers in a place, sitting on opposite sides of the room. We would send food over to his table, have the wait staff add it to our tab, give Patrice a salute with our raised glasses. He would smile and wave back. It was all very uncomfortable.\n\nPatrice would take the Land Cruiser out in the evenings to fill it up, returning with it looking polished and clean, and would give Jean-Claude advice on how to get through this town or that round-about, but for the most part he spent his time either looking out the window, rather wistfully, I thought, or stretched out asleep. He whistled faintly when he snored, much like one of those tropical birds he was always trying to point out to us.\n\nWe boomeranged through the outskirts of Gitarama, resisting the pull of the city's gravity\u2014all those taverns, cooing my name!\u2014before veering northward onto asphalt so smooth it could only be described as supple. After the twists and turns and potholes that had preceded it, it was nice to be back on the open highway.\n\nThe road north ran through alpine forests, with the thick clay waters of the Nyabarongo River curving through below. The shadows seemed darker up here, the greens greener, the blues bluer. As Patrice slept, Jean-Claude confessed to a certain trepidation about driving this route. Rwanda's northern region had once been the heartland of Hutu Power, and in many ways it remained unrepentant. This stretch of highway had long been considered a dangerous one to drive\u2014not for reasons of traffic or road quality. The asphalt here had always been well-maintained; it was the artery of political power, as I would learn. \"It was the people in this area,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"Very aggressive toward outsiders. If your car broke down, if you had an accident, or if you hit someone\u2014you got out and ran. You ran for your life, because they would chase you down.\"\n\nThe theme from _Deliverance_ could be heard playing faintly in my subconscious.\n\n\"And now?\" I asked.\n\n\"And now? I don't know now.\" Jean-Claude hunched forward in his seat, eyes on the road. \"You know, they started killing Tutsis out here even before the genocide began. If you were a Tutsi, you couldn't pass through here. There were roadblocks everywhere; they were looking for you.\"\n\n\"Does it feel creepy?\" I asked. \"Driving through here?\"\n\n\"Yes, it is very weird.\"\n\nThe road descended into grassy meadows, fields shaded by the hills that surrounded them. _If you didn't know the history, you would think only how blandly beautiful it all was_. We crossed the clouded waters of the Nyabarongo, a name that resonates with Rwandans. The bodies dumped here floated downstream all the way to Rusumo Falls, where they formed human log-jams at times, bloated and bobbing, until they eventually reached Lake Victoria. _\"Throw them in the river! Send them back to Ethiopia!\"_ This was the message of L\u00e9on Mugesera, an early propagandist and intellectual architect of the philosophy that would later become known as Hutu Power. He was speaking about _this_ river, this valley, and as we began our slow ascent back into the hills, we passed a turnoff for Mugesera's hometown.\n\n\"He gave that speech near here,\" Jean-Claude said. \"In the next community. In Ngororero.\"\n\nAt a November 22, 1992, rally, Mugesera\u2014a well-regarded university professor and a vice-president of Habyarimana's ruling party\u2014openly called for the extermination of Tutsis, urging Rwanda's Hutus to send their Tutsi neighbours \"back to Ethiopia\" by throwing them into the Nyabarongo River, whose waters fed into the Akagera and eventually the Nile. Here was the Hamitic hypothesis, run amok. _\"Tutsis are not Rwandans. They don't belong here! Send them back to_ _where they came from!\"_ Professor Mugesera reminded his audience that \"the fatal mistake we made in 1959 was letting [the Tutsis] get out. They belong in Ethiopia, and we are going to find a shortcut to get them there,\" he said. \"Wipe them out! Do not let any of them get away!\" He ended this Nuremberg-style rally with the cry \"Long live President Habyarimana!\" In the run-up to the genocide, interahamwe death squads would often chant quotes from Mugesera's speech, and the rivers of Rwanda would indeed be clogged with corpses. The youth of Rwanda had taken his words to heart.\n\nThe 1990 RPF invasion may have been the catalyst, and Habyarimana's assassination may have been the signal, but the groundwork was laid along this river, with those words.\n\nBy the time the genocide began, Mugesera had slipped away. He arrived in Canada with false travel documents and taught at Laval University happily for years. It was like having Goebbels as our guest. Following nearly _two decades_ of protests and petitions from the Rwandan government, Mugesera was finally extradited in 2012, where he currently stands indicted on charges of inciting genocide. Personally? I think they should have thrown him in the Nyabarongo River, seen how he fared.\n\n**43**\n\nNGORORERO IS A PROSPEROUS ENOUGH PLACE TODAY. Metal roof-tops, knife-edged in silver, have replaced worn-out tiles and the town centre is busy with shops and small caf\u00e9s, even a gaudy discoth\u00e8que or two.\n\nNgororero seemed a natural stopping point, so we pulled over to buy a Fanta, maybe a couple of goat kebobs, admire the scenery: the town was perched prettily above a postcard-perfect valley. But we never got out of the Land Cruiser. Jean-Claude parked the truck, but didn't turn off the motor. He sat there, quietly, with the engine idling. We were waiting, though I wasn't sure for what. In the back-seat Patrice rolled over, mumbled something about blue-plumed herons, then fell back to sleep. Jean-Claude still didn't move. After a moment, I said, \"You know what? We don't need to stop here. Why don't we just keep going?\" Jean-Claude nodded, put the vehicle back into drive.\n\nAlpine air. The smell of pine so sharp it seemed like dill. The highway curved through forest and field, putting Ngororero farther behind us with every turn.\n\n\"Did I ever tell you,\" Jean-Claude asked, \"about my practice family? The one I had before I met Christine?\"\n\n\"Practice family?\"\n\n\"The children I rescued.\"\n\nThis was back in 1994. Jean-Claude had been making the run between Kenya and Rwanda, carrying news and letters back and forth between survivors and their families. In Nairobi, he was accosted by a distraught young woman barely out of her teens. She was looking for news about her nephews.\n\n\"When the genocide began, one of her nephews was staying with her at her parents' house. She took the boy and ran with him into the swamps. She was still in high school I think, nineteen maybe. Her parents, her brother, all were killed. But this little boy and her, they made it through alive.\"\n\nThe boy's mother was Hutu. So when the young woman and her nephew finally came out of the swamps, she sent the boy to his mother.\n\n\"The village, it's called Miyove. It was in the north. They were attacking Tutsis again, and she was panicked when she heard this. All her nephews were in the north.\"\n\n\"How many children did her brother have?\" I asked.\n\n\"Three. All boys. Ages were, like, five, seven, and three. When I spoke to that young woman, she was crying so much, saying it's the only family she had left.\"\n\nHutu insurgents were attacking the outlying communities, were still waging a rearguard campaign, and the people in Miyove would be hostile toward the children. Their aunt knew that.\n\n\"In that village,\" Jean-Claude explained, \"every Tutsi had been killed. Every Tutsi, except three.\"\n\n\"But those kids were only _half-Tutsi_ ,\" I said. \"Their mom was Hutu, right?\"\n\n\"If your father is Tutsi, there's nothing half-Tutsi about you, you are Tutsi 100 percent. Was only a matter of time they were going to kill those children too, leave no survivors. No witnesses to what has happened.\"\n\n\"No witnesses? Even if it's just a seven-year-old child?\"\n\n\"This is why their auntie was frantic to get them out of there. I was making another run back to Rwanda, so I said, 'Okay, I'm gonna go to the village, talk to your sister-in-law, and bring your nephews back with me.'\"\n\nWhat Jean-Claude didn't realize was that the village in question, as well as being hostile to Tutsis, was located deep inside insurgent-held territory. The RPF had roadblocks on the highway to prevent people entering; it was simply too dangerous. Jean-Claude avoided these RPF checkpoints by chance more than anything, turning down a secondary road before he reached them.\n\n\"I knew a quicker way,\" he said. (Which didn't surprise me; Jean-Claude always knows a quicker way.) \"So I passed through this dangerous area without knowing. When I reached the village, everybody was surprised. They were watching me very closely, thinking, 'Who is this guy? He looks Tutsi. Is he with the RPF? What is he doing here?' When I found the boys' mother, I said to her, 'Look, I need to take them with me. If they stay, chance is they're gonna be murdered. Somebody is going to kill them at some point.'\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"She said I could take two. The youngest, his name was Oscar, and the middle boy, name was Jean-Marie, they could go. But she wanted the oldest one, the seven-year-old, Xavier, to stay as a kind of hostage.\"\n\n\"A hostage?\"\n\n\"As a protection. She was Hutu, and those villagers, they thought the RPF is going to come and kill everybody, like a revenge genocide. They thought, 'If we keep a Tutsi child here, they won't attack us, we can negotiate.'\"\n\n\"What did you do?\"\n\n\"What could I do? I took the two younger boys with me and left the oldest. I tried so hard, but I couldn't change the mother's mind. It was when I was driving back on the main highway with those two boys that I found out how dangerous that region was. These RPF soldiers came out at a checkpoint, stopped me, said, 'Are you crazy? You came from up there? That is insurgent territory. You have to tell us before you go in. You could have been killed!' Really, I was lucky to get out alive.\"\n\nThe two boys stayed with Jean-Claude's sister in Kigali while he arranged for a vehicle back to Kenya. By the time he got the boys to Nairobi, their aunt was gone. She'd been sponsored by a relative in Canada and had flown out just before they arrived.\n\n\"When I called her to say the good news, I thought she would be happy, but she yelled at me! She said, 'What about Xavier? He is the one I was in the swamps with. We kept each other alive. He is the one you have to rescue!' She was very upset. She said, 'Now he is the _only_ Tutsi left in that village! They're gonna kill him for sure!'\"\n\n\"So what did you do?\"\n\n\"I went back.\"\n\n\"To that same village!\"\n\n\"I couldn't let this boy die.\"\n\nJean-Claude left the other two boys with a Rwandan couple, Peter and Epiphanie, who lived next door and had two boys of their own around the same age as Oscar and Jean-Marie. Jean-Claude then headed back to Rwanda.\n\n\"How long a drive would that be?\"\n\n\"About twelve hundred kilometres, I think. It was like a two-day trip. But this time, I brought photographs of his younger brothers with me, pictures of them in a park in Nairobi, by a pond, smiling, enjoying their new life. You could see how happy they were, how relaxed. When I got to the village, I showed those pictures to the mom, and she said, 'Okay. I changed my mind. You're right. Xavier may be killed soon if you don't take him. The whole village is mad at me for letting the other children go. They said that if this oldest boy grows up, he's gonna tell what happened. He will have memories.'\"\n\nOnce again, Jean-Claude stayed at his sister's house in Kigali till he could find a vehicle for the drive back to Nairobi.\n\n\"It was a very long trip. Xavier was a good boy, very polite. But sad. I think he had seen many things. Sometimes he would have a burst of crying and then become very quiet. But as we travelled, he became happier and he cried less. He held onto those photos of his brothers, was looking at them all the time. He could feel they were going to have a good life. And you know what? They did.\"\n\n\"Their mother never joined them?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe Rwandan couple next door helped Jean-Claude take care of the children.\n\n\"Peter and Epiphanie helped so much,\" he said.\n\nJean-Claude enrolled the three boys in a local primary school, arranged for school uniforms, made sure they did their homework every night, and even attended PTA meetings on their behalf. He was just twenty years old at the time.\n\n\"I was with those three boys for two years. I called them my practice family.\"\n\nHe was still taking care of them when he met Christine.\n\n\"Especially, I had a bond with the youngest one, Oscar. I think he was seeing me as a kind of dad.\"\n\nThe boy's aunt, now in Canada, eventually secured sponsorship for them as well. She brought her nephews to Montreal, where all three children were adopted by a foster mom.\n\n\"Their foster mom was French Canadian. She loved them so much. Those boys grew up as Canadian. They learned to skate, to play hockey. But it's funny, even after I moved to Montreal and then to Calgary, any time when there was an issue between the children, I was still the one they would call. They would tell me what the problem was when they wouldn't tell anyone else.\"\n\nAll three are doing well. Two of the boys are studying accounting. The other has his master's degree and is employed with the Department of Health Services, as a social worker at a Montreal hospital. They had escaped a death sentence and claimed an alternative future as their own. And I thought again of what Andr\u00e9 Sibomana had said, and the lesson it conveyed. _We are products but not prisoners of our past_.\n\n**44**\n\nTHE SCENT OF EUCALYPTUS can be as bracing as peppermint, as invigorating as a splash of aftershave.\n\nWe were driving through northern green forests with Patrice asleep in the back. I was tempted to wake him up with a shove, shouting, \"Quick! What kind of bird is\u2014Oh, too late,\" maybe filch a peek at his guidebook beforehand and look up the rarest bird in Rwanda, then describe it to him in great detail. \"I saw this little bird, really small, looked sort of like a yellow-eyed owlet with striped breast feathers, but I could be wrong. Seemed like it might have been a nocturnal species as well, native to mid-range montane forest canopies, but again\u2014I could be wrong. You didn't see it? It was right there.\" In the end, and largely due to Jean-Claude's admonishments, I chose not to disturb Patrice's deeply lathered slumber.\n\n\"Welcome to Jerusalem!\" Jean-Claude said.\n\nWe were passing the turnoff for Gasiza, an otherwise unremarkable village that just happened to be the birthplace of former president Juv\u00e9nal Habyarimana. Gasiza was referred to as \"Jerusalem,\" or sometimes \"Nazareth,\" because it was\u2014and I quote\u2014the \"hometown of God.\"\n\nNorthern Hutu had dominated the Rwandan military under Habyarimana's leadership. Of the eleven military officers who seized power with him in 1973, ten came from this one corner of Rwanda. The men making decisions in Habyarimana's government were almost exclusively Hutu from the north; their southern brethren, though also Hutu, were excluded from almost every key position. It was a geographic divide as much as ethnic. (The only thing the northerners hated more than their southern rivals were the Tutsis.)\n\n\"The people who organized the genocide came from these hills,\" Jean-Claude noted.\n\nNear the turnoff to Jerusalem, a faded, flyblown tavern squatted beside the road. The paint-peeling sign read BAR IBYIMANA, which translates as \"God's Bar.\" Appeals to the deity notwithstanding, the place seemed grim. We didn't stop to find out.\n\nI think we were both looking forward to the end of this section of highway. Tracing my finger ahead on the map, I could see we would come out at a T intersection on the main Congo road. The name of the crossroads town was Mukamira, and as we drew nearer, more and more villages appeared, closer and closer together.\n\nMore and more people as well. Men and women, young and old, milling about the roadsides, hashing through the never-ending quiddities of life, laughing and arguing, shopping and gossiping. Children filed by, lugging their water jugs heavy homeward, while others bounced along on the return, swinging empty containers and enjoying the reprieve. Their smaller siblings, some little more than toddlers, were equally weighted down, their bundled kindling stacked high on their heads. A pair of nattily dressed young men, musicians from the looks of it, were dragging a 1970s relic of a keyboard up a hill. \"Probably performing at a dance club tonight,\" Jean-Claude noted. A tumult of younger kids ran past, chasing the wind with homemade pinwheels, and we saw one poor fellow attempting to move a huge wooden wardrobe on the back of his bicycle, thighs straining, feet wobbly on the pedals. We were going to pull a U-turn and offer to help, but we could see the cumbersome piece of furniture would never fit. Too large for a Land Cruiser, but not for a bicycle. That too was life in Africa.\n\nA string of lakes lay on our right, Gishwati Forest on our left. A paint-by-numbers where every colour was green.\n\nGishwati Forest provided a pocket of calm in an over-cultivated land. During the genocide, thousands of Tutsis fled to these woods seeking safety, only to be set upon by dogs brought in by the interahamwe. No one knows how many died in Gishwati Forest; they don't appear on any census, but even now tree-planting crews will occasionally turn up human bones.\n\nTea plantations appeared after Gishwati, and we were soon once again in among caterpillar hedges and luminescent fields. A marshy river emptied into an equally marshy lake. And then we were past that, too, as the road brought us at last to Mukamira.\n\nA sprawling town, Mukamira. It sat astride a crucial intersection: turn right and you would be swept back to Kigali along the main highway, left and you would be heading straight for Congo.\n\nWe turned left.\n\nAs we rattled across a bridge, Jean-Claude shouted to be heard. \"The River of Beer!\"\n\nThat got my attention.\n\n\"The what now?\"\n\n\"The river, it supplies water to\u2014How do you say it, like a factory to make beer?\"\n\n\"A brewery?\"\n\n\"Yes. A brewery. This town is where Primus beer comes from. The brewery is over there. And the river\u2014\"\n\n\"The one we just crossed?\"\n\n\"The Sebeya. That is where the water comes from. Primus beer is made from the water of the Sebeya River.\"\n\nForget Jerusalem! This was my Holy City!\n\nAlas, as we discovered, the Primus brewery didn't offer guided tours, especially to grinning foreigners who showed up at the factory gates asking about \"samples and such.\"\n\n\"We'll tell them I'm a journalist,\" I said. \"Here to do a story about Rwandan beer and how good it is, pending a proper taste test of course.\"\n\nBut evening was settling over the town, and the various offices were closing down for the day, making it impossible for me to appeal to a higher level.\n\nThe streets of Mukamira (a.k.a. \"the Milwaukee of Rwanda\") were alive with dusk-lit saloons and patio-lanterned taverns selling Primus as fresh as it could possibly be. We passed the Hollywood Bar, the All-Star Bar, the New Star Bar, and somewhere, I'm sure, the Hollywood All-Star Bar.\n\n\"The beer is probably cheaper here as well,\" I said, dropping the hint like a wet bag of cement. \"Seeing as how it's closer to the source.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" said Jean-Claude, and on he drove without stopping.\n\n_I've really got to get this guy drinking_.\n\nThere were other enterprises as well\u2014internet caf\u00e9s with Christmas lights strung around the doorways, mattress shops, and seamstresses with roadside foot-pedal Singer sewing machines where you could get your clothes mended while you waited. There were bakeries and caf\u00e9s with French names\u2014La Vie and Est Belle and C'est Belle\u2014but none had the allure of Sebeya River Gold (as I would now call Primus).\n\nThe air was cooling down. Clay-packed fields had filled up with impromptu matches and the dust-cloud kicks of homemade soccer balls. Serious old men were playing cards on upturned packing crates. The streets of Mukamira had become a promenade, as the town's young women reappeared in fine dresses to stroll past gaggles of admirers, eye-fluttering the boys into distraction. One group of girls had congregated in front of a church and were exchanging sidelong glances with a coltish group of young men, all under the watchful and disapproving gaze of the Virgin Mary.\n\nA Congolese refugee camp hove into view, overflowing with crowds of undefeated humanity. We drove past endless rows of now-familiar UNHCR tents. A patchwork of laundry was laid out on the grass to dry. Women from the camp moved past, bent forward from heavy burdens held against their backs, kept in place by thick straps drawn taut across their foreheads.\n\n\"Congolese,\" Jean-Claude said. \"Rwandese balance stuff on their heads. In Congo they use forehead straps like that. They can carry a lot more that way, but is very hard on their necks, is very hard on their backs.\"\n\nI could imagine. My own shoulders ached just to see it, and I later learned that Congolese women often suffer from compressed vertebrae in their necks.\n\nOnce Jean-Claude had pointed out the difference in how Rwandans and Congolese carried heavy loads, I began to notice it everywhere. Congolese, overburdened with bundles of sugar cane and root vegetables packed into gunnysacks, backs bent almost ninety degrees, canvas straps across their foreheads; Rwandans, in sharp contrast, moving through with their posture perfectly straight, gourds and baskets balanced atop: smaller loads, carried with confidence. I could identify people at a glance simply by how they carried their cargo\u2014 _Congolese, Congolese, Rwandan, Congolese, Rwandan_ \u2014and I thought how easy it was to categorize, and what a short step it was from that to isolation, eradication.\n\nThe sun was falling, pulling the rest of the sky in with it, and as we began our long slow descent toward the border, Lake Kivu reappeared, looking like gold foil in the last light of day. In the distance we could see a net of lights thrown across a darkening shore: Goma City, on the other side of the line. Goma City, where the fighting had been at its worst.\n\nWe'd woken that day to news of war in the Congo. Sadly, there is always news of war in the Congo; at any one time at least a dozen different insurgencies were flaring up in far-flung regions. What made this news significant was the where of it: on the outskirts of Goma City. We were driving directly toward the fighting.\n\nA pitched three-way battle was being waged on the other side of that hill. The FDLR (led by former Hutu Power g\u00e9nocidaires, you may recall) were fighting the M23 rebels (Congolese Tutsi soldiers who'd broken away from the Congolese army), who were in turn facing a full-scale military offensive from the government of Congo backed by UN forces.\n\nSouth Africa and Tanzania were now thoroughly engaged in the conflict (or implicated, depending on your point of view) as part of the United Nations intervention brigade. More troops were on their way from Malawi to join them. These would be no neutral observers. The UN was fighting alongside regulars from the Congolese army: an army with a well-deserved reputation for depravity against its own citizens. There were no good guys in this fight. It was like a game of Risk played with real armies.\n\nCaught between hammer and anvil, hundreds of thousands of people continued to flee the region, many of them ending up in UNHCR refugee camps. Which is to say, the UN, in perfect bureaucratic fashion, was helping to create the very refugees it was now being asked to house and feed. I believe this is called vertical integration.\n\nWe arrived in the Rwandan border town of Gisenyi (now known as Rubavu) as darkness finally settled over Kivu. A heavy moon hung low above the water. We could see flashes of light on the other side of the border.\n\nTwo Rwandan villages nearby had been shelled from positions inside Congo, and President Kagame had warned that if these \"provocations\" continued, Rwanda would send in troops of its own. Gisenyi, however, hardly seemed like a community on the edge of a war zone; the town was brimming with well-dressed night-life celebrants flitting from caf\u00e9 to dance club and back again.\n\nJean-Claude and I checked into the Serena Hotel, beautifully situated on the lake. A string-of-pearl line of lights along the shore curved toward a brighter cluster farther down. That would be Goma.\n\nWe ate our dinner on the hotel patio overlooking the water. In Congo, government forces were lobbing mortars at rebel encampments, armoured convoys were rolling in, attack helicopters were hovering like dragonflies, gunfire was ripping through jungle leaves. But over here, all was calm. It was surreal.\n\nAfter our meal we retreated to the hotel bar to warm up and catch the end of an English Premier League match on the telly. (Something United vs. Something FC. Jean-Claude was more rapt than I\u2014and I don't even think it was live. I think it was a repeat of an earlier match.) It was only when I saw the blond man with the windswept hair stride in that I knew we were in trouble. He ordered a drink, slapped down some money, turned to survey the room with an exorbitant self-regard, as though expecting a buzz of excitement to radiate outward from his presence. His eyes were pale, his face suitably sun-creased; he seemed to be squinting at the far horizon, even though there was no far horizon to squint at. There was only a handful of businessmen milling about, with Jean-Claude and me off in one corner. The fellow with the windswept hair (also odd, now that I think about it, as there was no wind inside the bar either) was wearing a canvas vest with multiple pockets, and he had a telephoto camera slung over his shoulder like a rifle. He was clearly starring in a one-man drama of his own life, and I thought, _Oh shit_. A war correspondent.\n\n**45**\n\nTHE NEXT MORNING I DECIDED to walk to the Congo, if only to be able to mention this in future cocktail conversations with a breezy nonchalance. \"I say, chaps, did I ever mention the time I... _walked to the Congo?\"_ (The italics would be implicit.) But in all honesty, it was less a trek than a saunter, a twenty-minute stroll along the beach and then up onto a leafy boulevard.\n\nI'd woken to the sound of Lake Kivu whispering in my ear. Winds from Congo were pushing waves onto the beach outside my window in a slow, steady rhythm. Early-morning birdsong filled the trees: whistles and warbles, courting calls and sharp rebukes, staccato bursts of maniacal laughter followed by sigh-like coos. One bird was making a loud _chk-chk-chk-chk_ sound, oddly reminiscent of a lawn sprinkler. Another, the low _glug-glug-glug_ of someone pouring wind-shield wiper fluid into a car. (Funny how conditioned our cultural associations are.) It was loud and joyful and discordantly musical, and a reminder that even in the dry season we were deep in the sodden heart of Africa, amid rainforests rich with life.\n\nI got up and got dressed, then wandered through the lobby, past a sleepy desk clerk and a fully asleep security guard who was, apparently, manning the metal detector. Feeling reassured by his catlike presence, knowing he was ready to awaken and pounce at the first sign of danger, I ambled out the front door and down to the lake.\n\nA shiver of mist lay across everything. Lake Kivu was a clouded mirror. Inlets and islands. Outcrops of rock, like hippos surfacing for air. A large sign, posted outside the hotel's front gate, assured visitors that Lake Kivu contained\u2014and I quote\u2014\"no crocodiles.\" _Yessir!_ This lake is completely crocodile free! So go ahead and splash about as much as you like, confident in the knowledge that ABSOLUTELY NO CROCODILES are lurking in the depths, ready to clamp onto your ankles with steel-trap jaws to drag you screaming and flailing into the lake's lower reaches, only to be regurgitated in dissembled form later on. No sir. So you just get that image right out of your mind. (Note to Tourism Rwanda: Some things are better not to call attention to.) I also noticed that the warning said nothing about _alligators_. Alligators don't live in Africa, true, but Kivu is one of the deepest lakes in the world, and who's to say its lower reaches haven't bred some sort of bizarre hawk-eagle-type hybrid: a \"crocodile-alligator,\" skulking about offshore.\n\nIn the end, I decided to hedge my bets. I didn't strip down to my boxers and go galloping about, but instead rolled my pant legs up to mid-calf\u2014and didn't I look fetching in my homemade Capri pants\u2014and then waded barefoot along the side of the lake on the assumption that, worst case, you could probably outrun a croc this close to shore.\n\nAs I followed the palm-treed beach down to a pier, it became evident I wasn't the only one in the water. I could hear it before I saw it: early-morning children, laughing. They were leaping, bathing, shouting, fanning waves at each other, then coughing and sputtering as they swiped water from their faces.\n\n\"Hello, muzungu!\" one of them yelled, bobbing like a fishing buoy as I passed. \"Hello! Bonjour! Bonjour!\"\n\nI didn't see any children getting pulled violently under the water in a pinkish froth, which I took as a good sign, so I waded a little deeper into the lake, crimping my pants ever higher and enjoying the cool pull and repeat of waves across my shins.\n\nThe real danger in Lake Kivu is more insidious than crocodiles. Impossible to see or even sense, the deep waters of Kivu contain some 60 billion cubic metres of methane (which can ignite) and carbon dioxide (which can kill), fed into them by a nearby volcano. These gases are trapped in the lake's lower depths, more than 250 metres below the surface, making Kivu one of three known \"exploding lakes\" in the world. A sudden eruption, or \"lake overturn,\" as it's known, can be cataclysmic. In Cameroon, a similar lake erupted in 1986, suffocating more than 1,700 people. Survivors of an earlier eruption spoke of a wave of vile-smelling gas that moved through, killing everything in its path.\n\nThe longer the gas is allowed to accumulate, the greater the risks. Warned that their lake would kill again if the methane and CO2 weren't removed, Cameroon began siphoning it off, venting the gas into the air. But Rwanda, with an exploding lake of its own to worry about, saw the potential for something more, something better: a \"value added\" venture that would turn a potential natural disaster into a plentiful, self-renewing energy source.\n\nOne of the great hurdles Rwanda faces is its lack of a national power grid. The vast majority of homes are still lit with kerosene; flying over the country at night reveals pockets of light surrounded by darkness. So a test project was set up to see if they could extract gas from Lake Kivu and, rather than simply releasing it into the atmosphere, pipe it to a plant to generate electricity. By lowering a tube deep into the lake, they were able to suck methane-infused water to the surface, where the gas was captured like bubbles from a flute of champagne. Two megawatts of power had already been extracted, and I could see the platform floating in the distance like a giant raft with a straw on top.\n\nThe success of this has led to a far more ambitious project known as KivuWatt. A private venture backed by the Rwandan government and supported with international loans, KivuWatt will extract energy from Lake Kivu on a much larger scale, almost doubling Rwanda's current electrical capacity. It's all part of a wide-reaching plan to bring electricity to 70 percent of the population by 2018. Lake Kivu alone will provide power to more than two million people. It's an incredible judo-flip of a strategy, turning an imminent threat into an energy solution, and it limits the release of greenhouse gas as well, making it a clean energy source.\n\nRwanda is also planning to build geothermal plants to take advantage of the volcanic furnaces smouldering underground. A utility-scale solar energy plant\u2014the first in East Africa\u2014was already underway in the country's sun-baked eastern province. (The Dutch company that built the solar-panel facilities praised the Rwandan government for its \"laser-like focus.\") More than 5 percent of Rwanda's energy capacity already comes from solar power, and the country is looking to invest in hydro as well.\n\nNow, if they could just harness the energy of those kids splashing about in the lake, they'd really be on to something...\n\nSearching for a place to sit down and sock-whip the sand from my feet before pulling my shoes back on, I wandered into a small clearing. There I surprised two middle-aged women dressed head-to-trainers in pink velour jogging outfits, right down to matching sweatbands, who were in the middle of their morning calisthenics. They froze, mortified by my sudden appearance. It was as though I'd caught them doing something wrong.\n\n_\"Muraho!\"_ I said cheerfully as I passed, more or less between them.\n\n_\"Muraho,\"_ they mumbled, looking down, avoiding eye contact, and then bursting into self-conscious laughter after I'd departed.\n\nI felt bad. Imagine: you and a friend have decided, \"Enough of this! We are going to get in shape. We'll do it together. Every morning, you and me, no excuses, down by the lake.\" You buy your outfits and your brand-new running shoes and you suit up and you march down with great determination and you find a spot away from prying eyes, and, no sooner do you start in with the jumping jacks than some big pink-faced muzungu shows up. It must have been embarrassing\u2014and funny. I imagine it gave them a shared story to shriek about over the years. _\"Remember that time we took up exercising...?\"_\n\nThe beach ended at a rocky outcrop. I pulled on my shoes and socks, then walked up onto a boulevard lined with palm trees. This was Avenue de la Coop\u00e9ration, which followed the lakeshore.\n\nIn the grassy verge, birds were walking about on stilted legs, picking through the weeds, looking for insects and seeds. Plumed in blue with thin curved beaks, they were probably some sort of hawk-eagle, or maybe a stork-heron or a pelican-goose. Where was Patrice when I needed him?\n\nAvenue de la Coop\u00e9ration changed names, disconcertingly, to Avenue de la R\u00e9volution as it neared the border with Congo. The road narrowed and the mood shifted. A military transport plane lifted off from the Congo side of the hill, thunder-rumbling low across Lake Kivu before banking west, as though evading artillery fire. A UN supply plane came in just heartbeats after the transport plane had departed\u2014it's a wonder they didn't collide in mid-air\u2014and it made a similar lake-skimming, chest-rattling approach. The noise was deafening; it made your heart beat faster and left a ringing in your ears as sharp as a tuning fork.\n\nThe border crossing was a potholed bottleneck with traffic shoved in from both sides. Uniformed soldiers floated about, serenely calm amid the chaos. At the Rwandan customs office, already crowded this early in the day, I realized\u2014in mid-request for a day visa so that I might stroll over to Congo for my morning repast\u2014that I didn't have my passport with me, or any other identification, for that matter. I hadn't thought to knock on Jean-Claude's door and let him know where I was going, either, so at that moment, nobody on earth knew where I was. If I were detained or spirited away, who would be the wiser? I really should have thought things through.\n\nThis \"walk to the Congo\" jaunt had started as a bit of a lark. But now, wedged in at a teller-like window by a compression of Congolese truck drivers who were working at cross-purposes, waving their papers at the customs officials as if they were bidding at an auction (a Congolese queue is a contradiction in terms, apparently), I realized that it was, perhaps, better not to call attention to myself. I was the only muzungu there at the time, so I was definitely visible. But crossing a border without papers? Not a good idea. So at first chance, I walked off in an apparent huff\u2014\"Please wait a moment? _Please wait a moment?_ I don't have time for this!\"\u2014without having to show my (missing) papers. Short of wrestling a handgun from one of the border guards and shooting my way in, I couldn't see how I'd be able to put one foot inside the Democratic Republic of Congo.\n\nDamn.\n\nA muddy track ran alongside a wall near the customs office. Goma\/Gisenyi is really one contiguous city, split down the middle, and this wall was part of the actual border separating Rwanda from Congo. Homes on the other side looked directly into Rwanda. It was a very porous divide, considering the tensions that crackled along it.\n\nPassing a clutch of money traders\u2014 _\"Dollars am\u00e9ricains!_ Muzungu, muzungu! Best rates! _Fran\u00e7ais? Anglais?\"_ \u2014I turned a corner and ran into an ambush of street sellers hawking items I could have no reasonable interest in buying. (A matching set of toilet seats? Why? Jumper cables? I'm on foot, buddy.) Not that it mattered; I'd forgotten my wallet as well. It was like trying to push my way out of a mosh pit, but I finally managed to writhe through, with the satisfaction of knowing that any pickpockets who might have surreptitiously frisked me en route had come up empty. (Rwanda has very little street crime, but I'm told their pickpockets are of reputable talent.)\n\nOn my way back to the hotel, along Avenue de Independence, I passed a slumbering bar called Sky Nevada. Another called Sun Magic. An auto-parts shop was rattling open for the day, the metal slats rolling upward beneath a government billboard urging people to work harder. Harder? How exactly? It was barely past seven, and the entire city was already up and on the go. Streams of people passed. They _appeared_ to be walking at a leisurely pace, yet glided by me with ease. Even old ladies burdened with baskets pulled up alongside me... then past. I picked up my pace\u2014as a point of pride if nothing else\u2014but it was of little use; it was as though I was on a treadmill set at a lower gear than everyone else. It didn't matter who it was. Schoolboys shouting \"Morning morning morning teacher! I am fine!\" Women with babies wrapped up like plump packages on their backs. Men so thin their suits hung off them as though on clothes hangers. Everyone blew by me, some throwing puzzled glances over their shoulders without breaking stride. They seemed so purposeful, so well turned out. And there's me clomping along in what I thought was a hurried manner with all the vitality of a limp windsock, shirt untucked and hair uncombed, hems of my khakis still sopping wet, yet feeling light-chested and happy nonetheless. I liked Gisenyi. There was a tropical feel to the town\u2014but without any sense of lassitude. It bustled with activity but not impatience. Rwanda in a thimble, it seemed to me.\n\nA clatterfication of bicycles. Minibuses passing in multicoloured blurs. Mosquito-motored scooters zipping in and out. Back on the beach in front of our hotel, waves were sliding onto soft brown sand. Orchestral arrangements of birds once again filled the treetops with song. And then\u2014another transport plane lifted off from Congo with the roar of a lion. A platoon of Rwandan soldiers appeared suddenly, dressed in crisp camouflage, jogging in metronymic formation down the shore, rifles at the ready.\n\nOn the hotel's veranda, I found Jean-Claude having breakfast (if you can call seven courses of passion fruit breakfast). He'd been watching the planes taking off too.\n\nWhen I told him about my aborted attempt at reaching the Congo, he suggested we try again.\n\n\"We'll go back,\" he said, \"and tell them you're a journalist.\"\n\nI didn't think trying to cross an international border between two nations on the brink of war by claiming to be a journalist would help.\n\nHe thought about this. \"We'll tell them you're an _important_ journalist.\"\n\nAnd son of a gun if it didn't work. We returned, me with my passport this time\u2014though I was never asked to produce it. Instead, Jean-Claude spoke with the customs officer and handed him one of my _Canadian Geographic_ calling cards. We weren't permitted to go into Congo, the situation was too dire, but we could at least stand on Congolese soil in the no man's land between borders. The Rwandan customs official walked us over. The only stipulation he made was that I let him review any photos I took.\n\nHis Congolese counterpart, stocky and muscle-jawed, met us halfway and escorted us into the Democratic Republic of Congo\u2014or rather, into the strange twilight world between the two. Transport trucks were everywhere, their cargo stacked this way and that. Goma City was pushing up against the border, the buildings looking like stacked crates teetering on a forklift. We could see Congo, but we couldn't enter. To step through that final barrier would be to invite questioning, detention. \"We would have to bribe our way in and bribe our way out\" was how Jean-Claude put it.\n\nSo I wandered about instead, while Jean-Claude chatted with the Congolese customs officer in French. Or tried to. The man was overtly circumspect and would give only carefully crafted non-answers to Jean-Claude's queries. \"Has the conflict affected transportation?\" Answer: \"The situation is under control.\" \"Is the border busier now? Are more people trying to come over?\" Answer: \"The situation is under control.\" \"Are things cooling down or heating up?\" Answer: \"As far as the situation goes, it is under control.\"\n\nWe thanked him for his help (Jean-Claude had the feeling he was expecting us to slip him a few francs when we shook his hand), and as we walked back to the Rwandan side, we saw an American television crew recording a breathless report about the impending war between Congo and Rwanda. Like the windswept photo journalist we'd seen earlier, the reporter in question wore a tanned, multi-pocketed vest\u2014 _de rigueur_ among the war correspondent set, apparently\u2014and with the Goma cityscape in the background, he was clutching his microphone with both hands and shouting into it, as though shells were falling around him as he spoke.\n\n\"Why is he yelling like that?\" Jean-Claude asked.\n\nHaving completed our walkabout in no man's land, Jean-Claude and I returned to the Rwanda customs office.\n\nA sign greets truck drivers and travellers entering Rwanda from Congo. Not \"Welcome to the Land of a Thousand Hills!\" or \"Enjoy your stay!\" but rather INVESTMENT YES. CORRUPTION NO. I scrolled through the photos I'd taken, for the Rwandan official to check, and he requested I delete only two: one that showed a soldier's face too closely and another that showed a military licence plate too clearly. Otherwise, it was fine.\n\n\"You know,\" the official said to Jean-Claude in Kinyarwanda, \"the main crossing point between Congo and Rwanda is on the north side of the city. That's where most of the trade and foot traffic happens. This crossing is just used mainly for long-distance transport.\"\n\nThe real action was at the other border crossing.\n\nOh.\n\n\"So let's go,\" Jean-Claude said, and off we went.\n\nWe zigzagged our way through the streets of Gisenyi, often along the very walls that delineated the border. On our way, we passed the same throng of money-changers and street vendors I'd squirmed through earlier. The man with the jumper cables watched me go by like the lost sale I was. _So you_ did _have a vehicle!_ I gave him a sympathetic shrug.\n\nThat customs officer hadn't been kidding.\n\nTraffic at the first border crossing was a mere trifle compared to the influx and outflow of people on this wider avenue. Here the two countries ran smack up against each other, with the newly built homes and tidy yards of Rwanda built directly across a muddy stream from the shantytown shacks in Congo.\n\nEven with fighting on the other side of the hill and military planes rumbling overhead, the border was thriving. People were streaming into Rwanda, not as refugees but as merchants, as buyers. Gisenyi was supplying Goma with everything imaginable. It was a decidedly lopsided flow of trade, with the Congolese pouring in empty-handed and leaving laden with goods, loading up and then heading back. Again and again.\n\nThis was cross-border shopping as I'd never seen it, a market on the march, a beehive kicked open. Congolese market women were stocking up on cooking pots and kerosene, on yams and cabbages, on gritty sacks of cooking charcoal, on chandeliers of bananas. _Surely they have banana trees in Congo_ , I thought. _Why would they need to come all the way here to buy them?_ Then I realized that with the fighting raging just outside the city, harvesting any kind of crop would have been dangerous.\n\nThese women were carrying commerce on their backs, supply and demand in immediate response. One woman was taking a towering telescope of plastic buckets back with her, another had cornered the market on lime-green flip-flops. Many of the goods were Chinese-made. One lady had an array of brightly coloured Kleenex boxes roped together and balanced on her head. Her burden was the size of a small refrigerator; I didn't know how she managed the weight of it, let alone at such a brisk pace. (Jean-Claude suggested that the boxes might be empty and that she would slyly restock them with coarser, cheaper tissues back home before reselling them.) Raggedy men in stained shirts and tattered shorts were pushing homemade wooden tricycles, the loads lashed down with twine and rope: full-sized mattresses hog-tied, bundles of clothing, even an entire couch in one case. It flowed without end and without beginning, a Mobius strip of people looping back and forth across the border.\n\nJean-Claude and I spent two nights in Gisenyi. We knocked the dust from our shoes, washed our socks in the sink, strolled among the shops, breathed in the tropical air, and filled our bellies with passion fruit and Primus, respectively. A long drive had brought us here, and our lakeside sojourn felt like one extended satisfying crick of the neck. We finally sent Patrice, our designated but underused driver, home on an express coach, with a generous tip and a warm handshake. It was probably the easiest and strangest assignment he'd ever had.\n\nBefore he left, I asked Patrice if it was true there were no crocodiles in Lake Kivu. (I was still considering a dip\u2014would maybe _swim_ to the Congo!) He said, and these were his exact words, \"Not probably.\"\n\nI never did figure out what he meant by that.\n\n**46**\n\nTWENTY YEARS AGO, the volcanic plains west of Goma were the site of the largest refugee encampment the world had ever seen.\n\nWith the collapse of Hutu Power, a mass migration occurred: more than two and a half million people fled the RPF advance. They were driven forward by interahamwe and Rwandan armed forces who were determined to take the nation with them into exile, denying the victors a people to govern. The first wave went south into Tanzania, the next into Burundi. The rest pushed westward, on foot, into Zaire (as the Congo was known from 1971 to 1997). Most crossed over here, at Gisenyi.\n\nThe bulk of the Hutu army, 22,000 strong, crossed over with the refugees, their combat units and command structure intact, bringing with them heavy weaponry, military vehicles, ammunition, and the entire state treasury\u2014more than US$170 million\u2014leaving Rwanda bankrupt.\n\n\"The RPF may have the country,\" one of the Hutu leaders declared, \"but we have the people.\"\n\nIt was the largest hostage-taking in human history. Rwanda had been hollowed out. Between the genocide and the exodus that followed, 60 percent of the population was now dead, displaced, or on the run.\n\nAs the g\u00e9nocidaires flooded across the border into Zaire, an Oxfam employee looked on in horror. \"They were covered in blood,\" he recalled. \"Not their blood.\"\n\nThe interahamwe quickly took control of the camps. A Hutu Power government-in-exile was proclaimed (including, I kid you not, a \"minister of tourism\"), and the people were forbidden to return to Rwanda\u2014if the innocent left, only the guilty would remain, after all. And anyway, a \"revenge genocide\" at the hands of the RPF would be waiting for them if they were foolish enough to go back. That was the warning. That was the fear.\n\nThe aims of the government-in-exile were clear: reclaim their country and drive the RPF out, and\u2014implicitly\u2014finish the genocide they'd started. Almost immediately, they began launching raids into Rwanda, terrorizing Tutsis in the remoter rural areas left unprotected and vulnerable. (The Hutu gunmen who killed the students at Nyange Secondary School had crossed over from these camps, and it was into one of these zones that Jean-Claude had so blithely driven when he went to rescue the three boys, unaware of the danger.) In Tanzania, a similar scenario was playing out.\n\nThe camps were squalid and dangerous. Cholera and dysentery swept through, leaving thousands dead. International aid, painfully absent in Rwanda during the genocide, now poured in. Armed g\u00e9nocidaires\u2014wanted for war crimes\u2014patrolled the camps unobstructed, confiscating supplies provided by aid agencies, including medicines, and then selling them on the black market to help fund their cross-border campaign. These weren't refugees running the camps, these were fugitives. All the while, French arms continued to arrive, landing in Goma in preparation for the promised counter invasion, aided and abetted by France's longtime ally, Zaire's cartoonish dictator-for-life, Mobutu Sese Seko.\n\nRwanda had internal refugee camps to deal with as well, among them Kibeho Camp in the eastern region. The RPF had moved through, camp by camp, closing each one in turn and sending the people home. Kibeho was the last. Controlled by g\u00e9nocidaires, Kibeho had become a tinderbox. The interahamwe used it as a staging ground for attacks on the surrounding countryside, targeting both the Hutus who had returned and the Tutsis who'd survived\u2014\"killing the evidence,\" as it was known. More than 250,000 people were entrenched in Kibeho, and tensions were rising. When the RPF arrived to close down the camp, the interahamwe fought back, and what started as a military operation turned into a massacre, with soldiers firing directly into the crowds. The frightened people inside crushed each other trying to escape, trampling over bodies while heavy rains pounded down. Mud and blood, churning together. As many as 4,000 people died at Kibeho. Some estimates put it even higher.\n\nRwanda issued a warning to Zaire: close down the bases along its borders or face the consequences. Mobutu refused\u2014and even increased aid to the Hutu Power government-in-exile. And so, in 1996, with support from Uganda, Rwanda invaded. The RPF emptied the refugee camps in eastern Zaire and forcibly repatriated more than 700,000 people, who returned as they'd come, on foot, in a bedraggled column that stretched for miles. The interahamwe and Hutu Power g\u00e9nocidaires in Goma fled into the jungle, leaving behind lists of Tutsis in the Lake Kivu region, carefully recorded in ledgers. These were the same people who would later call themselves the FDLR.\n\nWith Rwandan-backed rebels having reached the outskirts of Kinshasa, President Mobutu fled the country with only moments to spare and died soon after. Rwanda installed what they thought was a puppet president: a fading rebel leader named Laurent Kabila who had been plucked from obscurity by Kigali as much for his pliability as for any political acumen. But when Laurent Kabila, president of the newly renamed Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), reneged on his backroom agreement and began targeting Tutsi Congolese and expelling Rwandan military advisers, Rwanda invaded Congo again and toppled him as well.\n\nTwo wars in the Congo in less than a decade have left the country reeling. _Millions_ have died in the DRC: victims of war, anarchy, ethnic killings, criminal cartels, insurgencies, famine, greed, disease, and malnutrition. It's less a country than an ongoing crisis\u2014one that can be traced back directly to the 1994 genocide against the Tutsis. The apocalypse that Colonel Bagosora and the g\u00e9nocidaires ignited is burning still.\n\n**47**\n\nFOR A BORDER TOWN teetering on the edge of war, the outdoor markets of Gisenyi were surprisingly orderly. Thriving on trade, they were well-stocked and well-swept, with wide tables piled high with goods. Sheaves of fish, alive with flies. Peppers and pineapples. Bibles and yams.\n\nOne market was filled with housewares and clothing, and it was here that Jean-Claude and I faced our greatest challenge yet: shopping for our wives. It was sad, really, the two of us relying on each other for advice. \"What do you think, do you think she'd like something like this?\" one of us would ask, holding up items more or less at random.\n\nThe farther we pushed into the market, the more crowded it became; we all but snorkelled through at times, surfacing at intervals to exchange concerned looks before plunging back under.\n\nWooden trays were heaped with Allan Quatermain\u2013style treasures: trinkets and talismans, the usual brummagem junk. Unfortunately, after a regrettable incident involving pewter earrings at a marketplace in Mexico, my wife doesn't allow me to purchase jewellery for her anymore, so shiny baubles were out. (My sons were easy. T-shirts at the airport. Done.)\n\nOne tout tried to entice me with jumper cables\u2014 _\"Perhaps m'lady would appreciate some fine automotive accessories as a token of my affection?\"_ \u2014but somehow I resisted the temptation. (And what is it with Rwandans and jumper cables?) Instead, I decided I would buy my Japanese wife some Rwandan fabric. Jean-Claude chose to purchase a CD of gospel music for his better half. (There were booths in the market that\u2014copyright be damned!\u2014would create a mixed tape for you, to order, from their library of CDs while you waited.) We agreed to meet back in forty minutes and wished each other well, much in the manner of paratroopers about to fling themselves from a moving plane on a moonless night. _\"Good luck, it's been an honour serving with you.\"_\n\nHead held high, striding purposefully into quicksand, I marched off into that labyrinth of stalls.\n\nWell, hell, who knew it was so hard to buy some fabric! The traditional dress of Rwandan women is an intricately patterned, brightly dyed wraparound skirt with matching head scarf, artfully tied. I had assumed these were simply large squares of cloth. But no. There was more to it than that. Much more. The cloth came in different shapes, sizes, colours, and combinations\u2014my head swam as I squeezed past row after row of stalls.\n\nJean-Claude's parting piece of advice had been \"Maybe keep your wallet in your underwear, just to be safe.\"\n\nI'd peeled off a fat stack of Rwandan francs for immediate use, then tucked the rest into the nested warmth of my nether regions. (I'll give you a moment to get that image out of your head; a shot of tequila should do it.) If someone was going to pick my pocket, I would at least get a free grope out of the deal.\n\nI had money, I just didn't know how to spend it. I didn't even know where to start.\n\nNo worries. Several lanky men of dubious intent took a break from selling telephone cards and jumper cables to come to my rescue. They formed a phalanx around me, all talking at once, while the wraparound women looked on, trying to warn me away with their eyes.\n\nThe leader of my self-appointed crew, a leather-skinned elder with a chest-rattling catarrhal voice, referred to me repeatedly as \"Monsieur,\" which I thought was terrific. _Monsieur muzungu, that's me!_ When I explained, primarily through the art of pantomime, what I was looking for, he held my wrist, almost daintily, as though taking my pulse, and led me farther into the hugger-mugger of the market. With his friends clearing a path, we soon arrived at a large display of men's suits\u2014all of them North American in style. Despite my protests, he discussed matters at great length with the wide-bosomed woman behind the counter. She didn't look happy. I assumed he and his coterie were demanding a large commission on any sales. But no matter how much they badgered and chivvied, she refused, which left us at an impasse. One man gestured one way, another pointed just as insistently in the opposite direction. This was followed by a highly animated and perfectly disjointed discourse with many a passionate digression, none of which brought us any closer to a solution. Proposals were proffered, solutions offered, objections waved aside.\n\nWhen a dishevelment of grinning schoolboys pushed in, I preempted what was coming with a burst of my own: _\"Good morning students how are you I am fine!\"_ They were under the mistaken impression that I would give them money simply because, well, I was a muzungu, I suppose, and presumably rich. They learned an important lesson that day. Not all muzungus are wealthy or glad-handing in their generosity. Some of us are quite cheap, in fact.\n\nIn the end, I thanked the men for their \"help\" and moved on, though escaping them was a little like trying to disentangle oneself from an overly amorous octopus. They clearly wanted money for their \"services,\" but I pretended I didn't \"understand.\"\n\n\"See ya!\" I chimed.\n\nWhen I ended up at a stall that was selling handmade aprons, I decided that what my wife really wanted was a handmade apron. (Memo to any men out there: Turns out, buying your wife an apron is not considered a romantic gesture.) A smiling-eyed woman laughed her way through our mutual language barrier and, mainly with hand gestures, asked me what size.\n\n\"Small. Really small,\" I said, holding my hand out at waist level. (My wife is four-foot eleven, which she insists on rounding up to five.) There was a tag on the apron explaining that it was made by a women's collective. The fabric was certainly beautiful, a mix of geometric patterns suggestive of an African quilt, and when I went to pay, having completely forgotten to haggle, she kindly dropped the price by 10 percent.\n\nHaving thus taken care of my spousal duties, I rendezvoused with Jean-Claude, who congratulated me on my selection. Which is to say, he was just as clued out as I was.\n\n**48**\n\nNIGHT WATERS, SWIMMERS OFFSHORE. Silhouettes emerging and submerging, coalescing and then dissolving back into the lake. The moon was a fisherman's float in a seaweed of clouds, and I thought, _What a beautiful night_.\n\nJean-Claude and I were on a caf\u00e9 veranda with street views and a cooling wind coming in from Lake Kivu. Women in skirts wafted past, and though I know I'm not supposed to notice this sort of thing, let alone comment upon it, it must be said: all that hill-walking does wonders for a woman's calves. (That's right, I'm not just a leg man but specifically a _calf_ man.) Even in flip-flops they seemed to be wearing seven-inch stilettos.\n\nI looked over at Jean-Claude, my date for the night (once again), and I sighed.\n\n\"Jean-Claude, why couldn't you have been born a beautiful woman?\" I asked.\n\nWe walked back to our hotel past taverns reverberant with laughter. In the shaded doorways, languorous women swayed to music as jellied-jointed drunks staggered by outside, gloriously insensate. The jangle of Congolese music spilled out of every nightclub, every caf\u00e9. Rwanda sent trade goods across the border; Congo sent back its music. I think Rwanda got the better part of the deal.\n\nIt was our final night on Lake Kivu, and the lights of Congo curved into the distance.\n\n\"Really,\" I said to Jean-Claude. \"Why couldn't you have been born a beautiful woman?\"\n\nBack at the hotel, furtive cabals of Congolese men were hunched around tables, discussing business deals and possible exit plans. Ruddy-faced muzungus milled about as well, NGO administrators with acronymed aides in attendance. And then, sweeping through: the familiar sun-bleached hair and multi-pocketed vests of conflict correspondents. It was strange for me to be surrounded by such a swirl of international intrigue while remaining so oblivious to what was going on. Sort of like Marie Antoinette at the onset of the Revolution, I imagine.\n\nThree weeks after we left Gisenyi, more missiles were fired into Rwanda from the Democratic Republic of Congo. One hit the market we had visited, killing two people. Whether this attack was the work of the Congolese armed forces, the FDLR, or, as the UN asserted, the M23 rebels themselves, in an attempt to draw Rwanda into the fight, remains a point of contention.\n\nI considered telling my wife about our near-miss once I got home\u2014how often can you say you cheated death in order to buy your loved one an apron? But given that I'd assured her I wouldn't be going anywhere dangerous when I was in Rwanda, I reconsidered. Some things are better left unsaid.\n\n**49**\n\nMOUNTAIN GORILLAS DIDN'T EXIST in the European imagination until 1902. That was the year a German captain by the name of von Beringe crossed the remote Virunga rainforests of what was then German East Africa. Near the summit of Mount Sabyinyo, he encountered a troop of what he described as large \"human-like monkeys\" that were attempting to flee over a ridge. The encounter came as a wonderful surprise\u2014primates were not known to inhabit such high altitudes\u2014and Beringe celebrated the moment by pulling out his trusty rifle and shooting two of the creatures in the back. They tumbled over the edge of the rocky embankment, sliding down the other side. Beringe managed to drag one of the bodies out of the ravine with a rope and had his porters carry it down the mountain in a sling, where he arranged to have it transported to Germany. He had, in fact, discovered a new species\u2014or rather subspecies\u2014of primate, one that would bear his name: _Gorilla beringei beringei_.\n\nMountain gorillas are immensely impressive animals. Thickly furred and heavily muscled, with males routinely clocking in at 180 kilograms or more (which sounds even more impressive in imperial units: 400 pounds _on average_ ), they were often depicted by Europeans as monstrous \"man-eaters\" and were much sought after by big-game hunters. A 1921 expedition by Sweden's Prince William, conducted with the blessing of Belgian authorities, saw him kill fourteen of the Virunga's mountain gorillas in one go; their taxidermy remains are on proud display in Stockholm even now. But their enormous size and alarming canines aside, these animals are gentle giants, peaceful herbivores whose habitat is limited to one narrow chain of volcanoes in central Africa, high in the cool montane forests that straddle the borders of Congo, Rwanda, and Uganda.\n\nAmerican primatologist Dian Fossey spent eighteen years cataloguing the behaviour of these gorillas, often mimicking their cries and grunts\u2014and even belches\u2014until they had become thoroughly habituated to her. As a prot\u00e9g\u00e9 of renowned paleontologist Dr. Louis Leakey, Fossey was meticulous in her research, discovering intricate social relationships and charting complex genealogies. She began her fieldwork in Congo in 1967, but the country's political turmoil forced her to relocate to the Rwandan side of the border, where she set up the Karisoke Research Center high on a remote hill between volcanoes. Local villagers called her _\"Nyiramacibili,\"_ which Fossey translated, with a great deal of poetic licence, as \"the old lady who lives in the forest without a man.\" (A more accurate rendering would be \"small woman who walks really fast.\")\n\nPoachers infiltrating the park for bushbuck and duikers would often set traps that snagged gorillas as well. The young ones were especially vulnerable. Even adult gorillas, having easily broken free of the snares, could end up with the wires cutting off circulation to their wrists or ankles, creating wounds that could become infected and gangrenous. Buffalo traps\u2014sharp, spiked bamboo hoops set across the trails\u2014were even worse. And when illegal ivory hunters tracking elephants through the forest crossed paths with gorillas, it rarely ended well. A silverback male rearing up to beat his chest, mock-charging and determined to protect the females and children under his care, is in a purely defensive position. But this was usually taken as a threat by the poachers and dealt with as such. The death of a dominant male can be devastating. As Fossey noted, \"No gorilla group can exist without its unifying force, the silverback leader.\" (Something I like to remind my own family of as my hair greys.)\n\n\"When I went to get married, I could see what the genocide had done.\" A survivor of Bisesero.\n\nThe world's most sought-after puddle.\n\nThe road, meeting itself on the way back, somewhere above Lake Kivu.\n\n\"We are all Rwandans.\" Students at Nyange Secondary School stand outside the classroom where the events of that night occurred. The school's self-described Master of Discipline is on the left.\n\nA market on the march: the border crossing at Goma.\n\nEven with fighting on the other side of the hill, trade continued to stream across the border.\n\nThe forests and hills of Rwanda: layers and layers of layers and layers.\n\nSomeone is watching.\n\nKing Kong in a more reflective mood. Mountain gorillas didn't exist in the Western imagination until the early twentieth century.\n\nA baby mountain gorilla ponders her strangely denuded cousins.\n\nOur closest living relatives know how to lounge.\n\nThe feline grace of Masai giraffes.\n\nThe Artful Dodgers of the animal set: the notorious olive baboon.\n\nAkagera National Park. Some sort of bird. Possibly a hawk-eagle.\n\nThe banana seller with whom Jean-Claude entered multilateral trade negotiations.\n\nIt might have changed everything. Sorghum-stalk homes on the road to Akagera National Park.\n\nBarcode arrangements moving across the savannah.\n\n\"My name is Tony, I am a boy.\" \"My name is Asinati, I am a girl.\"\n\nJean-Claude Munyezamu in front of the ruins of his brother's home in Rundu village.\n\nThe children of Rundu village.\n\nA daughter of the new Rwanda: Congolese girl at Kigeme camp.\n\nPoachers later targeted the gorillas directly, for trophies (gorilla-hand ashtrays were a popular souvenir at one point) or to kidnap the babies for transport to zoos in Europe and Asia. Fossey tells the horrific story of one band of poachers-for-hire killing ten gorillas just to capture a single infant on order for a zoo in Germany. Fossey worked in vain to have the terrified baby released\u2014only to find that a second baby had been caught in the same manner for the same zoo, with eight adult gorillas killed that time. A French film crew, meanwhile, had pursued a group of gorillas so relentlessly that one of the females miscarried. (The documentary they were filming would later be broadcast in France to great acclaim.) And with growing pressure from farmers and cattle grazers who were illicitly clearing the forest with slash-and-burn methods and steadily encroaching on their territory, the mountain gorilla population plummeted to 242 by the early 1980s.\n\nFossey was aggressive in her response. She set up wide-ranging anti-poaching patrols. She destroyed hundreds of traps and even arrested intruders\u2014something she had no legal right to do\u2014and would strip them down to their underwear and whip them with nettles as a punishment. Fossey hounded Rwandan authorities until several incorrigible poachers were charged and sentenced to lengthy prison terms. On occasion she would use Halloween masks and fire-crackers to raid illegal encampments, scaring off would-be hunters, and her research assistants had several violent clashes with the people they had challenged. Fossey's own life was threatened several times, but she remained fearless in the face of intimidation.\n\nFew people can claim to have saved an entire species, but this is precisely what Dian Fossey accomplished. And although initially opposed to gorilla tourism, she later came to accept it, admitting that limited conservation tours could help the animals \"if properly directed.\" Today, the world's mountain gorilla population is estimated to be 880. Of these, approximately 400 are in Rwanda. They're one of our closest living relatives, and it was time for us to pop in for a visit.\n\n**50**\n\nWE LEFT THE LAKE KIVU SERENA HOTEL before sunrise, driving into darkness.\n\nEven at five in the morning, the roads were filled with people, and our headlights picked up fleeting images of market women carrying goods, of Muslim men going to mosque, of children on their long walk to school. Given how quickly the sun set in Rwanda\u2014much like a lamp chain being given a decisive yank\u2014it was always strange how slowly it rose: a soft wash, a breath of light, a dimmer switch gradually turning up as the mountains formed around us.\n\nIt took several hours, but when we passed the Dian Fossey Hotel, I knew we were getting close. The rainforests of the Virunga Mountains (the name is a corruption of the Kinyarwanda word for \"volcano\") were looming over us, like waves about to break.\n\nThese mountains\u2014eight volcanoes: six dormant, two active\u2014run along the northern border of Rwanda as part of Volcanoes National Park. A twisting road took us to the main information centre and muster point, where eighty or so other groggy-eyed would-be trekkers had gathered. There were lots of yawns and early-morning shivers. Urns of coffee beckoned, but Jean-Claude once again declined. Surely this was a morning made for coffee, but no. He would climb the Virungas without the aid of caffeine stimulants, poor man.\n\nAccess to Rwanda's habituated gorillas is strictly controlled: eight people per group, with visits limited to one hour, once a day. The gorillas live in extended families, and their populations are clustered in disparate areas throughout the Virungas' misted heights, usually with a dozen or so gorillas under the leadership of a dominant silverback. Some groups were close at hand and others required a treacherous hike to the very top of the volcanoes, so the first order of business was to separate visitors accordingly. Trail guides walked among the assembled guests, sorting us into groups of eight. They put older people and those who looked more out-of-shape in the easiest groups, with the youthful, sporty-looking types assigned to higher, more difficult reaches. It was like a free fitness evaluation, and I was pleasantly surprised to find myself grouped in with a band of healthy-looking hikers. I tapped my hands on my belly, thought to myself, _You still got it, Will_.\n\nOur group would be visiting the Amahoro family of gorillas, and when I thumbed through the guidebook, I almost choked. This was the second most difficult band of gorillas to reach, and some even considered the Amahoro hike to be the _most_ difficult, because it went over one side of the mountain and down into the next valley\u2014meaning you had to walk back up again on your return. In contrast, the Suza group, widely considered the most taxing trek, required a gruelling three-hour hike straight up, but once you reached those heights you were done.\n\nI gulped back a bolus of fear and watched as the other members of my hiking group moved about purposefully, strapping themselves into lightweight aluminum day packs with aerodynamically scientific hiking poles. Several of them had water systems that fed tubes directly into their mouths, so they wouldn't have to break stride to rehydrate. I, on the other hand, had two loose bottles of water _somewhere_ in the bottom of my lumpy and decidedly non-aerodynamic rucksack. The entire extent of my prep had been to tuck my pant legs inside my socks to, you know, reduce drag and whatnot.\n\nJean-Claude and I had been placed in a group that featured a tanned young French woman\u2014a medical student who was travelling with her equally tanned, equally fit mom\u2014and a family of four from Spain: a fit-looking husband (with high-tech water resupply system), an even fitter-looking wife, and two derivatively fit-looking teenage daughters. I was hoping these last two would be of the what- _ever_ , eyeball-rolling, stopping every five minutes to take selfies of themselves, \"O my god, we are so random!\" type of teenage girls, but sadly, they were not. As I was soon to discover, these were the quick-striding, \u00fcber-athletic, relentlessly energetic type of teenage girls, the kind who scamper fearlessly ahead on steep jungle trails with nary a hiccup, forcing the rest of their group to play an endless game of catch-up. The type who never seem to sweat but only ever attain a healthy pinkish glow.\n\nIn a panic, I pulled Jean-Claude to one side. \"How the hell did we end up in this group?\" I asked.\n\n\"It was by request.\"\n\nRequest? _Whose request?_ Jean-Claude's of course.\n\n\"I talked with the guides,\" he explained. \"They told me the Amahoro group is the best one to visit right now. The Amahoro gorillas have several new babies. It's why they put us in this group.\"\n\nTurns out, Jean-Claude and I had been slotted to visit one of the nearer, more accessible bands of gorillas, but in his infinite wisdom Jean-Claude had sidled up to one of the guides and explained that I was\u2014quote\u2014\"an important journalist\" here to do a story about conservation in Rwanda. Which is how a thoroughly sedentary, middle-aged author, whose most strenuous daily activity involves hitting CTRL-ALT-DELETE at the same time when his computer freezes up during a particularly demanding round of Minesweeper, found himself assigned to one of the toughest treks in the forest.\n\nThanks to my so-called friend Jean-Claude, I now faced a possible (probable) cardiac arrest somewhere on the side of the Virunga volcanoes. Good thing we had a medical student on board!\n\n\"You want to see the babies,\" Jean-Claude assured me. \"And anyway, it's too late to change your mind. Everybody's leaving. Look.\"\n\nWe headed out in a convoy of Land Cruisers and jeeps, and as the vehicles peeled off onto different routes, the road climbed higher and the air grew thinner. With every turn, the valley fell away, deeper into the distance. In Rwanda, Point A to Point B is never a straight line, is always a squiggle, and when I looked down I could often see where we had just been, directly below us.\n\nEven in a land as fertile as Rwanda, the rich volcanic soils of the Virungas are exceptionally fecund. We passed tangled plots of green beans and peas, flowering potatoes and thickets of maize: single-family farms carved out of the jungle, their crops embedded among ever-present stands of bamboo and eucalyptus.\n\nOn the way, we passed through what had once been a notorious poachers' village. As part of a shared tourism revenue program, the government now plows money from its conservation tours directly back into the villages nearby. The fees paid by tourists have helped build more than a dozen health centres and close to sixty schools. It's an act of strategic altruism, aimed at dissuading poachers and cattle grazers from undermining a source of their community's income.\n\nFormerly among the poorest, most backward regions of Rwanda, the village we passed through now boasted a health clinic and a water-pumping station (sparing the villagers a daily trek up and down the mountain), as well as two new schools, a beekeeping operation, and a small-scale dairy farm, all courtesy of Rwanda's Mountain Gorilla Conservation Programme. Billboards in front of each new facility reminded the populace of this, and the message was clear: there is a direct economic benefit in protecting the gorillas and their habitat. _These schools, this medical clinic, this water? These are courtesy of the gorillas_. Former poachers are now some of the most vocal advocates for conservation, patrolling their areas for intruders. And many of the park's guides were once poachers themselves. After all, they knew the terrain better than anyone.\n\nOur convoy was down to three vehicles. We stopped just past a cluster of mud-walled homes. This was the spot where Dian Fossey used to park her vehicle, our guide told us. The road ahead was too rough for even a 4x4. From here, we would walk.\n\nAs we were getting ready to set off, a motley procession of men appeared, walking their bicycles downhill, handlebars and seats overburdened with gunnysacks of string beans and cassava, bundles of bananas, en route to the village market. This too was a legacy of Dian Fossey. There hadn't been a market here prior to her arrival, but during the time she lived in the mountains, Fossey would come down twice a week to purchase supplies. People soon learned to stock up and wait for her. Word spread, and people from other villages began appearing, bringing in more and varied goods, vying for her business. Fossey was by all accounts a tough negotiator. She didn't simply pay the asking price; she wrangled and bargained and selected her supplies carefully. Those items that Fossey didn't want, people traded among themselves. Today, some thirty years after her death, the market still thrives, twice a week like clockwork, on the same days she would have come down from the mountain.\n\nWe had two guides assigned to us: Olivier and Placide, a pair of soft-spoken but well-armed park rangers.\n\n\"Is that an AK-47?\" I asked.\n\n\"No. Better.\"\n\nThey gathered us in for instructions, and when Placide showed us where we would be going, he didn't point forward, he pointed _up_.\n\nWe set out, single file, beneath the towering indifference of the Virunga volcanoes. A snaggle-toothed trail of volcanic bedrock pushed us past homes that were in various stages of decay and renewal. Some were little more than crumbling piles of clay bricks, others were cement-walled and metal-roofed. Children came running out to holler \"Hello! Hello!\" as we passed. We nodded, waved, trudged on.\n\nA meadow opened up before us. At the far end stood a solid wall of jungle; we followed a raised trail along an irrigation channel until we came to it. A stone barrier, cobbled together from volcanic rock, ran along the edge of the forest, as though corralling the trees inside it.\n\n\"Buffalo fence,\" said Olivier. \"They come out and eat potatoes and flatten the crops. This annoys the farmers too much. Better to keep them away from each other.\"\n\nWe climbed over the stone wall on a rickety stile and began our ascent through the jungle. Almost immediately I was out of breath. Altitude, age, and a dissolute lifestyle were catching up to me, but I'd done enough long-distance hikes to know that I needed to find my own rhythm, and eventually I did. It went like this: _step, stumble, gasp, wheeze; step, stumble, gasp, wheeze; (repeat)_.\n\nI quickly dropped to the back. At some point, extra armed guards joined our group (they must have slipped in behind us, ninja-like, while we trundled along), and I ended up, accidentally, with my own personal bodyguard.\n\n\"For animals?\" I gasped, gesturing to his rifle.\n\nHe smiled and nodded as he loped along, easily keeping pace with me the way I might with a toddler. \"Sometime is for elephant,\" he said in halting English. \"Sometimes is for buffalo.\"\n\nElephants? This was something I always had trouble wrapping my head around: the fact that there were enormous pachyderms hiding in these jungles. Elephants were so bulky, so lumbering, it hardly seemed feasible. I'd always thought of them as a creature of the savannah, lords of the open plains, backlit majestically by rose-madder sunsets, not jungle denizens tromping about on rainforest trails so narrow we required a porter up front just to clear a path.\n\nRunning into an elephant on a trail such as this, hemmed in by trees on either side? That was something best avoided.\n\nSure enough, we soon came upon several knuckles of elephant dung, thick with matted grass. The rest of the group had gathered round to take photos and admire the offerings. Some of the dung seemed fresh, was still moist\u2014to look at, anyway. I wasn't about to go around prodding it with my finger or anything. Instead, I took this as a chance to chug down some water. \"How many elephants live in these forests?\" I asked with a wipe of my mouth.\n\nPlacide hedged. \"We aren't certain. I saw one last week, but we don't know how many, not exactly.\"\n\n_A jungle so big, elephants can hide in it_.\n\nElephants are highly seasonal animals. They move about constantly. They follow food. They roam widely and on a whim, from Congo to Uganda and back again. There was no telling how many or how near any of them were at any one moment.\n\nI gestured to the dung. \"Is there an elephant nearby?\"\n\nHe looked up at the trail, frowned. \"Maybe.\"\n\nWe pushed on, through the mentholated air of the rainforest. For long stretches, all I heard was the sound of my own lungs, panting for oxygen. I could feel my pulse bongo-throbbing in the arteries of my neck as the trail fought its way in and out of the forest, through tangles of greenery, past boulders in a river, furred with moss. Butterflies fluttered by, their wings a deep and abiding iridescent blue, some satin, some velvet, alighting and departing on the faintest whisper of wind.\n\nA break in the forest revealed jungle rolling into the distance, the treetops as tightly bunched as broccoli. Jean-Claude was waiting for me, and he pointed to the hills ahead. We were at the northern border of Rwanda. \"Congo,\" he said, then, pointing the other way, \"Uganda.\" Three nations, converging.\n\nWe'd been hiking an hour to earn that view, and it was almost worth it.\n\nWith Placide in the lead we headed across a clearing, wading through leafy stands of what turned out be stinging nettles. Layers and layers of stinging nettles. My newly purchased state-of-the-art Mountain Equipment Co-op all-terrain protective hiking pants with patented dry-wick technology\u2122 had failed utterly when faced with a _soup\u00e7on_ of African nettles. It was like swimming through a tide of jellyfish, each step, each brush a burning slash. And it. Went. On. Forever.\n\nI could see Jean-Claude ahead, in jeans, arms up, threading his way through the lacerating underbrush with an enviable ease. The rest of us didn't fare as well. We emerged on the other side soaked with sweat, legs and forearms embossed in welts. We shotgunned our water, wiped the sweat from our faces, laughed and compared wounds. One of the Spanish teenagers had been wearing hiking pants that ended mid-calf and her ankles were now covered in a web of crimson. She held her feet out one at a time, admired the damage. The French woman's mother, with admirable foresight, had been pushing the nettles aside with heavy-duty canvas gardening gloves, only to find that her exposed wrists were criss-crossed with abrasions. I'd brought antihistamine tablets with me, which I passed out like breath mints. I swallowed a handful just to bring the swelling down; the nettles had somehow passed _through_ the synthetic fabric of my trousers, leaving the skin below sliced and brightly pink. Had I dropped my pants, I'm sure I would have won the \"Who got it worst?\" contest handily. But, inculcated as I am with old-fashioned notions of modesty, decorum prevailed.\n\n\"Everyone okay?\" asked our guide.\n\nChastised by nettles, we pushed on with decidedly less verve than we'd started with. The trail gradually levelled off, and I realized with a flick of joy that we'd reached the highest point of our trek.\n\n_Made it!_ I thought. And: _Wasn't_ so _bad_.\n\nBut of course, I'd forgotten the salient feature of the Amahoro trek: it levelled off\u2014then dropped down the other side of the mountain all the way to the bottom of the valley, which was lower than the hike's starting point. Which meant a second, even tougher ascent on our way back. That first stretch? The one that almost killed me? That was just a warm-up.\n\nSure enough, the trail fell like a high-diver off an Acapulco cliff: straight down on a ferociously narrow trail. We half-fell, half-ran from tree to tree, bumping into each other at times, then stork-walking wildly, lunging onto vines with a George of the Jungle clumsiness, arms out on every knoll, egg-beating the air for balance. It must have been highly entertaining for the guides.\n\nWe kicked up clouds of red clay that gummed our eyes and clogged our nostrils. When we reached the bottom, the wet-nap I used to blot my face with looked like the Shroud of Turin. And as we gulped down water that we should have been carefully conserving (as I would discover on our death-march return), one of the guides came over to tell us that the Amahoro mountain gorillas were just twenty metres away, \"on the other side of those trees.\"\n\nWell, that snapped us awake! We sorted ourselves out, primed our cameras, left our day packs and lunches behind (one of the guides would stay with them to make sure they weren't, I don't know, jacked by monkeys or something).\n\nNow, I should explain that when our guide said the gorillas were on the other side of \"those trees,\" he was using \"trees\" in the local vernacular, meaning \"a thicket of thorns so tightly woven as to appear cross-hatched.\"\n\nWe pushed our way in with grim resolve, scratched and scraped by flagellant thorns, prodded and poked by sharpened branches, lassoed by overhangs of vine\u2014the thought occurred to me that years later they might find our skeletons, still entangled. \"Oh, so that's what happened; they tried to go _through_ rather than around\"\u2014until we found ourselves at last in a leafy clearing, panting and sweating and beaded with cuts.\n\nOur guide held a finger to his lips, and then pointed into the shadows across from us.\n\nSomeone was watching.\n\n**51**\n\nSMOKY EYES PEERING THROUGH THE LEAVES. Furry figures, moving through the underbrush.\n\nGorillas were suddenly all around us. It was as though we'd stumbled into their living room. They were nuzzled in nests of flattened grass, were sitting on haunches, were chewing on wild celery, crawling over each other and shuffling about with harrumphs and hellos. Just a few metres away, a lower-ranked silverback was stretched out, magnificently supine, one long arm outstretched and drooping loosely above him, the other draped over his eyes. Apparently, gorillas spend up to 40 percent of their time \"resting.\" More if it's hot out. Or cold. Or rainy. Or if it's overcast. They certainly know how to lounge.\n\nThey were both massive and massively cute, awe-inspiring yet wholly adorable. The younger ones looked like teddy bears with weirdly elongated arms. Ill-adapted to tree swinging, they were giving it their best nonetheless, pulling down thin branches, kicking their little legs, falling promptly off. There was something both poignant and heroic about their dogged attempts at becoming arboreal. Here were the clumsiest of all the great apes, still trying to feed that deeply rooted primate imperative: the desire to climb.\n\nThe babies looked impossibly wise, old souls with liquid eyes. Only the moms gave us any heed, keeping a watch from afar as we moved among them. Placide made low greeting grunts to let the moms know we were friends, and they relaxed. Cross-species communication: the females replied with the same low grunt and then went back to grooming their babies.\n\nUnder the authority of a dominant male were several younger silverbacks, each with their own group of females, who in turn tolerated the restless, ass-over-teakettle head rolls of the younger gorillas with a paternal patience. The babies were very curious. They would scramble toward us, and then\u2014realizing we were just a boring bunch of grown-ups, albeit weirdly denuded of fur\u2014return to the serious work of playing. Round bellies, stumpy legs, hand-like feet and toes that looked like thumbs. Every now and then, one of the babies would meet your gaze, and you would find yourself transfixed, staring into their eyes: otherworldly, yet strangely, reassuringly _human_. One of the older gorillas peered at me as though over a pair of reading glasses. It was very calm, very quiet, and a far cry from the agitated back-and-forth pacing one sees at a zoo.\n\nWho knew an hour could be so short, or so full?\n\nI spent the first twenty minutes madly taking photographs, then stopped. I had climbed a mountain to get here, and I decided that experiencing it through a viewfinder wasn't perhaps the best approach. Instead, I slung my camera over my shoulder, soaked the moment in.\n\nAs we watched our overgrown cousins rummage about, Placide told us a sad story. When a gorilla dies, he explained, the other gorillas will spend at least three days with the body, bringing food to it, nudging it, trying to get it to sit up. If it's a baby that has died\u2014and they often do if they're born in the rainy season, from pneumonia\u2014the mother will carry that baby's body for weeks or more.\n\n\"It's very sorrowful,\" Placide said. \"Even though her baby is dead, she won't let go of it, can't. Sometimes the arm will drop off, or the bones will start to stick through the fur, before she finally gives up her child. It's\u2014\" Here he switched from French to Kinyarwanda, using a word Jean-Claude translated as \"heartbreaking.\"\n\nThe hour was over too fast. Olivier gave us our five-minute warning, and no amount of good-natured cajolery could convince him to extend our stay.\n\nBut then, just as we were preparing to leave, we had a close encounter of the gorilla kind. One moment I was standing in the spongy grass, wondering, _Now, where is the big boss, that dominant silverback we're always hearing about?_ and the next moment I looked up and right there\u2014crashing through the grass toward us\u2014was King Kong himself.\n\n\"Get back,\" Placide urged. \"Everybody. Let him pass. And please! No eye contact.\"\n\nWe complied.\n\nThe silverback reared up and beat his chest\u2014not in anger, but just to let us know who was in charge (and truth be told, it was a rather half-hearted, let's-just-get-this-over-with-shall-we? sort of chest-beat, hardly the thunderous kettledrum effect I'd imagined). He pushed past with a shoulder-rolling swagger, forearms reaching out, knuckle-walking with his short back legs hurrying to catch up. A hefty potbelly gave him both girth and gravitas. Musty, too. _Eau de silverback_ is a nuanced blend of junior high boys' locker room on a hot day with a dash of bad breath and a sprinkling of fecal funk thrown in. One whiff and I was almost knocked over, which is not the best reaction when a gorilla is brushing by: swooning into his arms. I was so close I could have run my hand along his back as he passed\u2014was tempted to, for one dizzying moment, if only to be able to say, \"I ever tell you chaps about the time I _petted a mountain gorilla?\"_ But I didn't quite feel like getting torn limb from limb just then, so I let him go by, untouched, through the tall grass. He didn't even deign to look at me as he passed.\n\nPlacide and Olivier were holding their arms out to keep the Spanish family back (they had strayed perilously close to the silverback's route and, let's face it, if anyone was going to be foolish enough to try to pet a gorilla, it was going to be a teenager).\n\nThere has never been a case of a mountain gorilla attacking a tourist in Rwanda. But there's always a first time for everything, right?\n\nI looked at the rifles hanging across the shoulders of our guides, and it occurred to me that if this silverback did decide to tear us limb from limb, there was very little Placide or Olivier could do about it. Before either of them could bolt their rifles, let alone take aim, the silverback would have already been upon them, and the encounter would have ended with Placide and Olivier being flung about like rag dolls while the rest of us tried to climb over each other onto the nearest tree branch with, I imagine, even less finesse than that of a gorilla. That's the sort of image that's hard to shake, once it takes hold.\n\nAs we were preparing to push our way back through the Thorn-of-Christ bushes we'd come through earlier, the French medical student's mother spotted something in the grass to one side: a young gorilla sitting on his own, chewing thoughtfully on stinging nettles (gorillas aren't so much immune to nettles as acclimatized; the stalks simply numb their lips).\n\nThe medical student's mother pointed out that, as we'd spent no time with this _specific_ gorilla, it really shouldn't count as part of our hour. But Placide wasn't persuaded by this. \"I will give you one moment,\" he said. \"If you hurry, you can take photographs. But with this gorilla, stay far back. Don't go any closer. He's a troublemaker.\"\n\nThe gorilla equivalent of a surly teenager, our solitary friend had been shunned by the rest of his group because he kept causing problems, starting fights, lipping off, that sort of thing. He now lingered resentfully on the fringes of gorilla society, an outcast eating his nettles, biding his time, and no doubt plotting his revenge.\n\n\"Adolescence,\" Placide said, as though that explained everything, and maybe it did.\n\nBack on the other side of the thornbushes, we ate our lunches\u2014cheese sandwiches and juice boxes, as opposed to stinging nettles and one's own dung\u2014and I thought about the uphill return we now faced: that all but perpendicular trail we'd slid down earlier. I thought about the two-hour, single-file slog back up it, the kickbacks of dust in one's face, the Shroud of Turin clay we'd be inhaling, and I asked Placide, \"What do you do if someone can't make it, if they have a heart attack on the trail or twist their ankle or something?\" This wasn't an academic question on my part; the prospect of my heart squeezing out its last on the climb ahead was a very real possibility.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"if someone is in serious trouble we call for a stretcher. But\"\u2014and here his voice dropped solemnly\u2014\"if that happens, we must charge them _one hundred U.S. dollars_.\"\n\nYou don't say?\n\nOne hundred dollars to be carried over a mountain as you reclined\u2014eating peeled grapes, presumably\u2014whilst enjoying the dappled play of sunlight on one's face? A bargain, I'd reckon. It was all I could do not to immediately clutch my chest in histrionic fashion, declaiming \"Alas, I fear I am about to perish! Someone send for the porters!\" The air on the way down would have proven salubrious, I was sure, for I would have expected a full recovery by the time we reached our vehicle.\n\n**52**\n\nDIAN FOSSEY NEVER LEFT THE MOUNTAIN.\n\nHaving stared down poachers and hunters, and having butted heads repeatedly with corrupt government officials, she was silenced for good on December 27, 1985, hacked to death by unknown assailants at her base camp. She lies buried beside the ruins of her abandoned research cabin, is on the Virungas still.\n\nFossey's killers were never caught, and rumours remain rife about who ordered her murder and why, but it hardly matters now.\n\nThe gorilla tours today are possible because of Dian Fossey. It was Fossey who first habituated the animals. She had no qualms about petting, grooming, or even cuddling the babies\u2014acts that are strictly forbidden now. And although still endangered, mountain gorillas are safer and more secure today than they have been in years\u2014at least on the Rwandan side of the border. And a good deal of credit for that can be given to Rwanda's community-based approach to conservation and to the ongoing legacy of Fossey herself.\n\nWhen you finally reach the bottom of the mountain, knees grating, thighs aching, face plastered with sweat, tired and elated, filled with marvel, you feel redeemed by the experience\u2014there is no other word for it. It is the shared humanity you remember best, or perhaps the shared _gorillaness_ would be more accurate: their fully rounded personalities, the playful curiosity, the lazy looks, the haughty disdain, the way they cuddle and kiss, lounge and look thoughtfully into the distance. And you realize the debt the world owes to the prickly and abrasive Dian Fossey.\n\nA librarian at my local branch in Calgary had met Dian Fossey many years before. Alina Freedman first went to Africa in 1971 with her husband at the time, an anthropologist named Jim. She was getting her master's in linguistics, and they travelled together to Rwanda on a Fulbright scholarship.\n\n\"We were based in the north, in an abandoned Belgian manor with no running water or electricity. The volcanoes were active back then, and at night, the sky would glow.\"\n\nShe met Dian Fossey the following summer.\n\n\"It was at the American embassy's residence in Kigali. They rented rooms, and she happened to be there when Jim and I came by.\"\n\n\"What was your impression of her?\"\n\nAlina laughed. \"She looked like a hippie. She looked like the rest of us. We were all hippies. But her reputation preceded her. She was already kind of a star. She had Leakey behind her. She had Fulbright money. She was a well-endowed scholar. Strong personality. Friendly enough, but quiet. Not a big talker.\"\n\nThe abandoned manor house Alina and Jim were staying in wasn't far from the mountain where Fossey had established her base camp.\n\n\"So we went to see her. It was a long hike. Very hot and humid. I passed out at one point, sat down on the trail, I remember. We climbed all day, and when we finally got to Dian's place, we said 'Hi!' And she said, 'I'm going out. Bye.' And she left us there. No tea. No small talk. She just left.\"\n\n\"So what did you do?\"\n\n\"We climbed back down.\" Alina thought about this for a moment. \"I don't think she was really interested in people.\"\n\n**53**\n\nJEAN-CLAUDE'S WIFE CHRISTINE had a brother and sister-in-law in Ruhengeri, and Christine had asked us to stop in and see them when we passed through.\n\nI liked Ruhengeri. The town (now known as Musanze) was filled with shops and bustling side lanes, with a scattering of new office buildings plopped down improbably in their midst, yet it didn't feel congested or constrained in the least. Spaced out nicely among the trees, even its \"downtown\" wasn't choked with traffic or clouded with exhaust\u2014remarkable considering it was the gateway community to Volcanoes National Park and as such was on the main tourist beat.\n\nMuzungus were everywhere, post-trek looking weary but happy, pre-trek looking tidy yet nervous. When Jean-Claude and I stopped at La Paillotte, a bakery caf\u00e9 that sold Belgian pastries and suitably murky coffee, it was full of pink faces.\n\nI swirled my cup, finished the last of my croissant. \"The coffee's good,\" I said, prodding Jean-Claude one last time. \"You'd be supporting local industry.\"\n\nWe were sitting on the caf\u00e9's shaded veranda, watching a delivery truck loaded with Primus try to back into a space that was physically smaller than the vehicle itself and\u2014in defiance of all known theories of spatial geometry\u2014somehow succeeding.\n\n\"Zeyad'za formaldehyde,\" said the man next to me. \"To za bier.\"\n\nHe was South African, with straw-blond hair and a face so sunburned his lips looked white. I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly, but as I adjusted for his accent it became horribly clear what he was saying. \"Primus,\" he explained. \"They add formaldehyde, to help preserve it.\"\n\nWith that he downed his espresso as though from a shot glass, donned a canvas sun hat, and bid us adieu, leaving me with a gurgling sensation in my gut.\n\nI turned to Jean-Claude. \"That can't be true, right? I mean...\"\n\nJean-Claude said, \"I don't think so. But look at the positive. If it is true, your insides will be well-preserved.\" And then, underlining the point unnecessarily, I thought, he leaned in and said, \"Very... well... preserved.\"\n\nHe was right. Over the previous couple of weeks, I'd downed enough pints of Primus to pickle a pharaoh, _if_ what the South African had said was true.\n\nChristine's brother Jackson wasn't in Ruhengeri when Jean-Claude and I came through. A member of the Rwandan Armed Forces, he was away on a peacekeeping mission in Sudan, though this in itself was not unusual; Rwanda is one of the leading supporters of UN missions in Africa and abroad, far surpassing anything Canada provides. When I was there, Rwanda had 5,200 peacekeepers serving in UN missions around the world, the highest percentage of peacekeepers per capita of any country and among the top six _total_ contributing nations worldwide.\n\nJackson was in Sudan, but his wife, Madelene, was in Ruhengeri.\n\nShe ran the J Center Restaurant, a buffet-style eatery in one of Ruhengeri's new office buildings. Even then, she'd had trouble finding a space. Vacancies were at a premium in Ruhengeri, and rents were soaring.\n\nShe welcomed us in with a quiet grace. Her two-year-old son Manzi, Christine's nephew, was plump and lovable\u2014and terrified of me. Forget bouncing him on my knee; I couldn't even draw near him without his face scrunching up, his bottom lip trembling, tears welling. If I tried to say hi, he would run for cover into the arms of the nearest non-me adult, bawling.\n\n\"He's shy around strangers,\" Madelene said, unconvincingly.\n\nManzi had been roused from his nap next door and brought over to meet his uncle Jean-Claude\u2014who was a perfect stranger too, as far as he was concerned. Jean-Claude he had no trouble with. But me? Different story. It was disconcerting to be disliked so intensely by someone so small.\n\nThe rest of the staff passed him around like a huggable hamper, as he gurgled and cooed cooperatively... till he got to me. And then the bawling started.\n\nThe staff thought this was hilarious.\n\nMadelene pretended not to know why her son was crying. \"C'mon,\" I said. \"We all know why. And it's not because I'm a 'stranger.' Surely other muzungus must come in here?\"\n\n\"They do,\" Madelene admitted, \"but Manzi isn't usually here. My mother watches him at home.\"\n\nI exhausted my repertoire\u2014jangly keys, peek-a-boo face, coochie-coochie-coo\u2014nothing. Sigh.\n\nAs Jean-Claude and Madelene caught up on family news, I turned my attention to the buffet. As always, it was a Rwandan cornucopia, rich with fresh fruit and trays of savoury fare: stews and dumplings, papa frites and scrawny marathon-chicken legs. As I came back from my third sally, plate dripping, Jean-Claude mentioned to Madelene how we'd noticed the unfortunate lack of restraint shown by his fellow Rwandans when it came to buffets.\n\n\"They always pile their plates so high, instead of taking a little bit and going back for more. It's\"\u2014he wanted to say embarrassing, but stopped himself\u2014\"funny how they do that.\"\n\nJean-Claude, I should note, had already made several trips to the buffet himself.\n\nMadelene gave him a pained look. \"Well, you see, that's because you are only supposed to go up one time. The price is per plate.\"\n\nJean-Claude stopped, mid-chew. He looked shovel-smacked by this. \"You mean\u2014you mean it's not 'all-you-can-eat'?\"\n\nShe clearly felt uncomfortable breaking the awkward news to him, but she had no choice. \"Customers are supposed to pay each time they go up.\"\n\nI looked down at my plate.\n\n\"Every buffet is like that?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Every buffet in Rwanda?\"\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\nI was mortified, as was Jean-Claude. Here we'd been going cheerfully from buffet to buffet across Rwanda, making multiple sorties every time but only paying once\u2014 _and no one had said anything_.\n\n\"They were probably embarrassed to bring it up,\" she said. \"We notice it here as well, how muzungus will go again and again. It's very strange.\"\n\n\"But... no one told me,\" Jean-Claude said.\n\nI looked over at him and grinned. \"Face it, JC. You've been gone so long, you're just another muzungu now, like me. They didn't say anything because they figured you didn't know any better.\"\n\nAnd here's the thing: he didn't.\n\nJean-Claude's brow furled, and didn't unfurl for several days.\n\n**54**\n\nA FEW KILOMETRES AWAY from the J Center Restaurant, tucked in behind a school, lies an ancient volcanic cave, complete with a colony of bats and a natural stone bridge formed by prehistoric lava flows.\n\nDuring the genocide, Tutsis took refuge in this cave and were massacred. The cave, an easily accessible and by all accounts fascinating geological attraction, is also a mass grave. Visitors are allowed in only on a special permit from the RDB, which needs to be arranged in advance\u2014as Jean-Claude and I discovered when we showed up, unannounced, only to be turned away by a security guard with a rubber truncheon.\n\nWe could see the opening to the Musanze Cave just below us, down a short flight of stairs. Only a metal fence and that rubber truncheon barred our way, but without a permit from the RDB, stamped in triplicate no doubt, we couldn't enter. The guard hinted, with all the subtlety of a piano dropped from the fourteenth floor, that maybe, just perhaps, he _might_ possibly be able to circumvent the rules\u2014we'd come so far to see the caves, and wouldn't it be a shame not to view them?\u2014were we to, oh, I don't know, compensate him for the inconvenience. Say, five dollars U.S.?\n\nJean-Claude was appalled and refused on our behalf, even as I was reaching for my wallet. I figured, _Five bucks? No problem_. It was the only time we were ever asked for a bribe, and it was such a trifle, on par with what one encounters in, say, Paris or Rome on a daily basis, that I hadn't considered the impact of what I was about to do.\n\nJean-Claude stayed my hand. \"Don't. If you pay, everyone will have to pay and things will begin to break down.\" Zero tolerance of corruption meant zero tolerance. We shouldn't undermine the struggle Rwandans had made to curtail this sort of thing just for the sake of expediency. I knew that, but... the caves were _right there_.\n\n\"We will go back to Kigali,\" Jean-Claude told the guard. (Kigali was at least a two-hour drive away, which would make it a four-hour return.) \"And we will get the permit. And when we do, I will explain to the RDB that someone\u2014I won't say who, not this time\u2014is attempting to extort money from tourists. If you try this sort of thing again, you will be in big trouble.\"\n\nThe man quickly backpedalled, suddenly claiming it was all a misunderstanding. But Jean-Claude strode off and I followed.\n\nAs we walked back along the edge of the school grounds, an epic soccer game was underway: at least, oh, two hundred students or more on either side by my count, with one team in blue pinnies, the other in red, with more students lined up on the sidelines ready to sub in. It was a massive undertaking, and when Jean-Claude asked one of the students watching what was going on, he explained that it was an annual event. Every year, after the final exams were wrapped up, the school's two second-year classes challenged each other to a match.\n\nThis was a science school, and these were mathematics and chemistry students for the most part, so not exactly top-drawer when it came to athletics. Let's just say there were a lot of skinny kids with taped-up glasses chasing the ball that day.\n\nJean-Claude stood watching the match unfold with his arms crossed, frowning. I knew that frown; I'd seen it when he was coaching my son's soccer team.\n\n\"No, no, no, no,\" he said. \"That's not right. That's not right at all.\"\n\nThe ball was fired down the field and just as quickly fired back.\n\n\"Oh my goodness,\" said Jean-Claude. \"They have no positions, no game plan. Who is coaching these kids?\" he asked.\n\n\"No one,\" the student replied. \"They arrange it themselves.\"\n\nThe red team was getting pelted. Their blue-pinnied rivals lobbed a long ball past a flailing goaltender to the sound of groans and cheers, respectively. Just a few minutes later, they scored again.\n\n\"Oh, this is terrible,\" Jean-Claude said. \"Look at that! They're not passing back, they're not crossing over. They are just kicking it as hard as they can.\"\n\nAnd next thing I knew, Jean-Claude had vanished. I'm not sure how he did it. One moment he was standing beside me, the next he was gone. I looked around, couldn't find him anywhere\u2014not at first, anyway. I should have known. Jean-Claude had resurfaced on the other side of the field, where he quickly called a time-out (on what authority? his own, I suppose), bringing the red team in for a huddle.\n\nAlthough mildly confused by his presence, neither side said anything. From where I was standing I could see Jean-Claude frantically carving out angles in the air, explaining to the red-pinnied players how they should come down this way, pass that way, cut across there.\n\nI knew then that we were not going to get to Kigali in time for a cave permit. _The game was afoot!_ after all. In every sense. Getting Jean-Claude off a soccer field was like trying to pry a bottle of Primus from my talon-like hands: a doomed endeavour from the start.\n\nInstead, I settled in to watch the game. Jean-Claude's coaching had an immediate impact. The red team scored\u2014finally!\u2014and then rushed to fill in the gaps in their defence as their new coach called out plays from the sidelines. The blue team was still winning, to be sure, but as Jean-Claude would later say, at least now it was a match.\n\nOther students, on seeing me in the crowd, drifted over to say hi, to ask me what brought me to their school, and, just as curiously, why my friend was coaching one of their teams. I tried to convince them that I was a scout for Manchester United, here on orders from me wee fayther, but they weren't fooled in the least.\n\nTheir English was excellent. They were tired, though, having just finished writing their final exams, and were waiting now on the results. \"We will know how we did on Friday.\" When I asked if they were nervous, most of them said, \"No, no, we will do fine,\" though one girl admitted she prayed more at exam time than she ever did in church, which roused laughter and agreement from her peers.\n\nShe was fifteen and wanted to study industrial chemistry at university.\n\nI didn't miss a beat. \"So engineering for chemicals, not for the paint but for the business?\"\n\n\"Exactly!\" she said. Exactly.\n\n**55**\n\nTHE RPF INVASION OF RWANDA almost ended before it began. In 1990, the RPF, led by the popular and charismatic Fred Rwigyema, crossed over from Uganda into Rwanda, only to be turned back decisively by a barrage from French paratroopers and government forces. Rwigyema himself was killed within the first forty-eight hours.\n\nPresident Habyarimana pronounced the RPF \"finished.\" But they weren't. One of Rwigyema's childhood friends had been a serious young boy named Paul Kagame. They'd grown up together in the same refugee camp, were like brothers. Kagame was enrolled in a military training course at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, as a member of the Ugandan military, when news came of the failed invasion. Kagame immediately flew back, crossed into Rwanda, and took command of a scattered and demoralized RPF.\n\nKagame made a tactical retreat, not to Uganda\u2014where anger over the RPF's using their border as a staging ground had ratcheted up tensions\u2014but north instead, into the remote and impenetrable rainforests of the Virunga Mountains. There, in the dripping cold, the RPF regrouped. It was a strange, almost surreal moment in history: guerrillas and gorillas, both in the mist, passing each other on jungle trails. Two worlds overlapping.\n\nAnd it was from those misted heights that the RPF launched an audacious counterattack.\n\nEven Kagame's harshest critics will admit he is a superb tactician. General Dallaire called him \"a military genius\" when it came to outplaying an enemy using feints, speed, and surprise. Looking down from the Virunga Mountains, Kagame zeroed in on Ruhengeri Prison\u2014the \"Rwandan Bastille,\" as it was known, a notorious holding pen that housed hundreds of political prisoners, many of them Hutu opponents of Habyarimana, with others held on the mere suspicion of supporting the rebels.\n\nHabyarimana's generals were still congratulating themselves on having defeated the upstart RPF (with France's assistance, of course) when the attack on Ruhengeri began. During the night, hundreds of RPF soldiers had infiltrated the forests above the city, slipping silently through the woods...\n\nAt dawn, they struck. The prison's warden, Charles Uwihoreye, called Kigali, frantically asking for instructions. \"We are under attack! What should we do? We need the army!\"\n\nThe orders he received? Kill the prisoners. Kill them all. Don't allow the RPF the satisfaction of freeing any of them.\n\nUwihoreye was stunned. He couldn't do such a thing, and he said so. He was a warden, not an executioner. \"I'm sorry, but I cannot do that.\" He hung up the phone and sat there, dazed, as the sound of fighting grew closer.\n\nThe phone rang. When he answered it, the directive was repeated more forcefully than before. It was an order that came directly from President Habyarimana's office: _Kill the prisoners_. Kill them all.\n\nThe warden put the phone down and walked out into the grounds of the prison. Gunfire and panic. Smoke roiling up in the distance.\n\n\"What shall we do?\" one of his guards asked. The RPF were breaking through the back gates, and hundreds of prisoners were about to escape.\n\n\"Let them go,\" he said. \"Let them all go.\"\n\nThe Battle of Ruhengeri lasted throughout the morning, and by midday the RPF had taken control of the town, capturing weapons and food supplies and bringing several high-ranking Hutu opposition members back with them.\n\nCharles Uwihoreye, the warden who had refused to execute unarmed prisoners, returned to his office to await his fate. He was arrested the next day on charges of insubordination and thrown into prison, but was eventually released under pressure from human rights groups.\n\nThe battle would prove a turning point in the war. It shook the Hutu Power's inner circle to the core, spread a fear of the rebels that bordered on hysteria, and demonstrated to the world that the RPF was a force to be reckoned with. News of their success relit a faltering fire, and across Rwanda, young men began slipping away in the night to join their ranks. Under the directives of Paul Kagame, a motley band of rebels became a hardened, disciplined army 15,000 strong. It was the beginning of the end for the Habyarimana regime.\n\nGiven the pivotal role that Ruhengeri Prison had played in the war, Jean-Claude and I decided to stop by. It was easy enough to find, sitting at the end of a long, dirt-packed road. But the prison itself, a collection of bungalow-slab structures arranged around a courtyard, was not what I expected.\n\nIt was, first of all, surprisingly airy, dare I say well-ventilated. As in, boasting lots of open windows and low walls, not features one normally associates with a house of incarceration. Hardly airtight, let alone prisoner-proof. It must have been the easiest thing in the world to escape from Ruhengeri Prison, were one so inclined. The boarding school at Nyange was better barricaded. Hell, the main gate of the prison was simply a booth with an open door behind it. I don't mean the door was left open, I mean there was no door at all. And this was the _main entrance_. It was manned by a single guard with a single rifle, posted on ground level with his back to the prison yard. I could see inmates strolling by, just over his shoulder. Had they wanted to storm him, it would have been the equivalent of a rugby tackle from behind.\n\n\"Are you sure this is the right place?\" I asked Jean-Claude. It seemed more like a rundown summer camp than a penitentiary.\n\nIt got stranger still.\n\nDirectly across from the main entrance was a small shop attached to the prison. The shop was crowded with customers, and when I say customers, I mean, of course, \"prisoners.\" This was, it turns out, the locally run canteen, where inmates in their pyjama-like uniforms came to buy toiletries, foodstuffs, and other small items. The wall of the canteen was completely open\u2014right where the prisoners were queuing.\n\nLet me see if I can convey just how bizarre a sight this was. Jean-Claude and I are waiting to speak with a guard manning the front alcove (it wasn't really a doorway, certainly not a gate) over _here_. And just over _there_ , across from us, maybe six metres away, is a building that juts out from the prison (and is, therefore, located _outside_ the prison walls; do you spot the flaw in that?). And this building is entirely open on one side, forming a breezy expanse, waist high. (\"For the heat,\" Jean-Claude explained, as though that made it any better.) No iron bars, no wire mesh, no panes of reinforced glass. Just one long open-air window. The \"customers\" inside could have jumped over and run away before the frazzled woman at the till could've said anything, and anyway, she was so busy making change and counting out allotments of cigarettes and such that she would hardly have noticed.\n\nSeveral of these prisoners had spotted me by this point and were eyeing us with undue interest, intrigued I suppose by my presence. _\"Now what's a muzungu doing here?\"_ None of the looks were overtly hostile, true, but I felt exposed nonetheless; they could have swarmed Jean-Claude and me in a matter of seconds, and I imagine I would have made an alluring hostage. (More so considering I was Alex Ferguson's son; the ransom demands would have soared.)\n\n\"Um, Jean-Claude?\" I whispered. \"Maybe we should come back later.\"\n\nThe guard we'd been waiting on had been riffling through the papers presented by a visiting family member ahead of us, someone's wife by the looks of it, but now that this was sorted out, he called us forward with a nod.\n\nJean-Claude explained that I was an important journalist here to do a story on Rwandan prison reform and asked if we might speak with the warden, maybe have a tour of the grounds, meet with some of the prisoners. Did we have an appointment? No, not exactly. A letter of some sort? Ah, no.\n\nThe guard rolled his eyes, almost audibly, and said\u2014sighed, really\u2014\"Wait here.\"\n\nAnd he left!\n\nThe only thing now standing in the way of a mass breakout from Ruhengeri Prison was a pair of soccer dads from Canada armed solely with our disarming smiles, indomitable will, and\u2014in my case\u2014a penchant for making children cry. The prisoners inside the main yard were looking at Jean-Claude and me with cocked heads and, to my paranoidally inflamed mind, anyway, they seemed to be inching ever closer. Fortunately, the guard suddenly reappeared at that point, superior officer in tow. I handed this fellow one of my _Canadian Geographic_ business cards. _On assignment, baby!_ And he radioed someone further up the food chain, and so on, until, eventually, the warden himself appeared.\n\nAttempting to gain access to a federal penitentiary under quasi-false pretenses? Was that an indictable offence? And wouldn't it be deliciously ironic if I ended up being incarcerated at this very prison?\n\nThe warden was friendly and courteous. A thin figure with a wry half-smile, he was battling a bad case of laryngitis the day we dropped by, so the conversation was a bit strained.\n\nBecause we didn't have clearance from\u2014well, from anyone really, we couldn't go inside the prison grounds, but the warden said he would be happy to answer any questions I might have here at the front gate. He spoke flawless English, having grown up in Uganda.\n\nWhen he heard \"Uganda,\" Jean-Claude immediately twigged. \"You were with the RPF?\"\n\nThe warden nodded. He had been part of the original invasion, had fought in the Battle of Ruhengeri, had stormed the walls of this very prison. He pointed out the wooded hills where he and the others had crept down, where they had first breached the outer walls and where they had come under the heaviest fire.\n\nI asked him, \"Did you lose men?\"\n\nHe smiled softly. \"Of course. It was war. You always lose men. It's unavoidable.\"\n\nAccording to the warden, Ruhengeri Prison today held around 1,800 inmates. Only 400 of these were genocide perpetrators, successive presidential pardons having released thousands of the lower-rung members.\n\n\"Prisoners grow their own food and are responsible for feeding themselves. They are organized into work groups,\" he explained. \"It keeps them busy.\"\n\nWe could hear the sound of women singing.\n\n\"The women's choir,\" he explained. \"We have male and female prisoners, and of course male and female guards. The women stay in separate sleeping quarters, but there are common areas, too.\" The prison was run on a communal plan, much like a kibbutz.\n\nUnder the old regime, Ruhengeri Prison had a dark and fearsome reputation. When the RPF took it over they knocked down walls and rearranged the layout to such an extent that the rear of the prison now opens up directly onto the hills behind it, where prisoners plant crops, tend fields. I could see a line of men, colour-coded, plodding along a distant ridge, hoes on shoulders. Pyjamaed farmers, tilling the ground, slowly paying their debt.\n\n\"But,\" I protested, trying my best to be tactful, \"not having a back wall, um, doesn't that kind of make it easy for them to escape? I mean, they can just _go_ if they want to.\"\n\nThe warden smiled. \"Go? Where?\"\n\nI looked at the hills that surrounded us, and he was right: every knoll, every nub, every plot of land, every home was tallied and accounted for. One could run for the Virunga rainforest, I suppose, live among the gorillas or try to cross over to the even thicker jungles of Congo, but who would do such a thing? There really is nowhere to hide in Rwanda. That is what made the genocide possible in the first place, that is what made it so horrifically efficient.\n\nThe two most remarkable features of Rwandan society, the two singularities, if you will, are (a) the genocide and (b) the sweeping economic and social recovery that followed. They are equally inexplicable, equally unfathomable, and almost unimaginable in their scale and scope. Standing at the entrance to Ruhengeri Prison, I realized that these two aspects of Rwanda were not at odds with each other, but sprang from the same source, were rooted in the same deeply ingrained national traits. Two sides of the same coin.\n\nAs we walked back up the road from the world's most escapable prison, clouds were curling over the Virungas. The sun was trying to come through. I could hear the _kii_ of a hawk-eagle above us, but when I looked, the bird was lost in the overcast.\n\n**56**\n\nTIME NOW FOR A CRYPTOZOOLOGICAL INTERLUDE. Cryptozoology of course, being the study of mythical creatures reputed to exist but rarely encountered, those dwelling in the cusp between folklore and science: yetis, the Loch Ness monster, sasquatches, and their ilk.\n\nJean-Claude and I were back in the capital again, and Kigali seemed to have grown larger, more hectic in our absence. We were swallowed by the clangour, thrown in and out of whirligig traffic circles, with buses bullying their way through and trucks catapulting past as if fired from a slingshot. It was wonderful.\n\nAs we clattered across a teeth-rattling stretch of cobblestone\u2014a rarity on Rwandan roads, thankfully\u2014I spotted a sign that read OGOPOGO RESTAURANT.\n\nOgopogo?\n\n\"Gotta be owned by a Canadian,\" I said, and we veered over to investigate.\n\nFor those of you who may not be familiar with it, the Ogopogo is Canada's answer to Nessie. The creature is said to haunt the cold waters of British Columbia's Lake Okanagan, and legends of the Ogopogo date back further than those of Loch Ness. The Okanagan First Nations told of a malevolent being that would drag people under the water, not unlike the\u2014entirely nonexistent!\u2014crocodiles of Lake Kivu.\n\nIf you've been wondering why the Ogopogo hasn't been spotted splashing about in Lake Okanagan lately, I may have the answer. The Ogopogo, it would seem, has pulled up stakes and moved to warmer climes. Even so, Kigali struck me as an odd choice. There were no deep lakes here to hide in, only a shallow and marshy river.\n\nThe restaurant's interior was dark and spacious, featuring low ceilings, long tables, and a menu that prominently featured fish skewers\u2014appropriately, considering the restaurant's namesake. I ordered a burger, Jean-Claude had the fish, and when we inquired as to how the caf\u00e9 got its name, several explanations were offered.\n\n\"It's named after a type of dinosaur,\" one of the waiters said. \"It's extinct now.\"\n\nThe bartender cut in. \"Not a dinosaur,\" he said. \"The Ogopogo was never real. It's a myth. Like a dragon.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" another waiter said. \"It's real. The owner's sister lives in Canada. She knows.\"\n\nWas the owner of the restaurant Canadian? A transplanted British Columbian, perhaps?\n\n\"No, he's Rwandan. His older brother owned this place first. It was originally called Papyrus. He renamed it.\"\n\nAnd why would Ogopogo move to Rwanda?\n\n\"Probably got tired of the cold,\" the bartender said with a laugh. \"I hear there is too much winter in Canada. Let me call the owner. He lives nearby. He can tell you better.\"\n\nThe bench cushions featured African motifs of various stylized monsters, but nothing overly Ogopogo-ish. One would think the menu would have at least boasted \"Nessie fries\" or \"Sasquatch shakes,\" but no.\n\nThe owner showed up soon after, an affable young man with an equally affable smile.\n\n\"Hello, my name is Condo Raphael. And you are... Canadian?\"\n\nHow did he know?\n\nCondo spoke English, French, Kinyarwanda, Swahili\u2014and more. My Swahili being a bit rusty, we stuck with rudimentary English and a smattering of Kinyarwanda, as translated by Jean-Claude.\n\nCondo had indeed taken over the original restaurant from his brother.\n\n\"That was in 2011,\" he explained.\n\nHis brother had gotten into an argument with the city over parking regulations. He didn't have adequate spaces, the neighbours were complaining, and this being Rwanda he wasn't able to slip someone a discreet payment to make the problem go away, as one might in Italy or Kenya. Instead, he ended up tearing down half the building, almost out of spite. (Condo's brother sounded a bit hot-headed, the sort who, as they say in Northern Ireland, has \"ruffled enough feathers to build himself an ostrich.\")\n\nCondo, clearly the calmer and more diplomatic of the two, bought out his older brother, added extra parking in front, closed off the noisy open-air patio, and then rebuilt the restaurant almost from scratch, with an indoor deck and a long, inviting bar.\n\n\"Around that time, I was watching a National Geographic nature program on television. It was about the Ogopogo, and it talked about how the creature might have endured. The theory was, he survived the ice age in a deep lake and later came back to life. I realized this was like my restaurant. It had survived and been brought back, just like the Ogopogo.\"\n\nCondo did have a sister-in-law in Canada. That part was true. But the name itself came from a television documentary.\n\n\"Rwandese people are puzzled by the name,\" he said. \"Some people think it's a Nigerian word. In Nigerian languages there are a lot of _O_ sounds.\"\n\nOne of Condo's regulars, a flight engineer with RwandAir, was a Canadian\u2014from the Okanagan, no less.\n\n\"He told me the images of African monsters I have on the cushions are wrong. He said he's going to bring me back some correct images of Ogopogo next time he goes home.\"\n\nCondo liked my idea of naming items on the menu after other mythical creatures, yetis and mermaids and such, and I sketched him a picture of the Ogopogo as a possible mascot, dimly remembered from my days in Kelowna as a teenager. He frowned at my rendering. It didn't look particularly fierce. \"Maybe add fangs,\" I said. \"Or horns.\"\n\nThe resurrection of this restaurant, like the city, like the country, was a lesson in resilience. Rwanda, in its way, was an Ogopogo nation, one brought back from the brink of extinction, reinvented, reborn. And as evening settled over Kigali, the lights of the Ogopogo grew warmer, and the laughter grew louder. It was a welcoming place, much like its owner, and when Jean-Claude and I finally rose to say goodnight, I asked Condo, \"Do Canadians come here?\"\n\n\"They do.\"\n\n\"How many?\" I asked.\n\nHe smiled. \"All of them.\"\n\n**57**\n\nWE SPENT THE NEXT FEW DAYS in Kigali catching up on our laundry, cleaning out the Land Cruiser, and making arrangements for the final leg of our journey.\n\nChristine's mother and grandmother lived in Kigali's Ndera district, a warren of homes in the city's west end, and I went with Jean-Claude on one of his visits. Meeting them was like viewing a set of Russian nesting dolls: Christine was taller than her mom and her mom was taller than her grandma, and they all looked exactly the same, just more and more adorable as they got older. While Christine's mom, Hel\u00e8ne, fussed over us, producing snacks and serving the same ginger-laced tea Christine was famous for back in Calgary, the grandmother tutted and fretted, upset that we weren't staying for supper. (She spoke at great length about this, reprimanding Jean-Claude repeatedly over his breach of etiquette, an eloquent and extended discourse in Kinyarwanda that he translated as \"She wanted to feed us.\")\n\nIt took some doing, but Jean-Claude eventually eased us out of their home with repeated promises to return again when we had a \"proper appetite.\" (\"Once they start feeding you, they won't stop,\" he'd warned.) They were wonderful ladies, but in-laws are in-laws wherever you go in this world, and no matter how long Jean-Claude's visits were they would never be long enough, and anyway, why hadn't he brought Christine and the children with him, they hadn't seen their grandchildren in years! When I showed the photographs I'd taken of them to Christine after I returned to Canada, she got tears in her eyes. It had been so long since she'd seen her mom, her grandma, or her siblings that I felt guilty at having made such a breezy visit, one she dreamed of, yearned for, almost daily. Christine's younger brother Jonas lived with their mom, and he asked us, longingly, about Canada\u2014a country he had never visited. There were opportunities in Rwanda, but he dreamed of a wider trajectory; I'm sure he would have swapped places with his sister at a moment's notice, had he been able to.\n\nRelatives, old friends, former colleagues, future contacts: Jean-Claude had a roll call of people to see over the next two days, and I spent my time sleeping in and occasionally kicking around Kigali. The neighbourhood we were staying in was comfortable, but awfully quiet. There was a definite paucity of pubs, and everything else seemed to shut down at six, so one evening I decided to make the long hike to a nearby hotel. I could see it perched invitingly on a ridge, lit up like the _Queen Mary_ , but no matter how long I trudged it never seemed to grow any nearer, at times even seeming to scuttle farther away from me, sideways like a crab. Walking in Kigali is always an act of misdirection, of oblique angles and coy avenues\u2014the roads are always so decisively indecisive\u2014and I ended up making a long and unfruitful loop down and around, arriving back in the alleyway behind our apartment building, confused as ever. I walked over to the Solace Ministries guest house instead, hoping to catch a late supper.\n\nWhen I went in, I was surprised to find Jean-Claude there, along with Lorne, the psychiatrist from Toronto, and his daughter Adriana. I'd forgotten that Jean-Claude had arranged a meeting between Lorne and Jean-Claude's niece Clementine, who worked as a psychiatric nurse at Ndera Hospital. Jean Gakwandi, the man who had founded Solace Ministries, was there as well, so I pulled up a chair.\n\nMr. Gakwandi was a genocide survivor. \"For some people the genocide is just a fact of history,\" he told me. \"But for those who went through it, it is a reality that we live every day.\"\n\nAbout one-third of those who died in the genocide were children, and many of those children who did survive\u2014men and women now in their late twenties and early thirties\u2014had been exposed to unspeakable acts of violence. Many saw parents and loved ones chopped down in front of them. An investigation by UNICEF revealed that more than 90 percent of the children who survived the Rwandan genocide had witnessed bloodshed. More than half a million were orphaned. They have been described as \"the living victims of the genocide,\" a generation still struggling to get by, often plagued by depression, substance abuse, and other mental illnesses. As one woman told a journalist investigating the effects of these crimes, \"I can't sleep. I'm afraid of dreams.\"\n\nWe know from other genocides\u2014the Jewish Holocaust, the Armenian\u2014that the effects last for generations, are handed down from parent to child to grandchild. And yet Rwanda faces a critical shortage of trained medical staff, not just physicians and surgeons but therapists as well. In a nation suffering from post-traumatic stress and other untreated disorders, there are only _six_ psychiatrists available for a population of 11 million. Rwanda spends more on health care than most African countries, but not nearly enough of it has gone toward mental health. The traumatized often feel abandoned, forgotten, empty. The use of sexual violence during the genocide was particularly horrific and widespread.\n\nJean-Claude's niece was explaining to Lorne the need for therapy. Lorne was associated with the University of Toronto, and Jean-Claude had arranged this meeting to discuss the possibility of bringing out an instructor from Canada to work with Rwandan doctors and medical staff to provide the specialized training they needed to deal with these issues, to help people and communities form coping strategies.\n\nA chance meeting during a lighthearted trek to see some chimpanzees had revealed an opportunity to Jean-Claude that many people would have missed. By connecting a psychiatrist from Canada with a nurse from Rwanda, he'd opened a door to the possibility of something bigger, something that might have a real and lasting impact. I'd seen this before, Jean-Claude creating unlikely connections, bringing groups with seemingly unrelated interests together. Had he put these networking skills of his toward purely financial gain, he would have been a millionaire by now. But nooooo, he had to go around _helping people_.\n\nAs we walked back to our apartment across the packed-clay alley, I asked Jean-Claude why he did it.\n\nWe reached the back gate, waited for the night guard to let us in.\n\n\"Rwanda's doctors and nurses need training,\" he said. \"I thought maybe Lorne can help.\"\n\n\"I don't mean just this,\" I said. \"I mean everything, all of it. You came to Canada with nothing. You had just arrived, were working at a meat-cutting plant, yet you started volunteering at the Calgary Food Bank and Mustard Seed and Inn from the Cold. You set up a free soccer program for low-income families, spent four years running it as a volunteer. Why?\"\n\nJean-Claude had once asked me to help him update his r\u00e9sum\u00e9, and I'd counted no fewer than nine different volunteer organizations he was involved with, everything from homeless shelters to youth-at-risk outreach programs to soccer camps for underprivileged children.\n\nI thought he might shrug it off and say something like, \"I don't know, Will. It's just something I do. I like to help.\"\n\nBut he took my question seriously. Jean-Claude looked at me\u2014I could hear the guard making his way slowly across the grounds, keys clinking\u2014and he said, \"It kind of haunts you, being alive. You always ask yourself why. Why _me_ , why did I make it out, when so many others did not? Was this luck? Only that? I was a nineteen-year-old kid. It didn't matter if I lived or not. I didn't have children then or a wife or anybody who depended on me. There were people who were doctors, Will. Who were teachers, who had families, who had something to contribute. And they all died. Why them and not me?\" The guard opened the gate, but Jean-Claude didn't go through. He stood a moment at the threshold and then said, \"I guess I feel I owe _something_ , that I need to give back _somehow_. Otherwise, what was the point of it?\"\n\nWe stepped into a dark garden on the other side of the gate, started the long walk up to our building.\n\n\"I think about that,\" he said. \"I think about it all the time.\"\n\n**PART FOUR**\n\n**THE ROAD TO RUSUMO**\n**58**\n\nTHERE IS A WORD IN KINYARWANDA, _kwihaza_ , which means \"to be self-sufficient.\" Kwihaza is the stated goal of Rwanda's long-term development: to end foreign aid entirely and become self-reliant as a people.\n\nAnother word, _umuganda_ , focuses this idea at the local level. Translated as \"communal work,\" umuganda might involve planting trees, repairing school playgrounds, building terraces to stop erosion. During the genocide, however, the meaning of umuganda changed. Militia death squads began referring to themselves as \"work crews,\" and they considered what they were doing to be a form of community service. The killing of Tutsis and moderate Hutus was referred to as \"cutting grass, pulling up the weeds.\"\n\nToday, the word has been reclaimed. Like the _gacaca_ (\"patch of grass\") courts and the _imihigo_ ritual of officials declaring their goals and then being held accountable for their implementation, the concept of umuganda has been revived to fit the current situation.\n\nNo one is exempt. On the last Saturday of the month, everyone\u2014government officials, judges, the prime minister, the president, teachers, students, shop owners, day labourers\u2014is expected to show up at their local umuganda project to help out. You will be fined for not taking part, and if you want to receive certain government services, you may be asked to submit a card, signed and stamped, showing you did. (Religious groups such as the Seventh-Day Adventists, who consider Saturday the Sabbath, are required to organize their own projects on alternative days.) It's true that some people just pay the fine and go back to bed, but they aren't allowed to leave their homes until the umuganda is over. You can't go for a morning drive or a casual stroll on umuganda day.\n\n\"With politicians, umuganda is like flipping pancakes at the Stampede,\" Jean-Claude explained, referring to Calgary's perennially co-opted photo-op. \"If you are a politician in Rwanda you can make a big production from showing up, maybe just to shovel a few scoops of dirt, shake hands, pose for pictures, talk to the voters.\"\n\nBut most Rwandans take it seriously. How seriously? Allow me to illustrate with the following statistic. Over the course of our three weeks in Rwanda, Jean-Claude and I would travel from one end of the country to the other, up and down narrow roads and broad thoroughfares, on dirt lanes and polished asphalt, through cities and hamlets, hills and plains, and we were never stopped by the police. Not once. The number of police checkpoints we encountered was: zero. Except on umuganda day. The number of times we were stopped by police on this, the last Saturday of the month? Seven.\n\nOn each occasion we were pulled over and questioned by gruff police officers who wanted to know why we weren't at our neighbourhood umuganda. Or rather, _Jean-Claude_ was questioned. Foreign visitors to Rwanda are not required to participate, and there was something about me, my body language or my accent or something, that suggested I wasn't from around here. Every time we were stopped, Jean-Claude would have to explain that he was a tourist en route to Akagera National Park, and often as not would be asked to show his passport. Only then would we be allowed through.\n\nThey never asked for my passport, strangely enough. On occasion, I would try to present it anyway, only to have it waved away.\n\n\"This is racial profiling,\" I grumbled to Jean-Claude as we left the latest checkpoint. \"They shouldn't just _assume_ I'm not Rwandan.\"\n\nJean-Claude, meanwhile, was starting to feel guilty, as though he were shirking his civic duty.\n\n\"But you're Canadian now,\" I said. \"You have a Canadian passport, Canadian citizenship. You're allowed to be lazy. In fact, it's positively encouraged.\"\n\nUmuganda had started early. From our apartment window we could see people gathering in the alleyway below. Women started clearing grass along the edge, moving through with a practised swing of their hand scythes. Men in baggy trousers shovelled dirt into potholes and others tramped it down. Given the size of the potholes in that alley, it was a bit like throwing handfuls of sugar into the sea to reduce salinity, but no matter. I quickly realized that the point was not necessarily the work, but that it was shared.\n\nJean-Claude and I didn't get a hundred metres in our Land Cruiser before we were nabbed, waved to the side of a roundabout on an angry blast of whistle\u2014so they did have whistles! A young officer demanded to know why _we_ (meaning Jean-Claude) weren't volunteering. (Though, when it's mandatory like that, you have to wonder about the use of the word \"volunteer.\")\n\n\"You do know it's umuganda today?\" he said. I assumed this was a rhetorical question.\n\nI handed over a couple of my _Canadian Geographic_ business cards and we were allowed to continue.\n\nAnother hundred metres, another roundabout, and another police roadblock. The cross-examinations began anew. At the next roadblock it was a stern-faced female officer who appeared. She was decidedly unswayed by our dashing smiles and good looks. So much for flirting our way through. She wanted to see Jean-Claude's passport, brushed aside my proffered business cards\u2014and here I'd gone and drawn little hearts on them and everything\u2014then let us pass. At the next roadblock it was an older gentleman, who looked as weary of this as we were.\n\nOn it went, like a slow-motion game of Mother-May-I, as we inched our way out of Kigali. Normally, running a gauntlet of police barricades would leave one feeling unsettled, unnerved, even (at the city limits, the roadblock featured a spiked barrier laid across the asphalt). However, when the officers in question aren't checking for contraband goods or illicit weapons but rather asking why you aren't picking up litter or painting the local community centre, it doesn't generate the sense of danger one might expect. We sailed on calmly between checkpoints, resigned to the process. The novelty of it had long since worn off.\n\nWe were heading east, into a different Rwanda. And although much of the country is located in the upper altitudes, the eastern region slopes down into endless banana plantations and eventually scrub-plain savannah.\n\nThe central mountains give Rwanda a surprisingly temperate climate, even with the country being located on the equator. Daytime temperatures rarely vary, hovering around twenty-seven degrees Celsius year-round\u2014hot, but not oppressively so\u2014and the nights are glorious and forgiving, even chilly at times. And although much of the country is technically within Africa's malarial zone, the higher altitudes are blessedly free of _Anopheles gambiae_ , the mosquito in this region that carries the virus. But that changes when you travel east. Here the temperatures creep ever upward as the sun grows prickly and arid.\n\nRwanda's anti-malaria programs have been very successful. Targeted sprayings and the distribution of millions of insecticide-infused mosquito nets, together with medicine during the outbreaks, have reduced deaths from malaria by 85 percent over the last six years, one of the most dramatic drops and effective campaigns the World Health Organization has ever seen. I took my prescribed dose of Malarone every day, slept under Southern-belle nettings at night, and spritzed my ankles with DEET when I went out in the evenings, but otherwise I hadn't been overly concerned\u2014until now.\n\nEastern Rwanda was another matter, almost another world. The east was well within the malarial red zone, with the added presence of trap-jawed crocodiles, malcontent hippos, ill-tempered buffaloes, and even a rogue elephant or two. True, these animals were corralled inside the expansive range of Akagera National Park, but it did add a frisson of danger to our travels. And what's travel without a dash of _frisson?_ It's like beer without the formaldehyde.\n\nBecause this was umuganda day, there was no traffic on the highway. Jean-Claude's foot grew heavier; the speedometer drifted upward and the wind whistled through.\n\n\"All we need are flags on the front,\" he said, \"and some motorcycles with their sirens on and we could be a presidential\u2014What do you call it, like a private parade for VIPs?\"\n\n\"A motorcade?\"\n\n\"Exactly. It is like they closed the highway just for us.\"\n\nHe was right. It did feel as though we were leading our own motorcade, the sort that visiting potentates and Ruritanian rulers might command, except of course that visiting potentates and Ruritanian rulers are rarely pulled over by the police and forced to pull weeds at a local primary school. Not that Jean-Claude and I were forced to pull weeds, but it came close. We'd barely escaped the capital when an officer popped out of nowhere, from behind a bush, I assume, and waved us sternly to the side of the road. He'd already netted an impressive haul: three different minibuses and two taxis. A passenger from one of the taxis, a beefy businessman in an expensive suit, looked very peeved indeed.\n\nThe police officer spoke to us briefly, then waved us through, much to the chagrin of the businessman, who was now being handed a hoe and directed to a nearby field. _If you can't buy your way out of manual labour, what's the point of being rich?_ I gave him a \"Sorry, but what can I do?\" shrug as we passed.\n\nI asked Jean-Claude about the minivan buses that had been flagged down. We'd seen those passengers filing out and being handed farm implements.\n\n\"If people don't have good reason to be travelling, for example to a funeral or the doctor's or a far-away wedding, they must get out and help. Women who have young children, or the elderly people or ill people, they don't have to work, but everybody else does.\" There was an awkward pause. \"I still feel bad about not taking part,\" Jean-Claude said.\n\n\"So do I,\" I lied. \" _So do I_. But hey, what can we do?\" These were the sorts of sacrifices one makes when one is a Very Important Journalist.\n\nWith the road unrolling before us, it seemed to me that the best job to have on umuganda day (other than journalist, of course) was police officer. You got to stride about in a purposeful manner, blowing your purposeful whistle whilst purposefully nabbing layabouts and scofflaws, all without having to dig any actual ditches or pull any actual weeds yourself. And I bet you still got to take part in the picnic at the end, too.\n\nFarther down, we passed rows of motorcycle taxis parked beside an irrigation weir.\n\n\"Umuganda is not set up just by neighbourhoods or by villages,\" Jean-Claude explained, \"but also by job and by trade union. Motorcycle taxi drivers have their own association, so probably they arranged their own project.\"\n\nMan oh man, Rwandans sure do love to organize themselves.\n\nNo wonder the public spaces were always so tidy here. They got fully cleaned, pruned, and swept once a month. It was rather inspiring. Not inspiring enough to ask Jean-Claude to pull over so that I might spit in my palms, grab a shovel, and join in. It was more of a low-level, I-doff-my-hat-to-you-in-passing sort of inspiration. The kind that doesn't require any effort. That kind.\n\n**59**\n\nTHE JELLY-BEAN TOWNS we'd seen elsewhere in Rwanda were on display in the east as well, with the shops brightly coloured _red, blue, yellow, green; red, blue, yellow, green_ , but the landscape around us had grown shaggier, more tangled.\n\nWe were deep in banana country now. If I'd reached out through the window I could have run my fingers through the landscape. Layered leaves swayed in the wind, with entire communities playing hide-and-seek among them. As we drove, Jean-Claude explained the correlation between topography, bananas, and teenage pregnancy.\n\n\"When you have flat ground,\" he assured me, \"you have more babies.\"\n\nSay what?\n\n\"It happens like this,\" he said. \"Flat land is better for growing bananas, and banana farms are easy to take care of. You have a lot of free time, and with the extra bananas, you can make banana beer. The more banana beer, the more get-togethers. The more gettogethers, the more relaxed feelings you have. The more relaxed feelings, the more unexpected pregnancies. A lot of children are raised by their aunts out here.\"\n\nA persuasive syllogism, though I'm not sure how much of it was supported by clinical research, and I daresay the people of the region might take exception. But I did hear from other Rwandans as well that the east was considered more, how shall we say, _lax_ in its moral stringencies.\n\n\"Didn't your wife come from around here?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" he said sharply. \"Much farther. In Tanzania.\"\n\nGiven that Christine was a teetotaller like Jean-Claude, I didn't imagine she could have grown up on a diet of banana beer.\n\nWe were approaching Rwamagana Town and with it the Dereva Hotel, a personal landmark of Jean-Claude's.\n\n\"We would stop at the Dereva on our way back to Kigali. I would order an omelette and french fries. Was very tasty. This was with the Japanese nurses.\"\n\nThe first time Jean-Claude met my wife, he had surprised her by greeting her in Japanese.\n\n\"I learned Japanese when I was, like, fifteen, sixteen,\" he'd explained, \"from nurses who were living in Kigali.\"\n\nThe nurses were in Rwanda as volunteers with JOCV (Japan Overseas Cooperation Volunteers), which also included a major telecommunications project. The Japanese engineers had given Jean-Claude a summer job minding their office equipment (people had been pilfering fax machines and telephones), and he was later hired to help out at the women's dormitory. He was asked to learn Japanese so that he could help interpret.\n\n\"I went to live with them in the fall. Was wonderful! There was six girls in the house, they were like, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, that age. I was in heaven! One was x-ray technician, one was lab technician, one was a teacher, others were nurses. On the first day, when their supervisor was not there, they asked me, 'Can you drive?' I said, 'Sure.' They asked, 'How old are you?' I said, 'Eighteen.' They said, 'Okay, you're going to sneak us out tonight, okay?' Three of them were a bad influence on the other girls, I remember. They said, 'Okay, here's the plan...'\"\n\nOn Friday nights, Jean-Claude would shuttle them around the city, from nightclub to nightclub, and sometimes all the way to Akagera, several hours away, to a hotel discoth\u00e8que.\n\n\"It was booming! Was a very popular place. The nurses would stay up all night dancing. Coming back they would be hangovered, and we would stop at the Dereva Hotel for omelettes and french fries. It is one of my strongest memories\u2014those Japanese nurses, so tired but happy, eating omelettes at the hotel.\"\n\nJean-Claude might have gone on to become a Japanese\u2013Kinyarwanda interpreter\u2014he was just starting to get the hang of the language\u2014but on October 1, 1990, the world changed.\n\n\"The RPF invaded and Rwanda, it went into a kind of panic. A few nights later, there was shooting in Kigali. All across the city. But the RPF was far away, in the east. The soldiers were firing at shadows. The next day, they started picking up Tutsis.\"\n\nJapan decided to pull out of Rwanda.\n\n\"They were ordered to evacuate. The situation was too dangerous for them to stay. One of the engineers, he gave me a pair of running shoes. It was those Mizunos I was wearing that were robbed from me near Somalia. Was very good shoes he gave me. I didn't know then, but it was a goodbye gift.\"\n\nThe nurses closed ranks around Jean-Claude.\n\n\"They told me, 'We're gonna take you with us. Don't worry.' But their boss, this older man, he was called Omomi, he just stood there with his arms crossed, shaking his head, kind of sucking on his teeth. He said, _'Taihen.'_ I knew that meant 'difficult.' The nurses were shouting at him. One was crying. I could understand some of their Japanese now. I could hear them saying 'My family, they are going to take care of him.' 'My family is going to do this or that.' 'He is Tutsi, do you understand that? Do you understand what's gonna happen to him?' But Omomi wouldn't even look at them, not in the eye. He just shook his head and said, _'Taihen.'_ \"\n\nThey might have been arguing with a stone Buddha.\n\n\"These nurses were very upset. They told me, 'It's gonna be okay, go to your house and wait for us, we're gonna send for you.' But they never did.\" There was a long pause. \"Would have been a very different life, if I had gone with them.\"\n\nOn October 5, the Japanese mission to Rwanda was shut down and all staff, volunteers, and other Japanese nationals were evacuated.\n\n\"I never saw them again,\" Jean-Claude said. \"I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.\"\n\nThe Dereva Hotel and Restaurant was a collection of villas in garden-like grounds. The restaurant was airy and open\u2014and largely empty, this being umuganda day. By odd coincidence, the only other customer at the restaurant that day was Japanese. Not a beautiful young nurse, alas, but rather a balding, middle-aged engineer from Nagasaki named Hiro who clearly wasn't expecting to be addressed in his native language. _\"J\u014dzu desu ne!\"_ he said to me in breathy wonderment, meaning roughly, \"Your Japanese is very good!\" A blatant mistruth, but one I happily accepted, insincere flattery being a hallmark of Japanese politeness, after all. (For the record, I speak Japanese the way a bear dances; people aren't impressed that the bear dances _well_ , just that it dances at all.) Hiro was working on an infrastructure project with the Rwandan government, and when Jean-Claude spoke up, Hiro assured him that his Japanese was pretty darn _j\u014dzu_ , too.\n\nAfter chatting with Hiro, Jean-Claude and I sat on the patio eating beef brochettes and grilled plantain, standard fare and deftly prepared, but as we rose to leave I stopped myself with a jolt.\n\n\"We blew it!\" I said. \"We should have ordered omelettes and french fries!\"\n\nJean-Claude smiled. \"I thought about it. But it wouldn't have been the same. They wouldn't have tasted as good as they did when I was fifteen.\"\n\nAnd he was right. The omelettes of our youth are always so much sweeter.\n\n**60**\n\nTHE LAST POLICE CHECKPOINT of the day wasn't\u2014a checkpoint, that is. It was more of a holdup, albeit a very well-mannered one.\n\nJust east of Rwamagana we were stopped not by the shrill trill of a whistle but by raised hands and apologetic smiles from a pair of police officers. Umuganda had ended and vehicles had begun to reappear on the roads\u2014we'd already passed several communal picnics in the fields and villages\u2014so this was unexpected.\n\nThe officers spoke with Jean-Claude softly, almost shyly, and then Jean-Claude turned to me. \"They want to know if they can catch a ride back to their police station. It's in the next town, Kayonza. Usually there is a minibus that picks up police officers at the end of umuganda, but it hasn't arrived and they have been waiting a long time. We're going in that direction anyway.\"\n\nI looked at the automatic rifles the men were carrying. \"Do we have a choice?\" I joked.\n\nJean-Claude was puzzled. \"Of course we have a choice.\"\n\n\"Okay. Sure. Why not?\" I moved our bags around to make space for them in the back.\n\n\"An armed escort,\" I said as we pulled onto the road. \"I like it.\" Now it really was like having our own presidential motorcade.\n\nHaving a pair of armed police officers in the backseat, AK-47s at the ready, certainly gave us some extra swagger. It was the only time on this, or any road trip really, that I actively hoped for an ambush, if only to see the bandit's face when our tinted rear-view window rolled down. _\"What's that you say? Stand and deliver? I think not.\"_\n\nJean-Claude dropped the two officers off at their station: a small brick bungalow shaded by palm trees.\n\nOn our way out of town, we passed a tavern named Imararungu, which Jean-Claude translated as the \"You Won't Be Bored\" Bar (it was doing a roaring trade, post-umuganda), and soon after that the Pretty Beauty Salon (which seemed a tad redundant to my mind) as well as several roadside chopping blocks, busy with customers, which apparently sold only the outer extremities of chickens: feet and heads and other indeterminate bits. The people had a bounce in their step, were gathering on street corners to laugh and exchange greetings in that festive spirit that comes at the end of a shared day's work.\n\nThere was a breeze at play here, but after Kayonza we took a hard turn south, heading for hotter climes.\n\nThis was still banana country, but the earlier claustrophobia had eased. The broad-leafed plantations had stepped back, the valleys had opened up, and the villages had come out of hiding. Spandex-clad cyclists fired past like Luftwaffe dive-bombers in tight formation, helmets sleek as teardrops, legs chuttering, wheels spinning.\n\n\"They're in training,\" Jean-Claude explained, \"for Tour du Rwanda,\" a 910-kilometre multi-stage race modelled on the Tour de France.\n\nThe roadsides were thick with avocado and mango as well.\n\n\"Is this a nostalgic landscape for you?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh my goodness, yes. I have strong memories from this place.\"\n\nWe had entered the Kabarondo district of eastern Rwanda, and although Jean-Claude had been born and raised in the capital, his family's ancestral village was out here, near Akagera National Park.\n\n\"My older brother, Jean-Baptiste, he was living in our family village, taking care of our grandfather's land. The village is, like, nine kilometres from Kabarondo Town. Its name is Rundu. When I was in grade four my father sent me away to stay there. I was maybe nine or ten years old.\"\n\nJean-Claude had been roaming the streets of Kigali, sneaking into soccer games and dodging the consequences with a cocky sense of impunity, sometimes crouching behind the sedans of government officials entering through the side gates and then sprinting past the security guards.\n\n\"I could sneak into any stadium in Kigali,\" he said with a certain misplaced pride. \"I could always find a way in, around, or under that fence. Sometimes they would chase you, but if you could get into the crowd, you could escape. You could disappear and they would never, never find you.\"\n\nJean-Baptiste had come to the city to talk to their father.\n\n\"He said to my dad, 'You are getting to be an older man now. Is hard to keep a watch on Jean-Claude, and there is too much destruction in the city.' Remember, one of our brothers already was kidnapped. Jean-Baptiste said, 'In the village it will be a quiet life. Jean-Claude can focus more in school and it will be good for him.' And my dad agreed. We had many extended family in that village. Aunties, cousins. Would be very hard to get into trouble there.\"\n\nJean-Claude's brother owned one of the only vehicles in the village.\n\n\"Was a Toyota HiAce minibus. Very sturdy. People from surrounding villages were hiring him like a taxi to drive them to appointments. He was like an ambulance, too. If someone was sick or a woman was going into labour, my brother would drive them, wouldn't charge. He was doing very well, was leasing our land and driving the minibus, and was building a new house\u2014a very nice house. Was for his wife, his children. It was made of bricks, not mud or clay.\"\n\nAs a prominent figure in the community, Jean-Baptiste was called upon to settle disputes as well, including one with a neighbouring village that occurred soon after Jean-Claude arrived.\n\n\"It was over a girl,\" Jean-Claude said. \"The other villagers showed up ready to fight, with bows and arrows and long spears. I was from the city, I never saw such a thing before! What happened was, a boy from our village had damaged a girl's reputation very badly and he needed to be punished. The other village demanded it. It was gonna be a war between the two towns, and my brother spent the whole day speaking to both sides, back and forth, and eventually they came to an agreement. My brother told them, 'There are laws. You can't just kill him. We will surrender the boy to the police, okay? But not to a bunch of angry people who are gonna kill him.' So that boy went to jail, and there was no war. I was very impressed with my brother in that moment.\"\n\nJean-Claude attended classes in Rundu during the school year and returned to Kigali for school breaks, holidays, and various weekends.\n\n\"I was there from grade four to grade nine. Was a kind of culture shock for me. I was a city boy, and they could tell.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"First off, I had shoes. Everyone else was barefoot. So when I went to school the first day, the teacher made me take _off my_ shoes! Second, I was like a soccer superstar, because where other kids listened to games on the radio, for me, I had watched it live. I had met many of those players personally. Some were even from my neighbourhood in Kigali. When I told the kids in the village this, they couldn't believe it. For kids in a village, life in the city is like a kind of fiction.\"\n\nBut as Jean-Claude discovered, the village had its own way of ascribing status.\n\n\"In Kigali, I was street smart. I could cross busy roads even at the age of five. I knew which intersections were dangerous, which ones were safe, how to time it, when to go. In the village, there was no traffic\u2014there was no cars!\u2014so these skills were not of any use for me.\"\n\nIn Rundu, the cool kids were the ones who could grow or tend to something that would earn them money, even if it was just a few francs.\n\n\"One kid would boast he had a chicken, was gonna sell the eggs, another one would say she grew beans to sell them, another one, he had a goat. I had to do something about this, so I went to my brother and I said, 'I need a place to plant something.' He said, 'Okay, look around. Pick the place.' I bought some beans from a guy, and I planted them. Next morning I woke up early, ran and looked. Was nothing! So I dug up my beans to see what was the problem. I thought maybe this guy, he sold me defective beans. I was mad, and I threw them away, went and got different beans. Better beans. Again, nothing. Next morning and the next, nothing. I didn't know beans don't grow overnight! When I was about to dig up those beans too, I noticed that the first ones\u2014the beans I threw away\u2014had started to sprout. They were growing! I was amazed.\"\n\nAs we passed lowing cattle of the non-royal variety grazing in a field surrounded by banana plants, Jean-Claude recalled how there had once been lions here as well. Hundreds of them had lived in Akagera, and they would often come out of the park to hunt cattle\u2014though \"hunt\" is perhaps not the best word, cows not being known for their gazelle-like fleetness.\n\n\"A lion came into our village one time. Was maybe 1982. That was the last time, I think. The men hunted it with sticks\u2014\"\n\n\"Spears?\"\n\n\"Not even that. Sticks and a dog is enough. The man who killed it, I think he used an arrow. It gave him a lot of prestige after that. He kept the skin, the mane, even the fat of the lion\u2014he kept it in this clay bowl, and if anyone was injured, they would go to his house and they would put lion oil on it. He became famous for killing that lion.\"\n\nHyenas were even worse, I learned.\n\n\"My village was kind of like a hyenas' capital. That was long ago. The hyenas are gone, but even now, women don't walk alone on the road to my village. Hyenas are more dangerous than lions. If a lion is full, it will just sleep there. I find lions are very lazy. If something is hard to catch, the lion will forget it. But a hyena? A hyena will never be full. They are always hungry. They are like walking appetites. When a hyena attacks, it will never leave empty. That's why, if you throw a boot at a hyena, he will go for the boot. And whatever a hyena catches, if it's your arm, your foot, he's going to take it.\"\n\nWe came into the clay streets of Kabarondo, a town that was dusty and green at the same time.\n\nJean-Claude slowed down. \"That's the church,\" he said, referring to a simple Catholic chapel made from bricks as red as the soil. \"This is the place. This is where my brother Jean-Baptiste ran to when the killings started. He got separated from his family and had to find shelter. So many people were in that church. They thought they will be safe there. Then the interahamwe came.\" Jean-Claude pulled the Land Cruiser over across from it, paused for a moment. \"They were watching. They were waiting for everyone to be inside so they could kill them more easily.\"\n\nWhen the attack came, it was ferocious, with the military firing mortars from across the street and then lobbing grenades through the broken rafters as the interahamwe militias waited outside, prowling the perimeter. In the madness, Jean-Baptiste managed to escape, breaking through the circle of machetes and fleeing into the forest.\n\n\"He went to his friend's house, but they said, 'No no no no. You can't stay here!' Nobody would take him in. Some of these people he had driven to the emergency clinic without charge.\"\n\nJean-Claude sat looking at the red-brick chapel across from us.\n\n\"So many people died in there. But my brother, he escaped. He made it out. He was going north, trying to get to the RPF lines, is what I think, trying to reach the safe zone. And he almost made it, was very close. Was almost past the last barrier. Then someone he knew saw him and shouted, 'I know that guy! He's a Tutsi!' I always wondered why he was walking in the daylight. I wish I could ask him. Maybe he was so close he decided to take a chance, but you know, if he had just waited until night...\"\n\nTrucks rattled by. Women with baskets moved past us on the side of the road. Children chased a bicycle rim.\n\n\"We know who killed him,\" Jean-Claude said. \"We know his name.\"\n\nA silence settled over us.\n\n\"Would you like to go in?\" I asked. \"Take a moment?\"\n\nJean-Claude shook his head, almost imperceptibly, then put the Land Cruiser into gear and pulled us back into traffic, leaving the church at Kabarondo behind. He watched its departure in the rear-view mirror.\n\nThe lions that once hunted among these villages are gone, but their ghosts are not.\n\n\"No,\" Jean-Claude said when I made the comparison. \"Not lions. Hyenas. My brother was killed by hyenas.\"\n\n**61**\n\nTHE CHILDREN LOITERING AROUND the gas station at Kabarondo seemed listless and tired. They asked me for money, and when I said no they stood staring while Jean-Claude filled up the Land Cruiser.\n\nAlthough we were in one of the poorest regions of Rwanda, Jean-Claude still noted how much the town had grown. New banks and electronics shops had opened. Fresh paint and new rooftops were everywhere in evidence. \"Kabarondo has improved so much!\" Jean-Claude had said as we drove through.\n\nHe was oblivious to the sullen glare the children were giving us as we pumped the gas\u2014and then it dawned on me.\n\n\"This is where the tourists stop, isn't it?\" I said. \"This filling station. This must be where they fuel up before heading into Akagera National Park.\"\n\n\"Probably,\" Jean-Claude said, topping up the tank. \"I think this is the last service centre before the park. People going on safari, they must stop here.\"\n\nThat was why the children were so sullen. Muzungus came and muzungus stopped and muzungus gave them money. I was a muzungu, therefore I was supposed to give them money. This was why they were loitering around the gas station instead of chasing bicycle rims down the street or planting beans or lugging pails of water home to their mothers, and it seemed in that moment that this unremarkable gas station on a dusty intersection in eastern Rwanda embodied the entire misguided, well-intentioned but devastating impact of Western aid on Africa. I recalled the signs that greeted truck drivers entering Rwanda from Congo: INVESTMENT YES. CORRUPTION NO. I thought perhaps a similar sign should be posted for visitors at Kigali's international airport and along the main tourist routes: _Investment yes, handouts no_.\n\nJean-Claude gestured with his chin to a packed-clay road that disappeared into an overgrowth of banana leaves. \"My village is that way, on that road.\"\n\nKabarondo had been the nearest shopping area to Rundu, so Jean-Claude had come here often, walking for hours to escape the bucolic boredom of village life.\n\nHe laughed. \"It was worth it. Kabarondo was like Paris to me.\"\n\nJean-Claude returned the pump to its cradle, stood for a moment looking down the road he had walked as a boy. Had he pointed the truck west, we would have reached his childhood village in about twenty minutes. Instead he turned east, and we drove toward Akagera National Park, picking up speed on every hillock, every turn. I noticed Jean-Claude looking in the rear-view mirror again, as though we were being followed. But when I turned around, all I saw was our own rolling cloud of dust pulled behind.\n\nI'd been looking forward to the savannah, picturing broad plains and open vistas, but we were hemmed in by thornbush thickets and barbed scrub verges on either side as we rolled down a road that bobbed and weaved. It was as constricting as the banana plantations we'd driven through earlier, and I realized what I had found so disorienting about this whole journey: the lack of a discernible horizon.\n\nThe long-distance road trips of my youth had been in North America, and you can't spend three weeks there without eventually ending up on an open landscape, driving toward the vanishing point of a highway. It's inevitable. In South America, I'd ridden in drunkenly top-heavy buses along the Amazon watershed; in Japan, I'd hopscotched across the country's island archipelago by ferry and by thumb; in Ireland, I'd bloody well walked (not recommended); and in Europe I'd taken trains and trams and prams and lorries and lollies, or whatever the hell they call them over there. But this was the first long-haul, endless-hours-on-an-open-road trek I'd taken outside of North America, and it was strange never having a long ribbon of highway to look down. Even here in the savannah the landscape was near at hand, shouldering us in, funnelling us through; the route was forever dropping behind hillocks of tussocky grass and then popping up again. Rwanda was all curve and corner, swerve and slide, with sudden heart-catching panoramas revealed on a magician's flourish. In Rwanda, even the plains are hilly. In Rwanda, there is no vanishing point.\n\nWe passed through the derelict shell of a mining town, a tin-ore boomtown gone bust, with buildings broken-backed and falling down. Mud-walled homes were scattered among this dereliction of warehouses and factories, and a congregation of children had gathered around the communal trickle of a water pump, were slowly filling jerry cans and plastic pails for the day's cooking.\n\nRed-earth roads, and red-clay homes. A haze of dust. It was a landscape you breathed in unaware; at the end of the day, I would find reddish mud gummed on the corner of my mouth, the rim of my nostrils. The deep blues and luminescent greens of the forest and field were gone and in their stead, earthen tones: tawny yellows, burnt-orange browns, and a red deeper than rust. It could easily have been the clay from which God had fashioned Adam.\n\nWhen we saw a lone banana seller pushing his green-laden bicycle up a hill, Jean-Claude pulled to the side of the road. We came to a rolling stop and watched as the man plodded toward us.\n\n\"Those are cooking bananas,\" Jean-Claude whispered. \"Very, very delicious. Much better than those we get in Kigali. The soil is better for bananas out here. The price is much cheaper too. Now, because of my accent, he will know I am from Kigali and he will certainly raise his price, but it will still be much less than what we pay in the city. I will run over and buy some of his bananas, bring them back to Kigali as a present for Christine's mom. So get down quickly, hide before he\u2014Too late! He saw you.\"\n\nTurns out there was the Kigali price and then there was the muzungu price. Jean-Claude sighed. He waved to the man and then crossed the road toward him as though only vaguely interested, made a casual offer on two bundles. But with the banana seller having spotted me in the vehicle, the price jumped by 600 percent.\n\nJean-Claude stood his ground, demanding a mere 400 percent markup instead. Our purveyor of plantains took this as a personal affront. He shook his head woefully, wiped his face with a hand towel, fought back tears, and after great deliberation, said the best he could agree to was a mere 399 percent markup\u2014and clearly he would be losing money on the deal, but as it was late in the day he was willing to do this even if it meant his children would go hungry. Why, he would practically be giving the bananas away! But Jean-Claude replied no, no, no, this would not do, for there were surely other banana peddlers along this road who would be more than happy to part with their wares, and here we were, willing to relieve this fellow of the burden of his bananas at the end of the day. We were doing him a favour!\n\nWhile the two of them haggled and sparred, I got out and performed one of those stiff, poorly executed shoulder-turning stretches middle-aged people do in the mistaken belief that this somehow \"limbers us up.\" It was a dust-choked road we were travelling down, and my teeth had a texture to them. My hair was gritted with coarse powder; rubbing it free was like raking sand from your scalp after a day on the beach.\n\nJean-Claude had now made his absolute final offer. The third so far, by my count.\n\nA clutch of clay homes huddled nearby, doorways and windows leaking smoke. Several of the residents had come out to watch, entertained as much by my presence as by the increasingly intricate debate underway between Jean-Claude and our stubbornly resistant banana seller.\n\nA pair of boys watching from the sidelines pushed each other forward, smiled when I said _\"Amakuru?\"_ (\"How are you?\") They scrambled off in what I thought was a case of the giggling jitters, but soon reappeared carrying model homes they'd constructed out of\u2014I checked with Jean-Claude, interrupting the arcane minutiae of his banana valuations to ask\u2014dried sorghum stalks, a plant similar in texture to sugar cane.\n\nThe boys held their creations up for me to see, went solemnly quiet when I took their photo, beamed when I congratulated them on their handiwork.\n\n\"Are they trying to sell these to me?\" I asked, calling out again to Jean-Claude, who was now entering the final stages of what was apparently a multilateral trade deal.\n\n\"What? No. They just want to show them to you.\"\n\nFor one surging moment, I wanted to pull out my wallet and purchase their sorghum-stalk homes, wanted to take them back to Canada as a gift for my own two boys. I thought what a marvellous connective line that would draw across an ocean and between two worlds. I would offer the boys five dollars each, a huge sum for a kid. Their models would make a wonderful memento, and I was sure the two boys would be thrilled. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't because if I did, they would surely waylay the next muzungus they saw and try to sell them small homes as well. They would, I imagined, start to manufacture these models not for fun but for sale\u2014built specifically for passing muzungus. This was the road to Akagera National Park, after all. Tourist convoys rumbled through here all the time. Perhaps these two young boys would set up a roadside stall, try their best to flag down vehicles. Perhaps a small cottage industry would take root, prove semi-lucrative. Or perhaps no one would stop. Perhaps these boys would build their sorghum-stalk homes for nothing, would sit by the road watching Land Cruisers roll past as they waited in vain for wealthy whites to alight.\n\nWhether my actions would foster a local craft or taint their boyhoods with a sense that life was a mere lottery, I couldn't say. But I did know that if I offered to buy their hobby-work it would change things\u2014maybe for the better, but I couldn't be sure, and I couldn't take that chance. All I could do was hope that somehow, through their pride in this work and the words of encouragement from a passing stranger, the seeds of a future architect, a future builder, might be nurtured. Wishful thinking on my part, perhaps. But since coming to this country, I'd met future chemists in refugee camps, future engineers on dusty soccer pitches. This was Rwanda. Anything was possible: the very worst things you could imagine and the very best.\n\nAs these thoughts rattled around in my brain, a bent-backed elderly lady with a walking stick appeared, shuffling slowly toward us. She wore a wraparound skirt, the fabric threadbare and long faded by sunlight and time, reds and purples now pastel pink and pale blue. She had rheumy eyes, and her face was as crumpled as gift-wrap. When she saw me she smiled\u2014smiled as though she'd been expecting me all along. She offered a greeting in Kinyarwanda, chortled at my reply. (There was something about the way I pronounced _\"Nimeza\"_ \u2014\"I'm fine\"\u2014that caused no end of amusement among Rwandans.) Then, having taken an interest in the ongoing trade negotiations between Jean-Claude and our bicycled banana vendor, she made a loud snorting noise, part protest, part disbelief.\n\nAnd that's when the balance of power shifted decidedly in Jean-Claude's favour.\n\nThe old lady was appalled at the price the man was trying to wheedle out of us. Why, that was many times more than what you would pay at the market! She scolded the man for being so greedy. He, in turn, suggested\u2014politely and with all due respect\u2014that she piss off. But the old lady was adamant. Charging visitors that much for bananas! It was unconscionable!\n\nJean-Claude had wisely stepped back to let her do the negotiations for him, giving me a running update on her progress. Before we knew it, the price was plummeting. The lady had pointed with her walking stick to the next farm, where she would guarantee a better price, and with that, it was all over.\n\nThe man, outplayed and outflanked, settled on a much, much lower price\u2014though still far too high for the old lady's liking, and she continued to scold the seller even as Jean-Claude counted out the money for the bananas. She then wished us well and toddled off, but Jean-Claude ran after her to say thank you\u2014and to pay her a small commission. Just a few hundred francs, but she refused. He insisted. She laughed and kept walking, but Jean-Claude was adamant, saying he would be very sad if she didn't take it. So she did, clasping his hand in hers and laughing, saying she was happy to still be useful and telling Jean-Claude to be more wise in the future. He said he would try. She waved away my camera, saying she was too old to be photographed, and then hobbled away, chuckling to herself as she went.\n\nThe banana seller watched her depart with a cold look\u2014he didn't find the old doll quite as endearing as we did\u2014and then untied two large bundles from his bicycle and loaded them into the back of our amazing! ever-expanding! Land Cruiser (it really is astounding how much you can stuff into the back of one of those). He allowed me a single photograph and then, with a nod and a sigh, he too was on his way, pushing a much lighter load uphill with a heavy step.\n\nThere may have been a Kigali price, and there may have been a muzungu price, but as we'd learned, nothing beats a bent-backed lady with a wagging finger.\n\n**62**\n\nTHE TOURIST LODGE IN AKAGERA NATIONAL PARK was a rambling collection of corridors and hallways with angles that didn't add up. Set amid the scrub brush above Lake Ihema, it had the air of a duchess who'd lost everything yet insisted on dressing up in satin gowns and pearls for dinner. At $100 a night, it was overpriced by approximately $98. Still, I liked it. There was an amiable feel to the place, with its open verandas and bug-speckled swimming pools, its unkempt gardens and airy grounds. More to the point, it was the only option available. The only one that included indoor plumbing, anyway. There was one other spot: a campsite where one could bed down in open bush for half the price and twice the inconvenience. But Jean-Claude had earlier put the kibosh on any notion that we might go camping at any point in our trip. That was one of his preconditions for coming to Rwanda with me: no camping.\n\n\"This is something refugees will never understand,\" he'd said. \"Why Canadians love to camp so much.\" It was a concept he had struggled to explain to the immigrant parents he worked with at Soccer Without Boundaries. \"We tried to organize a camping trip for the families one time. And when I explained it to the Somalian and Ethiopian parents, the ones from Sudan or Afghanistan, they couldn't believe it! They said, 'You want us to sleep outside in little tents with no electricity or running water, cooking on a fire? Are you crazy? That's what we left behind in the refugee camps! Why would we want to do that here?'\"\n\nSo the tourist lodge it was. We'd arrived in early evening, making it through the park's southern gate just before it closed as a bored-looking guard waved us through. With our 4x4 loaded with bananas, I'd half-expected to gather a following en route, to arrive at the lodge in grand style, a Pied Piper of primates, leading a victory procession of monkeys behind us, but no. The only cousins there to greet us were a mangy clan of olive baboons slouching about like the dissolute pickpockets they were. \"Windows up,\" Jean-Claude advised. These baboons were of the grab-and-dash variety, and warnings had been posted. Olive baboons: the Artful Dodgers of the animal kingdom.\n\nWe checked in at the front desk. Night was falling, and as Jean-Claude went in search of passion fruit, I wandered down a series of hallways, key in hand, until I eventually stumbled upon my room. It was very dark inside, with blackout curtains drawn as tightly as a state secret. The light switch by the door was, apparently, of a migratory nature, playfully moving up and down, then sideways, depending on where I was slapping my hapless hand at the time. In the end, I groped my way across the room mainly by echolocation, stubbing a toe here, a finger there, using the reverberations of my elaborate invective to chart further obstacles until I bobbled headlong into a dangling cord\u2014which, to go from the shriek I emitted, I initially mistook for some sort of rafter snake. Realizing my mistake, I gave the cord a tentative tug and flooded the room with the crackle and buzz of fluorescent tubes warming up... slowly. Flickering details emerged. Clearly, I was standing in some sort of antechamber or walk-in closet. This shoebox adorned with a pair of sagging cots couldn't possibly constitute my actual room.\n\nOh, wait. It _was_ my room.\n\nNo matter. Time for a bath. I wanted to wash the dust from my face, the road from my scalp. I wanted to soak the stiffness from my back, the weary from my bones. But the faucet in my attractively rust-stained tub was more audible than aquatic, releasing a series of wheezy gurgles as it sputtered out a few slugs of brownish-green water. Ah well, I could skip the bath. I strode across the room and flung open the curtains with a lavish gesture (the lavish flinging of curtains being a forte of mine) and was faced with a jarring spidercrack of glass, fissures radiating across the window from a single violent point of impact. I examined the glass with a Columbo-like determination but was unable to decide whether the crack had come from something outside trying to get in or\u2014worse, to my mind\u2014something inside trying to get out.\n\nI schlepped my bags back to the front desk, arranged for another room, and then tramped down another meandering hallway. Inside my new room, I groped my way again to another slow flood of fluorescent light. Faced with a slightly less brown gurgle of water and no evidence of violent flight, I decided this room would have to do.\n\nFlopping backward onto one of the cots (I almost bounced over onto the other one), I lay awhile, staring up at the rafters. No large snakes were dangling above me, true, but I could easily imagine spiders rappelling down from the ceiling beams during the night like Tom Cruise in, oh, name a Tom Cruise movie; he usually rappels at some point. I was too tired to care, although I did make a mental note not to sleep with my mouth open. When Jean-Claude and I had charted our course over an opened map on a kitchen table back home, with me jotting down the words \"safari lodge,\" I'd pictured myself stretched out beneath the lazy breeze of a ceiling fan like a Persian king recumbent. Instead, I found myself lying pallid under the incessant buzz and excessive clarity of fluorescent tubes. The mosquito mesh, when I finally succeeded in unknotting it, dropped down like a tattered fishing net from days of yore. There was nothing even remotely \"Southern belle\" about it. There were gaping holes so big they wouldn't have kept out bats, let alone mosquitoes.\n\nSigh.\n\nClearly, I wasn't going to be presented with trays of glacier-chilled strawberries and festively arranged slices of papaya at _this_ lodge. In light of these more rustic environs, I eschewed my smoking jacket and ascot, and dressed for dinner instead in a slightly less aromatic T-shirt than the one I had been wearing. (There was a bundle of freshly washed shirts sitting crisply on the bedside table of my room back in Kigali. I had, of course, forgotten to pack them\u2014much to Jean-Claude's chagrin.)\n\nKeenly aware that we were now deep in malaria country, and faced with such a capaciously aerated mosquito net, I doused myself with DDT and PCB and DEET and XYZ, then strolled out in search of sustenance.\n\nIt was a calming night. The air was cool and fragrant with a scent reminiscent of lilacs, underlain with just a hint of DEET and\u2014 _sniff, sniff_ \u2014a touch of baboon feces. I cut across a leafy courtyard, feeling light-chested and content. A flap of wings. The dry-husk rattle of insects, unseen. Something large and clumsy was floundering about in the underbrush, and a waning moon, tangled in the branches overhead, cast a forty-watt light on the matter. Life was good.\n\nGoing for a stroll is always about embracing serendipity, so imagine my delight on finding myself right back in front of the door to my room. Dammit. How one goes about getting lost in a lodge with only two hallways, let alone completing a perfectly executed circular route, is best left for a later date. Instead, noting a shallow cement trench that ran along the perimeter of the hotel and recalling, with an observational prowess worthy of a Livingstone heir, that this same trough ran past the lodge's front entrance and restaurant patio, I followed it through the grass with unerring instinct, around to the main building. I'd done my forebear proud! (I later learned that this was a _snake-catching_ trench I'd been traipsing along, one that encircled the hotel grounds to keep black mambas and other mood spoilers from coiling through the corridors.)\n\nFortunately, no serpents had fallen into the trough that night, and I arrived at the dining hall unpunctured and unperturbed, only to find Jean-Claude digging into his fourth plate of passion fruit. He was starting with dessert, apparently.\n\nThis being a tourist lodge, the buffet was of the proper Western-style, all-you-can-eat variety, and we worked our way through several stacks of brochettes and roasted bananas, stewed plantains and ugali dumplings.\n\nOver dinner, Jean-Claude came up with a way for us to get rich. It involved passion fruit.\n\n\"I have been thinking,\" he said. \"We could sell Rwandan passion fruit in Canada for less than what they charge at Safeway\u2014and we would still make a profit. And it's better fruit! Much tastier, much juicer. People will line up to buy them!\"\n\nBetter in every way, I agreed. \"Only problem,\" I pointed out, \"is that I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to import tropical fruit into Canada.\"\n\n\"Yes, but the seeds?\" He smiled.\n\n\"Well, you'd have to smuggle them in.\"\n\n\"Exactly. So here is what we do. The day before we fly out, we fill up our stomachs with passion fruit. We eat and eat as much passion fruit as we can, and then\"\u2014his smile became a grin, grew wider, took on a positively demonic glint\u2014\"when we get home, _we wait..._ Soon we will have all the seeds we need. We just have to clean them off and plant them. Trust me, if we grow Rwandan passion fruit in Canada, we will make a lot of money! A lot!\"\n\nMuch like belling the cat, it had to be asked: \"And who exactly is going to, ah, clean this bounty of ours?\"\n\n\"Alister and David!\" he said, naming my youngest and his oldest. \"We'll pay them!\"\n\nOh, I'm sure they'd love that. _C'mere, son, I have a job for you_.\n\nFunny thing is, I think Jean-Claude was only half-joking about having us smuggle a trove of seeds out of the country in our lower colons. He was already mourning our return to the land of the fibrous papaya and the shrivelled four-dollar passion fruit; you could see it in the wistful way he scooped out the pulp of just one more, the way he sadly spooned it into his mouth.\n\n**63**\n\nTHE AKAGERA LODGE, as noted, was located on a rise of hill above Lake Ihema. These were the same shores Stanley had once tried to cross into the Kingdom of Rwanda, only to be met with a less than enthusiastic welcome. By which I mean, \"arrows.\"\n\nIn the early morning, I went for a long walk through the hotel grounds, passing several buildings in a state of... ruin? Repair? Renovation? Demolition? It was hard to say. The bamboo scaffolding looked as though it had been standing for some time; several poles had sprouted leaves.\n\nBirdsong matinals filled the treetops like the first morning of creation. There are more than 500 species of birds in Akagera National Park, and every one of them seemed to be out in force that day.\n\nLow above the lake, the sun hung like a swollen orange.\n\nTime to pull on the ol' pith helmet (figuratively speaking, of course; I don't think they even make pith helmets anymore) and stride forth once more into adventure, although admittedly, when there is a lunch box with an apple and a sandwich waiting for you at the front desk, it does take the edge off one's impending exploits.\n\nRwanda is not considered a prime safari destination, certainly not on par with Botswana or Kenya, say. Of the Big Five safari animals\u2014elephant, lion, leopard, rhino, and African buffalo\u2014Akagera is understocked in one (only a handful of leopards haunt the park) and clean out of two: the aforementioned lions of Jean-Claude's youth and the black rhino, once plentiful but wiped out by poachers in the early 1980s. True, Akagera does feature an abundance of sproingy deer-like creatures and flurries of birds, but no lions and no rhinos.\n\nIn reference to her country's penchant for branding itself as a \"boutique tourist destination,\" Rica Rwigamba at the RDB office in Kigali had joked that Akagera offered \"boutique safaris\" as well. Which is to say, a \"boutique\" population of elephants, along with some \"boutique\" giraffes imported from Kenya. Given Akagera's lack of large predators, zebras and antelopes were thriving, and the park boasted a lakeshore known as Hippo Beach, but the sexier big cats were either rarely spotted or nonexistent. This was going to change, though, as the park's success in introducing Masai giraffes had sparked plans to reintroduce lions as well. (No word on how the zebras or antelope felt about this, or whether they were even consulted. I imagine the first zebra to be taken down by a lion in Akagera will die with a perplexed look on its face.)\n\nIn the final years of the Habyarimana regime, the park had reverted to anarchy, with poachers killing elephants for their tusks, rhinoceroses for their horns, and the few remaining lions just for the sport of it. (By that point most of the lions had already been killed off by cattle herders, who regularly planted meat laced with poison in their pastures.) The larger animals fled into neighbouring Tanzania during the turmoil, but were now returning, and their numbers were growing every year: a distinct diaspora of its own, coming home.\n\nPoaching remains a problem. Akagera National Park lies along Rwanda's eastern border, which forms a maze of inaccessible wetlands and marshes, but the western side opens directly onto farmland and pastures. Following the genocide, the area allocated to the park was greatly reduced to make room for returning refugees, but it's still an impressive swath of protected wilderness. An electrified fence runs down the western length of the park now, mainly to keep the animals in. Harder is keeping the poachers out. More than 2,000 snares had been gathered in the previous year alone.\n\nJean-Claude and I drove down to the park's interpretive centre, where it was recommended that we hire a guide, which we did. The Akagera bush is interlaced with trails, and the animals could be hard to find, although the staff had provided us with an admirably optimistic checklist of wildlife to tick off as we went (leopards, spotted hyenas, elephants, unicorns, leprechauns, etc.). I was keen to see an elephant up close; I was tired of being teased with tantalizing glimpses of dung. Several elephants had been spotted roaming nearby, among them\u2014pause here for dramatic effect\u2014a rogue pachyderm by the name of Mutware.\n\nStrange thing was, Jean-Claude knew Mutware, had met him on a family trip years before.\n\nMutware was the most famous elephant in Rwanda. Airlifted into Akagera National Park as a baby in 1975, he quickly asserted himself among the other young ones.\n\n\"His name means 'boss,'\" Jean-Claude explained. \"The park rangers called him that because even as a baby he was bossy.\" As Mutware got older, his attitude only got worse. As with many of us, his teen years were particularly disruptive.\n\n\"He would chase vehicles and smash things for no reason, and he would even steal beer from trucks and drink it.\"\n\n\"Really?\"\n\n\"Really. Elephants can curl their trunks, pick things up. Mutware would grab plastic jugs of banana beer and squeeze until the tops popped off, and then he would drink it. He liked beer too much.\"\n\nMy kind of elephant.\n\n\"When I lived in the village, my brother took me on a drive through the park and we ran into Mutware, with his ears out. This was very scary, because we knew Mutware was angry. He was always angry.\"\n\nNor had Mutware mellowed with age. Just a few weeks before we arrived, he'd rolled a vehicle into Lake Ihema as the passengers scrambled for cover. During the genocide, the park staff explained, members of the militia had gone hunting in Akagera, driving around in a jeep and whooping it up. When they came upon Mutware, one of them fired off a round, hitting the elephant's flank. Mutware fled, wounded, into the bush, where he nursed a grudge\u2014 _for nineteen years_. As people who work with these creatures will tell you, the long memory of elephants is in no way apocryphal, and when the man who'd shot Mutware showed up on a retirees' tour to visit his old hunting grounds, Mutware recognized him. Trumpeting wildly, the elephant charged, sending the driver and passengers running as the animal pushed their vehicle end over end into the croc-infested waters of Lake Ihema. Crazed elephant on one side, crocodile eyes on the other: How fast do you figure those tourists ran? Fortunately, no one was injured, and Mutware, having made his point, padded silently back into the bush. The retired military man left the park that same day.\n\n\"They were driving a Land Cruiser,\" the staff said pleasantly. \"Same as you.\"\n\nThe story of Mutware's nineteen-year-long grudge smacked of urban legend to me, but it certainly was in keeping with Mutware's famed temper. Tuskless and weighing in at six tons, he was only a midsized male, but his fearsome reputation had accorded him a greater stature. The park staff was genuinely afraid of him, and warnings were posted everywhere. Nor was he predictable in his travels. Our Mutware was a ramblin' man; he roamed far and wide across the park and was a good swimmer, too.\n\n\"He swims across sometimes,\" the staff told me. \"To Tanzania.\" When he was away everyone relaxed a little.\n\nMutware was given to radical mood swings as well. He would pose for photos with tourists, even be considered \"semi-habituated,\" but then during the period of _musth_ , when the sides of his head throbbed and his testosterone levels spiked, he would go on a rampage. In 2006, he escaped the park entirely, trampling nearby fields and terrifying villagers. The year before that, after a musth-enraged Mutware wrecked several vehicles in the park, the American embassy issued a travel alert, making Mutware the only single animal to have triggered a security warning from the U.S. government.\n\n\"Most elephants live to be about seventy. And Mutware is in his forties,\" Jean-Claude explained. \"So he is having his mid-life crisis.\"\n\nThe younger females no longer wanted to mate with him, and short of buying an expensive sports car, donning shades, and getting a comb-over, Mutware was not handling it well. He'd been spotted just a few hundred metres from the main office, so I was happy to have our guide steer us clear.\n\nMarcel was a trim, impeccably uniformed young man. He offered to drive, was gently rebuffed by Jean-Claude, and, with a shrug, had crawled into the back of our vehicle. He gave us a concerned look on seeing the mountain of bananas that filled the back.\n\n\"You know that you can't feed the animals, yes?\" he asked.\n\nI turned around and looked at him with a hurt expression. \"But everybody loves bananas,\" I said. \"Elephants. Antelopes. Hippos. Buffaloes. Baboons. Zebras. I was told that they all liked bananas.\"\n\nHorrified at the prospect of us toddling around Akagera National Park flinging bananas out the window in the manner of Luigi in a round of Mario Kart, he protested, \"No, no, no, visitors are not permitted to\u2014\"\n\nAt which point Jean-Claude cut in to explain that the bananas were for his mother-in-law back in Kigali, not the local wildlife, and that I was only \"joking.\"\n\nMarcel nodded slowly, eyed me with an understandable caution. _Ah yes, muzungu humour_.\n\nI grinned back at him. \"Everybody loves bananas!\" I said.\n\nHe was having his doubts about me, you could tell.\n\nA farrago of vehicles and visitors had gathered at the interpretive centre, including a family from Kigali crammed into a single hatchback; a sunburned South African couple in a jeep; a spacious safari-style vehicle with seats lined up on either side, as though the guests were riding an elephant; plus\u2014this is true\u2014a minivan full of nuns. Many of the visitors to Akagera that day were Rwandese, which was always nice to see.\n\nWe set off in a ragged line, vehicles fanning out along various routes depending on the interests and inclination of the guides. With Jean-Claude at the wheel, we headed for Lake Ihema. The road was cratered with potholes, and as we rocked back and forth across them in low gear it felt as though we were riding an elephant, too.\n\n\"Mutware,\" the guide said, pointing to a bend in the bush.\n\nHe was referring to fistfuls of grassy dung rather than the actual elephant.\n\n\"Nearby?\" I asked.\n\nMarcel nodded.\n\nAs we came over a rise in the road, Lake Ihema opened up in front of us. A wind wrinkled the surface of the water and a clamour of birds lifted off, wings winnowing the air. Jean-Claude brought us to a stop beside Ihema's reedy shores, where we got out to admire the view.\n\nSeveral gazebos stood back from the water, for picnics and rainy day rest stops, I imagined, and we saw further evidence of Mutware's presence: one of the pavilions had been attacked, its metal roof peeled back like the top of a tin can.\n\n\"He is in the rutting season,\" Marcel explained. \"He tried to mate with the females but they chased him off, so he became very angry and he smashed this building.\"\n\nNot popular with the ladies, our Mutware.\n\n\"So,\" I said. \"He's like a guy, goes to a bar, tries to make a move on a girl, gets rejected, and then beats up a phone booth on the way home.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Marcel. \"It is exactly like that! I will use that example next time. Mutware will be in a very bad mood, so we must be careful.\" He looked over his shoulder. \"Sometimes he comes here to drink water.\"\n\nLike an idiot, I was secretly hoping to run into Akagera's famous elephant, maybe have him push our vehicle into the lake as well, just for the conversational trove that would provide later. _\"Say, chaps, I ever tell you about the time...\"_ Not sure how the vehicle insurance would cover it, though I'm fairly sure elephants are considered Acts of God.\n\nBut as I was about to learn, there were other perils nearer by that day. I had wanted to get closer to the lake, but the shore was squelchy so I was standing on an upjut of rock instead. A large monitor lizard was digging up eggs from a hollowed-out pit nearby, its tail whipping back and forth in excitement. When I stepped closer, the lizard scrambled away, a fluid ripple disappearing into the grass.\n\n\"What kind of eggs are those?\" I asked, thinking they seemed awfully large for a heron or a flamingo.\n\n\"Crocodile.\"\n\nI froze, felt ice forming in my arteries.\n\nMarcel pointed toward the lake and there, floating offshore, was an armoured log\u2014with eyes.\n\n\"Maybe we should get back a little?\" Marcel suggested.\n\nI heartily agreed.\n\nAs soon as we moved, the crocodile dropped below the surface.\n\n\"Oh no,\" I said. \"We scared him off.\"\n\n\"No, not scared,\" said Marcel. \"Waiting. Just there. See?\"\n\nI looked again, saw a log drifting slowly toward the shore...\n\nBack in the Land Cruiser, panting, out of breath, pulse throbbing in our ears, we congratulated ourselves on not getting eaten. I reconsidered my earlier desire to be playfully rolled into the lake by Mutware. If nothing else, I'd gained an instant respect for monitor lizards: imagine the type of chutzpah it takes to steal eggs from a crocodile. And these weren't your run-of-the-mill crocodiles, either. These were Nile crocodiles, among the largest of their species.\n\n\"Lake Ihema is very peaceful now, and the crocodiles here can live to be one hundred,\" Marcel said. \"So they are able to grow very, very big.\"\n\nJean-Claude told me there was a legend among the local people that if a crocodile licks your shadow, it can pull you under. I could see several dugout canoes lined up along the shore. Hard to imagine, but Ihema was a working lake with fishermen who regularly paddled out onto these waters to bring in catfish and tilapia.\n\n\"Even with crocodiles nearby?\" I asked Marcel.\n\n\"Yes, even with the crocodile. They do die sometimes, the fishermen. It happens, some accidents. But there are also hippos in Lake Ihema, and those are much worse for boats. With crocodiles, we just make sure not to fall into the water. But a hippo will charge you, a hippo will tip boats over and attack you. Hippos kill many more people than crocodiles. Very dangerous animals.\" Then, with a smile: \"Shall we go to see the hippos next?\"\n\n**64**\n\nFROM LAKE IHEMA, the road wound through a sea of tall grass that moved on the wind. It had the same sun-golden hue as a lioness's hide, which was surely no coincidence.\n\n\"This area, it is very much a lion's habitat,\" Marcel said.\n\nFlat-crowned acacia thorn trees opened up like umbrellas above the heat, creating pockets of perfect shade for future prides to lie beneath, panting and waiting. But the lions were nowhere to be seen, and their absence resonated.\n\nWe came upon a magnificent waterbuck, head held high like a stag on royal heraldry as we passed. It is one of the largest and certainly most impressive of the Akagera antelopes. The smallest, a tiny fawnlike creature called the oribi, appeared out of the grass as well, tiptoeing daintily over the road in front of us. It was followed by a slew of impalas who herded themselves across in such numbers that they brought our vehicle to a halt. Ever observant, I wrote in my journal: _Lots of impalas_. I thought a moment, then underlined \"lots\" forcefully. I also ticked _impala, oribi_ , and _waterbuck_ off my list.\n\nApparently this was some sort of impala crosswalk, because they cantered by with a confidence that comes from having the right of way, wholly unconcerned about our idling 4x4. They were looking awfully relaxed, these impalas, and who could blame them? With no lions slinking about, there was no need for them to remain spring-loaded, ready to bolt at the first hint of susurrations in the grass.\n\nAs the Land Cruiser rolled north over rutted trails, the open savannah was swallowed up again by thickets of thornbush wilderness. When we came around a bend in the bush, a man with a rifle lunged out at us. He was a twitchy-looking fellow in a stained undershirt, and he signalled for Jean-Claude to pull over and roll down the window. Ambush? Poacher? No. There was a road crew farther ahead, Jean-Claude explained, and this poor soul had been posted to keep watch for Mutware, armed only with a single-bolt rifle\u2014something that would surely have just pissed the animal off had he actually fired on him. (And given Mutware's long memory, if the man did shoot Mutware, he'd probably have to leave Akagera for good and change his name and assume a new identity, all the while waiting in fear for that fateful knock on the door. _\"Hello there. Remember me?\"_ )\n\n\"Did you see him?\" the man asked. \"Mutware? Was he on the road? Did you pass him?\"\n\nThe man's face was beaded with sweat, and I didn't think it was entirely from the heat. When we told him we hadn't crossed paths with the elephant, only his dung, our reluctant sentry stepped back, staring down the road again as we passed.\n\n\"Mutware can be hard on the road crews,\" Marcel told us. \"During the last rainy season, he got in a shoving match with one of the graders.\"\n\n\"And?\" Jean-Claude asked.\n\n\"The grader lost.\"\n\nI asked Marcel what was the biggest danger tourists faced in Akagera National Park. I expected him to say black mambas or pythons (the park has both). His answer surprised me.\n\n\"Buffaloes,\" he said. \"And if they are alone, it is even worse. A solitary buffalo can be very aggressive. They will charge vehicles for no reason. We park rangers? We don't like buffaloes. They give us too many problems.\"\n\nAnd sure enough, right on cue, we came around a corner to see a lone buffalo standing at the side of the road, glaring at us from under heavily curved horns. African buffaloes always look like they're on the brink of 'roid rage, with their thick brows and muscle-knotted shoulders.\n\nMarcel grew tense. He leaned forward, whispered to Jean-Claude, \"Don't slow down, but don't speed up. Go carefully, carefully... And if he charges, drive\u2014drive very fast.\"\n\nWe rolled by, just metres away, with the brute scowling at us all the while. It was the tensest moment of our trip.\n\nJean-Claude was clutching the steering wheel tightly, foot nursing the accelerator. He may have been reconsidering his offer to drive. I know I was.\n\n**65**\n\nTHERE ARE NO HIPPOS AT HIPPO BEACH.\n\nThe hippopotami of Akagera National Park, being of the free-range variety, had the inconsiderate habit of moving. But at one time, they'd stayed long enough on the southern shores of Lake Mihindi that a beach had been named in their honour, with maps duly updated and road signs posted, just to have the hippos\u2014in what can only be considered an abject display of bad manners\u2014decamp. Rather than chase them across the map, rechristening bodies of water every time the hippos moved on, Rwanda's cartographers decided to let the original name stand, although with more ironic overtones than intended.\n\n\"They should probably put quotes around 'Hippo,'\" I said as we stood, looking out at the hippo-less waters of Hippo Beach.\n\nLake Mihindi forms a pool of reedy wetness in the dry scrublands of the savannah, with bright mossy greens near shore and feathery stands of papyrus islands floating farther out. Amid the growing heat of mid-morning, the waters of Mihindi beckoned to us, but latent dangers were lying in wait. On a marshy lump of land: the low waddle of a crocodile sliding into the water.\n\n\"They should probably put quotes around 'Beach' as well,\" I said after a moment.\n\nI looked at my shadow, stretched by the sun, extending to the water's edge, thought about crocodiles licking at it, pulling me under, pulling me in...\n\nAs we drove along the marshy shores of the next lake, we startled one of Akagera's roving hippos\u2014which in turn startled us; my heart pinged like an elevator at the sight of this overinflated creature running across our path. It hit the water like a ship being launched: a crash followed by silence. It had vanished as cleanly as a magic trick, disappearing into what looked like shallow waters. The waves it left spread outward, then settled, grew calm. And then, just as suddenly, the hippo resurfaced farther down with a loud _pfffft_. More hippos surfaced and more, an entire pod, and we watched them, spellbound: underwater blimps appearing and disappearing, as hypnotic as a lava lamp. One hippo would sink, another would rise. One would hiss, another would dive.\n\nOne of the larger hippos sported fresh wounds: strips of reddish pink, showing through his hide.\n\n\"Because of the crocodile,\" Marcel explained. \"Hippos don't have good relations with them.\"\n\nCrocodiles attack but rarely win, and isn't it funny how we always root for the mammal? Scaly, cold-blooded crocs vs. the soft and fleshy, all-too-human plumpness of the hippo: was there any doubt where our loyalties would lie?\n\n\"A hippo will stay and fight,\" Marcel said. \"Every other animal runs away.\"\n\nThey like to wallow in swamp water, but hippos will roam far inland as well, as much as seven kilometres from the nearest marsh. Bumping into a hippo deep in the leonine grasslands must come as a shock.\n\n\"But it's mainly at night,\" Marcel explained. \"When it's cooler out.\"\n\nA family of warthogs trotted past next, chugging across the trail in front of us. How something that ugly manages to reproduce is a mystery; I suspect banana beer is involved. I'm guessing also that the lovemaking doesn't involve a lot of eye contact. Even the name, \"warthog\": are there any two uglier words in the English language you could put together? The papa was easy to spot because of his tusks, and he held his tufted tail up like a flag for the children to follow. I imagine the mama warthog justifies him to her friends over tea, saying, _\"He's not much to look at, I know. But he's good with the kids.\"_\n\nThe warthog family disappeared one after another into the grass, until only the papa's tail could be seen bobbing above. And then, not even that.\n\nSuddenly: zebras.\n\nFrom Lake Mihindi, we were heading north between ecological zones: swamps on one side of the road, savannah on the other. The Mutumba Hills pushed in from the south; the Tanzanian Highlands rose in the east: sharp blue silhouettes in the shape of axe heads and anvils.\n\nWe had entered the vast bowl of the Kilala Plains, and mud-built termite mounds punctuated the emptiness, forming weirdly sculpted, Gaud\u00ed-like creations. Everything was sticky with sweat; I felt as though I were poaching from the inside out. Although set at a lower altitude than the rest of Rwanda, Akagera _feels_ closer to the sun. It was a heat so heavy you could see it. The distant hills wavered and shimmered in a hazy mirage. Here was the savannah of my mind's eye. Here was what I had imagined all along. The endless sere grasslands, the vaulted skies, the drift of zebras across an open plain.\n\nWe had been distracted by dung (yet again!) and almost didn't see them approaching. Having pulled over beside a particularly fascinating mound of droppings, our guide was explaining the varieties one might encounter in Akagera. This inky-black pile was buffalo (hopefully long gone); hyena poop was crusted with white from the calcium in the bones they ate; the impalas' were rounded pellets; and the balled bundles of straw were, of course, elephant. And then, when we looked up, zebras were all around us: bar-code arrangements moving past, trotting round-bellied out of the grass, tails flicking, hooves kicking up dust.\n\nAbove us, birds of prey were tracing Olympic flags in a sky bleached of colour. Even with sunglasses on, I had to squint. Then, like a cool breeze, giraffes appeared, unhindered and unhurried. They loped past us on glided stride. Compared to the harrumphing of hippos or the Zoetrope trot of the zebras, the giraffes were positively liquid in their movements. It was striking, and instructive, how much sheer _space_ animals in the wild require to feel at home.\n\nMarcel tapped me on the shoulder, pointed to the horizon.\n\nCauliflower clouds were boiling up. We could hear thunder on the far side of somewhere, like the rumble of an empty stomach. We were now above Lake Rwanyakizinga, having crossed almost the entirety of Akagera National Park. Time to turn around.\n\nWe climbed into the Land Cruiser and began reeling ourselves back across the landscape. Birds swooped and whistled, lifting off above the lakes, leaving concentric circles in their wake. A heron hitched a ride on the back of a crocodile, as unperturbed as an empress atop a royal litter.\n\nIt was the end of the day, and a buttery sun was melting in the pan. But the warm glow didn't last. Dark clouds slowly sealed off the sky, lowering the ceiling. Loud bone-cracks of thunder. Sultry air, cool and muggy at the same time. A falling drizzle that hastened the arrival of evening, wipers smearing the dust.\n\nBaboons had sought shelter under thorn-tree canopies, both from the coming downpour and, one supposes, the sheer weight of the sky. And then\u2014bullets of rain hitting the windshield, the wipers flailing, the view in front of us liquefying. The road thickened into mud, and just as quickly the storm broke, lifting as surely as birds off a lake, leaving only bruised skies and wet grass behind. It had been a rainstorm almost without rain.\n\nI'd enjoyed our sojourn in Akagera because Akagera had provided a reprieve. Here in the savannah was something older, something stronger, something beyond the purview of human history. But as evening settled upon us, the past reasserted itself. In Rwanda, it always does.\n\nWe had taken a short detour onto a bluff of land above Lake Ihema, where an abandoned manor house stood, catching the last light of day. Doors boarded. Windows as empty as eye sockets.\n\n\"President Habyarimana,\" Marcel said. \"This was his summer house.\"\n\nWe got out, walked nearer. The manor overlooked a brackish bay. In the grass a sibilant snake appeared, sleek black, moving in misdirections, tasting the air with its tongue. Or was it just the shadow of a snake? A thin question mark uncurling?\n\nHabyarimana's summer home had once echoed with the laughter of cousins and cronies, with the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conclaves. This had been the holiday retreat of a president who, lifted on a rising tide of Hutu Power, would eventually be consumed by it. His death was the signal to unleash hell, and the 1994 genocide remains the Big Bang of Rwandan history, its effects always present, always evident\u2014even here.\n\n\"Not too close to the lake,\" our guide advised. \"Stay back, just in case.\"\n\nWe could discern no eyes in the water, but we knew there were crocodiles nearby, seldom seen but always present, lurking in the murky waters.\n\nAfter we returned to the lodge, I lay sprawled under the lack-lustre breeze of a ceiling fan that not so much cooled the air as stirred it. I thought about a land so green, so brittle. That night I dreamed we were being chased by faceless people trying to kill us.\n\n**66**\n\nWHEN JEAN-CLAUDE MUNYEZAMU was fourteen years old, he got swept up in a failed coup d'\u00e9tat. Imprisoned and interrogated, he was threatened with torture at the hands of the Hutu regime, all because he knew how to drive a motorcycle. Jean-Claude told me this story\u2014which he thought of as funny\u2014during our long drive back to Kabarondo from Akagera National Park.\n\nWe'd woken to grey skies and damp toast, and a family of insufferably chirpy Americans at the next table. They'd been on the night tour of the park and, taking my wan smile as an invitation, set about regaling us with details of how they'd seen a leopard with its kill, hippos flouncing about in the open, elephants riding a unicycle, a zebra playing the banjo\u2014that sort of thing. This did not surprise me in the least. I had long since come to accept, indeed embrace, the fact that I will always be on the Wrong Tour. You would do well, on seeing me at a muster point in an art gallery or before a nature walk, to head in exactly the opposite direction.\n\nEven worse, this family had met the illustrious Mutware.\n\n\"He was blocking the road. He wouldn't let us pass, so finally our guide had to throw a papaya or something into the bush, and when Mutware went to investigate we beat it right past him. It was _so_ exciting! Wasn't it, honey?\"\n\nHoney: \"Yep.\"\n\nSigh.\n\nAs we dropped off our keys, I was disappointed to hear from the desk clerk that a full-scale renovation would soon be underway at Akagera lodge, to bring it up to a four-star standard.\n\n\"The next time you come, it will be completely redone,\" I was assured. \"Like new!\"\n\nBut I liked how it was now, cracked glass and all. I'd grown to appreciate its weathered charms, its old-sweater coziness, its bands of disreputable baboons hanging about the entranceways chewing toothpicks and keeping a sly sideward eye on the tourists. Even without the glacier-chilled strawberries, I enjoyed our time in the lodge, and felt sad at having to say goodbye.\n\nWe drove into a bleary-eyed dawn under dishwater skies. A damp day, but the sun soon baked away the wet, and with one last sighting of Mutware's mighty dung, we were gone. By the time we reached the lake, the clouds had thinned to near nothingness. Splinters of light on deep waters.\n\nThe road took us back over the same hills, past the same tin-ore mining town gone bust, the same clutch of homes where I'd met the children with their sorghum-stalk models. I looked for them as we passed, but they were nowhere to be seen.\n\n\"Did I ever tell you? The time I was almost executed? It was because I knew how to ride a motorcycle. Just for that!\"\n\nThose laps he'd taken around the soccer field had paid off. Jean-Claude became known in his neighbourhood as someone who could drive, which is when the military came calling. Or rather, when one particular officer came calling. A low-ranking NCO with a delicate problem.\n\n\"His name was Fabien Birori. He was a friend with one of my neighbours, and he was often having a beer with them. One day he was saying how he wanted to learn to drive a motorcycle. He couldn't even ride a bicycle! In Rwanda at that time, many kids, if they grew up poor, they never had a bicycle. This guy was from the south. Maybe it was a poor area, I don't know. But my neighbour, Vincent, he pointed to me and said, 'Jean-Claude knows how. He can teach you.'\"\n\nIt was summer, and Jean-Claude was free from schoolwork, so the officer hired him. Feeling embarrassed, and not wanting the other officers to see, Birori would practise with Jean-Claude on a borrowed motorcycle along the side streets, far away from the barracks.\n\n\"Was a big motorcycle. Red. Very powerful. Yamaha DT-125, I think. The officer would be sitting in front, I would sit behind and hold the handlebars, and he would learn to pop the gears with his foot. We went two times, three times, four times. Next day, he held the handles, I worked the gears. Slowly, he got a sense of the balance, how to drive it.\"\n\nWhat Jean-Claude could not have known was that this officer was part of a military clique planning to assassinate key members of Rwanda's armed forces as part of a coup d'\u00e9tat against the Habyarimana regime.\n\n\"One day, Birori told me he was going to Belgium for military training. When he came back, he was a sergeant. There was something different about him. You could see there was an optimism now. When he left, he didn't have it. When he came back, he came with optimism. And he promised me so much stuff! He said, 'I will get you a proper driver's licence, you're gonna be my personal driver, I will give you this and that.'\"\n\nBut what Birori didn't realize was that he was being set up. The coup was largely fictitious, staged mainly to remove a certain Air Force commander, a colonel who had grown too close to the president for the inner circle's liking. Habyarimana had been planning to make this colonel his minister of defence, perhaps even vice-president. It would prove to be a fatal offer.\n\n\"The colonel was already commander of the Rwandan Air Force, and what happened was, Birori killed him.\"\n\nThe sergeant's role, Jean-Claude later learned, had been to assassinate the commander so that the co-conspirators could seize control of the Kanombe military base and adjoining airport. They told him, \"You do that, we'll take care of the rest.\"\n\nSo Birori strode into the Air Force commander's office, shot him point-blank, and... nothing happened. Where were his co-conspirators, the hue and cry of a revolution? Nothing. Just a stunned secretary looking on in silence.\n\n\"What did he do?\" I asked.\n\n\"He ran. He hijacked a motorcycle, then a car. They captured him near his village. He was trying to get to his family home. They arrested him, took him back to Kigali. He was beaten very badly.\"\n\nAnd then came the crackdown. Any military personnel that the inner circle wanted to eliminate were quickly rounded up on the pretext of national security. Also caught in the dragnet was a confused young man who'd been labelled a \"known associate\" of the accused.\n\n\"I remember hearing that Colonel Mayuya had been assassinated, but I didn't think it had anything to do with me. Stanislas Mayuya, that was his name, the air commander that Birori killed. When my dad heard the news, I saw the fear in his eyes. He said, 'This is not good, Jean-Claude. When anything happens, the first thing they do is kill Tutsis. Anything at all, they kill the Tutsis.'\"\n\nSoon after, an unsmiling man in civilian clothes, an intelligence officer most likely, called out to Jean-Claude on the street.\n\n\"He knew my name. He said, 'Do you know this man Birori?' I said 'Sure, he's my friend.' I didn't know at that time it was Birori who had killed the Air Force commander. He asked, 'When did you see him last?' I said, 'Oh, it was on Saturday. I took him to the barracks on this motorcycle he rented for me.' I still didn't know I was in trouble. He said, 'Come with me. There is someone wants to talk to you.' So I got in his car. That's when I realized where we were going.\"\n\nThe presidential compound had a formidable reputation, and as they drove through the gates, Jean-Claude felt panic clawing its way up inside him. He turned around, saw the gates close behind them.\n\nInside the compound dwelled one of the most infamous torturers of the Habyarimana regime: a wheelchair-bound sadist named Pascal Simbikangwa. A distant cousin and close friend of the president, Simbikangwa had been made a high-ranking member of the Presidential Guards and head of the Rwandan Central Intelligence Agency. Paralyzed below the waist in an auto accident, he'd found other ways to spend his time, and when it came to interrogating prisoners, he was known to be a hands-on type of administrator. He enjoyed drawing out a person's final agonies.\n\n\"I knew now where I was going, who I was going to see.\"\n\nWhat Jean-Claude didn't know was why.\n\nArmed men dragged him into a small room, dimly lit. Jean-Claude could hear screams coming from a holding cell somewhere in the bowels of the building. The handiwork of Pascal Simbikangwa, no doubt. Fortunately (for Jean-Claude, that is), so many people had been brought in during the sweep that the man in the wheelchair couldn't get to Jean-Claude right away.\n\n\"While we were waiting, they told me, 'Look, just confess, it will be easier. We know you spent time with Birori. We know you rode a motorcycle.' I was scared. I thought this was to do with not having a driver's licence. I was riding that motorcycle without a licence, you see, and I thought this is why I was arrested. I told them, 'But I was very careful! I didn't pass on the highway. I never went on the main roads. I only drove in the side streets.'\"\n\nHis interrogators wanted to know about Birori, but again Jean-Claude thought this had to do with giving him driving lessons. \"I said to this guy, 'I don't have a licence, is true, but I am a good driver. Ask anyone! I didn't know it was against the law.'\"\n\nThe other man's gaze narrowed. He gestured to dark shapes dangling on hooks in the corner. \"Do you know what those are?\" he asked. \"Those are the testicles of men who lied to me.\"\n\nWhen Jean-Claude told me this, he laughed. \"Probably it wasn't true. But I was terrified! I thought, 'Oh my goodness, they take traffic violations very seriously!' Of course, I was just a kid at that time. I didn't know anything.\"\n\nHaving spent the night in a dark cell, Jean-Claude was brought back for questioning the next day and the next, each time expecting to be greeted by Simbikangwa, his instruments laid out in front of him like a surgeon's tools, but no.\n\nSergeant Birori, meanwhile, had been \"vigorously questioned,\" meaning \"beaten until brain dead,\" and a supposed plot to topple the government had been thwarted.\n\n\"I was lucky to get out of that place in one piece,\" Jean-Claude assured me.\n\n\"And with testicles intact!\" I said.\n\n\"Exactly. Usually when you go into the presidential compound, you don't come out again.\"\n\nIt was Jean-Claude's good fortune that a neighbour of his worked in the compound, and as Jean-Claude was being escorted across the grounds he spotted him, called out.\n\nThe neighbour came over. \"Why are you in here?\" he asked.\n\n\"I was driving a motorcycle without a licence,\" Jean-Claude replied.\n\nBy this point, it must have been clear that the gawky teenage boy had not been involved in any clandestine machinations, and the next day Jean-Claude was released into his neighbour's custody. He drove Jean-Claude home.\n\n\"That must have been a harrowing three days,\" I said.\n\n\"You know, I was so young, I don't think I realized how dangerous the situation was. My arrest was harder on my father than on me. He feared the worst.\"\n\nThe earthen roads of Akagera were rolling under us, and the highway was fast approaching. I didn't know how to broach the matter, but it needed to be asked.\n\n\"Um, you did get your driver's licence at some point though, right?\"\n\nJean-Claude threw back his head and laughed, accelerator sinking ever deeper into the floorboards. The Land Cruiser picked up speed, dust and wind whipping through, and I laughed as well\u2014though I couldn't help but notice he hadn't answered my question.\n\n**67**\n\nHERE WE WERE. Back again at the crossroads town of Kabarondo.\n\nWe filled up our tank at the same gas station, saw the same sullen children hanging around looking for handouts. Again, had we headed west, we would have soon been in Jean-Claude's childhood village. Instead we turned south, heading for Rusumo Falls and the end of Rwanda.\n\nFor Jean-Claude, this was a haunted highway. It was the route he'd taken when he escaped. As we came to the town of Remera, Jean-Claude said, \"I had a friend here. His father was a well-known photographer. Ran a photo studio.\"\n\n\"Want to look him up?\" I asked, but even as the words were coming out of my mouth I knew the answer.\n\n\"He was killed in the genocide. His father, mother. Entire family was pretty much wiped out. I think one daughter survived and\u2014I don't remember her name.\"\n\nWe drove down the main street of Remera, a broad boulevard lined with shops, pulled over, and found the photo studio his friend's father had once owned. It was run by a different photographer now, the front room lined with samples of his handiwork: soft-focus families with strained smiles, neckties and plaid vests on the boys, fanned skirts on the girls. You can see these same photos, with the same diffused lighting and awkwardly arranged poses, at any Sears photo studio back home. They even had the same blue-sky-with-clouds canvas backdrop behind them.\n\nJean-Claude hadn't been to Remera in twenty years\u2014when he'd returned to Rwanda in '94, it was from the northeast, through Uganda\u2014and the people he'd known here were gone. Gone, dead mostly. Sometimes, just gone. Moved, retired, married. Gone. He asked around at the studio and on the street but wasn't able to make any connections, find any links to his younger self. So we drove on. Goats were on the road, and men were hacking out brush from among the banana trees. Women were hanging hand-wrung laundry on the hedges to dry.\n\n\"How does it feel?\" I asked. \"Driving this route, after so long?\"\n\n\"My chest is a little tight,\" he admitted. \"Every hilltop, I expect to see an interahamwe checkpoint. We are getting close to that place where\u2014how would you say it?\u2014that place where you can't change your mind, where you have no choice but to keep going.\"\n\n\"The point of no return?\"\n\n\"Yes, that.\"\n\nKibungo Town (now known as Ngoma) was the last population centre of note before the border with Tanzania. After this intersection, there really was no turning back. From here, the road went only south. You had no alibi, no excuse if you were caught beyond Kibungo. After Kibungo, it was clear you were trying to escape, and young Tutsi males caught slipping away would have been assumed to be leaving to join the RPF.\n\n\"I felt I was going into a blank map,\" Jean-Claude said.\n\nHis father had passed away the year before. \"He was, I think, eighty-two when he died, but it was still unexpected. He was always very healthy, my father. I never remember a time when he was sick.\"\n\nThe end, when it came, came quickly.\n\n\"He fell ill and went to a clinic. They transferred him to a big hospital, ran tests, and after one week, he died. He went into a coma and never came back. I still don't know what it was that killed him, what illness he had. Just\u2014he was gone. In our house now it was just my brother Emmanuel and me. Was very quiet.\"\n\n\"If your father hadn't passed away when he did, would you have left Rwanda?\"\n\n\"No, I would have stayed.\"\n\n\"And when the genocide began?\"\n\n\"I would still have been there, taking care of him.\"\n\n\"So... you both would have died.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I'm sure we would not have survived.\"\n\nIn a strange way, dying was the kindest thing Jean-Claude's father could have done for him. \"It was for the best, then?\"\n\nJean-Claude thought about this. \"Maybe, but it didn't feel that way at the time.\"\n\nIn the end, it was the faded photograph of his brother Sa\u00efd, sent from Kenya, that would propel Jean-Claude onto a different path, one that ended not with machetes but marriage, not death but family, not a mass grave but a new life.\n\n\"You know, Kenya was like the China of Africa back then. Manufactured goods, clothes, mattresses, everything came through Kenya. It was why my brother was based there. Mombasa was a trade centre, and he was a truck driver. In his letter he said, 'Anything you need, let me know, I can send it. I'm living in the Jomvu district.' This letter, he had sent it many years before,\" Jean-Claude said. \"But I still kept it. I still had it. No address, no telephone number, not even a street. Just this name: _Jomvu_.\"\n\nThat, and the photograph. It showed Sa\u00efd looking happy and relaxed, smiling at the camera, and in the background, slightly out of focus, was a sign that read THE ZAIRE BAR. A small clue, but a good one. Based on this single image, Jean-Claude Munyezamu set out across East Africa to track down his brother.\n\n\"The first truck driver I approached betrayed me. And he was our neighbour! We knew each other very well. I told him that I was going to Kenya and he said, 'Okay, I will drive you.' I told him it was just to visit my brother. I didn't say to anyone that I wasn't coming back. He said, 'Okay. I'm leaving tomorrow morning. I will take you.' But what he did was, he left that night and didn't tell me.\"\n\nThe next morning, Jean-Claude packed a small bag and went to the truck stop looking for his neighbour.\n\n\"But he was gone. Everybody saw me with this little suitcase. They said, 'What's going on?' When I told them what's happened, they said, 'That guy? He left last night.' I said, 'No, no, no. He's leaving today because he's gonna take me with him.'\"\n\nJean-Claude was astonished at the betrayal, even now, after all these years.\n\n\"I didn't know what to do. I never thought he would lie to me, never. This guy was a born-again Christian! Another truck driver, he overheard what was going on, and he kind of laughed. He said, 'Oh, man. That guy is a born-again Christian and he left you?' I said, 'Yeah. That's weird, right?'\"\n\nThe other driver said, \"Come on. I'll take you.\"\n\nHis name was Hodali. As they climbed into his cab, he turned to Jean-Claude and said, \"From now on, when we come to a roadblock, anyone asks, you're my employee, okay?\"\n\nThere was someone else in the truck as well: the driver's turn boy. In Africa, there are always at least two people in a truck: the driver and his assistant, a turn boy who helps the driver back up, fit in, squeeze by. Hodali's turn boy was an older man who had a well-stamped passport if anyone asked for it. So they decided they would tell people the older man was another driver, catching a ride to a rig parked at Rusumo Falls. Jean-Claude would be the turn boy.\n\n\"When we got near the border, there was this guy, he was running a guest house. He was a friend of this truck driver, they had a kind of business they were doing. The truck driver would bring goods from Kenya, this guy would resell it. In Rwandan culture, it is always about relationships, and these two guys\u2014this driver named Hodali and the owner of the guest house\u2014they had a long relationship. So when Hodali asked him to help, he had to say yes. Even if he didn't want to, he had to say yes.\"\n\nJean-Claude stayed overnight at the owner's house. The owner had a young family, a wife, maybe three or four kids, and was risking a lot.\n\n\"They made a bed for me, and I slept very deep. And then about three in the morning, the owner, he woke me up. It was still very dark out. I think you know the African night now. It is very dark. We had a flashlight. My bag was still with the truck, and Hodali was still sleeping, so I was by myself. The guest-house owner had a bicycle and he said, 'We're gonna ride it to the border. You sit on the back. I will pedal. When we come to a roadblock, we will say that your truck is waiting at the border and I'm giving you a ride. If they ask you for ID, you say it is in the truck.' This guy, the owner of the guest house, he was a Hutu, and he had a thick northern accent. All the soldiers knew him. If they came to drink beer, they were coming to his guest house. Most of those soldiers, they were from northern Rwanda also, so they kind of had this brotherhood relationship. A Hutu with a northern accent? No one is going to expect he is helping a Tutsi.\"\n\n\"Do you remember his name? The owner of the guest house.\"\n\n\"They never told me. He was nervous. He said to Hodali, 'What you are making me do, if they find out they may kill me.' And now, it was just him and me. I got on the back of his bicycle and I held on. I just hoped that he wouldn't betray me.\"\n\n\"Did you run into any roadblocks?\"\n\n\"Maybe three. These were twenty-four-hour roadblocks. At the first checkpoint, they said, 'Where are you going?' He said, 'Oh, I'm going to the border. I have this guy from my guest house, his truck is down there. He was back in Kigali to get some documents he needed to cross.' They said, 'Okay, go ahead.'\"\n\n\"How long a bicycle ride was that?\"\n\n\"Maybe half an hour. It was going downhill. We were coasting most of the way. I remember the air was cool.\"\n\n\"Why a bicycle, why not go in the truck?\"\n\n\"This truck driver Hodali, he was Tutsi. It would be dangerous for him to cross the border with me. When they see his ID card says TUTSI, they might check more carefully. So after we passed through the last police roadblock on the bicycle, the guest-house owner took me to a different truck, very big, an eighteen-wheeler carrying maybe fifty tons of coffee. This other driver, he was a Hutu also, and he wasn't happy about having me. He was angry and didn't want anything to do with me. I think maybe they pressured him to take me. Probably he thought I was running away to join the RPF. The plan was, he would drive me across the bridge, and at the next parking area he would meet up with Hodali and I would change trucks. Then Hodali would take me the rest of the way to Mombasa. This other driver, he only had to get me across to the other side after the border opened.\"\n\n\"Could you trust him?\"\n\n\"I didn't have a choice.\"\n\nAnd so, after making sure no one was watching, they pulled open the tarp on the back of the truck and Jean-Claude climbed in.\n\n\"They told me, 'Go deep, into the middle. Make a hiding place.' These sacks were high on both sides. I was afraid they were going to fall on me. Each sack was fifty kilograms.\" He laughed. \"At that time, I was weighing probably no more than that.\"\n\n\"It was still dark when you climbed in?\"\n\n\"It was. And I waited forever for that truck to cross. I couldn't sleep. I could hear truck engines, people talking. Slowly, I could see light poking through the canvas sides, and I knew the sun was coming up. The heat was becoming stronger. Then the engine started and we began to roll forward.\"\n\nThere was one barrier left to cross.\n\n\"Just before the bridge, there was a kind of gate. I could feel the truck stop and I could hear the military say, 'Open the back!' The driver said, 'It was already checked. It's just finished to be checked.' But they said, 'Open it again.'\"\n\n\"What would they have done?\" I asked. \"If they had found you.\"\n\n\"Oh, they would have killed me.\"\n\nIn Kirehe Town, the plantains had completely taken over, the wind-shredded leaves thick on either side, and I watched as the town appeared and disappeared, overgrown and ongoing, for miles.\n\nOnce we got past Kirehe, the topography changed dramatically. You could feel Tanzania coming to meet us, arid and open. The air grew drier. The greens grew thinner. Stubbled fields. The banners of opposition parties. The deep blue of the Tigo cell phone company. The sunflower yellows of MTN.\n\nWe passed a caf\u00e9 called Taste of Success, and Jean-Claude suddenly pulled over to the side of the road. \"This is the place,\" he said. \"I remember it so much! The guest house was near here.\"\n\nThis was the road Jean-Claude had travelled down in the early hours en route to a rendezvous with a cargo of coffee beans. Nineteen years old on the back of a bicycle. Coasting to Tanzania.\n\n**68**\n\nWHEN JEAN-CLAUDE SLIPPED UNDER THE CANVAS and into the back of that truck at Rusumo Falls, he didn't know he was going to be trapped inside for ten hours.\n\n\"I didn't have any water or food. I hadn't even eaten breakfast before we left. So I was feeling a little dizzy, when all of a sudden that soldier said, 'Open the back!' I hunched down. I was sure he could see me, but he didn't say anything. He just stood a moment and then said, 'Okay, you're good to go.' Even now I think he knew. Maybe he was paid off, I don't know. Or maybe\u2014maybe it was just luck.\"\n\nCrouching under sacks of coffee, Jean-Claude was feeling nauseated.\n\n\"It was very hot, and the smell was giving me a bad headache. This was not roasted coffee. This was raw beans. I could smell vegetation. Not manure, but something green\u2014like a green branch\u2014which is not bad at first, but when you stay there for so long it becomes stronger. And the sacks they put the coffee in, also they have their own smell, a chemical smell, something they spray on them. It was the worst smell I have ever experienced, the coffee and those sacks in the heat.\"\n\nWe had stopped for lunch at a dusty caf\u00e9 in Nyakarambi, a village known for its traditional crafts, particularly that of _imigongo_ , or \"cow-dung paintings.\"\n\nCow dung?\n\nYes. Cow dung. This was an ancient Rwandan art that mixed natural pigments with dried dung to create intricate geometric designs. I considered bringing one home for my wife, y'know, as a token of my love, but wasn't sure how she would feel about hanging it above our dining-room table. If nothing else, it would have made a terrific ice-breaker\/conversation piece. _\"Can you feel the texture of the brush strokes? Wonderful, isn't it? What's it made from, you ask? Well, interesting story that...\"_\n\nAs we waited for our order of skewers to arrive, it hit me.\n\n\"That's why you don't drink coffee, isn't it, Jean-Claude? The heat, the smell of those coffee beans, the chemicals, the nausea and fear, the memory of it. That's why.\"\n\nHe tilted back in his chair, started to say something, then stopped. When the woman came by with our meal he turned to her and said, purposefully, carefully, \"I would like a cup of coffee also.\"\n\n\"Make it two,\" I said.\n\nIt was served strong, in chipped china mugs. A Rwandan brew, rich and dark. If night has a flavour, it tastes like Rwandan coffee.\n\nAfter he finished, I asked him what he thought.\n\n\"Bitter. Very bitter. But good.\"\n\nI never did get Jean-Claude to try beer, but he does drink coffee now\u2014though usually only when he's with me.\n\nA wedding was pouring into Nyakarambi that day, and as we left the caf\u00e9 the streets were alive with colour. A procession of women in bright wrapped dresses passed by, accompanied by the usual men in ill-fitting suits. It was like a slow-moving fashion parade. Hundreds of women, and I don't think any two were wearing the same patterns. They carried gifts on their heads in large woven baskets, the type we had seen at the royal court weeks before.\n\n\"Big wedding,\" I said as the guests filed past. Their numbers stretched down the road, in both directions, as far as we could see.\n\n\"By African standards, this is usual.\" Jean-Claude had been to weddings in Canada, was always surprised how small they were\u2014even the big ones.\n\n\"Are you ready for Rusumo?\" I asked.\n\nHe was.\n\nBeyond Nyakarambi, the road grew heavy with transport trucks, passing on angry blasts from their air horns, hand-painted slogans beseeching Jesus and all the Saints to protect them. _Never mind them, what about us?_ The increased traffic was inevitable, I suppose. This narrow two-lane strip of highway was, after all, the main trade route south to Tanzania and Kenya beyond.\n\nWe climbed higher. And higher still.\n\nHere was a dry season worthy of the name. A haze of chalky dust hung over the fields. Parched sunlight filtered through. Saffron-coloured clouds. Clay-baked villages scattered across the hills. And in the distance, the flat-topped mountains of Tanzania, rippling in the heat.\n\nWe passed the Dar American Saloon amid a cluster of taverns and chophouse caf\u00e9s that were filled with truck drivers, and then we dropped down, suddenly, toward Rusumo Falls.\n\nJean-Claude parked across from the Rwanda Customs and Immigration office. We walked to a knoll of grass above the river, construction going on all around us. The raised roadbed of a new highway curved around; judging from the artist's rendering posted out front, it would be four lanes wide and emblazoned with streetlights. We could see the cement pylons of this Bridge of Tomorrow already marching across the river, billboards proclaiming it a joint venture of Rwanda, Tanzania, and Japan. And I wondered if Hiro from Nagasaki was somewhere in among the many earthmovers and bulldozers that were rumbling about.\n\nThe falls themselves were hidden from sight, and when we approached a pair of Rwandan soldiers, a young man and woman, faces sheened with perspiration, automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, they gave us a shrug and a wave of their hand. If we wanted to walk onto the bridge and take some photographs, that was fine with them. Just don't go past the middle of the bridge, they advised, because after that we would be Tanzania's responsibility. Oh, and try not to get clipped by one of the trucks that were constantly roaring across. It was a tight squeeze.\n\nI was about to walk out when Jean-Claude stopped me.\n\n\"We should check in with the immigration office first,\" he said, referring to the cement building set farther back. \"Just to let them know we are here.\"\n\n\"Are you sure? The soldiers already said it was okay.\"\n\n\"Don't worry. It will take only a moment. I promise.\"\n\n**69**\n\nTWO HOURS AND ONE ARTFULLY CALLED BLUFF LATER, We finally ended up on the bridge above Rusumo Falls.\n\n\"Define 'moment,'\" I said to Jean-Claude.\n\nHe noted, wryly, that it had almost been easier for him to cross twenty years ago than it was today.\n\nTransport trucks from Tanzania rumbled by, the bridge bouncing under their weight. Jean-Claude remembered the sound of the waterfall as well, the muffled roar of it as they passed over. But he had never seen it until now. \"I could hear the water,\" he said. \"Then it just faded away...\"\n\nOn the Tanzania side of the river, we could see the adjoining ramp where the new bridge would be built, and I said to Jean-Claude, \"It's good we came now. Next time, the bridge you crossed will be gone.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"I'm glad I finally saw it. This is where the rest of my life began.\"\n\nThe waters at Rusumo continued to fall. A few scribblings of cloud uncurled above us like the absentminded doodles of a distracted god. As we walked back to our vehicle, I asked Jean-Claude, \"Where to now?\" We'd run out of Rwanda to drive across.\n\n\"There is one last stop,\" he said. \"At my village.\"\n\n**70**\n\nAFTER CROSSING THE BRIDGE under a cargo of coffee and being tossed about like a castaway on high seas, Jean-Claude had waited for the signal. The truck he was in lurched uphill, then came to a shuddering halt. The driver cut the engine. Three short raps on the side of the truck told him it was all clear. Hodali had come to collect him.\n\nSo began Jean-Claude's long, elated journey across Tanzania to Kenya and the sea.\n\n\"Hodali fed me. He paid the police at roadblocks. Paid for my room at the guest homes we stayed at. I gave him just five thousand francs, which didn't cover very much. He even helped me track down the Zaire Bar.\"\n\nUsing the photograph Jean-Claude had of his brother, they threaded their way through the port city of Mombasa until they found the Jomvu district and eventually the bar.\n\n\"Was very small and smoky. They were roasting meat outside. Goat meat. You could smell it. People were drinking beer, and they were playing Congolese music. The bar was Kenyan, but the music was Congolese. This is famous music in East Africa.\"\n\nRwandans who knew Jean-Claude's brother sent word down the line, from truck driver to truck driver, to find him.\n\n\"I stayed with them while I waited to hear what's happened.\"\n\n\"How was Mombasa?\"\n\n\"Hot. In Rwanda we don't have heat like that, or such humidity. It was very congested, very crowded. And Kenyans are different. Modern. They don't care about you. Everybody goes about their business. It was a kind of culture shock. I felt like a foreigner for the first time. But there was also a sense of freedom. And\"\u2014Jean-Claude smiled\u2014\"I saw the ocean for the first time. It was so huge! I saw those container ships passing. I think that was the biggest thing I had ever seen.\"\n\nJean-Claude would finally meet up with his brother Sa\u00efd, would join him on a run to the Somali refugee camps. Jean-Claude would travel on his own to Sudan, where he would see the desert for the first time, and eventually to Montreal, where he would see snow.\n\n\"What a long, strange trip it's been,\" I said, and Jean-Claude nodded.\n\n\"It has.\"\n\n\"Did you keep in touch with the truck driver, the one who took you to Mombasa?\"\n\n\"Hodali? I did. He came to see me in Kenya. He was very happy to know I was okay. He passed away in 1997 or '99, I think. He lost his entire family in the genocide. His wife, his children. Everyone. He only survived because he was not in Rwanda at that time. He was outside of the country, driving truck. So he survived.\"\n\n\"He was lucky, then.\"\n\n\"Lucky?\" Jean-Claude thought about this. \"I don't know if that's the right word.\"\n\n**71**\n\nOVER THE COURSE OF OUR TRAVELS in Rwanda we'd been shedding our supply of soccer gear\u2014team uniforms, goalie equipment, hand pumps. There was only one duffle bag left, and one destination: Rundu village, where Jean-Claude had lived as a child and where his brother Jean-Baptiste had once built a handsome home.\n\nJean-Baptiste had been killed by Hutu militias, but his scattered children had survived, and among them was his daughter Odile.\n\n\"We call her Fifi, it's like a nickname,\" Jean-Claude said.\n\nOdile was the superintendent of schools for the region, and we stopped in to see her on our way back through Kabarondo.\n\n\"How did she survive the genocide?\" I asked Jean-Claude as we drove down a narrow residential lane.\n\n\"In Rwanda, you never ask that. You don't ask what someone did to survive. If they want to tell you, they will, but you never ask. I have friends I have known for many years who lived through it, and they have never talked to me about it.\" He put the vehicle in park, looked at me. \"So maybe don't ask.\"\n\nHis niece lived in a tidy cement-walled home alongside other tidy cement-walled homes on an equally tidy well-swept lane. We sat in the dimly lit softness of her living room around a low table adorned with a doily and a sprig of flowers in a vase.\n\nOdile's husband, Hussein, was an agricultural engineer. He was away, but their four-year-old son Tony was on hand, along with his elfin-like cousin Asinati. Odile had a new baby as well. He was sleeping on a woven mat in the next room; I could see his chubby legs and twitching toes through an open door, cooled by the cross-breeze.\n\nWhile Jean-Claude and his niece discussed various matters concerning their family's property, I chatted with the little ones. They were learning English at their local kindergarten and had proven to be attentive pupils.\n\n\"Hello,\" I said. \"How are you?\"\n\nOdile's son piped up immediately. _\"Hello teacher, my name is Tony, I am a boy, I am four years old.\"_ This was delivered in one extended breath. Impressive.\n\nAs Tony beamed up at me, his cousin launched into her own version of the same: _\"Hello teacher, my name is Asinati, I am a girl, I am four years old.\"_\n\n\"So, do you like school?\"\n\n_\"Hello teacher, my name is Tony, I am a boy, I am four years old.\"_\n\nFollowed by: _\"Hello teacher, my name is Asinati, I am a girl, I am four years old.\"_\n\n\"Do you like sports?\"\n\n_\"My name is Tony, I am a boy, I am four years old.\"_\n\n\"How about you? Do you like sports?\"\n\n_\"My name is Asinati, I am a girl, I am four years old.\"_\n\nPutting this down on paper makes it seem repetitive, even annoying, but it wasn't. Not in the least. I was absolutely charmed by their chimed recitals of English; they were clearly so proud of what they'd learned.\n\nWhen we got up to leave, I shook their hands solemnly and said, \"Goodbye, Tony. Goodbye, Asinati. It was very nice to meet you.\"\n\nTo which they replied\u2014Well, you know what they replied.\n\nOdile accompanied us to Rundu; there was paperwork to sort out and documents to review at the village office. Jean-Claude followed a roughly hewn road past tumbledown farms and tattered banana plantations. A road that had once seen hyenas and lions, but no longer.\n\nOn the way, we stopped for a mother who was standing by the side of the road with a swaddled baby on her back. She climbed in beside Odile and held the baby on her lap as we bounced along, carefully draping a scarf over her child's face to protect it from the nasal blast of our air conditioning. When I noticed, I gave Jean-Claude a nudge and he turned it off. A narrow lane led us to her farm, hidden in the undergrowth, where she softly thanked us and got out.\n\nDuring our time in this country, I'd grown fascinated with the spice box of Rwanda's earth, from the gritty cinder dust of the Virungas to the talcum-powdered heights above Lake Kivu, from the terra-cotta clays of the Bugesera to the blood-rust soils of Akagera. But here, in Jean-Claude's childhood village, lived a shade of vermilion that was richer than I'd seen before. It was a colour almost tactile, with its own texture and warmth.\n\nRundu itself was hard beset, a reminder that despite the impressive strides Rwanda has made, the country has a long way to go. There were a thousand hills yet to climb, and the way was often steep. Rundu itself seemed to lie in a half-forgotten realm. The area was once reputed to harbour malevolent spirits and apparitions unholy. It was said to be the dwelling place of witches and necromancers, but today its most striking feature is simply the poverty that marks it. It's a poverty that lacks the optimism in other reaches of Rwanda. Here, you have the feeling of a people passed by, left behind.\n\nThere are no fibre-optic cables connecting Rundu to the outside world, no billboards exhorting the citizens to greater heights; there isn't even electricity. The homes are dark and lit by lamp oil; the shops are drab, lacking the brightly painted facades you find elsewhere. No phone companies are sponsoring Rundu's shops. Most of the buildings are crude wattle-and-mud arrangements, with the plaster falling away at times to reveal the woven-branch framework underneath, like bones through an animal's hide.\n\nWe visited one home\u2014dirt floors, clay walls, soot-filled interior\u2014where Jean-Claude spoke with an arthritic old lady and her twelve-year-old grandson. They lived alone, just the two of them in a crumbling house the size of a shed. Jean-Claude and the grandmother were discussing the possible cost of having her grandson board at his school.\n\nRather than attend the local school, the boy, who had shown real academic potential, walked two hours every day to Kabarondo. A small stipend from Jean-Claude would allow him to remain at his school during the week, where he could study under electric lights and be spared the exhausting back-and-forth daily trek. Jean-Claude agreed to help on the condition that the student keep his grades up. It would be a small amount of money, given twice a year, but one that would have a huge impact. Odile and Jean-Claude would work out how the funds would be sent, who would keep tabs, and how the student's progress would be evaluated.\n\n\"Odile told me about this boy,\" Jean-Claude explained as we stepped back outside. \"A good student, trying hard. She thought maybe I could help.\"\n\nJean-Claude's next meeting was not so convivial. It was with a sinewy man in a frayed shirt, the cloth patched over many times, who'd been encroaching on Jean-Claude's family property for years. Jean-Claude confronted him, and there was a terse exchange with warnings of legal action. The sinewy man hung his head, avoiding JC's gaze as he mumbled something ineffectual in his defence. Once a member of the feared Hutu militia, free to chop whomever he liked, he was now required to follow the rules like anyone else.\n\n\"That man,\" Jean-Claude told me later. \"He looted my brother's house after my brother was killed.\"\n\nAs Jean-Claude dealt with these and other matters, I wandered among the mud-walled homes of Rundu, past scuttling chickens and tethered goats. I soon had a mob of children, assorted ages and sizes, accompanying me. Not as brash as the kids in the cities, but equally amazed at my existence. They'd heard about muzungus, now they were seeing one firsthand! I felt I should do something entertaining\u2014maybe turn a cartwheel or juggle some gourds\u2014if only not to disappoint them. Instead, I said _\"Amakuru?\"_ which caused them to scatter, regroup, and then tiptoe back in. More than one child, egged on by his peers, snuck up, poked me, and then ran away. Others hung back shyly. Several smiled with a heartbreaking lack of guile. One of the older boys, having been to the city and therefore clearly more cosmopolitan than the rest, was selected by the other children to act as their spokesperson. A smiling beanpole of a kid with a natural confidence, he was, I imagined, what Jean-Claude must have been like when he was young.\n\n\"How are you, America?\" he asked and then, voice dropping to a whisper, he confided: \"I am fine.\"\n\n**72**\n\nJEAN-CLAUDE'S BROTHER had been a prominent member of the village, and his house had been among the finest in Rundu. Made of brick, with glass windows and a metal roof, it featured a new latrine in the backyard as well. When the genocide began, Jean-Baptiste's home was torn apart, brick by brick, down to its foundations. Following that, the Tutsi boys in the village were rounded up.\n\n\"They kept the women and younger girls for themselves and killed the men. The boys they tossed into our latrine.\"\n\n\"Alive?\"\n\nHe nodded. \"One of the little ones, maybe five years old, they could hear him crying for days and days until his voice gave out. Other boys were pushed on top of him. Then they filled it in.\"\n\nYears later, these bodies would be exhumed. The excavation left behind an open pit, overgrown but clearly visible.\n\nWe stood beside it awhile.\n\nIt hit me. \"Your family home is a genocide site.\"\n\nJean-Claude looked over at me and said, \"All of Rwanda is a genocide site.\"\n\nFrom the ruins of his brother's house, we walked out into nearby fields. Jean-Claude wanted to show me his family's land, banana plantations mainly, some of it leased, some of it surreptitiously encroached upon, much of it lying fallow, awaiting crops.\n\nOf the adults who came out to watch, holding back, eyeing us warily, many were undoubtedly killers. And yet I could sense no anger on Jean-Claude's part, no simmering rage, no eye-for-an-eye thirst for vengeance. Instead, we climbed back into the Land Cruiser with Odile and then drove our final bag of soccer equipment and uniforms out to the local elementary school, where we lugged the bag onto the field.\n\nThe Rundu girls' soccer team was particularly strong. They'd beaten many of their opponents from larger towns while playing in bare feet with their school uniform skirts hitched up. Their coach, a friendly young teacher, was thrilled with the shining jerseys and soccer gear Jean-Claude had brought with him for both the girls' team and the boys'.\n\n\"They will feel like superstars!\" he said.\n\nI looked at the children crowding in around us, and I turned to Jean-Claude. \"You know, a lot of these kids will be the children of murderers.\"\n\nHe nodded. \"That's true. Many of the parents killed people in the genocide. But their children did not.\"\n\nIt's a fine line, isn't it, between honouring the past and reaching out for a better future, between fixating and forgiving. It would be so easy to succumb to bitterness. Or to rush forward into selective amnesia, to pretend none of it ever happened, to wish the past away. I thought about the many roads that had taken us here. It was a journey that began on the bridge that carried Jean-Claude away from Rwanda, and ended on a schoolyard soccer field, with a visit and a parting gift.\n\nThe children ran headlong down the pitch, kicking up dust and trailing laughter behind them.\n**SOURCES**\n\nTHE STATISTICS CITED in _Road Trip Rwanda_ \u2014from reports by UNICEF, the World Health Organization, Transparency International, the World Bank, Human Rights Watch, Reporters Without Borders, the Committee to Protect Journalists, Gallup International, the World Economic Forum, and Democracy Watch\u2014as well as the articles quoted from _Economist_ magazine, _The Globe and Mail_ , and _The New York Times_ are all readily available online.\n\nFor the historical and cultural background on Rwanda, and the genocide, I relied on the following sources:\n\n**Adekunle, Julius O.** _Culture and Customs of Rwanda_. Greenwood, 2007.\n\n**Anyidoho, Henry Kwami.** _Guns Over Kigali: The Rwandese Civil War_ \u2014 _1994 (A Personal Account)_. Fountain, 1997.\n\n**Berkeley, Bill.** _The Graves Are Not Yet Full: Race, Tribe and Power in the Heart of Africa_. Basic, 2001.\n\n**Berry, Carol Pott, and John A. Berry, eds.** _Genocide in Rwanda: A Collective Memory_. Howard University Press, 1999.\n\n**Briggs, Philip.** _Rwanda: Bradt Guide, 5th Edition_. Bradt, 2012.\n\n**Carr, Rosamond Halsey, with Ann Howard Halsey.** _Land of a Thousand Hills: My Life in Rwanda_. Plume, 2000.\n\n**Chu, Sandra Ka Hon, and Anne-Marie de Brouwer, eds.** _The Men Who Killed Me: Rwandan Survivors of Sexual Violence_. Douglas & McIntyre, 2009.\n\n**Crisafulli, Patricia, and Andrea Redmond.** _Rwanda, Inc.: How a Devastated Nation Became an Economic Model for the Developing World_. Palgrave Macmillan, 2012.\n\n**Dallaire, Rom\u00e9o, with Brent Beardsley.** _Shake Hands with the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda_. Vintage, 2004.\n\n**Des Forges, Alison.** _Leave None to Tell the Story: Genocide in Rwanda_. Human Rights Watch, 1999.\n\n**Dugard, Martin.** _Into Africa: The Epic Adventures of Stanley and Livingstone_. Broadway, 2003.\n\n**Feil, Scott R.** _Preventing Genocide: How the Early Use of Force Might Have Succeeded in Rwanda_. Carnegie Commission, 1998.\n\n**Fossey, Dian.** _Gorillas in the Mist_. Houghton Mifflin, 1983.\n\n**French, Howard** W. _China's Second Continent: How a Million Migrants Are Building a New Empire in Africa_. Knopf, 2014.\n\n**Gourevitch, Philip.** _We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed with Our Families: Stories from Rwanda_. Picador, 1998.\n\n**Grant, Richard.** _Crazy River: Exploration and Folly in East Africa_. Free Press, 2011.\n\n**Hatzfeld, Jean.** _Into the Quick of Life: The Rwandan Genocide: The Survivors Speak_. Serpent's Tail, 2005.\n\n____. _The Strategy of Antelopes: Rwanda After the Genocide_. Serpent's Tail, 2009.\n\n____. _A Time for Machetes: The Rwandan Genocide: The Killers Speak_. Serpent's Tail, 2005.\n\n**Hochschild, Adam.** _King Leopold's Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial Africa_. Houghton Mifflin, 1998.\n\n**Jennings, Christian.** _Across the Red River: Rwanda, Burundi and the Heart of Darkness_. Phoenix, 2001.\n\n**Kapuscinski, Ryszard.** _The Shadow of the Sun_. Vintage, 2002.\n\n**Kinzer, Stephen.** _A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It_. Wiley, 2008.\n\n**Mamdani, Mahmood.** _When Victims Become Killers: Colonialism, Nativism and the Genocide in Rwanda_. Princeton University Press, 2001.\n\n**McCullum, Hugh.** _The Angels Have Left Us: The Rwandan Tragedy and the Churches_. WCC, 1995.\n\n**Melvern, Linda.** _Conspiracy to Murder: The Rwandan Genocide_. Verso, 2004.\n\n____. _A People Betrayed: The Role of the West in Rwanda's Genocide_ , new updated edition. Zed Books, 2009.\n\n**Peterson, Scott.** _Me Against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan and Rwanda_. Routledge, 2000.\n\n**Prunier, G\u00e9rard.** _The Rwanda Crisis: History of a Genocide_. Columbia University Press, 1995, 1997.\n\n**Rittner, Carol, John K. Roth, and Wendy Whitworth, eds.** _Genocide in Rwanda: Complicity of the Churches?_ Paragon, 2004.\n\n**Rusagara, Frank K.** _Resilience of a Nation: A History of the Military in Rwanda_. Fountain, 2009.\n\n**Sebarenzi, Joseph, with Laura Ann Mullane.** _God Sleeps in Rwanda: A Journey of Transformation_. Atria, 2009.\n\n**Severino, Jean-Michel, and Oliver Ray.** _Africa's Moment_. Polity, 2011.\n\n**Shaw, Martin.** _War and Genocide_. Polity, 2003.\n\n**Stearns, Jason K.** _Dancing in the Glory of Monsters: The Collapse of the Congo and the Great War of Africa_. PublicAffairs, 2011.\n\n**Thompson, Allan, ed.** _The Media and the Rwanda Genocide_. Fountain, 2007.\n\n**Wallis, Andrew.** _Silent Accomplice: The Untold Story of the Role of France in the Rwandan Genocide_. I. B. Tauris, 2014.\n**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**\n\nI WOULD FIRST like to thank Jean-Claude Munyezamu. Without Jean-Claude, _Road Trip Rwanda_ would not exist. His friendship, good cheer, help, and encouragement\u2014to say nothing of his steady hand behind the wheel\u2014were instrumental in bringing this book to life. I would also like to thank our respective spouses, Christine and Terumi, for allowing their wayward husbands to go toodling about central Africa while they stayed back and managed the households.\n\nSupport from the Alberta Foundation for the Arts made this project possible, and I thank the Foundation for this.\n\nI would like to thank Publishing Director Andrea Magyar, Publicity Manager Trish Bunnett, Senior Production Editor Sandra Tooze, copy editor Karen Alliston, and everyone at Penguin Canada for their enthusiasm and support for this project, and editor Barbara Pulling for her fine work, as always. It's been an absolute pleasure.\n\nIn Rwanda, Jean-Claude and I relied on the kindness and assistance of many people, from the staff and students at Nyange Secondary School to the ever-patient trail guides we encountered along the way. We would especially like to thank Rica Rwigamba and Vivian Kayitesi at the Rwanda Development Board; Yvette Rugasaguhunga at the Rwandan Embassy in Washington; Jean de Dieu Mucyo at the National Commission for the Fight Against Genocide; Jean Gakwandi at the Solace Guest House in Kigali; Urooj Saifi, Deo Ntirenganya, and Clementine Kayirangwa at the UNHCR camp in Kigeme; Alice Kampire and Jerry Were at Nyungwe Forest Lodge; Duncan Lewa at the Lake Kivu Serena; and Manzi Kayihura at Thousand Hills Expeditions, who also hosted Jean-Claude and me at his home in Kigali. Thank you!\n\nA big thank you as well to Brian Carnduff and the entire Calgary Foothills Soccer Club for the uniforms and gear that Jean-Claude brought with him to Rwanda, and to my next-door neighbour Jacqueline Ford for once again transcribing endless reams of notes for me. I would also like to thank my son, Alex Ferguson, for creating the templates for the maps that the designers used.\n\nIn Canada, several people shared with me their stories and experiences\u2014and even personal contacts\u2014from their own travels in Rwanda, and I would like to thank Margaret McQuiston, Alina Freedman, Christine Magill, and Lynn Gran. I would also like to thank Kirsten Olson for connecting me with Lynn. (Sadly, Lynn passed away while I was writing this book, and I wasn't able to thank her properly for her help.)\n\nThe Rwandan community of Calgary has been very kind to me, and I thank them for their support, in particular Andy Amour, President of the Rwandan Canadian Society of Calgary, and Melchior Cyusa, the Secretary General. Andy and Melchior were in Rwanda while we were there, and it was a pleasure to meet up with friends from back home while we were travelling. (Melchior was getting married as well!) I have warm memories of the laughter and food we shared with Andy at Chez Lando\u2014the liveliest eatery in Kigali.\n\n_Murakoze!_\nNotes\n\nPart One\n\n. The number of people who died during the Rwandan genocide is often given, incorrectly, as 800,000. This was an initial estimate made by Human Rights Watch. The International Red Cross and the UN Rwanda Emergency Office put the number at a million, as did Oxfam U.K. A census, taken six years after the genocide, was able to establish the names of 951,018 victims. Of these, 94 percent were identified as Tutsi, which still leaves more than 50,000 Hutus dead, a staggering number in its own right and one worth remembering. A later census placed the number killed at 937,000. Given that in the more remote regions of Rwanda entire villages were exterminated and all records destroyed, the final number is almost certainly higher. It may well have been more than a million. No one can say for sure.\n\n. The number of Tutsis in Rwanda prior to the genocide is sometimes given, incorrectly, as 9 percent of the population, based on a dubious government census by Hutu nationalists that was then used to limit the quota of Tutsis in schools and public employment.\n\n. By the end of Belgian rule, 549 out of 559 subchiefs were Tutsi, a massive social shift.\n\n. The president's plane was shot down at approximately 8:30 p.m. By 9:15 p.m., UN staff in Kigali were reporting that roadblocks had gone up across the city. There was nothing spontaneous about it.\n\n. Some sources put that number even higher, at 30,000.\n\n. Uganda would eventually rescind its anti-gay laws in the face of international pressure and European aid embargoes.\n\n. After the genocide, Father Wenceslas fled to France, where he continued to work in the clergy. Tried and convicted in absentia by a Rwandan court, he was eventually arrested in France under a warrant issued by the United Nations International Criminal Tribunal in Arusha and charged with crimes against humanity, including rape and murder. Released on a technicality, he was re-arrested and then just as quickly re-released. He has yet to go to trial. As of this writing, he is still enjoying his freedom and still ministering at a parish in Gisors, Normandy. The Catholic Church continues to cover his legal costs.\n\n. Christine tells a different version. \"He was following me around everywhere!\" she says.\n\n. Not sure what \"kind of dating\" means.\n\nPart Two\n\n. This is the anglicized spelling of his name, commonly used. A more correct rendering would be \"Kigeli.\" The rules for when to change _r_ to _l_ in Kinyarwanda were explained to me several times by Jean-Claude, none of which I retained.\n\n. His successor and younger brother, Kigeli V, last king of Rwanda, was deposed by the Hutu Social Revolution and now lives in the United States, where he still refers to himself as His Majesty. He has his own website and everything.\n\n. For an in-depth look at France's role in the Rwandan genocide, see _Silent Accomplice_ by Andrew Wallis.\n\n. To put that into context, imagine for a moment that the Nazi party hadn't been eradicated, but instead had retreated and regrouped _just across the border_ from Germany.\n\n. Kidding! Germans are lovely people.\n\n. Turns out, yes. There is. _Aquila spilogaster_ , the African hawk-eagle.\n\n. As I write this chapter, Burundi is caught up in another failed military coup, and thousands of Burundian refugees are fleeing into Rwanda to escape the violence. It's also worth noting that while Rwanda adopted a strict \"one country, one culture\" model, Burundi chose instead to entrench political and ethnic quotas, giving Hutus and Tutsis mandated proportional representation in their legislature. In Burundi, the Hutu\u2013Tutsi divide is alive and well.\n\n. For a look at the scope and impact of the Chinese presence in Africa, see _China's Second Continent_ by Howard W. French.\n\n. Jean-Claude also speaks Kinyarwanda, Swahili, and French. Four languages in all.\n\n. For Kagame's own journey, from a refugee camp in Uganda to leader of the RPF and president of Rwanda, see Stephen Kinzer's biography _A Thousand Hills: Rwanda's Rebirth and the Man Who Dreamed It_.\n\n. Habyarimana managed similar electoral feats. In the 1988 presidential election, he received 99.98 percent of the vote. Not a full 100 percent? No. Because that would have been suspicious.\n\nPart Three\n\n. I just checked. You can't.\n\n. Some estimates put it as high as 40,000.\n\n. The collapse of the Congo and the Great War that followed is beyond the scope of this book, but for a gripping account of this conflict, and the role that Rwanda has played in it, see Jason K. Stearns's _Dancing in the Glory of Monsters_. For a look at Belgium's own brutal history in the Congo, see Adam Hochschild's equally epic _King Leopold's Ghost_. Anyone seeking an understanding of this region of Africa would do well to start with those two books.\n\n. I later discovered that what I'd purchased was a _children's_ apron, which was waaaay too small. I didn't even know there was such a thing. My wife did like the patterns, though.\n\n. On the Congo side, poaching remains a serious problem. An entire family of mountain gorillas was killed in 2007 in an attempt to capture a single baby. To what end was not clear. No reputable zoo today would accept a mountain gorilla taken from the wild.\n\n. Um, it was, actually. According to journalist Christian Jennings, Primus\u2014like most bottled beer companies in central Africa\u2014adds a derivative of formaldehyde to its product to act as a preservative. Lasts longer on shelves that way. Which means that when archaeologists dig me up a thousand years from now, they'll find me well-maintained indeed. At least on the inside. No wonder Primus gave me such a zip.\n\n. The RDB has since made it easier to visit the caves, with permits provided at the local tourist office.\n\n. For testimonies from the women who suffered through this, see _The Men Who Killed Me: Rwandan Survivors of Sexual Violence_. But be prepared; it is a harrowing and gut-wrenching read.\n\nPart Four\n\n. If there's such a thing as a \"hawk-eagle,\" I'm sure there's space in the menagerie for \"rafter snakes\" too.\n\n. I may have gone a bit overboard with the DEET; everything I ate that night tasted like insect repellent.\n\n. Let's skip ahead, shall we, and end the suspense. Our final tally for the day was leopards: zero; spotted hyenas: zero; elephants: zero\u2014dung notwithstanding; unicorns and leprechauns: ditto\u2014though minus the dung, of course.\n\n. Lions would return to Rwanda in July 2015, with a pride of seven sedated and then transported from South Africa, where they were released into the wild. I imagine the impalas of Akagera National Park will be a little more wary now.\n\n. Arrested in France, Simbikangwa was eventually sentenced to twenty-five years for crimes committed during the genocide.\nVIKING\n\nan imprint of Penguin Canada Books Inc., a Penguin Random House Company\n\nPublished by the Penguin Group\n\nPenguin Canada Books Inc., 320 Front Street West, Suite 1400,\n\nToronto, Ontario M5V 3B6, Canada\n\nPenguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.\n\nPenguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nPenguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)\n\nPenguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)\n\nPenguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi \u2013 110 017, India\n\nPenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)\n\nPenguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa\n\nPenguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England\n\nFirst published 2015\n\nCopyright \u00a9 Will Ferguson, 2015\n\nPhotos copyright \u00a9 Will Ferguson, 2015, used by permission\n\nCover design: Daniel Cullen\n\nCover images: Gorilla: Mark Higgins\/Shutterstock\n\nFont: PremiumVector\/Shutterstock\n\nAuthor photograph: Alex Ferguson\n\nAll rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.\n\n_Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity_. _In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author's alone_.\n\nMaps created by Lisa Jager\n\nLIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION\n\nFerguson, Will. Author\n\nRoad trip Rwanda : a journey into the new heart of\n\nAfrica \/ Will Ferguson.\n\nIncludes bibliographical reference.\n\nISBN 978-0-670-06642-1 (bound)\n\n1. Ferguson, Will\u2014Travel\u2014Rwanda. 2. Authors, Canadian (English)\u201420th century\u2014Travel\u2014Rwanda. 3. Rwanda\u2014Social conditions\u201421st century. 4. Rwanda\u2014Description and travel.\n\nI. Title.\n\nDT450.44.F47 2015967.57104'3C2015-903919-3\n\neBook ISBN 978-0-14-319619-8\n\nVisit the Penguin Canada website at **www.penguin.ca**\n\nSpecial and corporate bulk purchase rates available; please see **www.penguin.ca\/corporatesales** or call 1-800-810-3104.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \nMID OCEAN\n\nby\n\nT. Rafael Cimino\n\nSmashwords Edition\n\n* * * * *\n\nPublished on Smashwords by:\n\nMid Ocean\n\nCopyright 1992-2011 by Akula Media Group, Inc.\n\nAll rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.\n\nThis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication\/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.\n\nSmashwords Edition License Notes\n\nThis ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFor Thomas Arnold and the other agents in the field who stood tall where others fell.\n\n* * * * *\n\n* * * * *\n\nPrologue\n\nA blanket of dry Virginia snow covered the south lawn of the Arlington National Cemetery while light flakes fell from the sky above. In the distance, rows of snow covered uniform headstones dotted the landscape where scores of America's honored filled the ground.\n\nOn November 11th, 1977 the ground opened up to accept its newest inhabitant, aided be a Cat diesel-powered backhoe that was conveniently stored far from the ceremony. A small mound of earth had been created and was covered with a forest green felt tarp. The material was sprinkled with snow and lay next to a rectangular hole that was trimmed with the severed roots of the manicured grass that separated the living from the dead.\n\nArranging a funeral at the National Cemetery was not an easy task. To do it on a National holiday, Armistice Day, was nearly impossible, but this was no ordinary burial.\n\nSurrounding the hole were scores of mourners; over two hundred and fifty friends, family, co-workers, and the Vice President of the United States, all of whom admired the man and were truly sorry to see him depart the world. This was an incredible sum for a closed, private funeral, but like a birthday party for the most popular kid in school, most of the mourners cherished their personal invitations to attend. Some were dressed in various uniforms from the armed forces and a wide variety of law enforcement agencies from around the country; others were in suits with most of the women dressed in black. Many wore dark sunglasses that concealed their heart-felt tears.\n\nFor the most part, the entire crowd made the effort to show a genuine level of respect because, after all, John Kenyon was a man of importance. He lived a life of government service as an attorney and a Federal Prosecutor. Kenyon devoted his life to the admirable fight against the rues of evil and the ravages of humanity who were staining the course of mankind, and, more specifically, the Seventh Federal District of the United States, based in Atlanta, Georgia. He had won most of his battles, conceding the rest for another day, knowing that criminals who succeeded at evading his reach would come back, slithering closer, until he had another, more viable, chance to make a claim on their freedom.\n\nKenyon had developed an indelible reputation on Capital Hill, earning himself several citations from Presidents Nixon and Ford, thus galvanizing a positive watermark on his career. After a nomination as the next U. S. Attorney General, the confirmation process was all that stood in his way when a fainting spell landed him in the John Hopkins Medical Center Neurological Intensive Care Unit. He was diagnosed with a malignant tumor that was growing at the base of his medulla, a portion of the brain responsible for vital functions. It was this battle that he would not win. It took seven months to complete the task of reducing a great man to a mere shadow. In the end, he died a painfully complete death, ending a legacy that was uniform, deliberate and forceful.\n\nKenyon left behind two dedicated children who grew up without the benefit of a mother. Eighteen years before she had abandoned them the night before her daughter's eighth birthday; a time when her diaper-clad son was teething through a set of incisors and learning to navigate his first steps. Mrs. Kenyon, left a note. She made a plea for her children to forgive her selfish action and understand that she was living a life that she was not designed for. The letter continued by saying that one day they would be re-united and until then she would keep in touch and think of them daily. For all they knew neither promise was fulfilled.\n\nEighteen years later, Joel, the youngest Kenyon, at nineteen, stood dressed in the tailored freshman uniform of the Citadel Academy. He had grown up in military preparatory schools, spending the last three years at the prestigious Lyman Ward Academy in Birmingham, Alabama. The school was an hour from the watchful eye of his father who supported him with daily phone calls and weekly letters from home. The boy's sister, Jhenna, a woman of twenty-six, was a celebrated graduate of GW Law. Unlike the other women, her five-foot eight-inch frame wore a navy blue pantsuit. Throughout the years she had grown to become every bit her father's daughter. She admired and emulated him as best she could, vowing to fill his shoes.\n\nA Navy Chaplin plowed through the formal proceedings like a judge who was dispensing a hasty death sentence. The eulogy that followed was filled with sorrow and regret. He recited a story of how he met the deceased, who, at the time, was a young cadet at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. The Chaplin told the story of how the two would have serious conversations about life and justice; conversations, the depth of which, were only matched by the oceans they were sworn to occupy.\n\nThe surviving children listened intently, shuttering with the seven sets of synchronized gunfire that was aimed skyward by three immaculately dressed Marines. Despite their eminent and respective places at the ceremony, the surviving Kenyons stood, defeated, crushed and holding each other with the last bit of strength they possessed; the strength they had reserved for each other. The reality would take months to set in. They were now, truly alone.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIntersection\n\nFall 1984\n\nA slate gray wind occupied the night as steep waves crashed through a jagged coral reef. In the distance a battered steel light tower shuttered with every shock inflicted by the twelve to fifteen foot waves. The massive structure rose toward the dark sky, rusty cold iron with barnacles and crustaceans clinging to its supports and cross members. Still, it managed to send out its signal, a crimson beam of light. It marked the living reef known as the Elbow.\n\nThe Elbow ascended from the ocean floor like a mountain, its peak culminating just below the sea's surface. At its sandy threshold lay the remains of centuries of boats and ships that were lost or disabled. The mighty craft of kings, admirals, and pirates, built of ancient timbers, milled wood, polished steel and shiny Fiberglas now lay twisted, splintered, and decaying on the ocean floor. Fortunes were won and lost running gold, guns, rum and other contraband through this fragile link in America's border. This unforgiving path of the ocean was located right in the heart of the Gulf Stream, the waters occupying the territory between the Florida Keys and the western boundaries of the Bahamas.\n\nAmidst the turbulence, a lone 30-foot center console powerboat lay anchored securely to the bottom. The bullet-shaped craft was custom built for speed, dark blue and gray with a tubular, canvas-covered top mounted to its helm. Its name, Island Girl, written in script, covered both sides. Named for the captain's wife and inspired by an Elton John song, it sported three high-powered outboards that laid firmly off her transom, the back of the boat, like sleeping dogs ready for the kill.\n\nDespite the different varieties of fish all hovering nearby, swimming around the Elbow like bees about a hive, twenty-four year old Bobby Alazar felt the solace of solitude as he sat alone on the craft. His skin was moist and salty from the cold spray coming off the boat's bow. With every wave the immense vessel surged forward then aft. Its bow dropped below the frothing crests, scooping up the cold water, tossing it airborne.\n\nThe tension on the anchor line must be too tight, not enough scope, Cuban-born Alazar thought to himself. It was a situation that could wait though. His uncle was due to rendezvous within the hour. Philippe Alazar, Gordo to his friends and family, was a seasoned captain, but then again this was not an exact business. There were many variables that could affect the night's outcome. The most prevalent was the inclement weather that was starting to worsen.\n\nBobby's night work produced a compilation of emotions, mostly tedious hours of boredom interlaced with minutes of excitement. He passed the time pondering which restaurant he would visit once landfall was made. With recent family events -- a wedding, an anniversary and two birthdays -- he was tired of the standard Cuban dish of pork, black beans and rice. His favorite was fettuccini alfredo. Bobby had always maintained a delusion about being an Italian, sometimes telling friends that his family immigrated to Cuba from Sicily.\n\nAnother contraction of his stomach muscle occurred giving him a crude reminder that his appetite had not been met. There was a little Italian place just north of Homestead. It would be open for lunch and he could stop on his way back to Hialeah. The Dulc\u00e9 Capri was a local landmark and Bobby had eaten there since his early childhood. The parking lot was big enough for his truck and trailered boat. This would work, he thought to himself.\n\nNearly two hours had passed. All Bobby Alazar could do was watch the horizon with anticipation, though all that was seen was the light-dotted coast of Key Largo. In the far distance a bolt of lightning illuminated the eastern sky. A clap of thunder soon followed.\n\nUncle Gordo was coming from the Cay Sal Banks some one hundred and ten miles away. The four thousand pound cargo of Guatemalan grown marijuana would weigh down his 38-foot powerboat called the Black Duck. Normally capable of speeds in excess of seventy knots, the craft would be lucky to do forty. The storm would only impede his time. In the back of his mind he imagined his two hundred and seventy pound bearded uncle dumping their load mid ocean because they lost their race against the impending daylight. Bobby shook his head with wonder as he reached up into the boat's overhead electronics cabinet, grabbing a microphone that was connected to a private circuit band ham radio.\n\n\"Crossbow, Crossbow,\" he radioed out, waiting for a response.\n\n\"Crossbow, come in over,\" he yelled as a stillness of white noise came from the speaker.\n\nThe sky illuminated again followed by a clap of thunder and a gust of wind. As a light rain began to fall, Alazar tried to huddle below the boat's T-top, a four-foot by six-foot tarp that was wrapped over the tubular frame and affixed to the center console. The fresh rain still managed to embrace his face. Within minutes, water had saturated through his clothes.\n\n\"Crossbow, this is Slingshot,\" he yelled again into the radio's microphone before looking down at the blue-faced, gold and stainless Rolex strapped to his wrist. A brief flash of red light coming from the steel tower in the distance illuminated the dial long enough to see the time. 3:17 a.m. In another three hours the sun would be up and the reef he was anchored to would be swarming with eager, early-morning divers trying to take advantage of the crystal clear water found in the early morning chill.\n\nThe wind shifted and the Island Girl swung on its anchor one hundred and eighty degrees. Bobby could now see the breaking waves just a short distance off the back of his boat as each wave broke down into a pool of white froth as it came in contact with the coral reef just a few feet below the surface. Despite its over-built, two-inch thick Fiberglas hull, the Island Girl would render no match against the razor sharp projectiles of the coral reef now just a few hundred feet away.\n\nAs the rain continued to pour into the open boat, Bobby took a quick survey of the craft. Earlier in the day he had loaded his boat with rods, reels, hand-rigged bait, and a variety of lures and other gear. Unused, the equipment was now bunched up in a clustered pile off in the boat's port corner, just under the gunwale, the vessel's top edge. Fish blood was flowing out from the tightly wrapped, newspaper-covered bundles exposing the journalistic header El Miami Herald.\n\nAs Alazar wiped the rain from his face, a brief gleam of red flashed against his forearm. A new tattoo written in script read: Monica-Mi Linda, The World Will Be Yours. The writing was surrounded by a colorful galleon tall ship being engulfed by whitecap-covered seas and was a tribute to his daughter who had just turned three the week before.\n\nSuddenly, the radio squawked as a familiar but distant voice broke the squelch.\n\n\"Slingshot, come in Slingshot!\"\n\nBobby returned the message, squeezing the microphone, almost frantic with desperation.\n\n\"Crossbow...\"\n\nThe squelch broke again.\n\n\"Slingshot inbounds to you Crossbow.\"\n\nBobby Alazar recognized Gordo's voice. La pinga, he mumbled to himself as he brought the rain-drenched microphone again to his mouth.\n\n\"Crossbow, look for the red light,\" he told him.\n\nSilence followed as a few minutes passed. Bobby's concern peaked as he realized that Gordo should be able to see the red beam of the light tower. Their radio transmissions were fairly safe though. They were using a specially modified ham radio that operated on specific frequencies that were not easily monitored.\n\nGordo was frustrated because he was supposed to be the skilled one. His less experienced nephew had planned this trip and already things were starting to appear disorganized. Gordo, in desperation, issued a last minute request.\n\n\"Slingshot, turn on your lights!\"\n\nThe younger Alazar switched on the green and red navigation lights mounted into the bow of the Island Girl. Illuminations from the front of the boat created a green and red glow against the oncoming waves. A whitecap broke just short of the taut anchor rope sending a salty mist airborne covering the boat's deck.\n\n\"Crossbow, come to me. Come to the red light!\"\n\n\"I don't see you Slingshot. I don't see a red one only a white one - a four second white one!\"\n\nAlazar felt like a sitting target exposing his position next to the forty-foot high tower. Without hesitation, he shut off his lights.\n\n\"No red, white, white tower Slingshot,\" Gordo repeated.\n\n\"Shit!\" Bobby yelled.\n\nHe realized his uncle was at the wrong reef. Coming from the Cay Sal Banks, a course deviation of only a few degrees could put Gordo's 38-foot Cigarette miles from his designated destination. There was only one solution. He quickly jumped up on the seat mounted behind the center console and searched through the cluttered electronics cabinet for an area chart. Sunglasses, tanning lotion, some old fishing hooks, more shit, all going over the side of the boat. After minutes of searching he found the chart. It was all wadded up crammed into the back of the small box. Bobby thumbed through the drenched map and then looked down-line from his position. With the course lying before him on paper, he could get a better perspective of Gordo's location.\n\nThe Island Girl was at the Elbow located directly off Key Largo. The next light to the south was Molasses Reef, named appropriately in the 1930s when a barge of molasses from Havana bound for Miami sank over her. To the north was the Cary's Fort Reef light. Both were white and both flashed at a four second interval. He looked closer at the wrinkled chart, trying to read the fine print under the intermittent flash of red light created by the tower. Below the position on the map for the Cary's Fort light, a note indicated the tower to be almost one hundred feet high; the Molasses tower, less than half its size.\n\nGordo tried to keep his Cigarette on course while idling amidst large rolling swells. The frantic voice of Bobby Alazar could barely be heard over the boat's throbbing five hundred horsepower engines.\n\n\"Crossbow, go to the light and tell me how high it is.\"\n\n\"What do you mean how high is it - I'm not out here for a joyride Slingshot!\"\n\n\"Just do it, I'll explain later.\"\n\nGordo was still over two miles out from the tower. He needed to use caution when approaching the unknown reef. In the driving rain he would have to be right on the tower before its height could be determined. Patrol boats often sat next to the reef towers with their radars spinning and their night vision goggles tuned on the incoming maritime traffic. With their massive diesel power plants, they could easily outrun and catch the loaded down smuggler. Gordo pointed his boat toward the distant white flash. As he gunned the throttles, hot exhaust poured from the transom's stainless steel headers that cooled the pair of eight hundred horsepower motors. The engines roared with the immense sound echoing in the valleys between waves. As the tower came into sight, the heavy-set Cuban let go of the padded steering wheel, squeezed through the small teak doors to his left, and disappeared below the boat's long sleek deck. Everything became quiet for the forty-seven-year-old overweight man as he entered the plush cabin of the Cigarette. What had been a monstrous sound was now a soft moan. The boat had been designed with extra creature comforts that were now obsolete to its new owner, with the exception of keeping up appearances during an impromptu boarding or Coast Guard safety check. While the boat rolled about, Gordo tried to keep his balance but fumbled below, being thrown about from side to side. He climbed over the burlap-skinned cubes before finding a black duffel lying against the plush carpet interior. Inside the bag was a set of binoculars, some hard candy, and an Escort radar detector. Gordo removed the Escort and exited the tight confines of the cabin. After plugging it in to the boat's lighter, he wrapped it in a towel and placed it in front of an illuminated compass. Whether or not the crude device was effective in warning against sophisticated marine radar systems was irrelevant. The false sense of security calmed the paranoid Cuban. Gordo crouched behind the boat's black Lexan windshield as he continued his assault on the tower while the rain drove itself down onto the long, sleek deck. The deluge was blinding. As he got closer to the reef, the white light bounced off the deck, illuminating the surrounding spray and rain, further obstructing his visibility. He continued further and within minutes saw the outline of the ghostly tower. A magnificent steel structure, it rose nearly fifty feet into the sky.\n\n\"How tall is it Crossbow?\" Bobby radioed again.\n\n\"Thirty, forty, maybe fifty feet.\"\n\nGordo was never an exact person.\n\n\"Crossbow, you are one south, I repeat, one south. You need to come north.\"\n\nGordo panned the water surrounding the tower. His heart was pounding through his chest. An ink pen lodged in his shirt pocket seemed to jump with every pulse. There was no one in sight. Alazar took a look at the chart and with a makeshift ruler, plotted a compass heading for his lost uncle.\n\n\"Head north to thirty-four degrees northeast, Crossbow.\"\n\nGordo acknowledged and turned his boat to the heading. The mistake was all his. His nephew was right and the error could have cost them big. He gripped the boat's throttles as he braced for the ensuing burst of power. Upon command, the long, sleek craft pointed its bow up and within seconds was on plane, surging through the waves, throwing spray from both sides of the speeding powerboat's white Fiberglas hull. As it picked up speed it started to leap from wave to wave. Gordo adjusted the trim tabs controlling the boat's elevation over the oncoming water. His eyes peered through his pudgy face as he squinted trying to avoid any contact with the raindrops, which at that speed, felt like cold, steel needles against his already weather-beaten exterior. The boat's twin eight hundred horsepower engines turned at an incredible rate as the red light beam of the Elbow's tower came into his view. He was ready to meet his nephew.\n\nBobby Alazar gazed up into the sky and watched as a break in the clouds drifted overhead. Up in the deep blackness, surrounded by small flakes of glistening crystal, flew a white strobe light. Bobby watched as the flashing light seemed to float through the sky like some fictional spaceship bouncing between the stars. Commercial traffic, he thought, Customs would have turned their lights off. Then, without warning, he heard the distant murmur. He went to the bow and immediately retrieved the anchor. His clothes became saturated with salty seawater in the process. He then secured the anchor and rope in a locker located below the deck while trying to keep his balance as the boat rolled with each oncoming wave.\n\nThe craft, adrift, blew about at the mercy of the moderate gusts of wind. Behind the helm and under the protective cover of the canvas top, the young, anxious Cuban secured himself into the tight-fitting bolster seat as he took his bearings and prepared to move the vessel. Grabbing the key switch marked engine one, he turned it. He expected the engine to turn over and come to life. Instead, he heard the high-pitched spinning sound of a starter starving for voltage. A quick look at the voltage indicator confirmed his fear. The gauge registered less than ten volts. Twelve volts were necessary to start the motor. A quick try of engines two and three gave similar results. Bobby realized that the bilge pumps, having to keep up with the torrential rains and spraying seawater, must have run down the three deep-cycle batteries. As he tried to conceive a way out of his predicament, the distant thunder of the Black Duck gained intensity. The Island Girl had three batteries on board, each connected to a separate fuse block. They were located under the center console. Trying to maintain control of himself, he thought for a minute. If I could connect the three circuits, a possibility existed that there would be enough juice to start one of the motors. The charging system could then take over and hopefully start the other two. Bobby quickly dropped to his knees, peering into the small crawl space under the console. The odor of cured Fiberglas was nothing less than intoxicating. Still, he managed to locate the fuse blocks despite the rainwater dripping from his saturated hair and face. They were bolted securely inside to a structural bulkhead. There was no marking though to indicate which block went to which engine. His salt-drenched fingers picked the closest one, trying to loosen the tight brass nuts that held the thick power cables together. The dormant power in the batteries was enough to give him a shock as he joined the cumbersome wires.\n\nAfter tightening the last bolt over the connecting wire, Alazar climbed to his feet, keeping his balance as another massive wave rocked the stagnant vessel. He took his position behind the console wedging himself back into the bolster seat. He turned the key for engine two. There was no response, not even a click. When he connected all the circuits to one engine, he must have disconnected the other two. He tried engine one, still no response. Finally, in desperation, his tense fingers turned the key for engine three. The dormant outboard turned slowly at first and then gained speed. Alazar held his breath. This was his last chance. Suddenly, with a burst of fury, the sleeping dog came to life, whining with revolutions, throwing oil-drenched smoke into the dark night air.\n\nWith only one engine, the Island Girl responded sluggishly as it was maneuvered around the tower. The alternator started to charge the electrical system. The lights behind the gauges brightened as the boat's voltage indicator registered eleven volts. When the voltage got to twelve, he would have to switch back the wires on the altered fuse blocks. The Rolex strapped to his wrist read 4:52 a.m.\n\nGordo was within a thousand yards of the Elbow. He scanned the water ahead for his nephew. The Black Duck's engines were throttled back to a harmonic clapping idle, spitting steamy water out the four highly polished stainless pipes protruding from the transom. Gordo grabbed the microphone.\n\n\"Slingshot, turn on your lights!\"\n\nBobby responded by triggering a switch labeled NAV LTS giving a quick burst of light. Gordo saw the split red and green lights of the Island Girl off his port bow. It was just past the tower. With a relieved voice, the jubilant Gordo called out again.\n\n\"I see you Slingshot.\"\n\nAlazar disengaged the boat's one running engine, putting it back into neutral. The voltage indicator registered 12.4 volts. He dropped back to his knees, ducked under the console and rearranged the fuse blocks. If he were to make it to the coast of Key Largo three miles away before dawn, he would need all three engines running. He could not screw this up.\n\nGordo, concerned about the time, increased the throttles to half stick; just enough power to motivate the overloaded boat without getting it on plane. He headed toward his nephew in a bow-up position. His view was obstructed by the boat's foredeck. Bobby heard Gordo approach. The engines were revving louder than before. His fingers tingled with an increased shock of electricity as he attached the final wire to the fuse block. Sparks of blue and orange energy bounced off the two ends of wire.\n\nStill on his knees, he removed his head from under the confining center console. The vibration from Gordo's high-powered engines engulfed Bobby's cockpit sending vibrations through his wet knees and up his spine. Climbing to his feet, he turned just in time to see the tower's red light beam bouncing off the gleaming white hull of the Black Duck. Gordo had miscalculated his distance from the Island Girl.\n\nBobby Alazar watched in horror as the massive boat came over the stern of the smaller. The impact was dramatic as the Black Duck's Fiberglas bottom sliced over the top of the running outboards. It continued on its course, powering over the gunwale and into the cockpit, pinning the younger Alazar against the console before the boat came to a rest. Bobby could not move. The pressure against his chest restricted his breathing. Water started to come over the stern as he felt it lap against his legs. Then, without warning, a breaking mountain of water broke over the stern of the Black Duck pushing it further into Bobby's space. He felt his ribs splinter beneath his chest as blood replaced his warm breath. As Gordo tried in vain to reverse the massive powerboat, his nephew drifted into a state of darkness.\n\nSitting one atop the other, the larger vessel came to rest pushing the Island Girl below the waves, into the dark, cold world below. In a pool of turbulence and floating debris rose the lifeless, distorted body of Bobby Alazar. A flash of red light illuminated the tattoo of tribute embossed on his forearm. In a path of script written amidst a gallant tall ship braving the seas, it read: Monica-Mi Linda, The World Will Be Yours.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAcrophobia\n\nU. S. Attorney Pat Stephens sat nervously in the left front seat of the Bell 206 Jet Ranger as he watched the pilot proceed through his lengthy preflight check. Stephens panned the glowing Atlanta horizon of scattered lights as they sat perched high atop the thirty-two-story United States Federal Building. It was 5:15 in the morning. The drive to his office, located eleven stories below, was quiet and uneventful. His daily commute usually lasted more than thirty minutes. The purchase of his home in Buckhead meant having to cope with such inconveniences. This morning the quiet jaunt lasted less than ten. His Mercedes 300D tooled along the barren highways as he consumed a bagel doused with cream cheese, while listening to an early morning debate airing over a local NPR station.\n\nStephens was driven past mere obsession. After completing his undergraduate studies at Princeton, he applied and was accepted to Harvard Law, the first to do so with just a bachelor's degree in broadcast journalism. After graduation Stephens began a career in public service. He immediately positioned himself in the limelight, putting his undergraduate experience to work for him. The public loved him, as did a few select northeastern congressmen and one senator from Atlanta. It was they who really gave the aspiring Irishman the boost he yearned for. While working as the assistant U. S. Attorney in the New York field office, Stephens aided Senior Prosecutor, John Kenyon, toward a successful grounding of the Gambino and Genovese crime families, which had plagued the New England area for decades. After Kenyon's death in 1977, Stephens found himself poised for advancement. It came a short time later in the form of a position any twenty-year veteran would have killed for. At thirty-seven, Assistant United States Attorney Pat Stephens was named Special District Prosecutor for the southeastern region of the United States. Based out of Atlanta, his office was responsible for spearheading all of the top federal cases in the fifteen state area. No more bullshit EPA cases. No more tax evasion plea-bargains. If Pat Stephens's office was on the case, one was going to either read about it in USA Today or watch the repercussions on CNN's Headline News.\n\nStephens lived in the press. His hero, next to his deceased boss Kenyon, was the fictional character Elliot Ness. Let's do some good, he would say in a corny kind of way as he entered his office of thirteen staff attorneys, eight paralegals, seventeen clerks and twenty secretarial and ancillary staff members. Stephens had the will to succeed and overcome not just minor obstacles, but everything and everyone that got in his way. Still, despite this driving ambition, his raw talent, and a near genius intellect, Stephens had one undeniable flaw: he possessed a dramatic fear of flying.\n\nAs the pilot checked the range of his controls, turning the throttle and pulling up on the collective, Stephens frantically brushed at a stain of cream cheese on his paisley tie. Giving up, he sat nervously in the ergonomically formed seat, clutching the metal buckles of the four-point harness with his sweaty palms. Although he could not see over the side of the building, the intermittent flash of the red anti-collision lights mounted at the four corners of the roof reminded him of how the complex towered into the dark sky. As the pilot stowed the preflight checklist under the right seat, he gave Stephens the thumbs up sign. Stephens reluctantly returned the gesture without letting go of the pair of restraining straps that ran down both sides of his chest. With a few adjustments and the depressing of the right switches, the powerful jet turbine helicopter came to life. First, an intermittent beep, then a high pitched whine followed by the loud clicking of ignition circuits firing across chambers of volatile jet fuel. With the blade overhead beginning to spin slowly, a second burst came from the rear of the craft sounding a lot like a large commercial vacuum cleaner. From there the blades rotated faster until they were almost invisible. Another set of switches were activated and the bright strobe light mounted in the belly of the chopper rang out splinters of double-pulsed light, illuminating the light gray rooftop with white brilliance. Faster yet, the blades spun until the surrounding patches of snow and ice blew away, exposing the painted circle which encompassed a capital letter H affixed to the roof. The pilot watched carefully as he increased the pitch of the blades and maintained the turbine's revolutions. Gradually, Stephens felt the weightlessness of the craft battling with the forces of gravity as it lifted from the rooftop pad.\n\n\"Here we go,\" the pilot said into the intercom mic that was suspended in front of his lips, connected to a set of headphones. A nonverbal nod of his head was all that Stephens could muster.\n\nAs the chopper cleared the edge of the building, Stephens looked down toward the street. It only took a second; Stephens jerked his head back up, trying to reorient himself with the horizon.\n\n\"Relax!\" the pilot said with a smooth, rumbling voice.\n\n\"I'm okay. I just don't like flying at night,\" Stephens replied, knowing his fear of flying had no prejudice for daylight hours or the lack thereof. The pilot chuckled.\n\n\"I'd like to think I fly a safe ship; you're gonna give me a complex.\"\n\n\"Oh it's not you really, you're doing great,\" Stephens said.\n\n\"Well, now I feel better. Look, by the way, if we do crash, and by some miracle we're not killed on impact, blown to smithereens by the hundred gallons of jet fuel behind that seat back there, don't exit the aircraft until I give the word. I'd hate for you to survive such a feat and then have you decapitated by these blades,\" the pilot warned, pointing up to the spinning main rotor. Stephens grabbed the four-point harness that hugged his chest and looked back at the pilot who continued to talk.\n\n\"Yeah, we very rarely lose one of these but when we do, it's a real mess. Why just last month...\"\n\n\"Look, I know you're trying to help, but shouldn't you be radioing the tower or something like that?\"\n\n\"Already done, counselor. You'll find I'm usually ahead of the game. That's why I get all the choice assignments. Just look at you. They wouldn't trust the District U.S. Attorney to just anyone now would they?\"\n\n\"I guess not, how lucky for me,\" Stephens answered sarcastically.\n\nThe pilot was not just any chopper jock. Chester Marks was a veteran pilot with over eighty-five hundred hours behind the stick, most of which were in the Bell 206 Jet Ranger. Unlike most of the pilots he worked with, the thirty-three-year-old had never spent a day in Vietnam. His lack of a military background precluded him from even flying the godfather of all jet helicopters, the Huey. Still, after listening to all the war stories of the trenches in Vietnam, he surmised that L.A. was just as bad as any war zone. Marks developed most of his experience flying air support for the Los Angeles Police Department. To him, the city was one big war zone. His only regret was that the trigger on the face of the stick was connected to the aircraft's radio system and not to a pair of nose-mounted, fifty-caliber guns. In six years with the LAPD, Marks had seven and a half documented bullet strikes including four .38s, a 9mm, two .45s, and one razor sharp ninja star which imbedded itself into the belly of a Cessna 206 in low-level flight. Marks always wanted to fire back.\n\nA near fatal crash ended his career with the LAPD and forced him to seek advancement with the Feds. Marks had a tough exterior. Years of being a beach bum on L.A.'s South Shore had taken its toll tanning his facial features over which a noticeable scar grazed his left cheek. It was the result of an injury he had received as a boy; a dog bite, a blemish which imbedded its image into his mind as much as his face.\n\nFifteen hundred feet below, the rolling tree-covered hills of middle Georgia slept in silence. The forest came to life with small animals as the chopper passed overhead. Deer, squirrels, and other small wildlife peered upward through the trees at the beating sensation above and the brilliant white flashes that accompanied it.\n\nNinety minutes into the flight, Marks descended to an elevation of less than one hundred feet. Despite the fact that this type of flying was more dangerous, Stephens somehow felt relieved with the reduction in altitude. What was before a plush forest of evergreens and abundant wildlife was now wet with clumps of saw grass - a virtual swamp. The Okefenokee. The white strobe glaring from the chopper's belly radiated from the glossy water below. To Stephens, the scene merely reminded him of a made for TV movie he had seen recently where a DC-10 jetliner had crashed into the swampy Everglades in South Florida. What a way to go. To survive a crash as catastrophic as that and then to be eaten by alligator, Stephens thought as his palms flooded with sweat again.\n\n\"Relax, we're almost there,\" Marks said, pointing at the swamp below.\n\nThe final approach was a straight shot. From the air, their destination looked like any inland military installation. The Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, also known as FLETC, was located next to a municipal airport. Once a naval training center, the converted installation housed hundreds of recruits, all preparing to enter careers within the different law enforcement agencies of the federal government. Simple square block buildings, parameter lights, and rows of barracks covered the two hundred acre complex.\n\nThe whine of the turbine-powered helicopter broke the early morning silence of the frost-covered ground. As the sleek aircraft hovered into an open lot, a cloud of mist formed from the surrounding grass. In the distance a sign sat perched on the lawn. With molded concrete and stamped letters, it read: United States Treasury Department, Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, Glynnco, GA.\n\nAfter landing, Stephens entered one of the adjacent buildings. In the distance behind him, the chopper's scalding turbine cooled as its rotors spun down, rotating slower with every revolution. A sight of complex coordination, the smaller tail rotor turned seven times for every revolution of the larger main rotor above. Stephens's hundred and fifty pound, five-four frame pounded his hard soled shoes against the building's highly polished terrazzo floor, making him sound a lot larger than he really was. The sound of his footsteps echoed from the veneer-covered walls as he made his way through the dimly lit halls. Along the way he passed pictures of graduated classes all lined in sequential, chronological order. Eleven by fourteen inch frames filled with smiling faces, happy to have graduated from the rigors of academy life. Stephens flowed through the hall like a burst of water through an empty pipe, winding through the building. He had been there before and knew his way well.\n\nStephens stopped in front of a group of glass doors. They were covered with steam. He stood upright, tightened his tie and proceeded inside. A gust of warm, steamy air hit his face. The room, which housed an Olympic-sized swimming pool, was empty with the exception of one. Condensation flowed off the windows surrounding the area. The pool inside stretched across the length of the room. Turquoise blue beams of light refracted from the white stucco ceiling above. Splinters of light danced around the six thousand foot expanse.\n\nJoel Kenyon swam in his own buoy-lined lane. His breaststroke sent a small swell of water rippling from the pool's tile sides. Stephens stood at the end of Joel's lane and watched him approach. He was a good swimmer, raised in the better country clubs and attended swimming lessons until high school where he swam competitively on his school's team. Joel slowed to a stop just short of the side, standing upright against the concrete bottom.\n\n\"How's the pool?\" Stephens asked.\n\n\"Okay I guess; it could use a little less chlorine,\" Joel answered, clearing the water that dripped from his nose and mouth.\n\n\"You're the pool expert,\" Stephens acknowledged.\n\n\"Hardly,\" he answered again, this time banging the side of his head with an open palm in an attempt to force any water from his ear canals.\n\n\"Well, you should fit into the Keys way of life without any problem.\"\n\n\"You think so?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"You're ready to get out of here aren't you?\"\n\n\"You've got that right,\" Joel responded. \"I haven't had this much structure since the Citadel.\"\n\n\"This place is no Citadel kid,\" Stephens said. \"You've been goofing off for too long.\"\n\n\"I'll have you know that I've gained some valuable life lessons in the last few years,\" Joel replied with a sarcastic smile.\n\n\"Whatever.\"\n\n\"You did say that I wouldn't finish. Now that I proved you wrong, where do we go from here?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"You did well, now this is your ticket out but you'll have to leave tonight. Tavernier is expecting you in the morning. It can't look as though you have had any privilege. You had better be there by 9:00 a.m.\"\n\n\"Nine? Are you kidding?\" Joel protested.\n\n\"I'm not going to lie to you. This isn't going to be a milk run. You'll know what we know and I'll deliver the information myself as soon as I get it,\" Stephens said.\n\n\"Do we have any idea who we're after yet?\"\n\n\"None. You'll meet with the local group super, Jordan Cheney. I worked with him when he was in Panama. Really helped us out after we gave back the canal.\"\n\n\"Can we trust him?\"\n\n\"If there's someone to trust I would have to say it's him, but let's keep things on a need-to-know basis, just to be on the safe side.\"\n\n\"How often do you want to meet?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"We'll communicate weekly, just remember to document everything, and for God's sake, get tape whenever possible. And kid, I've told you before and I'll tell you again, you can't trust anyone.\"\n\n\"Anyone?\" Joel asked, looking up at his suited superior.\n\n\"I'm different, shithead. We're family, remember?\"\n\n\"I'd just like to develop a friendship, you know, a lifelong relationship, someone who could someday be the best man at my wedding or maybe the godfather to my kids.\"\n\n\"That will happen someday, but right now we have a real problem down there in Florida. Someone is betraying his oath to our country and I intend to find out who that is. If you crave a relationship, buy a dog. For now, you're mine.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nCurrent\n\nTessa Alazar walked through her immaculately kept sixth floor apartment as the plush carpet that stretched across the floor massaged her bare feet. The windows were open and the cool breeze from the nearby Haulover Inlet blew fresh air through the spacious flat. Tessa, with Old English furniture polish in one hand and a saturated rag in the other, kept a watchful eye on Monica who was playing contently on the balcony, blowing bubbles from a small plastic bottle of a soapy, dime-store concoction. Bubbles left a trail from the balcony through the lavishly decorated living room, leaving a filmy residue over the freshly cleaned furniture. Tessa patiently wiped the spots clean again.\n\nThree and a half months earlier, a seven-year-old fell from a balcony on the eleventh floor on the opposite side of the building. The small community of condo owners was appalled by the senseless accident, and while the child lay motionless in the intensive care unit of Jackson Memorial Hospital, the homeowners' association voted unanimously to disallow children from playing unsupervised on the condominium grounds. They also voted to refuse any new tenants or owners who had children to move in, a far cry from the sales pitch Tessa and Bobby were fed over three years earlier. She remembered the salesman who promised a \"family-like\" atmosphere, high above the crashing waves below on the breakwaters of Haulover.\n\nThe child died seven days later. A subdural hematoma, undetected by numerous CAT scans, squeezed the life from her fragile skull. The family, still in mourning, sold their three-bedroom flat. That left two children in a complex of ninety-eight apartments.\n\nThe Rosenblats on the ninth floor had a very bright twelve-year-old who by all means was a child prodigy genius like his father, a cellist in the greater Miami Philharmonic. Young Ivan practiced relentlessly. He was highly revered in his circles and the pedigree was very much appreciated by the homeowners' executive board of the Edgewater Condominium Association.\n\nAfter five years of marriage, Tessa and Bobby became restless. She made no apologies, admitting that she had married him to get back at her father. He was upfront also, openly telling people that he married to produce a grandchild for the parents he adored. While she remained faithful, he, on more than one occasion, came home with an unfamiliar scent lingering to his nightclubbing attire or a red splotch on or about his collar or crotch.\n\n\"You're so damned insecure,\" he would say. \"Mima gave me a hug before I went out. You can't blame a guy for hugging his mother can you?\"\n\n\"And your mother gives you head too I guess?\" she would ask.\n\nAnd that's how it would go. Two young adults trading barbs and occasional glancing blows as their two-year-old daughter hid in her closet until it was over.\n\nHe hit her three times during their marriage. After the first, she vowed to leave him, but after his pleas of sorrow and his begging, she took him back. After that it was just easier to make excuses for his behavior. It was a Cuban thing, she would tell herself. I married him and I have to take responsibility for that decision. Still, she would stay up at night and wonder how an independent woman could end up like this.\n\nTessa made one final sweep over the black acrylic coffee table before joining her child on the balcony. The cool air felt good against her smooth olive skin. The wind blew through her curly black hair. She looked very Latin. The gray-haired elders of the Edgewater complex simply assumed she was. Her recently deceased husband was a very flamboyant Cuban who flouted his Italian-Cuban style amongst these much older Anglos in the complex. Little did they know Tessa's mother was Greek, born on the island of Amorgos in the Aegean Sea, and her father, Irish, born in Orlando and about as Anglo as they come.\n\nThe elders saw her as part of a bigger threat: the ensuing invasion of Cubans and Haitians polluting the racial purity of their beloved home, Miami Beach, and the Edgewater Condominium. More than one Cadillac and Lincoln Mark Five in the Edgewater parking garage displayed the bumper sticker: Will the last American to leave Miami please bring the flag! This was comical since the elders themselves were all from somewhere else, mostly the New England area, New Jersey, and some from Connecticut and New York. The Rosenblats migrated from Massachusetts. Ivan Sr. played his cello, third row, up stage, with the Boston Pops for seventeen years.\n\nTessa pulled her baby Monica close to her as she panned out to the busy inlet in front of them. The Haulover Inlet was a man-made channel and vented a lot of tidal pressure. Tessa saw it as a mirror reflecting back at her own life. As the tide changed, the current raced by the jagged breakwater rocks at a fast pace. Water churned and frothed causing turmoil under the bridge that spanned across the two-hundred-foot waterway. She simply watched and wondered.\n\nBobby had left her financially secure, but he had also left her with some serious scars. Her feelings of trust and love had been cauterized from her soul long before his accident, one painful stab at a time. A large Hatteras Sport Fisherman blasted its way past the condo with the roaring of the twin diesels echoing from the seawall; its immense wake shuttered the pilings as it passed under the bridge. Tessa held her daughter's head tight and realized that this was her chance to make things right.\n\n* * * * *\n\nInvocation\n\nThe afternoon was overcast. A light rain fell from dark gray skies as cars lined up at the gate to the Academy. Security guards in bright orange raincoats waved the vehicles past the entrance with lighted orange batons guiding them to designated parking areas. Roped areas marked an open field of wet grass, dividing it into neatly segregated rows.\n\nOne hundred and eighty-six recruits were ready to graduate. The official count was one hundred and eighty-seven but during the exercises of the last week, one recruit made a very serious mistake. How could it have happened? the instructors had asked themselves. It was a reasonably hot day and the recruits were taking turns making forced entry in an exercise that would teach them how to serve a search warrant. A team of five men was formed and one lone agent was picked to guard the entrance while the other four bolted in through the front door. The building they were practicing in was an old Navy barracks. FLETC itself was formed from an old Navy base, with rows of vacant buildings left decaying in the weather. As part of a revitalization effort, FLETC had been awarded a grant to remodel some of the buildings for future use as classrooms and scenario sets. As the four men made their way into the structure, the fifth stood watch outside. The instructors, those who were not acting as suspects, followed the entry team as observers who would later make a critique of the scenario. The exercise took a turn for the worst though as the men inside the building heard yelling in the front.\n\n\"Hands over your head asshole! Yeah, you, motherfucker! I will blow your spick head off!\"\n\nThe instructors ran out the front of the building just in time to see the lone guarding agent kicking and yelling at a group of men who were dressed in paint-stained construction uniforms laying face down on the pavement. Workers, it turned out, who were remolding the next building over.\n\nThis guy was a week away from walking out the door and into the field, the FLETC management said amongst themselves. It was a perplexing problem as to how close the cadet had come to graduating from the Academy and no one had caught this student's inability to make rational decisions in the heat of a crisis. The next question that was invariably raised was how many others were out there that simply passed through the cracks?\n\nInside FLETC's main auditorium was an audience filled primarily with recruits' family members, loud with the rumble of impatient voices. On the stage sat a panel of men, all dressed in suits. Before them in the first six rows sat the graduating class and behind them, their families and friends.\n\nA small, balding man approached the podium. As he tapped on the microphone, the large room filled with a screech of feedback and then the noise in the room fell to a quiet hush.\n\n\"It is my distinct pleasure to announce the keynote speaker for these proceedings. Mr. Patrick Stephens has been this area's Special Federal Prosecutor for sometime now and he has flown down here to offer a few words of advice and direction for today's graduating class. Mr. Stephens...\"\n\nPat walked slowly across the stage, taking his position behind the podium. Stephens didn't need the interruption of feedback. He didn't have to ask for it. His presence merely demanded it. Attention.\n\n\"On behalf of the staff here at Glynnco, especially the director of training who was gracious enough to invite me all the way down here from Atlanta, I would like to welcome all of the families and friends attending the graduation commencement for the United States Customs Service class of October 25th, 1984. And to those of you who will walk down this stage in a few minutes, congratulations on a job well done. All of us in the U.S. Attorney's Office know training like this is not easy. It takes guts and determination to leave our loved ones and venture out on a quest for a better life, especially when it involves the safety and security of our country and the future of our children and our children's children. In my office in metro Atlanta, we are seeing generations of families destroyed by the lure of illegal drugs available on many of our street corners. The position you have been chosen to uphold is more than a job or a GS rating. It's a lifestyle of determination, long hours and many sleepless nights. Family members: it's your support and understanding that will make all the difference in the world. I thank God for my wife Jhenna. If it were not for her and the support she gives me on a daily basis, I don't think I would have made it past my first case.\n\nAs a prosecutor in the federal system, I am constantly reminded of how the backbone of our cases relies on the agents in the field. It takes more than good ole' fashioned police work these days. Agents fighting today's complex war on drugs need to anticipate the criminal's move before he makes it. They need to stay one step ahead and three steps behind. This is an intellectual war. It will not be won with bullets and brawn, but rather with computers, databases, adding machines and sophisticated electronics. Each and every one of you has been handpicked from more than twenty thousand applicants because in one way or another, you're special. You are the elite. You can be proud and confident that with the expert training gained here coupled together with the qualities you already possessed when you walked through these oak doors four months ago, you are prepared to make a difference.\n\nMy job is simple: put the bad guys behind bars for as long as legally possible. But I can't do that without a Tupperware tight case and that's where you will come in. As you depart from this center, you will receive your assignments, some taking you to remote parts of the country. Just remember that it all comes back to the training you received here at Glynnco. Good luck and Godspeed gentlemen, let's all do some good.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nDischarge\n\nThe waiting room at the Eglin Federal Detention Facility in Fort Walton, Florida, resembled an ordinary room in an ordinary government building. It was lined with oddly colored plastic seats all affixed to a pair of chrome bars that spanned the twenty-foot depth of the room. Peter Delgado, called Del by his friends, sat two seats from the wall with his unshaven face held in both hands, looking at a highly polished asbestos tile floor. He was in street clothes: a faded burgundy T-shirt, jeans, the bulge of a billfold in his back pocket and white Keds with soft socks, the first set of \"real\" clothes he had worn in over eighteen months. His shoes felt better than the surplus military issue boots he had used for most of his stay at Eglin.\n\n\"I'm going to need to give you a ride to the bus station, Delgado,\" a deep voice called out from the duty desk across the room.\n\nBureau of Prisons transport agent, Percy Moore, had seen newly released prisoners wait in these chairs before. Most, sitting for hours anticipating a girlfriend or wife who never arrived. His routine was time-tested and pretty standard. He'd usually wait three or four hours before insisting they take the fifteen-minute jaunt to the Greyhound terminal in downtown Fort Walton.\n\n\"No thanks, they're coming up from Miami. My friend said he was expecting some road work around Gainesville.\"\n\n\"Very well Delgado, you've got until 3:30.\"\n\n\"Yes sir,\" he replied.\n\nPeter Delgado was loved and missed by his friends and family. He had spent the last eighteen months at the Eglin facility missing them also. He kept his mind busy completing his GED and learning the valuable trade of a machinist, all in the year and a half at the minimum security camp. Five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, he developed his skills turning lathes and working high speed drill presses in hot, sweaty shops making parts for other government agencies in need of the costly craft. When Del arrived in Key West five years earlier from Mariel, he stepped off an overcrowded shrimp boat, having just been released from the Cabotivo Calich\u00e9 Prison in Havana. He carried a black leather satchel that had belonged to his father, a simple carpenter who was killed when he was a young boy.\n\nDel entered the U.S. with over eighty thousand other prisoners who were released as a gesture of Fidel Castro's inability to house, clothe and feed them. And, while the move was probably the most humane thing the dictator had ever accomplished, it was perceived as political spring-cleaning. U. S. President Jimmy Carter gave them a new home with open arms until intelligence sources within the Immigration and Naturalization Service, known as the INS, uncovered the truth. By then it was too late and Carter was perceived as a duped fool. As a last ditch effort to control the situation, the INS created a temporary housing facility deep in the heart of the watery Everglades, south of Miami and adjacent to the highway that connects the Florida Keys and the mainland of Florida called appropriately, the eighteen-mile stretch. The conditions at the camp, made up of surplus green military tents, were worse than any Delgado had seen in Cuba. The heat and humidity were compounded severely by the hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes that fed on the prisoners like piranhas devouring a herd of cattle caught in a crossing river. In the first two weeks, thirty-eight were diagnosed with spinal meningitis, a disease infecting the lining of the brain spread primarily by mosquitoes and other waterborne insects.\n\nDel had served a seven-year sentence for thievery in Cuba. Like most criminals, his career started when he was an adolescent. He had joined a youth gang that terrorized the back streets of Havana preying on European tourists. The gang called themselves the Diablos and as part of their initiation process, each boy had to etch a crude tattoo depicting a simple pitchfork on the back of their left thumb. Using black ink and a household pin, each boy made their pledge indelible. Each tattoo was only as consistent as the bearer's artistic ability, which was usually in very short supply.\n\nThe Diablos where a tough crew made more vigilant by the tactics Castro used to control them. Death squads roamed the streets and city alleys after dark, looking for and hunting the young boys who made up the Diablos and gangs like them. Policemen by day, these hunters dressed in black fatigues and black matte army boots and spent the dark hours peering into small shelters, discarded boxes, abandoned cars, and any other place one might find the homeless residing. Armed with Russian built AK-47s, the squad was fast, efficient, and most of all, deadly. Their guns were equipped with custom-machined tubular silencers that kept the weapon's noise limited to the sliding bolt action. Swiftly, silently, and most of the time, without suitable warning, the young boys were killed in their sleep. Others were shot in the back while running down sewage-filled alleys or climbing out of glassless car doors. The Diablos were a menace to Castro's island and were unwanted by most of the population. There were no missing person reports, pictures on milk cartons or worried parents sitting at home crying over framed grammar school pictures. The boys were pure evil and the death squads kept them in a constant state of stress-filled escape with nothing left to lose. Those who survived were truly part of the criminal elite.\n\nWith the help of a public assistance attorney, Del received his green card and a place to stay. He did so in record time, leaving the prison camp in three weeks. His first job was as a cook in a small storefront Cuban restaurant owned by Philipe and Roberto Alazar. Del worked hard preparing everything from black beans and rice to fried plantains. Philipe, called Gordo because of his short, three-hundred-pound frame, immediately befriended Del and the two became inseparable. Gordo was an established member of the South Florida based Marimba, a Spanish word for a small musical instrument, and also a term used to label the growing drug trade and its tributaries that had infiltrated the economy of the Caribbean basin. The Marimba labeled the drug trade like the Mafia labeled the organized crime families of New York and Chicago. Those who participated were known in circles as Marimbettos.\n\nBesides also being a Marimbetto, Gordo was also Mishawaka and more seriously, a hardcore Santeria Mishawaka. Mishawaka was a western-based religion that worshipped the spirit of the Native American Indian. As one might wear a ring with a lucky horseshoe, the Mishawaka followers had an entire collection of Indianhead rings and necklaces. A group of boat builders named their product after the Native American motif. And, while the Marimba supported a large number of orders, civilian buyers also bought these boats known for their endurance and speed. It's not how fast you go, but how far you go fast, boasted one of the company's ads.\n\nGordo Alazar introduced Del to some of his contacts in Miami. In a relatively short period of time, Del was working the boats offshore, lugging bales for two grand a night. Gradually, he worked his way up the ladder until he made the rank of captain, navigating the dangerous crossings between the Bahamas and the Florida Keys. He was good and his superiors knew it. Del worked for several smugglers in the area but he was especially fond of his friends Gordo and Roberto Alazar. Of the marijuana smuggled through the Keys, the Alazar's ran almost sixty percent. The work was plentiful, and for the most part, safe.\n\nFor three years Del ran loads routinely. He built a home in the Redlands of Homestead, not far from the camp at Chrome Avenue where he spent his first weeks living in the U. S. after arriving. Del was building his dream, one piece at a time. He had developed a small fortune, stowed securely, and developed investments, one of which was a partnership in a small company that built the boats he was using. He had a pretty, live-in girlfriend named Marcia, an educated American girl with blond hair, blue eyes and a nicely manufactured body.\n\nIt was a load of bad fuel he took on while in Andros, the largest of the Bahamian islands, that brought his dream to an abrupt end. All four outboard engines on his custom-built, 40-foot Indian boat succumbed to the tainted gas, leaving the craft adrift in the Gulf Stream. During the ordeal, the frantic Cuban tried to offload eighty bales of Guatemalan-grown pot. Without power though, the bales never drifted far from the lifeless speedboat. At dawn, a Coast Guard reconnaissance hawker spotted the boat adrift and its load floating close behind like a patch of seaweed. As Del watched the white and orange jet pass less than a hundred feet off the water, he knew his life was about to change considerably. Within an hour, a high-speed patrol boat was bearing down with guns drawn.\n\nDel's arraignment went smoothly enough as Miami attorney Steven Weinberg pleaded a good case for ROR, release on recognizance. The judge compromised between the ROR and the million-dollar bond that Miami Assistant U. S. Attorney Sam Bittel had asked for, setting bond at three hundred and fifty thousand. The bondsman took his cut, with thirty-five thousand up front, the house in the Redlands as collateral and another five thousand under the table to keep the money's origin confidential. Peter Delgado was a free man awaiting trial.\n\nDistance was placed between Delgado and Roberto Alazar. The two met only when they absolutely had to. He was caught red-handed and facing twenty years. His only exposure to prison life in America was the camp at Chrome Avenue and if that was an example of what American prisons were like, a deal had to be made. When he was offered a plea bargain of thirty months at the Eglin work camp, Del took it.\n\nThis was where a new life began for Delgado. At thirty-five, he was back in school, learning a trade for the first time. He was to become a machinist, a trade chosen for him based on aptitude tests, personal likes and dislikes and the availability of training.\n\nThe Eglin work camp had a training facility that rivaled most vocational technical schools. It was ironic since most who were sentenced to the minimum-security facility were citizens already trained, usually in one of the professions.\n\nDoctors, lawyers, and accountants, along with a few bankers, made up almost eighty percent of the toll at Eglin and their crimes ranged from simple tax evasion to million-dollar bank fraud. This didn't seem to affect Del though, who took to his newfound profession almost immediately. He was a natural. His meticulous nature coupled with other mechanical abilities enabled him to succeed where others had failed. Before long, he was machining parts for dozens of different state and federal agencies. There wasn't anything Del couldn't make, though his specialty was designing and fabricating parts for marine engines.\n\nHis girlfriend, Marcia, visited regularly for the first six months but then moved on to someone else who could pay the bills and provide for her expensive tastes. It was no surprise to Del, who had toyed with the idea of marrying her before his incarceration started. She was not the stick-it-out type, he told himself. He knew this before they got serious making her departure that more painless.\n\nThe work camp suited the Cuban. The tasks were interesting, designing and building components for Coast Guard and Customs boats as well as a multitude of other governmental agencies. The food was plentiful. Del had gained almost twenty pounds in his first year and a full thirty by the time of his release. Del despised working out. While his co-captives spent hours pumping iron in the facility's massive gym, he simply wandered back into his machine shop, looking over projects, and fine-tuning parts he had meticulously carved out of cast iron and aluminum blocks. These pieces were like treasures to him. Like a New York Fifth Avenue jeweler, he would hold each piece up to the light, inspecting it for obvious flaws. Finely machined parts, brackets, pump housings, steering components, all cradled in steel vices, held high over mounds of metal shavings on the floor below.\n\nAs the northwest Florida sun set early in the day, a spinning ceiling fan hung from a cedar rafter blocked just enough of the sunlight to send its shadow circling the dusty room. Agent Moore looked down at his watch as he grabbed the keys to the transport van.\n\n\"Come on Delgado, I don't want to be late for dinner. The misses would have my ass,\" Percy said before noticing a shadow approach the glass entrance to the room.\n\nA tall, heavyset Latin male immediately occupied the doorway.\n\n\"Well I'm not going to wait all day, boy!\" Gordo bellowed as he came in the room.\n\nDel's head popped up from his sweaty hands to see his friend standing over him. His year and a half ordeal had come to an end. From under his seat he retrieved everything he had taken in with him, all confined in a favorite black satchel. The two embraced for a minute and headed out the door. Agent Moore, with his feet still perched up on the duty desk, reached around and hung the van keys back up on its hook.\n\n* * * * *\n\nNucleus\n\nThe Dirty Laundry was one of, if not the most popular club in downtown Brunswick. A line of over two hundred patrons wound its way around the turn of the century brick structure. It was a cold night. Hot clouds of steam poured into the damp night air, escaping from crevasses beneath the street and sidewalk. Members of the crowd rubbed their hands together. Young couples cuddled close trying to conserve body heat in an attempt to stay warm. Above them, with the backdrop of weathered red clay brick and mortar, a bright neon sign blinked repeatedly.\n\nDirty Laundry - Dirty Laundry - Dirty Laundry\n\nOld-style furnaces heated the open building that once housed a naval laundry facility. Massive tin pipes, some four feet in diameter, encompassed the seven thousand foot agora. The foyer was dimly lit but beyond was a palace of lights. Strobes, flashers, beacons and red strings of laser light bounced back and forth in a rhythmic dance that followed the heart pounding beat of the base-enriched music. A manic DJ stood in an elevated, glass-enclosed box, dancing his own rendition, which did not necessarily correspond with the gyrating, contorting crowd on the highly polished wooden dance floor below.\n\nJoel Kenyon stood alone in a corner as he watched the tall, confident frame of Jhenna Kenyon-Stephens approach. She was a very beautiful woman who knew how to capture the attention she deserved, dressed in a black spandex skirt, heels and a well thought out collection of jewelry which included an eighteen-carat gold Rolex her husband presented her for Christmas.\n\n\"What are you doing hiding over here?\"\n\n\"Oh, I wasn't planning on staying very long. I've got to drive to the Keys tonight. Just wanted to spend a few last hours with the class.\"\n\n\"How sweet, I take it we don't have a date?\"\n\n\"Nah, haven't had the time to meet anyone over here.\"\n\n\"Cathy asked about you the other day; she said you haven't called in a while,\" his sister mentioned with a mischievous smile.\n\n\"I know, I've just been so busy. They really keep you occupied here. I'll call her when I get to the Keys.\"\n\n\"You'd better; I don't want you breaking another one of my intern's hearts.\"\n\n\"Well, who do we have here? Quiet-shy Joel Kenyon seems to be doing very well for himself,\" said Bret Halpren, a fellow graduate who broke in between the two.\n\n\"Bret, this is Jhenna, my sister.\"\n\n\"Jhenna, I'm delighted,\" he said.\n\n\"So Joel, where's your assignment?\"\n\n\"Tavernier.\"\n\n\"Tavern- where?\"\n\n\"Tavernier, in the Florida Keys.\"\n\n\"Oh, the badlands of drug enforcement. Gee, whose ass did you have to kiss to get that ticket?\" Halpren asked glancing back at Mrs. Stephens.\n\n\"Yeah, it should be challenging,\" Joel replied ignoring the statement and regaining his arrogant classmate's attention. \"Where did you end up Bret?\"\n\n\"El Paso, wouldn't you know it, frisking beaners at the border. It's only temporary though, I'm gonna put in for air support after my internship is up,\" Halpren said with a sense of manufactured confidence before yelling at another graduate across the room. \"Gomez, c\u00f3mo est\u00e1s? Good luck Kenyon.\" Just as soon as he had appeared, Halpren left, and not a moment too soon for Jhenna, who was trying not to laugh.\n\n\"So where is your husband?\"\n\n\"Over there politicking,\" she replied, pointing to a group of suit-clad men standing by the bar.\n\n\"I had to fly in yesterday for a conference in Savannah. We decided to meet and make an evening of it. Some evening, huh.\"\n\n\"Yes, but things will be better after the election, regardless of the outcome. He'll slow down. Besides, imagine it, Mrs. Jhenna Stephens, the distinguished wife of a United States Senator.\"\n\n\"It sounds real nice but I don't know. I'm really a simple girl at heart and, well, we just don't spend enough time together as it is. How will it be if he gets nominated and elected? Besides, I hate Washington and we just went through all the hassle of building a new house and everything, you all just don't understand. You know Daddy would have been so proud, but I've got my happiness to think about,\" she responded. \"At least he would have been proud of you.\"\n\n\"Proud?\" Joel asked. \"I doubt that this is what he envisioned me doing with my life. If anything, I would have to say he would've been disappointed.\"\n\n\"Don't say that,\" she protested.\n\n\"No, I'm happy with what I've done, but let's face it, Dad always had much higher aspirations for me. Law, Annapolis, a junior version of him,\" Joel said.\n\n\"You are like him. I see it every day.\"\n\n\"I'm nothing like him sis, and you know it. Now that guy over there,\" Joel said pointing to his brother-in-law. \"He's like our dad.\"\n\n\"It's only because he's trying, but don't let him hear you say that. He's got a big enough head already, and besides, he's too short to resemble anything close to our father.\"\n\n\"Okay, point taken. Let's just be ourselves, if not just for tonight,\" Joel suggested.\n\n\"Deal, little brother...\" she replied, being suddenly interrupted as Pat groped her from behind.\n\n\"Ah, a little family reunion I see?\"\n\n\"Well, two out of three isn't bad,\" she said despairingly. Pat seemed to ignore her jab as he tilted the heavy tumbler in his hand backwards sending the rest of his drink down his throat.\n\n\"Shouldn't you be on the road by now?\"\n\n\"Yeah, you're right,\" Joel answered as he reached over giving Jhenna a peck on the cheek. \"I'll call Cathy tomorrow.\"\n\n\"Pleeeeease!\" she responded like a little girl begging for candy.\n\n\"I will, I promise,\" he replied as the two exchanged a parting look.\n\n* * * * *\n\nHomestead\n\nThe western end of Miami's Southwest 233rd Street looked like an oasis in a jungle of slash pines and vegetative overgrowth that made simple foot travel near impossible throughout most of the area. On the eastern edge of the Florida Everglades, this area, known as the Redlands, was as far as one could go on a westerly course without an airboat. Florida panthers, alligators and multitudes of other wildlife called this habitat home, and due to restricted building codes in the area enforced by the Metro Dade Zoning Board and the Florida Department of Environmental Protection, it was more than likely going to stay that way. This was a big change from almost fifteen years ago when Roberto Alazar and his family set up their homestead here, moving from the crowded and somewhat crime-ridden city of Hialeah. At that time, the land was cheap and building prices were reasonable. Years later, the average home builder would spend at least two to three hundred thousand dollars for a site as the county required at least five acres and all new construction had to conform to the amended code restrictions for the area. With the new restrictions, Alazar found himself living next to doctors, lawyers and smugglers like himself; not the image Alazar needed since he preferred to keep a low profile.\n\nAlazar's home was a spacious three thousand square feet. Modest in comparison, it was nestled in between a three story cedar structure of seven thousand on one side and a stucco mansion of nine thousand on the other, the latter selling for just under a million dollars two months prior. Alazar's single story, ranch style home with its red brick fascia seemed out of place, but to him and his family, it was home. The seven-acre tract's perimeter was lined with a four-foot chain link fence. The portion on the street was laced with brick pillars, slightly higher than the fence. Green vines grew in between the links making it that much more secure. On the backside of the property stood a handsome wooden barn, built by Roberto and Bobby Alazar. It sheltered two purebred Arabians, Pilgrim and Apache. One hundred feet from the barn stood a series of smaller buildings. Parked in front were Alazar's long, black dual-wheeled pickup truck and three triple axle boat trailers. The buildings housed Alazar's shop equipment consisting of an industrial air compressor, a commercial grade welder and other industrial tools he used to work on his small fleet of boats.\n\nWhen there was work to be done to the home it was usually done by Alazar. His only son Bobby moved out soon after he was married but still returned to run the small diesel tractor over the grass when it got too high or to trim a few trees when they started to encroach on the house. This home was more than a house. It was a symbol, standing for security and warmth to the immediate family and beyond.\n\nThe grounds were neatly groomed this Friday afternoon, with the grass kept at an average two-inch height, trimmed accurately around the fence and all the trees. The slash pines, known for producing rust-colored pine needles, were kept in check, with the needles raked up to the base of each tree. Alazar himself did the work this time. His wife, Mima, watched that day as he quietly drove the diesel tractor in straight rows. She felt that the solace and time spent alone was good therapy. It had been a month since they learned of their only son's death. It was a long month of grieving with the situation made even worse by the bodiless funeral. The Alazars were strong though, and as Roberto informed the family at the funeral's reception, they were going to overcome. Alazar was a natural born leader. His words alone inspired people to do more than they realized they had potential for. The only one who doubted the family's ability for success was Alazar himself, but he was strong enough to not show it.\n\nMima had planned a homecoming party for Del, but after their son went missing and was presumed dead, the event changed its tone. By three in the afternoon, the lawns were covered with people. Their kids played with each other. This was going to be the first chance the family and their close friends had had to gather since the funeral. It was meant as a way for everyone to cope and move on.\n\nBrothers Gordo and Roberto tended the grill, one of the biggest in South Miami, custom-made by Roberto. It was made from two, fifty-five gallon drums that were sliced in half by his blowtorch to form four halves with a steel grate placed over the top. Lignum vitae wood and chunks of coral rock were heated beneath to give anything they cooked an authentic island flavor. Above roasted a one hundred and twenty pound pig, slow cooked over the smoldering wood and blistering rocks, the pig's head still intact, its tongue projecting two inches past its open mouth. As primitive as it seemed, the process was still not entirely orthodox. Generations before used to bury the pig in a mound of sand over a bed of hot coals for twelve hours giving the heat time to saturate the meat and cure it. This was a Latin art practiced by many Cubans in South Florida. Roberto Alazar, however, had a craving for smoked meat and the open-air method he was using didn't dry it out like the other methods. Meanwhile, the children took turns making faces at the dead pig and then running away with giggles.\n\nMima prepared two large, deep trays of white rice, saturated with black beans, garlic, and laced with ham. This had been stewing all day in the oven, steaming and seasoning the rice until it had a charcoal gray color to it. This was a Cuban tradition and just as Italians craved pasta and Jews cherished their matzahs, the Cubans immortalized black beans and rice, especially Gordo, who heaped mounds of the stuff over lengths of toasted garlic bread. Despite eight years of marriage to his wife Cecilia, Gordo could not get her to match Mima's knack for cooking, despite having all the family recipes.\n\nMima was Roberto's treasure. The two grew up together in Havana and were raised by very conservative Catholic parents. Despite the changing political climate that surrounded their families in the early fifties, Roberto and Mima lived fairly sheltered lives.\n\nDel set up a fish fryer next to a long redwood picnic table. He did not eat pork regularly and it was agreed that since he had a special recipe for deep fried battered fish, he would do the honors. He brought his own supply of dolphin and grouper. It was like old times for him to go up to his favorite fish market in Hialeah and purchase the stuff over the counter, although he still would have rather caught it himself. In time, he would soon be fishing the Gulf Stream again.\n\nAmidst the preparation of food, children played, running, chasing each other throughout the tables. The Alazar family had its share of kids, mostly bore to cousins and friends. Roberto and Mima had tried on several attempts to conceive a child, ending in three miscarriages before leaving Havana in 1956. Due to the miracles of modern American medicine however, Mima bore a son in 1960, Bobby. The process was not without complications though and she underwent an immediate hysterectomy soon after making Bobby their only child.\n\nOff in the distance playing with pinecones was a child less energetic than the others. Gordo's son was five, chunky, and dressed in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He had already developed a frame like his father. The family called him Gordito.\n\nDespite the numerous children present, Roberto and Mima had only one small child that belonged to them. Bobby's daughter, Monica, was three and she was not there, only adding to their grief. Mima watched from the kitchen window as the children scurried by, their screams of excitement, although aggravating to some, were in a way soothing to Mima who had missed the sound. She only had one son and one grandchild. She lost him and in doing so, felt she was also losing her.\n\n\"Where are Tessa and the baby?\" Cecilia asked as she was cleaning some utensils in the stainless steel sink.\n\n\"Mima!\" Cecilia asked again, trying to break Mima's trance.\n\n\"Wha!\" Mima said, without paying attention. \"Oh, I'm sorry, Cecilia, what did you say?\"\n\n\"Where is Tessa?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, she has been very busy, you know. Maybe she will come later.\"\n\n\"Mima, have you tried calling her? This isn't like her; maybe she needs something. After all, I'm sure she needs all the support a young girl in her position can get.\"\n\n\"Yes, well, we have left many messages on her answering machine. If she needs us, she knows where we are,\" Mima replied, discouraged and heartbroken.\n\n\"Tessa always was the independent one, full of ideas and dreams,\" Cecilia said, almost envious.\n\n\"Cecilia, Tessa needs a lesson in respect, especially the respect of her husband, her dead husband!\" Mima replied, her lips quivering with the last few words.\n\nCecilia took her cue to change the subject. \"Do you have another towel? I will take this tray outside.\"\n\nCecilia and Mima each grabbed a tray of steaming hot black beans and rice. The trays, generally used for basting turkeys, bowed at the middle from the weight. If the pig roasting in the Alazar's backyard was the Thanksgiving turkey, black beans and rice were the stuffing. The only difference was that the Alazars didn't have to wait for the traditional four-day weekend in late November to indulge in this type of feast. This event occurred quite regularly.\n\nThe ladies joined the others around the long picnic table. Del retrieved the last batch of fish from the cooker and laid the steaming breaded pieces on a bed of paper towels to soak out the excess grease.\n\nRoberto took his place at the head of the long table as everyone else took their seats. Even the kids came to attention next to a series of card tables set off by themselves.\n\n\"Jesus Christ, our Lord in heaven, please bless this food to our bodies and help those hearts which are heavy with sorrow tonight. We thank you for the safe return of our brother Del. We have missed him dearly. In your name, Jesus Christ, Amen.\"\n\nEveryone sat down as Gordo reiterated, \"Amen!\"\n\nThe feast was no less than satisfying. Gordo was on his second plate in less than ten minutes and Cecilia had to remind him to slow down and save some for the kids. At one of the smaller card tables, Gordito followed suit like his father, consuming more than his share as fast as humanly possible. The paper tablecloth in front of the child was covered in spilled food, some falling off the side of his overfilled plate and some landing as projectiles from the child's mouth, which kept up at a ravenous pace like a well-oiled machine.\n\n\"Bet you haven't eaten like this in a while,\" Gordo asked Del nudging him in the side.\n\n\"Gordo!\" Cecilia snapped.\n\n\"No, you're right Gordo. This is heaven. I thought I'd never smell the garlic in Mima's beans again. Everything we ate had saltpeter in it. You could taste it. I'm so sick of that bitter taste.\"\n\n\"Saltpeter?\" Gordo asked.\n\n\"Not in front of the ladies Gordo,\" Del replied.\n\nThe meal lasted as long as their appetites would let them indulge. Like Americans on Thanksgiving, the Alazars always made more food than was customarily needed. Leftovers were the rule for at least three to four days following an Alazar feast.\n\nRoberto lit a long, wooden match on a brick that made up the foundation for the gazebo where the men had gathered to relax and let the food settle. Two, three puffs from the long Cuban cigar and smoke erupted from the end. The match was passed to Del, who followed suit. Gordo lit his own.\n\n\"So Del, what's it like in the camp?\" Gordo asked.\n\n\"Altogether different from anything I've ever experienced in my life. The emotions, I can't begin to explain. It was like Cuba. The only difference was that Fidel wore an Army uniform and drove a Plymouth sedan. I was so sick of people telling me what to do. How to eat, how to sleep, how to shit. Oh yeah, by the way Gordo, the saltpeter was put in the food so you don't get a hard dick. I guess it was their way of keeping us straight.\"\n\n\"Damn!\" Gordo replied with fascination.\n\n\"Yeah, there were fags in there but it's not like you hear. They basically kept to themselves. Mostly the people inside were doctors, lawyers, and accountants. Shit, there were a lot of accountants. My third roommate was a doctor.\"\n\n\"A doctor? How does a doctor end up in a federal prison?\" Roberto asked.\n\n\"The doctor loved to hunt. One day while chasing game in the great Okefenokee Swamp, he decided to take a pot shot at a hawk. The only thing was that it wasn't a hawk; it was a bald eagle, a big one with little chicks back at some nest in the woods. He didn't kill it. Missed the damn thing by a mile, but a ranger in a fire tower saw the whole thing and reported him to some more rangers on the ground and the rest was history. He did his time okay except for the evening of his daughter's high school graduation. His only kid and she was a salutatorian, that's second in the class, and it was a big-ass school. Well, he missed it. As long as I live, I'll never forget that grown man on his knees crying like a baby. It made me real sad man. I hate hunting.\"\n\nAll three men sat there in a pool of silence for a few seconds before Gordo asked, \"So you really didn't like the food?\"\n\n\"The food! What, are you planning a trip there Gordo?\" Roberto asked with a chuckle.\n\n\"No man, I just wondered. You know, haven't you ever wondered about what it would be like?\"\n\n\"I did,\" Del replied \"and then I found out for myself and you know what? It's an experience you really can't prepare for. You just have to pray you never have to find out. Pray and make your sacrifices. And for God's sake, don't think that just because you got some hotshot lawyer that you're going to walk. They're the ones who make the real money at this business. Fucking pigs,\" Del said, relaxing for a second before continuing. \"The guys who are the anxious types hurt the most. I watched them worry about everything. They thought their girlfriends were fucking around on them. Some worried that their wives were plotting to steal their money then spend it with someone else. God, it went on and on. Sometimes I didn't sleep for a whole week. When Marcia left me, I think she was really doing me a favor. The only thing I regretted was not being able to be with you guys.\"\n\n\"That bitch!\" Gordo said.\n\n\"What it all comes down to is family. We all have to stick together,\" Roberto emphasized.\n\n\"I am sorry I could not be here for you and Mima during your hard times. I loved Bobby like a son,\" Del said as the table became quiet. The three sat in silence for a few minutes before they were interrupted.\n\n\"Any more food for you guys?\" Mima asked, as she wrapped aluminum foil over one of the trays.\n\n\"No, no thank you, baby,\" Roberto answered.\n\nThe three grabbed their drinks and headed over to Roberto's workshop, far from the others. Roberto pulled out another cigar and lit it.\n\n\"How is my boat coming? I heard you talked to Scotty today,\" Roberto said.\n\n\"They spent the day waking the mold and are going to start laying it up in the morning,\" Del answered.\n\n\"Since you've been gone, things have been tough over there. Real slow. I can tell these things you know. I've got a good mind for business,\" Roberto declared, puffing out a proud, long puff of smoke.\n\n\"We are holding our own. Things could have been worse while I was gone. Scotty has managed to keep the doors open,\" Del responded.\n\n\"Good. I'm glad. Indian is a good boat. It has never let me down,\" Roberto said.\n\n\"So how's our business been?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Aw, kind of slow. You know how it is just before the season,\" Roberto said.\n\n\"Things will pick up soon,\" Gordo replied.\n\n\"Well, I met some people at Eglin. I met this guy, Gus Greico. He's American and very well connected. He works for this other guy named Sal Alcone. This guy Gus and I spent a lot of time together. He's got some really good ideas Roberto, and I think we can do some business,\" Del suggested.\n\n\"I don't know Del. Everyone I've ever met who's come back from doing time has met someone and most of the time it never works out.\"\n\n\"I know. I met a lot of those too, but this guy's different. He's been a lot of places. I really think he can do things for us,\" Del said, this time with enthusiasm.\n\n\"But things are good now Del. What do you want to do, be Tony Montana? Scarface!\" Roberto joked as the three laughed.\n\n\"Oh yeah, well FUCK YOU!\" Roberto cried.\n\n\"No FUCK YOU!\" Gordo replied as the three laughed again. \"Hey Del, you gotta see this movie Scarface. It's the best comedy I have ever seen.\"\n\n\"In all seriousness Del, I respect your judgment and I am not opposed to meeting with this guy Sal Alcone, but I don't want you to get upset if we decide to leave well enough alone. You understand me brother?\" Roberto asked.\n\n\"Sure Roberto. I'll call him next week.\"\n\n\"You do that and let me know how things go...and Del...watch out for Casper Gomez and the Diaz Brothers,\" Roberto said with his strongest Latin drawl, reciting another line from Scarface as the three broke into laughter again.\n\n* * * * *\n\nConception\n\nIndian Powerboats, Inc. was a struggling venture. A modest steel-framed building made up the company's sixteen thousand square foot facility on a street made famous by high performance boats, Miami's Northeast 188th Street, better known has Thunderboat Row. Huge overhead cranes hung from the twenty-five foot-high ceilings like a spider's web. Dangling below were motor driven hoists with case hardened steel chains and large hooks that held everything from Fiberglas boat molds to supercharged engines. An acrid smell of polyester resin filled the air. The local environmental agencies had a field day with shops like these. Everything from volatile emissions to hazardous waste dumping, Indian Powerboats was on the hit list, drawing weekly visits and monthly citations. The fines were staggering, choking the small company, but that was only part of the problem. Rising crude oil prices meant rising resin prices that translated into a higher material cost for the boats Indian built. Higher fuel prices also caused a significant decline in boat sales. Indians loved fuel. Each boat was built with the premise to be faster and more powerful than the one before it. While some models had only two engines, most had three. Each boat was capable of carrying an excess of fuel. Some models came with a capacity of a thousand gallons or more.\n\nThey were called plastic boats at first and consisted of blended polymers laced with woven materials and a glossy shine which repelled water and, most importantly, wood-boring organisms. The marine industry and the consumers who supported it were not immune from the phobias of change. Change they did however, and with time came even more advancements. Boats were later built with lighter and stronger composites and fibers including Kevlar, a hybrid fiber called aramid that rendered the finished product bulletproof. Graphite fibers and space age core materials were also used, sandwiched between more orthodox ones. These boats were half the weight of their predecessors twenty years before.\n\nIndian was not functionally removed from this evolution, unlike other boat builders who, practicing out of ignorance, believed that the thicker a hull was, the better. Scott Roberts believed he had to do everything possible to compete with the other guy. The building of a faster, lighter and more efficient craft came from a constant battle with the forces of physics and the ammunition was research, development and a continual search for the newest products offered on the market.\n\nBoat names were very important to an industry that relied on an element of ego. Stiletto, Cougar, Magnum, and the Native American motif brands that reflected the Indianhead Mishawaka symbol of the smuggler like Indian and Chief all competed for their share of the market.\n\nSince shops like Roberts's dotted the East Coast, he had to be sharp, cutting corners wherever practical without sacrificing quality. He had to take the business that came to him, no matter how difficult or illegal. One thing was for certain: his customers would get a good product but they would also pay a price.\n\nIn the past six years, Indian had constructed eight boats for the Alazar family including the Island Girl for Bobby, a 40-footer for Gordo, and Vibrations, a custom built 64-foot commercial boat for Roberto Sr., the largest venture ever completed in or around the Indian shop. Roberts called her \"The Monster\" and marveled at her completion.\n\nThat morning, Roberts started construction on a new boat for Alazar, another custom-built commercial vessel. The highly polished mold he was using was not one of his regulars. This mold had belonged to his father. Unlike the normal eight-foot beam of the ocean racing go-fast, this mold was thirteen feet wide and over forty-two feet long. It featured a flat planning bottom and a keel, rather than the popular deep-V. By all rights, it resembled the original wooden boats built years ago by lobstermen in the New England area. It was a commercial hull and was designed for sea farming or a large scale fishing operation.\n\nRoberto Alazar had named his new boat the Heads Up and its conception occurred at 7:00 a.m. by the Indian crew, placing a reverse imprinted hull ID number that was affixed to the rear of the mold. The night before, some of Roberts's men waxed and prepared the massive impression, also made from Fiberglas. An industrial, high temperature laminate ten times the strength of standard Fiberglas was blended to fend off repeated abuse of the dormant acidic resin. It was nothing less than a volatile release of energy that had to be monitored closely. Before they could wax the mold though, some house cleaning had to be performed. Inside the mold were scores of small pieces of fire-singed paper, remnants of a ritual that had gone on for decades. Whenever a boat was removed from the mold, one of the workers would throw several packs of firecrackers into the void, making a loud, deafening sound.\n\nThey applied twelve coats of the mold release wax, making sure not to miss a single square centimeter, then wiped each coat clean and applied another and then yet another until the entire mold glistened under the fluorescent shop lights. The three men worked the large shell and, despite the heat generated by the waxing and continual buffing of the surface, each man was resigned to wearing cotton gloves while in contact with the pristine mold surface. A slight fingerprint of oil could very well cause the new boat to adhere, or \"marry\" as those who knew better called it, to the mold, its womb. The layers of wax would repel Fiberglas resin from the mold's surface, much like greasing a cake pan before pouring the sweet batter.\n\nAt 7:00 that morning, when the air was light and cool, Roberts donned a plastic-coated paper jumpsuit and sprayed the mold with a pigmented resin called gelcoat that would make up the outer most skin of the vessel. The gelcoat gave the boat its glossy finish and, because it was on the outer surface, determined its color.\n\nBy 7:30, Roberts's crew started to stagger in through the open bay door at the front of the building. They had been there only eight hours before as this was a rush job. This customer couldn't wait. If the crew did their job and did it well, Roberts would see that there were bonuses in store for all.\n\nThe crew consisted of Roberts's head laminator, Julio Martinez, and two other laborers. As they assembled in the back of the shop, each one watched as the mold, which was a bright orange just last night, was now turning white, one square yard at a time. Julio jumped in keeping up the technique, touching up spots his boss had missed on the first pass. The molds were usually finished with a color like bright orange or lime green. These colors were used for the lining of the molds because it was almost certain a boat would never be gelcoated with these colors. Spraying white gelcoat on a white mold would be almost impossible. The person spraying would never be able to tell which part was covered and which part was not.\n\nJulio again surveyed the rough texture of the freshly sprayed white film for its thickness and coverage. He was, for the most part, happy with what he saw, correcting minor imperfections with a quick spurt from his high-pressure spray gun.\n\nWhile Julio finished his work, the crew prepared rolls of matted dry Fiberglas and pails of soupy resin. The dry patches of cloth looked like oversized snowflakes while the liquid resin resembled maple syrup. Mixed together, they would make a structure that was almost impenetrable, even to high-powered bullets.\n\n\"Hey! Take this and mix it with that acetone. Flush it out real good,\" Roberts instructed one of the laborers, handing him the gun that was dripping with white gelcoat.\n\n\"How did it go? I see there are no rough spots. Alazar should be happy,\" Julio suggested.\n\n\"You worry about rolling out resin and I'll worry about Roberto Alazar,\" Roberts answered, irritated by his worker's statement.\n\nJulio turned and gathered the pails of resin, the odor of which alone made the toughest men tear. Roberts ran his hand over the dry gelcoat in the mold. It had hardened just in time; any sooner and it would have clogged his gun. If it were slow to set up, it would run down the sides of the slick mold. What he had done was perfect.\n\nWith the gelcoat ready to accept real Fiberglas, Roberts calculated the amount of resin in a series of pails lined up next to the mold and then looked at the wall-mounted thermometer, drawing the appropriate amount of catalyst from a plastic container he kept refrigerated, just as he had done earlier when mixing the gelcoat. The catalyst would make the resin hard and it was the ratio that would determine how fast it would do so. Once the substance started to warm up, the laminating crew knew their time was starting to expire. If a resin solution contained too much catalyst, the heat generated could prove to be catastrophic and was known to spontaneously catch fire. For this reason, Roberts played the part of the chemist, calculating the volumes of the resin, taking into consideration the temperature and the factor of the chilled catalyst, all to produce a solution that would dry harder than concrete. He trusted his crew to be right behind him, ready to apply the materials to the fresh gelcoat. If they waited too long, the gelcoat would dry out and become brittle. If they applied the resin-saturated cloth too soon, it would make the gelcoat shrivel up causing the boat's surface to look like the rough skin of an alligator, making unsightly ripples on the surface of the finished product.\n\nRoberts felt the white surface one more time before giving the word for the crew to start with the next phase. When he did, they were ready. Julio started with a specially designed roller saturated with resin, applying the maple-colored liquid to the white gelcoat. His helper was behind him with the two others, applying the rolled cloth. Together, the two materials bonded and absorbed each other, clinging to the white surface. The procedure continued for several hours, covering one entire side of the hull. The mold, which hung on its side from the ceiling, was then rolled over and the process was repeated on the other side. Sixteen laminations made up the shell of the hull. The Indian crew could manage two laminations in a nine-hour day. After the shell was completed, the stringers and cross members, which made up the grid work of the boat's structure, were cut from plywood and Fiberglased into place. It would take three weeks, twenty-one drums of resin, four thousand pounds of cloth fiber, and sixty-two sheets of marine grade plywood to complete the hull. On the other side of the shop, a mold for the boat's deck was prepared and treated the same way. After a few weeks to cure in the molds, the finished parts would then be removed and the edges trimmed of excess, dry Fiberglas. The hull and deck would then be bonded and the vessel would be ready for rigging.\n\nToday was like most, but with one exception. One of the owners of Indian was coming home for the first time in a few years and he couldn't have come at a better time. Scott Roberts had the company surviving on a week-to-week basis. The country was in a recession and fuel prices were starting to rise again. The return of his partner meant fresh ideas and a new stream of cash to keep the doors open.\n\n\"Del, man it's been a long time...you've gained some weight my friend,\" Roberts said to his partner Peter Delgado, as he stretched out his arms for a tight embrace.\n\n\"That smell...you never miss that smell,\" Del replied, looking around the plant.\n\n\"I'm glad you're back. The Miami Boat Show is coming up and we need all the help we can get. With your talent, we'll knock 'em dead,\" Roberts declared.\n\n\"Well I'm back, but I don't know how much help I'll be. It's been a while,\" Del said.\n\nIf Del was anything, he was a salesman. His ways of persuasion and convincing attitude left people spellbound. Roberts remembered when Del had first bought into Indian and worked their first boat show together. The Cuban sold a record six boats at the show and another four from leads he had cultivated less than a month later. For Del, it was the perfect cover and the business made for a legitimate venue for the income he derived from his other ventures.\n\n\"Now that you're back, we can start talking about tooling up a few new models. This stuff is starting to look dated,\" Roberts said, putting his hand on the deck of an unfinished 41-footer.\n\n\"What do you have in mind?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Something with rounded edges maybe...something more modern. Look at the new Stilettos. They just introduced a new 35-footer. Everyone's talking about it, and word is that now that Donaldson has sold the company, these new Texas people are re-tooling and modernizing the whole company,\" Roberts said.\n\nStiletto was the icon of offshore powerboats. For years, if someone looked at an ocean speedboat, regardless of the brand, they would call it a Stiletto. The long, sleek lines and bold foredeck made them an object of obsession for some. The boat's rough-water handling ability and rugged rigging made her desirable to the clandestine markets as well. Aaron Donaldson was the creator of the Stiletto and he was to these boats what Elvis was to rock and roll.\n\nDonaldson was a wealthy real estate developer who made his money converting vacant North Miami parcels into lavish townhomes and towering condominiums. When he decided to enter the powerboat business, Donaldson built his first shop on a canal-front property making him the envy of the competition who were sticking it out in smaller shops far inland. When Aaron Donaldson tested a new boat, he simply backed it out of his shop and into the water, cruising down a canal to the open ocean. The boating magazines ate this up. Donaldson was featured in more cover articles in a five-year period than all the other builders put together. He amassed an incredible career out of a simple hobby and now it had all come to an end...almost. A wealthy Dallas oil executive had bought Stiletto from Donaldson, now calling it quits after constructing over three hundred of the world's fastest boats, winning numerous powerboat racing championships, and amassing a hefty profit along the way. A binding five year no-compete clause in the sales contract ensured Stiletto's new owners that the company's charismatic creator would not simply open up shop down the street, stealing the thunder they had just purchased.\n\nScott Roberts was a good friend of Aaron Donaldson. Roberts's first boat building job was at the Stiletto factory and Donaldson served as his close mentor. Roberts was always welcome in the upscale facility and he often wandered across the street to watch what new design Donaldson was tooling for the market he had created and kept captive. On many occasions, Roberts was available for sea trials that would start down their North Miami canal and end up pounding the surf off Haulover Beach. Donaldson believed in running his boats hard. The thick Fiberglas hulls slammed into the waves, sending white spray in all directions. This was the builder's way of ensuring quality control. If a new Stiletto could survive an afternoon with Aaron Donaldson, it would certainly perform for the waiting customer.\n\nDonaldson was a player and was always eager to make a deal, especially one that netted him a sizeable profit. The building that housed the Indian shop was one such example. Donaldson had owned the property where the Indian factory sat and when Roberts needed a place, he went straight to his old boss. The deal was simple. Del put up the money, mostly cash, and Roberts infused the talent. The only problem was that huge amounts of cash had to be camouflaged. Donaldson found a way to make the deal work. He took the cash, neatly stacked in paper grocery bags, and signed the deed over to Roberts at the closing table, thus maintaining Del's position as a silent partner. Since Roberts had never filed tax returns to justify such a hefty purchase, Donaldson took back a mortgage for most of the purchase price, and, at closing, simultaneously gave Roberts a mortgage satisfaction, his own private get-out-of-debt card that he quickly stowed away in a safe deposit box. The only people who knew about this arrangement were Peter Delgado, Scott Roberts and Aaron Donaldson.\n\n* * * * *\n\nReversion\n\nThe dreams came to him in black, white and shades of gray and were always the same. They were Owen Sands's door to the past, a past his conscious mind wouldn't allow him to visit.\n\nThrough a blurry mist, a vision of Leslie Sands beamed like a portrait hanging in the back of his deepest thoughts. She was a beautiful woman and so was the house she kept. Between patients at a mental health clinic gnawing at her for eight to ten hours a day and raising two kids, she still had time to keep her family's home spotless.\n\nOwen could feel the warmth in the room as he watched his wife, perched atop a four-foot stepladder, hanging a length of wallpaper in the kitchen. The paper had a country pattern on it much like the rest of the house. Leslie craved a country setting. It went with her upbringing in the cool hills of North Carolina. With one more pass of a wide brush, the blue sheet of colored vinyl wallpaper was in place. She stepped down and stood back, admiring her handiwork. Owen joined her side, putting his arm around her neck and drawing her close.\n\n\"What do you think honey?\" she asked.\n\n\"I think, well, I think, ducks, lots of ducks.\"\n\n\"Yeah, lots of ducks silly. Is it straight?\"\n\n\"You're asking me if it's straight?\" he asked sarcastically.\n\n\"Right I forgot. Gee this house is really starting to shape up.\"\n\nFLASH\n\nEveryone in the room wore green scrubs, all with the matching black imprints: Hospital Property. Everyone, even Owen, who stood next to Leslie's sweating forehead.\n\n\"Breathe, two, three, four. Breathe!\"\n\n\"Okay,\" she said, panting.\n\nOwen looked up at the large clock mounted on the wall. They had been at it for seven hours, another thirty minutes and Dr. Joan Gerstein, their obstetrician, was going to have to perform a C-section.\n\n\"Okay Mrs. Sands, push and hold-hold-hold! Okay let's go!\" Dr. Gerstein said with confidence. Leslie obeyed without hesitation.\n\n\"Okay, let's try again. Push! Now come on sweetie! Okay, I can't seem to rotate...here...we have a foot! Prepare for a breach delivery.\"\n\nMore green scrub-clad people entered the room. Others that were already there scurried about grabbing sterile trays and draping blue towels about.\n\n\"Anna, call anesthesia, I want them here stat.\"\n\n\"Yes ma'am,\" answered one of the nurses as she reached for a phone mounted next to her on the wall. \"457 to OB 3 STAT, 457 to OB 3 STAT.\"\n\nOwen heard the nurse's voice echo down the halls outside the crowded delivery room. Now he was starting to sweat as much as Leslie. Perspiration was dripping down his face despite the temperature in the room that was kept at a constant fifty-five degrees so as to ward off germs. Owen braced himself. This was not going to be easy.\n\n\"If you want to leave, Mr. Sands, we would understand.\"\n\n\"You leave this room Owen Sands and I'll hunt you down!\" Leslie said in a groggy, muffled voice from under the blue towels.\n\n\"I think I'd better stay.\"\n\n\"As you wish, sir. Just stand over here and try not to touch any of the trays with instruments on them.\"\n\nOwen acknowledged with a nod. He wasn't going to leave regardless of his wife's plea. As a kid, he had been deathly afraid of blood and doctors. The smell of alcohol made him queasy, but somehow all those fears were buried far away at this moment. He was willing to face whatever was going to happen. Nothing ever came easy for Owen Sands and he could see that this was going to be no exception.\n\n\"Okay, we're to the superior thorax and she's not crying. Anna give me an airway please while I squeeze the head out. LESLIE, PUSH!\"\n\nOwen ran back to his wife's head, struggling for a minute to find her panting face under the blue towels.\n\n\"Push honey, this is it,\" Owen whispered as he held Leslie's hand tight.\n\n\"Here it comes...Fantastic!\" Dr. Gerstein exclaimed.\n\nOwen joined the doctor at the foot of the short table. His eyes were fixated on a sight that would never leave his mind as long as he would live. She was a crude shape, oblong with a pointed head and brown paste all over her chest. Her tiny face was purple and wrinkled, almost beyond recognition; still, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She was nothing like the babies he had seen on TV. Doctor Gerstein handed him a scalpel.\n\n\"Would you like to do the honors?\"\n\nOwen took the scalpel and held it for a second in his trembling hand. Still fascinated by the baby, he just stood there, almost in a trance.\n\n\"The cord, Mr. Sands?\" Dr. Gerstein repeated.\n\nThe patient nurse placed two forceps at seven and ten inches from the baby's belly.\n\n\"Between the clamps, sir,\" the nurse instructed.\n\nWith one fell swoop, the cord was cut and the baby was detached from her mother. Owen immediately took possession of the baby and handed her to Leslie who had by now cleared away all the towels.\n\n\"Do we have a name yet?\" Dr. Gerstein asked the beaming couple holding their new baby. Anna stood by with an aluminum clipboard, ready to write so she could submit the information to Vital Statistics for the production of a birth certificate.\n\nAnd it was here, always at this very moment in every dream that all Owen could hear was static noise. This was his first-born. He remembered having two kids, raising them to a certain point. The name of his second was Jade Marie, now fifteen and a handful. But his first, why was there such an emotional wall? He struggled, but all he could hear was muffled noise. Sometimes it was rushing water, others just a baby crying. He could see his wife's lips moving, but was unable to read them or hear them. The key to this door remained locked.\n\nFLASH\n\nOwen and Leslie followed the brightly dressed real estate agent into the small, dingy-looking home. Their kids followed closely behind.\n\n\"It's a real fixer-upper, you kids are young and full of energy though,\" the agent said, \"right?\"\n\n\"We've been waiting to take on a project - I just don't know if this is going to be more than we can handle. What do you think honey?\" Leslie asked.\n\n\"Look, you two seem like a nice couple and you have such beautiful kids. Let me tell you, if you make a good faith offer to the bank and back it up in writing with a deposit, I can almost guarantee they will take it. We'll even hit them up for a new roof and carpet!\"\n\n\"A new roof and carpet are almost guaranteed, it's the bank's way of securing the equity to their favor. You're not doing us any favors. Now let's talk price,\" Owen said, exhausted after viewing houses all day. The sun was beginning to set and he could feel the heat penetrating through the water-stained curtains hanging over the windows.\n\nFLASH\n\n\"Your daughter is incorrigible!\" Leslie screamed.\n\n\"My daughter? Why is it when she does something wrong she becomes my daughter?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"I'm having another migraine; it's a killer. Will you please handle this?\" Leslie replied as she sat on the side of the bed holding her head in her hands.\n\nFLASH\n\nFrom the living room, the front lawn looked like a disaster zone. An ambulance and a fire truck were parked next to a deputy sheriff's cruiser in the driveway. Red, white, and blue lights bounced off the surrounding houses as neighbors dressed in pajamas and robes watched through their windows.\n\n\"Sir, what type of medical history does she have?\"\n\n\"None, I mean she has bad headaches, but that's it.\"\n\n\"Her BP is 210 over 140, she's starting to seize again!\" the second paramedic yelled.\n\n\"Mommy!\" Jade screamed from the kitchen being held back by her sister who stood in silence, trembling at the sight of her seizing mother.\n\nOwen watched in horror as they loaded Leslie into the back of the ambulance. Blood continued to flow from her nose.\n\nFLASH\n\nOwen Sands felt himself falling deeper into a cauldron of wind and flying ice. The air was blue and he looked down at his hands that had now turned gray. He was dressed in shorts. His thighs, too, were a pale gray and his bare feet were molten with ice. Then, with a flash of light, he felt himself in a familiar place, standing on top of the bridge, the Bahia Honda Bridge. He was warm now. The sun was shining and the pavement on top of the bridge was starting to burn the soles of his feet. Next to him was his Leslie. Both were wet from previous jumps.\n\nThe Bahia Honda Bridge was made up of two levels. During the historical era that contained Henry Flagler's Overseas Railroad, Bahia Honda carried both automotive and rail traffic over its span. The cars went over the top while the trains rolled over tracks built into the structure of the underside. Rust-covered steel girders were spaced evenly every four feet, coated with graffiti in different colors.\n\nThe excitement of the jump from the first level was obvious. The plunge was nearly thirty feet, but the next level was another thing entirely. The raw exhilaration came from the clarity of the water below. The channel was at least ten feet deep but the mind, at that height, focused on one thing only: the channel bottom. Seeing the seabed as clearly as one could through the pure, crystal-clear water flowing below made the act appear suicidal, almost like flying an airplane headlong into a cloud. Intellect tells the rational mind that what appears solid is not, but the instinctual side sees the white mist as a danger and the side effects can be easily noticed, from sweaty palms to an outright avoidance of clouds altogether. The jump from Bahia Honda affected the mind in much the same way. Just looking down at the rocks and sand on the seabed below made most think twice about the plunge. The fact that there was ten feet of water in between to cushion the fall was irrelevant. He had done this before though, and it was now time for Leslie to experience it with him.\n\nHe stood at the top with Leslie at his side. Both were clad in swimsuits, dripping wet from previous jumps at the lower level. Leslie looked down at the rocks and coral crustaceans on the bottom. He could see her heart pounding beneath her chest, exaggerated by her thin frame. He felt responsible for her act of bravery, knowing she would probably have descended back down to the lower level already if not for the jousting he would undoubtedly give if she backed out. She was committed and he knew it.\n\n\"Come on Mom!\" eight-year-old Jade yelled from an adjacent embankment. \"It's great!\"\n\nShe looked up at the blaring July sun. It was a scorcher. She looked over her left shoulder. Heat boils rose off the pavement from the top of the bridge forming an oasis of water, another trick of the mind. There was nothing down that bridge but hot, steamy blacktop.\n\n\"Come on, it'll be over in a second,\" he said, trying to reassure her.\n\n\"Yeah, what if I break my neck?\"\n\n\"Close your eyes,\" he instructed. \"Ready, one, two, THREE!\"\n\nThey felt the wind rush through their bodies as the bridge's guardrail rose behind them. For a second, leaving the hot blacktop felt good as the cool wind rushed against his feet. Then it got colder. As he looked below, what was bright and sunny had turned gray and blue. Ice and snow blew under the bridge as the two fell and what was a flowing current below started to slow down as the water chilled considerably. Thirty feet from the bottom, the current stopped as Owen watched the water freeze before him. The plummet continued. He looked over at his Leslie who smiled as she kept her eyes closed. What had he done? Jade screamed for her mommy as chunks of ice hit him in the head.\n\nSMACK SMACK SMACK\n\nOwen felt it again as a dry, rotted stick hit him in the forehead for the fourth time, pulling him the rest of the way from his sleep into a world that was crisp, clear and in full color.\n\n\"Justin!\" a woman yelled. \"You leave the homeless man alone!\"\n\nOwen opened his eyes all the way, just in time to see a young boy, stick in hand, running over to a neighboring picnic table. He sat straight up, realizing he was lying on top of another picnic table. He was in the Harris Recreation Area, an oceanfront park not far from his house. A mixture of sweat and rainwater covered his chest and face. Next to him was an empty bottle of bourbon, his drug of choice. Now, he was fully awake.\n\n* * * * *\n\nSunrise\n\nJoel Kenyon's BMW 320i sliced through the crisp morning air as it hugged the damp roadway, winding through the wetlands of North Key Largo. The car was his father's and he cherished it as he held his stature through every turn, gripping the wheel with both hands. The lone road stretched out across open bodies of water. A string of telephone poles followed the road, erect in the water with attached steel guide wires securing the poles to the grassy bay bottom. Joel hit the scan button on the stereo. It raced up the frequency range pausing for a second on 99.9. Country. Twanging guitars, dogs, diesels, and doublewide mobile homes: this wouldn't do. He hit the button again. It scanned higher resting on 103.5. The deep, raspy voice of a DJ identified the station...\n\n\"SHE-103, WSHE, Miami-Fort Lauderdale.\"\n\nLed Zeppelin's \"All My Love\" started to play. With the windows down and the sunroof open, a cool wind embraced his face, cutting around a pair of black Ray-Ban aviators.\n\nCard Sound Road was one of two access routes to and from the Florida Keys. The other, more heavily traveled route was a simple eighteen-mile stretch of straight road that spanned through the southeastern border of the Everglades. Card Sound was the scenic route. Its two lanes wound through clumps of mangroves and over hammocks filled with wildlife. Portions of the road were less than three feet from the lapping water of southern Biscayne Bay and the adjoining Card Sound.\n\nJoel, approaching the tollbooth at the base of the Card Sound Bridge, lowered his radio and listened as the brakes on his 320i squeaked to a stop just short of a wooden gate stretching across the single lane. The brakes should have been checked before the trip, he thought to himself. But how could he have, with the rigors of the academy and his immediate assignment? It was a given that certain facets of his personal life were going to have to be neglected.\n\nFour quarters went from his hand to the palm of the waiting attendant, an older man dressed in faded blue jeans and a worn Grateful Dead T-shirt. He was not the typical toll taker Joel remembered from traveling along the turnpikes of the Northeast with his dad. All of the memories were the same, representing a world of order and divine structure. He sat back in the seat for a second, gripped the wheel and imagined what it was like for his father to drive this car.\n\nThe BMW left the booth with a jolt of power as he approached the bridge's threshold. Like a rocket, the car ascended the twenty-degree grade, climbing three feet for every ten forward. In no time he reached the top of the hundred and ten foot high structure. The time was ten minutes to eight. Most of Key Largo's residents who commuted to the mainland everyday traveled the Everglades stretch. Card Sound Road was vacant.\n\nJoel looked north as he stood, leaning against the concrete buffer, then panned to the south, taking in the view of the rising sun. Its orange glow gleamed over the waves breaking into the reef on the horizon and as the light became more intense, he could see the islands below filled with mazes of tributaries connecting larger waterways that were surrounding him. Brilliant turquoise water covered the horizon with Biscayne Bay to the north, Florida Bay to the west and Card Sound to the south. With a pair of German binoculars that had belonged to his father, he panned the interior coastline that started at the base of the bridge and continued south. The small islands were filled with all different varieties of wild birds. During the North Georgia autumn seasons he had seen the flocks of birds, ducks and geese headed south for the colder months. So this is where they go, he thought to himself with a childish grin. The beauty captivated him and he forgot about his sleepless night of driving.\n\nLike the calm before the storm, his attention was interrupted. The panning view of his binoculars caught the sight of the road ahead as it twisted through the trees. The weathered gray asphalt, worn like an old sea captain's face, filled with small potholes and eroding shoulders, continued on to the south where it disappeared into the green vegetation.\n\nJoel contorted his body as he panned the landscape through the binoculars, scanning every inch of the island below. That's when he noticed it. A bright red Nissan 300ZX was sitting on the side of the road with its hood opened and a small trail of steam rising skyward from the radiator. His body froze as he stared at the car, so out of place in this landscape that time forgot. A smile came to his face as he watched a woman circle the car in a frantic tantrum, kicking the side of it as she took a large bottle of sparkling water from the passenger seat and headed for the open hood. She was quite pretty, he realized, as he adjusted the focus and zoomed in closer to see her features. She was well-tanned which accentuated her curvy figure. Her short sundress was accented with a white baseball cap that had her dark brown hair tied in a ponytail pulled through an open breach in the back. And then without warning:\n\nBEEEEP\n\nThe sharp sound startled Joel who almost dropped the binoculars over the side of the bridge. A silver, metallic Cadillac had pulled up behind his parked BMW and was waiting to pass.\n\n\"Sorry, just a second,\" Joel said as he jumped into the driver's seat and drove down the other side of the bridge. As soon as both cars reached the base, the Cadillac accelerated passed him with a frustrated look of impatience that Joel had seen before but never quite understood. He continued south in the direction of the car, and the girl. He watched carefully around every curve expecting to see the red sports car with its raised hood and the girl in dire need of his assistance, but as he continued south, and then off the winding road and onto a larger highway, he realized that she was gone. She did not need him after all.\n\nTwenty-five miles later, Joel pulled into the parking lot matching the address on his yellow legal pad. The building sat back off the main road and was built behind an aquamarine-colored bar and grill called Harry's Conch Caf\u00e9, a structure unto itself, complete with a thatched palm leaf roofline and old, salty rope around the windows.\n\nHe was surprised by the office's appearance. Mismatched arches gave it an outdated Spanish look. Behind them was a line of recessed windows. Joel peered through the closest pane of glass, rubbing it clean with his jacket sleeve. He noticed what appeared to be surplus desks, chairs and other office equipment. Checking his pocket, he pulled a yellow piece of paper containing the directions and address. A crudely drawn map confirmed his wildest fears. This god-forsaken place was going to be home for a while.\n\nJoel walked around the building and approached the front door. The only identifying mark was a modest ten-inch round U.S. Customs decal affixed over the glass with a small list of emergency contact numbers and the special agent in charge's business card. As Joel grabbed the tarnished door handle, the glass door shuttered as the locked deadbolt struck the interior of the steel door jam. With his hands cupped around his eyes, he looked into the dimly lit office. Not much could be seen past the foyer. Joel panned the small parking lot realizing his metallic, charcoal import was the only car in the area. After returning to his car, he sat back behind the wheel. Dismayed, confused, and tired from his sleepless night, Joel closed his eyes to avoid the morning sun that was shining directly at his forehead.\n\nFour hours later, Joel awoke to the harsh tapping of something metallic striking his passenger side window. Startled, he sat up and tried to realign his bearings. A short, pudgy man with a red beard stood next to his car holding a five-cell flashlight. He had faded blue jeans and an old blue work shirt with the name HOLMES printed over the right breast pocket and U. S. Customs over the left.\n\n\"Can I help you?\" Joel asked as he activated the passenger side electric window control. The parking lot was now full and the digital clock on the car radio said 11:32 a.m. He was surprised and embarrassed.\n\n\"I didn't mean to wake you, but you looked like you could use some help. You must be the attorney representing Gomara,\" Holmes assumed.\n\n\"No, I'm Kenyon, Special Agent Joel Kenyon,\" he replied, invoking a laugh from the other man.\n\n\"I'm Holmes, special peon Buddy Holmes. Come on; you look like you could use some coffee.\"\n\n\"Actually I need to see Jordan Cheney,\" Joel said.\n\n\"You'd better get the coffee first,\" Holmes insisted.\n\n\"You're the man,\" Joel said as the two walked inside the office. Holmes fixed some coffee while Joel looked around.\n\n\"How was the trip?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"Bearable,\" Joel answered.\n\n\"I hate that damned I-95 myself,\" Holmes stated.\n\nThis was like no other governmental building Joel had ever seen. The complex had been built with drug money and its construction was shut down when the owners were caught in a larger money-laundering scheme. As part of a plea bargain, the government ended up with the property. Since the complex's construction had been stopped, fifty percent of the building remained unfinished. Built of brick and concrete and utilizing traditional Spanish architecture, the archways and Spanish-style stucco finish gave the building a nice South American look. Past the fascia though, the building was a totally different story with exposed cinderblocks, cement slabs and rusty metal bars protruding from the ground, surrounded by overgrown weeds and wild brush.\n\nThe government had no intentions of being in the landlord business, but with over ninety commercial properties in South Florida alone, it had no choice. The current recession made selling the properties nearly impossible and small business worries had few wanting to rent the empty spaces. The end result was several nearly empty buildings.\n\nJordan Cheney had the only enclosed office in the building. Just outside his space, huge cork bulletin boards hung on the walls with numerous pictures pinned to them depicting different busts. Most of the pictures had stacks of burlap-skinned marijuana bales, duffel bags of brick cocaine, or boats. The boats were all shapes and sizes. Some were on trailers, others beached on the shore, and others cut to pieces to reveal hidden compartments where their contraband was stowed. All of the pictures did have one thing in common though. All the field agents from the Tavernier office were posing in tight groups, like frat boys standing in front of a Fort Lauderdale strip club on spring break.\n\n\"I'm Jordan Cheney. How was the trip?\" a voice beamed from behind him.\n\n\"Fine. Long, but fine,\" Joel answered as he shook his new supervisor's hand.\n\n\"I hate the damned I-95 myself,\" the man said repeating, almost word for word, what Holmes had just told him.\n\nSpecial Agent in Charge Jordan Cheney led Joel through a winding maze of cubicles that made up the Tavernier field office. He was a charismatic man, one who took charge and gave everyone he met the respect he expected in return. Jordan was fifty pounds overweight though he carried the extra pounds well for a man of six-foot-four.\n\n\"I'm pairing you up with my group logistics officer. He's a little antiquated but he'll show you the ropes and get you up to speed,\" Jordan said.\n\nAll around him Joel could see the agents of the Tavernier office typing, writing and busy in their own cubicles. Each one was dressed in a similar fashion, all with shorts, color-coordinated polo shirts, and Top-Sider boat shoes. No one wore socks.\n\nOwen Sands sat behind his desk, seemingly perplexed. In his hands was a set of instructions to a programmable police scanner. He was an older man with a weathered face and stout wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. His hair was a sandy blond and receded off his brow, still combed back, probably the way he did it in school. He appeared meticulous but near a level of frustration. He was obviously a man who enjoyed a challenge and was too stubborn to admit when he was outmatched.\n\n\"Why don't you let West do that?\" Jordan asked.\n\n\"If you want it done right, you have to do it yourself,\" Owen answered.\n\n\"But you won't do it right. You hate that kind of stuff. Hell, the waypoints on the Hatteras are still ten miles off,\" Jordan said, becoming more irritated. \"Owen, you need to delegate. It's a concept I would like you to try.\"\n\n\"Leave me alone, I'm almost finished,\" he mumbled without raising his head.\n\n\"It'll have to wait. I have a new recruit I want you to break in.\"\n\n\"Wonderful,\" Sands replied as he looked up to see Joel standing before his desk.\n\n\"I'll leave you two to get acquainted,\" Jordan said as he backed out of the cubicle. Owen watched his boss with crossed eyes as he walked away.\n\n\"Joel, Joel Kenyon,\" he said, extending his outstretched hand.\n\n\"Outstanding,\" Owen replied, still staring at the scanner on his desk.\n\n\"Mind if I give it a try?\"\n\nOwen looked up. \"You know anything about computers?\"\n\n\"Minored in 'em,\" Kenyon answered.\n\nOwen turned the digital display toward Joel who was now seated at the face of the desk.\n\n\"Impress me,\" he said as he left the cubicle.\n\nOwen made his way back up to Jordan's office.\n\n\"What kind of bullshit is this?\" he asked.\n\n\"It's not bullshit, amigo. West's got his hands full with a Blue Lightning Task Force detail this month and I need you to fill in as FTO for a while.\"\n\n\"I don't like it,\" Owen barked.\n\n\"You don't have to like it; you just have to do it.\"\n\n\"I'm going out tonight then,\" Owen replied, almost pouting.\n\"Great, take the Stinger. It hasn't been run in a while,\" Jordan answered.\n\n\"Nah, I think we'll take the Whaler.\"\n\n\"I really wish you'd use a real boat, something with some size. For the kid's sake, you know?\"\n\n\"Na, we'll start out small and work our way up,\" Owen said as he turned and headed toward his cube.\n\n\"As you wish.\"\n\nAs Owen Sands approached his cube, he heard something that sounded like a phone conversation. A woman was talking to another. Apparently, one suspected the other of sleeping with her husband and was quite irate. As he entered the cube they were screaming.\n\n\"What in the hell are you listening to?\" Sands asked.\n\n\"Cellular 880 megahertz. Interesting, huh,\" Joel answered.\n\n\"Great, since you figured it out, program that list on my desk. Then we'll go over your duty gear.\"\n\nJoel looked at the crudely etched list on Sands's desk. It contained working frequencies for the local sheriff, highway patrol, Coast Guard, and a dozen other law enforcement agencies in the area. He looked up for a second to watch a frustrated Owen fumble with the office's coffee machine across the room.\n\n* * * * *\n\nStructure\n\nAt 7:00 a.m., Marion County Florida was enjoying another of its many famous sunrises. In a community that revolved itself around the equestrian industry, many were awake to see the blades of sunlight glisten over dew covered green hills. The sky was a rich blue, and from one end of the horizon to the other, ribbons of white clouds lingered without posing a threat to the peacefulness of the morning.\n\nFrom any of the main roads, Interstate 75 or U.S. Highway 27, simple white wooden fences divided property lines. All were constructed with the architecture of some of the great Kentucky horse parks in mind. This was truly a unique community, one that combined age-old professions with the modern advancements of the twentieth century.\n\nFor Ron Jeffries and his partner Hal Keller, the twenty-four-hour shift had begun like the many before it. They had enjoyed the forty-eight hours off and were anxious to get back to work. Both were seasoned firefighter-paramedics. Both had distinguished careers with the Ocala Fire Department. In the past fifteen years they had seen it all, from five-car pile-ups to warehouse fires involving killer hazardous materials. Both men had taken their share of risks.\n\nThe station they were in was smaller now. It provided enough room for the two men who occupied it to move around in comfort. Each had a private room with a bed, nightstand, vanity and desk. There was a small kitchen complete with a microwave oven, side-by-side refrigerator and a Jenn-Air range. The cable TV, necessary to combat the long, uneventful hours, included every basic and premium channel available. TV consumption was a required task.\n\nThe bay area housed two vehicles. One, a super-duty rescue unit with the latest in firefighting equipment and the other, a three-quarter-ton pickup with a small skid unit pump and two hundred gallon water tank capable of fighting small brush fires.\n\nTheir new employer was a very generous entity. The International Farms Corporation believed that their people were their best assets and taking care of them was a top priority. In keeping with that philosophy, IFC provided the best continuing education available. The men were adapted to the science of high-tech farming and the special needs that subsequently arose, besides the three years of standard firefighting and paramedical courses each had partaken. Unlike Florida's state fire college, Central Florida Fire Academy conveniently located less than five miles away, this training was held at the University of Florida in Gainesville, thirty minutes to the north. Every day for four months, the six full time men commuted back and forth. They had been initially chosen under strict criteria, one that included the stipulation that each man would possess a natural love for animals.\n\nThey studied the veterinary sciences. At the end of the course, the students were prepared to combat a wide variety of horticultural medical emergencies that involved livestock rather than human patients. The primary emphasis focused on emergency birthing procedures; however, basic tasks such as intravenous access, emergency airway management and bleeding control were also covered. It was a long four months, but well worth it. The International Farms staff played a big role in aiding the men with their studies. This was a new and experimental program, paid for by a grant from the farm. The emphasis, they said, was simple: Treat your patients as good as gold, because you see, they are.\n\nAt the front of the complex, Salvador Alcone drove his white Range Rover past the black wrought iron gate that separated the four hundred acre International Farms complex from the rest of Marion County. The ornate iron was mounted to two opposing pillars of carved slate rock imported from North Carolina and intricately rooted in place. Beaming from the structures were two cast monolithic bronze plates; one depicting a mighty bull, perching itself on its fore legs, tall, stout and strong; the other an Arabian, which lacked the strength of the bull but made up for it with its subtle sophistication. Both plates were mortared in place, set for life into the blued mountain rock. The driveway wound through towering oaks that created a canopy over the road. Suspended overhead were layers of gray Spanish moss, like clouds floating in a blue sky. Through the trees and in the distance, rolling hills of green grass absorbed the early morning sun as a light blanket of dew began to evaporate. Multicolored horses galloped through the fields, enticing one another in a morning dance. White fencing stretched for miles in each direction. This was not the typical cattle farm variety but expensive white fences, the type only seen in the finest stables, only with a twist. Polycarbonate plastic made up the posts that were driven three feet into the rich, black soil and vinyl planks made up the cross members, four slates to a length of fence ten feet long.\n\nFor Alcone, the drive was as much a stress reliever as a constant reminder of the years of hard work he had put into building a company that was dedicated to the science of raising healthy cattle. This was a science that benefited not only the United States but also the rest of the Western Hemisphere. In many countries poorer than his own, scores of men, women and children went to bed happier, healthier, and better nourished because of the developments made by Sal and his staff of eighty-five scientists, genealogists and assorted livestock experts. Business Week magazine rated IFC 3,178th among their list of the top five thousand U.S. companies, primarily because the company was debt free, did most of its business internationally and held gross amounts of cash reserves.\n\nAlcone was hailed as the ultimate entrepreneur, but he shunned the media exposure as best he could, guarding his privacy at every turn. This would have been nearly impossible for other businesses since IFC was a privately held company with a net worth of over one hundred and twenty million U.S. dollars and a projected five year growth of almost three times that, but it was the sprawling landscape that was his plantation. A plantation was, after all, a farm with painted fences instead of the bare, pine type, or more crudely stretched barbed wire, God forbid. For Sal Alcone, the spread afforded him distance from the outside world, a barrier that insulated him like a cocoon.\n\n\"Mr. Alcone, sir?\" came a voice from an opening door.\n\n\"Delgado,\" Sal answered.\n\n\"Sir, it's nice to meet you,\" Del said.\n\n\"And here too,\" Sal replied, holding out his hand, shaking Del's.\n\n\"I understand you have just gotten out of Eglin. My associate, Gus Greico, speaks highly of you. He says you're a man of many talents.\"\n\n\"Gus is a good man. I'm glad all of that is over... for both of us,\" Del said.\n\n\"You are a very loyal man Gus says.\"\n\n\"Sal Alcone, that's an interesting name. It sounds Italian, but you have a distinct Spanish accent,\" Del inquired.\n\n\"Actually, my given name is Salvador Alcone, but I changed it when I came to the U.S. in '77.\"\n\n\"Cuban?\"\n\n\"Italian and Cuban.\"\n\n\"Why do I have the feeling we've met somewhere before?\"\n\n\"Maybe we have, Cuba is a small island,\" Sal responded as he turned and walked back to his desk.\n\nDel felt perplexed. He had been out of the Eglin work camp for less than a week and he was having a consuming conversation with a man who was undoubtedly one of the most powerful in his industry. And that's when he saw it: the Diablo tattoo on Sal's right hand.\n\n\"How did you get that?\" Del asked, almost insisting.\n\n\"What, this?\" he replied calmly, lifting his hand higher.\n\n\"Yes, that. How did you get that?\" Del repeated, putting his hand next to Sal's.\n\n\"Okay, I have a confession. When Greico told me that you had the mark of the Diablo on you, I got curious so I asked him to watch you for a while. That is how we confirmed it. You and I are from the same slums in Havana my friend.\"\n\n\"But that was such a long time ago,\" Del said.\n\n\"Yes it was Del, but I had a young friend named Peter, an orphan like me. I remember the night I held him down and the rest of our gang gave him a tattoo just like that.\"\n\n\"That damned thing hurt more than anything I can remember...Sal?\"\n\n\"It's me my little brother. After all these years, who would have figured?\" Sal said as the two hugged.\n\n\"You saved my life man...\"\n\n\"Sal, you saved my fucking life. I thought you were dead. Those thugs, cops, whatever they were...I heard the shots,\" Del reflected as tears formed at the base of his eyes.\n\n\"They shot towards me but not at me. I was lucky, but since I was older than the rest of you they locked me up. I escaped three years before Mariel and hitched a ride to Miami.\"\n\n\"Now look at you,\" Del said, pointing to the elaborate finishing in his office.\n\nThe two walked out onto the front lawn and boarded a golf cart. The whine of the electric motor kicked in as the two glided down a gravel path towards a group of stables housing rows of fierce bulls.\n\n\"We have a successful business here Del, representing many years of hard work and lots of money,\" Sal boasted.\n\n\"What is it actually that you do?\" Del asked.\n\n\"We harvest semen.\"\n\n\"See what?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Semen, Del. Bull sperm for cows so they can make bigger, stronger cows. We have the best here. It's all in the genes,\" Sal explained. \"It's an international commodity; some of our clients pay as much as twenty thousand dollars an ounce for the stuff. We also provide training in some of the latest artificial insemination techniques known in the world today...a world we are trying to help feed.\"\n\n\"Incredible...\" a wide-eyed Del said, thinking of the possibilities.\n\n\"What about the poor countries that can't afford twenty thousand dollars an ounce?\" Del asked.\n\n\"You always were the smart one. That's where we make our largest profits. Think of it my friend: Columbia, Bolivia, Afghanistan, and Turkey. Many of the cattle farmers don't have the money to compete on such a level, but what they do have we are willing to take on as a trade at a sizeable margin in our favor. The net effect is that we are paying under a grand a kilo for coke and just twice that for a kilo of heroin. Heroin is at eighty-nine thousand a kilo on the streets in New York,\" Sal announced with a confident smile.\n\n\"I'm impressed,\" Del said, still caught off-guard by the sheer magnitude of what he was seeing.\n\n\"I need help Del. We own so much product but we can't get half of it into the U. S.\"\n\n\"I won't lie to you Sal. We are a grass shop...always have been. It's going to be hard to convince my partners to change gears and start moving coke,\" Del explained.\n\n\"I understand. Think of it this way: An owner pays you eighty to a hundred dollars a pound to get his huge bales into the country. The stuff is messy, it smells, and the dogs can detect it a mile away. It also practically takes a freighter to get a decent sized load across the Gulf Stream. My product, on the other hand, is paying eighteen hundred dollars a kilo, just 2.2 pounds, is smaller, comes with waterproof packaging, is a clean load, and comes with handles.\"\n\n\"Handles?\" Del asked.\n\n\"We use military type duffel bags made of a tough canvas, cheap and easy to handle. We import them to South America, directly from Taiwan.\"\n\n\"Eighteen hundred?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Eighteen hundred,\" Sal said.\n\n\"Let me see what I can do.\"\n\n\"Do me a favor Del. Take Gus Greico with you. Let him see your operation and then we can talk some more.\"\n\n\"I can do that,\" Del replied as the golf cart stopped in front of an old deserted brick warehouse.\n\n\"Hey, I have something special I want to show you,\" Sal offered.\n\n\"Like I haven't seen enough already,\" Del said sarcastically.\n\n\"This will let you know how much I trust you.\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Del acknowledged.\n\nSal Alcone switched on the lights and simultaneously, a hundred fluorescent lights surged with energy, illuminating the acre-sized room and exposing the remnants of an old porcelain factory. Pallets of new sinks, toilets and other bathroom fixtures cluttered the large space. The two walked through the building to another door that led to a smaller warehouse, the building that housed his secret hobby. Parked neatly in rows, like a museum, were police cars from one end of the huge room to the other. Each one was different from the next. A state trooper car from Connecticut sat next to a patrol car from Chicago and next to that, a black and white LAPD cruiser.\n\n\"You collect police cars?\" Del asked, perplexed by the idea.\n\n\"Yep,\" Sal answered simply.\n\n\"Why? What do you do, buy them at auctions?\"\n\n\"I don't buy them Del. I steal them.\"\n\n\"No...\" Del said, understanding the genius in his friend's hobby.\n\n\"Look around. Most still have the keys in them, just like we took them. Hell, if you're ever hungry, I'm sure you can find more than a few half-eaten donuts and plenty of cold coffee.\"\n\n\"You're insane,\" Del added smiling.\n\n\"Insanity is a relative commodity my friend.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nProceedings\n\nFrom the street, Del's home appeared humble. The house was dressed in southern style stucco, painted white, blending in with the other houses on this stretch of Hialeah's Ninth Avenue where the rusty metal bars that covered the numerous windows were a common sight. In the driveway sat a Toyota Corolla, a Ford pickup, and an older green Ford Torino station wagon. Perched in the front yard was a molded plastic playhouse, the type seen erected in the middle of a Toys \"R\" Us store.\n\nInside, Alberto Mendez, one of the Cho Cho Brothers, sat alone on a mauve-colored leather couch. The occasional chirp of a caged exotic bird in the corner of the room and the constant moan of a water fountain echoed from the twelve-foot-high vaulted ceilings that housed a slow turning fan spinning over Mendez's head. At 10:00 a.m., all was quiet in the house. He hadn't been in Del's house since its last redecoration. Del's sister, Risa, spent almost a month planning the d\u00e9cor, causing her brother to spend more cash on this than he originally paid for the house three years earlier. Each of the bathrooms was gutted and everything down to the cabinets and fixtures were changed and updated. The carpets were torn out and replaced with handcrafted Mexican tiles in the halls and living room and oak hardwoods in the bedrooms. The home was completed just before Del was to start his sentence at Eglin. At that time, he was living with Marsha Bouie in the Redlands, close to his partners Roberto and Gordo. The house was a labor of love for his sister whose husband had left her four years prior with two small children, Raina, age five, and the baby, Petito, who was two. Besides making a nice place for her brother to come home to after prison, it was also important that Risa had a comfortable house for her two children.\n\nDel's sister was very religious. Like Gordo, she followed the Mishawaka and Santeria faiths, also called \"La Regla Lucumi,\" a sect that merged Native American, Caribbean and Roman Catholic beliefs into one. Her religious artifacts were everywhere, including a large ceramic eye that was mounted to the top of the wall in a remote corner of the room so that it could be seen from all four corners. Below it, placed on the floor, a shrine of sorts made up of the flowing fountain, kept alive with a small water pump salvaged from an old aquarium. Flowers, rice, dried beans, and chicken feathers surrounded the basin. Inside, immersed in the cool, clear, flowing water was a pair of rusty handcuffs. She believed this would protect her brother from prosecution and another prison sentence. In the opposite corner next to the bird was a wooded Indian warrior standing almost six feet tall, complete with a carved feather headdress and war paint. Alberto always thought it was funny that Risa insisted on putting her bird next to a carving with so many feathers.\n\n\"Hey man, what's up?\" asked Del as he entered the room, pulling his friend into a tight embrace. He was wearing jogging shorts, no shoes or socks, and a pullover sweatshirt, not the button-up physician's shirt and matching polyester pants he was usually seen in. Alberto stood to his feet hugging his much taller friend.\n\n\"Well, are you ready this time?\" Del asked as the two stepped back.\n\n\"I got the parts for the other motor and she is running great. I did the work myself so I know it's done right,\" said Alberto.\n\n\"You can't let me down this time. This is my first load since I got out and I want it to go right. The load is coming from Andros and they will start to cross at about eight or as soon as it gets dark.\"\n\n\"What reef do you want me at?\"\n\n\"Go to Molasses. Anchor out a bit and monitor CB Channel Four. Roberto and I will be out there in the big boat, Vibrations, and there will be a second boat to bring in half the load. I think you remember Red and Stump. As soon as you make contact, switch to Channel Seven. You will be meeting with Philipe.\"\n\n\"Gordo?\"\n\n\"Yeah, listen. He will be in a 36-foot Mirage called the Cigarette. His Stiletto, the Black Duck, is in the shop. The boat has outboards so you probably won't be able to hear it until he's right on you. He's bringing four thousand pounds of which you will take two. The clavo is at Taylor Creek.\"\n\nDel tried to convey confidence to the less experienced Alberto. Two years prior, Alberto lost a three thousand pound load. The barrowed boat he was using caught fire and they had to dump the product mid ocean. Del could tolerate the menace of law enforcement; it was a price of doing business. If someone got hurt, he would abandon the load in a heartbeat. But avoidable mechanical problems had no place in such a risky operation.\n\n\"Alberto, remember that guy, the one on the TV show about stunt men? You used to be so impressed with him.\"\n\n\"Ivan the Great, the motorcycle guy?\"\n\n\"Yeah, well you see, he is in the type of business where you can't afford to have a bad day; one goof and you're red meat on the hood of a car in front of thousands of people. Our business is much the same way. You need to invest a little more time and money into this venture. After this one is over, I expect you to buy a new fucking boat.\"\n\n\"I will, I promise. I got laid off at Aquasport Boats. Business is slow and they had to cut thirty people. I need this real bad man.\"\n\n\"I hear you. You still rigging boats?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Hell yes, the best rigger in Miami bro.\"\n\n\"Let me talk to Scott Roberts over at Indian Powerboats. I think he's looking for some fresh faces. In the meantime, let's do this thing right, okay?\"\n\nAlberto needed a break. He had been laid off and had spent his family's savings on the La Pinta, a 24-foot, twin-engine boat that needed more than it offered.\n\n\"Oh, by the way...I can only pay five points.\"\n\nAlberto stopped for a second looking down at the floor. Despite the fact he knew the going rate was seven to ten dollars per pound, he realized he was not in a position to bargain. He nodded his head and walked out the door.\n\nDel picked up a portable phone resting in its battery charger next to the couch.\n\n\"It's taken care of. I can handle two thousand additional shares of that stock. So there's no confusion, my commission is eighty-five points...right? Okay.\" The beep of the phone disconnecting echoed from the high ceilings. Del walked over to the fountain, pulled out a rusty spark plug, and dropped it in.\n\n\"Good luck my Cho Chos.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nHostel\n\nAs Joel opened the front door to his new apartment, the air hitting him in the face smelled of stale bread. The two-bedroom flat was spacious and he hadn't been assigned a roommate, which gave him the privacy he desired. The place was fully stocked with linens, dishes, pots, pans, and enough garbage bags to last a year. On a scale of one to ten, judging the eleven places Joel had called home over the last six years, this apartment in the Plantation Key Colony Condominium ranked a solid eight. Only his sister's house in Atlanta, a ten and the dormitory at the Glynnco Academy, a nine because of the food, ranked higher.\n\nAt the bottom of the scale was a pup tent he occupied while waiting for a crew spot on one of the fishing boats out of Sitka, Alaska. Of the things Joel's father left him after his death, his most cherished were the BMW he had to temporarily leave in Seattle and a thick wool sleeping bag that proved to be very valuable during the cold Alaskan nights. After three months, a spot opened up on Sunshine, a 110-foot steel-hulled crab boat on its way to Anchorage. His bunk on the ship was clearly a two on the scale and, due to the bunk's short length, Joel got to fold over the end of his sleeping bag at the head to bolster his pillow. Other than the tight quarters, he enjoyed his time at sea earning the respect of the crew, an incredible feat since he was fundamentally different from everyone else on the boat. Besides being disciplined, punctual, educated, and possessing more teeth than the rest of the crew combined, he was searching for that thing the rest of the boat had already found, a search that was still not complete by the end of the voyage. The crew and captain were sorry to see him go after their four-month trip as he did his job well and helped them land a record catch that was profitable for everyone.\n\nHis next stop was a wildfire in Southern California, the largest the state had ever seen. His home for two months was a base camp at the foot of a mountain that was a three on the scale and was comprised of a large warehouse with seventy bunk beds. Joel fought the flames every day, coming back to the bunkhouse each evening covered in red fire retardant. The work was a diversion though, and despite the total exhaustion, he felt like he was accomplishing something important at the end of the day. It was this experience that reinforced the notion that he had to finish his degree. He had dropped out of the Citadel in the middle of his second year against the wishes of his sister Jhenna, who pleaded for him to finish.\n\nAfter a month living in his tent on the beach in Baja, he enrolled in classes at UC Berkeley where he completed his bachelor's degree majoring in political science. He rented a room in a four-bedroom townhouse with five other students, a home that was always loud with parties, alcohol, young coeds, and music. Being the eldest in the house was both a blessing and a curse. Whenever the police were called to calm things down, he was the one who was summoned by his roommates, primarily because of his ability to reason with the officers and negotiate an amicable outcome. He put in his time though and two and a half years later, he graduated, leaving the townhouse, which was, with all things considered, a five on the scale.\n\nAn ad in the \"Alternative Help Wanted\" section of the Los Angeles Times prompted him to drive to Montana where a horse farm was willing to trade room, board and two hundred dollars a week for what the ad said would be \"an unforgettable experience.\" Joel quickly learned that horses were not his forte, developing a new respect for farmhands and the suspicions of Buck, the farm's manager who caught Joel with his twenty-year-old daughter in one of the barn lofts during what could only be described as a poorly planned rendezvous. The cabins were adequate though and earned a solid five on the scale mainly because of the view of the surrounding snow-covered mountains.\n\nHis last stop before retreating to his sister's was a ski lodge on the top of North Carolina's Beach Mountain where he landed a job as a ski instructor. His chateau cabin was clearly a ten, less four points because he couldn't afford to pay for the heat. After three broken legs, a broken arm, six dislocated shoulders and a major head injury, Joel's bosses decided they couldn't afford to visit another student in the hospital.\n\nIt was fate, or something like it, when his BMW rolled into Jhenna's driveway in Buckhead, a trendy suburb of Atlanta. Jhenna had always been an independent woman which was why Joel was so surprised when she dated and then married Pat Stephens, a man who was their father's lead prosecutor eight years before. Pat was fourteen years older, a career government service employee, and represented all of the things that were completely opposite of her. To Jhenna, true security came from within, not any institution. At a young age, her life unraveled when her mother left and then again with the death of her father. Joel never got to know his mother but for Jhenna, that separation was devastating and molded her into what she had become.\n\nJoel figured that Pat reminded his sister of their father though to him, Pat was no John Kenyon. Pat was at least an inch shorter than his sister, a stark contrast to their father who stood six-foot-four.\n\nThis home would be different, mainly because it represented a milestone in his life. He had something to build upon: a stable job and a future with serious benefits, something his father always preached about but he could never understand. But wasn't that the way it always was between sons and fathers, he thought to himself. It took the real world to teach some of our most valuable lessons.\n\n\"Joel?\" a woman yelled through the partially opened front door.\n\n\"Yes, can I help you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm Betty Sands, Owen's mother,\" she explained.\n\n\"Well, it's very nice to meet you Mrs. Sands.\"\n\n\"I live just across the hall. We share the same washer and dryer.\"\n\n\"That's good to know ma'am, thanks for coming by.\"\n\n\"Don't let me bother you though son, I'm sure you have a lot of unpacking to do.\"\n\n\"You're no bother Mrs. Sands. Thanks for coming by,\" he said as she closed the door behind her.\n\n* * * * *\n\nComplicit\n\nIn a foggy mist, Gordo panted as he dumped the forty-seven burlap-skinned bales off the side of the Black Duck, his 38-foot Stiletto. He never had a good back and this exertion was proving to be more than he or his failing spine could take. But he was desperate. He was amazed at how calm the ocean was as he watched each bale hit the water. The surface was as smooth as a pane of glass. With the last bale over the side, the Stiletto, now almost three thousand pounds lighter, slid off the top of the Island Girl just as his nephew's body floated to the surface, lingering by the floating bales. With a boat hook in hand, Gordo pulled the lifeless body closer to his boat. Silence was all around him. The only sound he could detect was his own heartbeat, something his nephew Bobby no longer possessed. As the body floated closer to the side of his boat, he reached over to pull him in and that's when his back rebelled with a series of spasms that brought the three hundred and twenty pound man to his knees in a surge of unbearable pain. He grabbed Bobby's wrist, feeling for a pulse, the water still thick with blood. It was limp and lifeless.\n\nIn a moment of desperation, looking at his nephew's gold and stainless Rolex, he did what he believed was right.\n\n\u2022\n\nGordo awoke with a jolt as their car hit a pothole. Del, who was driving with one hand and holding a cup of coffee with the other, cursed as some of the scalding liquid dripped down his forearm.\n\n\"Shit!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Gordo asked, rubbing his eyes.\n\n\"These roads suck. Did you enjoy your nap?\"\n\n\"Man, I keep having these dreams.\"\n\n\"You can say that again. You were yelling something. I was going to wake you but you know what people say.\"\n\n\"No, what do people say, Del?\"\n\n\"Not to wake someone if they are dreaming.\"\n\n\"No man, that's sleepwalking. Don't wake anyone who is sleepwalking. You can wake me anytime you want from one of those dreams,\" Gordo insisted.\n\nThe two were making their rounds, getting everything ready for the next night. It was a reunion for Del who had not seen the regular crew in almost two years and an opportunity to get acquainted with the new men Gordo had enlisted in the meantime. The rounds began in North Key Largo with a visit to Kevin Pinder, the owner of the clavo, the safehouse, or in this case, the mobile home where the merchandise would be stored and weighed before being moved to Miami. Pinder was happy to see the two. He said he needed the money. Pinder always needed the money. He did have job security though. His trailer was conveniently located close to Key Largo's Taylor Creek, a secluded pathway to and from the ocean-bound routes. Pinder would receive five points, or ten thousand dollars for every ton of merchandise received. Pinder's only other job was as a line apprentice with the Florida Keys Electric Co-op, so his lifestyle ranged from feast to famine. Parties and non-stop noise could be expected mere days after the successful delivery of a load, lasting for as long as the money did. Kevin Pinder and his friends looked forward to it. The experience was exciting and the rewards were bountiful.\n\n\"So what do you think about us taking on business from Gus Greico?\" Del asked.\n\n\"I don't know. It sure would help things out when the season is down,\" Gordo answered.\n\n\"Well, between you and me, what we would be moving doesn't have seasons.\"\n\n\"What are you talking about Del. Guns?\"\n\n\"No idiot, coke!\"\n\n\"Shit, don't let Roberto hear you say that. You know how he hates that shit,\" Gordo said.\n\n\"I know, and Gordo, I hope this conversation is between us.\"\n\n\"Always man. No, you don't have to worry about that man, but Roberto won't like any idea of working with coke.\"\n\n\"Give me one good reason why we shouldn't think about expanding our horizons.\"\n\n\"Expanding our horizons? Man, this Greico guy has you snowed.\"\n\n\"Greico has very little to do with it. I'm the one who solicited him.\"\n\n\"Solicited? You been soliciting in jail, Del?\" Gordo asked with a smile.\n\n\"Maric\u00f3n.\"\n\n\"Del, when was the last time you heard of someone getting busted for pot, unless of course it was some dumbshit who got lost or something. But everyday you hear of the coke. The murders...the big time corruption...Roberto doesn't want any part of it and personally, I don't blame him,\" Gordo explained.\n\n\"Greico does a lot of business with pot,\" Del replied.\n\n\"Bring it on. I'm a reefer hauling fool man.\"\n\n\"You are that, you crazy son of a bitch.\"\n\n\"Hey, don't take it personally. It's just that we're down-home type people. I would hate to think that Gordito got hooked on some of the coke that I brought in,\" Gordo said.\n\n\"You never know, the stuff would make him lose a few pounds.\"\n\n\"Hey! Don't start that shit.\"\n\n\"Yeah, you're right. Let him smoke the reefer.\"\n\n\"I'm telling you mother fucker!\" Gordo warned with a half smile. \"Could you imagine Gordito with the munchies, ay mi madre?!\"\n\n\"And you with a contact high. Shit, Cecilia would be working around the clock to feed the two of you.\"\n\n\"Shit, that would be a sight,\" Gordo said.\n\n\"Is Gordito alright, I mean he doesn't have a pituitary problem or anything like that, does he?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Shit no. He's just got big bones and baby fat, you know.\"\n\nThe next stop was at the insurance office of Carson Plimpton. Located in a top floor office was Carson's youngest son of four, Jimmy. An avid angler, Jim Plimpton had won the respect of the Upper Keys fishing community and through a connection with Bobby Alazar had, in the process, assumed the responsibility for the senior Alazar's counter-surveillance activities.\n\nThe last stop on the list was to the home of Red and Stump Albritton. The brothers, whose names resembled more of a cartoon comic strip than a family legacy, were experienced boat runners. Gordo had recruited them from another operation, meeting the two during a crossing at Gordo's island retreat on North Andros in the Bahamas. They would be responsible for piloting \"Old Faithful,\" as Roberto called it, a 26-foot Chris-Craft open sports fisherman. The boat was old and in dire need of cosmetic repairs but with her twin 454 power plants and new Volvo outdrives, the Chris never missed a beat and always delivered her load.\n\nAfter leaving the Keys, the two drove to Gordo's house where Del left in his car. Gordo spent the next four hours preparing his 36-foot Mirage powerboat for the Gulf Stream crossing. He checked the lube in the lower units of each of the four outboards and then recharged the hydraulic steering system. At a local gas station, he took on three hundred gallons of 93-octane fuel. Later he shopped at a grocery store, stocking up on enough food to keep himself and the crew of the plane he was soon to be aboard happy for a week if the need arose.\n\nDel returned later in the day and drove Gordo's dually truck with the boat to the Bayfront Park in Homestead. There, they launched the boat and Gordo, his boat fueled and full of provisions, left for North Andros, Bahamas.\n\n* * * * *\n\nYo Yos\n\nThe Yellow Baithouse was a small, modest convenience store and bait shop that was nestled between two large dogwood trees along Key Largo's main highway, U.S. 1. The store was a landmark for fishermen and boaters who needed a wide variety of angling equipment as well as both live and frozen baits, from hand-rigged ballyhoo to iced-down shrimp.\n\nThe fall afternoon was like many in South Florida. A typical northeastern breeze blew across an open field behind the shop, blowing cool air into an opened back door. An older green Ford Torino station wagon parked in front of the main entrance. As the driver killed the ignition, it sputtered and spat with engine run-on, the type of condition commonly seen in vehicles produced in the late '70s when primitive catalytic converters converged with newer unleaded fuels making a sound resembling a steel ball bouncing around in a tin can. The car ran on as the Cho Chos, Chino and Alberto Mendez, exited the car and entered the small store. Self-proclaimed twins, the brothers had a six-year age difference. Alberto, the younger and more aggressive of the two, led the way.\n\nInside, the store was cluttered with Styrofoam coolers, fishing poles, lures and other gear that covered the walls. On the wall next to the front door was a framed picture of a man standing next to a string of twenty or so hanging red snappers. The angler had red, curly hair and at the bottom of the photo, written with a black magic marker it said, To the Yellow Baithouse - Thanks a bunch guys - Jim Plimpton, The Redfisher.\n\nThe stench of bait filled the tiny building. In the back were tanks filled with live shrimp, ballyhoo, and mullet. Loud air pumps ran continuously aerating the saltwater in the tanks.\n\nAlberto went for food while Chino surveyed the bait.\n\n\"What's running?\" Chino asked the American behind the counter.\n\n\"Everyone is coming back with dolphin and amberjack.\"\n\n\"In that case, I had better go with the frozen.\"\n\nThe short, pudgy man reached into a cold box mounted under the counter. Frosty air escaped the cooler, dissipating into the air. He pulled out three frozen packages, placing the rock-hard squares on the Formica-covered countertop next to an old metal cased cash register, bumping a point of purchase display containing the current edition of Newsweek magazine. The cover read \"The War On Drugs: Are We Really Winning?\" The American behind the counter punched the figures into the register, making it ring with every entry.\n\n\"One pound of ballyhoo, two pounds of mullet. Will that be all?\"\n\n\"Just a second. Hey! Berto...\"\n\n\"Yeah, wait a second,\" his brother shouted from the back of the store.\n\nThe smaller Alberto, barely one hundred and ten pounds, hurried up to the counter, speaking in a high-pitched, wired voice.\n\n\"I hope this is enough stuff. I get really hungry when it gets cold,\" he said, tossing items next to the frozen bait before returning to the back of the store. Again, he approached the counter, this time with his arms full. Two bottles of Clorox, a can of Comet cleanser, two Yo-Yos, and a Butterfinger.\n\nA few minutes later the tired Torino wagon eased onto the paved apron of the public boat ramp at the Caribbean Club in Key Largo. The Caribbean Club had been a local hot spot for over fifty years and had been made famous because it was used as a primary location for the classic Humphrey Bogart film Key Largo. Using the car's mirrors, Chino guided the faded white boat down the concrete incline, gradually immersing the hull into the water. From being stiff and ridged on the steel trailer, the boat bobbed free with flotation, secured to the bow with a stainless cord connected to the trailer's power winch. Alberto quickly took a braided rope off the boat's bow while he unsnapped the stainless cord and pulled the boat to a wooden finger pier that extended from the ramp. From there, he jumped onto the planked platform as it creaked under his feet, trying to make it to the end without stepping in one of the many bird droppings. He walked the boat to the end of the dock while Chino parked the car and trailer.\n\nAlberto continued to hold the line while his brother jumped into the cockpit. The next few minutes were spent trying to find the keys to the twin-engine boat before starting the one functional motor. The other engine had been frozen tight since its purchase four months before. After pumping the lever-activated accelerator, the tired engine sprang to life. As Chino revved it a few times, thick gray smoke filled the air around the transom and water bubbled up around the outdrive.\n\nThe boat cruised along at a slow but steady pace making its way through the hundred foot wide passage known as the Key Largo Cut. The Cut was a man-made channel like the Panama Canal, a gorge sliced through the land. In this case though, the land was almost a mile of solid coral rock, at one time a living creature, growing from what was a reef several million years before. Now it was just a big rock, as hard as concrete, and the perfect foundation for the world's largest carved sculpture. The channel connected the Atlantic Ocean to the east with Florida Bay to the west.\n\nBecause of the great tidal difference, three to five feet in the ocean and one to two feet in the bay, powerful currents flowed in either direction. At 4:00 p.m., the current was flowing against the La Pinta such that, at one point, she appeared to sit motionless with respect to the land while in the middle of the channel, barely keeping up with the rushing water. Eventually it made its way to the Pennekamp Park's South Creek and a short time after that, the two were cruising out a heavily marked channel eastward towards the Molasses Reef light at a slow pace under the power of the one running engine.\n\nFour miles later, Chino and Alberto dropped their steel anchor into the rolling sea. It sliced through the cold water striking the sandy bottom fifteen feet below, clinging to a mound of coral, holding the boat tight against the passing current. All was quiet as the small boat rolled with the passing waves. The two men walked about, trying all the time to keep their balance, setting up fishing lines and baiting hooks.\n\nUnlike most who fished with conventional rods and reels, Chino and Alberto used the traditional Cuban yo-yo. Shaped like a small tire rim and usually made of plastic, the yo-yo was a simple device which one could wind monofilament line around. There was no casting involved which made the yo-yo easy to use. If the user could catch the current with the bait, the line would just fall off the rim, sending fifty to a hundred feet of line into the water within seconds. Reeling in was just as simple. There was no complicated tension or drag controls to adjust. Simple wrist action determined how much pressure was placed against the line when making a catch. It was an art, seasoned by time and experience; one that depended more on the abilities of the user than the design of the device itself.\n\nBoth Chino and Alberto, having used the primitive devices since early childhood, had the process down to a science. Within minutes, four lines were dragging the current. Weighted down by three-ounce leads, the baits glided, suspended in the flow beneath the boat.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDescent\n\nThe Captain's Cabin was a favorite hangout for local fishermen, boat mechanics, and the agents of the Tavernier field office. Burly, bearded men sat against a long cypress bar trimmed in weathered two-inch dock line.\n\nGrouper filets, oysters and other sundry raw bar items were prepared behind on a recessed open flame grill. The beer came fresh from the tap, always served in frosted glass mugs. The rest of the room was filled with vinyl-backed upholstered booths and a regulation pool table that was always in use. Smaller tables made from old lobster traps filled the room while ceiling fans turned constantly, circulating warm, smoke-filled air. As the saloon door swung open, the smell of belched beer and burnt popcorn hit Joel in the face.\n\n\"Joel! Amigo, how's it going young man?\" Holmes yelled as he approached the bar.\n\n\"Hey Holmes. I thought I'd get something to eat before I went out tonight,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Great, try the dolphin sandwich. It's to die for and it goes great with a nice cold beer...or two,\" Holmes replied, slurring the last part of the sentence.\n\nJoel watched over Holmes's shoulder through a large bay window as one of the agents, Mark West, pulled into the large parking lot. He was in Jordan Cheney's silver dually pickup and was towing the service's 38-foot Stiletto. The sun gleamed from the bright white Fiberglas and cold stainless steel trim. Now that's a boat, Joel thought to himself.\n\n\"Bet he sleeps with that thing...What do you think Joel?\" Holmes said, patting Joel on the back.\n\n\"Huh? Yeah, right,\" Joel replied, partially distracted.\n\nWest completed his circle of the parking lot and backed the rig into the mouth of an adjacent boat ramp that fronted the canal. West was tall and thin, had dark hair and a dark sun-cured complexion. His dark aviator sunglasses completed the picture. He seemed more like a pilot than a boat captain. After exiting the truck he checked over the craft, much like an aircraft preflight check, examining the boat from bow to stern. If he was anything, Agent Mark West was meticulous.\n\nJoel left the crowd and walked toward the trailered boat. As he approached, West was down on his knees inserting a brass drain plug into the transom.\n\n\"Hey kid. The crowd a little noisy for you?\" West asked.\n\n\"Well you know, just not my kind of scene.\"\n\n\"Well if you don't mind, maybe you can give me a hand. I need you to back me down the ramp.\"\n\n\"Sure, no problem,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Remember, when I tell you to stop, put on the emergency brake and give me a hand tying up,\" West instructed.\n\nWest climbed up the side of the boat and waited. As Joel backed down the steep decline toward the water, he felt the weight of the boat pull against the screeching brake pads. Foot by foot, the boat's outdrives, trailer, and wheels became submerged. As the boat became buoyant, West gave the order to stop. Joel put the truck in park and applied the parking brake as requested. As he did though, the transmission popped back out of park and into reverse. Joel looked at the indicator over the steering column. The illuminated R puzzled him as he jammed the shift lever back towards park. It seemed to stay this time and he went back to tie up the boat.\n\nThe Stiletto had floated back, away from the ramp and towards a finger pier. Joel walked over to the pier and took a dock line from the captain. As soon as he bent over to secure the line to the dock cleat, a loud SNAP came from under the truck. Instantly, the whole rig started to roll backwards down the ramp. Joel's heart stopped as he watched the trailer disappear under the surface of the water. He couldn't move. He couldn't bear to look as water splashed against the moving tailgate. Then suddenly, the discarded winch cable from the trailer caught a small dock cleat. The rig stopped with only part of the rear bumper underwater. Joel let out a sigh of relief. West stood motionless, still staring in disbelief.\n\n\"Well don't just stand there kid!\" he said.\n\nInstantly, the saloon patrons, headed up by Holmes, exited the building. Most were laughing. Two approached the seawall and analyzed the truck's exhaust pipe that was now bubbling under the cold water, illuminated by the truck's red taillights.\n\nHolmes and a small crowd from the bar approached Joel with drunken waves of laughter.\n\n\"You're one of the luckiest men alive Joel. If anything would have happened to Cheney's truck, you would have been fucked,\" Holmes blurted out, red-faced and exuberant.\n\nJoel wiped his brow as he looked down at the truck. But before he could even think of how to remedy the situation, the loose dock cleat at his feet broke away under the massive stress and the truck shot backwards, deeper into the water. The heavy truck floated for a minute, teasing Joel in the process.\n\nInstantly, the surrounding laughter was silenced as Joel again tried to catch his breath. Holmes ran over to the side of the seawall and peered over at the hood of the running truck. It bubbled and gurgled as the cold liquid overcame it. The water became a churning mess of bubbling white froth, fuel and oil debris as the truck sank to the bottom of the deep canal.\n\n\"Holy shit Joel! You're fucked!\" Holmes exclaimed in a burst of stunned amazement.\n\nIn the crowd of silence, one person, Agent West, managed to stand out. \"There are easier ways to get a box of cereal kid,\" he said, patting Joel on the back before re-boarding the Stiletto.\n\nCereal? Joel thought to himself.\n\nWest chuckled as he started the boat's engines that fired without hesitation.\n\n\"Are you coming Holmes?\" West yelled out.\n\nAs Holmes pushed the boat off the dock, West jockeyed it from the ramp opening and powered her around, heading out the canal toward the open ocean.\n\n\u2022\n\nThirty minutes later, Joel was surprised to find out that tow trucks in the Florida Keys were equipped with diving gear and scuba certified drivers. Joel watched as the man, wearing a wetsuit that had Keys Towing and Salvage stenciled on the back, surfaced through the cold water, guiding himself up by the steel wire he had attached to the front bumper of Cheney's downed truck.\n\n\"It's not going to be pretty. The trailer is tangled up with the truck,\" the diver said as his voice echoed from the steep walls of the canal.\n\n\"Just get the damned thing out of there, okay?\" Joel said.\n\nSeconds later, the diver was back to being the tow truck operator and after stowing the dive gear, positioned himself at the rear of the large truck. Then he activated some levers and, as the large truck's engine started to increase in revolutions, the center-mounted boom winch wound up, drawing in its catch like a well-oiled rod and reel. Inch by inch, the truck creaked and moaned as it strained to draw up the sunken dually and trailer. It was ten minutes before the front bumper and grill pierced the water's surface. Ten minutes after that, the boom was raised and was pulling the sunken truck up and onto the incline of the boat ramp. Joel watched as the driver opened the driver's side door. Seawater, small fish and a lobster emptied out onto the ramp. He had seen enough.\n\nAs Joel walked back to his car, he looked down at his watch. 6:17 p.m. He was supposed to meet Owen Sands at the Tavernier office at 6:30. He shook his head. This was not going to be his day. And to top it off, he still had to face Cheney in the morning.\n\n* * * * *\n\nPartition\n\nRoberto Alazar turned the switch igniting the sixteen diesel pistons below the hard Fiberglas deck at his feet. Black smoke erupted from the transom exhaust as the massive engine roared to life. Over the freshly painted decks, Roberto and Gordo's younger cousin, Mongi Alazar, scurried fore and aft securing the loose lines and stowing shore power cables and water supply hoses under the deck. Mongi was an agent of sorts. He represented the owners of the load, businessmen who usually invested cash into a seasonal crop and took calculated risks upon its return. Mongi's job was simple. He made the arrangements and looked over the handling of the load. He also operated the clavo in Miami. Although Roberto ran the crew, Mongi owned the load.\n\nAlazar shifted the engine's transmission into reverse as he spun the oversized, wood-spoked wheel to the port and increased the throttle. The immense 64-foot Vibrations moved slightly at first and then gaining momentum, it maneuvered out of the tight slip etching backwards into the larger, more versatile canal. Alazar jammed the black lever forward. The deck shuttered below as the two thousand horsepower engine diverted the rotation of the spinning propeller. The wooden wheel was spun back to starboard as even more power was requested from the red lever controlling the throttle. Black smoke ascended from the transom's waterline and was blown over the aft deck by the cool breeze. The boat inched forward as it gained speed and momentum. A drafty wake followed, crashing against the algae-covered breakwater rocks that lined both sides of the canal. Alazar adjusted the friction control on the large steering wheel that measured almost four feet in diameter. He then began turning knobs and switches mounted on the console overhead. Instantly, lime and amber colored electronics came to life as the open radar array mounted above the wheelhouse began to sweep in slow revolutions.\n\nAs the Vibrations cleared the end of the breakwater, Alazar took a heading of 090, due East, pointing the craft out to the open ocean. Del's guest, Gus Greico, joined Alazar in the wheelhouse.\n\n\"What time does the tide go out?\" he asked.\n\n\"We are at the top of a six hour cycle. It is 7:00 now, so by 10:00 it will be at its lowest.\"\n\n\"But can we make it back in at low tide?\"\n\nAlazar responded confidently. \"Vibrations draws six feet. Probably not, but by the time we're ready to return, the tide should be at three-quarters if not all the way up.\"\n\nGreico looked concerned, \"What if we go over our time? We might have to stay out here all night. We couldn't return until 7:00 a.m. in broad daylight.\"\n\n\"Gus, my father taught me to never get emotional about things I couldn't change.\"\n\nForty-five minutes later, as Vibrations approached the Molasses tower, Mongi climbed out onto the bow, making a roaring racket as he pulled a twenty-foot length of chain and some one-inch thick rope from a deck-mounted hawser that led to a locker below. The chain was secured to an anchor that hung suspended from the bow pulpit. Then he lowered it, letting it dangle freely above the passing waves.\n\nAs Alazar slowed the boat, Mongi looked back watching him until the captain's signal was given. He released the anchor and with it, the scope of line he had drawn from the rope locker below. It shot through the water, gliding by its flukes to the bottom like a paper airplane slicing through the air. As the anchor came to rest in the sand, Mongi signaled back to Alazar who quickly put the engine into reverse. In a pool of churning water, Vibrations slid backwards pulling the line taut until the anchor set itself deep into the bottom. Alazar shut down the engine and all was silent except the sound of waves lapping against the bow.\n\nAs the boat laid against the moor, everyone on board congregated on the aft deck. The cool breeze blew in from the northeast and the four watched as the sun set in the west, leaving the eastern sky in a shadow of darkness.\n\n\"So what is the game plan from here?\" Greico asked.\n\n\"We wait, Gus,\" Alazar said.\n\n\"Yeah, but where is this great crew I've been hearing so much about?\"\n\n\"They're all around you. That's the beauty of our operation. We live, work and play here. My men and their boats blend into the surroundings. See that hole in the water over there?\" Alazar asked, pointing to the Cho Chos in the La Pinta, anchored two hundred yards to the north.\n\n\"That piece of shit?\"\n\n\"You would never suspect it. These Marimbettos who come in with their go-fasts and loud engines don't have a chance against the cops with faster boats, much less the neighborhood watches and citizen groups. Hell, even the Coast Guard Auxiliary is in the picture. And thanks to this new TV show Miami Vice, they're all looking for the same thing: the Indians, Mirages, Scarabs and Stilettos. Don't get me wrong. Those boats are great for crossing, but from the reef to the Key, we prefer these small pleasure boats. The uglier, the better.\"\n\n\"This makes sense. But what about speed?\"\n\n\"That's where the chase boat comes in. If the Feds are watching us on radar, they will automatically go after the faster boat. It's a proven fact.\"\n\n\"Like Smoky and the Bandit.\"\n\n\"Exactly. Except we don't get a Sally Field,\" Alazar answered as the others chuckled.\n\n\"Look, Gus, there are no guarantees here, but I think if you look at other operations you'll see ours is by far the safest,\" Del said.\n\n\"Del is right, Gus. We've lost some loads...shit who hasn't...but that's the risk you take in this business. If it were easy, everyone would be doing it and that would drive the price down. That's no good. Who wants to work for peanuts?\"\n\n\"Tell me about Gordo,\" Greico asked.\n\n\"Gordo is Roberto's brother. He is a good man,\" Del replied.\n\n\"And he is in charge of the crossing?\"\n\n\"He is the crossing,\" Alazar said. \"My brother insists on doing everything himself. He maintains the camp and airstrip on Andros. He takes care of his own boats. He has never let any of us down.\"\n\n\"Gordo sounds like a valuable asset. As a brother though, what was it like growing up with him?\"\n\n\"Interesting. You always kept your eyes on your food!\" Alazar said.\n\n\"I guess with a name like Gordo, he likes to eat?\"\n\n\"Shit, that's an understatement. When that plane drops its load they had better have a snack on board. It's kind of a tradition.\"\n\n\"And his son is just like him. A perfect clone,\" Del laughed.\n\n\"Poor Gordito. I keep thinking I'm going to see him floating along, aloft, held to the ground by a crew of eight holding lines in some Thanksgiving Day parade someday,\" Alazar added as the other three laughed.\n\nThen suddenly, Del noticed movement one hundred yards off the stern of Vibrations.\n\n\"It's just Red and Stump,\" Alazar said.\n\n\u2022\n\nRed Moran and his cousin, Able Smith, called \"Stump\" because of his blunt, muscular build, sat aboard the blue-hulled 26-foot Chris-Craft, dark and hidden in the shadow of the Molasses Reef light. In view just a hundred yards away, lay Vibrations, fully lit, with the three-second pulse of the reef's warning light shining over her bow. The Chris-Craft, too, was anchored but on the much rougher side of the reef, just before the drop-off of the shelf below. Red disliked mooring on this side. On one trip, months ago, he got the boat's anchor snagged on the twisted coral structures below and ended up having to cut the anchor rope to set them free. The boat rolled and swayed with each oncoming wave. Despite the obvious liabilities, they were in the perfect position, that of complete stealth. They were close enough to the light that the Fiberglas boat would never appear on even the most sophisticated radar, and if a patrol boat did happen along, the bright lights of Vibrations coupled with the lights of the Molasses tower, would almost guarantee them invisible to the naked eye. Even sophisticated night vision, like that of the U.S. Customs and Alazar's own counter-surveillance, could not pierce their veil as there was too much light to render them effective.\n\nRed watched as the 64-foot Vibrations was affected by the waves, even after being buffered by the reef. He felt secure watching the boat's large six-foot radar antenna spin over the wheelhouse, casting a constantly moving shadow into the rigging above.\n\n\"It sure is rough tonight,\" Stump said, trying to break the silence.\n\n\"Yeah, and it's going to get rougher. Did you bring the shit?\"\n\n\"Yeah man, but my sister wouldn't let me use her player so we have to settle for this piece of shit player,\" Stump answered, pointing to a crudely mounted AM\/FM cassette player installed on the boat.\n\n\"Somehow, I knew this was going to happen. Go look in my bag,\" Red instructed, opening the teak louvered door to the forward cabin.\n\nStump made his way below the deck, excited at what new toy his cousin had brought with them to help pass the time. Stump was easily entertained. Despite his bold, muscular look, Stump wasn't very smart. He was tested in the sixth grade and was found to possess an IQ of sixty-four, just high enough to keep him out of the special education classes but lacking in other respects, making his school years difficult and frustrating. After spending two years in the seventh grade and two more in the eighth, Stump walked out of his junior high school, the only student old enough to drive himself home.\n\n\"Holy shit man,\" Stump said as he removed a new Walkman player from the black canvas bag. \"When did you get it?\"\n\n\"Last weekend. I took it off this cokehead dude who needed the money.\"\n\n\"You dog! This is awesome!\"\n\n\"Go ahead, set it up,\" Red suggested as he climbed up on the boat's padded engine hatch before lying out on the foam-filled cushion. He looked up at the stars that seemed brighter offshore. He lay there, feeling the boat rock from side to side, listening to the waves crashing on the jagged coral rocks less than a hundred feet away.\n\n\"Here it is, GTR,\" Stump declared as he slipped the cassette into its mechanized door.\n\nAs the music queued up, the two started jerking and quivering to the beat as Red began to sing in chorus with the lead singer.\n\n\"Mother protect me, protect me from myself. Lately I can't tell, who really are my friends. Burning the candle, the candle at both ends. Through crowds, across floors. Each night I just pretend... When the heart rules the mind...\"\n\nRed had a talent for singing the newer, heavy metal songs. His raspy, high-pitched voice mimicked vocalists like Axl Rose and Steven Tyler. He had let his bright, orange-red hair grow down his back. The color had remained constant for most of his life, thus his namesake given him at birth when he emerged into the world with a small patch of the fiery color on the top of his head. Unlike Stump, Red was his real name given him by his parents. Both his mom and dad were hardcore bikers who believed that the true test of a man rested in his ability to drive his Harley as fast and as hard as possible.\n\nAs the boat rolled and pitched, Red dreamed of the big stage, flinging his red curls in wild circles as the massive sound churned from ten-foot-high speakers.\n\n\"Sunkist, Sunkist, what are you doing?\" squawked out the loud voice of Roberto Alazar over the low powered CB radio.\n\n\"Pepsi, this is Sunkist, sorry I guess we got a little loud,\" Red spoke into to the mic as Stump raced to turn down the volume.\n\n\"They will be able to hear you all the way to Key Largo my friend.\"\n\n\"Yes sir, sorry sir.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nThree miles to the west, Jim Plimpton applied some cherry ChapStick to his cold, dry lips. The crisp wind flowed through and around the mangrove trees, slicing over the top of the salty water. Plimpton sat alone on his 18-foot backcountry flats boat. Tied to an extended mangrove root, he had an excellent vantage point of both the North and Taylor Creeks.\n\nAs the son of a prominent Upper Keys insurance broker, Plimpton was raised in a fine home sparing no indulgence. It was now at the age of twenty-four that the silver spoon was starting to tarnish. His appetite for the finer things in life would require more than that which his father paid him to manage the menial accounts of the family business. At the age of nineteen and against his father's objections, he had opted to withdraw from his second term at Miami-Dade Community College. His grades were mediocre at best and he was not at all appreciative of the things that college life had to offer. It was his father who said he would work, go to school, or move out of the family's half-million dollar mansion in prestigious Port Largo. Thus began his career as a policy pusher. He dealt with all the menial accounts, the clients no one else in the office of twenty-three wanted to handle. There were the drunks who were turned down for their state required SR-22 because of too many DUIs and people like the eighty-seven-year-old widow who had been dropped by another agency because of her failing eyesight. Plimpton closed more of the deals no one else was willing to touch. He had a knack for bending the rules and, despite the fact that his father was not particularly overjoyed, even he looked the other way when it was financially beneficial to do so. Plimpton's ambitions rose, despite the fact he was paid half as much for work that took twice as long. He was driven by the will of showing his overbearing father that he was in control of his life and his success was not to be determined by the amount of sheepskin that hung on the wall of his cubicle.\n\nTime had passed and Plimpton needed bigger challenges, greater adventures, and most of all, more money. He met Bobby Alazar at a backcountry fishing tournament in Islamorada. After a six-month friendship, the younger Alazar brought Plimpton into his family's business. Plimpton's job would be counter-surveillance. As he soon found out, this was the best job of all in the drug trade. He anchored close to the routes of the incoming boats and reported what he saw. He didn't have to touch anything and the closest he got was twenty yards. When he was paid, it was done so in a handsome fashion.\n\nAt first, Plimpton was rusty. He talked too much on the radio and he was always anchored in the wrong place at the wrong time. On one occasion, an incoming boat almost swamped his sleek, low profile boat, anchored in the middle of the channel. A quick turn by the captain averted a near-collision, and Plimpton was wiser for it the next time.\n\nHe began to enroll in more flats fishing tournaments and won so many contests he was renamed by his colleagues \"The Redfisher\" for all the red snapper that seemed to be drawn to him like mice to the Pied Piper. Redfisher was painted on the sides of his boat in a swirling, crimson script. This tag accompanied him into the local newspapers that featured articles and a weekly column depicting the week's fishing exploits. Even the Upper Keys Inquirer, better known as the \"Mullet Wrapper,\" carried a weekly column called \"The Redfisher's Snapper Spots.\" The articles featured Plimpton's pick of the week for attractive fishing holes and other sundry information about local fishing.\n\nPlimpton had handcrafted his talent into a new species, even drawing the admiration of his father on several occasions. Within a year of purchasing his boat, it was paid for. He was well on his way towards making a living as a sport fisherman and as a clandestine, counter-surveillance expert who would never be questioned, even by the greenest of agents, as to his intentions anchored in the North Creek at 3:00 a.m.\n\nAs he put the cherry flavored ChapStick back under the boat's console, the whine of his Zebco Model 318 reel rang out, startling a small flock of egrets roosting in a nearby hammock of mangroves. Another red. That made six sloshing about in his Fiberglas live well and it wasn't even 10:30. Now it was time to do some real work.\n\nThe sonic charge whined as the infrared optic cylinder charged to a state of readiness. Within seconds, Plimpton's eyes filled with a bright, lime-green light. The device was held tight against his face with a headband type harness that gave him the option of holding the glasses as regular binoculars or wearing them to aid in piloting his boat at night. The cat's eyes, as they were called, had the ability to magnify objects in a wide field of view, ten to fifteen times greater than normal and were gyro stabilized for use in rough water. The cat's eyes emitted no light other than the green glow from the bilateral viewfinders that could be seen if they were not held directly against the user's face. They did not replace daylight but gave the effect that the world was one well-lit parking lot.\n\nPlimpton purchased the cat's eyes from Gene Latrell, the owner of L & L Electronics, a spy shop in Miami. Latrell assured Plimpton that they were the same model used by U. S. Customs agents in the field. This impressed Plimpton who didn't give a second thought to paying the price of seventy-seven hundred dollars. He considered it an investment.\n\nRoberto liked the fact that his man in the creek was so aptly equipped. Besides the cat's eyes, Plimpton possessed a multi-band scanner, capable of storing four hundred different frequencies. Frequencies were like gold to the Marimbetto. Local electronics shops like Radio Shack maintained lists of current frequencies and were usually updated on a weekly basis. Plimpton took this one step further. His home was equipped with two large base station scanners, both of which stayed on twenty-four hours a day. They were connected to a large antenna that towered thirty feet over his house. The scanners continually searched the VHF and twelve-meter bands. From 150 megahertz to 350 megahertz, the devices would search, not scan, starting at a given frequency and climbing five to fifteen hertz at a time, ascending up to the desired range and then repeating the task until it received a usable transmission. In Plimpton's spare time, he could listen to the scanner and rate the transmissions as relevant and then match them to the frequency.\n\nThe creek was clear, flowing at a slow, steady pace under his anchored boat. Small fish occasionally skipped out of the water, splashing in the coolness, leaving ripples across the nearly flat pane of glass. Plimpton laid the cat's eyes on the seat next to him and picked up his idle rod and reel, cranking the stainless handle, click-click-click.\n\nThe line sprang taut as the twenty-pound test monofilament line pulled a mullet-baited hook from the creek's sandy bottom. Plimpton reeled in a few feet and then let the bait fall to the bottom.\n\n\u2022\n\nFive hundred yards from Plimpton's position was Kevin Pinder who sat with his partner, Gil Lindback, inside the clavo. This spot was convenient for it was adjacent to the winding channels and tributaries of the North Creek and its spin-off, Taylor Creek, all of which fed fresh seawater from the Atlantic into the inner sanctum of the John Pennekamp State Park.\n\nThe trailer was set off the street, a dark street to begin with. The nearest light pole was over four hundred feet away. The trailer was seventy feet long and fourteen feet wide, longer and wider than the other trailers on the street. It was built after the Reagan administration deregulated the interstate trucking industry. Mobile home manufacturers had started to cash-in by offering the larger, more comfortable mobile mansions.\n\nThe street was long and narrow, much like the homes installed on it. Its name, Grouper Lane, was sometimes referred to as \"Square Grouper Lane.\" At the end of the street, the pavement ended and the water began.\n\nOut the large bay window, Pinder watched up one side toward Taylor Creek, occasionally glancing back to the left to watch the adjacent smaller canals that ran parallel to his corner lot. He kept a lookout for anyone who might notice their operation: nocturnal fishermen, restless neighbors who needed fast relief from midnight heartburn, and busybodies with nothing better to do. All it took was some retired military officer, a model citizen who was observant and the block captain for his area's neighborhood watch to maybe see a boat cruise go by sitting heavy in the water and return, lighter and higher. He could jot down the address, possibly the vessel registration numbers posted near the boat's bow and then call 1-800-BE-ALERT, the national U.S. Customs hotline. He could secure up to a twenty-five hundred dollar reward for the right tip. It wasn't the money he was after, though. He was doing his duty. Just like the one he bestowed upon himself by raising the Stars and Stripes up his homemade flagpole, anchored to the steel tongue of his mobile home, or the duty of igniting his four-way flashers on his 1974 Ford Pinto while driving through a school zone. Forget the fact that Grouper Lane was called Square Grouper Lane and not crack alley. Pot, crack, or heroin, it was all the same to him. A retired military officer, he was at war again, the war against drugs, and, as the 10:00 news reported, the government had declared zero tolerance.\n\nAll was quiet and dark, so dark Pinder could see the glowing embers of a barbecue fifty yards away. A family reunion had taken place down the street earlier in the afternoon. They were all drunk and probably asleep, he thought to himself. Pinder was starting to feel comfortable and thus confident. He looked down at the seawater flowing through the mangrove roots, lapping against the concrete dock constructed at the base of the mobile house. How much was Roberto bringing in? Where would they put it? he thought to himself. Two thousand pounds usually went into the trailer's eight-foot-by-ten-foot bedroom with space to spare. One night though, they were surprised. Four different boats delivered over twelve thousand pounds. They stacked it in the halls and the bathrooms. They had to go outside to pee. To get from one end of the trailer to the other meant crawling on one's hands and knees and rubbing their back against the ceiling, trying to stay clear of the trailer's cheap light fixtures. Roberto rewarded them well.\n\nThose days seemed to be over, though, and Kevin Pinder's expenses were starting to take control of his life. He had a hunger for high-maintenance girlfriends that had an even greater hunger for cocaine. The two were taking a toll on his finances. Tonight was going to be different.\n\nIn the corner of the kitchen at the base of the refrigerator was a common floor scale with a bright red digital dial for reading in the dark. The bales were weighed as they came in the front door. They were then marked and listed on a crudely sketched inventory sheet. This one was a child's notebook folio adorning a group of popular cartoon figures on the front cover. It was the only thing Kevin could find at the last minute at the Seven Eleven store on the corner.\n\nThe weights were very important. This was what Roberto Alazar used to bill the product's owner, who usually paid him up to eighty-five dollars a pound for the ride. A wet crossing, making some of the bales saturated and heavier, could easily add five to ten thousand dollars to the bill. It was justice, though. The toll the rough seas took on the crew made it a surcharge worth pursuing.\n\nHaving worked many times for Roberto, Pinder knew he was in a very lucrative position. Before the load crossed the threshold of his trailer, there was only a rough count of the number of bales. The crews knew approximately how much the load weighed, but it could vary as much as a hundred pounds either way. It was up to the clavo to get an exact weight of the load and produce the final figure.\n\nMost of the time the bales came over hand-packed in burlap sacks with duct tape securing any loose openings. Pinder had watched many of these pieces come in. His back had strained unloading them from an unstable, rocking boat to the dock, then into the trailer and off to one of the rooms. The job built muscles but it also built ideas. Along with Kevin's purchase of a cartoon notebook folio, he also purchased three rolls of duct tape.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFacade\n\nWith the exception of the unscheduled nap that morning, Joel hadn't slept in thirty-two hours and lunch was nothing more than a drive-by at a Burger King in Key Largo. He was used to sacrificing meals and sleep for the common objective but this was starting to seem a bit excessive.\n\nJoel and his new partner had driven down what seemed to be every dead end street from North Key Largo to the south end of Long Key, taking up most of the daylight hours. It was the senior agent's way of communicating a different perspective to him since they would be patrolling the same area by water that night. The two bounced around in Owen Sands's one-ton pickup truck for the better part of nine hours until Joel had felt every pothole and bump through the truck's stiff suspension.\n\nDuring their tour, Sands had detailed all the \"hot spots.\" These were small, out of the way homes, all seasonal rentals, and all on dark, overgrown lots with concealed carports or garages. Sands seemed to know them all, pointing out the sights of past busts. Sixty-five bales here, five hundred kilos there, Owen would run on, almost redundantly as Joel tried to absorb all the information. There were too many homes to remember them all, but he got the idea of what they were looking for.\n\nAs the sun began to set over Florida Bay and the backcountry, their day was just beginning as Owen's pickup pulled into the parking lot of the Tavernier Creek Marina parking next to the docks. The two agents exited the truck and walked toward the floating docks with Sands taking the lead. They proceeded down an incline to a fixed platform where several boats were moored. For the first time, Joel had a chance to view the small fleet of boats assigned to his new office. He had trained on boats similar to these at Glynnco and remembered what a rush it was to pilot the expensive powerboats with their supercharged engines at eighty miles per hour over the rough terrain of the ocean.\n\nAll the boats were lined in a row with their sterns against the dock and all with lettered brand names etched in the sides like Indian, Scarab and Stiletto. Each boat was in its own way distinctive and yet all resembled the same look. Their carefully designed lines made them look as though they were breaking fifty knots while resting at the dock. At the end of the pier was the most impressive boat of the fleet, one he had only heard about at the academy. The Don-Cat, 39-feet long, painted blue and white and called Blue Thunder, she was the flagship of the Blue Lightning Anti-drug Task Force. Her bow resembled the pitchfork of a devil as her hull was split down the middle to allow massive amounts of air into and under the bottom of the boat when she was running at full speed. This feature enabled the boat to go faster with less power. Since she was also wider than the other boats by some four feet, she was also more stable in the rolling seas where agents had to make their dangerous boardings.\n\nShe was the brainchild of Aaron Donaldson who had created the Stiletto powerboat line among others, and had parlayed a simple idea into a multimillion-dollar government contract. The brainchild came in the form of one of his earlier creations, a 39-foot deep-V hull that he had saved for himself. Skillfully, Donaldson cut the boat in two, separated the halves, and took a molded impression of the design. The end result was basically the same boat he had built for years but with a catch: a four-foot-wide air tunnel that ran down the center of the craft.\n\nJoel looked down the side of the boat. The words UNITED STATES CUSTOMS, written in large, white block letters embossed both of her sides. Mounted to the deck near the stern was a tubular arch stretching across the boat's beam. A disk-type radar dome, remote spotlights and a mirage of antennas were affixed in a row. His heart rate increased with anticipation as he speculated on which boat was to be theirs for the night. This was going to be like no other experience he had lived though before. After a day of monotonous details, he finally felt as though this assignment was going to reveal its perks.\n\nJoel walked up to the stern of the Blue Thunder. On its deck was a raised hatch, exposing the mechanical workings of the boat's oversized engine compartment. A small man dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit stood in the bilge, bent over one of the chrome-covered engines. After making some adjustments to the carburetor, he grabbed a remote switch and triggered the starter. With a burst of power, the engine came to life, startling Joel as water spat from the transom's exhaust and shot across the surface of the wooden pier, dousing his new Sperry Top-Sider shoes in the process. The mechanic revved the engine as it spewed more wet percussion into the air making the dock below Joel's feet vibrate as the engine settled down to a rumbling idle.\n\n\"Come on hotshot, this one's ours,\" Sands said, pointing to a rundown performance boat moored at the end of the dock. \"Load our bags and I'll make the call,\" Sands continued as he headed back up the ramp towards a pay phone that was mounted to a nearby power pole.\n\nJoel looked down at the boat they would be using. It was obviously a confiscated vessel that had been put into service. The boat was mostly white with Renegade written in small black letters on the side. Towards the stern of the boat was a decal of a multicolored Indian chief with a bright, feather-filled headdress and the words Indian 41. It was obvious that the boat had been abused. The poorly applied paint job had gouges the entire length of the boat, something the instructors at Glynnco called freighter burn. This was an abrasion that boats would endure from bumping against the rusty steel-hulled mother ships with their glossy Fiberglas hulls in rolling seas while loads were transferred.\n\nThe call to the operations center in Miami was made before any tour of duty and was the high command's way of tracking its agents in the field. Sands gave the dispatcher some basic information including the boat's ID number, who was assisting him (Joel in this case), and the area they would be patrolling.\n\nEvery organization had to have a home base, some place to report to. For the U. S. Customs Service this was Sector. The military term was C3I, which stood for Command, Control, Communications and Intelligence and was the backbone of the Blue Lightning Task Force's operations center. C3I was divided into two divisions. Centers East and West were each responsible for their corresponding section of the country. Sector West had a distinct advantage as it was located in the same building as EPIC, the El Paso Intelligence Center in El Paso, Texas. EPIC was a clearinghouse for agents of all branches who desired information on individuals, bank accounts, corporations and any other entity that was involved in any ongoing criminal enterprise. Sector East was located in Miami at Southwest 152nd Street in Dade County's Metro Zoo Complex and occupied twenty-two acres and a sixteen thousand square foot building. The communications center took up almost fifteen hundred feet of the main building and was comprised of large electronic consoles and radar screens, making it look more like an aircraft control tower than a law enforcement communications hub. Behind the lit consoles sat attentive observers peering at video displays, sweeping radar screens and other digital imaging equipment. Others sat quietly listening through padded headphones to modified high frequency and short-wave radios for covert transmissions. The lighting was dim. Single shaft fluorescent tubes lined the corners of the room giving it a look of white neon that gave off just enough light to prevent them from tripping over their feet when activities in the center escalated and became dicey. Illuminations of orange, red and lime from the display screens lit the rest of the room. Mounted on the wall was a sixty-inch projection monitor displaying the northwestern quadrant of the Caribbean basin, from Cuba northward to Freeport, and west to Naples, Florida. Inbound targets were tracked and their courses were plotted by computer showing their projected landfall, making this room seem like it should be embedded into the side of a mountain in Colorado rather than the grounds of a public zoo. Altogether, Sector worked as a team and a support arm to the agents in the field.\n\nIn a glass partitioned cubical sat the only uniformed person in the room. Usually a woman, her job was to coordinate the agents in the field toward the incoming targets and to promote interception. She was \"Sector\" tonight and her voice, sometimes stern, sometimes sensual, left a wide variety of visions in the minds of many agents working the late night hours in the field. When it was cold and dark and there seemed to be no other soul on earth, it was worth calling in a bogus registration check just to hear a voice, her voice. She worked a standard shift, Monday through Friday, 8:00 p.m. to 4:00 a.m. and she was a regular on the midnight airwaves.\n\nNext to a paper can of Ultra Slim-Fast sat a steaming cup of coffee. She motivated her two hundred and eighty pound frame in her chair, taking a sip as the squelch broke on the primary Customs frequency, 165.235 megahertz.\n\n\"Papa 1903 to Sector.\"\n\n\"Sector, go ahead,\" she said into the desk-mounted mic.\n\n\"1903 and 1925 are ten-eight, on patrol in Zone 32L - Lima.\"\n\nZone 32L stretched from Port Largo at the south to La Potana and Garden Cove in the north. Tonight, this area was Zone 32L. Yesterday it was 68M, tomorrow it would be 21Q or something else entirely; the playbook came weekly. A copy was posted in Sector and distributed to every agent and supervisor in the field.\n\n\"Thirty-two Lima, 10-4 1903,\" she replied.\n\nShe then authenticated the information by entering the transmission code next to the dot on the radar screen and then alerted her terminal with a few keystrokes. A computerized message was then directed to the \"heads-up\" operator who was watching a bright orange screen in the dimmed out room. The operator then walked over to a transparent partition of Plexiglas, the type seen in complex war rooms and the situation centers of combat aircraft carriers. It was a flat, upright sheet of clear plastic with a map etched in black. He picked up a red china grease marker and drew a series of diagonal lines covering Zone 32L. Next to that, with a green marker, he noted P-1903 and P-1925 Channel One.\n\nThe two boarded the boat as Joel took a position in a standing passenger bolster seat.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"What did I forget?\"\n\n\"You're driving kid,\" Owen said.\n\nFive minutes later, with Joel at the helm, the two idled out the small basin and into the channel. From there they cruised slowly through the winding mangrove-lined waterway of Tavernier Creek. The Creek was just one of the many waterways that flowed from the ocean to the bay. The oversized, white 41-footer moved slowly through the No Wake section, past several waterfront homes. The boat's twin six hundred and forty horsepower engines spit hot exhaust through the polished stainless pipes protruding from the boat's transom. The noise echoed from the quiet shores, bouncing off the numerous concrete seawalls.\n\nThe boat sat low to the water in the aft. From the deck, an arch was erected, stretching to the aft at a forty-five-degree angle, spanning across a padded rear deck that doubled as an engine hatch. On top of the arch, a radar silo sat perched like an eagle. The flat, disk-shaped object gave the boat a look of stature. Surrounding the silo were four antennas of various shapes and sizes, all pointing skyward. In between the antennas sat a blue strobe beacon and a stainless steel siren horn.\n\nThe craft glided over the glassy water as it proceeded under the Tavernier Creek Bridge. The bridge carried the traffic of the Overseas Highway, U.S. 1, the link between the Keys and the real world above. From there, the channel became wider, opening up to the ocean. The serene surface soon turned into a coarse chop with the lapping waves thrashing against the boat's hull. Joel, firmly positioned behind the helm, pushed the throttles forward, demanding a steady increase of revolutions. The boat's bow raised off the water as streams of white churning water flowed from the stern. As the boat planed across the water gaining speed, Joel felt the loose skin on his face form against his cheekbones. He glanced down at the instrument panel where the calibrated speedometer registered seventy-four knots, not very fast in a car but exhilarating in a 41-foot boat that started to leap over the three-foot-high waves. The two men were firmly nestled in a pair of stand up type bolsters. These seats were cup-shaped and were designed to hold the occupants securely in place despite the roughest of seas. Tears started to form from the corners of Kenyon's eyes, pushed out by the oncoming wind.\n\nOwen reached over and made some adjustments to the boat's trim tabs controlling the boat's elevation over the oncoming water. He pushed more buttons. Suddenly, a small screen lit up in front of Joel. On it, the sweeping band of the radar started to turn in a clockwise rotation. A distinct pattern could be seen with every revolution of the screen. Like an electronic map, the radar sent high frequency radio waves to islands, navigational markers, and other boats, bouncing back an image that appeared on the screen. Below that, the boat's updated longitude and latitude appeared at the bottom of the screen from a patch between the radar and the boat's onboard global positioning system. The same system sent updated position reports to the onboard transponder that relayed them via repeater to C3I East in Miami.\n\nAs they headed toward the Gulf Stream, the setting sun behind them lit the sky on fire with a pink and orange glow. Owen hit one more switch activating the boat's stereo system. Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones' \"Give Me Shelter\" began to play. As Joel began to feel more comfortable in his new surroundings, he turned the wheel and the white missile banked to the north and disappeared into the night.\n\nThe radar surveillance training Joel encountered while in Glynnco prepared him well. The first contact appeared as a small, two-millimeter dot moving south, reappearing with every sweep of the imaginary clock-like hand that circumnavigated the green screen sixty times a minute.\n\n\"I've got something here. Moving south. He's making close to sixty knots with a two knot closure,\" Joel yelled over to his partner.\n\n\"What's our intercept heading?\" Owen asked, not expecting an answer for at least a few seconds from the rookie.\n\n\"At this speed we should assume 078 and maintain.\"\n\n\"Good work Joel, you're learning,\" Owen answered with the trace of a smile on his face.\n\nThe white missile banked to its right at almost a forty-five degree angle. Owen held fast to the grab rails as Joel gripped the tightly padded wheel. The boat turned until the dash-mounted compass read a heading of 078 degrees.\n\n\"We should make contact in about three minutes,\" Joel said, watching the screen again. He then attached his night vision goggles. They were a small and compact model and looked more like a small pair of binoculars one would take to a day of horse racing.\n\nThe seas off the Alligator Reef light were relatively flat. Joel could hold the goggles with one hand and the wheel with the other as the Indian sliced through the light chop, occasionally looking down to view the lime green screen of the radar. With a quick switch of the range, the screen changed from a three-mile view to that of less than a mile. The millimeter dot tripled in size, appearing more prominent, moving faster now and fleeing. It maintained its course to the degree making a straight line down Hawks Channel, the navigable route that ran between the Keys and the barrier reef line. They were within a half-mile of the target and closing fast. Sands activated the exhaust silencers. A vacuum pump mounted in the engine compartment produced negative pressure suction that, through a series of rubber hoses and baffles, created a muffle effect, cutting the noise emissions by two-thirds. The straight pipe headers now acted more like something one would get from a muffler shop. This had its drawbacks, including a loss in power. The boat slowed a little, realizing its drain of over forty horsepower from each engine. The craft still maintained its closure on the target with power to spare.\n\nJoel continued to peer through the night vision goggles. All was a light green haze. The waves were visible, as was the momentous foredeck of their own boat and in the distance, a small speck of light moving across the water. It was too far away to associate any type of scope with the light. It could have been a boat or a low flying airplane for all Joel could tell. It was too dim to be a running light and too bright to be coming from the dash gauges. Nevertheless, it matched the position of the target and Kenyon followed it very carefully. With all the devices he was using, Joel was amazed that Owen used nothing. He knew exactly where he was at all times. It was as though he had been given a pair of feline eyes at birth that enabled him to see impeccably at night. This man was incredible, Joel thought to himself.\n\nOwen watched closely as Joel brought the Indian in behind the target as their boat bounced in its white wake. They followed like a stock car racer drafting the laps at Daytona. For the first time, Joel got a chance to view the boat they were chasing, a go-fast Stiletto type. Its operator was a large man wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans. The speck of light came from the man's lit cigarette in his mouth. Besides that, the craft was running dark. Not a light to be seen onboard.\n\n\"Do you think he can see us?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"All he has to do is turn around,\" Owen shouted back.\n\nJoel put the goggles back onto his face. The bright green haze from the lit cigarette obscured his view of the operator's face. Then, without warning, the goggles lost their definition and both eyepieces burst in a blaze of brilliant green light. Joel removed the glasses just as the halogen spotlights warmed up to full capacity. The halogens were mounted to movable bases. Each one could rotate three hundred and sixty degrees independently of each other. Small remote control panels were mounted on either side of the Stinger's helm. The lights were the brainchild of ACR electronics, a Fort Lauderdale company that prized its reputation on inventing the energy-saving personal flashlights credited for saving the lives of NASA's Apollo 13 crew.\n\nBoth spotlights were pointed forward and were brilliant with penetrating light. Between the lights, next to the radar array, a small blue beacon sent out its signal. A blue sweep of light pulsed across the Indian's bow and the transom of the target.\n\nIt took a fraction of a second for the target to realize he had been caught. The captain banked his vessel to the right, heading for the dark waters of the Gulf Stream.\n\n\"He's trying to make it back to the islands,\" Joel yelled over the seventy mile per hour wind blowing between the two.\n\nJoel put the Indian into an equally tight starboard bank, maintaining his distance of thirty yards.\n\n\"Papa 1925 Sector,\" Joel said, radioing C3I.\n\n\"Not yet!\" Owen barked, putting his hand in front of his partner.\n\n\"Papa 1925 Sector. Standby.\"\n\nAnother abrupt starboard turn took place. This time Joel cut the wheel even tighter, laying the Indian on its side, beating the radius of the target's turn by twenty yards. The Indian now rode alongside the equally long Stiletto. Blue flashes of light splashed the white hull as it bounced through the four-foot chop. Owen rotated the port halogen spot, moving it ninety degrees and illuminating the side of the Stiletto.\n\nIt was clear now that Joel had been made a fool of. They were alongside Mark West's 38-footer, the boat he had helped launch just hours before. Mark West gave the two a wave as he pulled back on the throttles.\n\n\"You knew all along didn't you?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Hey, look, you needed the practice...Okay?\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, I really thought we had something there.\"\n\n\"When it's real, kid, you'll be glad we did this.\"\n\n\"Shit! I thought that Owen was driving!\" Holmes yelled.\n\n\"Hey Porky! I had you dead cold man,\" Joel boasted, feeling proud of himself.\n\n\"Okay...well on that note, my hydraulic steering is low on fluid. You're lucky I didn't smear you in the side on that last pass,\" West said.\n\n\"Promises, promises,\" Joel yelled back sarcastically.\n\n\"Oh yeah, Kenyon...Jordan Cheney has put out a BOLO on you, something about destruction of federal property,\" Holmes laughed. \"Well, I've got to make a court appearance in the morning, I'd love to stay and chat, but...\"\n\n\"We're not far behind you,\" Owen answered.\n\n\"Hey Owen, before you go, check out Molasses Reef. I saw our friend on the Vibrations heading that way. I'd sit it out but I really don't have the time. Besides, I'm heading back to Tavernier Creek. Wrong direction.\"\n\nOwen acknowledged with a nod. Both captains started their engines. In seconds, West's white-hulled Stiletto shot into the air over a series of waves and was off into the dark night.\n\n\"You did pretty good Kenyon,\" Owen said. \"Be careful of those tight turns. If you get too much air into the props, they will lose traction like street tires on a gravel road and the boat will lose speed. And don't get so attached to the night vision. Did you see what happened when I flipped on the overhead lights? It's a total green-out. Oh and Joel, one more thing. We don't actually call Holmes Porky to his face.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nAblaze\n\nAt an altitude of forty-five hundred feet and an accompanying air speed of one hundred and forty knots, two Air Force E-2s stood perplexed, gazing out the rear of their C-130's open bay door. As the cold wind rushed below their feet, the plane followed its flight path over the reef line of the Upper Florida Keys. The view was nearly unobstructed with the exception of a few lingering clouds. From their vantage point, the reef line looked serene and peaceful. Small flashing dots of white and red light blinked on and off periodically. Long trails of phosphorescent phytoplankton stretched behind three different boats crossing from the Bahamas toward Miami and the Keys. Green embers stayed alit hours after the boats passed, like the tails that follow a comet. Miles above the C-130, special C3I satellites monitored the green trails with tuned focal lenses trained on the incoming boats.\n\nBehind the men, stacked in twelve rows of three, thirty-six H-57 starburst flares stood atop their stacking crates, ready for the drop. As the plane approached Alligator Reef in Islamorada, a red light accompanied by a loud shriek sounded within the plane's intercom system alerting the crew that they were nearing the drop zone.\n\nThe DZ was to extend from Pickles Reef off Tavernier to a non-descript point three miles north of Molasses.\n\nMinutes later, the fifteen pound flares were falling from the platform, one every five seconds. The flares manufacturer, Olin Ordinance of St. Marks, Florida, had originally designed the starburst H-57 for the Vietnam conflict for which the devices were used to illuminate the dark jungles during routine confrontations with the North Vietnamese. They were compact, easy to handle and came equipped with an eight second delay igniter and a small ballistic charged parachute. The entire drop took three minutes, the exact time it took the C-130 to fly from Pickles off Tavernier to Molasses Reef. After leaving the plane, the flares burst into a blazing ball of brilliant light, illuminating the water below up to a mile away. From the island of Key Largo, it looked like an oversized string of Christmas lights being strewn across the reefs by some five-thousand-foot-high benevolent giant. The flares stayed suspended by the small parachutes, keeping the starbursts aloft for over ten minutes.\n\nWhat was once a dark, concealed ocean became an area of confined artificial sunlight. The mission was a success. Not that this was a priority action; it wasn't, just a show of force and more political propaganda for the taxpayers on the shores of Key Largo, Tavernier and Islamorada. Soon the cool waters of the Gulf Stream would douse the flares and their mission would be complete as their fiery signals would be snuffed out and the reef line would return to its previous state of darkness.\n\nBy the time the Customs' 41-foot white Indian arrived over Molasses Reef, Roberto Alazar and his crew knew to expect company. Alazar tracked the bullet-shaped craft over ten miles as it headed north, making its way up the Hawks Channel then heading out to the reef line some two miles parallel to the original course. Everyone on the boat assumed their position as most simply maintained a wet fishing line while sipping on a cold beer. Del cleaned a small grouper he caught earlier, filleting the white meat clean from its long thin bones.\n\nOwen knew his way around the barrier reefs of the Keys. He was an experienced diver and had spent enough time both under and on top of the water to know the sub-oceanic terrain. One of the boats Owen Sands usually piloted through these waters was a 53-foot U. S. Customs Hatteras called Frankly Scarlet. It drew significantly more water than the Indian go-fast, ensuring the courses he took would be more than adequate for the sleeker, shallow-drafted 41-footer. Still, the Fiberglas hull of the Indian, as tough as it might have been, was no match for the razor sharp projections of the barrier coral reefs. The wet rocks were like barbs waiting to split open such a passing boat.\n\nThanks to the falling flares, Owen could see the entourage arranged at the reef. The brightly lit aft deck of the Vibrations was the first to draw his attention as he slowed the boat to an idle. As the boat came into view, he could see a man standing on the aft deck with a full beard and plump belly. Roberto Alazar hadn't changed a bit, Owen thought to himself. Joel circled once. As the Indian passed the transom by twenty yards, Alazar caught Owen's stare and the two stood in a trance, their eyes fixed on each other. Joel watched, seeing there was more going on here than he was ready to understand. No one spoke. The only noise that was present was the harmonic rapping of the boat's engines. Joel observed as Owen's whole mood changed. He seemed less confident, even the boat moved differently. Something had changed. Owen stepped over, pushing Joel away from the wheel and then steered the boat away from the Vibrations, heading towards the shore.\n\n\"What are we doing?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"We're going in. I want to check the Cross Key Cut and then switch to a different boat.\"\n\n\"What about these guys?\"\n\n\"They're not going to let us catch them. They'll drop their load mid ocean before we would even get close. Trust me,\" Owen answered.\n\n\"I disagree, I think we should wait it out...Go inland and watch the radar,\" he said pleading his case.\n\n\"It'll never happen; they're too smart for that.\"\n\n\"Yeah but...\"\n\n\"Not gonna happen Joel, now hold on,\" Sands said as he powered up the Indian. The boat climbed over the waves as it left the reef line.\n\n* * * * *\n\nApparition\n\nRandal Albury stood watch behind the console of his 25-foot open powerboat. Rigged with two high-powered outboards, it was fast and dependable, giving Albury the acceleration he needed in unruly times of crisis. He ran the chase boat and his job was to maintain a stealthy anonymity until the transfer was made when his mission would then became creating a simple distraction. He usually did so by attaching a hexagonally-shaped radar reflector to the boat's VHF antenna mast. This technique would draw most of the \"brilliant\" attention of the radar screens in Miami and those afloat on patrol boats in the area. This in turn handed the ball of stealth to the boats laden with their heavy loads. Albury would make an obvious high-speed course for the mainland, and distract all those watching in the process.\n\nAlbury was proud of his boat. He bought it at a Florida Marine Patrol surplus auction held periodically at the Port Everglades shipping terminal in Fort Lauderdale. It was there that the general public had the opportunity to purchase surplus boats, trailers and other marine equipment.\n\nAlbury saw the 25-footer for the first time propped up on cinderblocks, sitting on dry land. It was colored in a drab gray finish. Its former name, Florida Marine Patrol, was painted over with a can of household spray paint and the interior and engines were stripped. Gaping holes remained where instrument panels were once attached. The only thing that even resembled a civilian craft was the boat manufacturer's nameplate on the aft side, Mako, with a small silhouette of a shark swimming about the letters. The Mako had a good reputation for being a sea boat. Built in Miami, the craft was a legend in the fishing industry. Albury purchased the hull at a fair price, twenty-seven hundred dollars, and brought it back to the Keys where he completely overhauled her. With new engines, paint and rigging, the boat was one of the finest around. Her color remained the drab gray, painted new with a glossy polyurethane. This time, DuPont Imron, the type of paint used to coat commercial jet liners, was used instead of the original faded Fiberglas gelcoat. From a distance, the craft still looked like Florida Marine Patrol property. Her gray silhouette with a black welded aluminum and canvas top along with the standard equipment of a Raytheon sixteen-mile radar, VHF marine transceiver, CB, and two-meter radios, made her aptly equipped. A parabolic listening hailer completed the package giving Albury listening capabilities of approaching craft. The radar and side-mounted speakers for the hailer only added to its appearance, giving her even more of an official impression.\n\nBy the time Albury had arrived at the reef, Chino and Alberto had already anchored the La Pinta and had four fishing lines out, trolling through the awkward current. To the south, the Vibrations rolled back and forth in the incoming swells. Albury made sure not to come too close. A triple \"click\" on the radio acknowledged his presence. Both boats responded with similar transmissions, as they would operate on CB Channel Seven tonight.\n\nAlbury had watched as Red and Stump's blue-hulled 26-foot Chris-Craft arrived thirty minutes after the Cho Chos and were firmly anchored in position. The broad-beamed Chris took the waves with the stability of boats twice its size.\n\nThe crew of the Chris-Craft was notorious. Red and Stump were two local boys who went to high school with Albury. That was all they had in common though. Albury was extremely studious during his teenage years, unlike Red and Stump who ran with a dangerous crowd of kids who always got caught smoking pot in the bathroom or defying the law by riding their motorcycles without helmets. They were labeled as heavy metal headbangers who lived life with half the brain cells they were granted at birth. Albury figured they did their job though, and that was all that mattered. Besides, they had grown up hating cops, politicians, and all other figures of authority. They were the type of people who wouldn't make a deal with the Feds if they were ever caught.\n\n\"Slingshot this is Crossbow over,\" Gordo said over the specially rigged Icom 28 radio transceiver.\n\nThe Icom 28 was manufactured by Icom Electronics Corporation of Japan and was imported through Gene Latrell's spy shop in Miami. The device was not only the most powerful two-meter transceiver on the market but also the most versatile. With the removal of one single diode, the radio increased its transmit and received ranges by almost two hundred percent. Simply put, the frequency ranges designated for two-meter amateurs were 138 megahertz to 148 megahertz. By eliminating diode twenty-one, the radio could then transmit and receive on an expanded frequency range of 138 to 172 megahertz. The U.S. Customs Service operated on a frequency range of 162 to 166 megahertz.\n\nThe Customs Service utilized transmissions that were encrypted and \"private line\" coded, meaning that the two stations communicating back and forth could only decipher their own encrypted transmissions. Anyone who would listen in on the traffic would only hear gibberish. The PL coded transmissions were more public and basically enabled two stations to communicate on a given frequency, without being interrupted by other stations and distant interference. Therefore, without the proper PL codes, one could transmit on the same frequency as the U. S. Customs Service without them knowing. This, of course, did not preclude people listening in on normal household police scanners because they heard everything that came across the frequency. For this reason, Alazar and his men operated on the Icoms using the same numbers and terminology as the Customs Service. Nicknames like Slingshot, Crossbow, Bow and Arrow, and Striking Arrow were common code words on the Customs' channels.\n\n\"Crossbow this is Slingshot, go ahead.\"\n\n\"I'm about ten miles out from your position, do you copy?\" Gordo replied.\n\n\"10-4, Crossbow, proceed as planned,\" Del replied.\n\nTo those who listened on their scanners from Radio Shack and Sears, it sounded like a simple transmission on 165.235 megahertz, the government's official general working frequency. To the Customs Service who actually used the channel, it registered as static because their radios were set up to transmit and receive only their transmissions, blocking out all stray noises and other interference called skip. Since this was their own channel, the Customs Service didn't include it in the menu of frequencies they routinely scanned while on patrol. It was an ingenious way for the Alazars to communicate long distances without detection.\n\nFor short-range communications, the crew used simple, automotive low power CB radios. The sets were tuned down so the wattage was only transmitting one or two watts, enough to communicate up to a mile over water without the entire mainland community listening in. This jargon sounded quite a bit different.\n\n\"Dr. Pepper,\" Alazar said, speaking into the mic of the CB this time.\n\n\"Go ahead Pepsi,\" Albury replied.\n\n\"Wash your hands, it's time for dinner.\"\n\n\"Roger that,\" Albury responded, this time with more enthusiasm.\n\nIt was these names that gave the Alazar crew their unofficial name: The Soda Pop Gang.\n\nAlbury tuned in his hailer, listening carefully to the noises of the ocean ahead. He was adrift now, having retrieved the anchor from the coral bottom. In the distance he could hear the synchronized rhyme of Gordo's outboard engines turning through the waves. Albury powered the boat forward, keeping a keen eye over the reef into the blue water ahead. Blue water in the daylight, it now appeared as black and bottomless as any dark caldron.\n\nGordo approached the reef, cutting the Stiletto's engines back to an idle. Hot steaming water and exhaust vapors spat out the four outboard motors bolted to the boat's transom. Gordo jockeyed the boat with its bow into the wind and oncoming waves. Alberto and Chino were the first to lie on the side of the much larger vessel, tucking fenders in between the boats to prevent \"freighter burn.\" These deep abrasions to the boat's hull were telltale signs that the boat had been involved in something illicit, not to mention the fact that Gordo took a lot of pride in his small fleet of boats. Scratching them was completely out of the question.\n\n\"One, two, three...\" Gordo counted as he passed the seventy-pound burlap cubes over to the other boat. Chino received, maintaining a count on his own, while Alberto placed the bales strategically around the boat, distributing the weight evenly.\n\n\"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,\" Gordo declared.\n\n\"Thirty,\" Chino acknowledged with a push. The smaller vessel drifted away from the Stiletto. Alberto finished placing the rest of the load while Chino powered up the one running engine. The La Pinta departed and headed northwest.\n\nAlazar, Del and Gus Greico watched from the aft deck of the Vibrations some two hundred yards away. All was going smoothly as a light rain started to fall. The inclement weather posed some significant advantages and some disadvantages. The line-of-sight vision of the patrol crews coupled with the decrease in radar acuity due to rain clutter were present, but this also held true for Alazar who was now peering through the hood of Vibrations' radar screen.\n\nAlbury continued to listen and look. As the crew was at their most vulnerable point, the six-foot-four-inch seaman's eyes adjusted to a sight just off his starboard bow, some one hundred yards away. It was like nothing he had ever seen. The night air was cool and wet. His boat sat perched, floating on the black, bottomless sea. Hell could have resided below these depths for all he knew. His close friend, Bobby Alazar, had been killed not far from there, just a few months before. Albury did not consider himself to be a superstitious man, until now.\n\nThe vision appeared as a ghost dancing on the water, an apparition of flapping white sheets that he could hear fluttering over the hailer. Albury was but for a minute, stunned. Then, without giving it a second thought, he did what his aggressive, alpha male intuitions told him to do. He jammed the boat's two throttle levers forward and charged the vision. The two outboards roared like dogs fighting over a piece of meat as the razor sharp propellers slipped through the air and water, trying to grab a bite.\n\n\"Dr. Pepper, what's happening?\" Del asked over the radio, hearing the noise of the roaring engines.\n\n\"Pepsi, do you have a contact on your radar? It should be about three hundred yards off your starboard bow,\" Albury said, holding the mic with one hand and the wheel with the other.\n\nDel looked over at Roberto who popped his head up from the radar hood, nodding in the affirmative. How could we have missed this? he thought.\n\n\"Yes, Dr. Pepper! You should be bearing down on him any minute now.\"\n\nAs a large, rolling swell lifted the charging Mako up twelve feet over the other swells, Albury could see the vision with full clarity. The hull and mast came into view as he came to within fifty feet of the vessel. She was a trimaran, about fifty feet in length and in the midst of coming about in the wind with the sails ruffling about. The captain had just brought his boat up from Marathon and was changing course to head west toward Key Largo. Albury stopped the Mako and waited as the craft sailed by.\n\n\"Everyone hold your position,\" he instructed into the mic.\n\nThe rain picked up its intensity and as hard as they tried, the crew of the Vibrations could not see what Albury had found. Alazar continued to peer into the hood of the radar while Del stood on the bow in the rain staring through a pair of field glasses.\n\nThe captain of the sailboat sat in the cockpit holding the tiller arm, completely oblivious to what he had stumbled upon. He watched Albury stare at him as he passed. The look gave him even more goose bumps than the cold night air had delivered already. The exchanging stares lasted for what seemed like minutes. Albury's first instinct was to charge the boat again, only this time ramming her. The trimaran was obviously a home-built plywood craft. She would sink with the first blow within the span of a few seconds. Albury developed a pity for the man, a fellow captain at sea and with who knew what else on board. Children? A wife? The trimaran was not close enough to either the Cho Chos or Gordo. It was obvious he could not see what was going on. Albury followed the crudely shaped craft past the reef line into the much calmer water until the man and his boat disappeared, sailing off into the night.\n\n\"All clear, just a lost sailboat,\" Albury announced over the radio.\n\n\"Thank you Dr. Pepper, good work,\" Del answered with a sigh of relief.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAttrition\n\nDespite the numerous complaints from the homeowners who lived along the Key Largo Cut, Owen Sands made no apologies about running any of the noisy high-powered patrol boats through the man-made canyon during the midnight hours. To get there though, they first had to navigate the winding South Creek of the John Pennekamp State Park.\n\n\u2022\n\nAt the same time, the La Pinta cruised into the mouth of the North Creek under the power of her one running engine. Chino watched the gauges nervously as the oil pressure started to drop down to eight pounds. The 454-powerplant required at least fifteen to maintain adequate lubrication of all the bearings and other moving parts within the motor. With the drop in oil pressure came an increase in engine temperature that was approaching two hundred and eighty degrees.\n\nAlberto counted the tributaries along the banks of the North Creek. Taylor Creek was the third on the right.\n\n\"There it is,\" Alberto called out.\n\n\"Thank God, I don't think this thing will make it much longer.\"\n\n\"Take it easy man, just a little longer.\"\n\nAs Chino turned the boat into the mouth of the smaller tributary, both were shocked by what they saw.\n\n\"A fucking fork. I don't remember a fork Alberto.\"\n\n\"Shit man. What do we do now?\"\n\n\"Call Del?\" Chino suggested.\n\n\"Fuck that. No way. I'm not calling him.\"\n\n\"Then let's flip for it.\"\n\n\"Do you have a coin, man? I don't got a coin Chino.\"\n\n\"Alberto, you are totally useless,\" Chino said, digging into his right pocket and then his left.\n\n\"You don't got a coin either.\"\n\n\"Shut up. I don't want to hear it. We'll go left.\"\n\nChino powered up the tired motor as smoke eased from the vents in the engine box. The engine temperature had dropped as did the oil pressure, hovering at four pounds.\n\nThe two idled through the winding creek as mangrove trees brushed both sides of the boat. The boat was extremely hard to maneuver with only one engine although the power-steering pump was mounted to the one running engine. Chino realized it could have been worse.\n\nInstead of culminating at the end of Grouper Lane, the creek the Cho Chos had chosen opened up into Lake Largo, close to the mouth of the Cross Key Cut.\n\n\"Shit, we should have gone right!\" Chino said.\n\n\"I was thinking right, but I didn't want to say anything,\" Alberto added.\n\n\"I probably wouldn't have listened to you anyway,\" Chino replied, conceding his mistake.\n\n\"What are we going to do? This engine isn't going to last five more minutes.\"\n\n\"Let's make it to the Cut. I have an idea,\" Chino said.\n\nThe La Pinta made it to the mouth of the Cut before the engine stopped in a flurry of racket and smoke. Luckily the tide was high, forcing water away from the ocean and toward the bay. Like a household vacuum cleaner, the current sucked the 24-foot boat into the mouth of the Cut toward the bay. The Cho Chos fended the boat from both sides as it traveled from side to side, riding the fast paced flow of water. Lining both sides of the Cut were steep walls, twenty feet high in some places of carved coral rock, a cross-section of the island cut down to its core. Cast into the walls were petrified fossils, some dating back millions of years.\n\n\"Once we make it past the bridge, we'll have to beach it on the starboard side,\" Chino said.\n\n\"What do we do then?\"\n\n\"There are some trees and a retaining wall. We'll have to dump this stuff there for now.\"\n\n\"Roberto's not going to like that,\" Alberto warned.\n\"Roberto doesn't have much of a choice now, does he?\" Chino answered, straining as he pushed the heavy boat off the wall.\n\nAs the bridge approached, the two climbed up onto the bow. The current was moving along at a brisk pace, close to ten knots. The Cut now resembled a river amongst a flash flood rather than a navigable waterway. Both men prepared for the bridge that had concrete stanchions supporting the span in the middle. Each one had flashing spray coming from the leading edge with a wake trailing behind. The idea was to guide the boat under the bridge without hitting any of the stanchions. The Cho Chos failed miserably. The last push from the coral-faced wall sent the boat into a sideways attitude that it maintained until striking the first stanchion broadside. With a crash, the boat spun around, throwing Alberto from the bow into the cold, flowing water. Chino managed to cast a bowline to his brother and hold him close.\n\n\"Oye, are you alright? Maric\u00f3n, I think we cracked the boat!\" Chino yelled.\n\n\"I'm gonna swim the boat over to these rocks,\" Alberto said as his loud voice echoed within the tall walls.\n\n\"Just beach the damn thing.\"\n\nAlberto, while not very smart, was strong and was born with the gift of endurance. As the Cut opened up to Florida Bay, the walls descended to the water's edge, made up of a rock-lined shore. Alberto managed to climb over the rocks and maintain a footing where he pulled the boat against the current toward the shore. Once past the spoil of the Cut, the La Pinta laid into the rocks, resting with little effort.\n\nChino climbed to the top of the hill overlooking the gorge that was the Cross Key Cut. Less than a hundred feet away was a public storage complex. There were two hundred mini-warehouse storage units contained in seven separate buildings. Each unit had its own rollup entrance, about half the size of a regular single car garage door. All were accessible via a series of driveways that wound throughout the complex. This particular complex maintained an average occupancy rate of seventy percent and on this night, Chino was lucky to find an unused stall within the southwestern quadrant of the complex, the area closest to the beached boat.\n\nThe rollup doors had built into the bottom frame a hasp that tenants would attach a padlock to secure their belongings. The unused stalls were left unlocked. Chino chose a unit that measured eight-by-ten feet and within minutes, the two were lugging their load up the embankment towards the complex.\n\nDuring their ordeal, two very prominent things went wrong with the La Pinta. First, the gasket around the running engine's oil pan had developed a threatening leak that accounted for the smoke and falling oil pressure. Second, the boat had a slow leak in the rubber tube that housed the series of flexible U joints that drove the propulsion end of the outdrive. The hose was a shield between the bilge and the seawater on the other side. The problem went virtually unnoticed for months. Gradually, small amounts of water seeped into the hole that had started out small, but due to the fact that the hose was corrugated, old and dried out, it began to crack, allowing more water to enter. The flexible hose was implemented because the outdrive was designed to tilt up and down and also turn from right to left which was why, after getting lost in the small tributary and making many unnecessary turns, the hose was leaking to the point where the bilge pump could not keep up.\n\nChino had made it to the top of the hill with the last bale when he heard the noise of two high-powered marine engines pacing through Lake Largo, the body of water that sat at the mouth of the Cut. Both men looked at each other before shuffling the last few bales to the storage unit. Chino shut the roll-up door while Alberto made a run for the boat. Both men were starting to panic. Their boat was still laden with residue and if confronted, they would surely be detained and lose their boat, not to mention the possibility of the authorities finding the load stashed within the storage complex. Chino watched as Alberto stopped at the edge of the hill. He looked down at the Cut while holding his forehead in his hands. Shit! Chino thought, where did it go?\n\nBy the time Chino joined his brother's side it was gone. The current within the Cut had taken the 24-foot boat to the bottom of the murky water. The next action was done out of pure fear as the sound of throbbing engines came, echoing from the walls of the Cut.\n\n\"Look! Polic\u00eda!\" Alberto whispered, pointing to the approaching boat. The two made a duck-walk back toward the storage unit. Once there, Chino rolled the door up high enough for the two to enter and then closed it behind them seconds before a stray spotlight shown down the corridor containing their bay.\n\n\u2022\n\nJoel watched as the waterfront homes along the Cut became illuminated as they passed. Owen continued to drive as jeers from the residents, some of whom were standing on their porches in nightclothes, were directed at them.\n\nThe Indian, with its blasting exhaust headers, six hundred horsepower engines and blazing spotlights was despised and Jordan Cheney would have more than one angry phone call to deal with in the morning.\n\n\"What's that?\" Joel asked, pointing to some oily bubbles at the base of the bridge.\n\n\"Nothing. Probably just some shrimp. They run through this cut when the water gets cold,\" Owen said.\n\nTen minutes later they were docking at the Deep Six Marina, a large dry storage facility on Key Largo's bayside.\n\n\"Sector to 1903,\" the radio squawked.\n\n\"1903 here; go Sector,\" Owen replied.\n\n\"We have an inbound target approaching the North Creek. Are you available to intercept?\"\n\n\"10-4 Sector. We are transferring to a different unit but will be en route in five.\"\n\n\"Roger that 1903. Sector out.\"\n\nJoel looked over the 17-foot Boston Whaler, the much smaller open-utility boat they were docked behind. This was going to be a great transition from what he had just driven.\n\n\"Boats like these are how we get the job done,\" Owen said. \"Everything else is just propaganda for the public's benefit.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nDepot\n\nThe Chris-Craft called Old Faithful glided into the dock space in front of Kevin Pinder's Taylor Creek trailer for the second time of the busy night. Kevin's partner, Gil Lindback, sat on the edge of the wooden dock with his feet outstretched to fend off the boat as it approached. Red shut down the engines, making the docking that much quieter.\n\n\"This is it boys,\" Red said.\n\n\"I thought we were getting three loads?\" Lindback questioned.\n\n\"The Cho Chos haven't gotten here yet?\"\n\n\"Unless I slept through it, and that's not very likely.\"\n\n\"Shit. They got their load long before us!\"\n\n\"That was at least two hours ago,\" Lindback said.\n\n\"We didn't pass them on the way in,\" Red added.\n\n\"On the way out, stop by and check with Plimpton. Maybe he knows something.\"\n\n\"That's a no-no,\" Stump said.\n\n\"I think you'd better reconsider,\" Lindback suggested.\n\n\"When I get out into the open water, I'll try to call Roberto. He'll know what to do.\"\n\nWinding out through the channel was easy. Red jockeyed the wheel like he was driving a bright red Ferrari through the paces at the Miami Grand Prix. The feeling was great. Both his loads were delivered, and since it was raining, there was no need to bathe the deck with the cleaning solutions.\n\nSeveral clouds moved in which made the seascape darker and more clandestine than it was before. On nights like this, the area in front of Key Largo stayed bright from the street light on the shore, but past the mangrove point and south for two miles, there was nothing. Desolate mangroves covered the shore. These were wetlands and there were no signs of civilization for miles.\n\nTo make up time, Red augmented the boat's power to almost full throttle, increasing the boat's speed by ten knots. Red looked down at the illuminated compass showing 210 degrees. The heading was perfect. They would arrive back at their home dock in twenty minutes.\n\n\u2022\n\nLess than a mile away, Alvin Hipshire slept alone on his home-built trimaran. The three-hulled sailboat constructed entirely of plywood and Fiberglas took every bit of four years to construct. The boat was basically self-sufficient, drawing electric from the sun through solar collectors crudely mounted on the aft deck. A small windmill affixed to the cabin's hardtop provided limited twelve volt service and also aided in recharging his battery cells.\n\nHipshire despised civilization. His neighbors jeered him for building his sailboat in the backyard of his home in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He was thought of as a crazy old dreamer who didn't amount to much, but when he quit his job as an environmental consultant, sold his home and moved aboard the Dream, all were proven wrong.\n\nThe dark side of John Pennekamp State Park and Lake Largo was the only place he could find where it was quiet. He imagined this was the way it looked ten thousand years before and going back in time ten thousand or ten million years for that matter, was just fine with him.\n\nThe custom-designed bunk was warm and comfortable. A large wool blanket kept it that way. The garment had been quilted by his aunt and given to him as a going-away present. It was bright red with baby blue panels. Patterns were sewn in depicting different seascapes and lighthouses. Not quite his style, but it was warm. It served a purpose and Hipshire was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.\n\nHe lay there, half asleep. Tomorrow he would do some much-needed maintenance on his boat. Even Dreams succumbed to time and corrosion. This area was heaven, he thought to himself. The night air was cool and clear. There wasn't a sound for miles. Earlier, Hipshire turned off his anchor light so he could see a more unobstructed view of the stars. With a sextant in his hand he could plot 'til his heart desire. No LORAN-C or fancy video screens. It was by the seat of his pants, or nothing at all.\n\n\u2022\n\nThe 26-foot Old Faithful forged ahead. A quick look at the gauges; oil temperature right and left, okay, compass heading of 210 degrees, still on course. Even the voltmeters were showing considerable improvement despite earlier trouble he noticed with one of the batteries. Red looked up from the illuminated gauges. He hated how his eyes had to adjust back to the darkness ahead. There were no markers or anything else for that matter to hit on the dark side of Key Largo...or was there...\n\nSMASH!\n\nRed and Stump felt the craft lurch upward toward the sky. Both held on for their lives fearing the worst.\n\nHipshire felt the massive surge of energy hit the side of his boat. The craft sank to the port, and then to starboard, bouncing back up again, throwing Hipshire to the deck. While on his back, he looked up as the entire cabin top, one he had milled and constructed himself by hand, disappeared, leaving the bright stars shining through the scattered clouds overhead.\n\nOld Faithful landed twenty or so feet beyond the tri-hulled craft in a spray of wood splinters and saltwater. Red chopped the throttles and the boat glided to a halt. Both men looked back at the damage they had caused. The entire cabin top of the sailboat had been removed above the deck and the mast, which fell like a tall timber cut and ready for the mill, came to rest, half on the bow and half floating in the choppy water.\n\n\"Do you think they're okay?\" Red asked in a panicked voice.\n\n\"Who cares,\" replied Stump, who worried more about getting caught.\n\n\"Hey, is anyone there?!\" Red yelled back to the devastated boat.\n\n\"Come on man, let's get the fuck outta here!\" Stump cried.\n\n\"Hey, are you okay?\" Red repeated.\n\n\"What are you waiting for man, let's haul ass!\"\n\nRed gave the gas to both engines.\n\n\u2022\n\nTHUG-THUG-THUG\n\n\"Shit, we broke something,\" Stump exclaimed, even more panicked than before.\n\n\"Look over the transom and check the drives. We may have bent one of the props,\" Red suggested.\n\nStump climbed over the engine compartment and peered over the transom. \"Hey look at this!\" he said, pointing down to the water.\n\nRed joined him lying prone over the engine box. Laced between the propellers and the drives was a red and blue quilt blanket.\n\n\"Shit Red, we must have killed the guy.\"\n\n\"You poor fuck, why didn't you have any lights on,\" Red said, speaking directly to the blanket.\n\n\"Watch here, I'm going to see if I can clear the props.\"\n\nStump listened but wasn't sure if he was mentally prepared to watch an arm or maybe a gnawed-up leg come floating out of the twisted blanket. Red climbed behind the helm and put both engines into reverse. As the backwash flowed through the props, the blanket unraveled and floated off to the side of the boat.\n\n\"Yeah, you got it man!\" Stump yelled.\n\nRed could feel the power return to the outdrives. All around the boat there were floating pieces of plywood and Fiberglas. Red took one last look back at the sailboat before powering up. The Chris-Craft planed immediately, resuming its course toward the home marina.\n\nAlvin Hipshire popped his head above the boat's gunwale just in time to see the spray of the boat as it left. Along the horizon, the dropping flares lit up the sky. A quick glance around him and he could see his dream had been dissolved in one fell swoop. Was this a war zone? he thought to himself before reaching for his VHF radio.\n\nLess than a mile away, Jim Plimpton heard chatter on two separate radios.\n\n\"Seven-Up, Seven-Up, this is Sunkist. Do you copy?\" came from the CB.\n\n\"This is Seven-Up, what's going on?\" Jim answered.\n\n\"We hit a deer with Mom's car. The deer is dead.\"\n\nHoly shit, Plimpton thought to himself.\n\n\"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is the sailing yacht Dream, Mayday!\" the VHF marine radio squawked.\n\nPlimpton jetted out across Largo Sound toward South Creek in the hopes of drawing attention away from his friends in Taylor Creek. Within minutes, he had wound his way to the open ocean and was headed back north along the dark side. Before taking off, Plimpton had strapped the cat's eyes to his forehead. Despite the absence of any light, he maintained a perfect view of the water ahead of him.\n\nThe wreckage of the yacht Dream had spread out over the space of an acre by the time Plimpton spotted what was left of her and her captain, Alvin Hipshire, who stood waist deep in cluttered water amongst the wreckage, waving his arms in the air.\n\n\"Skipper, are you okay?\" he cried out.\n\n\"Please help me. I've been run over by some God-awful powerboat. I think it was a Hatteras or maybe a Bertram. I didn't get a very good look at it, but I'm sure it was at least fifty feet long,\" Hipshire said, shivering as he spoke.\n\nPlimpton looked around at the wreckage. What was once a large, sea-going vessel was now a shattered mess of floating debris. I hope this guy was insured and if so, I hope I wasn't the one who wrote the policy, he thought to himself.\n\n\"Look, can I get you to shore?\" Plimpton yelled.\n\n\"I would appreciate that,\" Hipshire replied.\n\nPlimpton motored the boat closer to the desperate man who continued to thank him.\n\n\"Listen, I can't go very fast, but I'll take you directly to the Coast Guard station in Islamorada,\" Plimpton said, knowing he had at least an hour to burn before his friends were finished.\n\n\"Thank you again. You know, they should license those damned powerboat operators. No offense.\"\n\n\"None taken.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nSeizure\n\nJoel stood patiently next to his partner who piloted the small Boston Whaler through the winding mangroves of the North Creek. The sleepless night before combined with the stress of his first day was starting to take its toll. He reached down over the side of the boat and splashed some cold water on his face giving him a temporary reprieve. It was all he could do to keep from falling asleep, even while standing next to the boat's console.\n\nOwen continued through the confining channel, navigating around small mangrove islands and through the twisting channels. He seems to know this area well, Joel thought to himself. The boat made a final turn before entering the main channel where Owen turned off the motor, letting the boat drift against the tree-lined bank. All that could be heard was the stream of hot water draining from the outboard motor's exhaust. Joel reached out his hand, grabbing a leafy branch and pulling the docile boat closer to the bank. The boat sat quietly for a few minutes as Owen tied a rope around the branch and Joel moved to the other side of the boat, sitting on a padded cushion in front of the console. As he put his head against the Plexiglas faring of the windscreen, he felt his eyes grow heavy and was soon asleep.\n\n\u2022\n\nFifty miles away at the C3I communications center, a supervisor entered the dispatch cube. It was part of his regular rounds, making sure things were running smoothly while ensuring a proper need for his position, knowing that his presence probably didn't make a difference as to how the center was run. After all, with the advents of modern government and the changes their president, the actor, had made, it took an act of Congress for him to exact his authority. He learned though to be patient and practice the art of diplomacy when any conflicts arose. He ran a quiet post, sometimes at the cost of efficiency, but it was quiet and this meant, on a public level, undiscovered. Things could be worse, he thought. The President had just fired most of the air traffic controllers across the country, replacing them with under-trained rookies in order to break PATCO, the controllers union. I will forego any air travel for a while, he thought to himself.\n\nThe dispatcher was on her sixth cup of coffee for the night, this one accompanied by a cinnamon sticky bun from the vending machine in the staff lounge.\n\n\"Anything I should be aware of?\" he asked.\n\n\"I lost another two and a half pounds this week,\" she answered.\n\n\"Great!\" he said aloud. Another one-fifty to go, he thought to himself.\n\n\"We have a 38-foot Stinger off Marathon and Blue Thunder 5 just returned from a run down Government Cut...something about Agent Cuttyworth's bachelor party. Besides that it's pretty quiet.\"\n\n\"What about the inbounds?\" he asked.\n\n\"It must be a bad night. Radar's got a few planes and some large commercial traffic in the stream,\" she answered.\n\n\"That's it?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, I almost forgot, I've got one target inbound to Key Largo. I've got an FTA and a fresh one from Glynnco out of Tavernier in a 17-foot Whaler off Key Largo.\"\n\n\"Owen Sands,\" he stated.\n\n\"1903?\" she asked.\n\n\"That's him,\" he answered.\n\n\"What are they doing in a 17-foot boat?\" she asked.\n\n\"It's not what they're doing; it's where they're doing it. The channels aren't big enough for the big boats. If I were you, I'd watch. My money's on Owen,\" he said with a smile.\n\n\u2022\n\nBack on the Boston Whaler, Joel felt a soft blow to the side of his head as he realized he had fallen asleep.\n\n\"Wake up kid,\" Owen said.\n\nHe stood straight up as the two looked at each other.\n\n\"What!\" he replied defensively. \"I haven't slept much in the last few days.\"\n\n\"Shush!\" Owen responded. He seemed to have a concerned look on his face which puzzled Joel. Then he felt it. The vibration came first. Then the muffled sound of two large motors idling, purring, and coming their way.\n\n\"They must be lost and unable to maneuver in these tight channels,\" Owen said quietly as he looked at his watch: 1:19 a.m. He started the motor and motivated the boat forward again. The sound and vibrations were easily detectable now, even over the sound of the running outboard motor. The two watched very carefully as they came to an S curve in the channel. Owen spotted it first: a 38-footer, barely visible through the patches of mangroves. Their tiny 17-footer was still undetected as Owen began to act quickly.\n\n\"Here, take this,\" he said, giving the helm to Joel who reluctantly took it, steering around the curve and closer to the approaching boat. Owen then grabbed a portable blue revolving beacon and a spotlight. He climbed on top of the small Fiberglas console, peering over the top of the six-foot-high mangroves. The small boat started to list to one side as the offset weight caused it to be out of balance.\n\n\"As soon as we round the corner, hit the switch at the bottom of the panel,\" Owen whispered.\n\nJoel guided the boat slowly toward the curve in the channel and then, as the boat began to turn, he hit the switch as his partner had requested. The beacon sent a bright blue beam of light sweeping over the top of the larger boat and the handheld spotlight put out a brilliant beam with the intensity of daylight directly on the two occupants in the cockpit of their 38-footer. From their vantage point, the lights appeared to be coming from a stalking Coast Guard gunboat.\n\nAs Joel maneuvered the small utility boat closer to the larger powerboat, Owen maintained the beam of white light directly into the eyes of the two men who shut down their engines and stood with their hands raised high over their heads.\n\n\"Papa 1925 to Sector. We're stopping a vessel in Zone 32L, two POB, repeat, two persons on board,\" he announced into the mic.\n\n\"10-4 1925 at 1:34 hours.\"\n\nJoel pulled alongside as Owen climbed down from the console. The boat was a 38-foot Midnight Express, an off-brand Stiletto manufactured in Hialeah almost exclusively for the smuggling trade. She was gray and black and had a faded paint finish that further diminished its appearance. The cockpit was weathered and the seats had gaping holes in the upholstery.\n\n\"What are you doing out so late?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"We no habla ingl\u00e9s,\" responded one of the men.\n\n\"Polic\u00eda, Federales muchachos. \u00bfD\u00f3nde est\u00e1 el registro de la barca?\" Owen said, asking them for the boat's registration.\n\n\"I no have. No my boat,\" the driver said.\n\n\"Mira por favor,\" Owen continued to say.\n\n\"No problema aqu\u00ed. We have done nothing,\" the other man added impatiently.\n\n\"Then you have nothing to worry about,\" Owen replied as he brought the first man into the cockpit of the Whaler.\n\n\"This is just temporary,\" he said as he applied a nylon flex cuff, binding the man's wrists behind his back. \"If everything checks out, I'll let you two be on your way...Comprende?\" Owen asked.\n\nThe lead agent then climbed aboard the larger boat and repeated the process on the second man before starting his search. These guys were definitely not on a pleasure cruise, Owen thought to himself as he viewed the duffel bags filled with dirty clothes and unused MREs, Meals Ready to Eat, the military's version of a bagged TV dinner.\n\n\"Watch them closely,\" Owen asked as he disappeared past the cabin door, down below the boat's foredeck.\n\nJoel looked at the two men. Both hadn't shaved in a while and wore clothes that looked like they were from a Goodwill store. They were visually shaken up but complying with the orders Owen had issued to them. Seconds later he emerged from under the cabin. \"Where's the clavo? \u00bfD\u00f3nde est\u00e1 el clavo?\"\n\nBoth men sat silent.\n\n\"Look, you're both looking at fifteen years apiece. I suggest you cooperate. Where are you headed?\" Owen asked again.\n\n\"We got our presidential rights, man,\" one of them barked, making Joel laugh to himself.\n\nOwen reached for the mic. \"Papa 1903 to Sector.\"\n\n\"Go ahead 1903,\" the female voice responded.\n\n\"We are in custody of two Latin males and one 38-foot vessel. We will need ground units to cover 32 Lima for this target's destination.\"\n\n\"10-4. Am I authorized to alert local agencies?\" she asked.\n\n\"Go ahead Sector, and advise them that we are looking for a destination to accommodate approximately four thousand pounds of burlap,\" Owen said, as Joel raised his eyebrows. \"Also Sector, the dock has to accommodate a 38-footer.\" Burlap was the code for marijuana, usually transported in burlap sacks. Duct tape meant the hard stuff, cocaine.\n\n\"Copy that 1903, good work. I'll alert your office. Will you need assistance with transportation?\" she asked.\n\n\"10-4, have Sector call and wake up Keys Truck Rentals.\"\n\n\"10-4 1925 at 1:54 hours.\"\n\nSector jumped into high gear. During the night, various radar operators and technicians had been monitoring a wide variety of inbound air and sea targets. A seizure had just been confirmed in North Key Largo and now it was their turn to try and find the source for the contraband.\n\nSix targets had been labeled for further investigation. Four of them were airborne and sending transponder signals. Within seconds, the crew at the command center had dispatched field agents to intercept the planes once they had landed. The two remaining targets were waterborne and required a different approach.\n\nAt half past two in the morning, a Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk departed the Opa-Locka Coast Guard Air Station bound for aerial reconnaissance over the Gulf Stream. Mounted firmly into her belly was a FLIR unit, a computerized system that could enable the viewer to literally see in the dark without detection.\n\nOwen Sands drove the 38-footer into Garden Cove less than half a mile away as Joel followed in the Boston Whaler. As the two boats entered the basin of Garden Cove, a red and yellow Ryder truck parked under an overhead streetlight came into view. A portly man dressed in jeans and a soiled white T-shirt stood leaning against the van, smoking a cigarette.\n\n\"Not bad for a first day, Special Agent Kenyon,\" Holmes yelled as the two boats bumped to a stop against the dock. \"How much did we get?\" he asked.\n\n\"Looks like around four thousand, give or take,\" Owen said.\n\n\"Well, I guess I'm waking up with another backache tomorrow,\" Holmes replied.\n\n\"You mean we have to unload this stuff?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Who did you think was going to do it?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"I don't know... maybe them,\" Joel said, pointing to the two prisoners.\n\n\"Gee, never thought of that before. What do you think boss?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"Aw hell, they'd probably say it was cruel and unusual punishment,\" Owen answered.\n\nThe three agents unloaded sixty bales of cannabis into the yellow cube van, each piece weighing an average of seventy-five pounds. The Whaler was secured for the night and the prisoners were transported to the Monroe County Sheriff's Department jail for holding until the morning. Sands put the finishing touches on the mission by affixing several bright red ten-by-eight-inch stickers on the boat's deck and windshield that read:\n\nSEIZED PROPERTY  \nU.S. Customs Service  \nDO NOT TAMPER  \nFor More Information Contact:  \nSpecial Agent Joel Kenyon  \nCase # 84-19250001  \nCall 1-800-Be Alert\n\n* * * * *\n\nResidue\n\nThe home of Owen Sands was quiet with the exception of a soft ticking from a large grandfather clock that stood tall in the home's cedar-lined den. Outside, the rising sun beamed into the windows while bright light engulfed the kitchen. Blue spotted wallpaper with ducks and pigs covered the walls and brass pots and other cookware hung from the ceiling over a traditional cutting board topped center island. The room felt warm but very much unused. The large wall clock mounted above an eat-in kitchen table read 7:45 a.m.\n\nThe silence was interrupted by the sound of bare feet hitting the crafted tile floor. Dressed in a long T-shirt, fifteen-year-old Jade Sands entered the kitchen. She passed through and cautiously opened an adjacent pantry, exposing the home's washer and dryer.\n\nShe was not an exceptionally pretty girl, considered plain by most standards. Her face, like many girls her age, was covered with adolescent acne and stainless steel braces filled her mouth. Her shoulder length dirty blond hair was unbrushed. In school, her grades were slightly less than average although she didn't really struggle. The teachers who watched over Jade said she was not meeting her potential. Still, she managed to get by. On a small chart affixed to her bathroom mirror she had calculated the exact number of days she could miss during the school year without getting kicked out. The days were distributed on a sliding scale so as to guarantee an equal amount of time off throughout the year.\n\nJade didn't have many friends but the few she did associate with were close. There was Lisa Sikes, who had a ring pierced into her nose, and Lisa's brother, Darren, who preferred the traditional, standard earring that was pierced into a portion of the ear. The three spent a lot of time together, usually doing much of nothing, listening to music or sneaking a cigarette or two.\n\nWhile most teenagers complained about their parents, Jade was smart enough to see the positive side of everything, including her father. Most kids couldn't have cared less about their dad's comings and goings. She was different, always maintaining a watchful eye on him. At a young age, she had a reasonable amount of freedom. Her dad was gone at nights. That meant she could do whatever she pleased and, at times like these, she could pursue her secret benefit.\n\nWhile trying not to make a sound, Jade put her hands through the bundle of dirty clothes. She scattered the loose pieces on the top of the dryer next to her, sifting through the pile until coming to her father's soiled jeans, shirt and socks, clothes he wore during the big bust the night before. Then she reached into a cabinet overhead, in between bottles of detergent, bleach and fabric softener, and removed a large white garbage bag, spreading it over the floor below, shaking the worn garments over the plastic. Pieces of cannabis fell from the creases, crevasses and pockets, raining down on the white surface. She shook until there were no more remnants left. Jade then went to the living room, gathered his tennis shoes and repeated the process. With the skill of a chemist, she emptied the remnants into a smaller clear plastic bag, an ounce of weed in all, being careful to return the clothes and pair of shoes back to their original places. She returned quietly to her room where she started to shower and get dressed for school.\n\nRAP RAP RAP\n\nThere it was again, Owen Sands thought to himself as he climbed out of bed and staggered through the house. Joel stood patiently in front of the large door. As it opened, he was surprised to see Owen standing there, half slumped over, dressed in a muscle shirt and jockey shorts.\n\n\"I didn't mean to wake you,\" Joel said.\n\n\"It's okay, I had to get up sometime today,\" Owen replied.\n\n\"Porky says we need to pick up the Whaler.\"\n\n\"You've been to the office?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"Yeah, I wanted to get started on the paperwork from last night.\"\n\n\"Well I guess you'd better come in. I'll need some time to get ready.\"\n\nJoel entered the home and sat on the couch while Owen disappeared into the back room.\n\n\"How did you know where I live?\" Owen yelled back from his room.\n\n\"Porky told me. He drew a map.\"\n\n\"I'll have to remember to thank him,\" Owen said sarcastically.\n\nWhile he took his time in the back, Joel looked around the living room. The interior resembled a North Carolina hunting lodge with cedar planks covering the walls and a stone fireplace built into the center of the wall, constructed entirely out of gray slate. In the opposite corner sat a sixty-inch projection TV and below his feet, a thick bear-skinned rug. From the back room Sands yelled again.\n\n\"I met your mother,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Really? Don't get too attached,\" Owen warned.\n\n\"Why? She seems like a sweet lady.\"\n\n\"She is, but we are seeing early stages of dementia. She will probably forget your name by the end of the week.\"\n\n\"And she lives alone?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Her choice, for now. She has a visiting nurse who comes in twice a week. I'm sure she will have to be put into a home soon.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear it man.\"\n\n\"Hey, if you want something to drink help yourself.\"\n\nDistracted, Joel did not answer. He picked up the framed photo. It looked like a prom picture of a girl dressed in a white sequined dress that complemented her perfectly tanned shoulders. Another picture contained Owen, a woman and two young girls, all of whom were dressed in ski clothes with the backdrop of snow-covered mountains behind them.\n\n\"Hey, listen,\" Owen began, coming back into the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. \"I'm probably going to be awhile. Why don't you drive up and get the boat yourself. There's a chart under the console. You'll be okay if you stay on the bay side.\"\n\n\"You've got a lot of confidence in me,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Well, if the truth were known, I've got a meeting with my daughter's guidance counselor at the high school and I really don't have a choice.\"\n\n\"It's okay, I'll figure it out,\" Joel said.\n\n\"You'll do fine. If you get into trouble, pull into the closest marina and call me.\"\n\n\"The chart is under the console?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Under the console,\" Owen replied. \"Take the Key Largo Cut over to the bay side and follow the markers.\"\n\nFollow the markers, Kenyon thought to himself.\n\nOwen finished getting dressed as Jade slipped out the back door unnoticed.\n\n\u2022\n\nIt was an hour later and Owen walked through the double doors of the Coral Shores High School, the only public high school in the Upper Florida Keys. For the most part, he was happy with the school. His older daughter had graduated from there and now Jade was two years away from doing the same. The school housed enough classroom space and ancillary facilities for a student body of twelve hundred, although the rolls reflected a count closer to a thousand. The fact that most of the faculty and staff were alumni of the University of Miami was especially evident in the school's athletic department, regionally known for producing excellent ball players, players who, like their mentoring university, were known as the Hurricanes and wore similar uniforms only adorned in green and gold. The idea caught on and while the state was looking at the real Miami Hurricanes, the miniature Hurricanes at times caught equal billing, especially when the scores and stats corresponded between games.\n\nThe hallway was long and quiet. Owen reminisced of his days in high school growing up in Hialeah. Before entering the office he took one last look down at his watch. 9:12 a.m. He was over ten minutes late.\n\n\"Mr. Sands, please come in,\" said a perky woman standing next to a copy machine.\n\n\"I'm sorry; I'm running a little late...\" Owen apologized.\n\n\"Well, at least now we know where Jade gets her punctuality.\"\n\n\"Jade was late?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why don't you follow me back to my office and we'll talk about it in private.\"\n\nThe two walked down a short hallway to another door and entered. It was a modest-sized room. The centerpiece, a large oak desk, took up most of the space. Behind it, hung conspicuously, were several degrees and certificates, most from the Florida State University. At the top of the collection, which was arranged in the shape of a pyramid, was a doctoral degree from Duke.\n\n\"Have a seat. Coffee?\" she asked.\n\n\"No, no thanks,\" Sands answered.\n\n\"Well, we will get right down to it.\"\n\n\"Please do,\" he said.\n\n\"Jade, while a very bright girl, is not performing to her capacity. She is making a low C at best and we all know she is capable of producing better grades than that. I believe the problem stems from the home,\" she suggested, nervously dropping a pencil on the desk.\n\n\"I know I haven't provided the ideal home environment for her, but between myself and her grandmother, I think we give Jade everything she needs to grow and go to school,\" he said confidently.\n\n\"Where is Jade's mother?\" she asked.\n\n\"Homestead,\" Owen responded quietly.\n\n\"Oh, great, maybe we can have her join us at the next meeting.\"\n\n\"I don't think so. My wife passed away several years ago. She resides at the Birchwood Memorial Gardens in Homestead.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, I didn't know,\" she faltered.\n\n\"You should have,\" Owen replied with an irritated tone.\n\n\"Yes, you're right. I'm sorry.\"\n\n\"Don't get me wrong. We don't use Leslie's death as an excuse by any means, but you are her guidance counselor. Something as basic as the death of a parent should be in her file or something. Shouldn't it?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes it should. Look Mr. Sands, I've only been with this school for less than a year and most of the cases I've had to inherit from someone else.\"\n\n\"Understood. Look, I'll do what I can to encourage and promote some ambition in my daughter and if you could keep me informed as to any new developments, I would appreciate it,\" he said.\n\n\"Would you have any objections to me moving Jade from her free period to a study aid class?\" she asked.\n\n\"It sounds like a good move to me,\" he agreed.\n\n* * * * *\n\nSculpture\n\nHank Pearson sat patiently in the padded, wood-lined pew that had been assigned to him and the other jurors on his row. He had been called to serve his duty. The day started early with free coffee and donuts in the call room. Pearson spent most of the morning sitting amidst two hundred other people. The process was slow and tedious. Attorneys from the Second Federal Judicial District milled over prospective jurors until a group of non-partisan objective listeners could be compiled.\n\nHis boss, with all the right techniques to get disqualified, had coached Pearson. It was either \"hate Columbians\" or \"feel the federal government has no right peering into people's lives.\" Whatever the reason, he was compelled to ignore them all, despite his boss's objections. His employer, Ajac Restaurant Supply, Inc. of greater Atlanta, was in the middle of a stock reduction program, which left Pearson pulling twelve-hour days, six days a week. At thirty-seven, Pearson was responsible for sales to the northwestern corner of the city. His territory contained some fifteen hundred restaurants, cafes, and coffee shops, all begging for the innovative and exclusive products he sold. His boss was under the gun to increase sales and lower the downtime of his brokers. Ajac owned several warehouses in Norcross, a small industrial area on Atlanta's Eastside, all filled with stainless sinks, fryers, toasters, pizza ovens and the daily consumables which alone accounted for over sixteen million in gross sales. Some were new, some were used, but all were priced to sell.\n\nPearson's newfound commitment as a grand juror would occupy his life from 6:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. every Friday for the next twenty-six weeks. He was proud to serve in this fashion as he was always intrigued by federal crimes. He wondered what he would be exposed to: counterfeit, drugs, tax evasion, bank robbery? He watched syndicated reruns of Perry Mason and the Andy Griffith Show religiously. The thought of being part of the federal process made his palms sweat. What he would encounter would change his opinion forever.\n\nPat Stephens stood up from an adjacent chair. His off-the-rack suit had been recently pressed and what was left of his hair was parted neatly to the right. The gray streak was only overshadowed by his piercing blue eyes. At forty-two, if he was anything, he was a confident man.\n\nAs Stephens spoke, his voice echoed from the walnut-coated walls trimmed in cherry and garnished oak stanchions. He commanded attention from Pearson and the other twenty-two jurors.\n\n\"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Patrick Stephens and I am a special prosecutor with the United States Justice Department. Normally, as jurors, you are exposed to anywhere from three to five ongoing federal cases involving as many as twenty different defendants. Over the next six months, you will, through me, hear about several targets involved in different cases. One in particular though, has our attention. No, it's not a famous mass murderer,\" Stephens said, evoking laughter from the jurors.\n\n\"We will focus all of our limited time and energy toward seeking justice and wisdom from our Lord God to find out the truth. Whether or not to indict this man, simply expose him to the closer scrutiny of a trial, or to ignore the evidence presented and hand down a no bill, setting him free of this judicial process. Let us pray...\"\n\nPearson, like the others, bowed his head with reserve. Stephens made this not just a mission for the United States, but also a mission from God. Pearson, who had attended the Norcross First Baptist Church for over eleven years, was hooked.\n\n\"Our Father who watches over us...\"\n\nStephens paused as he squinted up to view his captive audience.\n\n\"Please direct our paths as we look forward, with the assistance of your light, into a very dark room, one that holds in it the sins of many others. We ask for your direction and guidance in deciding which path to take. We ask for the courage to make those decisions that we might find difficult. Let us do some good. In your name, we pray, Amen.\"\n\nStephens paused for a minute as the jurors opened their eyes and reoriented themselves with the room. \"The man you will learn about later is a drug dealer. But not just any drug dealer. This man is more dangerous than that. He is a cop, a federal agent actually, still on the job as we speak. He works in one of the busiest sectors of the U.S., the Florida Keys. Because of its proximity to the Bahamas and South America, the Keys have become the busiest conduit for drug traffic in the country. It is estimated that more than seventy percent of all illegal drugs enter the U.S. through this chain of islands. The man you will be investigating has been entrusted by our country, by you the taxpayers and by me personally, to uphold and enforce the law. In the next few months, ladies and gentlemen, we will peer into the life of this man and see how he has betrayed that trust for the purpose of promoting his own personal gain.\"\n\nAt the end of Stephens's introduction, Pearson found himself sitting upright in the hard pew. He hung on every word preached to him by the exuberant Stephens. A slightly chunky girl entered the room serving ice water and fruit. The jurors took in the brief concessions as Stephens fumbled through his notes.\n\n\"Welcome to the 'People's Panel.' That's what it is you know. A chance for ordinary people like you to extract justice from a system cluttered with bureaucracy and red tape. The process itself is a guaranteed right granted to you, the people, by the Fifth Amendment. Yes, I said the Fifth Amendment. The same piece of legislation we hear quoted so often in this very room. The amendment which protects a witness or defendant from self-incrimination also provides for the grand jury process and all that it entails.\"\n\n\"Since we will not have a judge presiding over us, Judge Terry Lewis is in his chambers downstairs and at our disposal should any problems arise. No judge, no attorneys, and no gallery. It's just you all, the witnesses, and me. And, I almost forgot, the young lady with the goodies is my assistant Marcy. If you need anything, she will be glad to get it for you,\" Stephens informed before drinking from a glass of ice water.\n\n\"In the year 1919, an interesting case erupted, that of the United States versus Blair. The specifics of the case aren't important but the fact that a newly revised grand jury system made its first indictment ever sets it apart as a landmark event. This transposed earlier attempts which were nothing more than rumor shops with the bulk of evidence coming from the testimony of the jurors themselves who testified to personal accounts, gossip and hearsay. Today's grand jury is an official inquisition and the United States Federal Court System sees to it that we are afforded a tremendous amount of leeway. Our proceedings are stenographed and videotaped for later examination. And like other court proceedings, anyone who violates their oath to the truth is guilty of perjury and I prosecute those personally,\" Stephens said, pausing for a moment while examining his notes.\n\n\"Your attendance is very important. Out of the twenty-three of you, I will need a quorum of sixteen to proceed. In the end, it will take a mere twelve to indict. The number twenty-three by the way, has been traced back to the ancient Jewish twenty-three member tribunal known as the Lesser Sanhedrin, which served for a number of years as an ecclesiastical and secular court until the destruction of the second temple in the year 70 A.D. So folks, this process has been around for awhile in one form or another.\"\n\n\"Why so many of you? Well some states like Indiana and South Dakota have only seven jurors on a panel. The state of Virginia utilizes five. The federal government uses twenty-three because we want the largest spectrum of the community to be represented and the interjection of a broad opinion base. Different ideas from different walks of life. Different races, cultures, well, you get the idea.\"\n\nStephens paused again, this time retrieving two enlarged pictures that were placed on a display easel. They were pictures, mug shots, of two men. Both appeared to be in their thirties. Both were Latin. Both were grubby and hadn't shaved in probably a week. Underneath them, from their necks, hung a booking pallet, a board suspended by a chain bearing the date of arrest, arresting agency - in this case the Metro Dade Police Department of Miami - and the booking number.\n\n\"These, ladies and gentlemen, are the Aryo Brothers, suspected of narcotics distribution, money laundering, extortion, and the murder of a federal informant. They bring me to my next topic and that is anonymity. Secrecy. What you see here and hear here stays here. Because of a leak in the system, these dangerous criminals got word of a secret indictment and before our agents had a chance to raid their home and take them into custody, they fled jurisdiction - a blatant flight to avoid prosecution. Something we don't want to have happen. Ever!\"\n\nStephens continued. \"Your job is simple. Hear the evidence presented and decide: A, if a crime has been committed and B, is there probable cause to indict the person, the target, suspected of perpetrating the said crime? The conflict that you may be considering is whether to vote in favor of an indictment or not to. I want you to remember that an indictment is not a conviction. Like most court cases, a jury is present, and they have to vote on a defendant's guilt or innocence, a vote that, I must stress, has to be unanimous. This is not what you will be deciding today. You are simply deciding whether to charge someone we, the government, feel is breaking the law. Over the next six months you will be charged with this responsibility and you will hear a lot of testimony about a wide variety of potential defendants. Today, I am going to give you an easy case. Let's call it our case with training wheels, something to get your feet wet,\" he said, pausing for a minute to drink from a glass of water.\n\n\"Are there any questions?\" Stephens asked.\n\n\"Where are the bathrooms?\" one of the jurors replied.\n\n\"How insensitive of me. They are out that door,\" he answered, pointing to the back of the hearing room, \"and to the left. We also have fresh coffee, donuts, sodas and bottled water. If there is anything that can make your service here more comfortable, don't hesitate to ask.\"\n\nFor the first time, Pearson didn't regret the turn of luck that had landed him there. His only task was explaining to his boss at Ajac that he was going to miss every Friday morning for the next six months.\n\n\"Our first case is the culmination of a two year intensive investigation. For time's sake, this is the way we are going to conduct this hearing. I am going to present a batch of evidence and then we will vote for a true bill. If we elect to indict, we will stop there and call it a day. If we have no bill, then we will present more evidence. This may sound like an attempt to manipulate you into a hasty decision, but it's more complicated than that. The truth is this tactic is for your protection and the protection of the eventual case that will hopefully end up in federal court. Information in a case like this is fragile and, as much as I want to tell you everything, remember that we need to keep things on a need to know basis. Having told you this, please consider that what you hear in the jury room is probably just the tip of the iceberg.\"\n\nStephens had Pearson's complete and unobstructed attention. In his regular job he dealt with a lot of people who were less than reliable. His customers were either restaurateurs or those wanting to be in the restaurant business. Stephens was different. A real straight shooter, Pearson thought to himself.\n\n\"Remember the Aryo Brothers I mentioned? Well, they have been caught and they are talking, which has led us to our next target and your first case. Guillermo Morales is a businessman, a community figure, a father, a devoted husband, an upstanding member of his church, a world champion powerboat racer, and what we call, a kingpin. He's forty-seven, claims three hundred and fifty thousand a year on his taxes as a painting contractor and, at our last estimate, is worth just over twenty-three million dollars.\"\n\nPearson, along with the rest of the jurors, was hooked. This was the stuff headlines were made of. Now they were going be a part of those headlines.\n\nIt was a shotgun approach, one made famous by the late John Kenyon eleven years before during the Watergate indictments. Overwhelm a fresh panel as soon as you can.\n\nAfter six witnesses, seventeen exhibits and a thirty-one minute wiretapped phone call, Stephens was ready to take his handpicked jury for a test drive by sending them to deliberate amongst themselves.\n\n\"I am going to leave this in your hands,\" he told them. \"This is a serious crime, and I know how you feel. You want some form of immediate justice and the thought of waiting for a long, drawn out trial frustrates you. So I'll make you guys a deal. You give me indictments for racketeering and murder of a federal witness, and I will have Mr. Morales in custody before our next meeting.\"\n\nTen minutes later, Stephens was sitting in the judge's chambers side study with his feet on the desk and a smoldering cigar perched between his lips, talking to his wife on the phone.\n\n\"It was beautiful, babe. A unanimous bill on the first run.\"\n\n\"I'm so proud of you.\"\n\n\"I'm on a roll and I'm going to pull this wagon until the wheels come off. You know this means I'm going to have to do that boat race thing in Key West this next week.\"\n\n\"Joel is coming home for a few days.\"\n\n\"I know. It won't conflict. I need to spend some time with him anyway.\"\n\n\"I know that mind of yours. What are you up to with my baby brother?\"\n\n\"I just need to debrief him. Find out how everything's going. I've stuck my neck out you know, getting him this assignment. I just want to make sure he's not, you know, fucking things up.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nExtrication\n\nMoving a load this size had to be done in stages. The first step was to get the product to an offshore island, like Gordo's favorite, Andros. From there, go-fasts, like the Black Duck and the Cigarette would take the stuff to the waiting boats at the reef line. The reefs were located beyond the three-mile limit that restricted the jurisdictions of the state and local law enforcement agencies, leaving the sole authority to the Customs Service and the Coast Guard. Smaller vessels like the Chris-Craft and the Cho Chos' La Pinta had a better chance of getting through from there. They were quieter and could fit in the tight channels and creeks that led to the secluded clavos on dry land. Another advantage was that by using more than one boat, it broke the load up. Should the worst happen, they would not lose everything. It was hard for the authorities to track the multiple incoming targets, even on radar.\n\nFor the crew of the clavo, the day after presented a conflict of feelings. On one hand, most of the load had been delivered without incident. In this case nearly three thousand pounds crossed the threshold of the singlewide mobile home on Grouper Lane. On the other, there was still a lot of work to be done and one of the boats was still missing. There was still no word from the Cho Chos and word was already on the streets that Customs agents had made a big bust a few hours before.\n\nWith the load weighed and numbered, each bale recorded on a notebook with a corresponding weight measured to the nearest quarter-pound with the bathroom scale, the load still had to make its way to Miami. Kevin surveyed the bales stacked neatly throughout the 70-foot trailer. Sunlight was just beginning to shine through the windows across the piles of burlap and dark eight mil plastic.\n\nThe first mule's cars would arrive any minute. Each one was an oversized Lincoln, Cadillac or Chevy Impala, and all with large motors, four hundred cubic inches plus, and large trunks, large enough to hold six or seven bales. All the cars were equipped with air shocks and CB radios. During the day, the mule would have to adjust the air pressure both up and down to compensate for the weight differential the rear of the car would encounter. A small air compressor was stored in the trailer's secluded carport just for this purpose.\n\nIt was 9:10 a.m. Their success depended on them getting the load out by noon. Gordo had arranged five mules with cars and, as Kevin started to massage his sore muscles from last night, the first one arrived, backing into the tiny carport. Its large engine vibrated the flimsy walls of the trailer as the car's tailpipe rattled under its rusty frame. Kevin walked out the side door into the enclosure. The first mule was a Latin man, one he had never seen before, probably an illegal alien, maybe Cuban, but he looked more Mexican. Gordo had in the past recruited from the migrant camps in Homestead during the picking seasons. This guy was neatly dressed, a matching navy blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. He spoke no English. He was humble and very polite. Kevin would probably see this guy two or three times today. He would be paid per trip, usually at least twelve hundred dollars a load.\n\nThe job was simple. First, act like their namesake and get the product to the safehouse. Second, be anonymous, drive like everyone else on the road. Stay with the flow of traffic. If cars were going forty-five in a fifty-five miles per hour zone, slow down, don't pass. If sixty-five in the same zone, speed up, don't be overtaken. Do as the chameleon does and blend. Third, and most importantly, listen to the radio. Gordo would be out in his station wagon scouting the roads, especially a strip of highway called the Danger Zone. Named appropriately after the release of the movie Top Gun, this mile and a half strip of pavement represented the entire length of the highway's passage through a town called Florida City. The cops there were known to set up impromptu roadblocks and stop everything and anything that came out of the Keys. This was tolerated at first because at its inception, South Florida was being inundated with refugees, Cubans from Muriel and Haitians fleeing the oppression left behind by the failed dictatorship. The roadblocks were instituted by the Border Patrol, a division of the U. S. Department of Immigration and Naturalization, a very powerful agency and one, despite the objections, which set an era of precedence. If you are leaving the Keys, be prepared to be stopped.\n\nThe Florida City Police Department, with less than twelve full-time uniformed officers and four marked patrol cars, had seized more cars and confiscated, pound for pound, more illegal contraband consisting of coke, weed, and one carload of imitation Rolexes, than the entire statewide agency of the Florida Highway Patrol. City Hall, a small, one-story concrete block structure, looked more like a sales office for a junkyard with its location directly next to the city's seven acre holding and impound yard. Here, cars, trucks, trailered boats, and motor homes were stored, awaiting trial or actual forfeiture and then eventual sale at one of many such auctions held in the area, a process that routinely took between three to five years.\n\nThe Alazars were lucky. In their many years of moving contraband, they had only lost one car. It was before Gordo had started taking such extensive counter-surveillance measures and in a span of five minutes, the time it took for the lead car to pass the Danger Zone to the next in line, a roadblock went up. There was no escaping. Fortunately, the mule radioed out a message and all the other cars behind him were turned back. His car was searched and the load discovered without much trouble. The mule was resourceful and after four hours of incarceration, he escaped the tiny confines of the Florida City jail through a loose set of bars covering an inmate bathroom, avoiding prosecution and fleeing back to Mexico.\n\nKevin surveyed the thick mangroves across the canal for suspicious visitors or anyone else that might be able to see into the back of the carport. The signal was then given and one by one, the sixty-pound blocks came out the side door and were deposited neatly into the trunk. The spare tire had to be removed. Kevin's carport was usually filled with different sized spare tires during the course of the day after. A spare tire put in the backseat was a dead giveaway. Kevin plugged in the tiny air compressor and watched as the lights in the poorly wired mobile home dimmed slightly. He folded back the license plate and exposed an air fitting, one much like the stem of a tire, and injected the high-pressure air. The back of the car rose slowly until the car appeared level and not so strained with the new four hundred pound load in the trunk. The driver got in, turned his CB radio to Channel Eleven, and within seconds, he was on the road. Kevin liked to run his little operation like a pit crew would in an Indy race. The quicker they worked, the less time any of his suspicious neighbors had to see what was happening. This was a weekday. As it was planned, the day after always fell on a weekday. Most of Kevin's neighbors had jobs and at this hour, they were preoccupied with getting ready for a day of work. This type of operation could never be attempted on the weekend. He picked up his handheld CB radio and signaled the next car to approach the clavo, this one, a Chevy Impala and the process was repeated.\n\n* * * * *\n\nConfidence\n\nJoel looked at the chart and felt confident in his ability to navigate the small craft back to Tavernier. The Intracoastal Waterway, which lined the Florida Bay side of the Keys, was well marked. He eased the boat out of the basin, taking it slow at first. After he cleared the open pier he gradually increased the power until the boat was on plane and heading south toward his destination. The water was remarkably clear, so much so that Joel found himself intimidated being able to see the bottom and traveling so fast. After the first fifteen minutes he learned to ignore his gut instinct and opened the throttle all the way. The boat skimmed across the water leaving a small sliver of a wake in its trail. The cool wind blowing in his face felt exhilarating.\n\nThe Intracoastal Waterway wound itself through several picturesque spots along the way. One such area called the Cowpens, was a group of small mangrove islands divided in half by the channel that passed through the middle. Joel watched as several different varieties of birds roosted in the branches of the water-lined trees, some flying aloft upon his presence. Ahead of his boat, large schools of fish darted in either direction trying to evade his direct path. I could get used to this, he thought to himself.\n\nAfter clearing the Cowpens, the waterway's red and green channel markers took it closer to the main island of Tavernier. He noticed a series of telephone poles standing alone in the water, each one being held erect by a steel guide wire anchored into the bay bottom. Feeling more confident than before, he decided to get closer to the poles. The traffic on U.S. 1 was running parallel to him. He rounded the first pole, speeding even with passing cars. \"This is too easy,\" Joel said aloud, starting to drive the boat in a serpentine motion. In and out of the poles he went, like cones in a driver's education obstacle course. He increased the speed back to full throttle as the outboard whined at over six thousand revolutions per minute. Then, without warning, the engine made a THUD. The bow pitched down toward the water as grass-filled mud shot from the spinning propeller. Joel tried to turn the boat but was unsuccessful. He cut the power by pulling the throttle back but it seemed to have no effect. The boat simply slid across the muddy bottom, now only six inches below the water's surface, striking one of the steel guide wires head on. The boat accepted the quarter-inch diameter cord into the bow just left of the centerline. It continued to cut as the boat still went forward, slicing through the Fiberglas, cutting the boat down the middle. As the cord came straight for its terrified operator it was all he could do to hold on to the grab bar that was bolted to the center console. Finally, after slicing through half the length of the boat, the cord came in contact with the front of the console and the Boston Whaler stopped with a jerk. The momentum built up by the boat's speed shot Joel straight forward, over the bow and into the muddy water ahead. He slid for approximately thirty feet, coming to rest just short of the rock-lined bank. Passing cars stopped immediately. He made an attempt to walk out of the water but found his legs sinking knee deep into the muddy bottom. Within five minutes, a small crowd had developed on the shore less than twenty feet away, half of whom were armed with cameras and taking their share of embarrassing pictures.\n\n\u2022\n\nLess than a mile to the north, Owen Sands thought of himself as a patient man, but the southbound lane of traffic was backed up as far as he could see and there was no relief in sight. Then, like a pack of screeching, howling cats, a fire truck, ambulance and two sheriff's cars passed in the opposite lane, headed south to whatever it was that was blocking the lanes. It was then that Owen interjected some compassion into his stale attitude as he pictured some poor soul trapped in a car, maybe bleeding to death from injuries sustained in a car accident. Owen checked his own seatbelt. It was fastened and secure.\n\nWithin minutes of seeing the emergency vehicles, the standstill traffic started to move again, slowly at first and then gaining speed. Owen could now see a crowd gathered at the water's edge. And then he saw it.\n\nHe couldn't believe his eyes. The Boston Whaler was perched half in and half out of the water, held suspended by the guide wire that was attached to the erect telephone pole, like someone had shot a picture of the boat bouncing from wave to wave, freezing it in time and motion. His new trainee sat amidst a group of people including a uniformed paramedic who was down on her knees tending to his minor cuts and bruises. Joel was covered with algae, mud and bottom grass. Owen swerved the car off the road, parking on the shoulder just short of the crowd.\n\nBy now the muddy concentration had been removed by the current in the water, exposing the trench made into the bay's bottom by the boat's propeller. Pieces of polyurethane foam were scattered over the water's surface. Chunks of Fiberglas lined the bank.\n\n\"Are you hurt?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"I don't think so,\" Joel replied.\n\n\"He's very lucky,\" said the paramedic at his side.\n\n\"Oh yeah, he's lucky alright.\"\n\n\"Owen, I'm sorry...\"\n\n\"What were you doing way over here? The closest marker is over a hundred yards away.\"\n\n\"I thought it was deep enough, I'm sorry,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Shit Kenyon, we have the clearest water in the world. It's not like you can't see the fucking bottom.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nRoadblock\n\nLike two diamonds alit in the distant sky, the landing lights of a blue and white Cessna 210 cut through the boils of heat coming off a section of road called the Eighteen Mile Stretch, the highway that connects the Keys with the southern tip of mainland Florida. The plane grazed the terrain, flying one hundred and fifty feet over the four lanes of traffic below. Resembling a parking lot more than a major highway, the northbound lanes of traffic were backed up for eleven miles.\n\nThe Florida City checkpoint was up and running, a daily event that had put the small town of two thousand on the map, making statewide news stories and a few national stories on the cable network CNN. For fifty feet, armed agents donning black flack vests and automatic weapons lined both sides of the roadway. Two German Shepherds sat patiently in the backseat of a heavily tinted, air-conditioned Jeep Cherokee.\n\nThe operation was made up mostly of Blue Lightning agents, County Sheriff's Deputies, and members of the small but potent Florida City Police Department. The FCPD was out for blood. An auction held a week earlier had cleared out almost two hundred cars, trucks and motor homes from their confiscation lot and they, like a boy with a depleted baseball card collection, were ready to fill it back up.\n\nAs a result of the roadblock, a group in Key West calling itself the Conch Republic made an argument for secession, stating that for the first time in U.S. history the government had established a border, excluding part of its own territory. Local merchants were furious. The roadblock caused an average three-hour delay for those trying to exit the Keys, causing an even greater problem. The local economy, which depended heavily on a daily tourist influx from the mainland, was starting to wither.\n\nJordan Cheney, Mark West, and Buddy Holmes represented the Tavernier office, standing in a tight click off the side of the road.\n\n\"I hate this weather,\" Holmes said. \"One day it's cold as shit, and then like today, it's hot and humid.\"\n\n\"Holmes, you bitch too much,\" West replied.\n\n\"Will you two pay attention,\" Jordan barked.\n\n\"To what boss? I mean it's not like we have a BOLO or anything.\"\n\n\"Well...just keep an eye out just the same.\"\n\n\"Isn't this something? Some tourist sees something he thinks is suspicious, calls 1-800-BE-ALERT and we get a suntan...Incredible!\" Holmes exclaimed, this time using the full motion of his arms to illustrate his statement.\n\n\"If you've got a better idea, I'd like to hear it,\" West said.\n\n\"Yeah, actually I do. It's called 1-800-GET-A-FUCKING-LIFE...\"\n\n\"Will you shut up!\" Jordan yelled, this time with a handheld radio to his ear. \"I can't think through all your static.\"\n\n\"Sorry boss, we're just not used to this heat,\" West said.\n\n\"Papa 1901 direct to Slingshot,\" Jordan spoke into the radio.\n\n\"Slingshot - 1901.\"\n\n\"Go ahead and loop back one more time and then we'll call it a day.\"\n\n\"10-4, 1901.\"\n\nThe 210 ascended to three hundred feet before making a one hundred and eighty degree turn to head south, against the flow of traffic.\n\n\"You guys really need a shit detail to show you how good you have it,\" Jordan said as he packed a pair of binoculars and some other equipment into his duffel bag.\n\n\"An exciting day like this really makes a guy hungry,\" Holmes announced.\n\n\"Effective immediately - you're on a diet,\" Jordan answered.\n\nSlingshot spotted it first. A light brown Nissan pickup had attempted to make a U-turn and return to the Keys. The small truck headed south at a high rate of speed. The 210 pilot lowered its flaps and slowed the craft to seventy knots staying just behind the truck and just above the plane's crucial stall speed.\n\n\"Slingshot - Papa 1901.\"\n\n\"Go ahead,\" Jordan answered.\n\n\"We're behind a profile vehicle - a small tan pickup. Foreign. They made a U-turn and headed south at a high rate of speed.\"\n\n\"10-4 Slingshot, we will alert Monroe County Sheriff's Dispatch from here.\"\n\n\"Roger that 1901. The subject vehicle is equipped with a black tonneau cover. We are going to stay on him for the duration.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nStatic\n\nThe Alazar home on 232nd Street in the Redlands was a hotbed of tension as Roberto and Del sat at the home's eat-in bar, nervously awaiting word on the Cho Chos' apparent demise.\n\n\"Oye, mira, the gringo!\" Mima said, pointing to a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria that was coming down the driveway.\n\nBoth men stood and went to greet Gil Lindback. It was out of character for any of the workers to come by the Alazar home unless invited but this visit was welcomed.\n\n\"Hey Gil, what's the news?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Not a word. I drove the last bit of Red and Stump's stuff out myself, but even if we find them and they still have their load to deal with, we now have a new problem,\" Lindback answered.\n\n\"Ay, Jes\u00fas Cristo! What now?\" Alazar said softly.\n\n\"The cops have put up the checkpoint in Florida City. I had to drive through the fucking thing with six bales in the trunk!\"\n\n\"Good work!\" Roberto said, sensing Lindback's tense frustration.\n\n\"How's everything over at Mongi's house? Are they asking questions yet?\"\n\n\"No, I told them that we would have to suspend trips for awhile because of the roadblock.\"\n\n\"Good thinking,\" Roberto said.\n\nThe three men stood in silence for a moment before being interrupted.\n\n\"Popito! El tel\u00e9fono,\" Mima announced, coming out the front door with the ringing brick-sized cellular phone.\n\n\"Shit!\" Roberto said, running over to her.\n\n\"Hello!\"\n\n\"Roberto?\"\n\n\"Chino, where in the fuck have you been?\"\n\n\"Everything's okay but I need to see you and explain.\"\n\n\"Explain! Explain what?\"\n\n\"You'll see when you get here.\"\n\n\"This doesn't sound good Chino.\"\n\n\"No man, everything's okay. We just need some help getting our kids picked up at daycare today.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Meet me at the Dairy Buster, next to the Cut,\" Chino suggested, and with a beep the circuit was disconnected.\n\n\"Gil, I have a job for you.\"\n\n\"What is it Del?\"\n\n\"That was Chino,\" he replied, as their eyes lit up. \"Meet him at the Dairy Buster next to the Cut. Call me as soon as you know something.\"\n\n\"Okay, before I go though, there's something we need to talk about,\" Lindback said, hesitating for a minute.\n\n\"What is it Gil?\" Roberto asked.\n\n\"It's about Kevin.\"\n\n\"Can it wait?\" Roberto asked.\n\n\"I guess so,\" Lindback answered.\n\n\"We'll talk when you get back. Be careful.\"\n\nThe two men watched as the sedan pulled out onto 232nd Street from the Alazar's driveway. The Crown Victoria was an official looking car, dark blue in color. Gil Lindback, besides working at an auto parts store during the day, was a volunteer emergency medical technician with the Tavernier Ambulance and Rescue Corps. He enjoyed helping people in need and the status the position gave him within the community was uplifting. His car was outfitted with a two-way radio capable of communicating with the ambulances and the rescue dispatcher. Mounted across the car's trunk were a series of antennas making the vehicle look more like an undercover police car than a mule for illegal drugs.\n\n\u2022\n\nAn hour later, Chino sat alone next to a side door sipping on a chocolate milkshake. It was his third in two hours. He considered himself a connoisseur of milkshakes and in his opinion, the Dairy Buster made the best. He was still dressed in the residue-stained clothes he wore the night before and his face was in desperate need of a shave.\n\nGil Lindback entered the small ice cream shop from the front entrance and immediately ordered from the counter. Minutes later, the two were both sipping milkshakes and looking behind themselves and around at their surroundings for anyone who looked suspicious.\n\n\"So what happened?\" Lindback asked.\n\n\"Our boat broke down. I think we got some bad gas or something. Both engines quit at the same time,\" Chino said.\n\n\"Where's the shit?\"\n\n\"Wait, I'm getting there. We drifted through the North Creek and into the Cut. Both of us used every muscle in our bodies to fend the boat off the coral sides. When we got to the bridge we unloaded and hid the stuff in those mini-warehouses over there,\" he explained, pointing to the storage complex across the street.\n\n\"Where's the boat?\"\n\n\"Alberto had to sink it. That big white Customs boat started to come down the Cut, so he sank the boat right there. You think Roberto will buy us a new one?\"\n\n\"I don't know; you'll have to ask him.\"\n\n\"We had to do it to save the load man,\" Chino said.\n\n\"Where's Alberto?\"\n\n\"With the shit in the mini-warehouse.\"\n\n\"The roadblock is up and running in Florida City,\" Lindback stated.\n\n\"Shit, what are we going to do? We are sitting ducks!\"\n\n\"Have you tried to rent the unit you are in?\"\n\n\"I thought of that, but I think it's too risky. Too many questions and what if he doesn't want to give us that particular one?\"\n\n\"Wait here, I'll be back in about twenty minutes,\" Lindback said, tossing a crumpled dollar bill onto the table. \"Here have another shake.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nDynamic\n\n\"You fucking piece of shit!\" a motorist yelled to Jordan Cheney from a passing car. \"Why don't you get a real job, you pussy!\"\n\n\"I feel so loved here,\" Holmes said sarcastically.\n\n\"In a way, I can't blame these people. Card Sound and U.S. 1 are the only two roads in and out of the Keys and when we set up out here these people face a two to three hour delay. But, we don't have a choice. It's our job,\" Jordan declared.\n\n\"Slingshot to 1901,\" squawked the handheld radio.\n\n\"1901, go ahead.\"\n\n\"Heads up, we've got an ambulance rolling your way at a high rate of speed. Hold up all southbound traffic.\"\n\n\"10-4 Slingshot,\" Jordan replied into the mic.\n\nMinutes later, the blaring siren of the ambulance came into range. The agents from the Tavernier field office could see its flashing lights through the afternoon haze. Red and white strobes and rotating beacons glistened like rubies and diamonds. Jordan and his men made sure the traffic was stopped so the emergency vehicle could pass through a relatively unobstructed path. Jordan feared the political nightmare that would be created if harm were to come to an ambulance, or anyone needing help for that matter, as a result of the already unpopular roadblock. The ambulance screamed by with the driver focused intently on the traffic ahead.\n\n\"What do ya think boss? A heart attack? Or maybe a stroke?\" Holmes asked.\n\n\"Should we start a pool?\" West asked.\n\n\"My bet - it's a car wreck. A bloody one for sure,\" Holmes suggested.\n\n\"What a way to go, rocking back and forth in that thing. The sound of the siren alone would tell you you're half dead,\" Jordan said.\n\n\u2022\n\nGil Lindback switched the siren back and forth from a long wale to the sharper repetitive yelp, hitting the ambulance's high-pressure air horns. Like a train approaching a crossing gate, the loud horns echoed from the surrounding buildings as the traffic came to a complete stop, making an open path for the orange and white truck. In the back, Chino and Alberto Mendez held on to a grab rail, bracing themselves as Lindback swerved through the heavy traffic. Chino watched as the curtains in the back dangled from side to side, making sure they covered the dark, tinted windows concealing the twenty-three bales that were stacked neatly like crates in a warehouse.\n\n\u2022\n\nMongi watched from the window of his two-story South Miami clavo as an ambulance pulled into the secluded alley to a detached garage. Panic struck his spine as he wondered what god-awful fiasco was unfolding before his eyes. As the white and orange truck neared the home he could see the driver, Gil Lindback. With a sigh of relief, he met the rig by the rear garage, opening the ambulance's back door to find Chino and Alberto sitting atop thirty bales packed tightly amidst the stretcher and bench seats.\n\n\"This has got to be a first,\" Mongi said to Lindback, who had met him at the back.\n\n\"My chief said the truck had to go to Flamingo Ford in Homestead for service. I just thought we'd take a small detour along the way,\" Lindback replied.\n\n\"You got it here without getting caught. Now let's unload before my neighbors see this thing and get curious.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nCaptain Crunch\n\nJoel Kenyon treaded lightly as he walked into the Tavernier office, this time taking a moment to look around. He was amazed at the overall decay of the building. Despite the fresh carpet throughout and the freshly painted walls, the office was one of the worst government facilities he had ever seen. This was more of a hideout than an official building, he thought to himself. The windows were heavily draped, for the most part to cover the dirt buildup on the exterior. The most impressive feature of the room was the four-by-eight-foot bulletin board he had seen the first day he reported for duty. It contained pictures of recent busts and scores of boats that had been seized. At the top of the board, a bumper sticker was affixed. So many Columbians...So little time - Operation Greenback, U.S. Treasury Dept. He recognized the title. Operation Greenback was a high-level Treasury sting operation focused on Columbian businessmen wanting to invest in U.S. companies. Most turned out to be legitimate investors. However, on three separate occasions, the foreign nationals tried to entice undercover federal agents into taking large sums of money and laundering it through their businesses. The operation title drew flack from liberal lawmakers on Capitol Hill who remarked the name \"greenback\" was similar to the name \"wetback\" given to illegal Mexican immigrants. To the agents of USCS Tavernier, the bumper sticker was a collector's item, a souvenir from a vacation to nowhere.\n\n\"Kenyon!\" Jordan Cheney called as he came out from his office. \"Close call you had today, sorry about that steering problem. Our repair contractors aren't what they used to be. But it's no great loss. I hated that little boat anyway. Look, I left an incident report on your desk; fill it out after the meeting.\"\n\n\"My desk?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Yeah, I put you in the cube next to Sands.\"\n\n\"Thank you sir,\" he answered.\n\n\"Don't mention it,\" he said, patting Joel on the back.\n\n\"Okay, could I get everyone over here please,\" Jordan yelled, commanding immediate attention from everyone in the office. It was time for their weekly office meeting; a way for the group supervisors to keep tabs on what their agents were working on and for them to disseminate information to the ranks.\n\n\"Jennie, get the video please. Okay, the white Stinger is back from Brunswick. They tell me it has been completely refitted. There are supposed to be new engines, so whoever spends the next twenty hours in her, Brunswick tells me she's still in kind of a break-in mode, understood? I want these engines to last longer than the last pair. Blue Thunder is down again, it's supposed to be a fuel pump, so don't just jump in it and go, you won't get very far,\" Jordan said, pausing, as he looked over at the office receptionist who was busy setting up a rollaway video monitor and player. \"Jen, are we ready yet?\" She nodded yes. \"Okay, what you are about to see is some old footage, the Cordera Brothers. Take note of the new boats, Indians I believe. Let's put some pressure on these boys. Go ahead Jen, start the tape,\" he instructed looking around the room. \"Wait! Where's Sands? Aw fuck it, he hates these things anyway,\" he said, sitting down on the corner of one of the desks with the others. Agent Kenyon watched a crudely made videotape containing various scenes and places. The first was a boat being launched by a highly polished dually loaded with every aftermarket option available: chrome roll bar, fog lights, and a wing-type TV antenna mounted on the roof. The sides of the truck were painted with custom airbrush scenes.\n\n\"Whatever happened to inconspicuous?\" one of the agents offered as the tape showed two plump Latin males offloading a 30-foot offshore boat down the concrete boat ramp.\n\n\"Those are our boys, Frankie and George Cordera,\" Jordan said.\n\nThe next scene showed the go-fast in the previous scene, this time moored to a concrete dock with a two-story house in the background.\n\n\"342 Bougainvillea Drive. It has access from South Creek. This is definitely the clavo,\" Jordan stated as the frame zoomed in on the dock area. There were several potted plants arranged to conceal the pathway from the dock to the house. \"The notes I have here say the front of the residence has a well-concealed carport also,\" Jordan added.\n\nThe screen went black for a second before showing a doublewide mobile home on a canal. The frame was shot at night when the photographer was obviously hiding in some trees. He zoomed in on a picture glass window behind which a large man, dressed in shorts, followed a bikini-clad woman leading a class in sensual aerobics. The room erupted in laughter. \"You go Gordo!\" one of the agents yelled while the others continued to laugh. The plump man in the window was dancing the moves of the aerobics instructor, following her every move on a big screen TV in front of him. This continued for another minute before the tape ended. A second later, the office's fluorescent fixtures came back on as the agent's eyes adjusted to the burst of light. Jordan continued.\n\n\"Okay, one more item we need to discuss. Our office has been blessed with a new agent fresh from Glynnco. Some of you have already met him. Agent Kenyon will be working with Owen,\" Jordan said.\n\n\"Poor Guy,\" Holmes added.\n\n\"Kenyon has also earned a prestigious award...and on his second day,\" the group supervisor announced with a smile while holding an empty box of Captain Crunch cereal.\n\nCRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!\n\nThe room started yelling. Jennie sat quietly, smiling and shaking her head. The yells grew in intensity. Agent Joel Kenyon stood looking around wondering what kind of ceremony was occurring.\n\nCRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!\n\n\"Yeah, you guessed it, Agent Kenyon, on his first day in the beautiful Florida Keys, sank my truck and today wrecked our tiny Boston Whaler, destroyed, and I mean totaled it beyond recognition. So it gives me great pleasure to present the prestigious Captain Crunch Award to you, Special Agent Joel Kenyon. Display it with pride son,\" Jordan said, handing the box to Joel who was shaking his head as the room clapped and jeered.\n\n\"Okay, everyone get back to work. Joel, don't forget that accident report.\"\n\n\"Yes sir, and thank you sir,\" he replied, holding up the box, walking back to his cubical. The incident report his boss spoke of was neatly on the desktop. Joel looked around the cubical and like most who are awarded a new office, he felt the need to check out the drawers and feel the seat. The side drawers were empty as expected. Then, almost instinctively, he opened the flat lap drawer, the one normally reserved for pens, pencils, and other miscellaneous desk utensils. It was filled to capacity with the missing Captain Crunch cereal. Joel felt honored by the gesture as he closed the drawer.\n\n\"They have a funny way of showing affection,\" Owen said, surprising his partner as he stood at the cubicle's opening.\n\n\"Hey, I thought you weren't coming in,\" Joel asked.\n\n\"I thought I'd get a head start on the paperwork from last night, and, well, maybe walk you through it in the process.\"\n\n\"Thanks, this paperwork can be a little ridiculous.\"\n\n\"Says a man holding an empty cereal box...\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nCollide\n\nAfter hearing Holmes rave about the food at the Italian Fisherman, Joel figured the place deserved a chance. He was skeptical when it came to restaurants but, after all, he was in Key Largo and not the south of France.\n\nWhen he walked into the fishnet-lined foyer, it was obvious that the place was filled to capacity. With the exception of a few empty stools at the bar, every table and chair was occupied with mostly obvious tourists who were in the place for the first time; people who didn't care about the wait or the service. They were loud and usually well intoxicated by the time their main course hit the table.\n\nAs Joel approached the hostess podium, he couldn't help but notice the view of the bay through the crowded room. The Italian Fisherman was a waterfront restaurant that featured an ample dock to complement its bay front deck. Most of the patrons, however, used the parking lot.\n\n\"How many in your party sir?\" the perky hostess asked, interrupting his gaze at the setting sun.\n\n\"Just myself.\"\n\n\"Okay. It'll be about a fifteen to twenty minute wait. Feel free to wait at the bar. Your name?\"\n\n\"Joel.\"\n\n\"Okay, Joel.\"\n\nThe wait wasn't a problem. Joel had waited three times that to get into certain restaurants in San Francisco. Besides, the view projected by the sunset eased his frayed nerves. He could see what Holmes saw in this place.\n\nBy the time he walked up to the bar Joel felt lucky, as there was only one barstool left.\n\n\"Excuse me, is this seat taken?\" he asked the girl who occupied the next stool.\n\n\"No it's not, I'm by myself,\" she replied in an almost depressed tone.\n\nA stoke of luck, Joel thought to himself as he looked over at the girl. And then it hit him. She was the girl he spotted from the top of the bridge the day before, broken down on Card Sound Road with the red 300ZX. Up close, she appeared to be about twenty-five and very attractive. Her sundress was a complement to the olive skin it covered, revealing her long legs that were crossed and dangling down the side of the stool. Her auburn hair was naturally curly and she didn't wear a lot of makeup. She had a natural beauty despite being down about something. Her eyes were the most striking feature. They were almost turquoise in color. They had to be contacts, Joel thought. He took another look but she seemed to be in another world, playing with a cocktail napkin between her fingers.\n\n\"Blind date?\"\n\n\"What? Oh, no. I'm waiting for my father. He doesn't know I'm here though.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute. You're waiting for your father, but he doesn't know you're waiting for him?\"\n\n\"Well, I know it sounds weird but...\"\n\n\"Oh, no. Not at all.\"\n\n\"No, I know it sounds weird, but I haven't seen him in a long time and the last time I did see him, well we didn't exactly part on good terms. This is a place we used to go as a family and I heard he still came here often. I wanted to see him again in a place that was sort of a neutral ground.\"\n\n\"This guy, your father, he sounds like the real intimidating type.\"\n\n\"He used to be, until he started drinking though. It really changed him.\"\n\n\"That's funny, it's usually the other way around.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well my father's kind of backwards.\"\n\n\"My name is Joel by the way.\"\n\n\"I'm Tessa,\" she said, extending her left hand.\n\nJoel noticed the white band of skin around her tanned ring finger.\n\n\"When was the last time you ate here?\" he asked.\n\n\"About six months ago. We used to come here quite often actually, at least until my husband passed away.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" Joel said in a softer, more compassionate voice.\n\n\"Don't be. He probably had it coming to him. He was killed in a boating accident.\"\n\nHow ironic, a boating accident, Joel thought, rubbing the bruise on his right thigh.\n\n\"Any kids?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yeah, one, a little girl.\"\n\n\"I bet you've got a picture.\"\n\n\"It's six months old, but real cute,\" she said, already digging into her purse. \"Her name is Monica. This was taken at her third birthday party, a month before her father was killed.\"\n\n\"How is she taking it?\"\n\n\"Not very well, I'm afraid. Bobby loved her very much. She notices he's gone but I don't think she understands. She drops everything when there's a knock at the door.\"\n\n\"Where is she now?\"\n\n\"With a friend of mine who babysits occasionally,\" she said with another depressed smile. \"How about you, any kids?\"\n\n\"Who me? No, I'm not that lucky. Too devoted to my career I guess.\"\n\n\"Career-minded, that's a lousy excuse. What do you do?\"\n\n\"I'm an accountant.\"\n\n\"Oh really,\" boring she thought. \"Here in town?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes, it's a local firm.\"\n\n\"Alazar?\" the hostess called.\n\nTessa stood from the cushioned stool. Without thinking, Joel also stood as he continued to explain.\n\n\"Well, this is my table,\" she said, unsure what to do or say next.\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry. I usually don't push myself on...\"\n\n\"It's okay. If my father hasn't shown up by now he probably won't.\"\n\n\"Well if you don't mind...\" Joel said pulling out her chair.\n\nJoel sat facing her with the backdrop of the mangrove-clad Florida Bay engulfed in the orange and purple sunset behind him.\n\n\"How did you meet your husband, if you don't mind me asking?\"\n\n\"After high school, I went to Miami-Dade South in Kendall. We took world literature together, at least for the first five or six weeks. I finished, he didn't.\"\n\n\"It doesn't seem like you were very well matched with this guy, I mean with all respect.\"\n\n\"Yeah, believe me, he doesn't deserve all due respect. Look, I don't know you very well, and I'm sorry if I seem to be dumping on you but...\"\n\n\"Hey, no problem, it's okay. I just hope...\"\n\n\"It's just nice to talk to someone who is not connected to my situation. My grandmother always said she wished there were strangers available to do nothing but listen so they could tell you what you are trying to say. You know what I mean?\"\n\n\"Yeah, they're called shrinks.\"\n\n\"No silly, I mean someone who really is detached from the situation. They have no vested interest, not financial or emotional. And these people are only good for one visit. After that, they're involved, ya know?\"\n\n\"Exactly, but does that mean I'm only good for one visit?\"\n\n\"We'll see if you have any other useful qualities.\"\n\nJoel was turned on by her smile although he didn't know how to handle her forwardness.\n\n\"Let's get back to your husband - I mean if it doesn't bother you.\"\n\n\"Well the truth of the matter is that three days before Bobby disappeared, I mean, was killed, I went to see an attorney with the intention of getting a divorce. I didn't know how I was going to do it. I just knew I had to. I would have done it sooner if it hadn't have been for Monica. She loved her dad.\"\n\n\"So now you feel guilty and relieved at the same time. Kind of the ultimate conflict.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but worse. My in-laws. They think they will have a tie on me forever. Especially Bobby's father. He almost takes it personally. They have sheltered me from everything. His dad, Roberto, is a very powerful man.\"\n\n\"Do you think they are afraid of losing their granddaughter?\"\n\n\"I'm sure that's part of it but for Roberto, it's deeper than that. It's like he is trying to preserve Bobby's honor or something. It's a Cuban thing.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're not Cuban?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well I look it. My father's Irish and my mother, Greek. With the dark skin and the last name, people just assume I'm Cuban,\" Tessa explained.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" a slender waitress said as she approached the table.\n\n\"Are you guys ready to order?\"\n\n\"Are you ready?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Yeah. I'll have the lobster, with a wedge of lemon please and another white wine spritzer.\"\n\n\"And you sir?\"\n\n\"Ummm,\" Joel mumbled as he quickly milled over the menu.\n\n\"I'll have the same.\"\n\n\"Good choice. I'll have that right out.\"\n\n\"Look, it's not like I don't want Monica to know her grandparents. I just think she needs other influences to balance her out.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nRoberto Alazar, Gordo, Del and Gus Greico were escorted to a table on the outside patio deck next to the boat dock. After a ten-minute wait, the men were thirsty and quickly ordered a round of drinks.\n\n\"You live in a beautiful place,\" Greico complimented, reaching for a packet of sugar to put into his already sweetened drink.\n\n\"Thank you. We like it,\" Roberto answered.\n\n\"At night, the sky is very clear. A stargazer's dream,\" Greico added.\n\n\"All the better to navigate by, right Gordo?\" Del asked.\n\n\"I never learned how to do that. I'm used to my LORAN-C,\" Gordo said.\n\n\"I will have to agree with you on that. A sextant would be hard to use in one of those small boats. My father taught me how to read the stars when I was a boy. We were usually on dry land though,\" Greico said, pondering the past. \"He was an engineer and well-versed with the precision line-of-sight equipment.\"\n\n\"That is very interesting,\" Del replied. \"I am fascinated by the stars and their relation to us.\"\n\n\"They are very fascinating Del and I have learned a lot from them. When I was a boy, we didn't have the MTV and video games. I spent many nights lying on my back on the hillside with my father just watching the stars,\" Greico said with a sad tone. \"So what's the recommendation for the evening?\" he asked, changing the subject.\n\n\"Everything,\" Gordo answered with his face buried in his menu.\n\n\"Don't mind him, he's hypnotized,\" Roberto said with a laugh. \"I like the dolphin myself. It's usually very fresh.\"\n\n\"That sounds like an excellent choice,\" Greico replied, patronizing his new associate. He hated fish.\n\nEveryone's getting dolphin, Greico predicted silently to himself with a smile.\n\n\"Oh shit!\" Tessa said as she looked down at the table.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"I've got to go!\"\n\n\"What? We just ordered.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry!\"\n\nTessa got up immediately and at a brisk pace, walked off the other end of the deck toward the parking lot. Joel couldn't believe his sudden turn of luck. He threw down his napkin and stood to follow her. That's when he noticed the four men seated at a table about twenty feet away. They were all staring at him. Three Latinos and an American. It was probably his imagination. They were probably taken by this crazy woman who bolted out of the restaurant without warning.\n\nJoel caught up to her despite her brisk pace.\n\n\"Hey, wait a minute, what was that all about? It was your father wasn't it? Hey look, you're gonna have to face him. It's just that simple. Will you slow down?\"\n\n\"Look, I'm sorry, it's not what you think. My father-in-law, you know the possessive one, just made a surprise appearance.\"\n\nThe four at the table, Joel thought to himself.\n\n\"Hey, relax, look this is still a free country. It's not Cuba.\"\n\n\"Joel, it's very sweet of you but...\"\n\n\"Let's get out of here,\" Joel suggested.\n\nThe two got into her Nissan 300ZX. She couldn't risk the senior Alazar finding it in the parking lot.\n\n\"You just don't understand. It is bad enough that he tries to control my life. Could you imagine what would happen if he found me having drinks with someone other than his Bobby?\"\n\n\"But Bobby's dead.\"\n\n\"Right, and that's just as much my loss as it is his and he wants to make sure of it.\"\n\nJoel didn't say very much. What she was saying was starting to make sense and he was beginning to wonder if he should have stayed at the bar waiting for his own table, especially now as he was fearing for his life as the traffic in the slower lane was being passed a lot faster than he would have considered safe.\n\nTessa pulled the car off the main highway and headed down a dirt road that led to the waterfront. The car stopped just short of the concrete retaining wall that descended into the water. The cloud of dust that followed them down the dirt road overcame them and drifted past, floating over the water before disappearing into the night air. All was quiet.\n\n\"This was a special place to me. When I was in high school, we used to come here a lot.\"\n\n\"I can see why. It's very scenic.\"\n\n\"Scenic my ass, we came here because we could get stoned and before the cops could get down that bumpy road, we'd have more than enough warning,\" she said bluntly.\n\n\"That's nice.\"\n\nTessa was the first to open her car door. She got out and walked to the water's edge. Joel followed suit, sitting on the passenger side wheel fender.\n\n\"The air feels good, but I bet that water's cold as ice,\" Joel said, watching her gaze at the dark water. Joel walked up behind her. \"So tell me about your father,\" he suggested, putting his hand on her shoulder.\n\n\"Well there's not much to tell. He's a small man who loves to drink. But he's my father. And when I left him, it broke his heart. My mother passed away when I was seventeen, and well, things were never quite the same.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" he said, removing his hand.\n\n\"It's okay, time heals all wounds,\" she replied, picking up her head to look Joel in the eye. \"You're sweet. So tell me again how come you're not married, settled down, you know with some kids and a dog.\"\n\n\"Well I was engaged once, to a girl from Atlanta, but, well I guess she wasn't ready. She called it off. I wasn't home enough. She needed more attention.\"\n\n\"Ah, she fucked around on ya.\"\n\n\"God, you're blunt,\" and right, he thought. \"Let's just say the feelings were mutual.\"\n\nWith that, Tessa pulled off her sundress, exposing a blue bikini she was wearing underneath while kicking off her sandals. \"Come on! The water's great this time of year.\"\n\nJoel watched in disbelief as she dove from the retaining wall into the dark water below wearing a tenth of what she had on a few seconds before.\n\n\"Shit!\" Joel said as he fumbled to the ground trying to pry off his pair of high-top tennis shoes.\n\n\"God, it's great!\" she yelled from the surface of the cool liquid; her voice echoing from the coral rock that surrounded the lagoon.\n\nJoel wasn't far behind. His body contorted and started to shiver immediately as his head broke the surface of the water, taking his breath away. He panicked for a second, not being able to breathe. Tessa watched him cough and shiver as she rolled over on her back and stroked across the water's surface. She was amused more with the view of this man in his bright red Fruit of the Loom jockeys than his ability to bear the cold water.\n\n\"Shit it's cold!\"\n\n\"You'll get used to it.\"\n\n\"God, I hope so, what is this place?\"\n\n\"It's called Planter's Point. It used to be part of a small pineapple plantation. Recently they used it for training dolphins. You know, for movies and TV; that kind of stuff.\"\n\n\"What about...well you know, sharks and barracudas? Don't they feed at night?\"\n\n\"You can't be serious,\" Tessa laughed.\n\n\"No, really, I'm not.\"\n\n\"They only attack things that are red,\" she proclaimed in a more serious tone.\n\n\"You're kidding, right?\" he asked, protecting his crotch with both hands.\n\n\"This is nice. Thank you for coming with me,\" she said.\n\n\"No, thank you. This is a pleasant surprise,\" he replied. \"When was the last time you were here?\"\n\n\"In college. My late husband and I came with twenty of our friends from Miami-Dade. He proposed to me that weekend,\" she said with a short smile.\n\n\"That's cool,\" Joel said.\n\n\"I'm sorry. I guess this makes you feel uncomfortable.\"\n\n\"No, not at all. Why would it? Look, reality is that even the worst relationships have their good times. That's why we enter them in the first place...right?\"\n\n\"Thank you for saying that. You're quite an amazing person Joel. So tell me, as an accountant, why did you decide to move to the Keys? I mean, accountants are pretty conservative by nature and this place is pretty crazy.\"\n\n\"Well I do wear red jockeys.\"\n\n\"That you do.\"\n\n\"Well actually, I have a confession. I didn't want to say anything at the restaurant, but since we are alone and you have been so open with me...I'm not an accountant,\" he admitted.\n\n\"Thank God,\" she said, relieved. \"You didn't actually get points for that one you know.\"\n\n\"I'm a Customs agent,\" he added as her face went flat.\n\n\"You're kidding, right?\"\n\n\"No, this is my second day,\" he said. \"Why, what is it?\"\n\nTessa went silent for a minute.\n\n\"Joel, I've got to go.\"\n\n\"What is it this time?\"\n\nShe was caught completely off guard by what she had just heard. She had let her feelings get the best of her. How could I say the things I did to this total stranger? I didn't know him and now he was...God...he was...the thought was frightening. Bobby was a smuggler. Worse than that, his father Roberto Alazar was the king of smuggling in the Upper Keys, Tessa tried not to appear panicked.\n\n\"Really Joel I've gotta go!\" she said, removing his hand from the back of her neck.\n\n\"Yeah...but...\" Joel stammered while she exited the cold water and headed for the car.\n\n\"My clothes are on the backseat,\" he said quietly to himself, feeling rather deserted as the car spun out on the dirt road headed for the highway.\n\n* * * * *\n\nTrophy\n\nWith the pull lines in place attached to three overhead electric cranes, Julio Martinez gave the word. Simultaneously, all three winches turned slowly, gathering up the chain that was connected to the pull lines. Slowly, with every revolution, the 42-foot hull creaked and moaned as it was pulled upright. It was a tight fit. The Indian crew knew this. Unlike a pyramid-type shape that would release easily from a Fiberglas mold, the boat's sides were more perpendicular, causing the surfaces to bind and create static friction. Some parts even required additional help in the release process. At the bottom of all the Indian molds, small high-pressure air fittings were embedded into the Fiberglas. If a new piece, such as the hull, were to get stuck in the mold, Julio or one of his crew could inject compressed air and free the tight grip. Water was also used on occasion to \"float\" the hull out of the mold. However, this was rare and usually resulted from poor waxing and preparation of the mold itself.\n\nNearly a foot of line and chain had been drawn before the ten-inch steel castors at the bottom of the mold levitated off the ground. For a second they hung there, hovering just inches over the resin-covered floor. And then, almost immediately, starting from the bow and working its way aft, the hull started crackling as it separated from the mold. Then with a loud snap, the mold dropped to the ground. The boat was free. Julio, lighter in hand, was the first to drop a pack of Black Cat firecrackers in between the loose hull and the corresponding mold.\n\nPOP POP POP POP POP\n\nSmall fragments of paper shot in every direction accompanied by a series of sparks and flashes as the small explosions echoed inside the metal building. Roberts knew the practice wasn't the safest, especially with the numerous steel drums of polyester resin and acetone stacked in the back of the shop, but this was after all, a tradition and on 188th Street, traditions had their place with everything else.\n\n\"Roberto's going to like this,\" Felix, one of the Indian's laborers, said.\n\n\"I think you're right,\" Julio replied as he felt the glossy side of the hull.\n\nFor some, the birth of a boat came at its christening, or launching. But for Julio Martinez, the spraying of the gelcoat was its conception and this was the birth. After a week and thirty-two laminations of Fiberglas, the Indian crew stood and simply looked at the suspended hull for a few minutes admiring their work.\n\nScott Roberts spent the rest of the day planning the next stages of the boat's construction. Since this wasn't a standard boat for the Indian shop, there were no templates or patterns for the numerous parts and wooden components that had to be fabricated. While Fiberglas boats were made of soupy polyester resin and rolls of fabric threads, the stringers and cross members that made up the boat's frame were almost always made up of wood. Sheets of marine grade plywood were used over standard, cheaper household plywood primarily because the marine type had none of the pinesap found in the regular type. The sap was known to repel the Fiberglas causing it to come loose from the wood after it had been applied. The sheets of wood were cut one piece at a time and shaped to fit snuggly into the spaces of the hull, following the complex lines of the Fiberglas, which now looked like an empty swimming pool. Layers of wet Fiberglas cloth would then be rolled over the wood, attaching it to the Fiberglas hull. The process would be repeated until the wood was completely encapsulated in glass and part of the hull structure, making a grid on which the rest of the boat could be built. Before any of this could be built though, the hull had to be lowered back into the mold which would then act like a jig, keeping the flexible shell in form while the frame was being installed. For this, the shredded paper from the spent firecrackers actually served a purpose. As the boat hull came back in contact with the mold, the paper served as a cushion protecting the glossy surfaces of both the hull and the corresponding mold from the in-and-out scratching that could occur.\n\nRoberts sat in his comfortably decorated office enjoying the air conditioning. Miami's weather was fickle, with temperatures ranging from fifty degrees to over ninety. Today was on the high end of the scale.\n\nIndian had several serious obstacles it had to overcome every month: the payroll, the rising cost of materials, and the marketing that included full-color spreads in the major boating magazines. His stress was increased by the fact that sales were down as the entire country was facing a recession. Having seen them before, Roberts knew that the boating public preferred to restore the boats they already had before buying new ones. Roberts had already booked a couple of rehabs, refurbishing the paint, upholstery and rigging. This kept his workers busy and brought cash into the strapped business. He also, on occasion, purchased old performance boats and reworked them. Still, with all of this, he struggled, and to top things off, what little profit he made had to be split with his partner, Peter Delgado. For the last two years, he managed to skim a small amount off the top for himself while his partner was in Eglin, but now that he was out, Del's watchful eye was in the shop every other day.\n\nRoberts closed his accounting books, grabbed a duffel bag filled with a days worth of clothes and headed out the front door. Eight hours later he was pulling into the parking lot of the Brunswick, Georgia, Holiday Inn.\n\n\u2022\n\nThe next morning Roberts was standing with a hundred others who had the same goal in mind, to buy surplus government boats and equipment. The process was a routine that the lead auctioneer had come to accept long before the sales started to take place in Brunswick. The U.S. Customs East Coast Marine Support Unit was stationed there and it was time to clean house. The facility consisted of repair and paint shops, dedicated to maintaining the aging fleet of Treasury Enforcement boats. The staff rivaled any large marine dealership and held some of the top engine and outdrive mechanics in the region. Behind the warehouses, in a securely fenced lot overgrown with wild weeds and brush, sat the bone yard. This was the place where retired vessels were put to rest in a dismantled state; their engines and equipment stripped out with gaping holes left in the transoms where the powerful outdrives were once installed.\n\nThe outdrive, the brainchild of German engineer, Karl Kiekhaefer, was half inboard and half outboard. It was the perfect solution for boaters who wanted the versatility of a steerable, shallow-water drive without sacrificing the power of a big block Chevy engine. The Customs Service owned their share of outdrives, now relics, lying on greasy wooden pallets inside the facility warehouse, listed as separate lots for the highest bidder.\n\nThe game was like that of putting together a complex puzzle. After buying a stripped hull and deck from the bone yard offered strategically at the start of the auction, a successful bidder would have to chance his skill and try to secure a pair of suitable engines, transmissions and two matching outdrives.\n\nIt was a mystery to most why the government dismantled their boats the way they did. The philosophy was simple though. The forces that were figured that the greatest return lie in the separate or breakup value of the boats. The same principle applies if one were to buy an automobile, one part at a time. They would spend three to four times as much. It was this practice that frustrated the buyers, though it didn't seem to hamper the rolls of attendance that increased with every quarterly sale.\n\nThe bottom line was clear to the government. By breaking up the lots, they increased their return by almost seventy percent. A newly purchased, hundred thousand dollar boat depreciated down to thirty thousand after ten years. It brought in fifty thousand if sold in separate parts, its breakup value. It was a concept the government adhered to and used regularly.\n\nRoberts didn't care what engines or hardware came with the boat he was trying to buy. The 27-foot Stiletto was a classic hull all by itself. He needed it to copy the sleek Fiberglas impression into a mold for a new midsize line of boats he was trying to develop. For this, he needed a proven hull like the Stiletto he was after.\n\nRoberts was only doing what had been done many times in the past. The procedure was called splashing and, although technically a civil infraction, it was almost impossible to prove and thereby litigate. Most of the other Indians were copies of other hulls. The S-41, Roberts's largest go-fast, was a splash of a 38-foot Stiletto and his S-32 was a stretched version of a 30-foot Mirage built by another small manufacturer. If he was successful, he could take a mold impression from the boat, rebuild it, and sell it for a profit. The auction list also had two of his 41-foot Indians on it. If he were to buy them back, he could rebuild them and, as the original manufacturer, re-title the boats with newer year model numbers, erasing the original hull number and secret hidden numbers that only he and the Coast Guard knew about, making them much more valuable in the process. Either way, his hopes for coming home with a project were high.\n\nThe head auctioneer for the GSA, the Government Services Administration, had already moved twenty-three boats in the three hours of fierce bidding that started at eight sharp. The bone yard was filled to capacity like a sold out concert.\n\nRoberts watched as the skilled auctioneer stood atop a dry-docked and dismantled 41-foot Indian deck, a boat that had been confiscated five years before and turned over to government service. With a clipboard in one hand and a portable microphone in the other, he played the numerous bidders against each other. The two main players were a Latin man from Palm Beach with a neatly cut mustache, greased back hair and a ponytail of two-inches and an Anglo yacht broker from Fort Pierce who sported a beard and smoked a pipe with cherry-laced tobacco.\n\n\"Thirteen thousand,\" the broker said, filling the air with smoke.\n\n\"Thirteen thousand, do I hear fourteen?\"\n\n\"Fourteen,\" replied the Latin.\n\n\"Fourteen-five,\" added the broker.\n\n\"Fifteen.\"\n\n\"Fifty thousand dollars,\" yelled the broker.\n\n\"I have fifty thousand dollars,\" said the auctioneer as silence fell over the crowd.\n\n\"Do I hear fifty-one?\"\n\n\"Fifty-one,\" the Latin man yelled as he spoke into a handset connected to a portable cellular phone bag. \"Fifty-one is it? He can't see this boat, man! Come on tell him, he's really missing out.\"\n\n\"Fifty-two,\" said the broker.\n\n\"Fifty-three,\" yelled the Latin, this time with his phone resting in his hand at waist height.\n\nThis was not for Scott Roberts. A dog and pony show. He was not there to be amused. He was on a quest. The auction bulletin he had received a week before had detailed the 27-foot Stiletto he was after.\n\n#342 \u2013 27-foot Stiletto Starfire, 1972, scrap salvage. Vessel previously submerged.\n\nAs Roberts walked away from the crowd, the auctioneer's voice was still ringing out.\n\n\"Fifty-three; do I hear fifty-three-five? Fifty-three-five? Fifty-three for this 41-foot Indian. Come on people I'm not going to give it away!\"\n\nFifty-three fucking grand, Roberts thought to himself. I built that boat for Omar Valasquez seven years ago and only got one twenty for the damn thing, turnkey! Now it's a seven year old, bare hull and deck, and had the piss run out of it. Fifty-three grand! No warranty...no sea trial...as is! Why can't I find buyers like these people?\n\nAs Roberts rounded the fantail of a large sloop, he saw it. She wasn't with the other go-fasts and sat on a set of concrete blocks shoved between two much larger express cruisers. As he walked closer, his heart started to pound faster and harder. This was his dreamboat, a virtual classic in Miami boating circles. Like a 1957 Chevy or a 1962 Vet, this 27-foot Stiletto had character. Aaron Donaldson probably laid up the hull himself, he thought. Ten years ago, he used to watch the 27s cruise the Intracoastal. Back then there weren't any of those pesky No Wake zones. No sound restrictions. It was open headers and balls to the wall. Roberts ran his hand over the weathered blue gelcoat. This boat was special. He could tell as he saw the sun-blocked, darker blue outline of the removed letters spelling something. He could barely make it out. U period, S period. Oh Shit...U. S. CUSTOMS! This was Customs private stock; one of their own. Donaldson built this boat for the government. It will be heavier than the rest. All the better, and stiffer for splashing a mold, he thought. He had to own it.\n\nAs Roberts took one last thorough look at the boat, he turned to see the crowd by the Stiletto.\n\n\"Fifty-nine-five, going once, going twice. Sold to the man with the cellular phone! Margaret, list lot number twenty-three to bidder six for fifty-nine thousand five hundred. Sir, please present your funds or letter of credit at the registration desk. You have forty-eight hours to remove the vessel. Next on the roster is lot twenty-four, a 27-foot Stiletto Starfire. Please follow me to the rear of the yard.\"\n\nAs the crowd got closer, Roberts could feel the bulge of the sixty-six one hundred dollar bills growing restless in his right pocket. As the auctioneer got closer, he looked at his clipboard.\n\n\"Lot number twenty-four, a 27-foot Maltese Stiletto Starfire, 1972. This boat comes with a warning folks. It is being offered as scrap salvage. Do I have a starting bid?\"\n\nThe auctioneer's enthusiasm was chaired for this one. His audience was now looking over the hulls and running gear of a larger Hatteras next to the rundown Stiletto. He wanted to dump this one and move to better game.\n\n\"Do I hear three thousand?\"\n\nA small, portly man who arrived earlier in an old beat up tow truck raised his hand with two fingers extended.\n\n\"Two thousand, I have two thousand, do I hear three?\"\n\nRoberts tried to play it cool.\n\n\"Twenty-five hundred,\" he yelled.\n\n\"I have twenty-five hundred,\" the auctioneer blared, resorting to denominations of hundreds rather than thousands.\n\n\"Do I hear twenty-seven?\"\n\n\"Twenty-six.\"\n\n\"Three-thousand,\" Roberts answered.\n\nAll was quiet as a man from the back of the lot was panicking, searching through his pockets, holding the bundle of thirty C-notes in his teeth. Quarters and dimes fell through his fingers.\n\n\"Three thousand going once.\"\n\n\"Three thousand, one.\"\n\nThe crowd exploded with laughter. The man knew he had been beaten.\n\n\"Three thousand and two dollars,\" Roberts yelled.\n\nThe auctioneer, who was also laughing, threw up his hands, clipboard, megaphone and all.\n\n\"Three thousand and two dollars, do I hear three thousand, two dollars and fifty cents?\"\n\nThe crowd returned with more laughter.\n\n\"Three thousand and two dollars going once, twice, and SOLD! to number, hold up your card sir, number forty-five. Margaret, lot twenty-four to bidder forty-five for three thousand and TWO dollars.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nThe next morning, Julio and Felix blocked the traffic on 188th Street as Scott Roberts backed the trailered Stiletto into the front of the Indian warehouse. The two workers guided him in as he watched using the dually's side-mounted mirrors. Roberts was always adept at backing the trailers. It came with the practice he gained from wet launching the Indians at the numerous Miami public ramps. Having to dodge the countless weekend warrior boaters gave him a unique quality. Maneuvering the king cab dual-wheeled pickup through the roughest of obstacles had become second nature.\n\nJulio watched as the chaffed blue and white hull backed under the shade of the warehouse. He thought of how he would take his time doing what he enjoyed most while on the job at Indian, renovating and restoring boats. As soon as Roberts had gotten back from the auction he had the crew clear out an area of one side of the shop. Felix stood next to him and in the back of his mind wondered why, in the midst of so much mayhem, his boss would want to take on this additional task.\n\n\"That is some boat, hey?\" Felix said.\n\n\"It used to be,\" Roberts replied.\n\n\"I bet you got a real cheery deal on it, those auctions I hear practically give those things away,\" Felix said.\n\n\"Yeah, right Felix. Nothing's free son.\"\n\n\"Why are we taking this boat? Don't we have enough work already?\" Felix asked.\n\n\"Yes we do have quite a bit of work. As for the Stiletto, it is different. A man gets tired of the same old grind every day, especially when you've been doing this as long as I have. I build the Indians because I used to dream of the Stilettos. Every now and then you need a reminder of where you came from in order to figure out where you're going,\" Roberts explained.\n\n\"Yeah, okay, I think I understand,\" Felix said.\n\n\"Felix, that would be incredible. Now what are you supposed to be doing? Didn't I ask you to wax the thirty-two mold?\"\n\n\"Yeah but Julio forgot to get more mold release so I had to put it on the backburner.\"\n\n\"Okay, I want you to go help them unload the Stiletto onto that cradle over there, then you get some boxes and start to strip it down from bow to stern. I want every nut, bolt, the rub rail, everything.\"\n\nAfter the boat was unloaded, Felix began to work. It was a change of pace for him, one he appreciated. He didn't consider himself a lazy man but he was getting tired of the day-in, day-out monotonous waxing of the molds. It was hot, tedious work. He turned up the boom box on the workbench next to him and started unscrewing the many fasteners that held the external fixtures on the boat. The radio was tuned to WQBA, a local Latin radio station that bounced Latin sounds from the hardened steel walls of the warehouse. The rub rail that was designed to fend a boat from pilings and docks was the most time consuming. There were two screws secured into the rigid Fiberglas hull every six inches. Felix made good time, though, with a cordless screw gun in one hand and a can of penetrating lubricant in the other. Julio had helped him get started by preparing three labeled boxes: engine parts, hull fixtures and gauges. Roberts wanted all the stripped parts segregated and available for inspection. Felix guzzled the quart bottle of ice water as fast as he could. The heat inside the warehouse was immense and Felix was not used to working this hard. He was interested though, kind of a new beginning for this old boat. Maybe his boss buying this Stiletto wasn't such a bad idea. He had been at it for a little over four hours. The foredeck was stripped. Cleats, chalks, rub rails, and even a small polished horn came off with little persuasion. Felix had worked his way into the cockpit. There was collectively more hardware here than the rest of the boat combined. The dashboard looked like a suitable place to start. It was mainly a Fiberglas extension of the deck that originated just behind the Plexiglas windshield. It was mounted at an angle so the operator could have an adequate view of all the running gauges. On the face of this Fiberglas box was a laminate panel of plastic. The gauges and switches, including the keyed ignition switches, were all mounted on this panel. Felix took great care in unscrewing the eight number ten stainless screws that held the delicate piece in place. At the top of the dash, an original Maltese Stiletto Starfire insignia was etched. If he were to damage it in any way, Roberts would have his ass. Plastic, being what it is, after many years of being in the sun loses its flexibility. It becomes brittle, less pliable. He had to be careful.\n\nAll but the last screw was out. Felix stopped for a second to wipe his brow. The sweat was starting to drip down and make the Phillips-head screwdriver he was using slippery. He had refrained from using the screw gun on such a precarious task. The last screw was in tight but with a little effort, it backed out of its twelve-year nest of Fiberglas. With the last few revolutions, Felix removed the remaining fastener with his fingers. He then took a flat-head screwdriver and pried one end of the panel up from the console. Years of dirt and salt were built up around its edges. The panel came up without much resistance for the first few inches, and then it stopped. It appeared to Felix to be hung up on something internal. At the risk of breaking it, the timid laborer simply put the panel back in its place.\n\nHe stopped for a second to think about what he was doing, something he was not accustomed to doing during his two-year tenure as the official Indian mold waxer. Underneath the console was a piece of teak, ten- by-twelve-inches with four screws securing it. Felix got down on his back and began removing them. They all came out with very little effort, but as the piece of wood came loose, more salt and debris fell from the seam directly into Felix's lap. He removed what he could with his hands and then peeked under the console. It was obvious now why the instrument panel was tied up. The large amount of wires going to the gauges, switches and other fused circuits were wrapped up with more wires originating from a black box mounted on the bulkhead. Pissed off, Felix took the largest flat-head screwdriver he had and pried the box from the wall. It immediately dropped down, hanging by the many wires that connected it to the rest of the boat. Felix took a pair of electrical dykes and snipped the wires clean as the box dropped to the deck. The more he looked into the hole, the more he could not believe all the tangled mess of circuits and multicolored wires. He followed the wires he had just cut and saw mounted, not six inches away from the first one, another identical black box; this one with a set of switches and a key lock. Again, Felix took his large screwdriver and pried it clean from the bulkhead. It, too, dropped to the deck. He then, out of frustration, threw both of them out of the cockpit listening to them hit the hard concrete surface below. The panel was now free and he continued to remove it slowly but surely, making sure not to chip any of the edges or crack the delicate plastic\n\n* * * * *\n\nThanksgiving\n\nJoel sat comfortably in his assigned airline seat 16-C, a window seat midway along the length of the McDonnell Douglas MD-80. The ride was soothing. He laid back and enjoyed the ride with the bright glow of a Florida sunset on his left and an empty aisle seat to his right. He could stretch out and relax. Joel hated planes that were filled to capacity. He usually ended up sitting next to a smoker who, despite the fact that all flights were designated as nonsmoking, still had the stench of the cigarette residue on his clothes.\n\nWith a long and stressful first week behind him, Joel could now sit back and relax. The whine of the twin turbo fans mounted to the plane's tail made the ride that much more comfortable.\n\nSeated across from him on the opposite side of the plane was a young family of three. Mom and Dad, both fifty pounds overweight, both munching on blue packages of salted airline peanuts, sat taking intermittent sips from plastic cups of beer. Seated between them was their child, a small boy who appeared to be about two. He was dressed in a pair of bright blue overalls and wore a blue and white pinstriped Atlanta Braves baseball cap over the blond curls on his head. Pinned to the front of his overalls was a plastic pair of \"wings\" with the airline's logo embossed in the middle. The boy munched on his own bag of peanuts and can of cola.\n\nJoel looked over at the boy who was occasionally returning glances. He winked at the blond-headed boy who in turn repaid the gesture, squinting the entire left side of his face in the process. In a matter of a few seconds, the two had connected only adding to Joel's feeling of peacefulness.\n\nThe ride continued as the plane descended into the Atlanta area. The pressure against his eardrums disrupted a brief nap he had managed to catch. He immediately readjusted his tray table and put away the magazine he had been looking at. To his left, his new \"friend\" had become agitated and was starting to cry. The boy's parents became frantic with intolerance.\n\n\"Shut up boy, will you!\" the mother insisted, poking him in the ribs, further agitating the boy who continued to cry, now only louder.\n\n\"Your momma said to shut up boy!\" the father added, grabbing the boy's small head in his large hand.\n\n\"What's the boy's name?\" Joel asked, reaching over the unoccupied aisle seat next to him.\n\n\"Oh! I'm sorry. Did our boy wake you?\" the mother asked, apologizing.\n\n\"Oh no, he's not a problem. What's his name?\" Joel asked, this time with a more insistent tone.\n\n\"Justin,\" she said.\n\n\"Justin. Hey buddy, are your ears hurting you?\" Joel asked.\n\nThe boy stopped crying as he turned to look toward the unfamiliar voice.\n\n\"Do they hurt?\" Joel asked again.\n\nThe boy nodded yes as he put his small hands over the sides of his head.\n\n\"Drink some soda and swallow a lot,\" he instructed.\n\n\"Don't spill now, boy!\" the mother blurted out.\n\nJustin tipped the can of cola back, holding it with both hands. The bubbly fluid rushed down the back of his throat as he swallowed frantically. He then put the can down and continued to swallow, sticking his chin forward with each contraction of his throat.\n\n\"Now, doesn't that feel better?\" Joel asked as the boy smiled and nodded yes.\n\n\"Thank you mister. Justin can get real ornery when he wants to. You got a real way with youngins,\" she replied.\n\n\"It was nothing. Glad to help,\" Joel said.\n\nThe plane landed soon after and Joel took his time exiting through the crowd of people, some hurrying to catch a connecting flight, others content to be back on the ground. He was just happy to be back home.\n\n\u2022\n\nTwo hours later, the red, white and blue logo of the Cable Satellite Public Affairs Network, better known as C-SPAN, appeared in the left hand corner of the console-mounted TV screen in Pat Stephens's den. The channel carried presidential speeches, Senate and House Committee meetings and other public issue talks, both domestic and foreign. Today's presentation was of the House Ways and Means Committee debates over the new anti-drug bill that was in front of Congress for a final vote. The session was an extended one and Congress was under significant pressure to wrap up their business and go on to bigger and better things. The proponents of the bill, mostly Democrats, saw the solution in education and long term rejuvenation of the American intellect, thereby giving young people more options and choices in life, and, in turn, less drug use. Reduce the demand, and the supply will therefore also dwindle. Funding, according to the proponents, should go to public education programs. Government supported education to the second year of public college, drug abuse centers, along with detoxification facilities were all part of the plan.\n\nOpponents of the bill were against spending any more money on domestic programs altogether. They felt the budgets of the Justice Department, Customs and DEA were all over-funded. Stephens characterized them as religious zealots who wanted to go to Peru and Columbia and decimate the populous, thus reducing the supply. The opponents were right-wing conservatives who believed the military could solve all the world's wrongs and for whom the budget was a priority. At the sake of his conscience and his career, Stephens supported the crime bill.\n\nJhenna rubbed her husband's tired shoulders while Joel sat on an opposite couch. Behind them a brisk fire crackled in the hearth. A fresh snow had fallen two hours before and Stephens's den, which was at the extreme end of their large house, warmed at a slower rate than the rest of the home. It was a flaw in the design and one Stephens contemplated civil action over but the three-year statute of limitations ran out and the couple had no choice but to accept the flaw.\n\nCongressman Bing Maxwell of Kansas was speaking. An opponent, he was the leader of the opposition mainly because of his charismatic nature in dealing with people. Stephens often thought the plump congressman was a TV evangelist in another life.\n\n\"We must agree that this poison must be taken out at the root. It is a travesty that we should let the influence of drugs continue with all the smugglers and cheap street dealers making their profits. I know it sounds corny, but as Sheriff Andy Griffith used to say, nip it in the bud. We have experienced soldiers. Men and now, God help us, women trained to fight and protect our nation's interest. They are in a stand down mode and are ready to intervene in a moment's notice.\"\n\n\"This guy's insane,\" Stephens said aloud as the congressman continued.\n\n\"We must turn these dedicated professionals loose and remake havoc among the various drug communities presently in control of Central and South America.\"\n\nThe House Chambers filled with a mild but steady applause as the congressman from Kansas collected the notes and left the podium. The camera switched to that of the Speaker, the Honorable Stu Abrams from New Hampshire.\n\n\"Thank you Congressman Maxwell. We are planning on breaking for lunch at around 11:45. Congressman Sikes, I don't want to cut you short, so if you need more time, you can start after the recess,\" the lead congressman said, directing his voice to a small, suit-clad man who was now standing at the threshold of the bench.\n\n\"I think I'll have enough time. My dad used to say, keep it short and simple.\"\n\n\"A new standard for us all I hope,\" the Speaker replied as Sikes assumed his place behind the podium.\n\n\"The flow of drugs affects no other state in a more devastating fashion than my state of Florida. We are amidst a battleground being fought off our many diverse coasts, a losing battle at that. The anti-drug crime bill is not just a good idea - it's a great one. We, as responsible Americans, need to attack the drug problem at the grassroots level: the desire, the want, the need, and the addiction. As responsible Americans, we need to give our young people the options they need to make a better life. Our children need to know they have a potential in life and that the decisions they make will affect them directly. At the same time, we need to draw tight the purse strings surrounding our borders and fortify the forces offshore and in the air channels. We need to maintain these federal forces. The DEA, U.S. Customs and Coast Guard have been doing a bang up job. Let's not leave them out in the cold now. Thank you Mr. Speaker.\"\n\nThe chambers were a grumble of voices and shuffling paper as those who were seated rose to exercise the lunch recess.\n\nRAP RAP RAP\n\nThe wooden gavel summoned attention as the Speaker peered over the chamber floor.\n\n\"We'll recess for ninety minutes and resume at 1:15.\"\n\nA C-SPAN commentator interrupted detailing and summarizing the congressmen's opposing views. After that, the schedule of the day's programming was displayed and Pat Stephens clicked the set off with his remote. Jhenna held him tight from behind as he sat quietly in the leather office chair.\n\n\"I've been asked to speak to the committee next week. Sikes called yesterday. He's really pushing hard for this,\" he said.\n\n\"Honey, that's great!\" she answered.\n\n\"I really think this is the progressive thinking we need to solve these complex problems. These damn zealots like Maxwell. They should be thumping Bibles down in Mississippi somewhere. This is what I need to increase my visibility.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you'll do the right thing,\" she said, rubbing her hand over his chest.\n\n\"What we don't need right now is anything to mar the public's opinion of the federal forces abroad,\" he declared, tensing up at the last minute before turning the TV back on and changing the channel to CNN. They were running a story about a Florida treasure salver who had found a long lost Spanish galleon; a ship that was transporting gold to Mother Spain back in the early 1600s. The vessel had been caught in a storm off the coast of the Florida Keys and sank, killing all on board.\n\nThe salver had spent twenty years and over three million dollars of his own money looking for this treasure. Everyone around him was inspired by his spirit that started each morning at 5:30 when he would say: \"Today is going to be the day.\"\n\nHe kept up the fight, even when it took the life of his beloved wife in a tragic diving accident. He never gave up. Then one day, his funds depleted and his heart broken, he did what he had come to do. In ninety feet of water, on a reef called the Elbow, he found the remains of the ship and its sixty million dollars of gold, silver and other jewels, the largest treasure find in American history. And that's when his real troubles began. The State of Florida made an immediate claim on the treasure, threatening to jail the salver if he didn't immediately turn it over. They had offered to give him ten percent of the value of the find based on its museum value (which the state calculated at ninety thousand dollars), giving the salver a finder's fee of nine grand for his troubles. The story went on to tell more of the life and death struggle of the man, a struggle that had started in the ocean and ended up in the courts.\n\n\"I know that place,\" Joel said.\n\n\"What place?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"The Elbow. It's a reef off Key Largo.\"\n\n\"Find any treasure, hotshot?\"\n\n\"Like I've got the time to look for treasure or anything else for that matter,\" he said before the three moved to the living room while Jhenna got their dinner ready.\n\nJoel couldn't get enough of his sister's cooking. He had consumed two plates and was still planning on dessert. \"So tell us about the Keys,\" Pat said.\n\n\"They're okay. The poor man's Hawaii and all that.\"\n\n\"What's the office like?\" Jhenna asked.\n\n\"Good bunch of guys. My FTO is a little strange though, but, well maybe it's me,\" he said.\n\n\"Strange? How do you mean strange, Joel?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"On some nights the guy is like a superhero or something. Really eager,\" Joel replied, pausing to bite a biscuit, his fourth. \"Others, he just ignores obvious targets. The other night we were out over the reef and this smuggler, Alazar, who everyone says is dirty, was there with an obvious crew waiting for a load and this guy turns the other way and heads for shore. The look the two of them gave each other was real spooky. I felt like a third wheel. What's up? I kept asking myself.\"\n\n\"Jordan Cheney told me a little about what and how you're doing.\"\n\n\"Oh, he did, did he?\" Joel said, looking cross-eyed over at Jhenna who had a smile on her face.\n\n\"You sank a boat?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"A truck too,\" Joel responded.\n\n\"I heard it was a boat.\"\n\n\"I did that too.\"\n\n\"You sank a boat and God help us, a truck?\"\n\n\"It's all very explainable.\"\n\n\"Don't bother. Cheney filled me in already.\"\n\n\"Oh, great,\" Joel uttered with concern.\n\n\"He said the boat had a faulty steering cable and the truck popped out of park and rolled down a boat ramp - all very explainable. No need to get so defensive,\" Pat said with half a smile on his face.\n\n\"That was his personal truck. He's gonna hold it over me forever,\" Joel said.\n\n\"He sounded relieved to me. Something about wanting a new one anyway.\"\n\n\"That's a load off my shoulders. He's really not mad?\"\n\n\"But, Captain Crunch, just the same, let's not destroy any more of the government's equipment, okay?\"\n\n\"Okay.\"\n\n\"Are you guys ready for pie?\" Jhenna asked as she went into the kitchen.\n\n\"Our sources tell us there is a network of agents who are protecting a group of major organized traffickers.\"\n\n\"I'll keep my eyes open,\" Joel promised.\n\n\"Would anyone like ice cream with their apple pie?\" Jhenna asked as she returned with dessert.\n\n\"None for me,\" Joel replied.\n\n\"Me neither, babe,\" Pat said.\n\n\"So Joel, when are you going to call Cathy?\" Jhenna asked as she gently placed a slice of warm pie onto Joel's plate.\n\n\"As your attorney, I advise you not to answer that Joel!\" Pat interrupted abruptly. \"He doesn't want to go out with your fat friend...Do you Joel,\" Pat continued.\n\n\"I, I don't really know,\" he answered in his best nonpartisan tone.\n\n\"She's a very nice girl and I want nothing but the best for my little brother,\" she said, dumping Pat's pie on his plate, splashing it in a heap upside-down.\n\n* * * * *\n\nSkim\n\nGil Lindback felt uncomfortable talking about his friend the way he did but he felt he had an obligation to Roberto. Jobs like the one Alazar had given him were not easily gotten and he wasn't going to chance a thing.\n\n\"I just want to say, Gil, that you used your head and got us all out of a big jam,\" Roberto said to his subordinate, who was sitting in a couch across from him.\n\n\"Mongi couldn't believe it when a damn ambulance rolled into his backyard,\" Gordo said.\n\n\"Now, what was it you wanted to talk to us about?\" Roberto asked.\n\n\"First, I need to say that Kevin has a lot of problems. Ever since he got mixed up with this guy Kal Boggas, he has been saying crazy things, like he's not getting paid enough, and you guys are ripping him off. He parties too much and I think he's been taking a lot of drugs so you have to promise me that after I tell you, he won't, like die or anything,\" Lindback made sure of, as both men laughed.\n\n\"What do you think, we're killers Gil?\" Alazar asked.\n\n\"Just please promise me because I'm having a real hard time with this, okay?\"\n\n\"No problem Gil. We will not kill Kevin. Now tell us what is going on,\" Gordo said.\n\n\"He has been skimming the bales. Just a little from each one, but enough to make a difference,\" Lindback uneasily stated, still unsure of himself.\n\n\"How much?\" Alazar asked.\n\n\"About twenty pounds,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, well, that's not good. Something will have to be done,\" Gordo declared in an intimidating tone.\n\n\"Stop scaring the kid!\" Alazar commanded.\n\n\"Look, Gil, I'm human and with that it means I am not beyond making mistakes. Kevin is also human and the same applies to him. He has been a valuable worker and he can continue to be a valuable worker,\" Alazar said looking Lindback in the eyes. \"Will you help us teach Kevin a lesson? God forbid he does this to someone who is not so understanding.\"\n\n\"Anything. What can I do?\"\n\n\u2022\n\nOn a lone stretch of road between Long Key and Marathon, two men stood next to a large ten-wheel utility truck, the type with a hydraulic boom mounted to the top. This boom could elevate a worker as high as thirty feet with the truck's steel outriggers fully extended. Kevin Pinder helped his chubby partner into the swiveling Fiberglas bucket. After the man secured his tools and strapped himself in, Kevin walked over to the control panel mounted on the side of the truck. The electric pump whined as it moved hot hydraulic oil through a series of rubber pressure hoses to a chrome-plated ram piston mounted on the boom. The bucket rose skyward inching its way to the wires above. Kevin watched his partner overhead as he carefully shifted the levers at his waist. Up, then over, he moved the bucket to a cylindrical transformer mounted on the pole. The bucket stopped and Kevin set the lock, securing the rig until it was ready to be moved again. His partner began to work as Kevin sat on the rear bumper.\n\nIn the distance, a blue Oldsmobile appeared traveling on the Overseas Highway towards them. The man in the bucket noticed it first but paid no attention until it slowed and approached the truck. Kevin stood to his feet recognizing the car. It was Gordo and he was not alone. The man in the bucket stopped his work for a moment as he watched the car pull up to the rear of the truck below, disappearing for a second in a cloud of dry dirt.\n\n\"Gordo, my man! \u00bfC\u00f3mo Est\u00e9e Lauder dude?!\"\n\n\"Kevinito, how are you doing?\"\n\n\"Hey did we get paid man? My rent is due and I'm broke again.\"\n\n\"Yeah,\" Gordo said, \"can you take it now?\"\n\n\"Eight grand? Right here? I bet it's in fives and tens again. But if I'll have to, I'll hide it on the truck.\"\n\n\"Sure Kevinito, hide it on the truck. Here follow me, it's in the trunk.\"\n\nAs the two walked around the side of the car, Del grabbed the keys from the ignition and joined them at the back. As Gordo turned the key, the trunk lid sprang open exposing the terrified face of Kal Boggas, Kevin's companion at the clavo the night before. Boggas's eyes were wide open like dishes, staring at the three in a desperate panic. Kevin froze in place and then turned away from Gordo, only to come face to face with the meaner Del. A blade of sunlight gleamed from the highly polished nine-millimeter Beretta he held, aimed at Kevin's abdomen.\n\n\"Where's my shit asshole?\"\n\n\"Kevinito, you know Del. That stuff you stole last night belongs to him and I think he wants it back.\"\n\n\"What stuff? What are you talking about man?\"\n\nDel began to grow more aggravated.\n\n\"Look you skinny fuck, I'll do you without a second thought. That shit you stole was mine. Where the fuck is it?\"\n\nDel's beady eyes pierced through Kevin's panicked smile.\n\n\"Look, I thought if I had some of the stuff I could spread it around, you know, sell some for Roberto.\"\n\n\"Well, Roberto doesn't remember making you an authorized agent of the product, so how about you return the sample and we'll be friends again. Okay?\"\n\n\"It's at my house.\"\n\nDel looked at Gordo who instantly nodded.\n\n\"Now get in.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"You heard me, get in, and don't forget to buckle up.\"\n\nKevin crawled into the tight trunk with Kal as Del slammed the lid over the two. The smell of Kal's shit-drenched pants quickly engulfed the air in the tight space. The lineman, now stuck elevated in the bucket, began to yell at the car as it drove off spinning loose gravel at the parked truck. Del waved politely as they made their way north.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDementia\n\nThe return flight from Atlanta was smooth and relaxing, a pleasant reward for a hectic, first week of duty. The time he spent with his sister was refreshing. Jhenna had been a supporting part in his life and he always looked forward to the time they spent together. The food was also something he had missed while in the Keys. Her home cooking was the best he had ever tasted and he wondered what it would be like to have someone in his life who could cook like his sister, who paid close attention to the smallest details and tried to make every meal a special occasion.\n\nThe Plantation Key Colony apartment was quiet as he lay in a half slumber. He had the uncomfortable feeling that there was another presence in the room. He was half asleep though, and maybe he was dreaming. Still, he detected another respiratory cycle besides his own, one with a faster rate and a slight wheeze to it. Then it hit him. He was back in the Keys. His two days in Atlanta were over. His assignment did contain a moderate amount of danger. With that, he sat straight up in bed and found himself face to face with an old, gray-haired woman. Behind her stood an elderly man, bald and dressed in a white muscle shirt and Bermuda shorts.\n\nJoel shook his head a few times before wiping the sleep from his eyes. She stood without making a sound or moving a muscle. The woman's face was weathered and her body hung on her bones like a tired suit on a wire coat hanger. The opposite could have been said of the man behind her who looked as though he didn't miss many meals.\n\n\"Hello,\" she said. \"The door was partially open.\"\n\n\"Is he dead?\" the man asked loudly as though he suffered from a hearing deficit.\n\n\"It was?\" Joel asked, pulling the sheets up over his underwear-clad body.\n\n\"You must be Owen's new partner.\"\n\n\"Yeah, we met a few days ago. You're Betty Sands, Owen's mother,\" he reminded her.\n\n\"I'm Betty Sands. I'm Owen's mother. And this is Mr. Phipps, my next-door neighbor and special friend. He came and got me when he found your door open. Mr. Phipps is the complex's unofficial security guard, if you know what I mean.\"\n\n\"False alarm I guess. I thought he was dead,\" Mr. Phipps said loudly.\n\n\"This is great!\" Joel answered sarcastically.\n\n\"I hope you don't mind me coming in but I thought you might be in trouble, what with the door open and all.\"\n\n\"No ma'am, everything's okay. I must not have shut it all the way when I came in last night.\"\n\n\"You did get in kind of late,\" she added.\n\n\"Yea, well, my plane was delayed and then there was the drive from Miami.\"\n\n\"Well, don't let us bother you anymore. Go back to sleep, and I'll let myself out,\" she concluded as she backed out of the room, pushing Mr. Phipps ahead of her.\n\nHoly shit! he thought, as he laid his head back on the pillow.\n\n* * * * *\n\nCatalyst\n\nRoberto Alazar, with Del and Gordo at his side, walked into the open bay door at the Indian warehouse on 188th Street. Immediately, Alazar's eyes started to water, irritated by the airborne residue of resin. Alazar tried to keep his meetings with Scott Roberts short and sweet. Even the shop's air-conditioned offices did not provide shelter from the toxic fumes.\n\n\"Scotty, how are you doing my friend?\"\n\n\"Roberto, I guess you got my message. I have something to show you.\"\n\n\"I hope it's a finished hull. I'm starting to get anxious.\"\n\nThe three walked between several unfinished boats and upright sets of molds toward the back of the shop where Julio had the new 42-footer propped up on an oversized boat cradle. The side of the hull reflected like a mirror. The highly polished mold made for a perfect impression.\n\nAlazar was visibly impressed as he ran his hand across the freshly released hull.\n\n\"Scott, you've outdone yourself. This is magnificent. What is next? When can we put the deck on? I really want to see her lines.\"\n\n\"The next thing we have to do is install the power. It's much easier that way. Then we can do most of the hull and string bound wiring, install the fuel tanks, sewage and water holds. After that we will be able to glass-in the cap and deck.\"\n\n\"Well great. What are we waiting for?\"\n\n\"The engines are at the terminal. I'm going to need some more money. They'll need a check and I need some time to put it into my account so we don't have to fill out any tax forms. I can only put in ninety-five hundred at a time.\"\n\n\"Gordo...\" Alazar said, taking a brown paper sack from his right hand.\n\n\"I brought forty. This should keep things going for a while. I should be back before you need any more.\"\n\nAs Roberts took the bag, he surveyed its weight to be about six or seven pounds. Forty grand, it had to be fives and tens again, he thought to himself.\n\n\"Before you go, there's something else I want to show you.\"\n\nAlazar and Gordo turned to follow Roberts who walked ahead at a proud pace.\n\n\"I picked this up at the Customs auction in Brunswick, Georgia.\"\n\nAs they approached the other side of the warehouse, Alazar could see the reason for his friend's excitement. Although the boat was beat up, Alazar walked over to it, briefly touching his fingers on the spot where the letters U.S. CUSTOMS used to be.\n\n\"I know this boat and Gordo really knows this boat don't you, brother?\" Alazar said as the three laughed.\n\nRoberts began to explain, pointing to the large cardboard boxes overflowing with the parts that Felix had removed earlier.\n\n\"I'm just in the stages of separating what's original and what's not.\"\n\nAlazar walked around the boat taking a good look. He was definitely not the aficionado of vintage offshore craft that Roberts was but his interest in the boat was as a captured tool of the enemy. Alazar remembered the Cuban MiG that was flown to Key West by a defecting pilot in 1962. The aircraft and its onboard systems were under the microscope of U.S. officials for several weeks after. They covered the aircraft with a fine-toothed comb before shipping it to the U.S. Navy's Airfield in Miramar, California, for dismantling.\n\nAs Alazar walked around the transom, he noticed something that caught his eye. It was the two black boxes, each one not more than eight-inches-square by three-inches-deep. They were connected by a gang of multicolored wire and, by the looks of them, had been beaten up. Judging from the scratches, which exposed the metal case under the paint, the damage occurred when they were removed from the boat. Somewhere in his travels, Alazar had seen a similar device. Gordo joined him at the face of the workbench picking up half of the device and looking his cousin in the eye. The two became very quiet.\n\n\"What is it?\" Roberts asked.\n\n\"Did this come out of this boat?\"\n\n\"I guess so, I was getting ready to throw it away. What the hell is it?\"\n\nAlazar looked very carefully at their find.\n\nJudging from the Motocom decal on one of the boxes, it had to be something dealing with electronics, probably the boat's communications system.\n\n\"Scott, would you mind if I took this with me. You know just to have a look-see?\"\n\n\"Sure! Shit yeah, no problem man,\" Roberts said, holding the grocery bag with forty thousand dollars of the man's money.\n\n* * * * *\n\nEntourage\n\nIt was estimated that over sixty thousand people lined the shores of Key West's Harbor Pier, a long seawall that embraced the emerald water of America's southernmost port. On its opposite ends scaffolding was erected, supporting TV cameras that were pointed toward the ensuing action that would pass before them as over forty world-class offshore powerboats raced though the chute. Banners featuring the familiar logos of ABC Sports, the new cable sports news channel SPORTSNET, beer distributors like Budweiser and Michelob, and boat companies like Mercury Outboards were draped on the neighboring seawalls. The crowd was in a frenzy. The three-race series, which had started the preceding Tuesday and continued on Thursday, was now culminating on this day. The points were well distributed between several of the leading teams. Michelob Light, Benihana Restaurants and Damn Stiletto all held equal points for third place but the first place slot was a draw between Guerillmo Morales's Miss Miami Coatings and England's Prince Henry in his Don-Cat named Foolish Pleasure.\n\nAs the pace boat climbed up on plane flying a yellow pennant, the starting line of racers jockeyed for position, each next to one another speeding up and slowing down, trying to stay as far up front as possible without passing the pace boat. Like other motor sports, offshore racing utilized a running start. The pace boat was usually a stock version of the racers themselves and was usually provided by one of the manufacturers who wanted to promote their product line. Chris-Craft boats, a newcomer to the high performance side of the industry, supplied the official pace boat for the competition, lending one of the boats used in the new television series Miami Vice.\n\nThe competition director, seeing that all of the boats were on plane and ready to race, fired a bright green flare from the pace boat's cockpit. Simultaneously, one of the crewmembers replaced the flying yellow pennant with a corresponding green one. Like a switch had been thrown, the forty boats powered up and roared past the pace boat, heading down the chute that was Key West Harbor. Offshore powerboat racing was best seen from the air. Thirty-seven helicopters, each one filming their own version of the race, followed the pack of boats like a swarm of bees. The SPORTSNET chopper led the aircrafts, getting the best shot by flying sideways so its cameraman had an unobstructed pan of the action. In the background was the descending bright green bolt of light of the start flare, leaving behind a trail of smoke. This national coverage would boost ratings and help promote a sport that was in need of public attention. Unlike other motor sports, offshore racing was not a spectator sport. It had grown from the friendly competition between rumrunners in Florida and Michigan, smugglers who competed with the same boats they ran their rum and cigars in. The courses traveled through open water in seas that would send anyone else back to the dock.\n\nThe crowd, which had waited patiently, was now on its feet as the boats passed both SPORTSNET land-based cameras. They focused in on the pack of hulls that were trying to outdo the other. Bullet-shaped hulls extended from the sheets of white spray that formed from each boat. The thunder of the engines shook the pier and the ground below the bleachers. In their wake, a filmy mist covered the white patches of water that remained. Overhead, the rhythmic beat of helicopter blades circulated the smell of exhausted racing fuel lingering in the air.\n\nThe first boats to pass the breakwater on their way to the open sea were, as expected, Guerillmo Morales and Prince Henry, each one running nose-to-nose with the other. As they headed into the deeper, rougher water, Morales's deep-V hull sliced through the rough water maintaining its speed while Henry's Don-Cat had to slow, putting him in a distant second place. The proud prince pushed his craft to the limit trying to catch up to his Columbian nemesis. Throughout his hometown in the United Kingdom, the tabloids had touted him as an irresponsible child because of his racing exploits. Public opinion was fifty-fifty on whether the successor of the throne should be racing around the world like a gallivanting playboy, especially when things were not all that well at home. Henry prayed for a victory; one that would identify him as a true professional in the sport and would make his people stand up and take notice. He had ordered his Don-Cat with the biggest motors available and to give him an edge, he hired Aaron Donaldson himself to race in the boat with him. Unlike many other motor sports, offshore racing utilized crews of two or three to man the racing craft. The primary member would drive, the secondary would throttle, which is to control the engines while the boat is leaping in and out of the water, and the third, if any, would navigate. As a former world champion driver, Donaldson knew his way around a race boat and preferred to throttle.\n\nDespite the fact that this was only their third race together, tension was already erupting. Henry was very abusive during the first two qualifying races on Tuesday and Thursday. Donaldson wrote it off as pre-race jitters, something he had seen many times before. Henry looked over at his throttle man. He wished they'd go faster but Donaldson knew better. The seas were too rough and this was a Cat. If Henry wanted the championship that bad he should have bought a matching deep-V like the big teams, Donaldson thought to himself. A deep-V could have cut through the seas they were encountering. The Cat had a tunnel that filled with water every time they hit a large wave, crashing against the flat ceiling of the tunnel and slowing the craft down, not to mention the damage it did to the Fiberglas hull. Cats were made for flat water, the type of race seen on the west coast of Florida or Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans. Key West was a different venue, one of the roughest of the season, which is why it was saved for the year's culmination, the World Championships. Key West was a true ocean race like Bacardi Rum's Miami to Bimini Run or Benihana's Point Pleasant Race along the New Jersey coast. Most large offshore teams owned two boats, one deep-V for the rough water and a Cat for everything else. Politically, Prince Henry could not afford such luxuries. Sure he had enough money, but the press would have crucified him even more so than they were doing already. While praying for a victory, Henry pleaded to God for Cat water.\n\nThe seas approaching the light at Sand Key were a steep five to seven feet high. They were common for this area. Because of the clarity of the water below, Morales's 46-foot deep-V looked like it was running right over the coral. It was an optical illusion. The water surrounding the light was really an average of twenty-five-feet-deep and made for more great national coverage.\n\nPrince Henry's throttle man trimmed the engine drives and the trim tabs inward. This changed the angle of the prop, pushing the bow of the boat closer to the water. Donaldson was not comfortable doing this but at the speed they were going, the twenty-foot leaps into the air were starting to get tiresome on the hull and the twin drive trains below the rattling deck. The threat was obvious and Donaldson knew it. The lower the bow was running to the water, the greater the chance it could penetrate an oncoming wave and submarine under the water instead of over it.\n\nEvenly placed sheets of jagged water erupted from both sides of the boat. Her speed was a constant eighty-six miles per hour and Morales was still in sight. Henry felt there was still hope yet, if he could just get his speed up. As they rounded the light, Donaldson pulled back on the throttles to compensate for the sharp turn. Henry though, put his gloved hand over that of his throttle man, pushing forward on the throttles. Donaldson pulled his hand from the aluminum sticks and turned away from the anxious prince, looking toward the ocean with his arms folded at his chest in an angry fury. Henry simply took over driving with one hand and throttling with the other. The end result was that there was no throttling to it. He had the boat at eighty percent power and was running over ninety miles per hour. The helicopter above, having to head into the wind, had to increase its collective pitch to keep up. Donaldson had achieved seven national championships, four world titles and countless other victories in his career as an offshore racer. Never before had he seen such a conflict in the cockpit. Win or not, as soon as they reached the dock, Donaldson was resigning from the prince's team.\n\nThe pilot of the helicopter above reduced the craft's altitude, lowering it closer to the water. This came at the request of the cameraman who notified him that Prince Henry was really starting to look good. That's when it happened.\n\nAs the 39-foot catamaran submerged under the oncoming waves, a wall of white, frothing water rolled up the long deck towards the crew. Prince Henry watched as microseconds passed in what appeared like slow motion. Instinctively, Donaldson bent his torso towards his knees, down below the rise of the deck, letting the wave pass overhead. Panic turned to sheer terror for the prince who took the full brunt of the water into his face, neck and chest. He was one-tenth of a second too late as the wash pulled his head up and over the padded bolster seat, instantly breaking his neck. As the boat rapidly de-accelerated, the cameraman in the helicopter above strained to focus in on the dead body of the prince.\n\nA mile ahead on the course, a whirlwind of turbulent air followed the Bell 206 JetRanger occupied by Pat Stephens and Chester Marks. The airspace in and around Key West was a flurry of activity with a multitude of aircraft filing flight plans to track the offshore race through the harbor and out to sea.\n\nThe JetRanger followed several boats but spent most of its time behind one in particular, the Miss Miami Coatings. Stephens didn't care much for the sport although Marks was a fan of boats in general. The chopper maintained a close pursuit on the one hundred miles per hour boat maintaining an altitude of fifty feet. The only time Marks backed off was when the boat started to turn up a large amount of spray, at times saturating the chopper's windshield.\n\nStephens watched and waited as the boat below them leaped over the waves. Marks watched his airspeed indicator. It was reading one ten. Minus the six-knot headwind, that meant the 46-foot deep-V hull was traveling over one hundred and four miles per hour.\n\n\"He's really moving,\" Marks said into the intercom.\n\n\"That's nice. Do we really have to be so low, Chester?\" Stephens asked.\n\n\"Pilot discretion, sir.\"\n\n\"I was afraid you'd say that.\"\n\n\"Watch him when he rounds this checkpoint, the seas are really rough on this stretch.\"\n\nThe JetRanger continued to follow, having to slow so as to not overtake the boat. Marks's airspeed now registered ninety and they were flying with the wind.\n\n\"This is some boat boss!\"\n\n\"Yeah, this guy only buys the best,\" Stephens answered.\n\n\"What do you think that thing set him back?\"\n\n\"Our sources tell us over one point two mil.\"\n\n\"Jesus, you've got to be kidding!\"\n\n\"No, I'm not and the absurd thing is he'll probably replace most of the expensive stuff after every race, or at least he's planning to.\"\n\n\"You gonna rain on his parade, boss?\"\n\n\"Rain? It'll be a fucking deluge,\" Stephens answered.\n\n\u2022\n\nSmall waves splashed upon the concrete seawall at Harbor Pier. SPORTSNET reports confirmed the crowd had grown to over seventy thousand spectators who since had grouped, trying to view the commotion around the winner's circle. The long, sleek 46-foot Miss Miami Coatings lay tied to the pier. Her white deck was glistening in the sun, magnified by the small drops of crystal clear seawater that sparkled in the light.\n\nMorales stood like the victor he was, dressed in a white Nomex jumpsuit and a cherry red bandana wrapped around his neck. Standing next to him were the race officials from the American Powerboat Racing Association. Facing the group of men were reporters and television field correspondents who eagerly awaited an impromptu statement and possibly an interview. SPORTSNET had bought the broadcast rights for the World Championship Race and had several privileges that some of the other networks didn't. Their crews were in full force, with cameras poised at all major points along the course and several mounted airborne, riding some of the many helicopters swarming the area like frenzied dragonflies. Sports World magazine, having neglected the sport for many years, sent one of their top writers and a skilled photographer. This was the largest world championship series ever held and, combined with the participation of Prince Henry, international attention was drawn to the tiny island city. The prince's death would only compound the attention, although by the time of the winner's circle ceremonies, the press was largely unaware of what had actually happened.\n\n\"Guerillmo Morales,\" came a strong, projected voice in the crowd.\n\n\"Yes Mr. Roller,\" he answered.\n\n\"This is your third World Championship. The United States has not seen such a victor since the days of Betty Cook. Do you have any comments? How was it out there?\" the commentator asked, his face barely visible behind the bright camera lights.\n\n\"Well Stu,\" he said, trying to display his best English, \"it was rough!\" The crowd erupted with laughter. \"But seriously, I hope and pray as my family does that the Prince Henry gets, how you say, recovered. I wish we did see him so we could have stopped to help. I pray berry much.\"\n\n\"Any comments on the crash? Was this course just too rough?\" Stu Roller asked.\n\n\"A crash is berry bad, but we take a many risks to race like this in the ocean, it is never too rough for offshore racing. If you take a shower with you clothes on and at the same time beat yourself with a baseball bat why you tear up thousand dollar bills, that is offshore racing, it is berry rough.\"\n\n\"Very interesting analogy, Guerillmo Morales, World Champion offshore open class. Back to you, Vince,\" Roller said, putting the mic down to his side as the camera-mounted lights went dim. \"That's a wrap, thanks Guerillmo,\" Roller concluded with a handshake.\n\n\"Sure anytime,\" Morales answered.\n\n\"Mr. Morales,\" cried another voice from the crowd. \"Hank Vincent, Sports World.\"\n\n\"Yes sir,\" Morales answered.\n\n\"Do you feel the sport of offshore racing will have to adopt stricter guidelines to prevent what happened here today?\"\n\n\"Definitely not sir, I believe we all take risks because we want to. No one holds a gun to my head to go racing, now maybe I hold a gun to my throttle man's head, but that's a different story.\"\n\nThe crowd erupted again with laughter.\n\n\"If a man goes too far and stuffs his boat, I'm sorry. I know limits. I got my limits and my boat got its limits. I want to win, but I also want to go home and see my babies. Es simple.\"\n\n\"Can I quote you on this?\"\n\n\"I said it didn't I?\"\n\n\"Mr. Morales,\" came another voice from the crowd.\n\n\"Pat Stephens,\" the man answered.\n\n\"Yes sir, and who are you with?\"\n\n\"The United States Attorney's Office,\" Stephens declared with authority.\n\nMorales froze. Was this some kind of joke? he thought to himself. Who would play such a rude trick on this, my greatest day?\n\n\"Mr. Morales, I am here with twelve U.S. Marshalls. We have a warrant for your arrest,\" Stephens said, coming face-to-face with the terrified man. Morales turned pale. Stephens made a special point to stand in and be cuffed to his prisoner with all the cameras in view and strobe flashes from a dozen different cameras exploding. Stephens took his time reading the classic Miranda warning in both English and Spanish, knowing that it would make a great soundbite for the evening news. The world watched as Stephens and a few from his entourage walked away from the winner's circle. Morales, ashamed, held his once proud head low, a three-time world champion now fallen from grace.\n\n\u2022\n\nFive hours later, swatches of red and blue light danced back and forth between the shoulders of the Keys Overseas Highway. In a line that stretched nearly a mile, thirty-two green and white Metro-Dade police cruisers along with four U.S. Marshall's Suburbans formed an impenetrable convoy. Tucked away amidst the flashing lights and blaring sirens drove a white three-quarter-ton Dodge Maxi van. Its windows were made of Lexan and reinforced with wire mesh. The inside of the body panels were lined with yellow aramid Kevlar, making the entire vehicle bulletproof.\n\nThe time was 9:39 p.m. Guerillmo Morales sat quietly handcuffed to a pole welded to the van's frame. He sat prophetically amazed by the attention he had summoned. Along the route to South Miami, intersections were blocked by more flashing lights. It seemed like every agency in South Florida had a stake in the confinement and safety of Morales who was to be arraigned the next day.\n\nMorales had traveled this route many times before, usually in one of his Mercedes sedans, wearing a tailored suit or designer outfit, something loose and comfortable. Now he wore a bright orange jumpsuit with the bold white initials BOP-MCC, which stood for the Bureau of Prisons, Metro Correctional Center.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDoubloon\n\nThe white and blue hull of the 53-foot Hatteras yacht Frankly Scarlett rolled softly as it endured the gentle four-foot swells. Moored to the bottom some ninety feet below, the massive craft exerted tension on its one-inch-thick anchor rope, making it taut with every wave. On board, Owen Sands cracked a stainless valve on a bright yellow aluminum dive tank. The burst of air hissed as it escaped the intense pressure.\n\n\"This'll do,\" he said, slipping the cylinder into a matched backpack.\n\nDressed in a professional wetsuit, Owen fit the part. His over-tanned legs extended up from his dive fins rising to the matte black wetsuit that started at his knees. It covered the rest of his body stopping short of his throat. He strapped a weight belt to his waist. From it hung a mirage of equipment contained in a mesh net bag. Joel watched, trying to remember the finer points of diving he had learned two years ago at a scuba class he attended while at Berkeley. He was concerned and apprehensive. The only practical experience he had was in the university swimming pool with the exception of one open water dive off of Catalina. Joel looked like an amateur. He was clad in a pair of jogging shorts and a T-shirt that read If It Feels Good, Do It. He used Owen's spare tank, mask, and fins. Despite his inexperience, he still recalled the basics. He knew that a depth of thirty feet of water exerted as much pressure on the body as an eighty thousand foot high atmosphere of air and it increased an atmosphere every thirty feet thereafter. He remembered words like the bends, nitrogen narcoses, and cerebral embolism as he milled over the set of dive tables he picked up at a local dive shop earlier.\n\nOwen mounted his tank and fell backwards over the teak-lined side of the boat creating a large splash in the process. As he entered the water, a cold chill surged through his porous wetsuit engulfing his body in the cool liquid. At the same time, he felt the seawater flow into his ear canal making everything silent. Stunned at first, Owen quickly took a breath from the regulator. As he bit down on the mouthpiece, the taste of rubber coursed his pallet. The first breath of pressurized air filled his lungs as he exhaled bubbles that surrounded him, rushing to the surface. Looking up at the Frankly Scarlett, he remembered just how immense the boat was. A few feet away, two four-bladed propellers, almost four-feet in diameter, sat motionless. Joel watched as Owen stayed just a few feet under the water. Bubbles surfaced every few seconds. Then he stood atop the teak-lined gunwale and jumped in feet first. He wanted to see where he was going but was not used to the clarity of the water. Being able to see the bottom ninety feet below reminded him of a time when he had jumped from the family garage as a kid. He had shattered his right knee and was acrophobic ever since. Jumping into this water was more like jumping off a nine-story building. Joel landed, suspended in a cloud of aerated bubbles, next to Owen. The two headed for the bottom at a gradual decline. They headed straight for a dark pattern situated between two patches of coral. The pattern was about one hundred feet long and eighty feet wide.\n\nThe sixty-foot wood shell they found was, a few years before, a Haitian fishing trawler that was now sitting securely on the bottom at the base of the huge coral mountain that was the Elbow Reef. Ninety-four lives had been lost the year before when the crudely built boat capsized in heavy seas, just four miles from its intended destination, the Florida coast.\n\nKneeling on the sand of the ocean floor, Joel looked up at the towering bow that extended over his head. It reminded him of the time his father had taken him to the boat show in Annapolis, Maryland. He was only seven at the time, but Joel remembered standing below the bow of a brand new large yacht with its glossy hull and brightly polished fixtures. The yacht was propped up in the middle of the show grounds, like a ship in dry-dock surrounded by smaller boats flying banners and booths displaying a wide variety of marine accessories. For a second, the memory made him feel warm despite the cold temperature of the flowing current he was fighting to stay in position.\n\nThe Haitian boat was about sixty percent intact, with its mast snapped into three pieces, and other pieces of rigging strewn around the hull, littering the bottom.\n\nJoel felt Owen grab his arm to get his attention, pointing in the opposite direction from where he was looking. The two made their way several hundred feet from the Haitian trawler to a patch of sand that was marked by a painted green brick and a buoyant fishing bobber that was tied to it. Owen pulled an underwater metal detector from a canvas bag on his weight belt, turned it on and started to graze the sand back and forth. Suddenly the red LED light on top of the box lit up. Owen stopped and ran his gloved hand through the debris. Sand and pieces of rotted wood swirled about making a small cloud until a steel bolt appeared in Owen's hand. He put it in his waist bag and then scanned the area again with the detector. It lit again. Maybe he was going to be lucky, finding another cannonball to match the one sitting on the mantle in his living room. Again he sifted through the cloud but to no avail. Then he noticed something metallic. He sifted through more sand exposing a tubular object made of aluminum. The modern alloy seemed out of place amidst the decaying century old timbers. Owen was exhausted as he dug deeper. Joel joined him. Between the two, a cloud of sand covered the area. As they worked, a canvas-covered top emerged along with a wooden plaque affixed to the side of the electronics box that read Island Girl. Owen sat motionless for a second. Puzzled, Joel watched as his partner moved slowly to the half buried object, wiping his hand over the plaque, almost caressing it. Then like someone turned a switch, he snapped out of his trance. Owen, perched on his knees with sand covering his fins, looked around the landscape of the ocean floor around him.\n\nLaying some fifty yards away was the anchor belonging to the Frankly Scarlett. From it, ascending to the surface was the one-inch-thick anchor line surging with tension after each wave above. Owen swam over to the seventy pound steel fork. He waited for the line to fall limp and then crouched down, pulling the anchor from the sand. As he did, another wave struck the bow of the large yacht, pulling the rope taut. It pulled the anchor and Owen across the sandy terrain like a toy. Owen tried to hold on, losing the grip of one hand. The other squeezed as the anchor bounced across the bottom, headed for Joel and the submerged wreckage of the Island Girl. Joel looked on with ambivalence, not knowing what to expect. Just as Owen felt the grip of his hand give way, the anchor latched onto a stanchion of the T-top making a loud clink sound throughout the silent world. Owen sat motionless as he tried to catch his breath. A constant stream of exhaled air exiting his regulator made a white trail of bubbles that headed for the surface. Joel, his eyes wide open, watched as the anchor held tight. All was still until the next set of rolling swells pushed the boat above, even further back. The stationary wreckage became mobile. It ripped from the sand and drug across the bottom, leaving debris scattered everywhere. The twisted tubes and canvas pieces traveled farther away until getting caught in some coral. The boat was again secured firmly to the bottom. In the wreckage was the detached electronics box. Owen reached into it and pulled out a two-way radio, sticking it in an empty net diving bag. As he turned back to Joel, he noticed an amber sparkle coming from the sand. Owen twisted his body, swimming back, sifting through more debris. From the sand came a gold doubloon, shining in the sunlight that pierced through the water above. The doubloon was a form of currency used by the Spanish during the 17th Century and a rare collector's item.\n\nOwen looked at his tank pressure. It was down to 400 PSI. Owen immediately looked deeper in the area. He dug deeper into the sand and mud. The underwater cloud he created engulfed his entire head and torso. He then scanned the area one more time with the detector. The red LED remained unlit this time. It was time to go back up. After disconnecting the anchor from the T-top, the two followed the one-inch line, rising slower than the bubbles they were exhaling from their regulators. This was a safety precaution to allow the expanding air in the lungs to escape without putting excessive pressure on their internal organs. Joel was the first to break through the ocean's surface as he spit out the rubber regulator from his mouth.\n\n\"That was great!\" Joel exclaimed.\n\n\"This is what the Keys are all about kid,\" Owen replied.\n\n\"Well, looks like you got a coin for your collection.\"\n\n\"This one's yours. You earned it,\" Owen said, handing the gold coin to his partner.\n\n* * * * *\n\nTarget\n\nRalph Linez taxied the Beechcraft 18D down the crudely marked grass strip. Rolling along at a modest pace he checked his gauges as part of the preflight run up. The orange glow from the instruments illuminated the small cockpit. As he switched on the navigation lights, a swell of red light swept back and forth against the trees lining both sides of the runway.\n\nHe spun the trim tab wheel mounted overhead to the foremost position. His payload would affect the plane's center of gravity. As he came to the end of the strip, he passed a hand-painted sign that read Thank you for visiting The Dominican Republic. Linez applied the brakes. He felt the heavy plane mush down into the wet grass. As he pushed forward on the throttles, a quick burst of power came from each engine mounted on the wings. The plane responded by spinning about, pointing due North. Linez pushed the brakes, arching his ankles, feeling the power against the asbestos brake shoes. He held tight until the engines reached their maximum revolutions. Then he released the pedals. The plane surged forward rolling down the runway. Sluggish at first, it gained speed with every twenty feet until, with the end of the tiny strip approaching, it was aloft. The plane ascended gracefully, banking over the moonlit cresting waves that beat against the nearby shore.\n\nLinez was a seasoned pilot. He learned to fly in Castro's Air Force and was in command of one of the state's MiG-15s. In 1977, he tried to make an unauthorized exit from Cuba to Key West. It was a tempting jaunt, just ninety miles to the north. Fearing defection, his squadron mates shot him down. He managed to survive after being plucked from the water by a passing state fishing vessel. He was immediately jailed where he remained until his release to Mariel Harbor in 1980. The civilian boatlift carried him to Miami. Castro figured his talents would best be served flying drugs into the United States corrupting an already overindulged American youth. While en route to Mariel, a secret policeman slipped him a piece of paper with the name Gus Greico etched on it.\n\nLinez finished trimming the plane's elevator controls as he adjusted the two throttles. The twin five hundred horsepower Pratt and Whitney power plants hummed in a harmonic balance as they reached their synchronized state. Linez looked at his altitude: sixty-five hundred feet. He could see the lights off the eastern tip of Cuba. He was flying over an area known to Cuban pilots as El Lugar Reservado, the quiet place. It was a flat stretch of sea known for its lack of wind, shallow water and light seas, an area of the ocean that was easy for the Castro regime to anchor bombing targets to. Linez had made many runs over the stretch below.\n\nLinez was within a hundred miles of Key West. To the north of the southernmost American city was Cudjoe Key, the location of Fat Albert, the Aerostat B-94 tethered weather balloon, a suspended radar silo thirty thousand feet in the air. This installation afforded stability and the convenience of a direct path to the U.S. Customs control center in South Miami, enabling authorities to have an entire view of the passive Caribbean Basin, from the eastern Bahamas to the eastern tip of Mexico's Yucatan Peninsula. The blimp was also used to beam the American propaganda, Radio Mart\u00ed, to Castro's island. Linez feared the balloon for two reasons. If he hit the wire, it would most certainly bring down his plane and, if he were high enough, it would be easy for the agents at USCS Sector to spot him on radar. The trick was to stay as close to the base of Cudjoe without coming in contact with the cable. The tethered radar was designed to look at a distant angle from its position. Because of this, the radar view of anything directly below it was almost nonexistent.\n\nLinez put pressure on the port ailerons. The white and green three-ton plane fell on its side, making a peel-off even the legendary Pappy Boyington would have been proud of. As the domestic aircraft neared a hundred and twenty knots, Linez pulled back on the yoke. The stress of the gravity forces lowered his cerebral blood pressure. A welcomed rush of euphoria made him feel he was home again.\n\nAt five hundred feet Linez could still see the light-dotted coast of Cuba now less than twenty miles away. He banked his ship toward the El Lugar Reservado flats. As he approached the area, the moonlight reflected from the floating targets as he felt the adrenaline fill his brain, imagining he was again strafing the wooden targets. His imaginary rockets exploded on impact, sending water skyward as the plane cleared overhead. Linez pulled up as the plane's engines charged and the spinning props labored in the rapid climb. The plane rolled over on its side and fell back to the earth. Then he increased the power, this time coming even closer to the vulnerable targets.\n\nGotcha, he said to himself.\n\nIn the distance Linez saw strobe lights enhancing the horizon. A quick glance at his avionic radar screen confirmed his fear: approaching aircraft. Probably MiGs. His weighted down Beechcraft was no match against these high-speed rocket equipped jets. If he was caught in this Cuban territory, Linez faced a certain prison cell.\n\nLinez trimmed the props and leveled off flying fifty feet over the flat sea. He maintained his power increasing his velocity to one hundred and forty knots. The MiGs closed at over six hundred knots while he made a heading for the Cay Sal Banks.\n\nAs the MiGs got closer, they slowed, with one hanging off each wing tip. Linez looked over at the pilot to his left who was concealed under a flight helmet with a black face shield. The roar of the outdated jet engines were louder now as they got even closer, flying twenty feet from each of his wing tips. Linez could feel the sweat drip down his neck as they watched him, surely radioing back to Havana for instructions. He was far into Bahamian waters having left the territory of Cuba thirty miles behind, but none of that mattered now. They were in a virtual no-man's land. No maps, no witnesses, and no problem being shot down, if for nothing else, practice. The MiGs continued on their course, surrounding the scared pilot but letting him fly free. Cay Sal quickly appeared on the horizon and was soon under the Beech-18 as it passed below. Then, without warning, the MiGs powered up. All Linez saw was blue and orange flames as the two jets ascended, banking off and heading back to Cuba. The Beechcraft rocked back and forth combating the waves of turbulence created by the jets.\n\nLinez wiped his face and neck, drenching a small towel in the process. He was not out of the woods yet though. He still had to fly ninety miles to Islamorada, cross the Keys and head for the backcountry where, deep in Florida Bay, a shallow draft flats boat would be waiting, floating in the shallow, foot-deep waters between the Keys and Florida Gulf Coast. He would dump his fourteen duffel bags out the rear cargo hatch, watch them splash down and then fly to Homestead and land.\n\nHe activated the plane's ailerons: left down and right up. The plane responded, banked to the northwest and leveled off. The wind hit the Beechcraft head on and Linez felt his speed compromised. To add to his concerns, he was getting light on fuel. Then he saw it, the first light of Florida, a small twinkle on the horizon. Linez leveled off, bringing the heavy plane to just fifty feet over the dark water below.\n\n\u2022\n\nOne hundred feet above and behind his tail, an American UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter followed Linez, unaware of his pursuer. Inside the dark cockpit of the heavy chopper, a crew of five monitored every move he made. The Beechcraft was spotted leaving Cay Sal and the Blackhawk was able to tuck in behind him, maintaining a stealthy trail. The two aircraft then passed under the Cudjoe balloon, avoiding the tether cable by less than a mile.\n\n\"Sector, Bow and Arrow,\" the Blackhawk radioed.\n\n\"Bow and Arrow, Sector, go ahead,\" Miami C3I answered.\n\n\"Target has crossed just south of Big Pine Key and is headed north into Florida Bay.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nLinez tapped his finger on the plane's main fuel gauges as his supply was getting dangerously low. He continued to follow the Keys, cruising just above the Intracoastal Waterway which curved northeast as it headed towards Miami. Then it happened. A red fuel warning light came on telling him that he only had five minutes of run-time remaining. He knew he was not going to make it so in an attempt to salvage his load, he banked the heavy Beechcraft to the east and crossed back over the Keys, this time just north of Islamorada. As the plane turned, the small amount of fuel shifted in the main tanks causing the left engine to suck a fuel line full of air, causing it to spit, sputter and shut down.\n\n\"Sector, Bow and Arrow, target has crossed back to the oceanside. We have been detected. Target is headed for open water, possibly the Bahamas.\"\n\n\"Roger Bow and Arrow, Slingshot is en route to assist.\"\n\nLinez headed for Dove Key, a small island off the coast of Tavernier where he could stash his load if he survived the emergency landing.\n\n\u2022\n\nOn board the Blackhawk, the crew became concerned with their own fuel supply. If the Beechcraft headed across the Gulf Stream, they would have to abandon their chase.\n\n\"I don't want to lose this guy,\" the team commander said.\n\n\"Do you want him down?\" the pilot asked.\n\n\"Do what you've got to do.\"\n\nThe Blackhawk pulled closer to the Beechcraft that was at an altitude of twenty feet and running on one engine. Then, with the manipulation of his cyclic control, the stick forward, the pilot maneuvered over the top of the Beechcraft, holding the course steady for a second before applying full collective pitch. The four 27-foot blades responded by angling down and giving the maximum amount of lift possible, drawing the full amount of power from the twin T-700 General Electric engines. The Blackhawk shot straight up to an altitude of five hundred feet.\n\nLinez didn't know what hit him. The remaining twenty feet of altitude that separated his limping plane from the water below disappeared suddenly as the aircraft's belly slammed into the ocean, sending explosions of white seawater two hundred feet in each direction.\n\n* * * * *\n\nSerial\n\nOwen Sands's breakfast at the Key's Diner was less than satisfying. The short order cook had overdone the toast and his eggs were fried past recognition. He finished his meal, not saying anything, while Joel Kenyon ate a bagel and browsed through the morning edition of the Miami Herald. From behind the counter, a police scanner, running through most of the law enforcement and fire department frequencies, squawked continuously.\n\n\"Plantation to 310, see the woman at 347 Matacumbe Trace, reference to her neighbor parking on her front lawn.\"\n\n\"Don't you ever get tired of that thing?\" Owen asked the waitress.\n\n\"Sure, stuff like that is lame, but every now and then you hear something good. Early this morning you guys were busy,\" she said.\n\nNot me, Owen thought to himself, having enjoyed the first night of good sleep he had in a long time.\n\n\"Bow and Arrow chased a plane all over the Upper Keys.\"\n\n\"And this excites you because...\" Owen asked sarcastically.\n\n\"Watch it, Owen. Don't forget who makes your breakfast.\"\n\n\"Don't worry, the heartburn will remind me all day. I just think it's funny that I get my smuggling briefings here at your diner.\"\n\n\"That's enough funny guy. You realize I know everything that goes on in this town, don't you?\" she said smiling and looking over at Joel. \"More coffee, hon?\"\n\nFortunately for both of them, Owen's beeper cut the meal short. A quick phone call to Sector told them that they would be investigating a downed aircraft two miles off Tavernier.\n\nThirty minutes later, both men were donned in foul weather gear as the 41-foot Indian raced out of Tavernier Creek towards the open ocean through a drizzling rain. The boat cruised for a few miles before coming upon an anchored white and orange Coast Guard utility cutter. It was tied to the downed plane that was grounded on a coral shoal. Water lapped up against its partially submerged tail number that read 735-K. Owen took a minute to jot down the number and then rolled up his pants legs, kicking off his Top-Siders and jumping down to the wing. In no time he was climbing into the open door at the end of the fuselage, moving through the aircraft's interior. There wasn't much room to move; the impact of the crash had mangled the underbelly and the decking was buckling from the pressure of the coral hitting the bottom, made worse with every wave that rolled through. He could hardly stand the sound of the scraping of the plane against the coral rock bottom that sounded like fingernails scratching on a schoolhouse blackboard. Owen looked around as he made his way up to the cockpit, noticing that there was a small amount of blood on the inside of the windshield. Below that, seawater had saturated the delicate avionics and instruments in the dash. In the main compartment, several duffel bags were strapped to the loose floor. Next to them he spotted an empty life raft case.\n\nOwen grabbed the case, lifting the Velcro covered strap. Inside the top flap was a white identification panel showing the raft's manufacturing date and serial number. Then he took out his pocketknife and cut the panel from the case. The rest was easy. With the help of two Coast Guardsmen in the plane and Joel on the Indian, the men unloaded fourteen duffel bags into the cockpit of the Customs boat. As Owen climbed back onto his boat, he went straight for the helm, igniting both motors and then putting them in reverse, backing away from the downed plane. Then he took a quick reading of the wind direction and headed towards shore. Joel watched intently and was intrigued by his partner's actions.\n\nWith the duffel bags stowed in the bow, the Indian raced over the flowing sea with the wind towards shore. Riding with the waves was a smoother ride, even with the added seven hundred pounds in the front. What was once an endless series of hard oncoming waves were now soft pillows that made the boat ride higher and faster. They continued for less than a mile before spotting an orange raft bobbing in the water ahead.\n\nA single man sat alone, perched in a floating raft. Before Joel could alert Owen, the trained eye behind the wheel was already making adjustments, changing his course to circle to the raft.\n\nAs they came alongside the raft, Joel surveyed the drenched craft for any weapons or contraband. The occupant was Latin, in his mid-forties and looked as if he had been beaten over by a street gang.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" Owen asked as he shut the loud motors down.\n\n\"Hey, I need your help,\" the man said, trying to conceal his Spanish accent. \"My fishing boat sank about twenty miles offshore. I've been adrift since last night,\" he pleaded.\n\n\"What kind of boat sank sir?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"It was a 32-foot Trojan sport fisher. My starboard shaft broke off and slid through the stuffing box. Before I realized what had happened, water was over the engines, filling the bilge. She went down fast man.\"\n\n\"At what time did this occur, sir?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"Oh, about 7:30 last night.\"\n\nOwen thought to himself. This guy was good. Figuring in the rate his raft would drift the position of twenty miles, 7:30 was just about right.\n\n\"Get that boat hook and pull him closer,\" Owen instructed as Joel pulled the rod from under the gunwale and latched it onto the side of the raft. The occupant approached the stern of the Indian, steadying himself on the side of the boat as Owen then stretched out his hand to the battered man, pulling him up into the larger vessel. Then, Joel pulled the raft from the water and secured it over the aft engine hatch.\n\n\"\u00bfC\u00f3mo te llamas?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"Excuse me?\"\n\n\"What is your name?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Linez, Ralph Linez.\"\n\n\"Ralph, we are with the United States Customs Services, la polic\u00eda. Do you have any identification on you sir? A driver's license, passport or maybe pilot's rating?\"\n\n\"Yes sir,\" Linez said, reaching into his wet pocket pulling out a soggy passport. A Visa corporate credit card slipped out from within the pages and fell to the deck as Joel bent over and picked it up. The name on the card was Ralph G. Linez, Miami Aerotek Corporation.\n\nOwen took the passport and opened it to the front page. The laminated section sealed the page from the wet ordeal and was easily legible.\n\n\"Sector, Papa 1903...\"\n\n\"Go ahead Papa 1903.\"\n\n\"10-4, we are 10-38 on a life raft, possible signal thirty-one traffic. Our P.O.B subject name Ralph Linez, common spelling. Run an FCIC and NCIC. Also check FAA files for flight ratings.\"\n\n\"How did you get so beat up from a boat sinking?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"I tried to climb onto the Crocker light. A wave washed me off and the barnacles scraped me pretty bad.\"\n\n\"Papa 1903, Sector...\"\n\n\"1903 here, go ahead Sector.\"\n\n\"Negative warrants. No file found with the FAA. Negative EPIC file.\"\n\nLinez looked relieved as Joel thought. He was sure this was their man. How could it be just a coincidence? Owen looked at his suspect and smiled as he removed the raft case identification panel from his pocket. Linez's eyes grew larger as he watched in disbelief. Then Owen walked to the back of the boat where Joel had secured the raft, comparing the serial number sewn into the case panel to the one embossed onto the raft. AVN 6238-83P was a perfect match.\n\n\"Arrest Mr. Linez, please,\" Owen instructed as he smiled at the now confirmed pilot.\n\nLinez slumped into the seat at the back of the Indian's cockpit as Joel applied a pair of stainless handcuffs.\n\n\"Do you require any medical attention sir?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"No, I'm okay. Where's the stuff?\" Linez asked.\n\n\"Right here,\" Owen said, pointing to the front cabin.\n\n\"What do I have to do to get it back?\" Linez asked.\n\n\"Well, I guess you could kill us and take our boat.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nRange\n\nAn electronic buzzer sounded as the two entered the front door of the L and L Electronics store in Miami.\n\n\"I'm coming,\" yelled a voice from a back room.\n\nOwen and Joel waited patiently at the front counter as Gene Latrell, the store's owner, finished zipping his pants.\n\n\"Damn prostate. What's up Owen?\" he asked.\n\n\"I got a message that the Gen 2 night vision was fixed and needed to be picked up.\"\n\n\"Sure is chief. These things are so new, we don't know how to service them yet. I had to send it off to the factory in Oshkosh.\"\n\n\"No big deal, just as long as it works,\" Owen said.\n\n\"It should be fine this time. I don't think it will act up anymore.\"\n\n\"Hey, I salvaged this radio. Do you know anything about these?\" Owen asked, pulling the radio that he had salvaged from the Island Girl out of a paper bag.\n\n\"That, my friend, is an Icom 28, the Cadillac of two-meter rigs. Very versatile.\"\n\n\"Versatile? How?\"\n\n\"Give me a second and I'll show you,\" Latrell said, removing a Phillips-head screwdriver from underneath the counter.\n\n\"It was underwater for a while,\" Owen explained as Latrell removed the radio's protective case exposing diode-covered circuit boards and a multitude of wires.\n\n\"I see that. Not very long though,\" he said. \"You see this diode? Number twenty-one? Cut it and this radio has no limits.\"\n\n\"No limits? What does that mean?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"The radio was designed as a two-meter ham radio for amateur buffs like myself who are into this kind of thing.\"\n\n\"What type of thing is that?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Talking a lot on a radio,\" Owen answered sarcastically.\n\n\"Alright, smartass,\" Latrell said with half a smile. \"Do you want my help or not?\"\n\n\"Sorry.\"\n\n\"Two-meter ham operates on the frequencies 144 to 148 megahertz in the same way the FM radio in your car receives 88 to 108 megahertz. You following me?\"\n\n\"Yeah, but the two-meter receives and transmits.\"\n\n\"Right kid, both transmit and receive. By cutting diode twenty-one, this radio is capable of full operation from 138 to 172 megahertz.\"\n\n\"Okay, you lost me.\"\n\n\"Our working frequency is 165.235 Joel,\" Owen interjected.\n\n\"Right, Customs is 165, DEA is 166, FBI, 171.\"\n\n\"Okay, so they can talk to us. What's the big deal?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"We spend countless hours listening to marine VHF, CB, two-meter, and shortwave radios, trying to intercept the transmissions between the crossing boats and the locals. This is how we know something is going down. With this radio, they can talk to each other on our own frequency.\"\n\n\"But don't we obviously listen to our own frequency?\"\n\n\"You do and you don't,\" Latrell said. \"The stuff you hear on that radio attached to your hip is filtered.\"\n\n\"Filtered?\" Joel asked, looking down to the walky-talky clipped to his belt next to his Beretta nine-millimeter service weapon.\n\n\"These sophisticated radios use, what we call in the business, PL tones, or private lines. Every time you key that mic, a microburst of sound, a code, opens a receiver on the other radios in your network. Without the PL tones, the other radios in your network won't hear a thing.\"\n\n\"What's the benefit?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"With all the radios operating, especially here in South Florida, there is a lot of chatter on these frequencies. We are figuratively, running out of room. People are talking on top of people and messages run together. The results can be disastrous.\"\n\n\"So this is a way for us to talk amongst ourselves without all the interference,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Where did you find this one?\" Latrell asked, pointing at Joel.\n\n\"He's a stray,\" Owen answered.\n\n\"The only way you would be able to hear these guys is with a simple police scanner and therein lies the rub. The runners would have to use similar jargon, sounding like, well, you guys. Kinda ironic, isn't it?\" Latrell explained. \"These guys have probably been heard by every tow truck driver, volunteer fireman...\"\n\n\"Diner waitresses,\" Owen interjected.\n\n\"Half the civilians out there have these scanners these days and most of them don't have a clue as to what they are listening to.\"\n\n\"This sounds pretty sophisticated. Are these runners really that smart?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"Son, with all the drugs that come into the country, it's estimated that you guys, with the power of the entire government behind you, are getting a mere ten percent. What do you think?\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nArraignment\n\nWith twenty-one days left until Christmas, the staff of the Nineteenth District Federal Court was anxious to get started. The sooner Judge Franklin Rubis's docket commenced, the sooner his staff would be free to do their much-needed shopping. Because of this, they went as far as foregoing the standard one hour lunch break, cutting it back to fifteen minutes. The shopping lines in the malls were unbearable by six and if all went well, they would be done by three.\n\n\"In the Seventeenth District Federal Court, the Honorable Judge Franklin D. Rubis presiding, all stand,\" said a suit-clad U.S. Marshall from the corner of the bench. With gray hair and a matching beard, a flowing black robe and an armful of manila file folders, Rubis entered the courtroom taking his seat behind the bench. Following his lead, everyone else in the courtroom took their seats.\n\nRubis was well admired in the federal system, and, in turn, he had an uncanny respect for the court and those who worked hard to uphold its authority. While he tried to follow the letter of the law, Judge Rubis was known to read between the lines on occasion. This stemmed from the fact that he had little tolerance for bureaucracy and even less for the manipulations that many in the federal court system were known to inflict. He was quick to call his court to order and had been known to reprimand his share of defense lawyers.\n\nRap-Rap-Rap\n\n\"All come to order please. For God's sake, let's see if we can get out of here at a decent hour. My secretary has a desperate appointment to keep with Toys-R-Us and if she misses it, I'll never hear the end of it,\" he announced as the courtroom erupted with laughter and he thumbed through the docket.\n\n\"Marlene,\" Rubis said, directing his beaming voice to a small petite woman who sat off the side of the bench.\n\n\"Yes Judge, USA v. Linez, it's a drug trafficking arraignment and we have witnesses standing by,\" she replied.\n\n\"Okay we'll handle this one first,\" Rubis said, receiving the court file.\n\n\"USA v. Ralph Linez, will parties approach the bench please.\"\n\nOn one side stood Andrea Manardi, a junior U. S. Attorney with just six months on the job and no trial experience to speak of. This was her third arraignment this week. Standing opposite to her was the defendant, Ralph Linez, and next to him, Stephen Portman, a Coral Gables attorney who specialized in pricey criminal cases.\n\n\"Stephen Portman for the defense, Your Honor.\"\n\n\"Andrea Manardi for the U.S. Government, sir.\"\n\n\"So noted,\" Rubis acknowledged.  \nOwen Sands and Joel Kenyon sat quietly in the gallery. Manardi's office had called them to standby in case the defense posed any significant argument to the bail set. The serial numbers matching the raft to the case in the downed plane made this an open and shut case for sufficient probable cause. Despite the impeccable case record of Stephen Portman, a mounting defense was unlikely. For now, he was simply to intercede with damage control. All involved expected a plea bargain. Ralph Linez would admit to a lesser charge and spend a fraction of the time he already faced or he would be sentenced to an alternate diversion program.\n\n\"Ms. Manardi, I seem to be missing the complaint,\" Rubis said holding the file before him.\n\n\"I apologize Your Honor, we had to amend the complaint. I think I have a copy here someplace...\"\n\n\"Pssssst,\" Owen made the motion attracting Manardi's attention and handing her a copy of the amended complaint from his own case file.\n\n\"Here you go sir,\" she responded, handing the stapled pages up to the elevated bench.\n\nRubis thumbed through the pages before putting them into the file.  \n\"Mr. Linez, sir, you're charged with trafficking in a controlled substance, over fifty grams. How do you plead sir?\" Rubis asked.  \nPortman stepped up to the bench, but not before straightening a small wrinkle from his pinstriped suit.\n\n\"Mr. Linez pleads not guilty your honor.\"\n\n\"Very well Mr. Portman, do we want to set a separate bail hearing or are we ready to do it here and now.\"\n\n\"The government has no objection Your Honor.\"\n\n\"No objection, Your Honor,\" Portman added.\n\n\"Very well, opening remarks please, Ms. Manardi.\"\n\n\"Your Honor, Mr. Linez is suspected of attempting to smuggle a large amount of a controlled substance, cocaine, into this country. The aircraft he was flying was modified for such purposes. It was equipped with extra fuel tanks and a special side cargo door that could be opened in-flight, making the ejection of its load possible. Mr. Linez has no substantial ties to this community and he is a pilot with international connections, mainly in Central and South America. We have also learned that Mr. Linez was a former pilot with the Cuban Air Force. We categorize him as a major flight risk. The people request bail be set at three million dollars,\" Manardi said.\n\nIn the back of the room, five rows behind Owen and Joel, sat Gus Greico. He remained quiet and unnoticed by anyone around him. A conservative pair of tinted bifocals and a long gray overcoat aided his stealthy appearance.\n\n\"Your Honor this is preposterous. Mr. Linez has no record, and certainly no history of ever being involved with illegal drugs. He owns a house in North Miami and is prepared to face the charges brought against him. The evidence is merely circumstantial. My client was operating a fishing boat when the vessel was overcome by a large wave. He floated towards shore in a life raft until our friends at the U. S. Customs Service retrieved him. It is merely a coincidence that my client was in the same general area as the downed drug plane.\"\n\n\"And what about the corresponding serial numbers?\" Manardi added.\n\n\"Another coincidence, the possibility exists that the life raft case could have floated into the open plane. There is no case here. We plead the court for R and R,\" Portman concluded, stepping back to Linez's side.\n\n\"Coincidence or not, it's the only thing that ties the defendant to the plane. The guy who thought of that deserves an atta-boy. Bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars,\" Rubis announced, pounding his wooden mallet to the bench. Stephen Portman met with the clerk of the court to assure the payment. A courier from the attorney's Coral Gables office delivered a cashier's check drawn through the Pan American Bank of Miami for the bail amount of two hundred thousand dollars. The remitter was Portman himself. The two walked from the courthouse past several sidewalk hot dog venders and to the curb where a string of taxis waited. Portman's instructions to Linez were clear. Take a cab to the Topless Donut Shop in Fort Lauderdale where a ride would be waiting. In less than a minute, Linez was gone, leaving Stephen Portman to ponder the chain of events that had just transpired.\n\nThe funds to secure Linez's provisional release were wired from a Cayman bank that received its funds from a shelter corporation based in Reno, Nevada. The cashier's check from Pan American drew the money directly out of the Portman Law Firm's escrow account. There was no cash deposited stateside, therefore no IRS cash disclosure was filed.\n\nLinez rode in the backseat of his cab, stuffing the remainder of a kosher frank into his mouth.\n\n\"Topless Donut Shop, Fort Lauderdale, Seventeenth and Federal,\" he said, still swallowing.\n\n\"It'll cost ya,\" the Haitian cabbie warned.\n\n\"Here,\" Linez answered, placing a hundred dollar bill through the metal and Plexiglas partition separating the two. \"This ought to hold you over for awhile.\"\n\nThey sped out into the passing traffic and soon were heading north on Interstate 95 away from Miami. The Topless Donut Shop had become an institution to the regulars of Fort Lauderdale. Half naked women served two dollar donuts and croissants to crowds of mostly men, keeping hours that corresponded to the multitude of fast food places across the street. The shop, despite the objections of the city fathers, had become a landmark appearing in Playboy, Penthouse and other men's magazines.\n\nOnce inside, Linez admired the youthful young breasts bouncing around the small restaurant, most of which belonged to college-aged girls who supplemented their incomes with the lucrative tips they earned. There would be nothing like this where he was going. After a quick walk through the shop, Linez exited a side door on the opposite side where a forest green Jeep Cherokee was waiting, its engine running with Gus Greico behind the wheel.\n\n\"Get in,\" he said, rolling the window down just far enough to let himself be heard.\n\nLinez climbed into the backseat attaching his seatbelt. A habit he acquired as a pilot.\n\n\"Did anyone follow you?\" Greico asked.\n\n\"Not that I could tell.\"\n\n\"We're gonna take the long way around. Sal wants to see you before you go,\" Greico said as Linez nodded. After traveling west almost ten miles to Sunrise Boulevard, the two looped back east then north to Commercial Boulevard and the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport. After parking the Cherokee, Greico led his passenger into the building to a large conference room. Sal Alcone sat at the end of an oversized oak table browsing through some papers.\n\n\"Ralphy, I was starting to worry, I mean two hundred grand. It's not that you're not worth it but...\" Sal joked as the three started to laugh. \"You have done a good job my friend, and for that you will be rewarded. But from here, there is no turning back. I want you to understand this,\" he continued with a more serious tone.\n\n\"Yes sir, I can't risk going back to prison, not again.\"\n\n\"Just so we're on the same page, so they say in this town.\"\n\n\"We are, Sal,\" the pilot answered.\n\n\"I have set up a condo for you in downtown Belize City. There are plenty of young tourist women to keep you busy. You have two weeks to get settled then we can talk over plans for the future.\"\n\n\"Yes sir, thank you sir.\"\n\n\"No Ralph, thank you. Now let's get you out of here before anyone realizes what's going on. There is a new Turbo Commander out on the tarmac. I bought it ten minutes ago. It needs to go to Rio to receive an avionics package. There's only one problem. We can't find a...\"\n\n\"Pilot?\" Linez interrupted. \"I'm on it boss.\"\n\n\"That's the spirit, my friend,\" Sal said standing, patting the pilot on the back. \"Get used to her. She will be issued to you after the trip to Rio. It should be a big improvement over that piece of shit you lost in the Keys,\" Sal said, leaving the room.\n\n\"Before you go, you'll need this,\" Greico said, handing him a manila envelope with five thousand dollars in hundreds. \"That should hold you over until we can make more permanent arrangements.\"\n\nLinez walked through a brisk breeze over the tarmac to the nose of the fresh airplane before him. The Turbo Commander was an Israeli-built plane and it differed from the others because of its high wing design. Its twin turbine power plants were fast, smooth and fuel-efficient. Sal must have parted with a pretty penny for this one, he thought to himself. The craft was white with conservative gold and burgundy executive stripes running the length of the plane. She had already been prepped and fueled. Customarily, Linez made his own preflight, a task he trusted to no one. Ten minutes later the whining turbines were blowing moist air past the Executive Airport offices as the plane made its way down the taxi path.\n\n\u2022\n\nGreico joined Sal out by the Cherokee.\n\n\"Do you think he'll fit in down there?\" Greico asked.\n\n\"I don't know, but we can't take any chances. Linez spent the better part of his life in a Cuban dungeon. A man like that will do anything to keep out of jail.\"\n\n\"I'm already on it,\" Greico answered.\n\n\"Keep a close eye on him Gus, and let me know if anything develops.\"  \nLinez ran the engines up while the plane sat with its brakes locking the tires to the black asphalt runway. It took a few minutes but eventually all systems on the nearly new plane checked out. After a brief request to the tower, the plane proceeded down the seven thousand foot strip gaining speed with every yard it traveled until it lifted off the pavement, its nose high, aiming skyward.\n\n* * * * *\n\nGenius\n\n\"How has business been?\" Gordo asked Gene Latrell who was standing behind the glass-encased counter at the L and L Electronics shop.\n\n\"It could be better. What's this you have brought me?\"\n\n\"That's it, I really don't know. It came off a Customs boat. I guess it has something to do with the communications system. It has this coaxial hookup on the back of it. Roberto wanted you to look at it if you don't mind.\"\n\n\"Gordo, your brother has been very good to me. You two know that if there is anything I can ever do, all you have to do is ask.\"\n\n\"You're a good man, Gene.\"\n\nLatrell knew that Gordo was probably right since the black box also had a blue and white Motocom label affixed on its bottom side. The metal backed decal had the unit's serial number etched into the face for easy identification. Motocom was one of the oldest electronics companies in America manufacturing commercial and governmental communications systems. Unlike their numerous competitors, Motocom had never diversified into computers or other telemetric equipment. They believed in doing one thing and doing it right. Latrell himself had applied for a Motocom distributorship but was denied approval because of his decreasing sales volume.\n\n\"These things look like they've been to hell and back. Were they securely mounted in the boat?\"\n\n\"You got me, man. They were already removed when we found them.\"\n\n\"I'll need to keep them for a couple of days. It will take some digging but I think I can figure it out.\"\n\n\"You have my beeper number, call me.\"\n\n\"Sounds good. Hey look before you go I have something to show you. Some divers found it off Key Largo.\"\n\nGordo was puzzled as he followed him to the store's back workshop. Latrell put the box containing the Motocom system on the bench and pulled a rusty, salt-filled radio from the top shelf. Gordo recognized it immediately because he had one just like it mounted on the 38-foot Stiletto Black Duck.\n\n\"Where did you say these divers found it?\"\n\n\"Off Key Largo, by the Elbow,\" he answered. \"I was curious. I'm the only dealer for Icom in the area so I looked up the serial numbers. This one was bought here my friend. It was your nephew Bobby's.\"\n\n\"I knew it! When that fucking Customs boat hit him shit went everywhere. That Blue Thunder boat really hauls ass. He must have been doing seventy. Bobby didn't have a chance. The Island Girl went down like a rock.\"\n\n\"Jesus Christ! Did they even stop to help?\"\n\n\"Fuck no, they saw that there wasn't anyone around. They couldn't see me so they hauled ass. That Blue Thunder is built like a tank. Hitting Bobby's boat did very little damage.\"\n\n\"Those bastards!\"\n\n\"Yeah, listen, let's leave what the divers found between us. If Roberto finds out it will really upset him.\"\n\n\"Sure man. Whatever you say.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nSeveral hours later, Latrell's back ached as he slumped over the elevated electronics bench. His work area was well organized with all of the most modern diagnostic and mechanical equipment at his disposal like oscilloscopes and high-tech electronic soldering irons. He was very meticulous, like a coroner performing an autopsy.\n\nThe local weatherman had predicted a massive thunderstorm in the Miami area and his prediction was correct. It could have been a scene out of an early Frankenstein movie, the diabolical mad man restructuring his creation with flashes of lightning blazing through the rain-spotted windows, illuminating the overstocked shelves of L and L Electronics. This was something so complicated that his twenty year career as an electrical engineer did not prepare him for what he was exploring. The storm brewed outside with another flash of lightning and more thunder as Latrell worried that he might have to reboot his new computer if the power surged again.\n\nThe first step was simple. He had to access the inside workings of the device without harming any of the circuits. Considering the failsafe devices commonly installed on government devices, he could easily damage the inner workings by not taking the proper precautions. After identifying the internal components, he could cross-reference them against his sources. His reference library in the shop had been limited at best. Since his unsuccessful attempt at becoming a Motocom dealer eighteen months before, he didn't have access to their shop reference manuals until he came across a microfiche machine at a competitor's bankruptcy auction. Inside the box was the entire Motocom product line on microfiche in six three-by-five card boxes. The small sheets of transparent plastic contained every circuit board schematic, parts inventory and wiring diagram for every product the company had made in the last twenty years.\n\nThe first black radio box fit nicely into the vice below the shop's drill press. Latrell pulled on the handle, extending a spinning high-speed carbide drill down against the keyed lock on the side of the case. Then he applied a drop of penetrating oil and some carbon graphite dust to the lock chamber as he watched the sharp drill bite into the stainless steel mechanism. Tiny shavings of metal formed at the base of the hole that had been created as he kept applying gentle, gradual pressure to the handle at the side of the press. In a few seconds, the task was completed and the chamber cracked, spinning around with the bit as he released the lever and the drill retracted from the new hole.\n\nA few minutes later, the smell of solder filled the tiny room as Latrell worked under the light from a tiny desk-style florescent lamp. This project intrigued him, revitalizing his desire for a challenge like the ones he faced as a University of Florida electrical engineering student in Gainesville. He remembered the nights he would stay up until 3:00 a.m. experimenting with complex algorithmic theories. While others were simply trying to make the grade, Gene Latrell was developing ideas that came to him in his sleep.\n\nHis most significant project was a device designed for emergency vehicles like those used by police and fire departments. He developed it after reading about an accident involving an ambulance and a passenger car. The ambulance was rushing a woman in labor to the hospital with an imminent breach birth. A cesarean section was needed and time was the only thing that separated the soon-to-be infant from birth. In minutes the fetus would expire from a lack of oxygen. The ambulance raced through his home city of Gainesville, en route to the Shands teaching hospital, one of the more renowned birthing centers in the country. While crossing an intersection, a second year university student ran a red light and impacted the side of the speeding ambulance, killing all on board. A Florida Highway Patrol homicide investigation revealed that the student was going for a test ride after installing a new high wattage stereo system in his custom 1974 Camaro. The loud, blaring music distracted him and filled the car's passenger compartment with so much noise that he didn't hear the sounds of the approaching sirens or the blaring air horns.\n\nLatrell sat in his dorm room, touched by the story and perplexed with a possible solution. Weeks later, he ventured into a project that would last him four months. The result was a new type of emergency vehicle warning device, one that did not use any speakers and ran in conjunction with a conventional siren that did. It was a sophisticated FM transmitter that was designed for installation on the front grills of fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances. It broadcasted a close range FM signal from 88 to 108 megahertz, covering the entire FM broadcast band, sending the shrill of a siren over the airwaves to be received by every base-busting, tweeter-popping stereo in a fifty-yard radius, masking over the regular programming. The device also broke into the car's equalizer and power amplifier so it could also interrupt those playing cassettes and the traditional eight-track tape players. The project was a success and stood to make Latrell a very wealthy man and put the University of Florida's electrical engineering department on the national map. He received the University President's Award for science development that year and a favorable write-up in the new age Omni Magazine, a publication dedicated to intellectual futurists. A patent was issued and everything looked good for Latrell's future until the Federal Communications Commission ruled in a unanimous vote by its science and technology committee that this device was an infringement on the nation's Clear Transmission Doctrine and while a very good idea, left a potential door open for abuse. Stunned and dismantled, Latrell changed his major to business administration and three years later graduated with an MBA from the university.\n\nLatrell fluxed his solder tip again as he loosened the diodes that completed a series of circuits which amplified the receiver portion of the device. The Motocom T-1010, also called Ten-Ten, was a sophisticated device. It had to be because it was the frontline communications system for the Treasury Department's Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, Border Patrol, IRS, Secret Service, and U. S. Customs. The device gave agents a multitude of abilities, more so than just communications. Each radio was embedded with a user-specific code, or patch word, that was assigned to each individual agent. When someone spoke, legibly or not, the receiving station knew who it was. When hooked into the boat's main system, the radio automatically transmitted information from the vessel's LORAN-C system giving an exact location of the agent at all times. Even agents who worked inland had the newer global positioning systems installed in their vehicles. These systems relayed radio signals back to local repeaters that, in turn, relayed the signal regionally for everyone to hear. Globally, the same transmissions were fed to a French satellite that eventually made their way to Sector, also known as C3I. Sector, using the same French satellite, received data beamed up from numerous radar installations like the airborne balloon that was tethered to Cudjoe Key. Information to and from EPIC, the El Paso Information Center, that housed the narcotics portion of NCIC, the National Crime Information Center, used the same routes and the same French satellite. All this information fed through one fragile link, spinning in a geosynchronous orbit, twenty-four miles above the earth.\n\nIt didn't take Latrell long to identify the circuits and their corresponding duties within the device. With a pad of graph paper and a mechanical pencil, he began to draw the design for his next electronic masterpiece.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFury\n\nState Trooper Lester Mander sat behind the wheel of his intimidating black and tan Florida Highway Patrol cruiser. While parked at the Snapper Creek service plaza, the twelve-year veteran needed to use the gas station's air pump to even out the tire pressure on his car. Mander took a lot of pride in the upkeep of his state-issued car. Two years in a row, he won the vehicle maintenance award for the cruiser with the least amount of downtime. At the end of every shift he meticulously checked the oil and other fluid levels, surveyed the car for other conditions that might warrant attention and gave it a quick wash, being sure the paint was protected by at least one coat of wax.\n\nBack in his car, Mander watched as an older lady walked around the minivan in front of him. The boxy vehicle had simulated wood-paneling sides, a large chrome luggage rack and a custom spare tire holder mounted on the back door. The lady, he judged to be about sixty, bent over each wheel fender, checking the tire pressure with the station's commercial gauge. The timid, fragile woman used both hands to grasp the device as she pressed it against the rubber valve projecting from the wheel's hubcap. Air escaped as she took the reading and added some more that came from the hose lying at her feet. It was a cool night, the type of weather he was used to seeing before a large storm came through. On the horizon to the north, the impending storm shook the landscape with ballads of thunder and brilliant lightning. It was quiet here though, the quiet before the storm. The glow of a bright blue bug light caught Mander's attention.\n\nZAP!\n\nAnother one bites the dust, he thought to himself as he contemplated getting out of his comfortable cruiser to help the old woman with her tire pressure. Na, she was almost finished, besides it had been a long day, he justified. Besides, his cruiser, when it was on the road, had been buffeting at around eighty miles an hour and had been pulling to the right earlier in the day. He needed to go over to the service station and have them check the steering tie bar. He had seen many different styles and models issued to him and his peers by the Highway Patrol, from the compact, high-speed Ford Mustang that he despised, to the oversized earlier Plymouths that he thought resembled something found floating on a lake. Still, despite their obvious differences, all of them had one distinction: the all-black body and tan roof and trunk with the accompanying blue lights, no red. His Plymouth Fury was just right, not too big and not too small. Its four hundred and forty cubic inch motor, something that had been discontinued, gave him plenty of speed and acceleration, elements that were needed on his beat, the lone highways of the Florida Turnpike.\n\nZAP!\n\nThere were a lot of bugs out for this time of year, Mander thought to himself. The old lady was to the last tire on her minivan, thank God. He looked at his watch, 7:47 p.m. and was off duty in thirteen minutes. His wife was making shepherd's pie, his favorite. His plan was simple; check out the steering and then head home.\n\nMander pulled around towards the service bay of the gas station. By doing so, the parked patrol car formed a different angle, pointing the dash-mounted radar cone towards the flow of traffic passing by on the four lane turnpike. Instantly, the amber digital display started recording the velocities of the passing cars. The alarm limit had been set earlier for sixty-five miles per hour. The national speed limit was fifty-five plus the ten extra he gave his motorists. Then without warning, the alarm sounded as ninety-two appeared on the amber display which started to blink.\n\n92-92-92-92.\n\nThe six-foot-three-inch trooper looked over at the passing traffic just in time to see a red IROC Camaro, one of the confiscated cars that were in use by the agents of the Tavernier office. Joel, unaware of the trooper, passed traffic at a high rate of speed, heading up the overpass towards the extreme southern portion of the turnpike, the Homestead Extension. Mander pushed the gas pedal to the floor as the radar continued to blink its reading.\n\n92-92-92-92.\n\nA day of dealing with school buses and frivolous infractions made him miss a good high-speed pursuit. The Plymouth sped over the grass median leaving a pair of dirt tracks that led up to the turnpike roadside where the cruiser gripped the pavement with a squeal and a patch of smoke. He was off. The alignment buffet Mander had noticed chasing tourists at eighty was now more evident at a hundred and ten. He knew better than to test the response of the loose steering at this speed. He would most surely lose control. The red IROC was almost in sight. The driver was still maintaining a speed in excess of ninety miles per hour. As he got closer, Mander let off the gas. The wind resistance alone slowed the car almost immediately as he approached the tail end of the speeding Camaro. He closed his gap to a tight fifteen feet from the car's bumper. They don't even know I'm back here, he thought to himself.\n\n\"Turnpike, 642...\"\n\n\"642.\"\n\n\"642, attempting to stop a vehicle, southbound, TPK on the Homestead Extension just south of mile marker nine. Unable to get a tag number Turnpike. He's running in excess of ninety.\"\n\n\"642, do you need pursuit protocol?\"\n\n\"Not yet Turnpike, he hasn't seen me yet.\"\n\nWith one hand holding the microphone and the other one gripping the wheel, Mander watched as the speeding car changed lanes to avoid a slower car, the elderly woman and her wood-paneled minivan that was maintaining a steady forty miles per hour. Mander watched in horror as the front of his patrol car rapidly approached the rear end of the slower vehicle. Mander dropped the microphone as he gripped the wheel with both hands, swerving the car to the right, onto the embankment, and around the van. The locked brakes did nothing to assist the ninety miles per hour sidespin Mander had created. The car continued down the embankment toward a hole filled with water and mud. He braced himself as the muddy banks of the small roadside pond absorbed the car's velocity.\n\n* * * * *\n\nReunion\n\nWhy was it so hard to confront my father? Tessa Alazar thought. A massive storm had moved south through Miami and was now blistering the Upper Keys. She sat in front of her family's home parked in her Datsun 300ZX next to her father's dually pickup truck and a red IROC Camaro, listening to the rain pelt the roof. In the backseat, Monica sat strapped in her car seat, awake and emotionless, watching her mother who stared out the window.\n\n\"Mommy?\"\n\n\"What baby?\"\n\n\"Can I go potty now?\"\n\n\"Sure baby, in a minute.\"\n\nWhy was it so hard? The thought hit her again. The home they were in front of was lit up and a steady stream of smoke oozed from the chimney like a scene from a Norman Rockwell print. Marrying Bobby Alazar was an act of rebellion more than it was an act of love; an excuse to escape her life, her one indulgence that had been reaping repercussions ever since.\n\nWhy was it?\n\n\"Let's go baby. The rain is slowing down,\" she said, reaching around unstrapping Monica.\n\n\"I'm holding my potty Mommy.\"\n\n\"I know baby, you're a good holder. Mommy's proud of you.\"\n\nWhy?\n\nHolding Monica, the two stood under the roof's overhang as she pressed the doorbell.\n\n\"I'll get it. It's probably Brian,\" Jade announced from inside the house.\n\n\"Brian? Who's Brian?\" Owen asked, standing up and walking to the door. \"Stop! I'll get it.\"\n\nAs the door opened, Owen looked up and froze.\n\n\"Don't let him intimidate you Brian,\" Jade yelled from inside the living room.\n\nTessa stood speechless.\n\n\"Can I go potty now Mommy?\"\n\n\"Your granddaughter,\" Tessa said.\n\n\"What's her name?\" Owen asked in a soft voice.\n\n\"Monica Jade.\"\n\n\"Daaad! Just let him in!\" Jade yelled.\n\n\"I think it's time to shock your sister...and let someone use the potty,\" Owen whispered as Monica's tiny face broke into a big smile.\n\n\u2022\n\nJoel Kenyon sat on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. He felt uncomfortable about having to use the bathroom while at his partner's house, but Owen had made a batch of his famous chili and he had consumed three bowls. To make matters worse, he had trouble locking the door, a door that was now opening as he came face-to-face with a three-year-old who stood before him, both of her hands firmly grasping the creases of her dress.\n\n\"I have to go potty,\" she said.\n\n\"I'm sorry, I'll be done in a minute,\" Joel blubbered, quickly covering himself with the length of his T-shirt.\n\n\"I have to go potty now.\"\n\n\"I heard you, but I have to finish. Can you go out for a second and then you can have it...the potty...all to yourself. Okay?\" Joel pleaded.\n\n\"Mommy!\" Monica yelled.\n\n\"What is it baby?\" Tessa asked, walking into the small bathroom. \"Oh my God!\"\n\n\"Shit! What the...where did you come from...?\" Joel muttered in disbelief.\n\n\"This isn't happening. Okay Joel, we will talk as soon as you're done,\" Tessa said, grabbing her daughter's hand. \"Let's go to the other bathroom and leave this nice man alone.\"\n\n\"Okay Mommy. But my potty won't smell like that, I promise.\"\n\n\"That's good baby,\" Tessa said, trying not to laugh.\n\nJoel was very confused. What was she doing there? Was Owen the father she had been talking about?\n\nJoel finished and came into the living room. Tessa, Jade and Owen were sitting on the couch, wrapped in a tight embrace with their eyes shut, trying to hold in the tears that flooded down their faces. This was an important time for them and the last thing he wanted was to be in the way. Quietly, he slipped out the front door.\n\n\"What's the matter? Why is everyone crying?\" Monica asked as she walked back into the living room.\n\n\"Honey, this is your Aunt Jade.\"\n\n\"Jade? That's my name. Monica Jade Alazar.\"\n\n\"That's right baby girl.\"\n\n\"Do you want to come back and see my room?\"\n\n\"Okay,\" Monica said, taking Jade's hand. \"You're not an ant. Ants are small. They walk on the ground and eat cheese.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nOwen had made many mistakes over the years. His feelings for his oldest daughter had ranged from personal guilt to periods of anger. But today, with years of experience behind him, he executed his wisest decision to date: to forgive the wrongs, forget the things that would hold them back, and love her with all his heart, rebuilding everything they had lost over the years.\n\n\"So here we are,\" Owen said nervously.\n\n\"I'm sorry to drop in on you like this,\" she explained. \"I picked up the phone a million times, even before the accident.\"\n\n\"Accident! What accident?\"\n\n\"Bobby was killed a few weeks ago.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry. I didn't know,\" he said, realizing that the boat they had found earlier that week on the Elbow had to be his.\n\n\"I had already talked to an attorney long before that. It's just hard looking into Monica's eyes. How could I have ever taken her father away like that?\"\n\n\"Do you need money?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, Daddy, that's not what this is...\"\n\n\"I know,\" he said cutting her off. \"I just wanted to offer.\"\n\n\"No, thank you, it's appreciated and refreshing, but that's the one good thing about being married to him. He was a good provider and he left us very secure. We have a condo on Miami Beach that is mortgage-free and all of our other stuff, cars, furniture and junk like that is all free and clear. I also managed to save up a substantial amount of cash and I'm looking for a job.\"\n\n\"Well, take as long as you like. Your room is just like you left it.\"\n\n\"Are you sure?\"\n\n\"More so than I can ever remember.\"\n\n\"Thank you Daddy.\"\n\n\"Look, I'm really sorry about Bobby. I have to say though, that it's one more thing we have in common, since we are so much alike to begin with.\"\n\n\"We're both widows,\" she said, realizing it for the first time.\n\n* * * * *\n\nConsecration\n\nDel and Gordo stood among a line of slash pines in Gordo's spacious backyard. Despite his crowded Homestead neighborhood made up of smaller tract homes, Gordo's home was more mature, built in an era when pride was more than an advertisement's subtitle in a real estate magazine. Homes were institutions when his house was constructed. Built on a complete acre, the house measured over three thousand square feet and was lofted with ten-foot-high ceilings. The expense to cool and heat the house was noticeable but worth the price as Gordo liked his space.\n\n\"Look, I'm not trying to do anything underhanded or behind anyone's back. I just think we should think this offer over.\"\n\n\"Del! Roberto is my brother. Maybe we don't always agree but I could never do anything to hurt him or the family. He has helped me and my wife more than you could ever imagine...and there's something else...\"\n\n\"What, what is it Gordo?\" Del asked, noticing a more solemn expression on the man's face.\n\n\"Del, you are my friend, what I am going to tell you must never be repeated. I promised myself I would tell no one, but I just can't keep it to myself. I've been holding it inside and it's tearing me up.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Del asked again, becoming increasingly curious.\n\n\"Come with me,\" Gordo said, walking toward the rear of the lot.\n\nThe two walked through a small grove of lime trees to a modest workshop erected at the rear of the property. Gordo unlocked the door and entered a room that was dark and musty. It measured nearly twenty feet squared but seemed smaller. Gordo had equipped the building with several woodworking implements including a band saw, table saw, and drill press. Other assorted tools like wooden hammers, clamps, chisels, spades and scores of others filled the room, hanging from the pegboard-lined walls. A strange smell of sawdust combined with a scent that Del couldn't quite make out filled the air. It was bitter and acrid and one Gordo was obviously used to as he moved about the shop, making no mention of it. Glue or some varnish, Del thought to himself. He knew that Gordo was an avid wood craftsman but he had no idea to the extent of the man's collection of tools.\n\nDel continued to survey the room as Gordo moved some boxes. Underneath the shop's table saw was a canister type industrial sized wet and dry vacuum. It was attached directly to the table saw with the express purpose of collecting exhausted sawdust, sparing him a timely cleanup after every use. The contraption also reduced the threat of fire often caused by too much debris in such an environment. Gordo rolled the vacuum out as three tiny castors affixed to the bottom squeaked like mice fighting over cheese. Del continued to look around, still mystified by what his obese friend was about to show him.\n\n\"This is a holy place Del, no one must know of this for fear of its desecration. I am making amends,\" Gordo said, removing the vacuum lid and exposing the large canister below it. Del looked deep into the metal drum and became shocked by what he saw. The canister was bedded with fresh fruit and white eggs. They were arranged in a meticulous pattern. Perched atop it all was a human skull, clean and white, void of any flesh or blood. It appeared to Del that it had been cleaned, as one would do in the islands with certain sacrificial fish bones and shark jaws. Lying on top of the skull were seven feathers, all from a rooster, again clean and snow white, signifying purity and worthy of a sacrifice. Del looked up in shock at Gordo who was sobbing miserably.\n\n\"I'm so sorry, I didn't see him. It was raining so hard. I went to the wrong light, so I was coming from the south. The light was in my eyes. I didn't see him, I swear!\" Gordo sobbed.\n\n\"Bobby? Is this what you're saying. Is this Bobby?\" Del asked, almost frantic, leaning himself against the corner of one of the workbenches. \"Does Roberto know?\"\n\n\"No, Del, promise me you'll never tell him. He would kill me. Please Del!\" Gordo cried.\n\n\"My God Gordo, what were you thinking? Where is the rest of the body?\" he asked.\n\n\"On Andros. I gave Bobby a special place. One I thought he would like,\" Gordo answered.\n\n\"I just can't believe...\"\n\n\"The gods must be appeased, I had to do it this way. I had no choice!\"\n\n\"Gordo, you and that black magic Santeria shit. It makes me sick. You cut off your nephew's head, probably boiled it like some fish gumbo, and then constructed this ridiculous thing. I don't know what to say.\"\n\n\"Say you'll try to understand?\" Gordo asked, rolling the vacuum back under the table saw.\n\nThe two walked outside. Del leaned against the building while Gordo locked the door behind them.\n\n\"Gordo, I guess I do understand, and by no means am I trying to pass judgment. You did what you thought was right. God knows I couldn't have done what you did. This is why I don't understand why you don't start living your own life. Stop riding on Roberto's coattails. He would want you to stand up for yourself. Make your own mark,\" Del said.\n\n\"It just sounds so deceitful. I could never hurt Roberto, especially now.\"\n\n\"And I could? Look Gordo, your brother's been like a father to me. I don't want to hurt him. I want to help him. This is the only way to keep our friends in Ocala on ice until he comes around. It's for Roberto's own good that we do this. What we do, we do well my friend, but in order to live the way we do, we must run what, fifteen, sixteen loads a year? Pot is, as you know, very bulky. It's just a matter of time before one of our captains get caught and then they'll turn us all in, you and me included.\"\n\n\"I never considered this,\" Gordo thought aloud.\n\n\"Gordo, in light of what you've told me about, you know, what's in there,\" Del said, pointing to the door of the shop. \"This is your way to repay the family for a wrong you may or may not have committed. Your contribution will be invaluable. It's up to you,\" Del finished, pulling a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lighting it.\n\n\"How would this work, I mean, do we have to get up a special crew or what?\" Gordo asked.\n\n\"No, this is the beauty of it all. Roberto wants us to run Mongi's load in the new Indian. We will take a Fiberglas man with us, someone we can trust. When we get to Andros, this guy can hide Greico's stuff. We'll do two loads at once. After the pot makes it home safely and things quiet down, we can go and retrieve the hidden load. It's that simple,\" Del finished, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.\n\n\"It sounds too simple,\" Gordo rationalized, sounding more skeptical.\n\n\"It doesn't sound simple, it is simple. That's the nature of coke Gordo, one-tenth the weight and ten times the money. No crew. No counter-surveillance. No expenses. When Roberto finds out, and by the way, I plan to tell him myself, he will be pleased. He really wants to do this, he's just scared,\" Del argued, throwing the used butt to the ground.\n\n\"And if things don't work out?\" Gordo asked.\n\n\"If things don't work out, it's our secret and we go back to doing business as usual. This is going to work Gordo, and you will be a big part of making it happen.\"\n\n\"Okay, count me in,\" Gordo sighed.\n\n\"Good, now you see we all have our little secrets,\" Del said.\n\n* * * * *\n\nToll\n\nClyde Harris, Esquire, sat sternly behind his massive desk. An attorney for thirteen of his thirty-nine years, Harris sat behind many different types of desks. In his early days, he was an assistant state attorney in the Miami-Dade County prosecutor's office. His desk was built with a steel frame and had an imitation wood-grain Formica top that had been used so much that the printed grain had worn off in spots. It was very hollow and very loud, especially when the rusty drawers slid in and out, but it was functional. Harris spent his time in a cubical then and his clients were the people of the state of Florida. During this period of his life he maintained a fundamental dislike for a system that wanted to compromise the values of the law, refusing to plea-bargain most of his cases. It was this fighting spirit that got him inside the courtroom more than any other ASA. He developed his skill as a newly seasoned trial lawyer, something he considered a dying art.\n\nThere were two kinds of prosecutors in Dade County, those who got going-away parties and those who didn't. Three years after achieving an impeccable run, Harris set a record for the largest farewell bash sending him off to join the firm of Jacoby and Myers. The boutique firm on its building's eighth story specialized in state and federal tax law. Soon after, Harris enrolled in an accounting program at the University of Miami.\n\nHis next desk was the cherry wood centerpiece of his first private office, one with a view of the neighboring building's roof. Between brief reviews during the day at the law firm and ledger sheets at night, he managed to achieve his degree in thirty long, agonizing months. The firm, ecstatic with his new qualifications, sponsored his internship and in a relatively short period of time, Harris reached the dual-qualification making him one of the most desired and sought out professionals in Miami. A formidable feat for a full-time student, Harris maintained a 3.7 GPA and still turned over fifty billable hours per week. The aged senior partner, Jerold Jacoby, was pleased with his new rising star that had a devoted passion for the work. The Internal Revenue Service code, despite its ambiguity and constant changes, was his first conquest, being able to quote sections and paragraphs like a seasoned minister reciting verses of the Bible. When clients faced fear and intimidation, Harris broke things down into easily understood stages, preaching that understanding the process was just another science, an in-depth study of a system that could be understood and manipulated.\n\nAt thirty-seven, Harris realized he had gone as far as he could in the small law firm of Jacoby and Myers. His six-year tenure had netted the firm just under four million dollars. Harris had become discontent with the small office and it was when he was writing his resignation letter that the senior Jacoby entered his office and offered him a full partnership and senior status within the firm. As the much older lawyer spoke, Harris looked on as he crumpled the hastily drawn letter from the yellow legal pad, disposing it in the receptacle next to his desk.\n\nWithin eight months he increased the client load and billable hours by over thirty percent. Two months later, Jerold Jacoby died of a sudden coronary and the remaining partner, Harold Myers, decided to retire. Harris was now in full control and his first step was to move the firm to the plush Lansky Building on Brickell Avenue in Downtown Miami. Clyde Harris's formula for the firm's success was simple. Build a one-stop shop for drug dealers, smugglers, cartel members and anyone else affording his five hundred dollar per hour fee. He was expensive, but that was okay. His clients respected the high price. It was, after all, the price of doing business. It was a cost that let them sleep at night without the fear of being dragged out of bed at sunrise by black garbed ninja federal agents, handcuffed and underwear-clad in front of the wife, kids and neighbors. By now, Harris knew his way around the state and federal court systems. He also knew that if he could beat a drug case, they were eventually going to go after his client for taxes. He had all the bases covered: drugs, corruption, racketeering and tax evasion, all things Jerold Jacoby would never have stood for. Things were different now.\n\n\u2022\n\nThe waiting room was fancier than Roberto Alazar was used to. From the imported leather couches to the antique wood furniture, only the gold inlaid lamps that set atop all the matching end tables matched the quality of the interior decorating. Hanging from the far top corner of the ceiling was a nineteen-inch television monitor tuned to CNN, with a blue tickertape band slicing across the lower fifth of the picture. The stock market didn't faze Alazar, as it probably didn't matter to most of Harris's clients. It was a prop that made those who cheated the system feel as though they were a functioning part of it. This was part of the game.\n\nAlazar was right on time for his 2:15 p.m. appointment, but, as always, Harris made him wait. Alazar was patient though. He liked to read. While Gordo browsed the underwear ads in a fleshy Cosmopolitan, Roberto preferred the boating publications. An article on the cover had caught his eye. It was a picture of the Vice President of the United States driving one of the new Don-Cats through its paces on a sea-trail with Aaron Donaldson at his side. Both were wearing U.S. Customs jackets as the boat they were riding in cut through a series of blue water waves with white spray dashing in all directions. The article went on to describe the long friendship the two had and how that relationship had turned into a multimillion-dollar deal with Donaldson providing thirty-five of the high-tech boats for the Customs Service.\n\nSitting at a desk in the corner of the room, a well-dressed receptionist, blond and in her early twenties, sat at an early 19th Century oak desk.\n\n\"Mr. Harris, Roberto Alazar to see you,\" she said in a smooth voice over the telephone's intercom.\n\n\"Send him in, Brittany,\" Harris replied confidently without lifting his head from the back of the chair.\n\n\"Roberto! \u00bfC\u00f3mo est\u00e1s? Y Gordo!\" Harris said as he rose to greet his valued clients, trying to put forth his best gringo-tuned Spanish.\n\n\"How are you doing Clyde?\"\n\n\"Not bad, and you? How's that beautiful granddaughter of yours?\"\n\n\"Getting bigger, and wiser.\"\n\n\"I bet she is,\" Harris responded, interjecting a redundant chuckle.\n\n\"What brings you here? You sounded worried on the phone?\"\n\n\"Well it's probably nothing, just some typical harassment. But three of the people I do business with have been questioned and subpoenaed to testify at a grand jury. I don't understand what's going on,\" Alazar said, his tone growing softer and more troubled as he handed his lawyer two stapled pages, each with the familiar Department of Justice letterhead.\n\n\"These were given to the people after they eluded the investigators' questions.\"\n\n\"I see, what type of business are we doing with these people?\" Harris asked as he examined the papers.\n\n\"Just regular business, you know, the pool man, the people who supply the restaurant I bought my cousin, shit even the guy who tiled my house last month.\"\n\n\"They must have been watching you for awhile Roberto. What we have here are several subpoenas for people to testify at a grand jury, one that has probably already been sequestered. Wait a minute...this is strange...why are they flying these people to Atlanta?\"\n\n\"Gee Clyde, I don't know. Why are they flying these people to Atlanta?\" Roberto asked naively, not expecting his savior Clyde Harris to be perplexed by anything.\n\n\"This is going to take some digging,\" Harris said as he looked at the second page of the subpoena. \"Roberto, subpoenas are cut on two different government forms. The first details the witness's name, address and other pertinent information. The second contains a listing of individuals, corporations or entities in which the government needs information in making its case.\"\n\nHarris recognized some of the names listed on the second page. The instructions preceding them were crystal clear.\n\n\u2022\n\nUnited States District Court\n\nWitness Summons\n\nYou are hereby directed by the government of the United States to testify with full truthfulness to the events, transactions and persons involved with the case or cases pending before the Justice Department.\n\nRoberto Anthony Alazar\n\nRoberto Anthony Alazar, Jr., aka \"Bobby\" Alazar\n\nMorema Eniquez Alazar\n\nMonica Jade Alazar\n\nTessa Sands Alazar\n\nPhilipe Jesus Alazar, aka \"Gordo\" Alazar\n\nCaf\u00e9 Con Leche Restaurant, Inc.\n\nPeter Delgado\n\nScott Roberts\n\nRedland Ventures, Inc.\n\nIndian Powerboats, Inc.\n\n\u2022\n\n\"By the way Roberto, who is Tessa again?\" Harris asked, pointing halfway down the second page.\n\n\"Probably the biggest part of the problem. She is Bobby's wife.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry Roberto. What part does she play in all of this?\"\n\n\"Bobby and Tessa married while they attended Miami-Dade Community College, despite Mima and my objections. Bobby was immature and I know he treated her bad. They were probably ready to separate before he was killed. Now she has disappeared, her and our baby Monica. Mima is still at home worried sick about this.\"\n\n\"Besides the obvious pain she is inflicting by preventing you from seeing Monica, and let me add, we can probably do something about that, is there anything else I should know about her, or should I ask, how well does she know you and Bobby's business transactions?\"\n\n\"Well Clyde, you knew Bobby. He was a dreamer. Always fantasizing about the mafia and this new show, Miami Vice. Well this girl he married, her father is a special agent with the Customs Service. This is probably where she is right now.\"\n\n\"Wait a minute Roberto, this is starting to get complicated. You mean to tell me that Bobby, your deceased son, married the daughter of a Customs Special Agent?\"\n\n\"Yes sir, he did,\" Alazar said, holding up his right hand as though to add credence to his statement.\n\n\"What we need to do, Roberto, is think clearly. We need to be prepared before anything happens.\"\n\n\"Okay, now we're talking. Where do we start?\"\n\n\"Well first we need to get a PI, a good one. These fucking agents from the Department of Justice can be real intimidating. Our guy needs to be able to tell them it's okay, they can still keep their mouths shut and remain safe.\"\n\n\"Is that legal?\" Gordo asked.\n\n\"It's just,\" Harris replied with an affirmative nod from Alazar.\n\n\"Second, you need to, and I don't want to know about it, stop anything you are doing or are planning to do. One arrest, even a petty charge, could get this whole thing blown way out of proportion. That could give the prosecutor the right to get writs of disclosure out the ass. No, now is the time to play things cool.\"\n\n\"That sounds real good but what you're asking me to do is shut down my whole operation. The people who depend on my crews and me will go elsewhere, soon they will forget about me. You know me, I'm not one to run rabbit. Is this that serious that everything must stop?\"\n\n\"Yes it is,\" Harris answered directly.\n\nRoberto Alazar sat back into the deeply padded chair. All of his anger was now focused in one direction: the system. The government of which he had battled since he left Cuba, the system that killed his father working as a peasant for the aristocrats in Miami.\n\n\"Okay Clyde, you've got a deal. I just don't know what I'm going to do with all this time,\" he said. \"I'll have to find something.\"\n\n\"That's the attitude I like to see,\" Harris replied in an anal-retentive sort of way.\n\n\"You're the boss, Clyde.\"\n\n\"This is what I'm gonna do,\" Harris explained, ignoring Roberto's last comment. \"First, like I said, we need to hire a private investigator. I have a man - he's expensive, but good. He'll need to talk to anyone who has had contact with these agents. While we're at it, I'll have him locate Tessa and keep an eye on her. That situation concerns me. Next I'll need to file an FOIA...\"\n\n\"Wait a minute Clyde, slow down.\"\n\n\"FOIA, Freedom of Information Act. I'll file it through DOJ, Department of Justice, and they, by the way, have to disclose the details of their investigation.\"\n\n\"How long will all this take?\"\n\n\"It shouldn't take too long. I'll file it in the morning.\"\n\n\"Good,\" Roberto said with a breathing sigh of relief.\n\n\"I'm gonna need some money to get things started.\"\n\n\"I brought fifteen,\" Roberto answered as Gordo reached into his gym bag.\n\n\"This should hold us over until we meet again,\" Harris answered as he watched the pile of twenties and fifties grow on his desk.\n\n\"Listen, one more thing, as per the Omnibus Crime Control Act, when asked, I am supposed to report how much, and where your legal fees came from. As far as I'm concerned, we didn't see this transaction.\"\n\n\"Whatever Clyde, you know what you're doing my friend. When you find something out, beep us. We'll be waiting.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nFive minutes later, Clyde Harris was on the phone.\n\n\"United States Attorney's Office, Second District, how can I help you?\"\n\n\"Hello, Pat Stephens please.\"\n\n\"May I ask who's calling?\"\n\n\"Clyde Harris, representing Roberto Alazar,\" Harris said, sucking on a bitter lozenge, swirling it around in his mouth with his tongue. With his feet propped up on the solid oak desk, he punched the speakerphone button on his new multi-line black phone system console. Harris always got a kick out of hearing the radio stations broadcasted over the hold system, especially when it was some city far from Miami.\n\n\"WATL Atlanta! The weather today will be in the low to mid twenties with expected snow flurries by sundown. The forecast for North Georgia\/South Tennessee looks like snow, snow, snow for the next three days! Now back to some music on Atlanta's hot FM WA...\"\n\n\"Clyde, how's things in Miami?\"\n\n\"Busy, thanks to you guys.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're breaking my heart. Just doing my job, you know, perking up the old per diem.\"\n\n\"Yeah, look I've been retained to represent someone your office has had a lot of interest in. A potential target.\"\n\n\"Potential?\" Stephens questioned.\n\n\"Roberto Alazar, Senior.\"\n\n\"Not potential, he's a target. Confirmed, the real deal.\"\n\n\"Yeah, well, that's not why I called...\"\n\n\"I'm glad to see Mr. Alazar can afford the best, you being an accountant and all, but if your client thinks this is just about taxes, well...\" Stephens said as he chuckled into the mouthpiece, \"Roberto's got bigger problems than that.\"\n\n\"Would you like to expound?\"\n\n\"In time, Clyde, in time.\"\n\n\"Well then tell me this my old friend - why is such an important political figure like yourself handling such a typical case, you being in Atlanta and all?\"\n\n\"Can't comment on that ole pal,\" Stephens replied without acknowledging the compliment.\n\n\"Come on! You know...\"\n\n\"Yeah, yeah, I know, bet you told him you'd file an FOIA. By the time the six months have passed, your client will have already pled this case out. Tell Roberto not to worry, I hear they are refinishing the pool and tennis courts at Eglin.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nSummons\n\nTessa was getting used to staying at the family home and Owen and Jade were getting used to her being around again. Monica thrived with all the attention she received from her new family and Owen was a changed man. He hadn't had a drink since the night they appeared on his doorstep and he was, as Jade described him, happier. Doing housework made her feel comfortable, especially in this house. It was something she did as a young girl working alongside her mother, dusting, cleaning the kitchen, and running the vacuum. Every task brought back countless memories of her mom who would have been wearing an apron working next to her, glancing over occasionally with a smile. She took a second to wipe the small tears from the corners of her eyes and check on Monica who was trying to push a large Kirby vacuum around the living room with one of her tiny hands while holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart with the other. It made her smile that her daughter was trying to follow in her footsteps and that she was occupied in the process, leaving her to deal with the laundry. The washing machine was acting up and she was going to have to pack up all the dirty clothes and run over to her grandmother's apartment to use the machines at her complex. This was a welcome opportunity for Tessa to spend some time with her and let Monica meet her great grandmother.\n\nIn the last few weeks, Tessa had a chance to spend some time with Joel and talk, a luxury she never got to experience in her own marriage. She apologized for leaving him at the swim basin, for taking off with his clothes, and interrupting him in the bathroom. She loved how he shook it all off and was willing to clean the slate without a second thought. Joel was easy to share her ideas and emotions with and this was what she had been looking for her whole life. During their conversations, her words outnumbered his five to one. She had a lot inside. When her mom died, her dad shut down, and Jade was too young to understand what was going on. Some of the counselors at the guidance clinic where her mom worked offered to help but she felt uncomfortable sharing her feelings with them. When she married Bobby, he was inattentive, displaying the attention span of a hyperactive child on a sugar high. Joel was different and she praised his patience as he listened and asked the right questions, letting her know that he was truly interested in her and the things that were important in her life.\n\nTessa started stacking the baskets of clothes by the backdoor when, without warning, the doorbell rang and with it, a hard rasp that shook through the entire house. Before she could answer it, her three-year-old had already opened the front door. Tessa looked across the living room to see her tiny daughter overshadowed by the silhouette of two suit-clad men, the sun at their backs, standing in the entryway.\n\n\"Can I help you?\" Tessa asked, pulling Monica free from the door.\n\n\"FBI ma'am, we would like to ask you a few questions. Would you mind if we came in?\" asked the taller of the two. Both had reached into their breast pockets and revealed their credentials, a bi-fold leather wallet containing a picture ID and the gold shield of the Justice Department.\n\n\"I'd really rather you didn't. What's this all about?\"\n\n\"We'd be just a minute ma'am.\"\n\nTessa watched as the two men found a place to sit on the sectional couch. They were clean-cut men, both dressed in suits, one blue, the other black. Both had matching haircuts and both carried similar leather-bound writing pads. As dramatic as it was, Tessa found it humorous that both men resembled a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses who were canvassing the neighborhood just days before.\n\nMonica stood in the middle of the living room staring up at the shorter agent, still nibbling on a broken piece of her Pop-Tart.\n\n\"Ma'am, I take it you're Tessa Alazar?\"\n\n\"Yes I am, what is the...\"\n\n\"Ma'am, please, if you could please verify your social security number.\"\n\nAs Tessa recited the nine-digit number, the shorter agent read, tracing with a pen along a corresponding column of numbers. Monica reached over to grab a file that contained something which was very familiar to her. In doing so, the entire bundle of papers fell to the floor at her feet.\n\n\"Baby, no!\" Tessa yelled as she stood and walked over to retrieve her child. In the process, she couldn't help but notice a color picture of her and Bobby, taken anonymously. She looked up at the agent. His eyes met hers as he closed the file hastily.\n\n\"Come on baby, sit over here,\" she said, regaining her seat on the couch.\n\n\"What we need to know Mrs. Alazar is...\"\n\n\"Let me save you the trouble. Mrs. Alazar will not be speaking without the presence of an attorney. I trust you can respect her right to fair counsel,\" Owen Sands said, walking in from the kitchen.\n\nMonica picked up on the tone of her grandfather's statement, throwing the remainder of her Pop-Tart into the lap of the shorter agent.\n\n\"Why don't you let the lady answer for herself?\" the taller agent asked.\n\n\"Gentlemen, I am a cop too and I carry a gun. Leave my house, now!\" Owen commanded, this time taking steps toward the two agents who began to stand from the couch.\n\n\"You're making a big mistake, both of you,\" the shorter agent said.\n\n\"Yeah, they keep telling me that. I guess I've got a hard head,\" Owen replied.\n\n\"We understand. Mrs. Alazar, this is a federal subpoena to appear before a grand jury later this month,\" the taller agent said as both exited the front door.\n\nTessa took the packet of papers, two in all, stapled together.\n\n\"Here is my card. You may have your attorney contact us at his convenience if you wish to proceed with an interview. Have a nice day Mrs. Alazar,\" the taller agent stated as Tessa closed the door behind them.\n\nTessa thumbed through the papers while her father went into the kitchen to make some coffee.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm so sorry. I didn't want you to get involved in all of this.\"\n\n\"The day your mother gave birth to you I became involved in all of this, sweetheart. I only wish I had come in here sooner. I was in the shower.\"\n\n\"I told them I didn't want them to come in but they just came in anyway,\" she cried with tears starting to run down her face and down to the subpoena, the last page of which contained a list that included the names of her, Monica and Bobby. Owen picked up the papers.\n\n\"Atlanta?\" he asked surprised. \"Why are they convening a grand jury in Atlanta? This doesn't make any sense.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nDelivery\n\nGordo, Del and Indian Powerboats' chief Fiberglas man, Julio Martinez, walked down a concrete pier that extended through the center of the Miami Marina. The three walked through an extensive construction site. The area had been designated as a revitalization zone and a new two hundred and thirty thousand square foot mall called the Bayside Mall was to be built around the large boat basin. Since it was located downtown, the Miami Marina was the perfect location for urban art deco types who enjoyed browsing through shops and dining on the waterfront.\n\nAfter a month of sixteen-hour days, Indian set a series of new records by finishing Roberto Alazar's new 42-foot commercial fishing boat he named Heads Up that sat berthed halfway down the pier. The sun glistened off her newly finished decks. Each of the men made their way down the dock carrying overfilled bags of groceries. Standing at the transom overlooking the craft was a small man, the dockmaster, a Cuban who spoke no English.\n\n\"Muy bien, el barco, es nuevo?\" the man asked.\n\n\"S\u00ed amigo, it's new,\" Gordo answered.\n\nIt had been a long day. Starting at 6:00 a.m., Florida State Troopers met the crew at the Indian shop to escort the boat to the Jones Boatyard where she was launched just before noon. The slow trip down I-95 to Miami's South River Drive required all the patience the men could muster. The troopers were helpful, moving most of the traffic from around the large boat that took up two lanes of highway. It was a resource Scott Roberts and Julio enjoyed using. For twenty-two dollars an hour they owned a living, breathing cop and his patrol car. Once in the confines of the yacht yard, a specially built hoist called a travel lift encompassed the craft. Like a spider encroaching over its prey, the travel lift lowered its straps under the boat, then carefully lifted the thirty-ton vessel from its trailer. From there, the lift rolled at a snail's pace to an enclave cut into the side of the river. Its banks were carved precisely, just wide enough for the four legs of the lift to span from side to side. Once in place it could lower the boat into the awaiting water. It was a slow descent, just three feet per minute. Each of the men, along with two of the state troopers, watched as the deepest part of the keel touched the glassy water sending a small ripple to the sides of the slip. Inch by inch the hull became engrossed by the water, consuming the freshly painted black bottom coat, a copper enriched blend of paint designed to retard growth and any other fouling of the running bottom.\n\n\"So where you guys takin' her?\" one of the troopers asked, his right cheek full of chewing tobacco.\n\n\"We're going fishing in the Keys,\" Del answered.\n\n\"Man it must be nice. I've got me a Ranger bass boat myself. I've never thought about taking it to the Keys though.\"\n\n\"That's nice,\" Del patronized.\n\nJulio was the first aboard. As the boat's builder, he thought it was his responsibility to check the mechanical systems. Everything checked out and with the turn of a single switch the twelve-cylinder diesel under her deck came to life for the first time. A cloud of gray smoke filled the slip as Julio watched the gauges to make sure the engine was maintaining its oil pressure and the cooling systems were keeping up with the massive amount of generating heat. At 1:23 p.m. the Heads Up was seen idling down the Miami River bound for the open water and her berth at the Miami Marina.\n\nGordo stepped onto the gunwale, balancing his weight with the filled bags of groceries in each hand. His rubber soled Top-Siders squeaked on the clean deck as he stowed the bags under the hard top. Gordo was sure to check the newly installed refrigerator-freezer, his ten boxes of microwavable pizzas and egg rolls consumed most of the frozen space.\n\nThe cabin on Andros was equipped with the bare essentials. All of the cooking would be done aboard the boat which could be docked conveniently in a snug cove that abutted the front yard of the cabin. Baths were taken in the enclave, a ritual that survived from the days of pirates and explorers. Fresh water was a commodity cherished by many in the islands. Gordo's cabin was equipped with a cistern that was connected to a series of gutters that wrapped around the perimeter of the roof. Fresh rainwater was collected and funneled into the concrete holding tank. From there it went through a sand filtration system and then a more sophisticated charcoal one. Gordo thought it tasted better than Miami's water though the water was mostly used for the single toilet and cleaning. Gordo was proud of his home away from home. He had spent many nights on this end of the island. Locked in a tin shack behind the cabin was a rusty Honda 250cc motorcycle. Gordo tried to make as few trips to town as possible but if he had to make the three-hour jaunt, it was usually to necessitate parts for one of his boats or to get an emergency ration of food. Fresh Creek was the closest town and was more than sixty miles away, but the roads were so treacherous and laden with sand, most of the trip was made at twenty miles per hour. On the western side of the island, the U.S. Navy had positioned one of its torpedo testing facilities. AUTEC stood for the Atlantic Underwater Testing and Evaluation Center, a base that housed almost two hundred men and women, mostly contract engineers, who worked and lived on the base developing underwater demolition systems for some of the most advanced nuclear submarines in the world. Despite its importance, the base was isolated from the rest of the island. Fresh Creek catered to the Americans who occasionally passed through, but most of the personnel simply flew in on Monday and flew out on Friday. Most maintained homes on the mainland some hundred miles away. Despite the few that liked to explore the island, the north side was considered off-limits. Gordo's camp was one of only twenty such outposts manned year round. Most of the other camps concealed operations more lethal than the Alazars'. AUTEC policy precluded anyone from venturing to this side of the island. Navy pilots flying in and out of the installation even avoided the north side airspace for fear of a mid-air collision with an unlit smuggler.\n\nWith the lines cast and the boat underway, the three plotted their course for the tiny island cabin. With Gordo at the helm, Julio climbed through the engine room, checking all of the fittings for leaks. As planned, the Heads Up cruised at an impressive pace of seventeen knots.\n\n\"What's our temperature looking like?\" Julio asked.\n\n\"140 degrees and holding strong,\" Gordo replied.\n\n\"Let me check on our cargo,\" Julio said.\n\n\"I'll give you a hand,\" Del offered.\n\nThe two went below to the cabin portion of the boat. Unlike the finer luxury yachts, the Heads Up had a commercial utility finish. In the bow area, Julio had loaded some Fiberglas resin, a roll of cloth fiber, hardener, some acetone, and a gallon of white gelcoat for finishing the job. When on the island, Julio had two tasks. The first was to fix the damage to the bow of Gordo's 38-foot Stiletto Black Duck. The next would be to conceal the secondary load of Gus Greico's located deep in the hull of the new Heads Up.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIntrinsic\n\nThe Plantation Key Colony Villas were an enormously popular place for singles and older retired couples to live, mainly because of the affordable purchase prices, reasonable rents for those who couldn't buy, and the close proximity to the local hospital that was next door. The complex's tenants were made up of senior citizens who had moved south from the northeast in search of warmer weather and they represented almost all walks of life.\n\nJoel Kenyon walked out of his apartment and across the hall to the small laundry room that was assigned to his apartment and his immediate neighbors on the second floor. In his left hand was a pillowcase that was filled with soiled clothes, the other, a box of detergent laced with bleach. Joel was not used to doing his laundry the way most did. He didn't separate colors and everything was washed with scalding hot water and dried as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Tessa had been on his mind since he awoke and he was certain his feelings for her were a lot deeper than he wanted to admit. It was even more of a shock to him as he rounded the corner entrance to the stuffy laundry room to find her there, folding clothes.\n\n\"Hey you...\" she said.\n\n\"Tessa, what are you doing here?\" he asked.\n\n\"I had to help my grandmother with some housework, and the washing machine at my dad's is acting up.\"\n\n\"Where's Monica?\"\n\n\"In there with grandma, they are baking cookies. You ought to see her - she's got flour everywhere, including Gram.\"\n\nJoel stood next to her for a second and then, without thinking, bent over and gave her a kiss. Her lips were smooth and she returned the kiss with just as much affection.\n\n\"I missed you,\" she said.\n\nWithout answering, Joel looked down at the laundry she was folding noticing a pair of lacy black panties that were at the top of the pile. He picked them up, crumpled them into his hands, and then held the black cloth to his face. The smell of scented laundry detergent filled his nose as he looked down at Tessa.\n\n\"Stop that you idiot,\" she laughed.\n\nHe dropped the panties on the table with a smile.\n\n\"Joel, I really wish you'd act like yourself. You really do not have to impress me. Besides, I don't think my grandmother would appreciate you manhandling her underwear,\" she said with a serious face, enjoying Kenyon's grin that turned straight.\n\nTessa did his laundry while they talked. She had noticed most of his clothes were made up of bright colors and thought it a shame to wash them all together.\n\n\"It occurred to me that the last few times we've talked, I did most of the talking. So tell me about your parents,\" she inquired.\n\n\"Well, my mother left us when I was pretty young and I lived with my dad until I left to go to college.\"\n\n\"What's he like?\" she asked.\n\n\"He was a great dad - someone who always took the time to let you know how important you were. It didn't matter how busy he was...\"\n\n\"What's he do?\"\n\n\"He was a lawyer, a prosecutor actually, and I loved everything he stood for. He was a real Elliot Ness type. He died during my first year at the Citadel,\" he said in a more solemn tone.\n\n\"Now I feel like a real prude. We have had some deep conversations and this is the first time I find out that you lost your father.\"\n\n\"It's okay. We were talking about some painful stuff. I didn't want to drag you down any further.\"\n\n\"You don't have to explain, I lost my mother too, remember? My father, as good as he was, couldn't handle it, his heart was broken and the only thing he knew to do was make the pain go away. I forgive him in a way for drinking the way he did, but sometimes it's hard. There are a lot of memories I'd just as soon forget.\"\n\n\"I was away at school when my father died. My sister Jhenna and brother-in-law Pat were with him. I don't know if I was more upset about not being there for him, or not being there for her. She was devastated.\"\n\n\"So do you see your sister much?\"\n\n\"When I can. She's in Atlanta.\"\n\n\"Atlanta? That's strange.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Oh nothing.\"\n\n\"No, what?\" he asked with a smile.\n\n\"Really, it's nothing. You were saying?\"\n\n\"Right...Atlanta. They live in a small suburb called Buckhead.\"\n\n\"What does she do?\" Tessa asked.\n\n\"She's a lawyer. Works in a private firm, mostly corporate litigation, that kind of stuff.\"\n\n\"It must be nice to have someone looking over you. When I left my family, that was it buddy. It was me against the world and then I married Bobby. It wasn't very different from being alone. He really wasn't around much and when he was, well, we had our good times but they were outweighed by the bad ones. He could be so hateful when he wanted to be, like someone threw a switch. I was planning for a divorce just before he died,\" she explained.\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear it,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Don't be, I'm a big girl.\"\n\n\"And that you are.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nFeather\n\nThe small dirt strip hidden on the north side of Andros didn't appear on any FAA chart. There was no aeronautical Unicom frequency assigned to it for ascents or departures, no ground crew and no landing lights. For those approaching, the greatest hazard was that of loose animals crossing the paths of landing planes. From the air it hardly looked like an airstrip at all. It was nearly twenty-three hundred feet long, short by most opinions. The land was leased and the strip ran from one end of the property to the other, and, as Gordo would often say, it was what it was. DEA, Customs and the Coast Guard were familiar with most of the clandestine runways in the area. Surveillance flights were common, though this strip was unique. The property on which it sat once belonged to a pineapple grower who heavily fertilized the area with raw fish and livestock manure from a small head of cattle that once grazed on the land. Fifty years later the property was overgrown with trees, mostly hardwoods, oaks and pines that were once seedlings, imported by the previous owner to spice up his end of an otherwise flat, barren island. The tall trees that concealed the strip, or most of it, created a partial canopy over two-thirds of the runway. This provided a suitable amount of privacy for the smugglers flying into the property but also presented some challenges. Only the best attempted.\n\nRalph Linez made his approach with full flaps, guaranteeing him the maximum amount of lift with the least amount of speed. The plane's gear was down as the twin-engine turbo prop descended just feet over the tops of the swaying trees that guarded the strip's threshold. Linez, despite his years of experience, was taken aback by this challenge. There were no second chances here. He would have to land in the window of the canopy and hope the strip was long enough to slow him down. If it wasn't, there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. The canopy prevented him from retaking to the air. He would simply run headlong into the hard-woods at the end of the strip. Sweat dripped down the twin throttle levers from his wrists as Linez adjusted the engine's power. Then he feathered the props into a position so they could be reversed quickly. The key was to not rely on the brakes but to reverse the thrust of the turbo props as soon as possible.\n\nThis plane was responsive, he thought to himself. Not like the heavy Beechcraft he lost in the Keys. The wreckage of a plane on the beach below, left strewn around the north side of the island, reminded him of the night he crashed into the shallow water off the Upper Keys; a night that changed his life and his upgraded status as a fugitive after jumping his bail on the trafficking charges.\n\nGordo, Del, and Julio waited by the cabin as the high-pitched whisper of the high-winged Turbo Commander blew over their heads. Gordo kept his fingers crossed. This was a new pilot to his strip and, despite the wreckage on the beach, the Alazars had a perfect safety record. The only aircraft that had crashed did so before they obtained the property. The incidents usually occurred after leaving the strip, usually striking the tips of the tall hardwoods after becoming airborne. No one had actually crashed on the strip itself though, and Gordo was happy of that, being the one who would have to clean it up if they did. Within a three-mile radius Gordo had counted twelve planes or piece of planes, not all from his strip, but most a casualty of poor planning combined with an overloaded aircraft. All the crashes were in various stages of decomposition with twisted metal, some pieces no bigger than a common Frisbee. Some had barnacles affixed to the fuselage while others were pitted and rusting. All were a constant reminder of the dangers of clandestine aviation.\n\nThe Turbo Commander dropped into the threshold, descending just past the first line of trees and coming down close to the grassy surface. Linez, just before touching down, reversed the pitch of the dueling three-bladed propellers, shifting the thrust ahead of the plane instead of toward the aft. The stall warning alarm activated immediately sending a shrieking tone throughout the cabin before the plane fell the remaining few feet coming down hard on the grass strip with pieces of debris and sand flying up and behind the plane. The craft rolled to a stop just three hundred feet short of the wall of trees at the end of the runway. Linez braked the rear main gear and throttled up the left engine, this time with the prop pitch aiming aft. The plane turned a sharp one hundred and eighty degree turn and headed for the waiting men at the cabin.\n\n* * * * *\n\nRainbow\n\nWhen Tessa had asked Joel for a favor, he didn't know what to expect, although he knew he would have done just about anything she asked. The request was simple. Drive her to the apartment on Miami Beach to get some more of her things before putting the place on the market. Since she drove a small sports car, the room of Joel's larger BMW was an added benefit.\n\nWhat was happening? he asked himself. This felt good to him, especially at Owen's when he would sit on the couch and Monica would climb into his lap and rest her tiny head on his chest, a first for a man who didn't spend a lot of time around small children. The next day he went to a drugstore to buy her a toy and presented a small stuffed rabbit to her in front of Tessa.\n\n\"Joel, I know you meant well, but you bought my kid a dog toy,\" she said, squeezing the thing until it squeaked.\n\n\"It was in the toy section...\" he defended, as Monica snatched the toy out of her mother's hand.\n\n\"Safe for puppies of all ages,\" Tessa read from the toy's packaging.\n\nThen the two of them looked down at Monica who didn't care. She owned it. Still, it felt right, and as Tessa noticed, that despite his clumsy learning curve, Joel Kenyon was a natural who operated from the heart. Not a replacement, she continually told herself, but an evolution in her life and the product of some good decision making and a little bit of luck.\n\nKenyon's feelings for Tessa surprised him. He hadn't expected to find love on this assignment but it was his sister Jhenna who used to say: \"Love is where you find it.\" Still, Tessa Sands Alazar was not the safest person to fall in love with. She was the widow of one of the biggest smuggling families in the Keys, but then, she was also the daughter of his partner. The collateral damage to his career alone could prove devastating setting him back ten years. But this, for some reason, didn't seem too important. Growing up, his life had been ruled by so many others. He had subscribed to the ideals and goals of so many others, so much so that Joel had neglected the needs of his own soul. Tessa was a radiant vision that greeted him every morning in his mind as he awoke. The mere whisper of her voice over the phone made him melt, an emotion he had never experienced before. The political climate in South Florida and the Second Federal District, as enforced by Patrick Stephens, didn't seem to matter anymore.\n\nJoel's BMW continued north on the eighteen mile stretch with their destination being the Alazar condo at Haulover, Miami Beach. Tessa continued to caress the back of his hand that rested on the car's console-mounted shifter. The condo had been her home for the last three years. Although it represented more than that, it stood for everything she wanted corrected in her life. For days, she imagined the blackness she would encounter when she finally returned to open the front door and view everything Bobby Alazar had provided for her. That life was in the past and for the benefit of the elder Alazars, the marriage had not ended in the disgrace and failure of a messy divorce.\n\nThe day was hot and humid. Boils of hot air rose from the black pavement ascending skyward. Joel felt the car's air conditioning system trying to keep up with the tepid air outside the car. Despite the allure of his imported car, the air conditioning system was less than desired.\n\nWhile driving through Homestead, a small farming community, Joel pulled down a paved road that was adjacent to a thirty-acre field of cultivating green beans. Scores of Mexican migrant workers labored, bent over wooden baskets, picking the crop clean from the vine-like bushes that stood a foot above the rich black soil. The BMW stopped just short of a white deluge of water that was being projected from an agricultural irrigation truck, a machine that looked more like an oversized lawn sprinkler but produced ten times the water flow of a standard fire hose. The stream, which shot over a hundred feet into the air, formed a rainbow as rays of sunlight pierced it.\n\nThe car's brakes squeaked to a stop as Joel and Tessa grabbed each other in what was a passionate high watermark for both.\n\n\"Ah, Joel? I think we've got an audience,\" Tessa said, pointing to the migrant workers who were now standing tall in the field, staring at them.\n\n\"Hold on. I've got an idea,\" he offered, shifting the car back into gear and rolling slowly under the deluge. As the car disappeared into the wall of falling water, Tessa smiled as she watched the pounding stream hit the car's clear sunroof. As the sun set, the orange rays that illuminated the spray filled the car with warm light that flickered with the different colors of the rainbow, looking more like the Northern Lights of Alaska than a South Florida evening.\n\n\"This is amazing,\" she said. \"How did you know to do this?\"\n\n\"Well, you know...\"\n\n\"You didn't have a clue, did you?\"\n\n\"Nope, none whatsoever...\" he replied as the two giggled like school kids in love.\n\n* * * * *\n\nBlue\n\nWith the nine hundred and twenty kilo load of cocaine transferred from Linez's plane to the Heads Up, Julio spent the better part of the day fiber-glassing the stash into the inner hull, making a compartment that was segregated from the rest of the boat with a plywood and Fiberglas bulkhead. After that, he did some much-needed post-collision repair work to Gordo's 38-foot Stiletto Black Duck. While he was completing that, Del and Gordo loaded eighty bales of sensimilla marijuana into the large holds below the main deck.\n\nThe plan was simple. Julio would run the Heads Up to the Keys. A few hours later, Del and Gordo would catch up in the Stiletto. When both boats hit the reef line, Gordo would speed up the faster boat and head into Tavernier Creek where he would draw the attention of anyone who had been tracking them, leaving the Heads Up to cruise north to Rock Harbor, a popular anchorage where he would lay until some of the crew's smaller inflatable boats could take the load to shore. From there, Julio would head to the Miami River where they would cut out the second secret load belonging to Gus Greico.\n\nJulio took his position behind the helm of the new Indian. With a turn of the key the single twelve-cylinder diesel came to life, rumbling beneath the insulated deck. He loved the feel of a new boat, from the smell of fresh Fiberglas that lingered in every compartment to the sawdust that lingered in the cracks and crevasses. This boat was fresh in every respect. A commercial hull by design, it hadn't yet been christened with a load of fish that would have surely marked it as a worker.\n\nThe only residue the Heads Up would be bathed in was that of the sensimilla marijuana, laden with THC-rich tar, a potent mixture for a drug that would bring over thirteen hundred dollars a pound on the streets of Gainesville, Tallahassee, or Pensacola. For this, Julio made sure to pack a case of bleach to wash the decks down after the first load was gone. The bleach, along with several buckets of seawater, would do the trick, leaving the decks clean and odor free.\n\nAlazar's take was sixty points to cross from Andros to the reef and another seventy-five to go from the reef to the clavo. By using the Heads Up, they could reap one hundred and thirty-five thousand per pound and only have to pay one captain. After expenses, Alazar's take was going to be close to five hundred and forty thousand dollars. After paying the captain and setting aside a sizable amount for the new boat's maintenance fund, his net was closer to three hundred and eighty-five thousand, of which Gordo and Del each received twenty-five percent. The load belonging to Gus Greico was a different story. Sal Alcone was paying eighteen hundred per kilo to get his load from Andros to the safehouse in Miami. The only expense they had to pay out was to Julio who, spellbound by the amount, agreed to do everything for twenty thousand. There was no counter-surveillance, no chase boats, no clavo and the best part - only a tight group of people who even knew the plan was in motion. If everything went as planned, both would split the lion's share of over 1.5 million dollars.\n\nJulio eased the boat out of the small cove and headed through a series of crude wooden channel markers that led the boat into deeper water. Like the first time, he checked the boat's gauges and all the other functions to make sure that they were performing according to the vessel's specifications. He was using extreme caution since the boat was still undergoing the break-in phase and the engine's oil pressure and temperature readings along with the transmission's drive pressure needed to be constantly checked. The depth sounder started sending radio signals to the sandy bottom below. The amount of time necessary to receive the signal back would be interpolated into a reading which would flash on the liquid crystal display showing the depth. Julio was cautious. He didn't want to take any chances with his precious cargo.\n\n\u2022\n\nSix hours later the Heads Up was sitting at Crocker Reef. Julio had a yo-yo in his hand and was bringing in a small fish when the boat's Icom 28 radio blared.\n\n\"Slingshot to Bow and Arrow, come in over,\" Gordo said.\n\n\"Bow and Arrow here. All clear,\" Julio answered.\n\nJulio retrieved the large steel anchor, restarted the diesel engine, and headed towards Tavernier Creek. Behind him followed Del and Gordo in the all-white Black Duck. Halfway to shore, Gordo hit the throttles as the boat bucked like a wild horse over the larger boat's wake. Julio watched as the faster boat passed his transom, crossing the final wave of his wake as it jumped completely out of the water.\n\n\u2022\n\nFlorida Marine Patrol Officer David Fisher was ready to call it a day. The seventeen-year veteran had been on the water since 8:00 a.m. Fisher and his 24-foot boat were feeling the fatigue after the long day. What was this place coming to? he thought. He had patrolled these waters for most of his career, cherishing the isolated beauty that was the Florida Keys, better known by some as \"the wild life and reef life.\" The Keys were changing though and there was nothing neither he nor the FMP could do to change it. The tiny string of islands at the south end of the United States was no longer a secret, gaining popularity on their own thanks to an active public relations campaign put on by the Monroe County Chamber of Commerce and the Tourist Development Council. The Keys rapidly became the poor man's Hawaii. What once resembled a quiet seascape lingering over a living reef now looked like a scene from Walt Disney's The Boatniks, a comical spoof about boating portraying it as a national free-for-all, a fiasco on the high seas. With the holidays approaching there were more tourists, all vying for their bid to dive, snorkel or fish the reef. The FMP office in Marathon had mandated five twelve-hour days a week to its already overworked patrolmen who had to put all their duties aside and concentrate on the most frustrating task of their job: controlling the homegrown makeshift captains who had little regard for their safety and even less for the safety of the other boaters on the water with them.\n\nFisher took a second to wipe the buildup of salty grime from his forehead. He was so tired that when he saw the breaking white water of an unfamiliar 42-foot commercial hull headed for Tavernier Creek, his first instinct was to ignore it and wrap up his day with a few jots in his logbook and a quick signoff over the radio. Something about the boat was different to him though. It was clean and new for one thing. Did one of the commercial guys get a new ride and not tell me? he thought. Something else was wrong; the way the boat rode through the water. It almost seemed like it was bow heavy, but having seen what looked like a Customs intercept boat pass by it, he ruled the large craft out as a smuggler. But then he saw it. The commercial boat was not displaying its required state fishing permit numbers. Besides boating safety and marine law enforcement, the FMP regulated saltwater fishing and conservation. This was a new boat and as it came closer he could see that the captain did not look familiar either. Fisher prided himself on knowing all the commercial operators in the area on a first name basis. They even socialized together on occasion. This guy wasn't from around here and it wasn't fair to the honest hard-working fishermen of the Upper Keys for an outsider to come in, unlicensed, and fish their grounds, he thought.\n\n\u2022\n\nJulio passed the flock of boats anchored at the Middle Grounds, an area just off the coast of Tavernier. The Heads Up didn't miss a beat and was making great time. Two dive boats had already pulled up anchor and were headed for the docks. Julio followed suit, pulling back on the throttle and decreasing the boat's speed so he wouldn't overtake the others. He never saw the gray 24-footer with the prominent black bow stripe until a blue flash from its forward mounted beacon caressed the interior of the Heads Up wheelhouse. Julio's heart started to beat rapidly as he was starting to realize his worst nightmare. Then he rationalized that he had two options. One, stop and risk that the officer would board his boat and find the load, a probability since all the cop would have to do is open the deck hatch. Or, he could run for it and save his own ass, thinking he could dump enough of the load to make the cop lose him and then head back to Andros.\n\nMore black smoke poured from the exhaust as Julio gave the twelve-cylinder diesel every bit of fuel its injectors could handle. Despite the marine patrolman's faster and more maneuverable boat, the Heads Up had a distinct advantage. The choppy seas made the smaller boat have to drop back.\n\n\"FMP 126 Marathon, I have a vessel I'm trying to stop. Request Coast Guard Islamorada assist,\" Fisher said into the radio's microphone.\n\nWith the marine patrolman slipping into his own wake and making much better speed, Julio started to panic. He opened the door and started to pitch the load overboard, one bale at a time. After twelve it was evident that there was no way he was going to get the other seventy-seven pieces off without the officer noticing. To make matters worse, the last bale he grabbed slipped out of his trembling hands and fell to the deck, breaking into pieces. The boat was now tainted with an indelible residue. There was no turning back. Julio realized that his entire fantasy about smuggling and bringing home the big bacon, like a rock star, within his own family were just that - a fantasy. During his short life, reality was a cruel partner for Julio Martinez. His only option was to ditch the boat and run. He headed for the closest group of lights he could see which were on the shore and to the south. Another blue flashing beacon appeared moving rapidly towards his position.\n\n\"FMP 126 Marathon, we have contraband in the water. He's dumping...he's dumping...Please notify air support and U. S. Customs.\"\n\nJulio entered the channel to Tavernier Creek wide open as the twelve-cylinder diesel pounded beneath the deck. White frothing water spewed from the transom, culminating into a five-foot-high wake. The town of Tavernier was densely populated enough that if he made it to the beach, he could hide without much of a problem. With the approach to the land, the seas calmed down considerably. As Julio neared the mouth of the creek, red and blue flashing lights caught his eye as two speeding sheriff's cruisers topped the bridge headed south. He wouldn't have much time. The 24-foot marine patrol boat was joined with another boat, a smaller Boston Whaler utility boat from the Coast Guard. Julio swayed the massive craft back and forth using the boat's immense wake to bounce his pursuers off the stern. The tactic worked as each of the smaller boats took a position nearly one hundred yards back. As he went under the bridge, the roar of the diesel engine, amplified by the tunnel of the bridge, was interrupted by the crunching noise of the three Fiberglas whip antennas that splintered to pieces as they struck the relatively low bridge overhead. The fuel dock of the Tavernier Creek Marina lay just beyond the bridge and Julio watched as his five-foot wake engulfed the small concrete pier and immersed it and the fuel pumps in saltwater. Julio continued down the creek, looking for a place to ditch the boat. As he made the first turn he noticed a tributary to his left. With a quick spin of the tall, vertically mounted wheel, the boat banked sharply entering the small notch in the mangroves. Julio maintained his speed, wondering when the bottom would become too shallow to support the boat's massive draft. Then suddenly, the bow buried into a clump of trees and the keel nestled against the muddy bottom. The boat stopped immediately. Julio was thrown against the stainless wheel with his torso flying over the top, his head smashing the compass and instruments, cutting a gash over his left eye. Blood immediately flowed down the side of his face filling his eye, further hampering his escape. With the two patrol boats closing in, the terrified Cuban climbed onto the bow and jumped forward to dry ground where he fled on foot. He could hear the outboard motors power down as they reached the stern. They were close. Unbeknownst to him, he had landed in an area called Tavern-Aero, an aviation community that was built on a two thousand foot runway. Most of the homes built on the Tavern-Aero strip were weekend getaways. Executives from Miami would fly down for the weekend and then return Monday morning. The development was a virtual ghost town during the week and Julio had no problem disappearing into the woods.\n\n* * * * *\n\nIncentive\n\nSal Alcone sat silently in his office at International Farms while Del and Gus Greico sat across from him in an oversized couch.\n\n\"Get it back,\" Sal said.\n\n\"You know the risks Sal,\" Del reasoned.\n\n\"Get it back.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's that easy,\" Greico added.\n\n\"Look, you assured me that these people were good. This is going to be two loads in a row that are gone. Poof! Into thin air! Do you know how much goes into an operation like this? Get it back!\"\n\n\"Let me work on it Sal. I have some ideas but it's going to take a few days,\" Del said.\n\n\"Sal - Del's got something else he thinks you should know.\"\n\n\"What else could go wrong?\" Sal asked.\n\n\"How much have you done with Aaron Donaldson?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Not a lot. We were friends. Over the years, he's built a lot of boats for us,\" Sal answered.\n\n\"Well you know Scott Roberts?\"\n\n\"Yeah, he left Stiletto to form Indian Powerboats. You got a piece of that, I hear.\"\n\n\"Yeah, Indian. Scott says that with this big government contract, Aaron has been getting cozy with the Feds. Word is he's turning everyone in to save his ass,\" Del explained.\n\n\"Great,\" Sal said sarcastically.\n\n\"When I bought into Indian, I paid for the land on 188th Street and the building. We got the land from Aaron. We paid that motherfucker two hundred grand in cash. Because we couldn't report it, he set it up as a fake mortgage to Scott.\"\n\n\"But Del, Aaron would be stupid to roll over on you for that. He's just as guilty,\" Greico rationalized.\n\n\"Unless they found out already and offered him a deal. Shit man, the guy is worth millions. He could lose everything, his government contract, and he could go to jail,\" Del said.\n\n\"You're paranoid Del. You're a little fish. Relax and get my stuff back and I'll see what I can find out on this end,\" Sal counseled.\n\nAfter Del and Greico left the office, Sal had some time to think. This new situation was a potential problem. Aaron Donaldson was a dabbler. He had his hand in everything, including a small bit of International Farms. Several years before, Donaldson had been the architect for a deal between the firm and the Guatemalan Beef Consortium. Donaldson was paid a commission and knew every detail of the deal. Over the years, Donaldson made a lot of money with International Farms. This coincided with rumors that he had heard that a special grand jury had been convened, the same grand jury that indicted Guerillmo Morales and were targeting unnamed, high-level drug targets.\n\nIt was time to act. Sal thought as he spun his chair to face an opened bay window. He looked over the courtyard just in time to see a Ford pickup truck pull down the long driveway towing a tarp-covered car on a tandem axle trailer. A new addition to my secret collection, he thought to himself as the rig passed by his window, headed to the warehouse. \"Hartford Connecticut Police Department,\" he said aloud, like a kid thumbing through a stack of baseball cards.\n\n* * * * *\n\nScavenger\n\nThe Monroe County Sheriff's Department was always the first to know when the mosquito commission's main asset, an old DC-3 cargo plane, was out doing its job, ridding the Keys of unwanted bugs. The process was unorthodox with the oversized plane flying at tree level spewing a liquid larvicide and diesel fuel mixture from its two large exhaust pipes mounted on each wing. The sight looked more like a WWII bomber going down in flames than a simple insect eradication, which is why most tourists who had not seen the spectacle before were alarmed, many to the point of calling 9-1-1.\n\nDid you actually see the plane hit the ground? was the standard reply, keeping the door open for the eventual possibility that the aircraft could actually crash one day.\n\nThe mission was going as planned with one exception, the guest in the left hand seat of the plane's complex cockpit. There was an arrangement though between the guest and the pilot who usually flew alone. The guest would pay one gold doubloon for each trip and in exchange, the pilot would fly in the areas the guest requested, low and close to the water, repeating patterns as necessary, and he would exercise extreme discretion. If they found a smuggler's discarded load floating adrift, a casualty of a boat chase the night before, the guest would radio his waiting crew below to go and retrieve the load for themselves. On moonlit nights, when the bales of marijuana looked like ice floating in a glass of Coca-Cola, the guest would discard a phosphorescent glow stick, the kind used by night divers and found at every scuba shop in South Florida, to aid the ground crew in their recovery.\n\nThe pilot had no worries. The doubloons were valuable and if he held on to them, they would only increase in value. Since the county paid for the plane's fuel, it was a deal that netted a pure profit for him. The only people who could arrest him for the crime of aiding and abetting were sitting right next to him in the copilot's seat.\n\nThe sun was an hour from rising as he banked the plane over Dove Key and leveled off over the water at an altitude of fifty feet. The night before was busy with a boat chase that netted the Coast Guard a large commercial workboat and a sizeable tonnage of weed, but not before the captain had a chance to ditch part of the load in an attempt to rid himself of the evidence. Nine hundred yards of low-level flight later, the pilot was the first to see it: a group of bales floating in the shallows, about half a mile offshore.\n\n\"You see me?\" the guest called into an official radio.\n\n\"We got you,\" came a reply.\n\n\"I'm right over it. She's lit up boys,\" he said, tossing the light sticks out of the cockpit window.\n\n\"We're on our way.\"\n\n\"Be careful, it's pretty shallow and hurry up. The sun is almost up and you won't be able to see the sticks.\"\n\n\"Will do boss.\"\n\nAlmost immediately, two U. S. Customs interceptors roared out of Tavernier Creek towards the nightsticks. Ten minutes later, the loose bales were retrieved and headed back to shore.\n\n* * * * *\n\nRestitution\n\nKevin Pinder mounted his overbuilt four-by-four pickup and headed south towards co-operative substation six at exactly 9:00 p.m. The rain was driving down harder than he had seen in a long time. In South Florida, the rains were common but short and to the point. This storm had lasted for two hours and looked as though it would continue all night. As fast as the wipers could flash, they were still not fast enough. Kevin kept his speed at forty-five miles per hour. The drone of his 40-inch mud tires was louder than any other noise on the road that night. These rubber giants were great for navigating a mud hole in the Everglades, but not very valuable on the slick, paved blacktop. One good patch of water and he could easily lose control of the truck.\n\nHis mission was simple: kill the power to Plantation and Windley Key just long enough for Gordo to do whatever it was he needed to do. Kevin knew he did not deserve the privileged information. His main concern was getting back into Gordo and Del's good graces. He needed to work again. He was out of cash.\n\nThe power substation was well lit. The Florida Keys Electric Co-operative spared no expense in making the otherwise dreary structure look acceptable and attractive from the roadside. Kevin pulled into the small parking lot and made a dash for the front door of the office.\n\nBehind the brick-faced office was a grid work of transformers and switching units measuring almost one hundred and fifty feet square and seventy-three feet high. Despite its beautiful facade, the cage-like structure had an ominous appearance once inside.\n\nKevin grabbed a flashlight from a wall charger and proceeded into the compound. A shriek of lightning illuminated the grid work reminding him just how dangerous this was. His heart was beating thirty times faster than normal.\n\nStation number six handled power, breaking down the high voltage lines coming in from Miami and diverted it to the smaller grids. Station six had twenty-four units (or grids) of power. Units A, B, and C supplied North Key Largo; D, E, F, and so on supplied points further south. Areas of denser population were designated more switching units. Plantation Key occupied units T, U, V, and W. Windley Key was X. This was easy for the linemen to remember because back in the 1700s, Windley Key was used more than once as a depository for pirate's treasure, some of which was still speculated lost on the small island. X marks the spot was a familiar pirate phrase when referring to the legendary maps.\n\nHe would have to go into the cage and throw the circuits by hand and then he would have to wait there in case anyone showed up to check, which was very unlikely since it was his night to take call.\n\nKevin pulled his vinyl raincoat tight around his head as he left the office's rear door. He was immediately inundated with small bead-like pellets of falling water. He wanted to make this as fast as possible. The Mr. Coffee machine was just starting to get hot and the smell was already luring him back inside.\n\nThe flashlight was helpful in illuminating the panel placards mounted in front of each of the switching units. A, B, and C were all very easily accessible. The walk was as long as the cage itself with one hundred and fifty feet of switching units mounted side by side. Kevin counted aloud as he neared the rear of the cage. J, K, L, M, shit! Couldn't they have done this the other way around? he thought to himself. P, Q, shit! That's it? This can't be R, and S handled South Tavernier and T started Plantation Key...Where the fuck are they? Kevin mumbled to himself, continuing to look through the grid work. He was new to working in the cage. Most of his seven months with the co-op had been spent working on the line. Kevin considered himself smart though, and he felt confident in his ability to figure this small dilemma out.\n\nThe sturdy beam of light reflected on something through the maze of electrical boxes and wire terminals. S, T, U...Thank God! Kevin blurted out. SMACK! Another shriek of lightning exploded as Kevin jumped back for a second. He was already frightened enough walking the cage on the concrete pathway, especially on this wet night. Water made for a perfect conductor, he remembered from his lineman's safety class. The constant hum above his head was another reminder of the more than five million volts of electricity around him. There was no use in putting it off. He had to do what was necessary in pleasing his fat Cuban friend who was probably waiting right around now. He managed to squeeze between two of the switching units before coming face to face with the set of terminals he needed to access. Unit T was the first to go. Kevin imagined the sectors of lighted homes and streets being knocked out by one fell chop of the hammer-like lever. Like a gallous falling, the sudden CRACK at the bottom signaled the opening of the circuit. Behind it was five million watts of power, stopped, with nowhere else to go. All the remaining units shut down without incident until X. X marks the spot...the spot for trouble, Kevin thought to himself. The men who routinely worked the cage used to complain endlessly about unit X. It was alleged to be haunted by the spirits living on Windley Key. The switching unit had already been replaced three times. The problem was always the same. When it rained several days in a row the shields on the transformers overhead dumped their runoff of storm water into the lever mechanism, thus causing it to freeze in place. Kevin put all of his weight on the rubber-lined lever. It wouldn't budge. I could go and get a pry bar. No, I'll try something else first. The higher he got the more leverage he would be able to exert. It was worth a try. As he climbed onto a steel support bar, his better judgment told him not to. The other side of his brain, the one that told him to get it over with, convinced him differently. The first five circuits opened without any problem; this one was just being a little difficult. He continued to scale the beam until he was above unit X. He took a hold of the lever. He could feel the rubber squeezing between his strong fingers. Kevin grunted as he exerted all the force he could muster. As he looked down he could see that he had actually done it. The lever had moved almost two inches. The loud shrill of Kevin's beeper sounded next, almost scaring him off the beam. People must have already started to call the main dispatch center complaining of the recent outage. Unfortunately, none of those calls were from Windley Key...not yet at least. Ten or twelve more inches to go as he grunted again. This time he could feel the lever moving. He continued the pressure, almost screaming with a frenzy of strength.\n\nWith eyes closed and his senses dulled from the rush of adrenaline, Kevin never saw the final shriek of lightning.\n\nSMACK!\n\nThe knife-like bolt of energy struck the top of the cage. The transformer above his head absorbed most of the rogue beam of light sucking it in and taking it to the ground. The initial blast caused Kevin to contract and curl up into the circuit in front of him. The bones in his fingers snapped under the intense burst of pressure. His chest was drawn to the X placard like a magnet, burning the letter through his skin directly into his sternum. The milliseconds of time that elapsed were enough to melt his eyes and brain matter that immediately flowed from every orifice in his skull. The final surge blew him back to the ground where he laid motionless.\n\nLike a spontaneous reaction, switching units S through A were knocked out by the strike. Four more pages were dispatched to Kevin Pinder over the next few minutes. His beeper, now a molten puddle of plastic and electrodes, failed to respond.\n\n* * * * *\n\nBreath\n\nThe wind-blown palms swayed with every gust, throwing monstrous shadows against the bare white walls of the Islamorada Coast Guard Station. Across Snake Creek, Gordo, Del and Julio sat perched in a dark gray Zodiac inflatable boat, floating under a wooden pier. Raindrops fell between the slats of the aged timbers filling the small rubber raft. Gordo could barely see the station house less than a hundred yards away through the drizzle.\n\nWhile Snake Creek did wind through the mangroves, it was hardly a creek. Because it connected the ocean to Florida Bay, the creek also had a current. It flowed out to sea when the tide was low and in towards the bay when it was up. At this moment, the tide was lower than normal.\n\nGordo looked down at his watch. It was 9:17 p.m. Earlier that day, he had made arrangements with Kevin Pinder to cut the power to Windley Key and the surrounding areas. It was part of their restitution deal, and while Kevin wasn't happy about it, he didn't have a choice but to comply. However, there was a catch. Kevin was responsible for repairing all outages occurring between 8:00 p.m. and 8:00 a.m. If the power was not restored within an hour, his supervisor would undoubtedly come to investigate.\n\nHe was starting to wonder if Kevin was going to come through as he looked over at the two-story station. The rain was heavy enough. Maybe we could do it with the lights on, he thought to himself. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning and a clap of thunder sounded. Everything north of the bridge fell into a state of darkness. The only lights came from passing cars on the bridge overhead. Del pushed as hard as he could against the barnacle-covered piling. Gordo grabbed an oar and began to paddle alternating from side to side.\n\nSmall patches of white, frothy seawater and seaweed drifted by as Julio fended them off the oncoming concrete pillars, fighting the current by holding to the bridge's cross members. Razor sharp barnacles scratched along the side of the rubber raft. The tiniest prick in the side of the fragile craft could threaten its flotation. They positioned themselves, preparing for the channel span located at the middle of the bridge. The passage was about seventy-five feet wide and had no supports or pillars to hold onto. It was the widest and highest gap under the bridge and was where boats would pass when navigating down the twisted waterway. To make matters worse, stationed above their heads was the bridge tender, a civil servant whose job was to open and close the massive drawbridge that spanned over the channel. Gordo knew he had to paddle as fast as possible to reach the other side before the current caught them, washing the raft past their first pillar and on out to the open water. Fortunately, the blinding rain continued to drive down upon them. They knew it would take a miracle for them to find the other side of the span, but these were desperate times.\n\nThe wind howled as it blew under the bridge, slicing through the complex grid work of concrete and steel. Gordo pushed away from the pillar. The raft surged forward and headlong into a moving rusty steel wall. Gordo watched in horror as the object consumed his immediate field of vision. Startled for a minute, he realized they had caught a passing barge making its way through the creek. Just then, the surging swell created by the massive craft's blunt bow captured Gordo, throwing him into the dark water below. His oar was immediately sucked under the passing barge. Gordo suddenly realized that the barge was being pushed, not pulled, and that the worst was yet to come. He grabbed a hold of the raft and began to push it back towards the pillar, away from their direction of travel.\n\nGordo grabbed on to the pillar, a solid shaft of concrete four feet in diameter. The barnacles cut his arms and hands. Del and Julio remained in the raft and watched as the stern of the barge approached. Behind it, pushing with all its might, was a flat-nosed tugboat. The two could see the captain sitting in the heated wheelhouse, sipping a cup of coffee. Past the tug's transom was a five-foot-high mound of white churning water generated by the spinning propeller that sucked as much as it pulled. Gordo held on tight. Any contact with the tug's transom and they would undoubtedly be sucked under and fed through the turning propeller. As the tug's aft came closer, Gordo gripped the barnacles on the pillar, momentarily losing his grip, slipping lower in the flowing water and then regaining it. He began to feel the surge of water rush by his legs, sucking one of his loose Topsider shoes from his left foot. As the wall of water approached, Gordo felt his grip weaken. He looked into Del's eyes and wondered if this was some kind of natural retribution from the gods for his crash with Bobby at the Elbow. Gordo could let go and take his chances or he could try to climb back onto the raft. Either way he felt like he was watching his life come to an end. Before he had a chance to make a decision, the churning water threw everything in its path against the pillars. Gordo held his breath as the water rushed over his head. The wash pulled him free from the four-foot pillar and deep under the water's surface. His hands, still clutching loose barnacles, scratched free from the concrete's surface. Gordo felt the pounding lumps of water thrusts poking at every spot of his body, pulling and pushing at his contorted body. As he went deeper, the pressure pushed against his sinuses and made his ears pop. Churned up sand and mud from the bottom rushed inside his clothes, filling his pockets. He waited for the final bit of trauma, almost tired of the anxiety, wanting it to all end; the slice of the propeller blade cutting him into neatly diced pieces, chum in the digestive tract of some scavenger who was used to eating tin cans and fish feces. Then, as soon as the pressure mounted, it declined and the water grew warmer. Gordo's body began to regain buoyancy. His head and torso popped through the surface of the white frothing aftermath. He was stunned and surprised to be alive. On the opposite side, Del and Julio looked on from the raft, relieved that he had made it.\n\nThe three continued, paddling the raft the rest of the way across the channel. As they entered the cove next to the station, Gordo looked up at the Heads Up moored behind a 41-foot Coast Guard patrol boat. The sight was very intimidating. Gordo gave a final push from the bridge's embankment as Julio and Del laid out the equipment, with the raft drifting over to the side of the seized boat. Grabbing onto the gunwales, Gordo ran his hand over the bright red sticker that marked the Heads Up.\n\nSeized Property  \nNO TRESPASSING  \nU.S. Coast Guard  \nDepartment of Transportation  \nWashington, DC.\n\nJulio opened a long black bag sitting on the soft rubber floor. Inside was a brand new Makita cordless saw and several unused batteries, all still wrapped in the plastic they were purchased in. Gordo looked up at the dark Coast Guard station house as they slid the raft in between the boat and the rigid concrete pier. Without any power, the men occupying the station could not see the dock, not even out of the radio room that was perched twenty feet away. The wind howled as Julio made the first cut through the side of the Fiberglas hull of the Heads Up. Splinters of Fiberglas showered down on the sides and floor of the raft. The carbide blade was an effective cutting tool, slicing the boat's hull like butter, but the drain on the battery was noticeable. As the saw gradually winded down, Julio discharged the seven-inch-long cell letting it fall into the dark water and immediately popped in another one in its place and resumed the cutting. Gordo watched the surroundings. The blackout was hopefully going to give them enough time. He looked at his watch that read 9:31 p.m. The power had been off for fourteen minutes. Kevin Pinder agreed to give us thirty, but anything could happen, especially if his supervisor showed up at the transfer station to intervene, Gordo worried.\n\nThe rain had subsided but the wind continued to howl, muffling the sound of the churning saw. Gordo took one more look around the grounds next to the station. An upright shadow appeared in the distance about fifty feet away. Gordo popped his head back below the side of the seawall before inching it back up. He watched as the figure stood stationary.\n\n\"Wait,\" he whispered to Julio.\n\n\"What is it?\" Del asked.\n\n\"I don't know. It's a shadow.\"\n\nDel joined Gordo, peering just above the lip of the concrete slab.\n\n\"It's a fucking tree man! You're so paranoid, maric\u00f3n. You almost gave me a heart attack,\" Del whispered as he sat back down in the raft. Gordo stayed silent and continued to watch.\n\n\"Wait,\" Gordo said, this time grabbing Julio's arm.\n\n\"The tree just lit a cigarette.\"\n\nThe three resumed their crouched stance as they watched the amber dot move down the dock toward their position. Julio sat deep into the bottom of the raft hiding himself in the equipment, like an ostrich with its head in the sand. Despite the fact that Gordo was out of shape and required at least twenty to thirty breaths per minute, he was holding what little air he had left in his lungs trying to stay as quiet as possible. He watched as the shape moved closer.\n\nJulio and Del sat silent covered in gear and Fiberglas dust. They could hear the person's footsteps approach as hard-soled shoes embracing the wet concrete echoed off the Fiberglas boat next to them.\n\nGordo watched as the figure stopped right over their heads. His mind was racing. Did he see the cut in the side of the boat? Was there any Fiberglas dust on the dock? What in the fuck was this guy's problem? Gordo grabbed a hold of the seawall and prepared to push off. He figured that the few seconds he could gain would be very valuable because it was very obvious that they were about to be discovered. The wind started to blow again pushing the Heads Up against the dock, squeezing the raft in between the boat and the concrete seawall. Then as suddenly as it stopped, the rain started to fall again. Gordo looked up as the figure took one last drag from his cigarette and discarded it over the side of the dock as the smoldering butt landed in the middle of the raft.\n\nThe time was 9:39 p.m. Julio had cut three of the four sides of the new hole. Gordo was hoping for overtime. Maybe the men at the station wouldn't be able to see them from the window above when the lights came back on, Gordo wondered but doubted. The lights could come on any second and they would be in broad daylight, exposed for everyone to see.\n\nThe saw blade started to dull from the course Fiberglas. Julio was on battery eleven and he had only purchased twelve. More blades would have been a good idea, the experienced Fiberglas man thought. What at first seemed like butter now resembled a charred, overdone steak and the motor on the saw was starting to turn slower with the increased resistance. Julio popped out the spent battery and popped in the last charged one. The saw came back to life as dust filled the air around the cut and covered all three men. The saw started to wind back down just six inches from the end of the cut. Julio watched as a light gray acrid smoke filled the air and the power tool seized tight. Its life was over. Julio sighed in disbelief as he sat down back in the bottom of the boat.\n\n\"We killed it,\" Julio said.\n\nGordo looked at the partially completed square etched in the side of the boat. How could we come so far and fail...The story of my life, Gordo thought to himself. Then, out of mere frustration, the cumbersome hulk kicked the boat's side. The flat panel surged forward. Julio and Del looked up with excitement as Gordo pushed the loose hull piece away from the main structure, discarding it to the side. The two sat motionless for a second as they peered into the three-by three-foot hole they had created. Julio looked down as water started to lap into the unprotected hull. Gordo immediately reached in pulling out the first duffel bag containing exactly forty-six kilos, then the second, and the third until twenty of the heavy bags had been retrieved. Nine hundred and twenty kilos were piled into the small 14-foot raft weighing down the center. Julio discarded the saw and other tools over the side before all three men climbed into the dark cold water. Gordo gave a push and the three swam vigorously, using their cupped hands to quietly propel the small craft out of the cove and back across the channel.\n\n\u2022\n\nCoast Guardsman Daniel Phillips watched the latest episode of Unsolved Mysteries on his battery-powered two-inch television as the radio room filled with fluorescent light. After checking the radios and other electronic equipment, he peered out the large bay window before him. Large mercury vapor floodlights mounted on tall poles overhead came to life, warming up and flooding the neatly manicured grounds with fresh white light that bounced off the partially submerged deck of the Heads Up as turquoise water lapped over top of it. Phillips watched in disbelief as the mooring lines snapped under the immense pressure letting the craft roll over and sink to the bottom of the cove.\n\n* * * * *\n\nPact\n\nJoel and Tessa had gone out for the night. The Sands home had lost power an hour before and Owen lit some candles while he watched Monica. It was the first time he had been alone with his granddaughter and the time had brought back many good memories of the early days with his own kids; the early days when Leslie was alive and they were a functional family.\n\nOwen sat on the floor of Tessa's childhood room with Monica who was playing her own rendition of hospital nursery with some of her mother's old dolls.\n\n\"These are the new babies and these are the sick ones,\" she said, pointing to the two rows of ten dolls and her favorite, a rabbit puppy toy that was also lying on the floor around them.\n\n\"New babies?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"They were just delivered,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, right, by the stork.\"\n\n\"No silly, by the truck.\"\n\n\"The truck?\"\n\n\"The baby truck. One for baby boys and one for baby girls because they come from different places.\"\n\n\"You're telling me,\" Owen replied.\n\n\"Grandpa...we need blankets because they are getting cold.\"\n\n\"How about this one?\" he suggested, pulling a knit shawl from his daughter's queen-sized bed.\n\n\"I think that's perfect, but we have to pretend it's...it's...no germs,\" she said, trying to choose her words carefully. \"This is a baby hospital you know.\"\n\n\"I agree. It looks pretty clean to me,\" Owen declared, as Monica looked over all the dolls secure under the makeshift blanket. Then she walked over and sat in Owen's lap, resting her tiny head against his chest.\n\n\"Grandpa...\"\n\n\"Yes, sweet girl.\"\n\n\"Where's my daddy?\"\n\nNow it was his turn to choose his words carefully.\n\n\"Well, honey,\" he said, pausing, \"you know how those babies came here by the baby truck?\"\n\n\"Yes...\"\n\n\"Well, sometimes people go back to the place where the babies come from.\"\n\n\"Heaven?\"\n\n\"Yes baby, heaven.\"\n\nOr not in this case, he thought quietly to himself.\n\n\"When can they come back?\"\n\n\"They can't honey. They get a new job - an important one taking care of all the babies who are in heaven waiting for their turn to come here to Earth.\"\n\n\"My daddy's taking care of babies in heaven?\"\n\n\"Yep, and I bet he's got a bunch of them right now who need his help. It's important work you know, taking care of all these babies, just like we are taking care of these babies here.\"\n\n\"Are the lights out in heaven too?\"\n\n\"I don't think they need lights up there because they have all those twinkling stars to brighten things up.\"\n\n\"I bet it's pretty bright.\"\n\n\"Yeah, and they have the moon too.\"\n\n\"They have the stars and the moon?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"Grandpa...?\"\n\n\"Yes baby?\"\n\n\"Are you going to go help the babies one day?\"\n\n\"Someday honey.\"\n\n\"Not too soon because I need help with these babies,\" Monica said, pointing to the dolls under the shawl.\n\n\"That's a deal,\" he promised, holding her tight.\n\n\"Grandpa...?\"\n\n\"Yes baby?\"\n\n\"Not too soon...\" she said as her eyes closed shut.\n\nOwen didn't answer. Her breathing had changed and he felt that old familiar feeling of a toddler asleep in his arms.\n\n* * * * *\n\n188th Street\n\nA man known as \"Marko\" cruised up and down Miami's Northeast 188th Street in a green Mercury Cougar as the scores of Fiberglas men, mechanics, upholsters, and painters applied their respective talents to the sleek performance boats that were built on this street. The driver had spent most of the morning hanging around the waterfront industrial community and was starting to feel queasy from the smell of Fiberglas resin in the air. Then he saw it. At the end of this street that made performance boats famous was Aaron Donaldson, its founding father, dodging a puddle created by a light rain that had been falling since sunrise.\n\nDonaldson opened the door to his dark blue Mercedes 450 SL and started the engine, giving Marko a few fleeting seconds to prepare. As the SL pulled forward, a young blond woman ran out into the street with a manila file folder in her hand. Marko clinched a Ruger .22 long barrel pistol as he bent down onto the front seat. He was not exceptionally experienced at this, unlike the Hollywood hit men who had closets full of equipment and sent perfect shots in the dark, completing their fantasy missions with skill and precision. He was just a guy who knew a guy. This act was supposed to be a repayment for a favor that had been granted to other men Marko had never met or would ever meet.\n\nWhat Marko did know was that it was smart to steal a rental car because it would go unnoticed for several days. He knew that small caliber weapons were good because the noise they made didn't travel very far. The use of the Hollywood silencers was another part of the hit man urban legend. Fast, accurate bullets broke the sound barrier and that was a shot no silencer would muffle. And he knew that he had to strike his target's head in one of five vulnerable areas: either of the two eyes, the two ears, or at the base of the neck because getting a low caliber bullet to pierce the human skull was almost impossible.\n\nAs Donaldson pulled forward, Marko put the rental car in gear and followed. 188th Street wasn't terribly long. Like a bush pilot running out of runway, he had a small window of opportunity to complete his task.\n\nMarko followed for a few hundred feet, watching his target answer the handset of his car phone. That's when he made his move.\n\nThe Cougar lunged forward, passing the Mercedes as Marko pulled alongside Donaldson who was deep in a conversation.\n\nPOP POP POP\n\nThe gun rattled off. Marko watched with disappointment as only one of his shots hit his target, bouncing off of his forehead. Donaldson, with blood gushing down his face, veered away from the gunman, steering the car off the road and into the front of the Indian shop, hitting the corner of the metal building. Marko jumped out of his car, leaving it in the middle of the street with the driver's side door open and walked directly towards Donaldson who fumbled for the handset of the Mercedes car phone. With his arm outstretched and the gun's sights pointed at the target's head, he fired again.\n\nPOP POP POP POP\n\nDonaldson's head rocked forward and then back. A stream of spurting blood shot from behind his left ear. The other shots hit him in the shoulder, face and back of the head.\n\nMarko ran back to the car he left running in the street and sped off, leaving a dual set of black rubber marks in the process.\n\nInside the Indian shop, Scott Roberts and his boat crew heard the noise outside. Most in the crew wrote it off thinking one of the busy shops on the street was pulling a new boat out of one of their molds. It was customary, almost religious to throw packages of common firecrackers in between the hull and mold as a ritual signifying the birth of a new boat.\n\nRoberts knew better. He ran out the front door of the Indian shop just in time to find his old friend bleeding to death.\n\n\"Aaron, can you hear me?\"\n\n\"Hello...?\" came a voice from the car phone's hand piece.\n\n\"Aaron's been shot!\" he screamed, pressing the end call key and dialing 9-1-1.\n\nRoberts's heart was beating through his chest. Blood was already covering his own clothes and that's when he saw it: Aaron Donaldson's all gold, diamond-studded Rolex watch. Instinct took over as he slipped the watch off his friend's wrist and into his pocket.\n\n\"Hello? Police now! Northeast 188th Street in front of my shop,\" he yelled into the hand piece.\n\n\"Sir, what's your emergency?\" the 9-1-1 dispatcher asked.\n\n\"A man's been shot,\" he yelled, almost out of breath.\n\nAs Roberts spoke, he looked down at Donaldson who was still spitting a small amount of blood from behind his left ear. The spurts corresponded with his fainting heart that was beating rapidly and with less force. Then, as though he just gave up, the spurting turned to a steady ooze as he felt Donaldson cease his shallow breathing.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDuty\n\nVeterinary paramedics Hal Keller and Ron Jeffries started their shift like any other. Unit 152, a prize-winning bull in barracks C, had required a supplemental dose of antibiotics to fight a persistent upper respiratory infection. Soon after, the two men ate breakfast at the International Farms Corporation commissary and returned to the station where they started on some much-needed housecleaning before the alarm came in.\n\n\"Rescue one, Rescue one. Peripheral patrol has called in a small brush fire next to the abandoned porcelain plant.\"\n\n\"Rescue one copy, we're en route.\"\n\nAfter a quick jaunt across the complex, their red, pickup-sized fire-rescue truck pulled into the parking lot of the dormant plant. The blacktop was faded and overrun with weeds that had grown through the cracks in the pavement over the many years of neglect. As the brakes screeched to a halt, Jeffries positioned the truck about fifty feet from a burning patch of brush.\n\n\"Rescue one to control, we have a small containable brush fire. We will be out extinguishing.\"\n\n\"10-4 Rescue one. Control out.\"\n\nThis was routine duty, unlike the massive structure fires the duo had fought while employed by the City of Ocala Fire Department. Regardless, the work had to be done and Jeffries pulled the hard rubber booster hose while Keller manned the small pump mounted into the side of the truck. In a matter of minutes, clear, cold water was flowing from the high-pressure nozzle towards the burning brush.\n\nSWOOOOSH\n\nA flume of steam rose into the air as the fire died out, leaving a patch of black smoldering embers where the fire once was.\n\n\"Rescue one, fire out,\" Keller said after reaching inside the truck's cab and grabbing the radio's microphone.\n\n\"10-4 Rescue one, return to quarters.\"\n\nThe abandoned plant was off limits to most of the IFC staff after a memo was issued warning of high levels of asbestos, an insulation ingredient that had just been included on the growing list of cancer-causing agents. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration had warned companies like IFC that they would be liable for any long-term illnesses associated with an employee's contact with the substance and that was all it took. Like a witch with a wand, the spell had been cast and asbestos soon became the new lead.\n\n\u2022\n\nAcross the complex and in the office of Sal Alcone, Gus Greico was pouring rum from a fresh bottle of Puerto Rico's finest.\n\n\"I am so proud of you Del. Words cannot describe how I feel right now. You did it my friend,\" Sal said.\n\n\"Where's Gordo?\" Greico asked.\n\n\"I think that is going to be it for our chubby friend,\" Del added.\n\n\"He's quitting? We just got him started,\" Greico said.\n\n\"When we went after the stuff he...\" Del explained, choosing his words. \"Well let's just say he had a life changing experience. He's gone on a diet and is retiring from our...\"\n\n\"Look at this!\" Greico interrupted, pointing to the television in the corner of the room.\n\n\"Oh my God!\" Del exclaimed, standing to his feet.\n\n\"CNN reports that famed Miami boat designer Aaron Donaldson has been shot and killed in the trendy South Florida suburb of Aventura this morning,\" the television broadcasted, showing live video of Donaldson's dark blue Mercedes with a sheet draped body behind the wheel. \"Details are still coming in but one witness says he heard numerous rounds of high-powered automatic gun fire. Another says he saw a brown custom van flee the area. Metro Dade police have sealed off the entrance to Northeast 188th Street and will be questioning everyone who works there. And now to our Washington desk,\" an announcer said as the video stream shifted from Donaldson's car to a still picture of an older suited man.\n\n\"Miami boat builder and international world champion boat racer, Aaron Donaldson, ran with the jet set, developing a lifelong friendship with none other than the Vice President of the United States,\" CNN then rolled video of the same man pictured in the still, but he was now walking out of an office building surrounded by Secret Service agents in black suits. \"Aaron Donaldson was a good friend of mine and of this country. His contribution to America's war on drugs is immeasurable. I will make it a priority of this administration to seek out and find all who are responsible for this selfish and heinous act.\"\n\nSal shut the set off with a remote control he kept in his desk drawer.\n\n\"Well, I guess your problems are over Del,\" Sal said.\n\n\"I haven't had time to think about it actually,\" he responded.\n\n\"He was going to turn you in. Hell, he was going to turn us all in. It had to be done. Consider it a bonus for a job well done.\"\n\nDel and Greico looked down at Sal who was sitting back in his chair, staring out the window.\n\n\"We have some other stuff to discuss,\" Greico announced, changing the subject.\n\n\"I hear that,\" Del replied, retrieving his tumbler of rum.\n\n\"Turnbush,\" Sal said.\n\n\"Turnbush? The private club?\" Del asked. \"You want me to join?\"\n\n\"You know the place, right?\" Greico asked.\n\n\"Sure, I've never been there before.\"\n\n\"We are going to change up our plan a little. I purchased a 96-footer yesterday.\"\n\n\"I guess so. Wow. I don't know what to say,\" Del replied.\n\n\"The dockmaster over there has been working for us for quite a while now. He's got quite a safe setup down there.\"\n\n\"I had no idea.\"\n\n\"That's why we like him. He's a real pro and underneath everyone's radar. Yours included.\"\n\n\"What's the plan?\"\n\n\"I need you to go get this large yacht. I'm paying you over a million and a half dollars so you should be able to handle that without any problem. Get a crew and a classy couple to take with you. They need to look the part. I want uniforms, gourmet food, the whole bit. You will depart from Puerto Barrios, Guatemala and return to Turnbush. Fred Gold, the dockmaster, has the place locked down tight. It seems some presidential hopeful got caught with his pants down banging some supermodel a few months ago and now security is real heavy,\" Sal said.\n\n\"Heavy? How can that be good?\" Del asked.\n\n\"No, it's a good thing. Trust me. If you've got anyone watching, Gold's people will know,\" Sal replied. \"He's got the boat set up for you. She's a classy rig Del. The best part is that there is a dormant fuel tank in the fantail that's good for at least thirty-four hundred kilos.\"\n\n\"Same rate?\" Del asked, smiling.\n\n\"Eighteen hundred a kilo,\" Greico answered.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFahrenheit\n\nPat Stephens adjusted his tie as he walked into the jury room.\n\n\"Okay, let's get started,\" he announced, depositing some files in front of the court reporter.\n\nHis prize jury had met religiously every Friday morning for over a month and had heard evidence on a wide variety of drug cases, all of which were different but connected.\n\n\"Today is going to be filled with some of the most riveting testimony you will hear to date. But first, let's make sure we are all on the same page. All of us are getting together at Jones Deli for lunch, right?\" Stephens asked as some of the jurors laughed.\n\n\"Only if you're buying,\" a portly woman from the back of the row announced.\n\n\"Jones Deli it is,\" Hank Pearson confirmed from his front row seat.\n\n\"Okay then, now that the important stuff is out of the way, let me introduce our first witness. Before he comes out though, I do need to explain that the indictments, if any today, will be sealed for up to a month. This basically means that we will have the right to arrest the defendant or defendants at will. What we will probably do is wait until we have all the key players and go after them all at one time. We call this a sweep.\"\n\nHank Pearson made some notes on a canary yellow legal pad. He had a big quote for a new restaurant chain that was due on Monday. As Stephens talked, he made his list, trying to pay attention to the proceedings that were now starting to dig into his livelihood.\n\nJordan Cheney, dressed in a suit with a gold badge attached to his left pocket, walked into the jury room.\n\n\"Please identify yourself for the jury,\" Stephens instructed.\n\n\"Special Agent in Charge, Jordan Frances Cheney.\"\n\n\"And your duties as they relate to the matters at hand are?\"\n\n\"I supervise thirty-eight agents and field officers who patrol and enforce the sovereign Customs laws of the United States in the Florida Keys, a group of islands off the southern coast of Florida.\"\n\n\"As we have been discussing in past jury sessions, it has been suspected that one or more of your agents has sold his country out to one of the smuggling groups down there. Special Agent Cheney, have you looked into these allegations and do you have a report for us?\"\n\n\"I have sir. My closest agents and I coordinated an internal investigation and concluded that a member of my senior staff has the opportunity, the means, and the motive to commit such a crime. And now we have corresponding proof,\" Cheney said, pausing to drink some water from a glass that was sitting next to him.\n\n\"And may we have this agent's name?\"\n\n\"Yes sir, or course, it's Senior Special Agent Owen Sands.\"\n\n\"I see. Please continue.\"\n\n\"Agent Sands has a daughter named Tessa Sands. Tessa is married to Bobby Alazar.\"\n\n\"Excuse me Agent Cheney. Jury, please reference the last batch of witness subpoenas that have been issued. Tessa Sands Alazar is a frequent player and has her hand in a number of continuing criminal concerns,\" Stephens added. \"Bobby Alazar is the son of Roberto Alazar who is, we estimate, the biggest smuggler we are watching right now.\"\n\nHe turned back to Cheney. \"And where does this smuggling occur, Agent Cheney?\" Stephens asked.\n\n\"In the Upper Florida Keys,\" Jordan answered.\n\n\"Agent Cheney, please detail the residual evidence that you have discovered.\"\n\n\"Sure. The smoking gun in a case like this is cash, plain and simple. We have tracked over seven thousand in excess cash to Agent Sands. Keep in mind that this is cash we can find,\" Cheney further explained. \"During a six month period, we infused eleven thousand worth of marked bills through a series of DEA confidential informants who then purchased controlled substances from Agent Sands.\"\n\n\"And what type of controlled substances are we talking about?\"\n\n\"Specifically cannabis and cocaine.\"\n\n\"And, Agent Cheney, did the cash resurface?\"\n\n\"It did. We were able to trace seventy-eight hundred in transactions.\"\n\n\"What type of transactions?\"\n\n\"Mostly construction supplies.\"\n\n\"Let me present copies of the tracer certifications from The Islamorada Bank, The Keys State Bank, American Bank, and Marathon Mutual Savings and Loan. The tracers correspond with invoices made out to Agent Sands. Several have his signature on them. Please admit this as jury exhibit 32-B.\"\n\nStephens took a minute while the members of the jury thumbed through their copies of the documents, several of which looked up at Stephens as if to say this guy works for us?\n\n\"Jury, I would also like to take a minute to present some photographs taken of a home that is being built on the same street where Agent Sands's home is located. While the home is in his mother's name, Ms. Betty Sands, the construction materials correspond with materials used on this project,\" Stephens pointed out.\n\n\"Mr. Stephens?\" called out one of the jurors.\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Pearson,\" Stephens said to juror Hank Pearson who had been paying close attention to the copies he had been given.\n\n\"Let me get this straight. We gave money to some undercover informants, who, in turn, bought drugs from this agent. The agent used the money to buy construction stuff for a house he is building. My questions are: How did this agent get these drugs and second, how did we know the money was the same money that we gave the snitches...Sorry, I mean, informants. Do we put marks on them and if we do, how do we know they are the correct marks? Shouldn't we be looking at the bills themselves because that would be evidence, right?\"\n\nStephens took a minute to look at his jury roster. Hank Pearson, Restaurant Supply Sales, Norcross, Georgia. This guy is asking some pretty pointed questions for a man who sells forks and knives, he thought to himself.\n\n\"Can I answer that?\" Cheney asked.\n\n\"Sure, be my guest,\" Stephens interjected, surprised by the candor of his witness.\n\n\"Owen has had some severe financial problems. Every day he comes in contact with large amounts of these drugs. To make matters worse, the guys we chase oftentimes dump their loads overboard creating what we call floaters. When we find these floaters, they are treated just like any other contraband that we confiscate. It's seized, tagged and stored for disposal. As far as the money goes, the term marked money makes it sound like we do something to the bills. On the contrary, every bank in the United States runs its fifties and hundreds through a money counter that simultaneously records the bill's serial number. A marked bill is simply one that we have a record of.\"\n\n\"So you recorded the bills that were given to the DEA guys and then waited for them to reappear in the banks?\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" Cheney replied.\n\n\"Just one more question, if I may. Why would a government agent who deals with this stuff all the time take anything over a twenty dollar bill?\"\n\n\"I...I don't know. You would have to ask him I guess,\" Cheney said hesitating.\n\n\"In your professional opinion, Agent Cheney,\" Stephens interjected, changing the subject, \"would Agent Sands have the opportunity to secure the drugs, these floaters as you call them, for his own personal gain?\" Stephens asked.\n\n\"Most certainly. Agent Sands is my second in command. The other agents attached to our office work with partners or they participate with other agencies, like the local sheriff's department or the Florida Marine Patrol.\"\n\n\"I'm confused Agent Cheney. Are you saying that Agent Sands is the only one in your office who works alone?\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I'm saying, unless...\" Cheney said, hesitating for a second.\n\n\"Unless what?\" Stephens asked.\n\n\"He's training a rookie. He's our FTO.\"\n\n\"FTO?\"\n\n\"Field Training Officer,\" Cheney explained.\n\nAs Jordan Cheney left the room, a jury steward entered and presented the panel with snacks, coffee and a fresh batch of cookies. With a concerned look on his face, Pat Stephens followed Cheney back into the jury room's side chambers.\n\n\"Am I to understand that you have my brother-in-law paired up with a target?\"\n\n\"Relax Pat, he's harmless. Besides, if Joel's picked anything up from you, he's an asset. The funny part is that the boat we suspect Owen has been using to go into the mangroves and retrieve these floaters, the small Boston Whaler, well, someone took care of that one,\" Cheney said laughing.\n\n\"And it didn't occur to you to inform me of this? How many conversations have we had about this kid and how you could do me a favor by setting him up down there? Do you understand? I am responsible here. I took an oath to his father and, more importantly, to my wife.\"\n\n\"Relax, I'll get him reassigned.\"\n\n\"No, it's too late now. But, I'm briefing the kid.\"\n\n\"That's not a good idea.\"\n\n\"And why?\"\n\n\"Word is he's dating Owen's daughter.\"\n\n\"Tessa? Tessa Alazar?\" Stephens asked, almost shouting.\n\n\"It doesn't look good.\"\n\n\"Ya think?\" Stephens responded sarcastically.\n\nStephens reentered the jury room just in time to see his panel consumed with food and idle conversation.\n\n\"Okay, we need to cut our break short. We have one more witness before we adjourn for the day. We will have to do lunch at Jones Deli another day. I'm sorry but something's come up.\"\n\nAs the witness approached the appropriate desk, he sat down, adjusting the microphone in front of him as Stephens stood above.\n\n\"You have been subpoenaed by this grand jury to testify in matters of interest to the court. Could you please give your name, occupation and place of employment for the court?\"\n\n\"Yes sir, Scott Roberts, boat builder, Indian Performance Boats, Inc., Miami, Florida.\"\n\n\"And do you agree to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?\"\n\n\"I do, sir.\"\n\n\"As a builder of performance boats, do you come in contact with a wide variety of customers?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.\"\n\n\"Jury, let me take a minute to fill you in on our witness. Scott Roberts has been building boats all of his life. He was an integral part of the Stiletto Powerboat Company before starting Indian Performance Boats. Mr. Roberts has raced these boats all over the world and has several championships to show for it. And, before you ask, I'm sure he's available for autographs,\" Stephens said as a few of the jurors laughed.\n\n\"Thank you, I'm flattered,\" Roberts responded, laughing to himself.\n\n\"Is that an accurate appraisal of your qualifications, Mr. Roberts?\"\n\n\"Everything except the autographs,\" Roberts said as everyone on the jury laughed.\n\n\"Touch\u00e9. On a more serious note, can you describe your relationship with an Aaron Donaldson?\" Stephens instructed as a few of the jurors sat up in their seats, recognizing the name.\n\n\"Yes sir. Aaron gave me my first job in boat building. When I decided to branch out and start my own company, he gave me a good deal on some molds.\"\n\n\"He sold you molds for what? A performance boat?\"\n\n\"Yes. They were a more advanced version of the 38-foot Stiletto that had been stretched to 41-feet.\"\n\n\"Okay, now you're losing me.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry. Stiletto produces a 38-foot powerboat. It's their most popular. Aaron built a mold...\"\n\n\"The mold being the thing that you guys use to make these boats... like a Jell-O mold,\" Stephens said, looking directly at the women on the panel who were already confused.\n\n\"Yeah, something like that. Anyway, Aaron sold me the mold to the 41-foot Stiletto.\"\n\n\"Why would he do that? Wouldn't it help you, his competition?\"\n\n\"No, he had a solid deal to sell Stiletto to some guys out of Texas and the inventory didn't include the 41-foot set of molds.\"\n\n\"Okay. Is there anything else that Mr. Donaldson did to help you start your business?\"\n\n\"Yes, he sold me the waterfront land on which I built my factory.\"\n\n\"And he held a mortgage for you also, didn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes, he did.\"\n\n\"Mr. Roberts, where is Mr. Donaldson today?\"\n\n\"He's dead.\"\n\n\"Killed in front of your factory, isn't that correct?\"\n\n\"Yes sir.\"\n\n\"Let's shift gears for a minute. Do you know a gentleman by the name of Peter Delgado?\"\n\n\"Peter Delgado has been a customer of mine for some time.\"\n\n\"How long, Mr. Roberts?\"\n\n\"Four years, give or take. We call him Del.\"\n\n\"Okay, and has Mr. Delgado ever made any comments regarding Mr. Aaron Donaldson?\"\n\n\"Yes. About ten days ago Del was running his mouth about Aaron saying that he was concerned that Aaron was going to turn him in to the Feds now that Aaron was building patrol boats for the government.\"\n\n\"And why would Mr. Donaldson do that?\"\n\n\"Del said that over the years, Aaron had built several boats for him. He paid with cash and several of the boats had since been seized for running drugs.\"\n\n\"Tell us about the boats that you built for Mr. Delgado, and let me remind you that you have been given limited-use immunity which means that you cannot plead the Fifth Amendment as nothing you say here can be used against you, provided it's relevant to the case at hand.\"\n\n\"He asked me to build a 41-foot Indian for him.\"\n\n\"I bet it had a lot of amenities.\"\n\n\"No, it was to be stripped down. The forward cabin was completely open like our race boats. He specifically requested an eight hundred gallon fuel capacity.\"\n\n\"And how did he pay for this boat? Did you take a cashier's check or wire transfer?\"\n\n\"Cash.\"\n\n\"Cash?\"\n\n\"Tens and twenties mostly.\"\n\n\"I think I see where this is going. Where is the boat now, Mr. Roberts?\"\n\n\"You guys have it.\"\n\n\"What do you mean we have it?\"\n\n\"Customs seized it a while ago for running pot through the Keys. The boat is stationed at your Tavernier Customs station.\"\n\n\"Okay, back to the subject of Aaron Donaldson. Did Mr. Delgado make any threats regarding Mr. Donaldson?\"\n\n\"The day after he told me he was concerned about Aaron, he said to stay clear of him because he was a marked man. When I asked him what was going on, he got real mad and said that he was the only real man in Miami and that he wasn't going to take this betrayal sitting down. He was going to deal with Aaron in his own way is what he said.\"\n\n\"And did you believe him?\"\n\n\"He was real pissed.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Roberts. I think that will be all, you are excused.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir,\" Roberts replied as he stood and exited the jury room.\n\nStephens paused for a minute taking a long drink of ice water.\n\n\"I would like to table a vote of these two targets until next week when we will hear testimony from Tessa Sands Alazar. I promise it will be worth the wait,\" Stephens said as he wiped the sweat from his brow.\n\n\u2022\n\nHe drove straight home and arrived an hour and ten minutes earlier than normal. Pat Stephens had developed a habit for times like these, times when he wanted to lose control and yell at the world and yell at Jhenna. The ritual was simple and far too common, but for him it worked. He would sit in his car, stop, breathe, count to ten, and think about how the Kenyons had made his life so much better just by being a part of it. After fifteen minutes, he didn't feel any better this time though.\n\n\"Jhenna, we have to talk.\"\n\n\"Honey, what are you doing home so early?\"\n\n\"It's Joel.\"\n\n\"What's wrong, is he okay?\" she asked with one hand to her mouth.\n\n\"The fucker's fine!\" he blurted out.\n\n\"Hey!\" she responded.\n\n\"I'm sorry. There's a situation. He's involved with a girl and it's serious.\"\n\n\"He's got a girlfriend? When did this happen?\" she asked with a smile.\n\n\"Not so fast. She's trouble for him.\"\n\n\"How bad could it be? My baby brother's got a girlfriend,\" she announced, almost singing with an even bigger smile.\n\n\"You don't understand. I need you to be serious here. He could be in a lot of trouble.\"\n\n\"What kind of trouble? Is she pregnant, because while we're on the subject...\"\n\"Okay, I'm going back outside and coming back in so I can start over! Will you please listen to me!\"\n\n\"You're yelling at me...\"\n\n\"I'm sorry. Look, there's been a real fuckup down there and his new partner...well let's just say he's probably going to be indicted this week, not to mention the girl your brother's so cozy with is his daughter. And if that's not enough, she's the widow of what was the biggest smuggler in Florida.\"\n\n\"Something's wrong. This can't be right. Not Joel,\" she said, picking up the phone and dialing his number in the Keys.\n\n\"I'm glad you're that calm about this,\" he replied.\n\n\"Look, my brother may have lacked direction for awhile, but he's done more living in the last five years than both of us will do in the next twenty. And he's no dummy,\" she explained with a face that turned sharper with every word. \"When it comes to women, Joel is the most particular man I know. If there's two things he's serious about it's this job and protecting himself from making the same mistakes our father did with our mother. Why do you think he guards his feelings so closely when it comes to women? He grew up without a mother and that made a terrible impact on him. He is bound and determined to succeed where our father failed.\"\n\nJhenna waited, listening to the phone ring without an answer before hanging it up.\n\n\"I think this was a bad idea,\" Pat said. \"We had doubts about some of the agents in the Upper Keys. Nothing solid mind you, just some chatter about some guys who were abusing their positions by scavenging the discarded drug loads from the boats they were chasing. They take the stuff, floaters they call them, and resell the drugs on the open market.\"\n\n\"You don't think that Joel might be involved do you?\"\n\n\"Of course not. What I am worried about is that his judgment might become skewed because of this woman. A woman who, by the way, has a very colorful past.\"\n\n\"Joel is a smart one. He was just like Dad.\"\n\n\"Only different right?\" he added.\n\n\"In a good way.\"\n\n\"I thought I had this guy Sands figured out. It seemed like an open and shut case presented to me on a silver platter by the group supervisor down there. It all looked so simple, but then this damn juror, a fucking restaurant supply salesman for Christ's sake, said something that put a wrench in the whole scenario.\"\n\n\"I'm sure the truth will make itself known. You just have to be ready to accept it.\"\n\n\"That sounds great...as long as I don't ruin an innocent man's career and reputation in the process.\"\n\n\"Look, I do have something I need to talk to you about honey, but maybe now's not the best time.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry Jhen. It's okay, what is it?\"\n\n\"We're pregnant, Pat.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nInvasive\n\nWith the tragic death of Prince Henry, the agents of the Tavernier office were in an uproar fueled by gossip, conjecture and an overall fear of something they didn't understand. To make matters worse, the builder of the boat, Aaron Donaldson, was killed in an unexplained shooting and not available to rebut the allegations against his design. More industry criticism came after it was learned that Donaldson had taken a simple skill saw and cut one of his former 38-foot Stilettos in half, inserted a four-foot wide tunnel and made a mold from the simple hybrid of catamaran and deep-V. The Miami Herald was quick to report that the government was grounding all of its Blue Thunder fleet with a headline that read:\n\nBlue Thunder or Blue Blunder\n\n\"Now look, I know you've all seen this and by now most of you are probably afraid of this boat. I know I would be too if I had just read this article and I knew nothing about the boat on my own, but I, as I hope most of you, know better. The boat that killed this prince was capable of speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour. Everyone here has been on that blue pig we've got and if you could get it over sixty, you were doing good,\" Cheney said to the agents who had circled around him for their morning briefing.\n\n\"That's not the point,\" West interjected. \"Everything the manufacturer has stated about this boat has turned out to be false. The damn thing doesn't run the way they say it should. They promised us, in writing mind you, that this boat couldn't be stuffed. It was hydro-dynamically impossible were the words they used. Well, they were wrong again. What are we to believe Jordan?\"\n\n\"You guys know better,\" Cheney said.\n\n\"Do we?\" Holmes asked. \"What about our wives who read this shit. Christ, this job is dangerous enough without having to dodge flying dishes when I get home. And then to think I could get killed or seriously injured just by riding in a damn boat...It's not worth it, you need to ground the fucking boat Jordan.\"\n\n\"Okay, well I was given an ultimatum by C3I. They said that if we ground the Blue Thunders, we've got to ground everything until the investigation is over. I hope this makes everyone happy. Maybe a hug would be in order, you bunch of pussies,\" Jordan said.\n\nThe crowd broke up and the men returned to their cubicles and desks. As they did, Owen and Joel entered the office.\n\n\"What's up?\" Joel asked Holmes who had the phone up to his left ear.\n\n\"I'm explaining things to my wife. We're grounded for the next few weeks it looks like. The guys are afraid of the Blue Thunder boat. I guess you can't blame them after what happened to that racer in Key West over the weekend.\"\n\n\"So, no big deal. I've never been in the damn thing,\" Joel said.\n\n\"No Kenyon, Jordan has grounded the whole fleet. We're all on dry land for awhile.\"\n\n\"Kenyon, Owen, come in here for a minute,\" Jordan yelled from the partially opened door to his office.\n\n\"What is it boss?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"Owen, I need a favor.\"\n\n\"Oh shit here it comes,\" Owen said.\n\n\"We've got a real problem with the Blue Thunder boat.\"\n\n\"I've heard.\"\n\n\"You, being the next in charge, need to secure all the boats until this whole thing blows over and these guys get tired of driving around the rock.\"\n\n\"That damn boat is more trouble than it's worth. The only reason we got the thing is because the builder is...was good friends with the Vice President,\" Owen explained, frustrated at his superior's order.\n\n\"It'll only be for a little while,\" Jordan said.\n\n\"Okay. Me and the kid are on it as soon as we grab a bite to eat.\"\n\n\"Alright, just get it done.\"\n\n\"Hey Jordan, does your guy in Miami need any more of those doubloons?\"\n\n\"I thought you were going to save the last batch. How many more do you have? Maybe, if the price is right.\"\n\n\"I've got nineteen left,\" he said. \"I need to get eight hundred a piece. I need the cash, Jordan. Something's come up.\"\n\n\"Alright man. Let me see what I can do. We just need to be careful. You see what the state is doing to that salver from Key West. A few pieces are one thing, but, if my numbers are right, you've sold around sixty grand worth. We could get in big shit if anyone found out.\"\n\n\"It's gold Jordan. My gold that I found.\"\n\n\"I'll see what I can do.\"\n\n\"What's up?\" Joel asked, walking into Cheney's office.\n\n\"You see? That's what I'm talking about, right there,\" Cheney said, pointing at the chained gold doubloon that was hanging around Joel's neck.\n\n* * * * *\n\nTan Lines\n\nLynn Kinser was an attractive girl and as much as she strived to revolve her life around the world of wealth and fame, she always found herself falling short and living the part of the very middle class. She was reminded of that every day she opened her small bathing suit shop, Tan Lines, located in the heart of the Turnbush Yacht and Country Club. She made a good living; her store grossed over three hundred thousand the year before and the year's fall quarter was even better. She managed to clear sixty thousand a year, just enough to afford her cozy duplex on the beach and a leased red Porsche 928. She was still no match for the seven, eight, and nine figure jetsetters she spent her days pandering to, the Rolex-clad, Euro wannabes who waltzed through her store handling the merchandise to death, then bickering over the price as though the store sold secondhand consignments rather than her three hundred dollar European and South American originals. It was a frustrating business but fairly lucrative. Lynn always held her ground with diligence and humor, a redeeming combination that equated to more sales. She had two full time sales girls, busty models who were shopping for someone to pay the bills. Lynn saw them for what they were, classic gold-diggers who were on the fast track to the great American gravy train. They were in the right place.\n\nUnlike its Miami rival the Jockey Club, Turnbush catered to a younger, faster crowd, one that was flashier and more pretentious. The Jockey Club stood for everything that was traditional and conservative smelling of old stale money. When the Jockey was holding its annual sailing regatta, one of the largest in the country, Turnbush was busy promoting its Puerto Rican Rum 200, a grueling offshore powerboat race that ran from Miami to Bimini, Bahamas, northwest to Fort Lauderdale, and then back to Miami. Every year the race was christened by a poolside bikini contest in which all the sponsored contestants wore suits provided by Tan Lines.\n\nSome members liked it both ways, patronizing the Jockey Club with their wife at their side on the weekend, and then slipping away on Monday to Turnbush to see their twenty-something mistress who was waiting in a fully furnished, million dollar condo overlooking the two hundred slip marina.\n\nLynn reached her tired body to hang some freshly delivered merchandise on an elevated rack. Her strained muscles didn't stretch like they used to back in her college days as a fashion student at the Florida State University School of Fashion Merchandising where she met her husband Biff Halpren, a law student. They dated religiously and were married soon after. Lynn enjoyed living the American dream. They decided against kids and enjoyed a life of self-indulgence instead. Summers were spent in Hawaii, winters in Vail, and every other Easter in Europe.\n\nBiff was moving up the corporate ladder with his firm and she had a flourishing career with a small but growing chain of maternity shops. They lived the ideal young urban professional lifestyle: a vigorous day of productive work, followed by an afternoon at the gym, finishing the day with a perfectly planned meal. The American dream though, soon turned into the great American nightmare. Three weeks after the couple's seventh anniversary, Lynn found a lump in her right breast, a tumor that was later diagnosed as a cancerous mass requiring surgery. Quick action saved her life, but it wasn't fast enough to save the life. Her perfect breasts were never quite the same and the chemotherapy severely affected her face and hair. In the course of five months, the tender thirty-two-year-old looked all the part of forty.\n\nDuring the ordeal, her husband had adopted a longer than usual work schedule. After her last round of intensive therapy and after being released from Shands Medical Center in Gainesville, a friend drove her home to Jacksonville to find an empty house. Biff had moved out and they were divorced within six months. At that point she knew she had to move. A change was necessary in preserving what sanity she had left. A fresh start in South Florida seemed the only logical spot. Her parents had moved to Palm Beach in 1976 but that area was too expensive. She had learned some very valuable business lessons from Biff and she wanted to start her own business.\n\nHer two hundred and fifty thousand dollar settlement and twenty-two hundred per month lifetime alimony was only going to get her so far. North Miami Beach and Turnbush seemed like the logical solution at the time.\n\nTan Lines opened in 1980 and was strategically located at the base of the club's main hotel complex making it visible to the guests checking in on one side and the yachts docking in the marina on the other. The dockmaster's office was directly adjacent on one side, and on the other the trendy Turnbush Raw Bar and Grill.\n\nHer duplex on Ocean Boulevard was within walking distance to the beach. She purchased it in 1981 on the courthouse steps at a foreclosure sale, immediately renovating the two units, renting one side out to make the monthly mortgage payments and living in the other. Her business sense was starting to sharpen with time and experience. She was determined to never pay lifetime dividends to a man again. On a warm summer morning in August of 1982, Lynn awoke to find Biff's picture on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. A federal indictment had implicated him and twelve others in a wide-reaching savings and loan scandal. His life was going to be put on hold for at least five years and yet she still couldn't picture him in prison. His assets were frozen and Lynn realized what it was really like to be self-sufficient forgoing her monthly alimony. She immediately adapted a positive attitude, telling herself it was better this way. Besides, it was almost worth it to see Biff suffer just a fraction as much as she had. Just in case though, she called her attorney to file a quick judgment should his estate recapitulate. To her, it would be poetic justice for Biff to survive the rigors of prison life and then have a two hundred thousand dollar bill waiting on his doorstep.\n\nLynn had a sideline. It had started as a referral service for wealthy club members that desired a beautiful dinner date or a few young girls to share a boat ride with; what it developed into was something totally different. In two years, she had doubled the store's gross income and secured some new friends. One of them was Maryland Senator Gary Smart who was a rising star in the Democratic Party. Their friendship flourished as his appetite for her bathing suit models increased. It wasn't until he started running for his party's presidential nomination that he acquired the national spotlight, and with it, scores of roving reporters, each of whom were eager to find the next groundbreaking story. It wasn't until a young Washington Post journalist went out on his own, bought a year's membership to the Turnbush Club and spent a week at the posh resort where he caught Smart in several compromising positions with women half his age, and half the age of his wife who was home waiting for him with their three young children.\n\nThe headline read GET SMART and the story and pictures that followed gave several firsthand accounts of the forty-two-year-old politician frolicking in Miami with a variety of bikini-clad women, with some wearing even less. The article also mentioned Lynn, her shop, the friendship they had developed and the circumstantial fact that all of the women Smart had been photographed with had also appeared in her Tan Lines bathing suit catalog.\n\nShe was devastated and kept a low profile for several months. The problem was that she had grown accustomed to the extra income her sideline provided and was now having trouble making ends meet.\n\n* * * * *\n\nGold\n\nDel was impressed with the Turnbush Country Club as he stopped his Ford Bronco at the guardhouse situated at the massive main entrance.\n\n\"Peter Delgado to see Mr. Fred Gold,\" he said to the armed officer at the window.\n\n\"Just a minute.\"\n\nIn the distance, Del could see the many yachts moored in the club's huge marina complex.\n\n\"Mr. Gold is waiting. Take this road past the marina and turn right. His office is on the left next to the retail center.\"\n\n\"Thanks man,\" Del said as the guard nodded back, flicking a switch that opened the entrance gate.\n\nThis is the life, Del thought to himself as he passed the rows of million dollar yachts that were lined up like cars in an airport parking lot. At the end of the road, just as the guard described, was an office with gold leaf letters that read DOCKMASTER.\n\n\"Mr. Delgado,\" Fred Gold announced, holding out his hand as Del handed the Bronco's keys to a waiting valet.\n\n\"You can call me Del.\"\n\n\"And I'm Fred to my friends,\" he responded, squeezing Del's hand a bit harder.\n\nFred Gold was custom-made for the position of dockmaster for the Turnbush Club. He had spent most of his life working as a captain on a wide variety of yachts including the U.S.S. Sequoia, the U. S. presidential yacht. He was the Sequoia's only civilian staff member and served for ten years before an incident involving twenty-eight marines and eighteen sailors implicated him in a marijuana use and possession case in 1973. He reluctantly resigned as the Sequoia's top officer, taking the head Turnbush spot. As long as the position involved the sea, Gold had the look with his white hair and full sea captain's beard. He was the son of Auschwitz Jews who taught him how to be tough and that \"persistence was omnipotence.\" Gold had a simple sign behind his desk: Tell a man once, tell him twice, and then tell someone else. And that summed up how he commanded the staff of thirty-two men and women of the Turnbush Marina and earned their respect.\n\nAs the two walked inside the glass-encased office, a blond bikini-clad woman caught Del's eye as she slipped into the Tan Lines Bikini Shop next to Gold's office.\n\n\"It's hard to keep your eye on the ball around here,\" Gold said, noting Del's distraction.\n\n\"How do you do it?\"\n\n\"It's not easy,\" Gold replied shaking his head. \"So did you find the place alright?\"\n\n\"It's kind of hard to miss Fred.\"\n\n\"Inconspicuous was not in the developer's vocabulary I can assure you,\" Gold joked with a short laugh.\n\n\"So where do we start?\" Del asked.\n\n\"That's what I like, a man who gets to the point. My documentation officer in Fort Lauderdale received the wire from Gus Greico a few days ago. The Jolene Marie is all yours.\"\n\n\"Jolene Marie?\"\n\n\"She's a 96-foot Broward Yacht, aluminum hull with a composite Fiberglas superstructure. We sent her south to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala, for a re-fit and now she's ready to come home.\"\n\n\"Well, I guess that's where I come in.\"\n\n\"I've got a skeleton crew already set up. Guys we've worked with before. The type that can be trusted and will keep their mouths shut. Regis...\" he said, pointing to a picture of a uniformed man standing on the bow of a mega yacht, \"is the crew leader. You'll meet the others in time. You will fly to Guatemala City and Greico's got you covered from there. You and your partner will fly first class.\"\n\n\"Partner?\"\n\n\"Do you have a girlfriend? I don't recommend wives for this kind of thing.\"\n\n\"Neither,\" Del admitted reluctantly.\n\n\"Let me work on that. I've got an idea that might kill two birds with one stone,\" Gold replied, looking over at Tan Lines.\n\n\"What about passports? I'm on federal probation, I don't think I can get one, and certainly not in such a short period of time.\"\n\n\"Got you covered my friend. You will have to leave here and head straight to the Miami Airport Zone. See my friend,\" Gold said, handing Del a scrap piece of paper with an address on it. \"Hector Aroyo. He's the man when it comes to stuff like this. From now on, you are known around here and everywhere that's connected with this thing as Dr. Peter Gray. Here is your new Turnbush Yacht and Country Club membership card.\"\n\n\"Wow, does this mean I can start playing tennis over here?\" Del asked, taking the laminated ID.\n\n\"I wish buddy, but we had better keep a low profile for right now. Only come and go as you absolutely have to. We don't want you to be a fixture. Got it?\" Gold said, with a sterner tone.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAnnex\n\nFred Gold was her confidant, her shoulder to cry on, and, most importantly, the father figure she never had. Because of this, she followed his lead without hesitation or second thought.\n\nLynn walked through Hector Aroyo's small, dingy office that looked like all the other travel agencies in the Pan American Annex of Miami International Airport. With the walls in dire need of paint and the bulky computer screens with glowing green text filling the room with distracting blades of light, Aroyo sat behind his desk going over some papers with a customer who had his back to her.\n\n\"I'll be with you in a second,\" he said, diverting his attention away from his customer who was turning to look at the attractive blond. \"Wait...what's your name, hon?\"\n\n\"Lynn. Fred sent me,\" she answered.\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry, here, have a seat,\" Aroyo offered, pointing to the empty chair next to the customer. \"I guess you don't know each other,\" he said with a smile.\n\n\"No, we don't,\" she responded.\n\n\"Lynn, this is Del. Del, this is Lynn. I now pronounce you man and wife,\" he declared as the two men laughed. Lynn just smiled and shook her head.\n\n\"Fred Gold, what have you gotten me into?\" she said softly.\n\n\"Sorry about the introduction,\" Del said, holding his hand out to hers. \"Fred told me he was going to arrange a traveling companion, but I never imagined he would do such an outstanding job.\"\n\n\"Thank you Del. Please bear with me - I'm a little new at this.\"\n\n\"Everything is going to be fine. My main concern is that you feel comfortable throughout this entire trip. If you're not at ease, like someone on vacation, you'll stand out like a sore thumb. So, I want you to relax and enjoy yourself. We're going to have a great time,\" Del assured her.\n\n\"That's sweet.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry - I don't want to interrupt you lovebirds, but my officemates have gone to lunch and I need to get the passport stuff done before they get back. So if we could...\" Aroyo said.\n\n\"Of course,\" Del answered as the three stood and walked through a curtain that led to a single, square office where a camera, backdrop, and a set of studio lights were set up.\n\n\"Lynn, ladies first,\" Del suggested.\n\n\"That's not fair,\" she said, fumbling through her purse for a small hairbrush.\n\n\"I guess I could go first then,\" Del offered.\n\n\"No, give me a second,\" she replied, studying her hair and blotting some powder on her nose and face. \"I can't be reflecting,\" she said as the two men watched her primp.\n\n\"Okay, ready,\" she announced.\n\nDel watched as she took her position behind the camera. She was beautiful, he thought to himself. With all the events since his release from Eglin, he hadn't had the time to devote to meeting a woman much less date one. While this was supposed to be strictly business, he couldn't help but think, what if?\n\nCLICK-FLASH\n\n\"Okay, next,\" Aroyo said.\n\n\"Wait, can't I proof the shot?\" she asked.\n\n\"I'm sure it'll be fine,\" Aroyo answered.\n\n\"But...\"\n\n\"It's a passport photo sweetheart, not the cover of Vogue,\" Aroyo answered insistently. \"Del...are you ready? Need some powder, makeup?\"\n\n\"Wait!\" Lynn exclaimed, walking over to Del with the hairbrush in her hand. \"Here, let's make you handsome,\" she said, brushing his black hair to the side.\n\nCLICK-FLASH.\n\nThirty minutes later the two were in Del's Bronco headed towards 36th Street and the Palmetto Expressway in West Miami.\n\n\"Dr. and Mrs. Peter Gray,\" she read, looking over the manufactured documents. \"Wait!\" she said, startling Del who was trying to keep his eyes on the heavy traffic.\n\n\"Where's the rock?\" she asked.\n\n\"The rock?\" Del replied.\n\n\"Wedding rings, and I need to start wearing a bridal set again.\"\n\n\"Okay, now you're starting to scare me.\"\n\n\"No, we have to look the part. I have my old rings from my first marriage.\"\n\n\"First?\"\n\n\"Well, my only marriage, not counting this one.\"\n\n\"This one?\"\n\n\"We have to go check out some pawn shops for you when we're done here, okay?\"\n\nDel nodded as he pulled the Bronco into the parking lot of M and M Distributors, a wholesale warehouse set up for retailers who were looking to increase their inventory with a wide variety of items. Del and Lynn entered the large open bay door of a warehouse. Fred Gold had told him that M and M would be able to help by getting some of the luggage they would need at a cut rate price and avoid the inquisitive eyes and questions of a department store salesperson. Luggage was an important part of the plan. In a location like Turnbush, it was commonplace to see several pieces of designer luggage being unloaded from the boats after the extended trips. The clients who chartered the forty thousand dollars a week yachts had large amounts of the best luggage money could buy. As a cash buyer, Del wanted to avoid going into Saks or Macys and walking out with six eight-piece sets. As they walked in, Lynn noticed the boxed items lined up around the two, all sitting on wooden crates. She looked over the classic cherry wood furniture while Del's eyes immediately fixated on a Mitsubishi rear projection TV, the same one he had seen at Video Concepts in the mall the week before. He was excited to think that he could buy one at a reduced price.\n\n\"They don't come any bigger than that, and the price is right too. What brand are you looking for?\" asked a man who was short and about a hundred pounds overweight. Gold chains were slung around his neck and white discolorations of salty sweat stained both of his armpits.\n\n\"Yes, I do, but first I need to look at some of your wholesale merchandise. Fred Gold sent me over. He says you have some good deals on luggage.\"\n\n\"Why yes we do. Did you have any particular style you would prefer?\"\n\n\"Well actually,\" Del improvised, \"it's not for me personally. We are sponsoring some foreign businessmen who are interested in investing in a Bahamian development. We will take them on a two week charter of the area and the luggage is a token of our appreciation.\"\n\n\"How innovative,\" the fat man answered, finishing a bite of a sandwich he had been working on.\n\n\"Six sets should do and I need for all of them to be nested.\"\n\n\"Nested? Okay, you need the small ones to fit into the bigger ones, right? An eight-piece set can be stored in the one largest bag. I got it. You need some of my better stock...Polo, Gucci, Pierre Cardin maybe?\"\n\n\"Exactly, you read my mind. Variety will be very important, I do not want one set to match another.\"\n\n\"This I understand. Will you need the luggage delivered or will you be picking it up yourself?\"\n\n\"We will send a truck,\" Del answered.\n\n\"I see, and how will you be paying for this?\"\n\n\"Do you take cash?\" Del asked.\n\n\"Hey, like they say in that Cheech and Chong movie: Does Howdie Doodie got wooden balls?\"\n\n\"Then I can expect the standard cash discount?\" Del asked, this time with a more serious tone.\n\nThe fat man's chuckle turned into a monotone one.\n\n\"You guys are always busting my balls, but since Fred sent you...well, here follow me. This should make you happy.\"\n\nThe three walked to the back of the warehouse where, hidden by stacks of tires and other crates of merchandise, was a twenty-foot container. Posted on both rear doors of the steel box were a series of U.S. Customs red seizure tags.\n\n\"I bought this at a Customs auction. They said buyer beware, sold sight unseen, so I took a chance.\"\n\nHe opened the door and inside were stacks of luxurious luggage, just the type Fred Gold had asked for.\n\n\"If my manufacturers knew about this I could lose my distributorship license. You can't tell the difference from the real stuff. This shit was smuggled in through Port Everglades from Mexico. The Feds were looking for drugs and found this counterfeit luggage. This is some kind of world we live in, isn't it? Those idiots must have fumbled their storage documents because they sold the shit outright. Why, if I had the mind to, I could cause one hell of a stink in Washington, I'm sure. The idiot that let this stuff go to the street will cost the trademark owners a small fortune.\"\n\n\"All this sounds great, but will the stuff hold up, especially on a boat around the water? My investors can't have all of their belongings spilling out all over the airport.\"\n\n\"The quality is very good \\- I think that your people will be very satisfied and unable to tell the difference. These copies are very durable and at the price I am going to give it to you for, you will save at least sixty percent off the wholesale price. In the end, everyone will be happy.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nRehab\n\nThe motor yacht M\/V Jolene Marie sat moored to the end of a solid concrete pier that also acted as a breakwater buffer for the seaport of Puerto Barrios. The decks were clean and the teak oiled. Her sixteen-cylinder power plants had been rebuilt, tuned, lubricated, and were running flawlessly. Ninety-six feet of white aluminum and Fiberglas glistened in the sunlight from the highly polished, stainless steel bow-mounted anchor to the bright waving American flag flying from the transom. She was a real yacht again, looking completely different from the day six months prior when she cruised into the small Guatemalan harbor.\n\nThe Jolene Marie was a pathetic sight when Fred Gold had bought the boat from a bank in West Palm Beach after the previous owner defaulted on the vessel's mortgage. When she was first delivered to Turnbush, he made sure she stayed at the back end of the marina, close to the other boats needing repair, far from the view of club members who would complain about her appearance. Despite its neglect, the small ship was not in any major disrepair. She just needed some attention, attention the Turnbush dockmaster didn't have to give her. One of the drawbacks of Turnbush was that the club sat below a frequently used final approach path for the nearby Opa-Locka Airport. Nothing stained a boat's finish worse than putrid jet fuel and the detailers at Turnbush were always busy keeping the glossy white finishes of the scores of yachts in the marina clean and waxed.\n\nGold hired marine contractor Tony Milner and his favorite captain, Regis Sprigs, to tackle the revitalization of the 96-footer. A small utility cart was filled with industrial cleaners, two one-gallon jugs of teak oil, three lengths of white non-marring water hose, and a case of elk skin shammies. After a week of work, Milner announced that the boat needed more extensive care and would need to be dry-docked to address some serious electrolysis that had corroded most of the underwater running gear.\n\nThe two made the voyage south to the Clearwater Boat Works shop in a record three days. A crew of fourteen Guatemalan men attacked the boat with vigor. The runoff of soiled water was evidence that the layer of built-up soot was slowly being removed. A rainbow formed in the water around the boat created by the residue of jet fuel from above. The industrial cleaners Milner had brought with them for the cleaning portion of the job seemed to be working. Four days into the rebirth, Milner stood at the bow and looked back. From under a blanket of dirt, an ordinary, rundown boat was being transformed into a yacht again. The white paint began to glisten in the bright sunlight as Regis hosed off the superstructure with one of the non-marring water hoses designed especially for yachts so it would not scratch or mar the deck's surface. On the fifth day, the last of the gray-tinted jet fuel had been washed away. The boat was then hauled out of the water in a large set of railways that extended deep into the harbor. The brass and stainless underwater gear were fixed, black anti-fouling bottom paint was applied, and the upper hull was painted with a polyurethane aircraft finish that would do a better job of warding off the elements, including any future exposure to jet fuel. A diesel mechanic from Fort Lauderdale was flown down, accompanied by two crates of engine parts. His part of the job took five weeks, transforming the older power plants into rebuilt versions with modernizing kits installed that gave more horsepower and used less fuel.\n\nRegis, being the cook he was, would prepare a wide variety of meals, oftentimes treating the whole Guatemalan team to a variety of creative American cuisine. Over the six-month term, a bond had emerged between the Clearwater crew and the Americans.\n\nIn the end, Fred Gold had invested just over three hundred thousand of his own money into the yacht. Combined with the one hundred and eighty thousand dollar purchase price, Gold stood to triple his investment with the Jolene Marie's sale to Morada Boat Leasing for 1.5 million. This is why Gold was so motivated to make this deal work. For him, everything was on the line. He had made some significant promises to his contacts at IFC and to Gus Greico himself. The Jolene Marie had a foolproof compartment, he preached during numerous meetings, not to mention his secure destination, the Turnbush Club. If this trip paid off, there would be many more.\n\n* * * * *\n\nHoneymoon\n\nThe TACA Air flight from Miami to Guatemala City was filled to capacity. Del and Lynn took their first class seats as the stewardess provided them with pillows and blankets to keep them comfortable during the two-hour flight. As the Boeing 727 taxied towards the main runway, Lynn made a confession.\n\n\"Del, I hate to fly.\"\n\n\"What? I thought you were part of the jetset,\" he said, raising his eyebrows with skepticism. \"Whoever heard of a jetsetter who hated flying?\"\n\n\"I always have. Ever since I was a little girl.\"\n\n\"It's okay,\" he comforted, patting her hand with his.\n\nShe was getting used to the comfortable way he was making her feel. As the plane turned onto the main runway, it gunned its three tail-mounted engines, pinning all the passengers into their seatbacks.\n\n\"Del...\" she whispered, grabbing his hand in a tight grasp.\n\n\u2022\n\nTwo hours later, the amber light of a setting sun blasted through the jet's cabin, entering the portholes on the right side and waking Lynn who had fallen asleep. The plane was on its final approach to Guatemala City, a Central American metropolis that was perched atop a five thousand foot high mountain. Del watched out his window, looking down into the deep ravines that separated the tall mountaintops that were covered with tropical vegetation.\n\nDel looked down at Lynn's hand that was tightly grasped to his. The two had been locked together since they left Miami and her grip squeezed even harder as the plane dropped altitude, rotated back and touched down on the heavily patched blacktop strip.\n\nAfter retrieving their bags and clearing customs, the two took a quick taxi ride to the La Fiesta Hotel, the city's only four star lodging. Fred Gold had made the reservation himself and the two were equally apprehensive about where their faux marriage ended, and the reality of two attractive people enjoying a Caribbean vacation began. Del was the first to look inside the room as the bellboy unlocked the door revealing a single queen-sized bed covered in rose pedals and a chilled bottle of champagne resting in a bucket of ice on the bedside table.\n\n\"El honeymoon suite, se\u00f1or,\" the bellboy declared, like a magician revealing a new act for the first time.\n\n\"Gracias muchacho,\" Del answered, giving him two U. S. dollars. \"I can sleep on the floor,\" he offered after the young boy left the room.\n\n\"Or not...\" she said, pulling him into a tight embrace that preceded the softest kiss Del had ever felt.\n\n\"You don't have to do this, you know,\" he said.\n\n\"I know,\" she answered with her forehead against his chin. \"I hardly know you, but this just feels right,\" she admitted.\n\n\u2022\n\nThe next morning Del was wide awake as the sun rose over the mountains to the east. The bright rays of light illuminated Lynn's blond hair as she slept. With his head propped up on his hand he looked over at her, perplexed that he was in bed with such a beautiful woman. At the same time he was concerned that he was repeating some of his earlier life mistakes. His first love was a model and a student of fashion design at the Bauder College in Fort Lauderdale. Marcia was, to him, the typical high-maintenance trophy wife that his friends warned him of, but she was irresistibly beautiful. Lynn, on the other hand, had more sense, was independent, and significantly more attractive. With that thought he smiled and stood to make some coffee with a small two-cup machine. As he fumbled with the paper filter and the water, Lynn awoke feeling his warm, empty side of the bed.\n\n\"How do you like your coffee?\"\n\n\"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"Making coffee, how do you like it?\"\n\n\"Strong...please.\"\n\n\"We've got to be at the airport in ninety minutes.\"\n\n\"Okay, slave driver.\"\n\n\"Hey...you okay?\" he asked tenderly.\n\n\"I'm fine, better than fine actually. You?\"\n\n\"I'm good. Just stressed about today,\" Del said.\n\n\"It was the best night I've had in a long time.\"\n\n\"Wow, you're going to give me a big head,\" he replied.\n\n\"I didn't mean, you know, like that. It was just...nice,\" she admitted.\n\n\"Yes it was very nice. Now we have to go to work.\"\n\n\"Ugh...you're impossible!\" she said, sitting up in the bed with a crooked smile.\n\nRalph Linez pulled back on the yoke belonging to the twin engine Turbo Commander that was screaming down the main runway at La Aurora International Airport. After rotating, the ascending plane climbed like an eagle caught in an updraft, pointing to the sky, piercing through a thick layer of clouds. From an aft window, Del watched the morning skyline of Guatemala City disappear in the early morning dusk of gray while Lynn sat in the seat across from him, grasping his hand that was dark red and numb from a lack of circulation. The sharp, leading edges of the high-mounted wings cut through the white patches of gentle cotton that hung suspended for as far as his eyes could see.\n\nWithin minutes the plane leveled off and headed east towards Puerto Barrios. Below the steep ridges of mountains peaked around them were foliage-covered hills with palm trees and other tropical growth. The scarcely placed valley was covered with rows of pineapple and banana crops, most of which belonged to the Dole Corporation. Off the port side, the blinding sun shown through the plane's window illuminating Lynn's blond curls. She watched the haze glow as it became partially obstructed by a pair of dark, fast moving objects. Two MiG 18s surpassed the relatively slower turbo propped aircraft. She continued to watch as they flew on and out of sight.\n\nThe flight was slightly over eighty minutes. Linez brought the plane down low over the harbor as they made a sharp sixty-degree bank and headed towards the airport. The once rabid craft now lurched under the strain of the lowered landing gear and deflected wing flaps. The sound of the air rushing past the multitude of parts was now louder than the slowly turning turbine engines. Once on final approach Del took a last look at the landscape below. The sight of a white, turn of the century battleship was only outdone by the spread of the Puerto Barrios Federal Prison. Made from an old British fort, the stone, castle-like structure was still in use housing over seventy inmates. With no air conditioning, the stone fort was a temped pit of torture for those who had to endure its confinement.\n\nThe main gear squealed as a burst of tire smoke formed from each wheel that was now spinning to keep up with the passing runway. They rotated down and in no time were taxiing to the small terminal.\n\nThe two MiGs that had passed them earlier were staged on the tarmac with boils of heat emanating from their respective exhaust ports. Linez taxied the turbo prop up to the ramp area as the whine of the twin engines whistled down. He cut the power and went through the post-landing checklist and cool down. In the distance, an old Citron station wagon waited at the edge of the tarmac.\n\nOn the edge of the blacktop runway, Lynn affixed her sunglasses while Del assisted one of the local stewards with their bags.\n\n\"Del, I'm Tony Milner,\" the man from the Citron said, holding out his hand.\n\n\"Hey Tony. I've heard a lot about you. I'm glad we finally get to meet. This is Lynn,\" Del replied, putting a hand behind her back.\n\n\"Hi Tony, I'm glad to meet you,\" she said.\n\n\"We should get out of here as soon as possible,\" Tony insisted.\n\nThe port was a three-minute car ride from the airport. As the three passed a building with a large sign that read Clearwater Boat Works, Del saw her. The Jolene Marie sat moored to the concrete pier that extended out from the main building. It was a lot bigger than he had imagined.\n\n\"That's her,\" Lynn announced, recognizing the boat from when she had been docked at Turnbush. \"What a difference! She's like a new boat!\"\n\n\"It's been a long haul but we turned her around. Whoever let her get in the shape she was in before should have been shot,\" Tony commented.\n\nMost of the day was spent getting familiar with the boat and its operating systems. After that, Del and Lynn made themselves comfortable in the master stateroom at the aft end of the yacht followed by a nap because they knew it was going to be a long night.\n\nSix hours later and just after sunset, some bad weather had started to enter the harbor.\n\n\"It's time,\" Tony announced as he watched five small boats coming across the bay from the uninhabited north portion of the harbor.\n\nTony and Lynn walked down and back into the aft stateroom. The bed was still undone from Del and her nap earlier. He opened a small closet locker on one side of the stateroom while Lynn stood behind him. He handed her the various contents: the couple's shoes, empty luggage and a clay pot Lynn had picked up in the hotel's gift shop in Guatemala City. One by one, she set the items over the unmade comforter. Then, from his back pocket, he pulled a Phillips-head screwdriver and, getting down on his knees, proceeded to dismantle the elevated shelf that was installed about twenty-four inches from the carpeted floor of the locker. The brass screws squeaked as they backed out of their snug holes that were drilled into the golden mahogany. One by one Tony passed the screws over his shoulder to Lynn who deposited them into a small paper cup.\n\n\"Don't lose these,\" he warned, \"a missing or out of place screw is a dead giveaway that something has been tampered with.\"\n\nLynn looked down at the cup of screws while he, with a quick pound from underneath the shelf, forced it free from its tight footing. Tony then pulled another screwdriver from the same back pocket; this one was slotted, and was used to pry the carpet from the wooden floor. It came up in one three-by-three-foot piece. The carpet had hidden an access panel that was a piece of wood slightly smaller than the bottom of the closet. It was recessed and had several countersunk Phillips-head screws around its borders. Tony took the Phillips screwdriver and carefully removed more brass fasteners from the wood. The panel had a dual purpose. As he lifted it from its frame, the dingy odor of the bilge filled the stateroom.\n\n\"Hand me that flashlight,\" Tony instructed, motioning across Lynn's bent knees.\n\nHe was not one to enjoy confining spaces. The small swells that were common in the Puerto Barrios basin made the Jolene Marie rock back and forth. Tony gritted his teeth and disappeared into the small hole. Directly below the hole were the boat's four aft-mounted bilge pumps. He had to step carefully to avoid any contact with their delicate plastic shrouds. The beam of light was weak at best but was enough to illuminate his path through the cramped companionway. The below-deck space was relatively clean. Unlike the mold-filled, timber-lined scenes in the movies, this bilge was made up of aluminum stringers and precisely spaced ribs. The only wood on the boat was that which made up the cabin floor and was done for insulation, reducing the sounds that occurred in the inner spaces of such a vessel. The rest was made up of the lightweight alloy. The dull flashlight beam reflected off the shining welds at every joint. Tony continued to climb through the cramped bilge heading further aft towards the stern-mounted fuel tank.\n\nEncased in low-density polyurethane foam and welded to the yacht's frame, the nineteen hundred gallon fuel tank sat directly over the aft section of the keel and against the transom. Bolted to the side of the large hold was an access plate about eighteen inches in diameter. Stainless steel bolts held the plate in place. Tony pulled the third tool from his back pocket, a nine-sixteenth's inch ratchet and socket. The clicking of the ratchet echoed inside the aluminum hull. The process was time consuming and, given the cramped conditions, very uncomfortable for the claustrophobic captain. Above deck kneeling on the carpet, Lynn watched from the hatchway as Tony dropped each bolt into the small puddle of water that accumulated at the lower apex of the bilge, the product of a slow but persistent leak from one of the prop shaft seals.\n\nTime was starting to become an issue. Earlier, Ralph Linez had set up a tentative delivery time for the product of 9:00 p.m. A light rain pattered on the deck above and filled the bilge with a soft iridescent sound. The mood created by the sounds below deck was soothing, almost hypnotizing to the point of relaxing his claustrophobia. It was too bad I couldn't climb into the bilge when I had trouble sleeping, Tony thought to himself.\n\nBUMP!\n\nA heavy percussive sound echoed from inside the hull.\n\n\"Shit!\" Tony yelled to himself as Del ran up to the main salon.\n\nLynn rose up from her knees and climbed over the unmade bed to peer out the aft porthole. Tony had already motivated his contorted body through the twisted path of the bilge heading for the hatchway. Lynn could see a large wooden canoe tied up to their stern. Inside, canvas duffel bags lined the homemade craft to the gunnels.\n\n\"It's them!\" she yelled down to Tony who was now sitting below the hatchway.\n\n\"Okay, get Regis and Del to the deck. Make sure that asshole doesn't bump into us again!\" Tony was already conjuring mental images of the gash torn into the paint on the stern by the last impact.\n\nLynn quietly turned and headed up the companionway toward the others while Tony finished removing the last bolts from the access plate. The new sounds of feet pounding topside replaced the once entrancing sounds of the bilge with havoc. The blitz of activity carried its way through the yacht's foyer, into the main salon, down the circular stairway and through the companionway ending up in the master stateroom. The thud of the first duffel hitting the carpet caught Tony's attention from under the deck.\n\n\"Hey! Be careful up there!\" Tony yelled as he pounded on the bottom side of the deck.\n\n\"Ay, conyo! D\u00f3nde est\u00e1!\" yelled the muffled reply from above. More undetectable gibberish, Tony thought to himself.\n\nHe was concerned about the duffels. If they were like the ones he had seen before, they would be equipped with brass rivets on the bottoms, securing the strap-like handles. If they were slid across the yacht's inlaid teak deck, they would most likely leave marks, and judging from the way things were sounding above, there would be a trail of dings and scratches all the way to the closet door.\n\nLynn reappeared at the hatchway. \"How do you want to do this?\" she asked.\n\n\"Hold on a minute,\" Tony said, panting out of breath.\n\nWith the slotted screwdriver he managed to pry the access plate free from the rubber gasket affixed to the side of the tank. The eighteen-inch plate dropped to the inner side of the aluminum hull below, splashing a minute amount of bilge water against his khaki shorts and shirt.\n\n\"Tell Regis to get down here, and for Christ's sake, tell him to watch his step.\"\n\nSeconds later Regis's bare feet were climbing over the sharp aluminum ribs, ducking his head under the deck above. He positioned himself strategically between the hatchway and Tony who had a stretch of about four feet or so.\n\nBUMP!\n\n\"Damn it! Will you guys please slow down and take it easy on the hardware!\" Tony yelled as his voice echoed in the bilge.\n\n\"It's okay Tony, I've got it under control up here,\" Del said with a reassuring voice.\n\nAs he came topside, Del couldn't believe his eyes. With all the sophisticated craft he was exposed to in South Florida, the largest and most expensive load he had ever handled was being delivered to them in five homemade dugout canoes. Each boat had a small black-haired native who steadied the boats that were loaded to the gunwales with duffel bags. Each boat was powered with a small outboard motor and Del thought to himself that it was a wonder they all made it across the harbor without capsizing.\n\nThe first bags were small enough to fit through the eighteen-inch hole in the side of the fuel tank. Tony managed to shove them all toward the back of the hold, making room for the rest of the load. Linez had said they could expect at least thirty-six hundred kilo-sized pieces. This would require all the space the relatively small tank had to offer. Each bag held twenty to thirty pieces, which meant that at least a hundred and fifty bags would come down the path towards their hidden compartment.\n\nTwo hours had passed and before Tony knew it, all of the smaller bags had been loaded into the tank. There were a few larger, bulkier bags that had to be emptied and loaded one key a time. This worked out perfectly as the single pieces fit snuggly between the bags, securing the load firmly into the tank. With sweat dripping off his face, Tony sat back against the cold hull catching his breath. As fast as it had started it had ended, and the manic confusion was over until a commotion started on the aft deck.\n\nThe leader of the natives who delivered the load re-boarded the aft of the Jolene Marie.\n\n\"You pay me!\" he insisted. \"You pay me now!\"\n\n\"Just a minute,\" Del replied.\n\n\"No. You pay me now!\" he said, putting a hand on the machete that was strapped to his waist.\n\n\"I don't think we have that kind of money with us?\" Del inquired, looking at Regis.\n\n\"It's only a hundred dollars,\" Regis replied, looking down at the deck like a dinner guest at a restaurant just after the check arrives.\n\n\"Oh. They do all of this for a hundred dollars apiece?\"\n\n\"No. It's supposed to be a hundred dollars for all five.\"\n\n\"Here,\" Del offered. \"Handing over five twenty dollar bills.\"\n\n\"Me thank you,\" the leader said with his best English and an outstretched hand.\n\nWith the load secured in the aft fuel tank, Tony made preparations to cover their tracks. This started at the tank and continued forward. He surveyed the bilge floor for fabric strands from the duffel bags. Being dragged across the sharp aluminum cross-members lining the hull, the soft canvas bags could easily tare and leave fragments of fabric behind. When he got to the hatchway, he was confident that it was left exactly as it was found. He climbed up, bracing his weight on the frame of the hatchway. The wooden panel began to fit snuggly into place.\n\n\"Oh shit!\" Tony said aloud.\n\n\"What is it?\" Lynn asked as she came down the companionway toward the master stateroom.\n\n\"Someone cracked one of the aft bilge pumps,\" Tony replied as he reached down and picked up part of the plastic case that shrouded the electric water pump.\n\n\"Looks like it took a direct hit,\" Del stated, coming in behind Lynn.\n\n\"What does this mean?\" Lynn asked with a touch of anxiety in her voice.\n\n\"Well, each of these pumps is responsible for pumping out a certain section of the boat's bilge. If we experience any unexpected flooding below deck we could list to one side or worse - appear tail heavy. If we come into port with our stern dragging low, we'll get boarded for sure.\"\n\n\"And that's right where they'll start their search?\"\n\n\"You got it,\" Tony replied.\n\n\"Nothing like making it easy for them,\" Regis said, standing at the back of the stateroom.\n\n\"We can always flood one of the forward compartments to compensate,\" Del suggested.\n\n\"Yeah, and put a hell of a lot of stress on the mid-sections.\"\n\nThe floor piece for the closet went into place a lot easier than it came out. Tony took great patience in making sure none of the screws appeared worn. As a last minute precaution he dipped the heads in varnish to give them a look of being unbothered. Then he took the yacht's Hoover vacuum cleaner from the companionway closet and reversed the flow of air back through the dusty hose, blowing soiled air into the locker. Dust immediately caked on the edges and corners of the closet. When he was done, the bare floor looked as though it had not been touched since the yacht was built. After the carpet was put back into place, Lynn replaced the articles they had removed previously and then she made the bed.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDisclosure\n\nThe Key Largo campground was a Mecca for recreational vehicle owners who enjoyed the serenity of the Florida Keys and the freedom that owning an RV provided. The inhabitants included everything from expensive hundred thousand dollar mobile mansions to old converted school buses and everything in between, like the inconspicuous aluminum-sided Winnebago situated on waterfront lot thirty-two. The camper was owned by the Customs Service, the result of a drug seizure, and had been converted for covert surveillance work or, as the agents of the Tavernier office called it, \"the hideout.\"\n\n\"I think we should use this downtime for its best advantage. We can't use the boats - that's fine. I've got a lead on something bigger and better,\" Owen said.\n\n\"I still think the idea of grounding all of the boats because someone died on a race boat that is barely similar to one of ours is ludicrous. What's your idea?\"\n\n\"This stays between us. I have had my suspicions that an agent or agents in our office have been going into business for themselves.\"\n\n\"Who? Why didn't you say something sooner?\"\n\n\"Joel, it's not something you speculate on without definitive proof. I don't know who, but I have my suspicions and I will keep them to myself for right now.\"\n\n\"What's the lead?\"\n\n\"Remember the credit card that we got off of our buddy Ralph Linez?\"\n\n\"The pilot? Yeah, the Miami Aerotek corporate card.\"\n\n\"It was in Linez's name and he's an authorized user, so it's not stolen. Miami Aerotek uses a boutique lawyer named Irving Marshall.\"\n\n\"I don't get it,\" Joel stated.\n\n\"Boutique lawyers like Marshall take only one client, usually a big doper. The client gives the lawyer so much business that he doesn't need other clients. This is good for the client because it helps keep their affairs under the radar.\"\n\n\"How? I would think it works the other way.\"\n\n\"Focus Joel. If an attorney has a dozen different unrelated clients and one of them gets popped, that brings peering eyes upon the other eleven...especially now that we can subpoena client payment records, law firm bank accounts, wire transfers...the works.\"\n\n\"So this guy Marshall has one client?\"\n\n\"Yes, so to speak. He started nine Florida corporations in the last five years. It's diversified including everything from The Capital Moon rock club in Tallahassee to Morada Boat Leasing in Key West.\"\n\n\"And Aerotek?\"\n\n\"Yes, Aerotek along with the pot of gold - a cattle research firm called The International Farms Corporation based out of Ocala.\"\n\n\"That's it? One lost credit card from a pilot who was probably moonlighting as a smuggler to score some extra cash?\"\n\n\"Joel, remember the 38-foot Stiletto we busted during your first night out?\"\n\n\"How could I forget it?\"\n\n\"Well, it was owned by Morada Boat Leasing.\"\n\n\"Now we're getting someplace,\" Joel said with satisfaction.\n\n\"It gets better. I searched both within the Florida and the National Crime Information Center. They came up cold. Even the El Paso Information Center was a dead end. But when I cross-referenced the names with the Coast Guard's National Vessel Documentation Center I got a hit. Morada Boat Leasing just purchased a 96-foot yacht, the Jolene Marie out of South America. Four days later they filed with us to bring it into the U. S.\"\n\n\"But we don't know where...do we?\"\n\n\"My guess is Miami or Fort Lauderdale. A yacht like that would stand out down here.\"\n\n\"That doesn't exactly narrow it down Owen,\" Joel reasoned before hearing a sharp banging sound that came from the side of the large motor home. \"What the...\" he asked, opening the side drapes that obscured the windows.\n\n\"Right or left?\" Owen asked with his eyes partially closed, relaxing in the oversized easy chair.\n\n\"Right or left? Some guy is trying to steal our fuel. He's putting a garden hose into the tank.\"\n\n\"Right or left kid?\" Owen repeated, opening his eyes.\n\n\"Right!\" Joel whispered as loud as he could, putting a hand on his holstered gun.\n\n\"This is the Keys. Everybody's a pirate. If he's on the right, it's no problem, sit back down.\"\n\n\"Owen, he's got the hose in his mouth and he's trying to start a siphon.\"\n\n\"Joel, the fuel tank is on the left, along with the water and the electric.\"\n\n\"Then what...?\"\n\n\"Sewage holding,\" Owen announced with a smile. \"The Jolene Marie will have to call in to our inspection division upon their entry.\"\n\n\"Phone it in? Can they do that?\"\n\n\"Yep, and we don't have the personnel to check every one, so chances are they will arrive and never see a Customs inspector,\" Owen said as Joel watched the fuel thief try to start a siphon, sucking in the first shot of toxic sewage to his mouth.\n\n\"Holy shit!\" Joel exclaimed. \"You were right, he's giving up!\"\n\n\"Focus Joel. They will call and we will have half an hour at best to reach their location, assume a vantage point, and wait for them to offload.\"\n\n\"That doesn't give us a lot of time,\" Joel remarked.\n\n\"No it doesn't, but it can be done,\" Owen said, pointing out the RV's side window towards the red IROC. \"So, how are things going between you and Tessa?\" he continued.\n\n\"Great, why do you ask?\"\n\n\"We need to talk Joel.\"\n\n\"This doesn't sound good.\"\n\n\"No son, it's not like that. Look, you are different and I'm smart enough to see that. You won the heart of my daughter and that's no easy task. I guess that makes us connected.\"\n\n\"Thanks Owen. You don't really talk about personal things so I didn't know how you really felt about our...situation.\"\n\n\"It's okay. Having said that, I want you to be careful. I can protect you while you're with me but should your assignment change...well, let's just say there are a lot of dangerous influences in our office...\"\n\n\"Influences? What kind of influences?\"\n\n\"I haven't been the father or the agent that I should have been over the last few years and a lot of people have taken advantage of that. They think I don't notice, but I do.\"\n\n\"What are we talking about here Owen?\"\n\n\"Floaters. You have yet to participate in a real chase, but when we go after these guys, they dump their loads into the ocean. When I first got here from Panama, there was stuff everywhere. It was commonplace to see bales and duffel bags piled up on the waterfront.\"\n\n\"I haven't seen anything like that.\"\n\n\"My point exactly. Soon after Leslie's death, it was like someone flicked a switch. Not that I was paying much attention at the time...\"\n\n\"What do you think happened?\"\n\n\"Someone, perhaps on the inside, is scooping the stuff up.\"\n\n\"Coast Guard...Marine Patrol?\"\n\n\"I don't think so. We would see the money, and these guys are as poor as they come.\"\n\n\"Since you mention it, how much are you bringing in a year?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"What? Why would you ask that?\"\n\n\"I'm just saying Owen. I would never think that you were into anything illegal but if anyone else looks around...well...you have a lot of extra cash.\"\n\n\"I've made some mistakes but I've never taken a payoff or stolen a dumped load.\"\n\n\"Mistakes? Look, you put up your mother and pay for her care. Tessa says your house is paid off and you're building another one down the street. I'm on your side man, but sooner or later, someone's gonna ask.\"\n\n\"You see that coin hanging on your neck?\"\n\n\"What, this doubloon we found on the Elbow?\" Joel asked, touching the gold piece below his chin.\n\n\"I have a lot more where that one came from. I guess you could say I hit the mother load.\"\n\n\"Shit Owen! How much?\"\n\n\"A lot! Jordan helped me sell some of the stuff but we had to be careful.\"\n\n\"Careful? Why?\"\n\n\"It's a Florida state thing. For some unholy reason they think the state is entitled to ninety percent of any treasure that's found in their waters. Shit man, ninety percent! I can't afford that.\"\n\n\"I get it, but that still doesn't solve the problem that you've got a ton of unexplained cash and there's a volatile network operating right under your nose. Did you forget? You're second in command down here.\"\n\n\"You're preaching to the choir kid.\"\n\n\"This case - the Jolene Marie. We've got to make this work for you. With a big bust under your belt, they won't be able to touch you.\"\n\n\"I think you're being naive, but it's worth a try.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nDeployment\n\nGene Latrell proceeded down the dusty dirt road toward his destination just south of the Tamiami Trail, deep in the heart of the Everglades. At twenty-four-feet wide, the road he was taking was larger than most. It had to be since most of the vehicles that used it were large off-road dump trucks, the majority of which were twenty-feet-high, sixteen-feet-wide and weighed three hundred tons. The road was an artery connecting a large natural sandstone deposit and a series of canal-front barge docks that were closer to the main road. At the source was the dragline called the pit-monster, a hundred foot tall crane capable of swiveling three hundred and sixty degrees. The crane manhandled a large bucket the size of two city buses put side by side. Each scoop filled one of the oversized dumps to capacity before returning to the muddy water for more stone. The material was used for roadbeds and commercial landfills, over garbage dumps and wetlands. It was desired by Florida contractors because it was dense and therefore heavy and packed well, making a tight foundation for whatever was to be built over it. The recession of the early 1980s though, made work at the pit sporadic at best and this week's work had stopped altogether.\n\nLatrell had visited the pit a month earlier to install a new radio system linking the home base, security shack, the dragline, and the four oversized dump trucks. It was here that Latrell gathered his thoughts to produce the power for his havoc.\n\nThe pit-monster was diesel-powered, or at least that's where the raw energy originated. Like locomotives, diesel-powered submarines, and conventional cruise ships, the actual engines were electric, drawing their power source from diesel generators. The power was in three phases, which by residential standards was the size of a twenty-story condominium. This was the power Latrell needed to carry out his task.\n\nHe drove his large white paneled van through the gate at the pit, past the security guards who knew him well, talking back and forth on radios he had supplied, and onto the base of the pit-monster. The day was bright and clear. The fresh air was rejuvenating and Latrell took in more than his share as his wind increased climbing the vertical span of ladders that got him to the power plant of the dragline. With the tools stowed in his belt pouch, he removed the access panels to the power grid and started to connect the extra wires he would need.\n\nIt took four hours but in the end he had accomplished the bulk of his tasks. When he was finished, the power grid of the dragline had been tapped into, drawing from it eight hundred volts of power. On top of the engine deck he mounted a sixty-inch satellite transmitting antennae with reinforced transmitting capabilities. Every connection was double checked and secured with a heat-shrink sheath of insulation. All the wires were bundled and tie wrapped together, making this the pinnacle installation of his enduring career.\n\nA few hours later at noon, a simple bedside digital clock set off a quiet audible alarm followed by a transmission of electrical current to a high capacity solenoid. This triggered an even bigger solenoid that started the diesel generating motors. Ten minutes later another digital clock alarmed, this one sending an identical surge of current to yet another set of solenoids and it was this power that amassed to form a surge, violent and combustible, captured and directed, leaving the earth in a form too large for any satellite to handle; a surge so powerful that all radio transmissions within a thirty-mile radius were temporarily interrupted with a shrieking whine of noise.\n\nSatcom-Seven received the untoward transmission at exactly 12:11 p.m. From one end of the fragile craft, the receiving wings, some forty-eight-feet long, absorbed the raw energy, and like the Christmas tree in Times Square being lit in November, Satcom-Seven sparked and fizzled, starting at the base and working its way to the top of the craft until the massive ship was irrevocably dead.\n\n\u2022\n\nThe radio operator at C3I felt a strange buzz come from the console followed by an ear-shattering shrieking tone that startled everyone in the command center. All of the meters with needles dancing about indicating healthy transmission and audible voice levels dropped to zero. The system was down.\n\n\"Sector East to Sector West,\" she called. \"Sector East to Sector West,\" she tried again in vain.\n\n\"I need the watch supervisor please!\" she yelled from her Plexiglas cubicle.\n\nSatcom-Seven floated lifeless thirty miles in space. Every circuit had been violated in such a way as to make the craft temporarily useless and obsolete. It was up to the ship's earth counterparts to re-task its operations, but this would take some time. The ship was responsible for communications for the Treasury Department. Besides Sector and C3I, the vital communications for the Secret Service's security details including that of the President and Vice President of the United States, was completely interrupted.\n\nCommercial concerns were also affected. Like an office building, Satcom-Seven leased its vital space to several different communications firms. A company called MUZAC that provided perpetual elevator music to offices and shopping malls across the globe was knocked out as well as the newly-installed Playboy Channel, disappointing thousands of faithful subscribers who were now looking at television screens filled with random static.\n\n\"I just got a priority call from Justice. We are to try to locate two of our agents from the Tavernier office. Papa 1903 and 1925, ASAP,\" said the pacing supervisor.\n\n\"No-can-do sir. This system is down,\" she replied.\n\n\"Try again,\" he said frantically. \"This is top priority.\"\n\n\"Yes sir,\" she answered.\n\n* * * * *\n\nInterdiction\n\nThe sharp bow of the 210-foot United States Coast Guard cutter Dauntless sliced through the rolling twelve-foot seas as it tried to catch up to its next target. From a distance, the ship had a distinctive look with its all white hull and superstructure to the bold orange stripe that rose from the water line marking the forward quarter. The ship's motto was Sin Miedo, which in Spanish meant \"without fear.\" This was evidenced by the forty-one marijuana leaf decals that adorned the vessel's tall smoke stack. Each leaf represented a drug bust, like red Japanese flags on the side of a World War II fighter signifying an enemy kill.\n\nBased out of Galveston, Texas, the Dauntless was manned with young men and women who were from all over the U.S., mostly kids who desired travel, adventure, and a college scholarship.\n\n\"Bridge to radar station one, bearing update.\"\n\n\"Bearing North 015 degrees, moving at twenty-one knots. Two knot closure.\"\n\n\"Roger that.\"\n\n\"Bridge to Intercept Alpha-three.\"\n\n\"Alpha-three, Bridge, go ahead.\"\n\n\"Alpha-three, standby to engage target. Two knot closure, making contact in thirty.\"\n\n\"Alpha-three, team assembled and ready to launch.\"\n\n\"Bridge to forward watch.\"\n\n\"Forward watch here, go Bridge.\"\n\n\"Do we have a clear shot of the transom?\"\n\n\"Roger that. She's the Jolene Marie, flying a U. S. flag.\"\n\n\"Bridge to position report.\"\n\n\"Position report, sixty-seven miles due East of Cozumel Island. Confirmed international jurisdiction.\"\n\n\"Bridge to all stations, commencing a case.\"\n\n\"C-624 Sector...\"\n\n\"Sector on HF, go ahead. Be advised our sat systems are down. Remain on HF for now please.\"\n\n\"C-624 at position report six-seven miles due East of Cozumel Island initiating a case on U. S. vessel Jolene Marie.\"\n\n\"WMEC-624, be advised, doc center advises 96-foot Broward Yacht, year of build, 1978, Jolene Marie newly registered to Morada Boat Leasing, 611 White Street, Key West, Florida. No warrants or holds.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nA tropical storm named Oliver had passed through the area, leaving in its wake bands of thunderstorms and seas that were approaching twenty feet. The Jolene Marie plowed through the waves, taking massive amounts of spray over her bow. Regis manned the helm while Tony and Del grasped a hold of the handcrafted grab rails that ran around the yacht's wheelhouse. With each wave, the 96-foot vessel pitched and pulled back and forth, each time straining her overbuilt hull while the twin sixteen-cylinder diesels pounded under the deck.\n\nTony had tried to find a contact that was in their vicinity on his radar. The spinning bar above though needed a stable plane in order to project a readable image. The seas, estimated at twenty to thirty feet, were throwing the vessel everywhere. One minute the radar would show straight ahead, then it would be bombarded with clutter as its pattern shot straight down the side of the boat into the rolling waves. The radar itself, a hybrid from the Mitsubishi and Raytheon corporations, was the best of its kind. However, it was no match for these seas.\n\nThe flat space in front of the instruments and under the windshield was under half an inch of seawater that sloshed back and forth with every wave. Most of the boat's supply of towels and spare linens were packed around the base of the hardened Lexan panels. The seas however, were more than the yacht's superstructure could handle. The aluminum hull was designed and built to twist with the different forces that played against it and for the most part, so was the superstructure. It was the finer materials of the boat's interior that turned this ship into a yacht and breached the most valuable barrier of all, that which penetrated the border separating the living space and the mighty sea. The wood trim and tinted Lexan-paneled glass windshield twisted and stretched differently than the marine grade aluminum it was bonded to. This caused a spontaneous breakdown in the superstructure's ability to make a watertight seal between an otherwise dry cabin and the violent sea outside. Every joint became a gaping conduit of seawater.\n\nYachts weren't supposed to be in these heavy foot seas. They were usually found at anchor, weathering out the storm in some honeymoon harbor with the crew and the guests sipping frozen cocktails while gentle rain pattered on the deck above. That was the passage of a charter affording forty thousand dollar a week fees. The actions of the Jolene Marie were not that of a pleasure cruise and Tony knew it.\n\nDel went to the aft cabin to check on Lynn who had gone to sleep earlier suffering from severe motion sickness. As he staggered in to the master stateroom, Lynn was on her knees perched on the queen-sized bed, looking out the transom portholes.\n\n\"We have a small problem,\" she said.\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"There's a smoke trail behind us on the horizon. Since we are not in the main shipping channels it can only be the Coast Guard. It's getting closer.\"\n\nDel's head filled with the clutter resembling the pattern he'd been watching on the radar all afternoon. He kneeled over the unmade bed and peered through the aft porthole. As he did, the yacht's bow dropped into the trough of an oncoming wave, elevating the boat's stern high above the waves. Tony could see the flume of smoke and what appeared to be a tall, white masthead.\n\nThe Jolene Marie was making way at twelve knots; the heavy seas had impeded her normal speed of seventeen. The ship behind them was a frontline cutter. Its sharp bow could easily slice through an oncoming sea and not break its stride. Soon the pearl white hull with its orange stripe would be bearing down on them. Del sat back on the bed. If challenged, they would have to follow the larger vessel to port and then probably be stripped down. What was the perfect cover now met all the basic interdiction profiles. Del and Lynn no longer felt like the mega rich they had been portraying for the past few days. In a matter of minutes they had gone from Turnbush elites to Miami Marimbettos.\n\nDel ran forward to the helm, first looking into the rubber hood of the radar. The image was still distorted. He immediately turned the unit off. The rotating bar mounted over the fly bridge stopped in place.\n\n\"We can be nervous, we just won't look like we are,\" Del said.\n\n\"What is it?\" Regis asked.\n\n\"Has anyone looked aft lately? There's a cutter about half a mile off our stern.\"\n\nRegis exploded, \"Fuck, fuck, fuck! God damn it! Fuck me! This is fucked!\"\n\n\"Look, I know this doesn't look very good but appearances aren't everything. Del, you and Lynn have just received word that your aunt just died and you need to be in Palm Beach by Sunday. We were making our best effort to get you to Miami where you could meet your plane when we got caught in this damn storm,\" Tony said.\n\nLynn appeared in the wheelhouse looking very uptight.\n\n\"Look, Regis I can hear you all the way back there. If you don't settle down you're going to blow it for all of us,\" Lynn shouted as Regis stared down at the carpet, shaking his head like a kid who had just been rebuked.\n\n\"Regis is going to do just fine. Look, we all have our parts to play,\" Tony said.\n\n\"Regis, make sure the VHF is on Channel 16, they may be trying to hail us. I don't want anything to look out of the ordinary. If they call us, the sooner we respond the better. Also, switch the AM to 2182 in case they try that route first. I want all bases covered. The rest of you need to get this boat straightened up. This boat looks like it belongs in a fucking trailer park. We're expecting company,\" Del charged.\n\n\u2022\n\nThirty minutes later, a 25-foot, solid orange, rigid-bottom inflatable with two powerful outboards came alongside the Jolene Marie. Regis backed down the throttles before shifting the transmissions into neutral as one of the Coast Guardsmen called into his radio microphone over marine Channel 16, the standard working and distress frequency. His transmission echoed inside the yacht's wheelhouse.\n\n\"Alpha-three to Dauntless. Target is DIW, Dead in the Water. We have at least four persons on board.\"\n\nAs the captain of record, Tony ran to the aft to meet the boarding party.\n\n\"Skipper, I'm Boarding Agent Ortega, United States Coast Guard. Is everything okay?\"\n\n\"Yes, we just got caught in this crazy storm. We are trying to get to Miami for a funeral,\" Tony answered.\n\n\"I understand sir. We will need to make a routine inspection and then we will let you go.\"\n\n\"Please, let us be on our way. This charter is a very important man.\"\n\n\"Believe me I understand, but I have orders and my directions come from equally important men,\" the boarding officer replied.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Tony answered.\n\nRegis looked down at the teak-trimmed circuit panel. On the second row, six switches down, he saw a breaker marked stabilizers. The stabilizers were a series of fin-shaped projectiles that ran the length of the boat, deep below the waterline. They were set up in pairs, one on either corresponding side of the boat. The Jolene Marie had two sets of stabilizers, four fins in all. These projectiles were hooked to large hydraulic pistons which in turn were hooked to a complex array of circuits all focused to one computer brain located in the boat's exact core, the intersection of the center of gravity and the linier centerline. The computer, a virtual gyroscope, acted like a person's inner ear sensing the slightest movements of the yacht. Each sway and roll the computer responded by sending activating signals to the hydraulic pistons that in turn moved the underwater fins. The fins moved the boat in a way to counteract the natural movements of the sea and give the boat a smoother ride. The stabilizers were to a yacht what shock absorbers were to a smooth-riding Cadillac.\n\nAs Tony and the boarding crew came into the wheelhouse, their captain noticed a more dramatic effect from the waves against the boat.\n\n\"What's with the stabilizers?\" Tony asked.\n\n\"They must have shut down again,\" Regis replied.\n\nAgain was the key word. There might have been problems with any other piece of equipment on the boat, but the stabilizers were fairly new, and Tony knew it. Then, without warning, the huge yacht pitched into a deep oncoming wave, one that sent her stern into the air pulling the bow of the inflatable, which was tied tightly, up with it.\n\nBack in the main salon, one of the boarding crew, a young man who couldn't have been over twenty with the Juan Chavez style mustache, fell towards Lynn. Trying not to land on the seemingly fragile woman, he grabbed for a loose lamp on the end table, which fell to the carpeted deck. His reacting arms, in a desperate gesture to grab onto something stable, squeezed tightly around the stock of his AR-15, inadvertently squeezing the trigger. Within a fraction of a second, a powerful round discharged from the black metal tube and shot toward the ceiling. The salon was instantly filled with a blue tinge of gun smoke and the acrid smell of burning Fiberglas. Lynn watched in horror as the still smoking gun fell with him, its muzzle aimed straight at her forehead. Instinctively, she dropped to the deck, hitting her head on the corner of the teak and cherry coffee table while Del, who had been sitting on the couch, grabbed the end of the gun.\n\n\"Nobody move!\" the boarding chief yelled as he entered the aft salon with his .45 Colt drawn up to his shoulder. Tony and the third member of the boarding party came up from the aft stairs.\n\n\"What's going on?\" Tony asked, just before looking at the small cut over Lynn's left eye. \"My God! What happened?\"\n\n\"It's all my fault,\" the young Coast Guardsman said. \"I lost my balance when the stern surged up and the boat rolled.\"\n\n\"Do you have a first aid kit on board?\" the chief asked, rolling a handkerchief and applying pressure to Lynn's bleeding forehead.\n\nRegis, hearing the request, grabbed the first aid kit from the wheelhouse head and went aft. As he entered the salon, his heart pounded faster as he saw Lynn on the floor bleeding with Del, Tony, and the chief all at her side.\n\n\"It's okay,\" she said. \"Just a minor flesh wound.\"\n\n\"Yeah, but a few inches more and it could have blown her head off!\" Del shouted rather aggressively to the now defensive chief.\n\n\"The gun misfired long before the muzzle hit her in the forehead. Sir, I am so sorry, please forgive me,\" the younger Coasty said.\n\nRegis reached to a spot in the ceiling, sticking his finger through the mesh-type material that was exposed by the new hole.\n\n\"Here's where your bullet went boys,\" he pointed out.\n\n\"Holy shit!\" Tony yelled, rising to his feet.\n\nRegis immediately went out the aft doorway and climbed up the aft deck ladder to the overhead deck and into the salon. All those inside the salon could here his feet scurrying about on the topside as the rainwater squeaked between his deck shoes and the slick Fiberglas deck. The chief continued to aid Lynn with the help of Del, who held a handful of gauze over her wound. Then the chief wrapped more rolled gauze around her head to keep it in place.\n\nRegis jumped down to the lower deck with a look of frustration in his face.\n\n\"Just as I thought! The slug went through the overhead and penetrated clean through the hull of our Boston Whaler strapped on top. There goes our lifeboat.\"\n\n\"Sir, the United States Government will pay...\"\n\nBAMMMMM!\n\nEveryone in the salon looked aft to see the Coast Guard inflatable bounce off the yacht's transom.\n\n\"Look, that's all fine and good. Why don't you nice Coast Guard people leave before we really need that lifeboat with a hole in it,\" Lynn said, looking aft with one hand on her forehead.\n\n\"Yes ma'am. On behalf of the Coast Guard, I apologize. I will write a complete incident report and fax it to the Miami group. They will contact you in a few days to arrange for repairs. But before I leave...\"\n\n\"Yes?\" Tony asked, hoping there wasn't a catch.\n\n\"Ma'am, are you sure you're alright? I mean, we have a very capable paramedic on board the ship. I would be more than willing to have him come over and take a look at that cut for you.\"\n\n\"That won't be necessary. I used to be a nurse - it's just a surface cut. The scalp usually bleeds worse than other cuts of the body. It looks a lot worse than it really is, but thanks for the concern. I'll be sure and have it checked once we hit Miami.\"\n\n\"As you wish. Ma'am...\" the chief said.\n\nAs soon as the boarding party had appeared, they departed and headed back to the Dauntless.\n\n\"Jesus, can you believe this shit?\"\n\n\"Good thinking Regis,\" Tony replied, patting him on the back. \"Now go back and turn those damn stabilizers back on before we all get sick.\"\n\nAs the Coast Guard inflatable made its way back to the Dauntless, the chief looked back, now from a distance, looking over his shoulder at the departing Jolene Marie.\n\nWho would have guessed that the boarding would have gone so poorly, he thought to himself as he watched a flume of smoke rise to the sky from the aft-vented exhaust. Still, something wasn't right. Their float plan, the ports of call, they were going to all the wrong places. It just didn't make sense. Any other charter would be moored in the Yucatan at some safe harbor sipping up the cocktails. His fax to the Miami group would be more detailed than he had previously intended.\n\n* * * * *\n\nFlight\n\nThe pavement that made up one of the taxiways was wet with the early morning dew, a byproduct of the humidity that hung in the air like a wet rag. A lone Bell-47 helicopter sat on the tarmac as Sven Jorgenson performed his daily preflight check. Two weeks earlier the student pilot pulled into the parking lot of Tam-Flight Limited, a private flight school, towing the Bell helicopter on a custom trailer with his Ford dually pickup. He gained a lot of attention during his thirty-two hundred mile journey from Seattle to the training facility that was located on the grounds of the Tamiami Regional Airport in southwest Miami.\n\nJorgenson had already gotten his pilot's license but his rating was limited to the simplest of planes, the Cessna-152. In the past year he had managed to amass one hundred and twenty hours in the small, fixed-wing aircraft and he now had his sights on something more complex. He bought the Bell at an estate sale for thirty-five thousand and upgraded the avionics for another eight thousand. He loved the design of the small two-seater that, with its large glass bubble, resembled a large insect that reminded him of his childhood, having watched them bring in the wounded on the television show MASH as a kid. Still, Jorgenson was not a professional though his reputation as an experienced aviator grew each time someone in the chain told the story. He was just a guy, who knew a guy, who was related to a woman, who was married to a mechanic with a Miami powerboat racing team.\n\nDuring his two weeks of training he had mastered many of the primary tasks required to fly the Bell. He was diligent, spending everyday with his instructor going through checklists, preparing for emergencies, and building his skills for this day when he would take his first solo helicopter flight.\n\n\u2022\n\nSix-tenths of a mile to the southeast, supervising U. S. Attorney Pat Stephens and Miami Assistant U. S. Attorney Sam Bittel sat side-by-side at a long metal table within the confines of the prisoner interrogation room at the Federal Metro Correctional Institution. On the other side of the table was a prominent Coral Gables attorney and his client, the defendant, Guillermo Morales.\n\n\"Counselor, for the record, do you have the discovery package containing the evidence we have compiled against your client?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"And yet, at last week's arraignment, your client pled not guilty.\"\n\n\"We did.\"\n\n\"I have some new evidence I would like to submit to you verbally, first, of course.\"\n\n\"Go ahead.\"\n\n\"As I'm sure you're aware, an associate of your clients was murdered last week - one Mr. Aaron Donaldson. Ring any bells?\"\n\n\"I am aware of the murder. We are not, at this point, acknowledging or denying an association with the deceased.\"\n\n\"Well, when my jury hears this new evidence that I am prepared to present next week, I'm sure they will hand down an additional count of murder in the first degree,\" Pat announced confidently.\n\n\"Mr. Stephens, are you saying that you plan to charge my client with the murder of Aaron Donaldson? A murder, I might add, that occurred while you had my client locked up, right here at MCI, in federal custody?\"\n\n\"As you know, it wouldn't be up to me counselor. The jury of twenty-three of your client's peers would have to decide that.\"\n\n\"And you are putting this on the table because?\"\n\n\"Because your client is facing a certain life sentence and now the possibility of the death penalty.\"\n\n\"I think it's obvious Mr. Stephens.\"\n\n\"What's obvious?\"\n\n\"Why you're still working for the government when competent lawyers like myself are in private practice with billable hours worth over eight million dollars last year.\"\n\n\"Excuse me?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"You heard me. What do you take me for you cheap fuck! Look at you in your pressed suit from Sears and Roebuck. Shit counselor, my watch cost more than your car.\"\n\n\"It's not about the money, and you know it.\"\n\n\"What is it about then? Let's do some good and all of that crap? What you stand for is typical government mediocrity and I wouldn't forget that if I were you. You go ahead and indict. We both know you could charge a suckling pig with grand theft auto with these ridiculous juries.\"\n\n\"I think we are through here,\" Pat said, feeling put down.\n\n\"I'll be waiting for that discovery.\"\n\nWithout answering, Pat limply looked his adversary in the eye as the three lawyers stood and left the room while the defendant was escorted to the yard for his daily one hour outdoor time.\n\n\u2022\n\nSix-tenths of a mile back to the northwest, Jorgensen finished his preflight check and ignited the Bell-47's gas piston engine. It fired without hesitation as the new pilot increased the throttle control. As he did, the 40-foot main rotor overhead started to turn slowly, gaining speed with every revolution, throwing a repeating shadow over the glass bubble below. As the blades spun faster, Jorgensen turned more switches activating the red and white anti-collision beacons. After that he checked his gauges while he waited for the engine and transmission temperatures to rise to their normal operating levels. Patiently, his instructor stood at the edge of the tarmac, watching as his newest student took the Bell to a controlled hover.\n\n\"Whiskey Lima 500 to Tamiami tower.\"\n\n\"Go Whisky Lima 500.\"\n\n\"Permission to taxi hover to runway nine left for departure.\"\n\n\"Negative Whisky Lima 500, clear traffic, you can depart from the tarmac.\"\n\n\"Roger that Tamiami. I'm going to make a few passes around the field and return to the tarmac.\"\n\nJorgensen increased his collective pitch and with a cloud of dust the Bell was off.\n\n\u2022\n\nWhat did it matter? Pat thought to himself. These high dollar defense lawyers were assholes anyway and besides, Jhenna was going to have a baby, his baby, and what could be better than that?\n\nPat hated going to this detention center. It was designed with numerous redundancies, one of which included a maze of hallways that led him through three security checkpoints. His preferred route of departure was to cut across the inmate yard and exit directly at the facility's departing-receiving unit where his car was parked. This broke every Bureau of Prisons protocol in the book, but since the yard had an adequate amount of guards, he felt safe and the jaunt would save him at least ten minutes.\n\n\"I'm cutting through,\" Pat said to the guard at the door that led to the yard.\n\n\"I don't see anything,\" the guard replied.\n\n\"It's our secret, thanks,\" Pat answered with a smile.\n\nThe fresh air felt good on his face. He hated the stuffiness of the federal facilities, the piped-in warm air that was mixed with the odor of sweat. And then he saw him, Guillermo Morales, standing with a group of Latin men. For a second, the hairs on the back of Pat's neck stood on end, like a tourist who was lost in a dark alley with a pocketful of cash. Morales saw him also and motioned to one of his buddies who looked over at Pat who was wearing a dark blue suit in a sea of orange jumpsuits.\n\nThen without warning, the loud beating of Jorgensen and his Bell-47 helicopter cleared the main building's roof next to the yard and made a wide, poorly coordinated turn to hover over the group of prisoners. Then as Pat watched in disbelief, he decreased the aircraft's collective pitch and the Bell sank deeper into the yard, holding a position just a few feet from the ground. Then Morales made his break, running at full speed towards the hovering chopper. At the same time, a uniformed guard gave chase yelling into a handheld radio. Instinctively, Pat headed towards the commotion. As Morales started to climb onto the Bell's skid, the chasing officer approached from the rear. Jorgensen pushed the left pedal, spinning the tail boom towards the guard, using the spinning rear rotor blade as a weapon. The guard dove for the ground as Morales fell from the skid, immediately climbing back to his feet. Disoriented, Jorgensen climbed a few feet as Morales grabbed a hold of the metal skid. Another guard came from the opposite direction and Jorgensen pushed on the right pedal making a sweep at him with his pending passenger hanging on a few feet from the ground, still holding strong to the skid. Pat was now running at full speed as the second guard hit the ground to avoid being hit by the swinging tail boom. As Morales started to pull himself up onto the skid, Pat got closer. Forty feet, thirty, twenty, ten and then with a dive an NFL wide receiver would have been proud of, five-foot-eight-inch Pat Stephens made impact with the left flank of six-foot-one-inch Guillermo Morales, knocking the plump Cuban from the skid. The two fell to the ground just as the first guard got to his feet. Seeing that he had lost his passenger, Jorgensen reversed his slow spin, pushing back on the left pedal, making a wide swing for the approaching first guard. Jorgensen didn't see what was behind him as the spinning tail rotor struck the twelve-foot-high galvanized chain link fence that separated the yard from the free world on the other side. Losing complete control, the Bell-47 turned up, end to end, flipping on its side as the massive main rotor blade took deep bites into the grassy yard.\n\nPat pinned Morales to the ground as six other officers ran into the yard, securing the other inmates and handcuffing Morales who was led off to the solitary holding unit. Sam Bittel ran across the yard where Pat stood, brushing dirt and grass cuttings from his suit.\n\n\"I can't believe what just happened!\" Bittel yelled over the commotion. \"You okay?\"\n\n\"I think so. Someone needs to check on that pilot,\" Pat said, pointing over to the mass of twisted metal and broken Plexiglas.\n\n\"That blade just missed your head, Pat. Jesus!\"\n\n\"I really don't want to think about it. Let's get the hell out of here.\"\n\n\"Okay. Guess you're going to have to go to Sears and get a new suit,\" Bittel said with a crooked smile.\n\n\"Why Mr. Bittel, I shop exclusively at J.C. Penney I'll have you know,\" Pat joked as the two laughed.\n\n* * * * *\n\nLand\n\nThe first sight of land occurred at around 1:30 in the afternoon. Del had the helm and was making good time. Both engines were running smoothly and the hull was beating down the four-foot chop that was in its way. On the horizon, Key West revealed its radio towers and a pair of smoke stacks that ventilated the island's desalination plant, a system that provided freshwater to its inhabitants by removing salt and other minerals from the surrounding seawater. The process used a considerable amount of heat and flumes of rising, smoke-filled air could be seen for twenty miles in either direction. The sun was coming into view to the east and the small ascending particles of burning matter reflected the rays of light, giving off a glow that looked more like a sunset than a sunrise. A new day was born and as the Jolene Marie entered Hawks Channel, Del could see the lobster fishermen checking and setting their traps as well as the charter boats catching fresh schools of mullet and ballyhoo for bait. It was the start of a pleasant day and one Del would take calmly as they continued their trek north.\n\nHawks Channel would carry them up the outside of the Keys, past Biscayne Bay, Government Cut, South Beach and most of Miami Beach to the Haulover Inlet where they would cut into the Intracoastal Waterway and continue north another three miles to Turnbush. If everything went as planned, the Jolene Marie would land at around nine that evening, giving the crew ample time to unload and clean the boat before sunrise the next day.\n\n\"Want some coffee?\" asked a soft voice from the galley below. Lynn was up and the smell of fresh coffee filled the wheelhouse as well as the rest of the boat.\n\n\"Sure, is Tony up yet?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't think so,\" she answered.\n\n\"It's okay, let him sleep. It's going to be a late night,\" Del said. \"I know Regis is probably going to sleep until twelve or so. I relieved him at three and he looked bushed.\"\n\n\"How's she running?\" Lynn asked, sipping on a steaming cup and snuggling next to Del.\n\n\"Great, like a clock,\" he answered. \"Make that a Swiss clock.\"\n\nDuring the night, Tony had performed some routine maintenance on some of the boat's systems. The batteries had been used regularly, running the cluster of electronics and lighting as well as the sanitation systems and freshwater maker. While in mid ocean he set the autopilot and went below to check the levels of water in each battery cell, filling them to the prescribed level with distilled water. The boat's fuel supply was at one-quarter and he noticed the bow was running higher than he liked, primarily because of the weight they had added to the aft fuel tank. Tony tried to adjust for this by increasing the output of the water maker and filling the forward thousand-gallon reserve water tank. Everything was going well. Almost too well, he thought to himself as he retired back behind the large wooden wheel.\n\n* * * * *\n\nInterception\n\nHave I done the right thing? Joel thought to himself. The day before, an overnight delivery had arrived from his brother-in-law Pat Stephens containing the pending indictment of his partner Owen Sands. Twelve hours later, he handed it over to him. Now they were speeding north after receiving an alert that their target boat, the Jolene Marie had called in and was due to dock in the posh North Miami yacht club, Turnbush.\n\nJoel drove the red Camaro IROC north on U.S.1 out of Plantation Key as Owen thumbed through the grand jury transcripts. He was stunned by what he saw but in a way, relieved. Previously, the basis for his fears was the unknown. His paranoia was the product of his own speculation and, as Leslie used to say, \"just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not after you.\" His imagination had run wild. Owen knew enough about the law to know that what he was up against was filled with holes. He also knew however, that a case against one or more federal agents always took priority. At least now he could see in black and white what the opposition thought and by what suspicions they were acting upon. He knew he had a fighting chance.\n\nWhere did Joel fit into this though? Could he be trusted? Owen thought to himself. Joel had already done the unheard of in government service, put the concerns of someone else above that of their own. How was this disclosure of classified evidence going to affect him, a new and impressionable agent who, by the way, was very involved with Tessa, the widow of a former smuggler? The way he saw it, they were both in the same boat, and for the first time in months they were going to do the real job they were empowered to do.\n\nThe traffic on the eighteen-mile stretch wasn't terribly bad. Joel jockeyed around the slower cars at an average speed of ninety while Owen read on through the documents, occasionally cracking a smile and a chuckle. The more he read, the more amused he became. Then the reality hit him. As a government agent, he was trained to act guilty, to always be on the defensive, and to always watch his back. At least you can be prepared when someone puts a knife in it, he would rationalize. However, the prime idea hit him rather hard. I've done nothing wrong! he thought to himself. Pat Stephens's case was based solely on conjecture. There was no foundation, no basis of fact, just informants who made general accusations and circumstantial evidence. Confidential informants who had an axe to grind or people with twisted intentions. The grand jury machine had been assembled though and the only question was who it was going to devourer. There was someone in his office who was working both sides, that was a given. It was no mystery that most offices had one or two agents who could have been \"on the take\" but the Tavernier office, that could have been a real franchise of graft. The agent who betrayed his post down there could reap millions and do so in a fairly short period of time. The government tried to rotate agents through its field offices at a regular pace. It wasn't a good practice to have federal law enforcement officials on close terms with the locals, especially in the Keys. One could easily get caught up in the Keys' \"attitude of the latitude.\" Owen had been in the Tavernier office for eight years, a long time by most agents' standards. Stephens probably figured that he had nestled into the local way of life. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. There was only one agent who had been there longer though, and now Owen knew what that agent, his friend of twenty years, was saying about him.\n\nAfter their assignment together as agents in the Panama Canal Zone, Jordan Cheney took a lateral transfer to Customs and the top spot at the Tavernier field office. Owen Sands was a natural candidate for his assistant and with coaxing, Cheney got his old partner transferred to him in a short period of time.\n\nAs the IROC entered the Florida City roadblock, an awaiting cop flagged them through. Joel darted around the waiting cars, waving briefly as he passed. They hit the Florida Turnpike in less than a minute leaving them exactly half an hour to make it to the Turnbush Marina in North Miami Beach. In their haste, they missed the two black Chevy Suburbans that were waiting at the roadblock, parked next to the idling Florida City cruisers. They blended in with all the other stopped traffic waiting patiently.\n\n\u2022\n\nFlorida State Trooper Lester Mander had his spot picked out. The new Ford Mustang blended in under the swaying palms located on the highway's median just south of the Snapper Creek Turnpike Plaza. Trooper Mander was just getting used to the new car after spending the last eight years with the same Plymouth Fury that he loved more than his firstborn son. His new car didn't have the acceleration or top-end speed the Fury had and to make matters worse, the car had been equipped with an experimental device, a crude appendage to the front of his steering wheel that was supposed to be there for his safety. While in development for the last ten years, automotive airbags were now starting to go into the mass-testing phase before being approved and made mandatory in all domestic passenger vehicles. State troopers all over the U.S. had their newer cars equipped with the devices that while bulky and cumbersome, were supposed to be fail-proof and a life saving edge one could be thankful for in the event of a catastrophic collision.\n\n\u2022\n\nJoel didn't notice the state trooper hiding under the group of trees ahead. His mind was on other things, mainly Tessa. He was in love and he didn't quite know how to react. It wasn't a feeling he had embraced before. The red Camaro sped over the four-lane blacktop like a bullet train following steel rails on a course for North Miami Beach. The alarm on the radar was the first to sound.\n\n94-94-94-94\n\nThe amber display blinked, locked in on the illegal speeder. Mander popped a form-fitting plastic top over the Styrofoam cup of coffee he was sipping, put the car in gear and bolted up the embankment, squealing the tires as the accelerating car grabbed the pavement.\n\n\"642 Turnpike,\" he called into the radio's microphone.\n\n\"642,\" squawked the radio.\n\n\"10-4, I am attempting a traffic stop on a red Camaro northbound at the Snapper Creek Plaza. This guy's going ninety-four in a fifty-five. Go ahead and send me some backup, please. Also, this is probably the no-contact hit and run suspect from a previous incident involving an FHP vehicle.\"\n\n\"642, do you have the car stopped yet?\"\n\n\"Negative Turnpike, I'm trying to catch up to him now.\"\n\n\"10-4, 642. Be advised I just received a BOLO from U.S. Customs. A red Camaro IROC Z-28 occupied by two white male subjects is wanted in connection with a federal drug indictment. These subjects are both known to impersonate law enforcement officials. The subjects are considered armed and dangerous. Use extreme caution. Detain and hold for U.S. Customs. This is per Special Agent in Charge Jordan Cheney.\"\n\n\"10-4 Turnpike, where's my closest backup?\"\n\n\"I show 1134 in Florida City working a minor signal four traffic accident.\"\n\n\"1134 Turnpike,\" the second trooper interrupted.\n\n\"Go ahead 1134,\" the dispatcher squawked.\n\n\"This is 1134 - Show me en route to backup 642 on his 10-50 traffic stop.\"\n\n\"10-4, 1134, did you copy direct 642?\"\n\n\"10-4, I'm on them now, they've slowed down to seventy.\"\n\n\u2022\n\n\"Shit!\" Joel exclaimed looking into his rearview mirror as he pulled the car to the side of the busy roadway.\n\n\"What is it?\" Owen asked looking behind him.\n\n\"Let me ID this guy, we're running out of time,\" Kenyon said, putting the car in park before reaching for his wallet.\n\n\"Occupants, put your hands against the windshield!\" shouted an authoritative voice over the trooper's overhead PA system. \"Driver, with your left hand, turn off the ignition and throw the keys out the window.\"\n\nJoel looked back at the trooper still seated behind the wheel, concealed in his patrol car. This guy meant business, he thought to himself as he started to reach for the keys. Something wasn't right; this guy is doing a serious felony stop.\n\n\"Wait,\" Owen said.\n\nThe two looked at each other for a second and then, as though they had rehearsed a dozen times, Joel took his opposite hand and jammed the center-mounted gear shift into reverse, stepping on the gas and sending them backwards towards the trooper's black and tan Mustang. The impact wasn't especially great but it caught Trooper Mander completely by surprise. His first instinct was to reach down for his holstered gun, which was not an easy thing to do since he was seated. A bright flash of white light, which dulled his senses for a second, interrupted him. What was happening? he thought to himself. One of the subjects must have fired his gun, he feared. Where was it? Why can't I see? Am I dead?\n\nThe sound that accompanied the flash left a ringing in his ears. It must have been a gunshot. Where is 1134? Am I dying? He smelled something burning. These guys aren't close enough. My God! I shot myself. Slowly he blinked his eyes. A trace of white powder lingered in the air as he noticed a cloud-like pillow assembled in front of him. The car's airbag had exploded upon impact catching him off guard. Unable to see past the white balloon, he grabbed for his radio microphone but grabbed his hot cup of coffee instead. Steaming mud scorched his hand and ran down his right leg. Joel shifted the car back into drive and accelerated forward, regaining his trek northward.\n\nAs Mander yelled for backup, the two black Suburbans blasted by his disabled patrol car.\n\n\u2022\n\nTwenty minutes later, with a countywide bulletin being broadcasted on every police frequency in a hundred mile radius, Joel exited the turnpike. As he made his way down North Miami's 163rd Street, he could feel the traffic starting to get heavier. Ten car lengths behind, the two Suburbans that had been following the Camaro since Florida City maintained their distance. The stop and go traffic was more than Joel's patience could bear.\n\n\"Shit!\" he said to himself, hitting the soft center of the steering wheel.\n\n\"Relax. We're less than fifteen minutes away,\" Owen comforted.\n\nThen without warning, a loud voice blurted out, \"red Camaro!\"\n\nJoel looked back to see the blue and red flashing lights of a Metro Dade police car directly behind them.\n\n\"Pull to the next side street!\" ordered a voice amplified by the car's PA system.\n\n\"There's no way out of this,\" Joel said. \"If we run, we could lead them to Turnbush.\"\n\n\"Relax, let me handle this,\" Owen replied.\n\nAs the red Camaro pulled into a nearly abandoned side street, the green and white Metro cruiser followed in behind, maintaining a safe distance. Officers Cabrera and Evans had been on duty for less than half an hour before the BOLO came over their radio. New to Metro, both had visions of making a name for themselves and this was to be their first stepping stone. Both men exited the cruiser with guns drawn. Cabrera, a large Cuban with dark skin and combed back jet-black hair yelled, not needing the assistance of the PA.\n\n\"Turn off the car and place your hands against the windshield!\"\n\nEvans held his gun tightly as he aimed at the Camaro's passenger, ready to unload his automatic Smith and Wesson with a split seconds notice.\n\n\"Federal agent!\" Joel yelled out of the window. \"You can holster your weapons!\"\n\n\"These are our guys,\" Cabrera said, remembering the BOLO's instructions.\n\n\"I'm scared,\" Evans confided to his partner. \"Maybe we should wait for some backup.\"\n\n\"Shut up, you pussy!\" Cabrera replied. \"If they move, shoot them. Don't hesitate.\"\n\nJoel sat still for a second before reaching for his wallet that was tucked between the seat and the center console.\n\n\"Cabrera?\" Evans asked sheepishly.\n\n\"I said freeze asshole!\" Cabrera shouted with a loud commanding voice.\n\n\u2022\n\n\"Are we ready?\" asked the driver of the lead Suburban to an agent clad in black tactical gear that was seated behind him.\n\n\"As ready as we'll ever be,\" he replied, checking the clip on his AR-15 assault rifle.\n\n\u2022\n\nJoel looked into the rearview mirror as he quickly returned his hands to the windshield. And then he noticed them, a black Suburban speeding in their direction followed by another. Both pulled up on either side of the Metro cruiser. Before the officers could see what was going on, all the doors on both vehicles opened at once as a dozen men, all clad in black and donning Kevlar jackets and AR-15s, spilled into the quiet street. Cabrera and Evans, trying to keep an eye on the car ahead, turned back in disbelief.\n\n\"Freeze! FBI!\" said the lead man.\n\nBoth officers resumed their stance, straightening their aim against the Camaro, relieved that some assistance had arrived.\n\n\"I said freeze!\" the lead man repeated, touching the tip of his AR-15 against Cabrera's perfectly groomed jet-black hair.\n\n\"FBI! Put down your weapons and keep your hands in my view at all times. This will be over in a few seconds if you do exactly as I say,\" he said in a direct but calm voice.\n\nBoth officers laid their weapons on the ground as two agents from the back took the men to the rear of the cruiser. Then, the lead agent approached the Camaro without fear, walking up to the open driver's side window.\n\n\"Agent Kenyon?\" he said to Joel.\n\n\"Yeah, what's going on?\" he asked.\n\n\"Just clearing the way sir. We've been ordered to make contact with you at any cost,\" the lead agent responded as Joel and Owen exited the Camaro.\n\n\"Our radios are down,\" Joel said.\n\n\"I know. There's been a major system failure affecting the entire East Coast. We have Mr. Stephens on the phone. He wants to talk to you,\" the agent stated as another placed a cellular bag phone on the IROC's trunk lid.\n\n\"Joel!\" Pat shouted, relieved. \"Where the hell have you been?\"\n\n\"We've had some communication problems.\"\n\n\"Where is Owen Sands?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"He's with me. Pat, this indictment is bullshit. None of it is accurate.\"\n\n\"We'll sort all of that out later. I'm in Miami and it's been a hell of a day. When can we meet?\"\n\n\"We don't have time for that now. We are in the middle of a major case that's ready to break. Please Pat, Owen needs this right now.\"\n\n\"This goes against my better judgment.\"\n\n\"Trust me on this one.\"\n\n\"Take the FBI's bag phone with you and report directly to me. Cease any more contact with the Tavernier office,\" Pat ordered.\n\n\"Why? What's going on?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"We'll go over it later, just do as I say. And for God's sake, be careful, both of you.\"\n\n\"We've got to go Pat,\" Joel said, pushing the red end button of the phone.\n\n\"Do you need any assistance?\" the agent asked.\n\n\"No thanks. You guys kinda stand out,\" Joel said, looking back at the dozen men who were equipped with tactical gear, Kevlar vests, loaded automatic weapons, and looked more like a small army than FBI agents. \"No offense.\"\n\n\"None taken,\" the agent responded with a smile.\n\nAs the two got back in the car, Owen looked over at Joel who maintained a forward stare.\n\n\"When were you going to tell me?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"What? That the guy who's been after you all this time is my brother-in-law? How do you think I got a hold of the indictment?\"\n\n\"So, you've been sent down here to bust me. I've got to tell you, it's a big surprise.\"\n\n\"It's a surprise to both of us man. I had no idea you were the guy they were after.\"\n\n\"And Tessa? How does she figure into all of this?\"\n\n\"That's not fair. You know my feelings for her are real.\"\n\n\"Real. What's that?\"\n\n\"Look, Owen, if I was in on this do you think I would have told you about the indictment, gotten this close to Tessa, or let you drive away from a dozen armed FBI agents. Like it or not, right now, I'm the best asset you've got. So, can you stop, take a moment and trust me?\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nDisconnected\n\nFat Albert, the name locals gave to the 175-foot tethered balloon at Cudjoe Key, bounced violently on its concrete pad as the remnants of Tropical Storm Oliver blew over the small island. The large white object that was drawn down with its guide wire was stressing the structural components to their limits.\n\nThe crew had plenty of warning before the storm rolled in. The massive front showed up like a solid white marshmallow on CNN's weather report. The balloon had to come down for two reasons. First, a tethered balloon rising up into the inversion layer of a major weather front posed the risk of a lightning strike that, at the very least, could harm the delicate magnets of the radar system. Lightning could also cause an explosion by igniting one of the many gases that keep the zeppelin aloft. The Hindenburg disaster was a crude reminder of what hydrogen did when it burned. Second, Fat Albert, because it used hydrogen and helium to float, was sensitive to the temperature changes. The colder it got, the more sluggish and heavy the balloon became. Small amounts of the buoyant gases were sometimes removed on hot summer days to prevent the ship from pulling its anchor out of the ground. The outer surface of the craft was insulated to prevent sudden changes in the temperature from affecting the balloon without suitable warning to the crew on the ground. Special solar energy-absorbing panels were also sewn into the topside of the craft to help warm it when it was used at extremely high altitudes. The balloon required a relative ambient temperature of at least forty degrees Fahrenheit in order to stay aloft. The cable, capable of letting it fly as high as fifteen thousand feet like a kite on a windy day, on occasion weighed in excess of three tons. The onboard computer system interfaced with the ship's radar and satellite uplink that sent its signal directly to C3I, weighed another eleven hundred pounds. The payload requirements for this balloon were demanding. The EH-07 hybrid helium and hydrogen gases were the perfect solution, achieving maximum lift with minimal displacement.\n\nKeeping this ship in the air was a monumental task. Special equipment was fabricated to minimize down time and afford the best in reliability. The stainless turnbuckle that connected the main harness to the rest of the ascendable wire was manufactured by Altech Aviation of Cedar Rapids, Michigan. It was a very simple piece of rigging, allowing the balloon to rotate without causing undue stress on the lead wire. The one precaution that needed to be adhered to once the balloon was grounded was that the Altech turnbuckle had to be wrapped in a foam sleeve, also supplied by the manufacturer. The precaution was implemented in order to prevent the piece from being banged around. On this windy night though, with forty miles per hour gusts ripping over the concrete pad, the foam pad sat in its locker unused.\n\nThe balloon had only been down for six hours, but the stainless piece had already been struck repeatedly against the wet concrete pad. At 8:27 p.m., the stainless Altech turnbuckle holding the Cudjoe zeppelin to the pad absorbed the final shock of its shortened life. Pieces of battered stainless steel were scattered over the wet concrete as the huge balloon ascended skyward at a northwestern heading. Because of the latent energy stored in the insulated skin of the ship, the craft climbed to a height of one hundred feet over Florida Bay. The balloon then leveled off and continued on its course being driven by the fierce wind.\n\nIt took over three hours before the balloon reached its resting spot. The temperature had dropped to a record twenty-two degrees, made even colder by the wind chill factor. Fat Albert set down into the cold water, skating over the choppy waves until its harness snagged on some mangrove branches that rose from a small island hammock just west of Key Largo.\n\n* * * * *\n\nDelegate\n\nFred Gold watched from the twenty-third story of Turnbush's north tower as the Jolene Marie approached the entrance to the yacht basin. A soft rain, the beginning of an approaching storm front that had been falling all day, soothed out the rippling waves that usually were atop the flowing waters of the Intracoastal Waterway. The only thing that upset the windowpane-like surface was the bead of water that extended from the bow and stern of the returning yacht as she turned slowly, easing down the tributary that led to the backside of the Turnbush complex.\n\nGold took his starched white captains hat from the room's oak dresser and made way for the elevator.\n\n\u2022\n\nAcross the Turnbush basin was an empty lot that had been used as a storage facility for a nearby construction site. The red IROC fit in with the five other muscle cars that were parked on the cluttered property. Most were kids who were trying to get away from their parents to drink some beer or smoke a joint. Others had different intentions with their car windows fogged over with steam, a byproduct of the heat that was generated by their adolescent passions.\n\nJoel and Owen watched as the Jolene Marie made a one hundred and eighty degree turn in front of them to dock nose out towards the Intracoastal, with the starboard side of the yacht against the fuel dock next to the dockmaster's office.\n\n\"This is almost too good to be true,\" Joel said.\n\n\"We'll see about that,\" Owen replied.\n\n\u2022\n\nGold exited the north tower's elevator on the ground level and went directly to the yacht lockers next to his office. These storage closets were convenient for large yacht owners who needed extra space to house everything from spare parts to cases of beer and liquor. The aged dockmaster unlocked unit B-10 that held the six sets of nested designer luggage that Del had purchased days before. With a rolling utility cart, Gold loaded the bags, each of the six containing its smaller, corresponding seven matching pieces packed inside each of the larger. There were forty-eight bags going on the yacht as six pieces of luggage.\n\n\u2022\n\nRegis stood on the wet bow with a gold braided spring line coiled in his hand. He wore a bright yellow foul weather jacket that came to his waist. Below that he had on his yacht crew uniform that was made up of a set of khaki crew shorts and Topsiders that were completely saturated with the fresh rainwater. From the wheelhouse, Tony Milner could see the goose bumps formed on his first mate's legs.\n\nTony worked the controls, pivoting the yacht one hundred and eighty degrees to moor her against the main fuel dock. The dock boy that was on duty stood on the wet concrete pier wearing a full length raincoat and a plastic rain protector over his official looking hat to ward off the cold. As Tony reversed the twin diesel power plants, Regis prepared to secure their lines to the approaching pilings that would eventually lay off the boat's bow. Once the bow was secure, Regis ran the length of the boat and repeated the proces with the stern lines, throwing the rope to the boy on the dock like a cowboy securing a head of cattle.\n\nAs the gangplank went down, Gold was there waiting with the six pieces of luggage that went on board before Tony could shut off the engines.\n\n\u2022\n\nEight hours after they had arrived and all the other cars had left the property, the red IROC sat idling alone in the dark. An hour before, Joel had taken the car to a nearby convenience store where he filled the empty Camaro with gas and stocked up on hot coffee and cold chocolate milk. Owen had stayed behind to keep an eye on the yacht.\n\nThe two were back in the warm car waiting for something to break across the basin. As they sat, scores of anxious amateur fishermen started to assemble with gear and bagged lunches by the sport fishing boats that were docked on the other side of the small harbor. And then they saw it: three matching white airport limousine passenger vans had pulled into the circular drive by the dockmaster's office. Then, without warning, the crew from the Jolene Marie started to offload the luggage.\n\n\"They look pretty heavy,\" Joel said, jugging down his third carton of chocolate milk.\n\n\"I'm willing to bet that's not designer fashions in those bags,\" Owen said, looking through a pair of standard binoculars. \"By the way, what do you have against coffee anyway?\"\n\n\"This stuff keeps me from...you know...having to go,\" Joel answered.\n\n\"Whatever works kid.\"\n\nThe sun had started to rise and the entire complex was filled with a grayish blue light that was getting brighter by the minute. Joel and Owen had been awake for twenty-four hours and their day was just beginning.\n\n\u2022\n\nWith the last bag of luggage unloaded, Del leaned over and gave Lynn a long kiss.\n\n\"When will you be back?\" she asked with a sad tone.\n\n\"As soon as this stuff is safe, I'll rent a car and come home - probably sometime tomorrow. Go home and get some sleep and keep the bed warm for me, okay?\" he said, giving her a final kiss.\n\n* * * * *\n\nMarriage\n\nBackcountry fishing pro Jim Plimpton, The Redfisher, was on the water early this morning. He slept very well the night before. He usually did when it stormed. The front had passed and all that remained was the cold air that pushed it here. Plimpton's 18-foot backcountry boat skimmed across the water that was like a glossy mirror as far as the eye could see, a perfect surface of liquid making the ride the smoothest he could remember.\n\nPlimpton was out early to catch shrimp. They ran in the cold water, usually darting through the small channels of water between the mangrove islands out west. The spot where he wanted to fish was easy enough to find. He had been there many times before. Other boats would have had to use caution in approaching the outward-bound Keys. The water depth in the surrounding vicinity ranged from twelve feet to under twelve inches. Underwater banks of sand were common. Plimpton's boat, however, was used to making this trip, drawing less than eight inches of water while on plane.\n\nAs he neared the small islands, something looked out of place. A distinctive white glow lingered over it like a huge storm cloud that rose up from the horizon. What was it? he thought to himself. For a minute, it almost looked like the moon low at the horizon, but the brightly lit moon was already overhead shining through the clear sky. The white object seemed to absorb all the light from the sky above. The moon and the stars all made it glow. This was easy to see despite the fact that it was over a quarter mile away. Plimpton put the boat back on plane and headed west towards the backcountry.\n\nIt took less than a minute for the overpowered craft to reach the snagged 175-foot long balloon. Once he was next to it, Plimpton recognized it immediately. It was Fat Albert, with all of its antennas and sophisticated electronics mounted in its belly. Whoever lost the thing probably wanted it back, he thought. The idea of a sizable reward filled his head. The running shrimp would have to wait.\n\nPlimpton, while in good shape, was not a big man. He never weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds his whole life and with his six-foot-one frame, he always appeared to be thin as a rail. Plimpton climbed from the bow of the Mako to the clumsy branches of the mangrove trees. The harness was pretty wrapped up into the limbs and twigs but with some manipulation, the oversized pillow shifted around and Plimpton jumped back onto the boat with the broken turnbuckle in hand. The balloon was lifeless and floated about with what seemed to be the perfect balance of weightlessness. It was obvious that the gases inside that gave the craft its lift were paralyzed by the cold.\n\nPlimpton knew the only way to get this thing back to Key Largo was to tow it with his backcountry boat. He wasted no time in preparing a towing bridle out of the three-quarter-inch anchor rope. A Y piece was quickly manufactured and secured with the two ends tied through the stainless eye rings in the transom of the boat. The third leg of the bridal went to the loop on the balloon harness where the remainder of the turnbuckle was. Plimpton then powered up the six-cylinder outboard as gray exhaust and steam rose into the chilled air while the motor strained against the Fiberglas transom, pulling the huge, weightless balloon from the trees. He had the throttle open all the way but it wasn't until he changed the angle at which the boat was pulling did the airship slide from its cozy nest and plop into the cold water. Plimpton felt accomplished. Almost like freeing a beached whale, he thought. He looked back for a second. This was big, real big! he thought to himself. It was long and tubular, had wings and a tail section so when aloft it pointed into the wind and was stable. His mind ran wild: How much would I get? Five thousand? Ten? God, maybe twenty? What a night!\n\nThe boat and balloon moved along at a steady pace of three knots. Plimpton left the throttle at a third so as to not strain the highly torqued outboard motor. He watched the exhaust for its constant spray of water. The bay was shallow here and it was easy to pick up debris from the bottom; debris that could easily clog the small intake of the outboard's water pump, the heart of its cooling system.\n\nHe had a temperature gauge installed on the console of the boat several years prior. It proved useful in varied fishing situations being able to give the water and air temperatures. With the sun starting to rise in the east, the gauge read the air to be a brisk forty-four degrees. Plimpton noticed his boat to be moving a bit faster when he first started his journey back to Key Largo. The balloon had lifted from the bay and was trailing the boat at an elevation of about thirty feet. This was some sight, Plimpton thought.\n\nWhat at first made the 18-foot vessel go faster was now straining it, making it steer poorly. Plimpton noticed the rope pulling the balloon was growing more taut, pulling the transom higher in the water. The bow was starting to grope head-on into the small, choppy waves that had developed in the meantime. Much more of this and the engine would be completely out of the water, he thought. He sat as far astern as he could to maximize the weight in the back of the boat. The oversized pillow was now a cloud that loomed directly overhead.\n\nPlimpton made the decision to cut the lines as soon as the spinning prop on the outboard was lifted completely from the water. He was frightened, however, to go to the bow where in his tackle box was a freshly sharpened filleting knife. He knew he just had to do it. Water was starting to lap over the bow of the now motionless boat. He made a dash toward the front of the boat but it was the wrong move. As he shifted his weight forward of the center of gravity, Fat Albert also shifted, pulling the stern of the boat higher still and making a vertical angle where the boat hung steeper. The momentum of the shift threw Plimpton over the submerged bow and into the cold water. Stunned by the chilled liquid, he was further horrified to see the bow of the Mako leave the water as it ascended skyward at a rate of two feet per second. Plimpton grabbed a hold of a loose bowline, trying to stop his departing boat. It was too late. His frail body didn't make a difference anymore. He watched as the boat's anchor, fuel tank, tackle box and other loose items fell into the water below. Hatches dropped open dumping more items into the bay. Plimpton swam to a floating life vest that had landed a few feet away. He couldn't believe his eyes. His life was now in peril and the regret of his greed was just starting to set in.\n\n* * * * *\n\nRubicon\n\nOwen turned south on U.S. 1 and maintained a tail on the last van seven cars deep while Joel called Pat on the bag phone.\n\n\"Hey, just checking in,\" Joel said.\n\n\"Where the fuck are you?\"\n\n\"North Miami, headed south. Everything's cool. I forgot to ask yesterday, why are you in Miami?\"\n\n\"Tried to work out a plea deal with Morales.\"\n\n\"Guillermo Morales? What kind of plea deal?\"\n\n\"It's all moot anyway. The asshole tried to escape.\"\n\n\"What? Escape! What the hell happened?\"\n\n\"You wouldn't believe me if I told you.\"\n\n\"Hey, hold on Pat. Owen, watch where you're going. He's turning right onto 163rd Street. I bet they're headed to the interstate.\"\n\n\"Let me know if you guys need backup. What are you guys working on anyway?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"It's nothing. A guy is trying to move a few kilos. We've got it under control.\"\n\n\"Joel...\" Pat said as Joel hit the red end button with a disconnecting beep.\n\n\"Was that him?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"What do you think?\"\n\n\"He's married to your sister?\"\n\n\"Yeah.\"\n\n\"So what's that like?\"\n\n\"What, having Pat as a brother-in-law? It's okay. He rides my ass a lot, but lately that's been a good thing.\"\n\n\"They are passing the interstate,\" Owen said as they drove under the ten-lane overpass. \"Where the hell are these guys...\"\n\n\"Left! 441!\" Joel yelled as he watched the white van through his binoculars.\n\n\"Look, I'm sorry for giving you a hard time earlier, you know, about him.\"\n\n\"I'm the one who should be sorry. I should have told you, it's just not what I wanted the other guys in the office to know. I guess I was afraid everyone would think I got the assignment because, well, you know...\"\n\n\"I get it,\" Owen replied.\n\n\"Right on 119th Street.\"\n\n\"Shit. I think I know where they're going. And you might want to get your brother-in-law back on the phone.\"\n\n\"Shit, where is it?\"\n\nMiami's Northwest 119th Street was a straight shot to the Hialeah train yards. Joel and Owen watched as the last of the three vans pulled into a concealed commercial depot that was adjacent to a set of tracks that were occupied by a hundred-car freight train.\n\n\"There is only one way we are going to be able to stay with this load.\"\n\n\"You're not suggesting...\"\n\n\"Ever fantasize about being a hobo Joel?\"\n\n\"Shit. I was afraid you were going to say that.\"\n\n\"We are going to have to ditch the car behind this building,\" Owen said, pointing to an abandoned warehouse on the other side of the tracks.\n\nThe two agents emptied the car's trunk of their duty gear that consisted of two duffel bags, their Kevlar vests and two fully automatic assault rifles. They took cover and watched as forty-eight designer suitcases were unloaded from the white airport limousine passenger vans into a boxcar that was identified with the number 359.\n\n\u2022\n\nDel exited the first van and walked over to the train's engineer who greeted him warmly.\n\n\"How was the trip?\" he asked.\n\n\"It was long. I'm glad to be on dry land. That damn tropical storm almost killed us.\"\n\n\"Okay, well this is how we do this. You're going to ride up front with me. We have a small cab with a bunk, a TV, a small fridge and a coffee maker. In the old days, all the creature comforts were in the caboose. Our newer, more modern engines combine the two.\"\n\n\"When do you think we will hit Ocala?\" Del asked.\n\n\"We have one stop in Orlando where we have to top-off our fuel tanks.\"\n\n\"I thought these trains were electric?\"\n\n\"They are, but the generators that provide the electric power are run by diesel engines and they burn a lot of fuel. All things considered, we should make our destination by 4:00 p.m.\"\n\nAs the train started to inch its way out of the yard, Joel and Owen nestled into their boxcar that was fifteen cars behind unit 359.\n\n\"This thing is almost dead,\" Joel announced, looking at the red blinking light on the bag phone.\n\n\"International Farms Corp. is the parent of Morada Boat Leasing. My guess is that's where we're headed.\"\n\n\"It's ringing, but I'm only getting Pat's answering service,\" Joel said with frustration. \"I need for you to get a message to U.S. Attorney Pat Stephens. This is Special Agent Joel Kenyon, it's an emergency. Notify him that we are departing on a train...Yes ma'am, a train. We are leaving Hialeah and headed north. We have confirmed forty-eight suitcases full of contraband, cocaine suspected, I'm guessing two to three thousand kilos on board. We suspect that the load is headed to Ocala, Florida. Target location is Inter... BEEEEEP,\" the phone sounded as it shutdown with its battery completely exhausted.\n\n\"Is that it?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"I'm afraid so. We can leave it alone for awhile and see if the battery will resurge enough to make another call, but I'm not making any bets.\"\n\n\"Well, I guess it's just you and me kid,\" Owen announced, looking for a piece of gum in the back pocket of his worn blue jeans. \"What the...?\" he said, pulling out a small child's pink sock. It was Monica's and, as the household laundry had oftentimes mixed their clothes together, this was a classic example of how it was hard for him to leave his family behind on assignments like these.\n\n\"Even if you can get by the color, I don't think it'll fit partner,\" Joel said.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAction\n\nPat Stephens sat in a crowded conference room with agents from the FBI and the U.S. Customs Office of Internal Affairs.\n\n\"All we have is a partial message. We think they are going to Ocala and that they are sitting on a major quantity of coke. The phone cut off in the middle of what sounded like International,\" Pat's assistant said over the speakerphone for all to hear.\n\n\"I don't care if I'm making a final summation. If Joel calls me back, you find me,\" Pat yelled.\n\n\"Yes sir.\"\n\n\"Ma'am, this is Special Agent Robinson with OIA. Did they give any specifics as to how much product they were tracking?\"\n\n\"All the message said was that they were tracking forty-eight suitcases and Joel estimated it to be between two and three thousand kilos.\"\n\n\"Oh my god! They are headed into a gauntlet!\" another agent shouted.\n\n\"I need a TAC team and will someone please find Chester Marks. I want to be airborne in less than ten minutes.\"\n\n\"Hold on Pat. We can't just rush up there. We don't know where they are headed.\"\n\n\"Get Florida Secretary of State on the phone and ask for the Division of Corporations. I need all listings for corporations with the name International and a home office of Ocala,\" Pat ordered.\n\n\"Chester Marks is on his way up Pat,\" an agent said from the back of the room while talking into a phone.\n\n\"How are we handling the Owen Sands situation?\" OIA agent Robinson asked.\n\n\"As of now, there isn't an Owen Sands situation. We have some investigating to do over the next few months, but the indictment is dead. Let's hope for his sake that this bust goes down in his favor. It would certainly look good on his record,\" Pat concluded.\n\n\"What are we doing in Tavernier?\" Robinson asked.\n\n\"I want all access to EPIC, NCIC, FCIC and any other criminal databases blocked to all the agents of the Tavernier office until further notice and I want OIA to prepare a contingency staff to go down immediately and take over field operations.\"\n\n\"What is it Pat?\" Chester Marks asked, barging into the conference room.\n\n\"Are we ready to fly?\"\n\n\"No. Weather is too rough for the 206. We are socked in for another twelve hours,\" Marks explained.\n\n\"We've got a heavy Huey UH-1 you can use,\" Robinson offered.\n\n\"I can fly left seat, but I need someone who's rated,\" Marks replied.\n\n\"Not a problem. I'll put them on standby,\" Robinson said, picking up the phone.\n\n* * * * *\n\nApproach\n\nThe rust-stained boxcar rolled across the steel rails as the flexible joints below clicked under its weight. The train's speed decreased with every mile until it barely crept along the tracks. The late afternoon hours left the air wet with a light rain, typical for Florida, and a pungent odor of sulfur indicating that they were close to a paper mill. The rain seemed to make the stench more unbearable as it saturated everything in sight, including the interior of the already damp boxcar. Owen peered through a cracked opening in the boxcar's side-mounted sliding door. A private train depot was in sight just ahead. An old, abandoned factory constructed of red brick and steel and several towering silos made up the dimly lit yard they were approaching.\n\nWhile passing through the fenced entrance to the compound, Joel caught a glimpse of something familiar. There was a sign in the distance that read:\n\nNO TRESPASSING  \nInternational Farms Corporation  \nCattle Management Division  \nOcala, Florida\n\nThe vantage point only lasted a fraction of a second as the train passed by some stacked shipping containers that obstructed his view. Another hundred feet passed and both could see the end of the line, the place they had come over three hundred miles to encounter. Could it really be this easy? Owen thought to himself. Parked next to a dingy warehouse, the steamy mist from an exhaust pipe ascended skyward. A late model Land Rover sat by the entrance of the large brick building. Preoccupied by this, Owen let his head extend past the door's opening. As the train progressed further, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, another person dangerously close. Instinctively, he jerked his head back into the car just in time as he watched them pass a Cuban man in his early thirties standing next to a fire burning in a discarded fifty-five gallon oil drum only ten feet away. The man was relieving himself and seemed to be mesmerized by the steam he created as the urine hit the side of the rusty drum.\n\nThe train slowed to a crawl and then came to a sudden halt. A sharp crash sounded as the momentum of the cars bundled up against each other and then again. Another shock was heard, this time in the opposite direction as the momentum was reversed. Owen peered past the opening to see the cars ahead. The tracks curved, giving him a good view of the entire train. The engineer jumped out of the engine with Del behind him and walked halfway down the line of cars, disappearing between two of them for a brief moment and then emerged, returning to the engine. The roar of the massive diesel motors broke the rain-drenched silence as black smoke erupted from the exhaust ports. The engineer increased the power as the engine and the first thirty cars inched forward. They gained speed as the train and the noise disappeared down the tracks leaving Owen, Joel, Del and twenty cars sitting motionless amidst the cluttered yard.\n\nDel walked over to the Land Rover and got in. Ten minutes passed before any more movement was noticed. Then Del and Gus Greico embarked and walked over to the burning barrel. At the same time, a large sliding door located on the face of the warehouse slid open exposing the interior of the structure. At its base pushing as hard as humanly possible was the muscular frame of another worker wearing overalls and tall cowboy boots. The building was unlit with the exception of a series of skylights. Toilets, sinks and other porcelain fixtures were stacked in rows along the walls. Parked amongst them was a diesel tractor-trailer. The massive flat-nosed cab with an aerodynamic windscreen affixed to the roof towered almost fifteen feet high. Gold in color, the truck shined as though it had been taken care of. The trailer was a refrigerated type with a diesel-powered compressor attached to the front.\n\nDel helped by pushing the door the rest of the way open and joined the other two standing by the drum. Gus Greico spoke with a brisk, arrogant tone.\n\n\"I went by Ocala Peterbilt to raise hell about that fucking starter.\"\n\n\"Be careful - they are the only shop who will work on this thing with such short notice,\" said the man in the overalls.\n\n\"Yeah, but twelve hundred dollars for a starter? Come on.\"\n\n\"Word is, Gus, twelve hundred isn't so bad. Besides, they detailed the cab for free.\"\n\n\"Okay, but I want the old one. I'll keep it for posterity.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nOwen sat back against the wall inside the car. He then took his hand and wiped it against the moist metal doorframe embracing his tense face. He looked over at Joel who was looking through the binoculars.\n\n\"What are they doing?\" Owen asked.\n\n\"Standing around talking. I think they are ready to offload,\" he paused. \"Wait. All three men are walking towards 359.\"\n\nOwen tensed up as he secured the Velcro straps that held his Kevlar vest in place while Joel pulled the slide on his Beretta, loading a round into the chamber.\n\n\"I want you to wait until they get at least twenty bags out and in the warehouse. This way we can file a forfeiture motion against the property instead of just the train. Besides, after they manhandle those bags, they will be pretty worn out and that will give a tactical advantage,\" Owen explained.\n\n\"Wait. What the fuck is this?\" Joel said, pointing to the open warehouse door where a fifth man was driving a small forklift towards the other four by car 359.\n\n\"At least they're efficient,\" Owen replied sarcastically.\n\nAs the men unloaded the suitcases from the boxcar to the forklift, the agents squatted down and prepared to make their move.\n\n\"Hey, what the...?\" the forklift driver yelled, pointing in Joel's direction.\n\n\"Shit! We've been made!\" Owen shouted as he bolted out the open boxcar door. \"FREEZE! FEDERAL AGENT!\" he yelled.\n\nJoel followed with a Ruger mini-14 automatic rifle drawn to his shoulder and pointed at car 359. The four men who were standing by the forklift scattered like ants while the Land Rover sped off, spinning loose gravel in all directions.\n\nDel was the first inside the warehouse, finding security in the cab of the large Peterbilt truck cab. Gus Greico took a position behind some crated toilets. The other two scattered to the back of the large building. The rain started to fall again. Owen felt relieved thinking it would help conceal their position. But what had started as an afternoon shower turned into a downpour. Joel tried to keep his eye on the fleeing men but had trouble seeing through the sheets of water flowing from the top of the boxcars. The rain saturated his clothes, vest and weapons immediately. In the meantime, Gus Greico had moved over next to the open warehouse door, standing under the generous overhang trying to keep from getting wet. Joel approached from his blind side, keeping the mini-14 pointed at the man's head.\n\n\"Freeze,\" he said calmly.\n\nGreico put his hands in the air while Joel walked him to a large closed bay door, handcuffing him to the door's handle.\n\n\"Follow me,\" Owen whispered as the he entered the warehouse.\n\nThe two darted around stacked pallets as a burst of gunfire rang out from behind them, striking a stack of sinks at the base. The entire load came crashing down with one striking Joel on his knee. He dropped to a seated position in a great deal of pain. Owen grabbed him underneath his armpit and brought him back to his feet.\n\nDel started to panic as he turned the key and pushed the starter button for the large tractor-trailer. The sound of the diesel truck starting engulfed the brick building but, much to his dismay, the truck had no air pressure as it hadn't been started in days. All Del could do was sit there and wait. More gunfire rang out from the back of the building as the two agents broke away from the safety of the crates to confront it.\n\nJoel held a tense stance with his gun pointed at the forklift driver who made a sudden move to spin towards him, armed with an automatic handgun. Then he fired a round hitting him in the chest. The lead slug penetrated just above his left shirt pocket, the force of which put him back against the wall as he slid down to the cold concrete floor. Joel's eyes stayed fixed on him and he was surprised to see that there was no blood coming from the chest. Did I miss? he thought to himself. There was a hole in the shirt. Did he have a vest? The man just sat on the floor in a seated position with his head and torso falling between his outstretched legs.\n\nJoel looked with disbelief, still seeing no blood. He relaxed his stance dropping the tip of the automatic rifle a few inches. He watched the motionless body slump over itself. Suddenly, without warning, the man twitched and his arms moved slightly. Startled, Joel discharged his weapon again, this time striking him in the forehead. Three more shots then rang out and filled the acoustic structure with thunder, striking the man randomly in the shoulder, leg and abdomen. Blood flowed in all directions. The body was live with movement, jerking around to a lying position on its side like a snake that had just been beheaded. Massive convulsions started as blood-red brain matter was mopped over the gray concrete floor and the man's drenched hair until the movement stopped.\n\nThe man with the overalls and cowboy boots dove from behind a pallet of steel drums, knocking Owen to the ground with his automatic rifle flying from his grip and sliding under another pallet filled with crates. Owen immediately rolled over pulling his Colt .45 sidearm. The man grabbed Owen in an embrace with the nickel-plated gun caught between them. Owen held his grip as he tried to wrestle the gun away from him. And then, while Joel stood staring at the man he had just killed, a partially muffled shot rang out.\n\nOwen froze as the sounds around him were replaced with a high-pitched tone. Joel ran through the building towards the shot with his gun pointed ahead of him.\n\n\"Down on the ground,\" he yelled as the younger agent rounded the crate.\n\nThe man let go of Owen and turned to face Joel who was directing him at gunpoint.\n\n\"Down, motherfucker!\" Joel yelled, squeezing the gun tighter against his shoulder.\n\nThe man with overalls and cowboy boots dropped to his knees, exposing Owen who stood staring at Joel, as Joel looked back at him in shock. A bullet had ripped through the front part of Owen's throat, through the bottom of his right jaw, taking with it half of his ear. The bright red blood was sharply contrasted against his face that was white like a stripped beach towel on Florida sand. Owen fell back against the stack of crates while Joel cuffed the prisoner's hands behind his back.\n\nOwen peered from between two crates just in time to see Del inch the truck cab forward. The trailer stayed stationary though as it dropped off the rear of the Peterbilt tractor. With a loud crash, the forty-foot-long box struck the hard floor. Del gunned the accelerator as black smoke rose to the ceiling. All eight tires on the rear of the truck seemed to spin simultaneously on the slick concrete as the rig spun in a complete circle. It then took a heading straight for Joel and Owen.\n\nStill over a hundred feet away, Joel knew they only had seconds to move. He grabbed Owen and headed for a standard six-foot-high entry door that was built into a larger twenty-foot-wide bay door. It was locked but the metal sheeting around it was bent and loose around the doorframe. Joel pushed the panel as far as he could and managed to create a twelve-inch gap. Owen was the first to squeeze through the small opening, limping from the pending shock of his body's blood loss. The noise of the revving diesel engine got louder as the massive, angry truck approached. Del was driving through crates filled with plumbing supplies as he gained on the two. The sound of the approaching truck was almost deafening. The truck, in a blind rage, rolled over Joel's cuffed prisoner, tearing his prone body in two.\n\nIn the driving rain, the two managed to get back on their feet and started to run from the building toward some shipping containers that were fifty yards away. Owen's adrenaline level had masked the pain he was feeling as the two hobbled away as fast as they could.\n\nJoel looked back at the building as the entire bay door became mobile, being torn from its mammoth frame structure as the speeding truck pushed it. As it proceeded forward, beams and panels of corrugated steel fell by the side exposing the demon-like machine. Blinded by the obstacles, Del ran the truck right into the rear of a shipping container, ripping a seventy-gallon fuel tank in half, spewing its contents of diesel fuel that immediately ignited.\n\n\u2022\n\n\"What the fuck was that?\" Pat Stephens yelled over the helicopter's intercom system.\n\n\"91 Lima Fox, Ocala Tower, we have an explosion and are responding to vector 090,\" Chester Marks said into his mic.\n\nThe black and gold Bell Huey banked to the east after the long flight from Miami while Pat peered through his binoculars.\n\n* * * * *\n\nCode\n\nThe two IFC firemen, Ron Jeffries and his partner, Hal Keller, arrived after a call had been made to their station reporting an explosion. As they rounded the curve and entered the parking lot of the abandoned plant, both looked on in disbelief. The area that had been an abandoned eyesore for all these years was now transformed into a war zone. To the right was the burning Peterbilt truck. The building had a twenty-foot square hole in the side of it. Oh my god, what is going on? Keller thought to himself.\n\n\"Rescue One to base. We need the sheriff out here at once!\" Jeffries yelled into the truck's microphone.\n\n\"What's going on out there?\" replied the farm's dispatcher.\n\n\"I don't know, but it seems like some kids have taken vandalism to the next level. This may be gang related.\"\n\n\"10-4 Rescue One,\" she responded.\n\n\"Look, over there!\" Keller yelled, pointing to Joel who was tending to Owen lying on the ground, bleeding from his throat and head.\n\nThey weren't prepared for this. Still, the need to tend to a patient overrode their need to stay in a safe environment. Keller was the first out of the truck. Jeffries went to the rear and grabbed some equipment, taking an EKG monitor, trauma bag, a spine-board and a blanket. Keller reached Owen first.\n\n\"Who are you and what the hell is going on!?\" Keller yelled.\n\n\"Special Agent Joel Kenyon, U. S. Customs. I need to use your radio!\" he demanded.\n\n\"We've already got the sheriff's department on the way,\" Jeffries replied.\n\n\"Hey, speaking of radios, let's get a Shandscare MedEvac en route,\" Keller said.\n\n\"Rescue One to base.\"\n\n\"Go ahead Rescue One.\"\n\n\"Call Shands Hospital and get a chopper here to the old porcelain plant ASAP. And, we need some backup from EMS \u2013 we're about to work a code here...and where are those damn sheriffs?\" Jeffries yelled into his portable radio.\n\n\"Shands is on the phone, Rescue One. They advise that air rescue is tied up on a traffic accident over on the interstate. Our main office is requesting that all IFC security forces guard the front gate. My hands are tied up here Ron.\"\n\n\"Base, we have a critically injured federal agent here. Get us a Marion County ambulance ASAP!\"\n\nHis training taught him to check for life threatening problems first. Owen's airway was open but he was breathing at eight times per minute with gurgling blood being exhaled with each breath. His carotid pulse was one hundred and forty, very weak, and completely undetectable in the radial arteries in his wrists. His skin was cool to the touch and his face looked like a starched bed sheet. His pupils were dilated and he was totally unresponsive. There was a lot of blood. After removing Owen's Kevlar vest, Keller took out his trauma scissors and cut a nice straight slit in his shirt exposing his chest. A large caliber entry wound had lacerated the front of his throat, nicking his right carotid artery before entering the bottom of his jaw. From there, the bullet cut into his temporal artery before blowing half of his right ear off the side of his head. If he makes it, he is going to take a whole lot of plastic surgery to fix, Jeffries thought to himself.\n\nJeffries cracked open the drug box, a converted fishing tackle box filled to the top with lifesaving medications and IV fluids.\n\n\"His breathing is at eight, get ready to incubate as soon as he hits six!\" Keller said grabbing the emergency airway kit.\n\n\"Where are the cops man!?\" Jeffries yelled, looking back at the burning truck.\n\n\"Hold this,\" Keller instructed Joel, placing a six-inch square gauze pad on Sands's bleeding wound.\n\nImmediately, the white pad turned crimson red absorbing the blood that oozed through Joel's fingers. Keller then grabbed two-liter bags of lactated ringers from the drug box while Jeffries took a fourteen-gauge needle and immediately found a vein in the left arm.\n\n\"I'm getting a central line. At his age, we don't have much time before this turns cardiac,\" Keller said, grabbing a twelve-gauge needle connected to a syringe. Then he slid the stainless steel barb into the left side of Owen's neck, penetrating his external jugular vein, attaching the plastic portion of the catheter to the second bag of IV lactated ringers.\n\n\u2022\n\n\"I've got an LZ over there, upwind from the burning truck,\" pilot Chester Marks said over his intercom microphone.\n\nThe Bell Huey circled, churning some of the black smoke from the burning truck into a small cyclone as it landed. Pat was the first one out of the sliding side door, jumping to his feet and running toward Joel.\n\n\"Are you okay?\" Pat yelled over the spinning chopper's turbine.\n\n\"He's been hit!\" Joel answered with a trembling voice.\n\n\"Is this Owen Sands?\" Pat asked.\n\n\"What's the holdup with the ambulance?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"I don't know. What about your chopper?\" Keller asked, pointing to the Huey as the last of the FBI tactical team was exiting.\n\n\"Let's do it!\" Pat yelled.\n\n\"Here, hold onto this bag,\" Keller instructed, handing the plastic bag of fluid to Pat as he finished taping down the IV catheter into the side of Owen's neck, opening the ball valve in the IV line and letting the lifesaving fluid run into his veins.\n\n\"You, grab that oxygen bottle,\" Keller said, \"I'm going to incubate him in the chopper. His breathing has slowed to six.\"\n\n\"What's that mean?\" Joel asked.\n\n\"It's either a late stage of shock or the bullet hit a lung,\" Keller replied.\n\n\"On my three,\" Keller ordered as the four men each took one of Owen's extremities, picking him up and moving him over to the plywood spine-board. Then, they made a duck walk for the chopper.\n\n\"What are we doing?\" Marks asked, looking back from his pilot's seat.\n\n\"We are going to fly directly to the trauma pad at Shands in Gainesville. Do you have a chart for that?\" Keller asked.\n\n\"Not in front of me, but I will in a second,\" Marks answered. \"Pat, who is this? We can't transport the public.\"\n\n\"He's one of us. Just get us there and quick,\" Pat ordered as he slid the large door shut.\n\nFLASH\n\nDespite the chaos around him, everything was calm inside Owen Sands's head. He dreamt soft, peaceful scenes of his life, in better times and in black and white.\n\nFLASH\n\nThe day he met Leslie, he was so nervous and she was so confident. All he could say was his name.\n\n\"Owen. My name, I mean, is Owen,\" he told her as she blushed, feeling complimented by his effort.\n\nFLASH\n\nThe day they got married, standing barefoot in the pure, white sand of the beach in Destin.\n\n\"I promise to do all the things that I can't even dream I would be able to do - the things that will be inspired by my love for you,\" he said, reciting his final vow of the ceremony.\n\nFLASH\n\nThe day Tessa was born in the delivery room of Miami's Baptist Hospital.\n\n\"Push Leslie,\" the nurse instructed.\n\n\"Push honey!\" Owen repeated.\n\n\"I got it the first time honey!\" Leslie said.\n\nFLASH\n\nThe day Leslie told him she was pregnant with their second baby. \"Owen, remember how great it was when Tessa was born? Well my love, we're going to do it again!\"\n\n\u2022\n\nJeffries handed his partner a stainless steel blade with an attached light and a small plastic tube. Keller then propped Owen's head back and inserted the tube into his bloodstained mouth, down his throat and into his windpipe, making a direct source for oxygen rich air to get into his lungs. He then took his stethoscope and listened attentively to both sides of his patient's lungs. \"The tube is placed but the sounds are diminished on the left. I don't think it's in too far. I think his lung is collapsing, or it could just be filling with blood,\" Keller said.\n\n\"Jesus!\" Joel yelled out of frustration. \"What can I do?\"\n\n\"See that clear plastic bag over there...the one that looks like a football?\" Jeffries said.\n\n\"Yeah, this one?\" Kenyon asked, grabbing the long, tubular breathing assist device.\n\n\"That's it. Hook some of the clear tubing to the end of that bag, and then hook it up to the oxygen cylinder and turn it on...as high as it will go,\" Jeffries ordered.\n\nAs Joel complied, Keller grabbed the bag and started to assist Sands's breathing by squeezing air into his lungs.\n\n\"Here, take this,\" Keller asked his partner. \"I'm going to decompress this left lung.\"\n\nTaking another twelve-gauge needle and syringe, Keller found a spot in between Sands's ribs below his armpit and inserted the needle. As soon as he advanced the needle halfway, a surge of air came followed by a stream of blood.\n\n\"It's a hemo! He's bleeding inside next to his lung!\"\n\n\"What's that mean?\" Joel asked frantically.\n\n\"He needs surgery...and fast,\" Jeffries said.\n\n\"Ron, get him on a monitor and take a BP real quick,\" Keller asked as Jeffries hooked up three wires that were connected to three matching adhesive electrodes. They were placed on Owen's chest as the machine was turned on. The green screen displayed a constant wave that corresponded with a beep for each time his burdened heart cycled a beat.\n\nBEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP\n\nFLASH\n\nThe black and white scenes continued. The beeping, to Owen, sounded more like the day his doorbell rang and Tessa had come home, standing on the front porch, holding her daughter.\n\n\"Daddy...\"\n\nFLASH\n\nThe day he sat in his daughter's room with the lights off, playing with his granddaughter Monica by candlelight. This scene was different than the rest though. Everything was black and white, except for her socks, her brightly colored pink socks.\n\n\"Grandpa...?\"\n\n\"Yes baby.\"\n\n\"Are you going to go help the babies one day?\"\n\n\"Someday honey.\"\n\n\"Not too soon because I need help with these babies,\" Monica said, pointing to the dolls under the shawl.\n\n\"That's a deal,\" he promised, holding her tight.\n\n\"Grandpa...?\"\n\n\"Yes baby.\"\n\n\"Not too soon...\" she said, as her eyes closed shut.\n\nBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP the monitor chimed with a constant tone.\n\n\"He's in a systole!\" Jeffries yelled as Keller started to pound on Owen's chest.\n\nOwen continued to ascend through the clouds as the chopper and his lifeless body leveled off, taking a course toward the trauma center. The horrid, shrieking tone of the cardiac monitor that was indicating a flat line continued to fill the chopper's cockpit. Keller looked down at the spent man, torn and tattered. He was covered in blood. As he lay motionless on his back, Owen's muscles relaxed for the last time letting his arm fall to the side. As the medic reached for his patient's arm, a peculiar sight caught his attention. Falling from his left hand was a small child's pink sock.\n\n* * * * *\n\nAdvance\n\nIntense heat boiled up from runway Four-Left at Florida's Homestead Air Force Base as two F-16 fighters idled at the end of the five thousand foot strip.\n\n\"Tango six Ringleader, tango four Circus Act.\"\n\n\"Circus Act, systems check complete.\"\n\n\"Ringleader is go-no-go, initiate mission.\"\n\n\"Circus Act is go-no-go.\"\n\nWith simultaneous bursts of power, the two jets screamed down the runway until rotating, pointing their noses skyward and in an instant they were gone, surfing in the clouds above.\n\nAfter assuming a heading of two hundred and thirty degrees, the jets leveled off at an altitude of fifteen thousand feet and continued southwest. Seven minutes into the flight, they found it. The aerostat balloon Fat Albert floated at an altitude of 14,740 feet, with Jim Plimpton's 18-foot backcountry boat Redfisher hanging from a towline with its bow pointed towards the earth below.\n\n\"Circus Act to Ringleader, target identified at two hundred sixty-five degrees, going to missile lock.\"\n\n\"Ringleader to Circus Act, watch your lookdown screen for marine traffic.\"\n\n\"Circus Act has a clear LZ.\"\n\n\"Ringleader to Circus Act, fire at will.\"\n\nOne of the jets banked to the left, breaking its tight formation with the other and took a direct course aiming straight for the balloon. As his wings leveled horizontally, the green heads-up display showed a set of computer generated cross hairs that lit red with an accompanying audible alarm as the missile guidance system locked on the target.\n\n\"Circus Act, missile away.\"\n\nAn orange burst of fire and smoke exploded around the deploying jet's right wing as an Exercet missile assumed independent flight. Three seconds later it collided with the solid aluminum turnbuckle mounted on the nose of the target. The missile exploded on impact, engulfing the white balloon in a ball of fire and smoke. The boat almost seemed to stand still for a second before starting its plummet to the water below, gaining speed with every hundred feet of free fall. The Redfisher, having not been designed for air travel, flopped about in the accelerating wind like a leaf falling from a tree for the first time. As the descent increased, the boat started to spin at a fast rate, ejecting equipment in all directions until the spinning mass struck the water, which at the boat's speed, acted more like concrete, breaking it into multiple pieces.\n\n\"Circus Act to Ringleader, missile strike, high order detonation, target destroyed. Returning to base.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nComposure\n\nA soft snow fell over Arlington National Cemetery as a small group of family gathered to say one final goodbye to their father, grandfather, friend and partner. The memory of Owen Sands was treated to a full dress ceremony the day before and now it was time for everyone to return home. It had taken some political manipulating to get the facility to accept him into the ranks of military heroes and the political hierarchy but in the end, Pat Stephens drew on some favors that were owed to him and a spot that had been reserved decades before for John Kenyon's spouse, a person who never materialized, was made available.\n\nJoel and Jhenna Kenyon remembered the day they stood at the same set of plots eight years before to bury their father; now they were there again with a lot less fanfare. The two men would share the same piece of land and honor, having served their country to the end and with sacrifice. Next to Joel's side were Tessa, tiny Monica, Jade Sands, and Jhenna Kenyon-Stephens, all holding hands and looking at the patch of snow where Owen was laid to rest.\n\nBefore Pat Stephens's sweep was over, Joel Kenyon was a key agent in the indictment of thirty-one defendants, seven of whom were agents in the Tavernier office. Joel stayed on with the restructured Tavernier office that was later moved south to Plantation Key, across the basin from the local Coast Guard station, making his temporary position a permanent one. He and Tessa moved in together, taking over the Sands home next to Coral Shores High School where they stayed busy raising Monica and Tessa's sister Jade, who turned out to be a big help around the house, always volunteering for laundry duty. A bond developed between Tessa and Joel's sister Jhenna. Both women, it turned out, were with child, almost simultaneously, and a strong friendship was born. The following year, Pat Stephens was nominated and confirmed as the youngest United States Attorney in American history.\n\n* * * * *\n\nEpilogue\n\nThe Remote Viewer program was originally developed by the U. S. Army but after numerous successes, it was handed over to the Defense Intelligence Agency. Despite a large amount of skepticism, Congress continued to fund the unit that basically contracted services to over a hundred self-proclaimed psychics. Loose information was fed to the group and the results were vetted for relevant matches. The members who consistently supplied what was termed wild card data were eliminated and replaced with new candidates who would apply their craft to new scenarios.\n\nAfter a year of conventional searches that included placing the fugitive at the top of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list and a segment on the nationally syndicated crime-watch show, American Fugitive, the Justice Department contacted the Remote Viewer unit which, until that point, had only focused on targets of military interest. With a loose dossier, each of the gifted contractors used their skills to produce mental data that could be used like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle. Ninety-nine percent of the results were typical, placing the location of the wanted man everywhere from Sao Paulo, Brazil, to the Bahamas, to the Baja Peninsula. A Russian albino named Dmitri Burshirov was the one dissenting view, placing the target thousands of miles from the rest.\n\nDeep in the Wyoming countryside, towering pines occupied the sides of the two-lane blacktop that carried a convoy of six dark blue Chevy Suburbans cruising along in a tight, single file line like a pack of stock cars drafting on a greasy racetrack. At ninety miles per hour, the line slowed meeting eight more dark colored vans and sedans, converging as they turned into the entrance of a small campground. Like a horde of mice being let out of a cage, the vehicles swarmed throughout the park as each one took an assigned position.\n\nIn the lead Suburban, Joel Kenyon and Pat Stephens exited, each one dressed in black duty fatigues and matching flack vests. Nestled in site forty-two was a Coleman pop-up camper, a small recreational vehicle with a metal body and a canvas superstructure that had its screen windows obscured with bolts of similar canvas. Inside, a baby cried as sixty-seven agents with their guns drawn surrounded the small trailer, hiding behind cars and other campers. They watched as a small woman dressed in cutoff jean shorts exited and walked over to a brick building that housed the park's laundry facility. Kenyon and Stephens made a duck walk towards the small aluminum and canvas door with their arms locked and guns pointed towards the shelter's main entry.\n\n\"Jordan Frances Cheney!\" Kenyon called out.\n\n\"Just...just a minute,\" cried a man's stuttering voice as a shuffle ensued.\n\n\"Jordan Cheney, this is the United States Treasury Department. We have a warrant for your arrest,\" Stephens called out as the agents tensed up, preparing for a fight. And then the door opened.\n\n\"I'm unarmed,\" Jordan announced, stepping out of the camper with his hands in the air.\n\nJoel kept his gun aimed at Jordan's face as another agent wearing a blue windbreaker with the embroidered letters FBI on the back secured the fugitive's hands behind his back with a set of nickel-plated handcuffs.\n\n\"I always knew it would be you,\" Jordan said, looking Joel in the eye.\n\n\"You probably better not say anything Jordan,\" Joel solemnly replied as the other agents escorted Jordan to the back of the closest Suburban.\n\nAs Pat holstered the composite Glock handgun in his right hand, an agent holding a shotgun approached him from behind.\n\n\"Mr. Stephens, sir?\" he said to his superior.\n\n\"Yes, Agent Simpson?\"\n\n\"Sir...I need to get my weapon back sir.\"\n\n\"Of course, sure, here you go,\" Pat replied, handing the gun and its holster over to the appreciative subordinate.\n\n\"God, that was fun,\" Pat said to Joel who just looked at him with half a smile. \"Come on bro, if we catch the next flight out of Cheyenne we can make it home for dinner.\"\n\n\u2022\n\nThe End\n\n* * * * *\n\nAbout the Author\n\nT. Rafael Cimino was born in Wayne New Jersey on June 4th, 1963 and grew up in the Florida Keys. He is the youngest of the Cimino family of film producers. He is best known for his written contributions to the film and television industries. (Miami Vice, Lost in Translation, A Love Song for Bobby Long, The Other Boleyn Girl and Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip) In 2009 Cimino released Mid Ocean, a previously completed screenplay, as a novel and received critical acclaim. As a native of south Florida, he is able to give a rare account of a lifestyle; experienced by few - idolized by many. Cimino has also authored Appropriate, Delta-Echo-Alpha, Table 21 and Rivertown. He lives in North Carolina with his family.\n\n\u2022\n\nVisit the Author on the web at http:\/\/www.TRCimino.com and join the Mid Ocean fan group on Facebook at:  http:\/\/www.facebook.com\/pages\/Mid-Ocean\/207834942743?ref=ts\n\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":" \n# Skulking Permit\n\n# The Galaxy Project\n\n# Robert Sheckley\n\nSeries Editor Barry N. Malzberg\n\n## Copyright\n\nSkulking Permit  \nCopyright \u00a9 1954 by Robert Sheckley, renewed 1982\n\neForeword  \nCopyright \u00a9 2011 by John Lutz\n\nJacket illustration copyright \u00a9 1954 by the Estate of Ed Emshwiller  \nCover art to the electronic edition copyright \u00a9 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC\n\nSpecial materials copyright \u00a9 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC\n\nAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.\n\nElectronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.  \nISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795321740\n\n# Contents\n\nAbout _Galaxy_ Magazine\n\nAbout Science Fiction Novelettes and Novellas\n\nAbout the Author\n\nAbout the Author of the eForeword\n\nAbout the Jacket\n\neForeword\n\nSkulking Permit\n\n# ABOUT _GALAXY_ MAGAZINE\n\nThe first issue of _Galaxy_ , dated October 1950, already heralded to the highest standards of the field. The authors it published regularly contributed to the leading magazine _Astounding_ , writing a kind of elegant and humanistic science fiction which although not previously unknown had always been anomalous. Its founding editor, H. L. Gold (1914\u20131996), was a science fiction writer of some prominence whose editorial background had been in pulp magazines and comic books; however, his ambitions were distinctly literary, and he was deliberately searching for an audience much wider and more eclectic than the perceived audience of science fiction. His goal, he stated, was a magazine whose fiction \"Would read like the table of contents of a literary magazine or _The Saturday Evening Post_ of the 21st century, dealing with extrapolation as if it were contemporary.\" The magazine, although plagued by distribution difficulties and an Italian-based publisher (World Editions), was an immediate artistic success, and when its ownership was transferred with the issue of August 1951 to its printer Robert M. Guinn, it achieved financial stability for the remainder of the decade.\n\n_Galaxy_ published every notable science fiction writer of its first decade and found in many writers who would become central figures: Robert Sheckley, James E. Gunn, Wyman Guin, and F. L. Wallace, among others. _Galaxy_ revivified older writers such as Frederik Pohl and Alfred Bester (whose first novel, _The Demolished Man_ , was commissioned and directed page by page by Gold). John Campbell fought with _Astounding_ and remained an important editor, and _The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction_ (inaugurated a year before _Galaxy_ ) held to high standards of literary quality while spreading its contents over two fields, but _Galaxy_ was incontestably the 1950s' flagship magazine for the acidly satiric, sometimes profoundly comic aspect of its best contributions. _Galaxy_ had a lasting effect not only upon science fiction but upon literature itself. J.G. Ballard stated that he had been deeply affected by _Galaxy_. Alan Arkin, an actor who became a star after 1960 and won an Oscar in the new millennium, contributed two stories in the mid-fifties.\n\nAt this point Gold was succumbing to agoraphobia, physical ills, and overall exhaustion (some of this perhaps attributable to his active service during WWII) against which he had struggled from the outset. (There is creditable evidence that Frederik Pohl was the de facto editor during Gold's last years.) Gold would return some submissions with notes like: \"Garbage,\" \"Absolute Crap.\" Isaac Asimov noted in his memoir \"Anthony Boucher wrote rejection slips which read like acceptances. And Horace wrote notes of acceptance which felt like rejections.\" Despite this, the magazine retained most of its high standard and also some of its regular contributors (William Tenn, Robert Sheckley, Pohl himself). Others could no longer bear Gold's imperiousness and abusiveness.\n\n# ABOUT SCIENCE FICTION NOVELETTES AND NOVELLAS\n\nIn the view of James E. Gunn, science fiction as a genre finds its peak in the novella (17,500\u201340,000 words) and novelette (7,500\u201317,500 words). Both forms have the length to develop ideas and characters fully but do not suffer from padding or the hortatory aspect present in most modern science fiction novels. The longer story-form has existed since science fictions inception with the April 1926 issue of _Amazing Stories_ , but _Galaxy_ developed the form to a consistent level of sophistication and efficiency and published more notable stories of sub-novel length than any other magazine during the 50s...and probably in any decade.\n\nThe novella and novelette as forms make technical and conceptual demands greater, perhaps even greater than the novel, and _Galaxy_ writers, under founding editor H. L. Gold's direction, consistently excelled in these lengths. Gold's most memorable story, \"A Matter of Form\" (1938) was a long novelette, and he brought practical as well as theoretical lessons to his writers, who he unleashed to develop these ideas. (John Campbell of course, had also done this in the 40s and continued in the 50s to be a directive editor.) It is not inconceivable that many or even most of the contents of the 1950's _Galaxy_ were based on ideas originated by Gold: golden technology becomes brass and jails its human victims when it runs amok\u2014is certainly one of his most characteristic.\n\n# ABOUT THE AUTHOR\n\nRobert Sheckley (1928\u20132005) first appeared in the October 1952 issue of _Imagination_. His first two stories for _Galaxy_ (\"The Leech\" and \"Cost of Living\") appeared in December 1952, and he became almost immediately Gold's dominant and exemplary author, selling more stories at all lengths to the magazine in its signal decade than any other writer. His first novel, _Time Killer_ , appeared in the magazine at the end of the decade. Sheckley's deft, profoundly satiric and darkly humorous fiction set a tone for the magazine that Gold urged his writers to duplicate. An early _Galaxy_ story, \"The Seventh Victim,\" was the basis of the Ursula Andress film _The Tenth Victim_. Sheckley graduated in the late 50s to _Playboy_ where he was, along with Henry Slesar, probably the magazine's most prolific contributor over a ten year period. He had five wives and four children, lived variously in New York City, Ibiza, and Oregon, and in his last years traveled often to the Eastern Bloc states where he was probably the most esteemed of all science fiction writers. His 1968 novel, _Dimension of Miracles_ , is a picaresque satiric novel modeled upon Voltaire and easily equivalent as both literature and commentary to _Candide_. Sheckley, a heavy smoker, died of systemic breakdown in December 2005. A posthumous short story collection, selected and introduced by Jonathan Lethem, will be published by The New York Review of Books Press in 2012.\n\n# ABOUT THE AUTHOR OF THE eFOREWORD\n\nJohn Lutz is the author of _SWF Seeks Same_ (1992), which was adapted for the famous film _Single White Female_ , directed by Barbet Schroder and starring Jennifer Jason Leigh and Brigitte Fonda. He is the author of more than sixty other mystery and suspense novels; his current bestselling series of \"Night\" novels set in New York City are published by Kensington. He is a past president of the Mystery Writers of America and in 1986 won an Edgar for his short story \"Ride The Lightning,\" expanded the next year to novel length under the same title. He lives in St. Louis and Sarasota. His superb science fiction story\u2014\"Booth 13,\" his only contribution to the genre\u2014was published in _Galaxy_ in 1968.\n\n# ABOUT THE JACKET\n\nCOVER IMAGE: \"Merry Christmas to Our Readers\" by Ed Emshwiller\n\nEd Emshwiller (1925\u20131990) was _Galaxy_ 's dominant artist through the 1950s. His quirky images, perspective, and off-center humor provide perhaps the best realization of the magazine's iconoclastic, satirical vision. Emshwiller was\u2014matched with Kelly Freas\u2014science fiction's signature artist through the decade and a half initiated by this color illustration. He and Carol Emshwiller, the celebrated science fiction writer, lived in Long Island during the period of his prominence in science fiction. (Nonstop Press published _Emshwiller: Infinity X Two: The Art & Life of Ed and Carol Emshwiller_, a joint biography and collection of their work in visual and literary medium, in 2007.) In the early 70s, Emshwiller became passionately interested in avant-garde filmmaking, and that passion led him to California, where he spent his last decades deeply involved in the medium of independent film and its community. He abandoned illustration: in Carol's words \"When Ed was through with something he was really through with it.\" He died of cancer in 1990. His son, Peter Emshwiller, published a fair amount of science fiction in the 80s and 90s.\n\n# eForeword\n\nRobert Sheckley was many things, but more than anything else, he was an original. He was Brooklyn born in 1928 and raised in Maplewood, New Jersey, after his family moved there in 1931. After graduating from high school in 1946, he hitchhiked west and worked odd jobs in California for a while. Tiring of that, he joined the Army and served in Korea. In 1951, he received an undergraduate degree from New York University.\n\nHe held various jobs before beginning to publish in magazines such as _Galaxy_ , _Imagination_ , as well as some of the other science fiction magazines in the fifties. His style was unique and sharp, his stories clever and laced with an intelligent wit. He was also versatile. He wrote novels, short stories, episodic TV (\"Captain Video and his Video Rangers\"), film adaptations, and a series of mystery novels. Sheckley's skill wasn't lost on critics; some considered him the best short story writer of the fifties and sixties\u2014working in any genre.\n\nIn the sixties especially, his work found a broader audience. He was a brilliant satirist in a serious Cold War time that needed all the humor it could get. He is regarded as a seminal science fiction humorist.\n\nThrough most of the seventies, Sheckley lived and wrote on Ibiza, an island off the coast of Spain. It was a place known for easy living, though like anywhere else on the globe after World War II, it wasn't free from Cold War anxiety. Imminent possible incineration or a slow death by radiation were specters that haunted, directly or indirectly, much of the fiction of the era. Even, maybe especially, futuristic fiction, and Sheckley's was no exception.\n\nAdd to that, science was getting uppity. Robotics and computers were beginning to raise the possibility that technical devices we didn't really understand might turn out to be smarter than their creators. The grimmer it got, the more grist for the satirist's mill. Sheckley's fiction was soon being published in the slick magazines, most notably _Playboy_.\n\nIt didn't take long for Sheckley and the movies to discover each other. His 1953 _Galaxy_ short story \"The Seventh Victim\" was the basis for the Italian film _La decima vittima_ , starring Marcello Mastroianni and Ursula Andress. There was also an English film version, _The Tenth Victim_.\n\nA prolific author, Sheckley. So much so that he wrote under various pen names to avoid being published more than once in the same magazine. He wrote more than fifteen novels and is thought to have published more than 400 short stories.\n\nNominated for both the Hugo and Nebula awards, Sheckley was named Author Emeritus by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America in 2001.\n\nHe traveled extensively, mostly in Europe, which informs much of his work. Separated from his fifth wife, Gail, he finally settled in Dutchess County, New York. In 2005, while attending an international conference in the Ukraine, Sheckley became ill and was hospitalized in Kiev. He seemed for a while to be improving, and returned home, but he died in a Poughkeepsie hospital in Dutchess County, December 9, 2005. He was 77 years old.\n\n\"Skulking Permit\" first appeared in _Galaxy_ in 1954. This was the year the Supreme Court banned racial discrimination in public schools; the hydrogen bomb was tested on the Bikini Atoll, paving the way for the most famous bathing suit of all time; in Vietnam, French forces at Dien Bein Phu fell to the Viet Minh Army; Hitchcock's _Rear Window_ was released; Russia was rattling sabers and ranting about intercontinental ballistic missiles; and Rosa Parks sat where she chose to on the bus. Times were tense. And ripe for a superb young satirist and absurdist to ply his trade.\n\nThis is considered to be among the best of Sheckley's stories. Its fluid prose, pace, and deftness, and from time to time covert\u2014and not-so-covert\u2014wit, demonstrate the skills that earned him such acclaim and ensured that he'd have a place in the pantheon of science fiction greats. The story opens on a pleasant morning in the village of New Delaware, on the planet of New Delaware, the Outer Colonies. The citizens of New Delaware have a problem, personified by the village's frantic, peripatetic mayor. Unexpectedly, amazingly, a rusty and dusty radio has sprung to life, and a voice informs the mayor that the village is any day going to be visited by a resident inspector from Imperial Earth. This to make sure that the colony is conforming to the customs, institutions, and traditions of Earth. The mayor is informed that there is \"no room for aliens,\" nor for \"deviant human cultures which, by definition, are alien.\"\n\nThe thing is, in New Delaware, the most isolated of the colonies from Mother Earth, things have changed. And in their own way. The planet hasn't had contact with Earth for over 200 years, when Earth and its colonies were called the United Democracies. There was the plague 200 years ago that claimed the lives of three-fourths of the village's occupants. New Delaware reconstituted itself and has been on its own for two centuries, made itself anew, set its own rules and developed its own customs, institutions, and traditions.\n\nThat could be a problem.\n\nSheckley deals with it brilliantly. You'll read this story with a smile, and a thoughtful expression afterward.\n\nWhat's Sheckley up to here? Is this story simply a clever entertainment? You could read it that way. It might be about crime and the relationship of the criminal and society. Do societies for some reason _need_ criminals? Is there something in the human heart or brain that disdains an Eden without a serpent? In the absence of serpents, might we create them? Or we could apply a broader interpretation. Could \"Skulking Permit\" be about the innate goodness of humankind? Or about our innate imperfections? It might even be read as a not-very-thinly disguised socialist manifesto.\n\nBut then there are those final paragraphs. That last sentence.\n\nA wonderful writer has given us a lot to think about in \"Skulking Permit.\" But, as with the villagers in New Delaware, only if we choose to expend the effort. Actively thinking takes energy, and might lead to someplace unpleasant.\n\nMaybe better to take a nap.\n\nBut then we'd miss reading a prime example of craftsmanship and artistry created by one of science fiction's masters. Either way, \"Skulking Permit\" is a deft and fascinating accomplishment. Your permit to enjoy.\n\n\u2014John Lutz\n\n# Skulking Permit\n\n**T** om Fisher had no idea he was about to begin a criminal career. It was morning. The big red sun was just above the horizon, trailing its small yellow companion. The village, tiny and precise, a unique white dot on the planet's green expanse, glistened under its two midsummer suns.\n\nTom was just waking up inside his cottage. He was a tall, tanned young man, with his father's oval eyes and his mother's easygoing attitude toward exertion. He was in no hurry; there could be no fishing until the fall rains, and therefore no real work for a Fisher. Until fall, he was going to loaf and mend his fishing poles.\n\n\"It's supposed to have a red roof!\" he heard Billy Painter shouting outside.\n\n\"Churches _never_ have red roofs!\" Ed Weaver shouted back.\n\nTom frowned. Not being involved, he had forgotten the changes that had come over the village in the last two weeks. He slipped on a pair of pants and sauntered out to the village square.\n\nThe first thing he saw when he entered the square was a large new sign, reading: NO ALIENS ALLOWED WITHIN CITY LIMITS. There were no aliens on the entire planet of New Delaware. There was nothing but forest, and this one village. The sign was purely a statement of policy.\n\nThe square itself contained a Church, a Jail and a Post Office, all constructed in the last two frantic weeks and set in a neat row facing the market. No one knew what to do with these buildings; the village had gone along nicely without them for over two hundred years. But now, of course, they had to be built.\n\n**E** d Weaver was standing in front of the new Church, squinting upward. Billy Painter was balanced precariously on the Church's steep roof, his blond mustache bristling indignantly. A small crowd had gathered.\n\n\"Damn it, man,\" Billy Painter was saying, \"I tell you I was reading about it just last week. White roof, okay. Red roof, never.\"\n\n\"You're mixing it up with something else,\" Weaver said. \"How about it, Tom?\"\n\nTom shrugged, having no opinion to offer. Just then, the Mayor bustled up, perspiring freely, his shirt flapping over his large paunch.\n\n\"Come down,\" he called to Billy. \"I just looked it up. It's the Little Red _Schoolhouse_ , not Churchhouse.\"\n\nBilly looked angry. He had always been moody; all Painters were. But since the Mayor made him Chief of Police last week, he had become downright temperamental.\n\n\"We don't have no Little Schoolhouse,\" Billy argued, halfway down the ladder.\n\n\"We'll just have to build one,\" the Mayor said. \"We'll have to hurry, too.\" He glanced at the sky. Involuntarily, everyone in the crowd glanced upward. But there was still nothing in sight.\n\n\"Where are the Carpenter boys?\" the Mayor asked. \"Sid, Sam, Marv\u2014where are you?\"\n\nSid Carpenter's head appeared through the crowd. He was still on crutches from last month when he had fallen out of a tree looking for threstle's eggs; no Carpenter was worth a damn at tree climbing.\n\n\"The other boys are at Ed Beer's Tavern,\" Sid said.\n\n\"Where else would they be?\" Mary Waterman called from the crowd.\n\n\"Well, you gather them up,\" the Mayor said. \"They gotta build us a Little Schoolhouse, and quick. Tell them to put it up beside the Jail.\" He turned to Billy Painter, who was back on the ground. \"Billy, you paint that Schoolhouse a good bright red, inside and out. It's very important.\"\n\n\"When do I get a Police Chief badge?\" Billy demanded. \"I read that Police Chiefs always get badges.\"\n\n\"Make yourself one,\" the Mayor said. He mopped his face with his shirt-tail. \"Sure hot. Don't know why that Inspector couldn't have come in winter... Tom! Tom Fisher! Got an important job for you. Come on, I'll tell you all about it.\"\n\nHe put an arm around Tom's shoulders and they walked to the Mayor's cottage past the empty market, along the village's single paved road. In the old days, that road had been of packed dirt. But the old days had ended two weeks ago and now the road was paved with crushed rock. It made barefoot walking so uncomfortable that the villagers simply cut across each other's lawns. The Mayor, though, walked on it out of principle.\n\n\"Now look, Mayor,\" Tom protested, \"I'm on my vacation\u2014\"\n\n\"Can't have any vacations now,\" the Mayor said. \"Not _now_. He's due any day.\" He ushered Tom inside his cottage and sat down in the big armchair, which had been pushed as close to the Interstellar Radio as possible.\n\n\"Tom,\" the Mayor said directly, \"how would you like to be a criminal?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Tom. \"What's a Criminal?\"\n\n**S** quirming uncomfortably in his chair, the Mayor rested a hand on the Radio for authority. \"It's this way,\" he said, and began to explain.\n\nTom listened, but the more he heard, the less he liked. It was all the fault of that Interstellar Radio, he decided. Why hadn't it really been broken?\n\nNo one had believed it could work. It had gathered dust in the office of one Mayor after another, for generations, the last silent link with Mother Earth. Two hundred years ago, Earth talked with New Delaware, and with Ford IV, Alpha Centauri, Nueva Espa\u00f1a, and the other colonies that made up the United Democracies of Earth. Then all conversations stopped.\n\nThere seemed to be a war on Earth. New Delaware, with its one village, was too small and too distant to take part. They waited for news, but no news came. And then plague struck the village, wiping out three-quarters of the inhabitants.\n\nSlowly the village healed. The villagers adopted their own ways of doing things. They forgot Earth.\n\nTwo hundred years passed.\n\nAnd then, two weeks ago, the ancient Radio had coughed itself into life. For hours, it growled and spat static, while the inhabitants of the village gathered around the Mayor's cottage.\n\nFinally words came out: \"... hear me, New Delaware? Do you hear me?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, we hear you,\" the Mayor said.\n\n\"The colony is still there?\"\n\n\"It certainly is,\" the Mayor said proudly.\n\nThe voice became stern and official. \"There has been no contact with the Outer Colonies for some time, due to unsettled conditions here. But that's over, except for a little mopping up. You of New Delaware are still a colony of Imperial Earth and subject to her laws. Do you acknowledge the status?\"\n\nThe Mayor hesitated. All the books referred to Earth as the United Democracies. Well, in two centuries, names could change.\n\n\"We are still loyal to Earth,\" the Mayor said with dignity.\n\n\"Excellent. That saves us the trouble of sending an expeditionary force. A Resident Inspector will be dispatched to you from the nearest point, to ascertain whether you conform to the customs, institutions and traditions of Earth.\"\n\n\"What?\" the Mayor asked, worried.\n\n**T** he stern voice became higher-pitched. \"You realize, of course, that there is room for only one intelligent species in the Universe\u2014Man! All others must be suppressed, wiped out, annihilated. We can tolerate no aliens sneaking around us. I'm sure you understand, General.\"\n\n\"I'm not a General. I'm a Mayor.\"\n\n\"You're in charge, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, but\u2014\"\n\n\"Then you are a General. Permit me to continue. In this galaxy, there is no room for aliens. None! Nor is there room for deviant human cultures, which, by definition, are alien. It is impossible to administer an empire when everyone does as he pleases. There must be order, _no matter what the cost_.\"\n\nThe Mayor gulped hard and stared at the radio.\n\n\"Be sure you're running an Earth colony, General, with no radical departures from the norm, such as free will, free love, free elections, or anything else on the proscribed list Those things are _alien_ , and we're pretty rough on aliens. Get your colony in order, General. The Inspector will call in about two weeks. That is all.\"\n\nThe village held an immediate meeting, to determine how best to conform with the Earth mandate. All they could do was hastily model themselves upon the Earth pattern as shown in their ancient books.\n\n\"I don't see why there has to be a Criminal,\" Tom said.\n\n\"That's a very important part of Earth society,\" the Mayor explained. \"All the books agree on it. The Criminal is as important as the Postman, say, or the Police Chief. Unlike them, the Criminal is engaged in anti-social work. He works _against_ society, Tom. If you don't have people working _against_ society, how can you have people working _for_ it? There'd be no jobs for them to do.\"\n\nTom shook his head. \"I just don't see it.\"\n\n\"Be reasonable, Tom. We have to have Earthly things. Like Paved Roads. All the books mention that. And Churches, and Schoolhouses, and Jails. And all the books mention Crime.\"\n\n\"I won't do it,\" Tom said.\n\n\"Put yourself in my position,\" the Mayor begged. \"This Inspector comes and meets Billy Painter, our Police Chief. He asks to see the jail. Then he says, 'No Prisoners?' I answer, 'Of course not. We don't have any Crime here.' 'No Crime?' he says. 'But Earth colonies always have Crime. You know that.' 'We don't,' I answer. 'Didn't even know what it was until we looked up the word last week.' 'Then why did you build a Jail?' he asks me. 'Why did you appoint a Police Chief?\"'\n\n**T** he Mayor paused for breath. \"You see? The whole thing falls through. He sees at once that we're not truly Earthlike. We're faking it. We're _aliens!_ \"\n\n\"Hmm,\" Tom said, impressed in spite of himself.\n\n\"This way,\" the Mayor went on quickly, \"I can say, 'Certainly we've got Crime here, just like on Earth. We've got a combination Thief and Murderer. Poor fellow had a bad upbringing and he's maladjusted. Our Police Chief has some clues, though. We expect an arrest within 24 hours. We'll lock him in the Jail, then Rehabilitate him.\"\n\n\"What's Rehabilitate?\" Tom asked.\n\n\"I'm not sure. I'll worry about that when I come to it. But now do you see how necessary crime is?\"\n\n\"I suppose so. But why me?\"\n\n\"Can't spare anyone else. And you've got narrow eyes. Criminals always have narrow eyes.\"\n\n\"They aren't _that_ narrow. They're no narrower than Ed Weaver's\u2014\"\n\n\"Tom, please,\" the Mayor said. \"We're all doing our part. You want to help, don't you?\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" Tom repeated wearily.\n\n\"Fine. You're our Criminal. Here, this makes it legal.\"\n\nHe handed Tom a document. It read: SKULKING PERMIT. _Know all Men by these Presents that Tom Fisher is a Duly Authorized Thief and Murderer. He is hereby required to Skulk in Dismal Alleys, Haunt Places of Low Repute, and Break the Law_.\n\nTom read it through twice, then asked, \"What Law?\"\n\n\"I'll let you know as fast as I make them up,\" the Mayor said. \"All Earth colonies have Laws.\"\n\n\"But what do I _do_?\"\n\n\"You Steal. And Kill. That should be easy enough.\" The Mayor walked to his bookcase and took down ancient volumes entitled _The Criminal and his Environment, Psychology of the Slayer_ , and _Studies in Theft Motivation_.\n\n\"These'll give you everything you need to know. Steal as much as you like. One Murder should be enough, though. No sense overdoing it.\"\n\n\"Right,\" Tom nodded. \"I guess I'll catch on.\"\n\nHe picked up the books and returned to his cottage.\n\n**I** t was very hot and all the talk about Crime had puzzled and wearied him. He lay down on his bed and began to go through the ancient books.\n\nThere was a knock on his door.\n\n\"Come in,\" Tom called, rubbing his tired eyes.\n\nMarv Carpenter, oldest and tallest of the red-headed Carpenter boys, came in, followed by old Jed Farmer. They were carrying a small sack.\n\n\"You the town Criminal, Tom?\" Marv asked.\n\n\"Looks like it.\"\n\n\"Then this is for you.\" They put the sack on the floor and took from it a hatchet, two knives, a short spear, a club and a blackjack.\n\n\"What's all that?\" Tom asked, sitting upright.\n\n\"Weapons, of course,\" Jed Farmer said testily. \"You can't be a real Criminal without weapons.\"\n\nTom scratched his head. \"Is that a fact?\"\n\n\"You'd better start figuring these things out for yourself,\" Farmer went on in his impatient voice. \"Can't expect us to do everything for you.\"\n\nMarv Carpenter winked at Tom. \"Jed's sore because the Mayor made him our Postman.\"\n\n\"I'll do my part,\" Jed said. \"I just don't like having to write all those letters.\"\n\n\"Can't be too hard,\" Marv Carpenter said, grinning. \"The Postmen do it on Earth and they got a lot more people there. Good luck, Tom.\"\n\nThey left.\n\nTom bent down and examined the weapons. He knew what they were; the old books were full of them. But no one had ever actually used a weapon on New Delaware. The only native animals on the planet were small, furry, and confirmed eaters of grass. As for turning a weapon on a fellow villager\u2014why would anybody want to do that?\n\nHe picked up one of the knives. It was cold. He touched the point. It was sharp.\n\nTom began to pace the floor, staring at the weapons. They gave him a queer sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He decided he had been hasty in accepting the job.\n\nBut there was no sense worrying about it yet. He still had those books to read. After that, perhaps he could make some sense out of the whole thing.\n\n**H** e read for several hours, stopping only to eat a light lunch. The books were understandable enough; the various Criminal methods were clearly explained, sometimes with diagrams. But the whole thing was unreasonable. What was the purpose of Crime? Whom did it benefit? What did people get out of it?\n\nThe books didn't explain that. He leafed through them, looking at the photographed faces of Criminals. They looked very serious and dedicated, extremely conscious of the significance of their work to society.\n\nTom wished he could find out what that significance was. It would probably make things much easier.\n\n\"Tom?\" he heard the Mayor call from outside.\n\n\"I'm in here, Mayor,\" Tom said.\n\nThe door opened and the Mayor peered in. Behind him were Jane Farmer, Mary Waterman and Alice Cook.\n\n\"How about it, Tom?\" the Mayor asked.\n\n\"How about what?\"\n\n\"How about getting to work?\"\n\nTom grinned self-consciously. \"I was going to,\" he said. \"I was reading these books, trying to figure out\u2014\"\n\nThe three middle-aged ladies glared at him, and Tom stopped in embarrassment.\n\n\"You're certainly taking your time reading,\" Alice Cook said.\n\n\"Everyone else is outside working,\" said Jane Farmer.\n\n\"What's so hard about Stealing?\" Mary Waterman challenged.\n\n\"It's true,\" the Mayor told him. \"That Inspector might be here any day now and we don't have a Crime to show him.\"\n\n\"All right, all right,\" Tom said.\n\nHe stuck a knife and a black-jack in his belt, put the sack in his pocket\u2014for Loot\u2014and stalked out.\n\nBut where was he going? It was mid-afternoon. The market, which was the most logical place to rob, would be empty until evening. Besides, he didn't want to commit a Robbery in daylight. It seemed unprofessional.\n\nHe opened his Skulking Permit and read it through. _Required to Haunt Places of Low Repute_...\n\nThat was it! He'd haunt a Low Repute Place. He could form some plans there, get into the mood of the thing. But unfortunately, the village didn't have much to choose from. There was the Tiny Restaurant, run by the widowed Ames sisters, there was Jeff Hern's Lounging Spot, and finally there was Ed Beer's Tavern.\n\nEd's place would have to do.\n\n**T** he Tavern was a cottage much like the other cottages in the village. It had one big room for guests, a kitchen, and family sleeping quarters. Ed's wife did the cooking and kept the place as clean as she could, considering her ailing back. Ed served the drinks. He was a pale, sleepy-eyed man with a talent for worrying.\n\n\"Hello, Tom,\" Ed said. \"Hear. you're our Criminal.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" said Tom. \"I'll take a perricola.\"\n\nEd Beer served him the nonalcoholic root extract and stood anxiously in front of Tom's table. \"How come you ain't out Thieving, Tom?\"\n\n\"I'm planning,\" Tom said. \"My Permit says I have to Haunt Places of Low Repute. That's why I'm here.\"\n\n\"Is that nice?\" Ed Beer asked sadly. \"This is no Place of Low Repute, Tom.\"\n\n\"You serve the worst meals in town,\" Tom pointed out.\n\n\"I know. My wife can't cook. But there's a friendly atmosphere here. Folks like it.\"\n\n\"That's all changed, Ed. I'm making this tavern my headquarters.\"\n\nEd Beer's shoulders drooped. \"Try to keep a nice place,\" he muttered. \"A lot of thanks you get.\" He returned to the bar.\n\nTom proceeded to think. He found it amazingly difficult. The more he tried, the less came out. But he stuck grimly to it.\n\nAn hour passed. Richie Farmer, Jed's youngest son, stuck his head in the door. \"You Steal anything yet, Tom?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" Tom told him, hunched over his table, still thinking.\n\nThe scorching afternoon drifted slowly by. Patches of evening became visible through the Tavern's small, not too clean windows. A cricket began to chirp outside, and the first whisper of night wind stirred the surrounding forest.\n\nBig George Waterman and Max Weaver came in for a glass of glava. They sat down beside Tom.\n\n\"How's it going?\" George Waterman asked.\n\n\"Not so good,\" Tom said. \"Can't seem to get the hang of this Stealing.\"\n\n\"You'll catch on,\" Waterman said in his slow, ponderous, earnest fashion. \"If anyone in this village could learn it, you can.\"\n\n\"We've got confidence in you, Tom,\" Weaver assured him.\n\nTom thanked them. They drank and left. He continued thinking, staring into his empty perricola glass.\n\nAn hour later, Ed Beer cleared his throat apologetically. \"It's none of my business, Tom, but when _are_ you going to Steal something?\"\n\n\"Right now,\" Tom said.\n\nHe stood up, made sure his weapons were securely in place, and strode out the door.\n\n**N** ightly bartering had begun in the market. Goods were piled carelessly on benches, or spread over the grass on straw mats. There was no currency, no rate of exchange. Ten hand-wrought nails were worth a pail of milk or two fish, or vice versa, depending on what you had to barter and needed at the moment. No one ever bothered keeping accounts. That was one Earth custom the Mayor was having difficulty introducing.\n\nAs Tom Fisher walked down the square, everyone greeted him.\n\n\"Stealing now, huh, Tom?\"\n\n\"Go to it, boy!\"\n\n\"You can do it!\"\n\nNo one in the village had ever witnessed an actual theft. They considered it an exotic custom of distant Earth and they wanted to see how it worked. They left their goods and followed Tom through the market, watching avidly.\n\nTom found that his hands were trembling. He didn't like having so many people watch him Steal. He decided he'd better work fast, while he still had the nerve.\n\nHe stopped abruptly in front of Mrs. Miller's fruit-laden bench. \"Tasty-looking geefers,\" he said casually.\n\n\"They're fresh,\" Mrs. Miller told him. She was a small and bright-eyed old woman. Tom could remember long conversations she had had with his mother, back when his parents were alive.\n\n\"They look very tasty,\" he said, wishing he had stopped somewhere else instead.\n\n\"Oh, they are,\" said Mrs. Miller. \"I picked them just this afternoon.\"\n\nIs he going to Steal now?\" someone whispered.\n\n\"Sure he is. Watch him,\" someone whispered back.\n\nTom picked up a bright green geefer and inspected it. The crowd became suddenly silent.\n\n\"Certainly looks very tasty,\" Tom said, carefully replacing the geefer.\n\nThe crowd released a long-drawn sigh.\n\nMax Weaver and his wife and five children were at the next bench. Tonight they were displaying two blankets and a shirt. They all smiled shyly when Tom came over, followed by the crowd.\n\n\"That shirt's about your size,\" Weaver informed him. He wished the people would go away and let Tom work.\n\n\"Hmm,\" Tom said, picking up the shirt.\n\nThe crowd stirred expectantly. A girl began to giggle hysterically. Tom gripped the shirt tightly and opened his Loot bag.\n\n**J** ust a moment!\" Billy Painter pushed his way through. He was wearing a badge now, an old Earth coin he had polished and pinned to his belt. The expression on his face was unmistakably official.\n\n\"What were you doing with that shirt, Tom?\" Billy asked.\n\n\"Why... I was just looking at it.\"\n\n\"Just looking at it, huh?\" Billy turned away, his hands clasped behind his back. Suddenly he whirled and extended a rigid forefinger. \"I don't think you were just looking at it, Tom. I think you were planning on _Stealing_ it!\"\n\nTom didn't answer. The tell-tale sack hung limply from one hand, the shirt from the other.\n\n\"As Police Chief,\" Billy went on, \"I've got a duty to protect these people. You're a Suspicious Character. I think I'd better lock you up for further questioning.\"\n\nTom hung his head. He hadn't expected this, but it was just as well.\n\nOnce he was in Jail, it would be all over. And when Billy released him, he could get back to fishing.\n\nSuddenly the Mayor bounded through the crowd, his shirt flapping wildly around his waist.\n\n\"Billy, what are you doing?\"\n\n\"Doing my duty, Mayor. Tom here is acting plenty suspicious. The book says\u2014\"\n\n\"I know what the book says,\" the Mayor told him. \"I gave you the book. You can't go arresting Tom. Not yet.\"\n\n\"But there's no other Criminal in the village,\" Billy complained.\n\n\"I can't help that,\" the Mayor said.\n\nBilly's lips tightened. \"The book talks about Preventive Police Work. I'm supposed to stop Crime before it happens.\"\n\nThe Mayor raised his hands and dropped them wearily. \"Billy, don't you understand? This village _needs_ a Criminal record. You have to help, too.\"\n\nBilly shrugged his shoulders. \"All right, Mayor. I was just trying to do my job.\" He turned to go. Then he whirled again on Tom. \"I'll still get you. Remember\u2014Crime Does Not Pay.\" He stalked off.\n\n\"He's overambitious, Tom,\" the Mayor explained. \"Forget it. Go ahead and Steal something. Let's get this job over with.\"\n\n**T** om started to edge away toward the green forest outside the village.\n\n\"What's wrong, Tom?\" the Mayor asked worriedly.\n\n\"I'm not in the mood any more,\" Tom said. \"Maybe tomorrow night\u2014\"\n\n\"No, right now,\" the Mayor insisted. \"You can't go on putting it off. Come on, we'll all help you.\"\n\n\"Sure we will.\" Max Weaver said. \"Steal the shirt, Tom. It's your size anyhow.\"\n\n\"How about a nice water jug, Tom?\"\n\n\"Look at these skeegee nuts over here.\"\n\nTom looked from bench to bench. As he reached for Weaver's shirt, a knife slipped from his belt and dropped to the ground. The crowd clucked sympathetically.\n\nTom replaced it, perspiring, knowing he looked like a butter-fingers. He reached out, took the shirt and stuffed it into the Loot Bag. The crowd cheered.\n\nTom smiled faintly, feeling a bit better. \"I think I'm getting the hang of it.\"\n\n\"Sure you are.\"\n\n\"We knew you could do it.\"\n\n\"Take something else, boy.\"\n\nTom walked down the market and helped himself to a length of rope, a handful of skeegee nuts and a grass hat.\n\n\"I guess that's enough,\" he told the Mayor.\n\n\"Enough for now,\" the Mayor agreed. \"This doesn't really count, you know. This was the same as people giving it to you. Practice, you might say.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Tom said, disappointed.\n\n\"But you know what you're doing. The next time it'll be just as easy.\"\n\n\"I suppose it will.\"\n\n\"And don't forget that Murder.\"\n\n\"Is it really necessary?\" Tom asked.\n\n\"I wish it weren't,\" the Mayor said. \"But this colony has been here for over two hundred years and we haven't had a single Murder. Not one! According to the records, all the other colonies had lots.\"\n\n\"I suppose we should have one,\" Tom admitted. \"I'll take care of it.\" He headed for his cottage. The crowd gave a rousing cheer as he departed.\n\n**A** t home, Tom lighted a rush lamp and fixed himself supper. After eating, he sat for a long time in his big armchair. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had not really handled the Stealing well. All day he had worried and hesitated. People had practically had to put things in his hands before he could take them.\n\nA fine Thief he was!\n\nAnd there was no excuse for it. Stealing and Murdering were like any other necessary jobs. Just because he had never done them before, just because he could see no sense to them, that was no reason to bungle them.\n\nHe walked to the door. It was a fine night, illuminated by a dozen nearby giant stars. The market was deserted again and the village lights were winking out.\n\nThis was the time to Steal!\n\nA thrill ran through him at the thought. He was proud of himself. That was how Criminals planned and this was how Stealing should be\u2014skulking, late at night.\n\nQuickly Tom checked his weapons, emptied his Loot Sack and walked out.\n\nThe last rush lights were extinguished. Tom moved noiselessly through the village. He came to Roger Waterman's house. Big Roger had left his spade propped against a wall. Tom picked it up. Down the block, Mrs. Weaver's water jug was in its usual place beside the front door. Tom took it. On his way home, he found a little wooden horse that some child had forgotten. It went with the rest.\n\nHe was pleasantly exhilarated, once the goods were safely home. He decided to make another haul.\n\nThis time he returned with a bronze plaque from the Mayor's house, Marv Carpenter's best saw, and Jed Farmer's sickle.\n\n\"Not bad,\" he told himself. He _was_ catching on. One more load would constitute a good night's work.\n\nThis time he found a hammer and chisel in Ron Stone's shed, and a reed basket at Alice Cook's house. He was about to take Jeff Hern's rake when he heard a faint noise. He flattened himself against a wall.\n\nBilly Painter came prowling quietly along, his badge gleaming in the starlight. In one hand, he carried a short, heavy club; in the other, a pair of homemade handcuffs. In the dim light, his face was ominous. It was the face of a man who had pledged himself against Crime, even though he wasn't really sure what it was.\n\nTom held his breath as Billy Painter passed within ten feet of him. Slowly Tom backed away.\n\nThe Loot Sack jingled.\n\n\"Who's there?\" Billy yelled. When no one answered, he turned a slow circle, peering into the shadows. Tom was flattened against a wall again. He was fairly sure Billy wouldn't see him. Billy had weak eyes because of the fumes of the paint he mixed. All Painters had weak eyes. It was one of the reasons they were moody.\n\n\"Is that you, Tom?\" Billy asked, in a friendly tone. Tom was about to answer, when he noticed that Billy's club was raised in a striking position. He kept quiet.\n\n\"I'll get you yet!\" Billy shouted.\n\n\"Well, get him in the morning!\" Jeff Hern shouted from his bedroom window. \"Some of us are trying to sleep.\"\n\nBilly moved away. When he was gone, Tom hurried home and dumped his pile of Loot on the floor with the rest. He surveyed his haul proudly. It gave him the sense of a job well done.\n\nAfter a cool drink of glava, Tom went to bed, falling at once into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.\n\n**N** ext morning, Tom sauntered out to see how the Little Red Schoolhouse was progressing. The Carpenter boys were hard at work on it, helped by several villagers.\n\n\"How's it coming?\" Tom called out cheerfully.\n\n\"Fair,\" Marv Carpenter said. \"It'd come along better if I had my saw.\"\n\n\"Your saw?\" Tom repeated blankly.\n\nAfter a moment, he remembered that _he_ had stolen it last night. It hadn't seemed to belong to anyone then. The saw and all the rest had been objects to be stolen. He had never given a thought to the fact that they might be used or needed.\n\nMarv Carpenter asked, \"Do you suppose I could use the saw for a while? Just for an hour or so?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure,\" Tom said, frowning, \"It's legally Stolen, you know.\"\n\n\"Of course it is. But if I could just borrow it\u2014\"\n\n\"You'd have to give it back.\"\n\n\"Well, naturally I'd give it back,\" Marv said indignantly. \"I wouldn't keep anything that was legally stolen.\"\n\n\"It's in the house with the rest of the Loot.\"\n\nMarv thanked him and hurried after it.\n\nTom began to stroll through the village. He reached the Mayor's house. The Mayor was standing outside, staring at the sky.\n\n\"Tom, did you take my bronze plaque?\" he asked.\n\n\"I certainly did,\" Tom said belligerently.\n\n\"Oh. Just wondering.\" The Mayor pointed upward. \"See it?\"\n\nTom looked. \"What?\"\n\n\"Black dot near the rim of the small sun.\"\n\n\"Yes. What is it?\"\n\n\"I'll bet it's the Inspector's ship. How's your work coming?\"\n\n\"Fine,\" Tom said, a trifle uncomfortably.\n\n\"Got your Murder planned?\"\n\n\"I've been having a little trouble with that,\" Tom confessed. \"To tell the truth, I haven't made any progress on it at all.\"\n\n\"Come on in, Tom. I want to talk to you.\"\n\n**I** nside the cool, shuttered living room, the Mayor poured two glasses of glava and motioned Tom to a chair.\n\n\"Our time is running short,\" the Mayor said gloomily. \"The Inspector may land any hour now. And my hands are full.\" He motioned at the Interstellar Radio. \" _That_ has been talking again. Something about a revolt on Deng IV and all loyal Earth colonies are to prepare for conscription, whatever that is. I never even heard of Deng IV, but I have to start worrying about it, in addition to everything else.\"\n\nHe fixed Tom with a stern stare. \"Criminals on Earth commit dozens of Murders a day and never even think about it. All your village wants of you is one little Killing. Is that too much to ask?\"\n\nTom spread his hands nervously. \"Do you really think it's necessary?\"\n\n\"You know it is,\" the Mayor said. \"If we're going Earthly, we have to go all the way. This is the only thing holding us back. All the other projects are right on schedule.\"\n\nBilly Painter entered, wearing a new official-blue shirt with bright metal buttons. He sank into a chair.\n\n\"Kill anyone yet, Tom?\"\n\nThe Mayor said, \"He wants to know if it's _necessary_.\"\n\n\"Of course it is,\" the Police Chief said. \"Read any of the books. You're not much of a Criminal if you don't Commit a Murder.\"\n\n\"Who'll it be, Tom?\" the Mayor asked.\n\nTom squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He rubbed his fingers together nervously.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'll kill Jeff Hern,\" Tom blurted.\n\nBilly Painter leaned forward quickly. \"Why?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why? Why _not?_ \"\n\n\"What's your Motive?\"\n\n\"I thought you just wanted a Murder,\" Tom retorted. \"Who said anything about Motive?\"\n\n\"We can't have a fake Murder,\" the Police Chief explained. \"It has to be done right. And that means you have to have a proper Motive.\"\n\nTom thought for a moment. \"Well, I don't know Jeff well. Is that a good enough motive?\"\n\nThe Mayor shook his head. \"No, Tom, that won't do. Better pick someone else.\"\n\n\"Let's see,\" Tom said. \"How about George Waterman?\"\n\n\"What's the Motive?\" Billy asked immediately.\n\n\"Oh... um... Well, I don't like the way George walks. Never did. And he's noisy sometimes.\"\n\nThe Mayor nodded approvingly. \"Sounds good to me. What do you say, Billy?\"\n\n\"How am I supposed to deduce a Motive like that?\" Billy asked angrily. \"No, that might be good enough for a Crime of Passion. But you're a legal Criminal, Tom. By definition, you're Cold-blooded. Ruthless and Cunning. You can't Kill someone just because you don't like the way he walks. That's _silly_.\"\n\n\"I'd better think this whole thing over,\" Tom said, standing up.\n\n\"Don't take too long,\" the Mayor told him. \"The sooner it's done, the better.\"\n\nTom nodded and started out the door.\n\n\"Oh, Tom!\" Billy called. \"Don't forget to leave Clues. They're very important.\"\n\n\"All right,\" Tom said, and left.\n\n**O** utside, most of the villagers were watching the sky. The black dot had grown immensely larger. It covered most of the smaller sun.\n\nTom went to his Place of Low Repute to think things out. Ed Beer had apparently changed his mind about the desirability of Criminal elements. The Tavern was redecorated. There was a large sign, reading: CRIMINAL'S LAIR. Inside, there were new, carefully soiled curtains on the windows, blocking the daylight and making the Tavern truly a Dismal Retreat. Weapons, hastily carved out of soft wood, hung on one wall. On another wall was a large red splotch, an ominous-looking thing, even though Tom knew it was only Billy Painter's rootberry red paint.\n\n\"Come right in, Tom,\" Ed Beer said, and led him to the darkest corner in the room. Tom noticed that the Tavern was unusually filled for the time of day. People seemed to like the idea of being in a genuine Criminal's Lair.\n\nTom sipped a perricola and began to think.\n\nHe had to Commit a Murder.\n\nHe took out his Skulking Permit and looked it over. Unpleasant, unpalatable, something he wouldn't normally do, but he did have the legal obligation.\n\nTom drank his perricola and concentrated on Murder. He told himself he was going to _kill_ someone. He had to _snuff out a life_. He would make someone _cease to exist_.\n\nBut the phrases didn't contain the essence of the act. They were just words. To clarify his thoughts, he took big, red-headed Marv Carpenter as an example. Today, Marv was working on the Schoolhouse with his borrowed saw. If Tom killed Marv\u2014well, Marv wouldn't work any more.\n\nTom shook his head impatiently. He still wasn't grasping it.\n\nAll right, here was Marv Carpenter, biggest and, many thought, the pleasantest of the Carpenter boys. He'd be planing down a piece of wood, grasping the plane firmly in his large freckled hands, squinting down the line he had drawn. Thirsty, undoubtedly, and with a small pain in his left shoulder that Jan Druggist was unsuccessfully treating.\n\nThat was Marv Carpenter.\n\nThen\u2014\n\nMarv Carpenter sprawled on the ground, his eyes glaring open, limbs stiff, mouth twisted, no air going in or out his nostrils, no beat to his heart. Never again to hold a piece of wood in his large, freckled hands. Never again to feel the small and really unimportant pain in his shoulder that Jan Druggist was\u2014\n\nFor just a moment, Tom glimpsed what Murder really was. The vision passed, but enough of a memory remained to make him feel sick.\n\nHe could live with the Thieving. But Murder, even in the best interests of the village...\n\nWhat would people think, after they saw what he had just imagined? How could he live with them? How could he live with himself afterward?\n\nAnd yet he had to kill. Everybody in the village had a job and that was his.\n\nBut whom could he Murder?\n\n**T** he excitement started later in the day when the Interstellar Radio was filled with angry voices.\n\n\"Call _that_ a colony? Where's the capital?\"\n\n\"This is it,\" the Mayor replied.\n\n\"Where's your landing field?\"\n\n\"I think it's being used as a pasture,\" the Mayor said. \"I could look up where it was. No ship has landed here in over\u2014\"\n\n\"The main ship will stay aloft then. Assemble your officials. I am coming down immediately.\"\n\nThe entire village gathered around an open field that the Inspector designated. Tom strapped on his weapons and Skulked behind a tree, watching.\n\nA small ship detached itself from the big one and dropped swiftly down. It plummeted toward the field while the villagers held their breaths, certain it would crash. At the last moment, jets flared, scorching the grass, and the ship settled gently to the ground.\n\nThe Mayor edged forward, followed by Billy Painter. A door in the ship opened, and four men marched out. They held shining metallic instruments that Tom knew were weapons. After them came a large, red-faced man dressed in black, wearing four bright medals. He was followed by a little man with a wrinkled face, also dressed in black. Four more uniformed men followed him.\n\n\"Welcome to New Delaware,\" the Mayor said.\n\n\"Thank you, General,\" the big man said, shaking the Mayor's hand firmly. \"I am Inspector Delumaine. This is Mr. Grent, my Political Adviser.\"\n\nGrent nodded to the Mayor, ignoring his outstretched hand. He was looking at the villagers with an expression of mild disgust.\n\n\"We will survey the village,\" the Inspector said, glancing at Grent out of the corner of his eye. Grent nodded. The uniformed guards closed around them.\n\nTom followed at a safe distance, Skulking in true Criminal fashion. In the village, he hid behind a house to watch the Inspection.\n\nThe Mayor pointed out, with pardonable pride, the Jail, the Post Office, the Church and the Little Red Schoolhouse. The Inspector seemed bewildered. Mr. Grent smiled unpleasantly and rubbed his jaw.\n\n\"As I thought,\" he told the Inspector. \"A waste of time, fuel and a battle cruiser. This place has nothing of value.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure,\" the Inspector said. He turned to the Mayor. \"But what did you build them for, General?\"\n\n\"Why, to be Earthly,\" the Mayor said. \"We're doing our best, as you can see.\"\n\n**M** r. Grent whispered something in the Inspector's ear. \"Tell me,\" the Inspector asked the Mayor, \"how many young men are there in the village?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" The Mayor said in polite bewilderment.\n\n\"Young men between the ages of fifteen and sixty,\" Mr. Grent explained.\n\n\"You see, General, Imperial Mother Earth is engaged in a war. The colonists on Deng IV and some other colonies have turned against their birthright. They are revolting against the absolute authority of Mother Earth.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry to hear that,\" the Mayor said sympathetically.\n\n\"We need men for the Space Fleet,\" the Inspector told him. \"Good healthy fighting men. Our reserves are depleted\u2014\"\n\n\"We wish,\" Mr. Grent broke in smoothly, \"to give all loyal Earth colonists a chance to fight for Imperial Mother Earth. We are sure you won't refuse.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" the Mayor said. \"Certainly not. I'm sure our young men will be glad\u2014I mean they don't know much about it, but they're all bright boys. They can learn, I guess.\"\n\n\"You see?\" the Inspector said to Mr. Grent. \"Sixty, seventy, perhaps a hundred recruits. Not such a waste after all.\"\n\nMr. Grent still looked dubious.\n\nThe Inspector and his Adviser went to the Mayor's house for refreshment. Four soldiers accompanied them. The other four walked around the village, helping themselves to anything they found.\n\nTom hid in the woods nearby to think things over. In the early evening, Mrs. Ed Beer came furtively out of the village. She was a gaunt, grayish-blonde middle-aged woman, but she moved quite rapidly in spite of her case of housemaid's knee. She had a basket with her, covered with a red checkered napkin.\n\n\"Here's your dinner,\" she said, as soon as she found Tom.\n\n\"Why... thanks,\" said Tom, taken by surprise, \"You didn't have to do that.\"\n\n\"I certainly did. Our Tavern is your Place of Low Repute, isn't it? We're responsible for your well-being. And the Mayor sent you a message.\"\n\nTom looked up, his mouth full of food. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"He said to hurry up with the Murder. He's been stalling the Inspector and that nasty little Grent man. But they're going to ask him. He's sure of it.\"\n\nTom nodded.\n\n\"When are you going to do it?\" Mrs. Beer asked, cocking her head to one side.\n\n\"I mustn't tell you,\" Tom said.\n\n\"Of course you must. I'm a Criminal's Accomplice.\" Mrs. Beer leaned closer.\n\n\"That's true,\" Tom admitted thoughtfully. \"Well, I'm going to do it tonight. After dark. Tell Billy Painter I'll leave all the fingerprints I can, and any other clues I think of.\"\n\n\"All right, Tom,\" Mrs. Beer said. \"Good luck.\"\n\n**T** om waited for dark, meanwhile watching the village. He noticed that most of the soldiers had been drinking. They swaggered around as though the villagers didn't exist One of them fired his weapon into the air, frightening all the small, furry grass-eaters for miles around.\n\nThe Inspector and Mr. Grent were still in the Mayor's house.\n\nNight came. Tom slipped into the village and stationed himself in an alley between two houses. He drew his knife and waited.\n\nSomeone was approaching! He tried to remember his Criminal Methods, but nothing came. He knew he would just have to do the Murder as best he could, and fast.\n\nThe person came up, his figure indistinct in the darkness.\n\n\"Why, hello, Tom.\" It was the Mayor. He looked at the knife. \"What are you doing?\"\n\n\"You said there had to be a Murder, so\u2014\"\n\n\"I didn't mean _me_ ,\" the Mayor said, backing away. \"It can't be me.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Tom asked.\n\n\"Well, for one thing, somebody has to talk to the Inspector. He's waiting for me. Someone has to show him\u2014\"\n\n\"Billy Painter can do that,\" said Tom. He grasped the Mayor by the shirt front, raised the knife and aimed for the throat. \"Nothing personal, of course,\" he added.\n\n\"Wait!\" the Mayor cried. \"If there's nothing personal, then you have no Motive!\"\n\nTom lowered the knife, but kept his grasp on the Mayor's shirt. \"I guess I can think of one. I've been pretty sore about you appointing me Criminal.\"\n\n\"It was the Mayor who appointed you, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Well, sure\u2014\"\n\nThe Mayor pulled Tom out of the shadows, into the bright starlight. \"Look!\"\n\nTom gaped. The Mayor was dressed in long, sharply creased pants and a tunic resplendent with medals. On each shoulder was a double row of ten stars. His hat was thickly crusted with gold braid in the shape of comets.\n\n\"You see, Tom? I'm not the Mayor any more. I'm a _General!_ \"\n\n\"What's that got to do with it? You're the same person, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Not officially. You missed the ceremony this afternoon. The Inspector said that since I was officially a General, I had to wear a General's uniform. It was a very friendly ceremony. All the Earthmen were grinning and winking at me and each other.\"\n\n**R** aising the knife again, Tom held it as he would to gut a fish. \"Congratulations,\" he said sincerely, \"but you were the Mayor when you appointed me Criminal, so my Motive still holds.\"\n\n\"But you wouldn't be Killing the Mayor! You'd be Killing a General! And that's not Murder!\"\n\n\"It isn't?\" Tom asked. \"What is it then?\"\n\n\"Why, Killing a General is Mutiny!\"\n\n\"Oh.\" Tom put down the knife. He released the Mayor. \"Sorry.\"\n\n\"Quite all right,\" the Mayor said. \"Natural error. I've read up on it and you haven't, of course\u2014no need to.\" He took a deep breath. \"I'd better get back. The Inspector wants a list of the men he can Draft.\"\n\nTom called out, \"Are you sure this Murder is necessary?\"\n\n\"Yes, absolutely,\" the Mayor said, hurrying away. \"Just not _me_.\n\nTom put the knife back in his belt.\n\n_Not me, not me_. Everyone would feel that way. Yet somebody had to be Murdered. Who? He couldn't Kill himself. That would be Suicide, which wouldn't count.\n\nHe began to shiver, trying not to think of the glimpse he'd had of the reality of Murder. The job had to be done.\n\nSomeone else was coming!\n\nThe person came nearer. Tom hunched down, his muscles tightening for the leap.\n\nIt was Mrs. Miller, returning home with a bag of vegetables.\n\nTom told himself that it didn't matter whether it was Mrs. Miller or anybody else. But he couldn't help remembering those conversations with his mother. They left him without a Motive for Killing Mrs. Miller.\n\nShe passed by without seeing him.\n\nHe waited for half an hour. Another person walked through the dark alley between the houses. Tom recognized him as Max Weaver.\n\nTom had always liked him. But that didn't mean there couldn't be a Motive. All he could come up with, though, was that Max had a wife and five children who loved him and would miss him. Tom didn't want Billy Painter to tell him that that was no Motive. He drew deeper into the shadow and let Max go safely by.\n\nThe three Carpenter boys came along. Tom had painfully been through that already. He let them pass. Then Roger Waterman approached.\n\nHe had no real Motive for Killing Roger, but he had never been especially friendly with him. Besides, Roger had no children and his wife wasn't fond of him. Would that be enough for Billy Painter to work on?\n\nHe knew it wouldn't be... and the same was true of all the villagers. He had grown up with these people, shared food and work and fun and grief with them. How could he possibly have a Motive for Killing any of them?\n\nBut he had to Commit a Murder. His Skulking Permit required it. He couldn't let the village down. But neither could he Kill the people he had known all his life.\n\nWait, he told himself in sudden excitement. He could Kill the Inspector!\n\n**M** otive? Why, it would be an even more Heinous Crime than Murdering the Mayor\u2014except that the Mayor was a General now, of course, and that would only be Mutiny. But even if the Mayor were still Mayor, the Inspector would be a far more important Victim. Tom would be Killing for Glory, for Fame, for Notoriety. And the Murder would show Earth how Earthly the colony really was. They would say, \"Crime is so bad on New Delaware that it's hardly safe to land there. A Criminal actually Killed our Inspector on the very first day! Worst Criminal we've come across in all space.\"\n\nIt would be the most spectacular Crime he could Commit, Tom realized, just the sort of thing a Master Criminal would do.\n\nFeeling proud of himself for the first time in a long while, Tom hurried out of the alley and over to the Mayor's house. He could hear conversation going on inside.\n\n\"... sufficiently passive population,\" Mr. Grent was saying. \"Sheeplike, in fact.\"\n\n\"Makes it rather boring,\" the Inspector answered. \"For the soldiers especially.\"\n\n\"Well, what do you expect from backward agrarians? At least we're getting some recruits out of it.\" Mr. Grent yawned audibly. \"On your feet, guards. We're going back to the ship.\"\n\n_Guards!_ Tom had forgotten about them. He looked doubtfully at his knife. Even if he sprang at the Inspector, the guards would probably stop him before the Murder could be Committed. They must have been trained for just that sort of thing.\n\nBut if he had one of their own weapons...\n\nHe heard the shuffling of feet inside. Tom hurried back into the village.\n\nNear the market, he saw a soldier sitting on a doorstep, singing drunkenly to himself. Two empty bottles lay at his feet and his weapon was slung sloppily over his shoulder.\n\nTom crept up, drew his blackjack and took aim.\n\nThe soldier must have glimpsed his shadow. He leaped to his feet, ducking the stroke of the blackjack. In the same motion, he jabbed with his slung rifle, catching Tom in the ribs, tore the rifle from his shoulder and aimed. Tom closed his eyes and lashed out with both feet.\n\nHe caught the soldier on the knee, knocking him over. Before he could get up, Tom swung the blackjack.\n\nTom felt the soldier's pulse\u2014no sense Killing the wrong man\u2014and found it satisfactory. He took the weapon, checked to make sure he knew which button to push, and hastened after the Inspector.\n\n**H** alfway to the ship, he caught up with them. The Inspector and Grent were walking ahead, the soldiers straggling behind.\n\nTom moved into the underbrush. He trotted silently along until he was opposite Grent and the Inspector. He took aim and his finger tightened on the trigger...\n\nHe didn't want to Kill Grent, though. He was supposed to Commit only one Murder.\n\nHe ran on, past the Inspector's party, and came out on the road in front of them. His weapon was poised as the party reached him.\n\n\"What's this?\" the Inspector demanded.\n\n\"Stand still,\" Tom said. \"The rest of you drop your weapons and move out of the way.\"\n\nThe soldiers moved like men in shock. One by one they dropped their weapons and retreated to the underbrush. Grent held his ground.\n\n\"What are you doing, boy?\" he asked.\n\n\"I'm the town Criminal,\" Tom stated proudly. \"I'm going to Kill the Inspector. Please move out of the way.\"\n\nGrent stared at him. \"Criminal? So that's what the Mayor was prattling about.\"\n\n\"I know we haven't had any Murder in two hundred years,\" Tom explained, \"but I'm changing that right now. _Move out of the way!_ \"\n\nGrent leaped out of the line of fire. The Inspector stood alone, swaying slightly.\n\nTom took aim, trying to think about the spectacular nature of his Crime and its social value. But he saw the Inspector on the ground, eyes glaring open, limbs stiff, mouth twisted, no air going in or out the nostrils, no beat to the heart.\n\nHe tried to force his finger to close on the trigger. His mind could talk all it wished about the desirability of Crime; his hand knew better.\n\n\"I can't!\" Tom shouted.\n\nHe threw down the gun and sprinted into the underbrush.\n\n**T** he Inspector wanted to send a search party out for Tom and hang him on the spot. Mr. Grent didn't agree. New Delaware was all forest. Ten thousand men couldn't have caught a fugitive in the forest, if he didn't want to be caught.\n\nThe Mayor and several villagers came out, to find out about the commotion. The soldiers formed a hollow square around the Inspector and Mr. Grent. They stood with weapons ready, their faces set and serious.\n\nAnd the Mayor explained everything. The village's uncivilized lack of Crime. The job that Tom had been given. How ashamed they were that he had been unable to handle it.\n\n\"Why did you give the assignment to that particular man?\" Mr. Grent asked.\n\n\"Well,\" the Mayor said, \"I figured if anyone could Kill, Tom could. He's a Fisher, you know. Pretty gory work.\"\n\n\"Then the rest of you would be equally unable to kill?\"\n\n\"We wouldn't even get as far as Tom did,\" the Mayor admitted sadly.\n\nMr. Grent and the Inspector looked at each other, then at the soldiers. The soldiers were staring at the villagers with wonder and respect. They started to whisper among themselves.\n\n\"Attention!\" the Inspector bellowed. He turned to Grent and said in a low voice, \"We'd better get away from here. Men in our armies who can't kill...\"\n\n\"The morale,\" Mr. Grent said. He shuddered. \"The possibility of infection. One man in a key position endangering a ship\u2014perhaps a fleet\u2014because he can't fire a weapon. It isn't worth the risk.\"\n\nThey ordered the soldiers back to the ship. The soldiers seemed to march more slowly than usual, and they looked back at the village. They whispered together, even though the Inspector was bellowing orders.\n\nThe small ship took off in a flurry of jets. Soon it was swallowed in the large ship. And then the large ship was gone.\n\nThe edge of the enormous watery red sun was just above the horizon.\n\n\"You can come out now,\" the Mayor called. Tom emerged from the underbrush, where he had been hiding, watching everything.\n\n\"I bungled it,\" he said miserably.\n\n\"Don't feel bad about it,\" Billy Painter told him. \"It was an impossible job.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it was,\" the Mayor said, as they walked back to the village. \"I thought that just possibly you could swing it. But you can't be blamed. There's not another man in the village who could have done the job even as well.\"\n\n\"What'll we do with these buildings?\" Billy Painter asked, motioning at the Jail, the Post Office, the Church, and the Little Red Schoolhouse.\n\nThe Mayor thought deeply for a moment. \"I know,\" he said. \"We'll build a playground for the kids. Swings and slides and sandboxes and things.\"\n\n\" _Another_ playground?\" Tom asked.\n\n\"Sure. Why not?\"\n\nThere was no reason, of course, why not.\n\n\"I won't be needing this any more, I guess,\" Tom said, handing the Skulking Permit to the Mayor.\n\n\"No, I guess not,\" said the Mayor. They watched him sorrowfully as he tore it up. \"Well, we did our best. It just wasn't good enough.\"\n\n\"I had the chance,\" Tom muttered, \"and then I let you all down.\"\n\nBilly Painter put a comforting hand on his shoulder. \"It's not your fault, Tom. It's not the fault of any of us. It's just what comes of not being civilized for two hundred years. Look how long it took Earth to get civilized. Thousands of years. And we were trying to do it in two weeks.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll just have to go back to being uncivilized,\" the Mayor said with a hollow attempt at cheerfulness.\n\nTom yawned, waved, went home to catch up on lost sleep. Before entering, he glanced at the sky.\n\nThick, swollen clouds had gathered overhead and every one of them had a black lining. The fall rains were almost here. Soon he could start fishing again.\n\nNow why couldn't he have thought of the Inspector as a fish? He was too tired to examine that as a Motive. In any case, it was too late. Earth was gone from them and civilization had fled for no one knew how many centuries more.\n\nHe slept very badly.\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}
+{"text":"\nGreat Basin - Contents\n\nIntroduction | Essential Information | When to Go | Transportation & Airports | Directions | Great Basin National Park Map | Camping | Driving | Hiking | Backpacking | Cave Tours | Other Activities | Did you know? | Visitor Centers | For Kids | Ranger Programs | Flora & Fauna | Pets | Accessibility | Weather | Vacation Planner | What's Nearby\nGreat Basin - Introduction\n\nBristlecone pine \u00a9 Loren Reinhold\/NPS\n\nIn east-central Nevada near the Utah border, a 13,000 foot mountain hides a brilliantly decorated cave; both are protected by Great Basin National Park. The park itself is just a small portion of a much larger Great Basin region extending from the Sierra Nevada in California to the Wasatch Mountains in Utah. In between, mountains and valleys form dozens of smaller basins where rivers and streams are unable to drain into an ocean. All water flows inland, eventually collecting in shallow salt lakes, marshes, and mud flats where it evaporates. The region's aridity is well known, but beautiful and unique landscapes and life forms adapt and evolve to this harsh environment. Alpine lakes fed by snowmelt from the rocky slopes accent the high mountains, where groves of bristlecone pine have been defying the odds for thousands of years. Many of these twisted elders had already celebrated their 2,000th birthday by the time Christopher Columbus discovered America.\n\nAmericans would make an indelible mark on Great Basin. In 1855, Ezra Williams claimed to be the first white man to summit the tallest mountain in the central Great Basin, naming it Williams Peak. Shortly after, Lieutenant Colonel Edward Steptoe named the same mountain Jeff Davis Peak in honor of his superior, Secretary of War Jefferson Davis. When Jefferson Davis became President of the Confederate States of America, some cartographers began to regret the name. \"Union Peak\" was suggested as an alternative because a ridge united the mountain's twin summits, but it was an obvious jab at Jefferson Davis' secessionist leanings. Fortunately, map publication was postponed and in 1869 a military mapping expedition resulted in George Montague Wheeler climbing the mountain and naming its summit, definitively, \"Wheeler Peak.\"\n\nEight years earlier, Absalom \"Ab\" Lehman moved to Snake Valley. Having experienced the highs and lows of mining in California and Australia, he decided to try his hand at ranching. By the time George Wheeler hiked to the top of Wheeler Peak, Lehman's ranch had 25 \u2013 30 cows and an orchard. Prosperity and the loneliness of Ab's second wife, Olive Smith, prompted several family members to move into the area, and a community began to develop around Lehman Ranch. A butcher shop, blacksmith shop, carpenter shop, and milk house were established, and Absalom's orchard was regarded as the best in the region. Success allowed Ab to focus his attention on his ranch's latest addition, Lehman Caves. Exploring the cave he reached a point where stalactites and stalagmites prevented passage to its interior chamber. Ab returned to \"develop\" the cave with a little sweat and a sledgehammer. A path was cleared and the cave was open for tourism. After 1885, the cave received hundreds of visitors each year, nearly all of them guided by Ab.\n\nThe push to preserve the park came much later. In 1964 a graduate student searching for the world's oldest tree came to the grove of bristlecone pines at Wheeler Peak. After taking core samples the researcher wanted to obtain a more accurate count by cutting down a tree. The Forest Service granted his request and he proceeded to fell a tree known today as Prometheus. Counting the rings proved his assumption correct. Prometheus was at least 4,862 years old; he had just cut down the oldest living organism in the world. A cross-section of the tree resides in Great Basin Visitor Center where you can count the rings for yourself. But all was not lost. The tragedy of Prometheus helped galvanize support for the creation of Great Basin National Park, and the young graduate student was one of the cause's leading advocates.\nEssential Information (GRBA)\n\n100 Great Basin National Park | Baker, NV 89311 | (775) 234-7331 | www.nps.gov\/grba\n\nEstablished: October 27, 1986 | January 24, 1922 (National Monument) | Size: 77,180 Acres | Annual Visitors: 89,000 | Peak Season: Summer\n\nHiking Trails: 65 Miles\n\nActivities: Hiking, Backpacking, Camping, Stargazing, Horseback Riding, and Cave Tours ($8 \u2013 10)\n\nCampgrounds ($12\/night): Upper and Lower Lehman Creek, Wheeler Peak, and Baker Creek | Free Primitive Camping along Snake Creek and Strawberry Creek Roads (4WD, high-clearance required) | Backcountry Camping: Permitted\n\nPark Hours: All day, every day (except Wheeler Peak and Lexington Arch Day-use Areas)\n\nEntrance Fee: None\nWhen to Go (GRBA)\n\nGreat Basin is open year-round. Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive to Lehman Creek Campground is open all year, but the final 10 miles is generally closed from November to May, depending on the weather. Cave tours are offered at Lehman Caves Visitor Center all year round with the exception of New Year's Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas Day. Great Basin Visitor Center is open from April until October (see the Visitor Centers section for hours and locations). The park is busiest during holidays and summer weekends, when campgrounds can fill before the afternoon, but crowds are rarely unmanageable.\nTransportation & Airports (GRBA)\n\nPublic transportation does not provide service to or around the park. The closest large commercial airports are Salt Lake City International (SLC), located 238 miles to the northeast, and McCarran International (LAS) in Las Vegas, NV, located 307 miles south of the park. Car rental is available at each destination.\nDirections (GRBA)\n\nGreat Basin is located at the center of one of the most remote regions of the continental United States.\n\nFrom the West: You can arrive from the west via US-50 or US-6. These highways converge at Ely, NV where you continue south\/east on US-50\/US-93\/US-6\/Great Basin Blvd for more than 55 miles to NV-487. Turn right at NV-487 and travel 5 miles to Baker. At Baker turn right onto Lehman Caves Road, which leads into the park.\n\nFrom the North: I-80 picks up US-93 at Wells (Exit 352) and West Wendover, NV (Exit 410). Heading South on US-93 leads to Ely, NV (follow directions above from Ely).\n\nFrom the East: From Delta, UT head west on US-50\/US-6 across the Utah \u2013 Nevada border to NV-487. Turn left onto NV-487 and continue for 5 miles to Baker. Turn right onto Lehman Caves Road, which leads into the park.\n\nFrom the South: Heading north on US-93, turn right at US-50\/US-6. Continue east for almost 30 miles to NV-487. Turn right onto NV-487 and after 5 miles turn right at Lehman Caves Road.\nGreat Basin Nationl Park Map\n\nDownload the Great Basin National Park map here.\nCamping (GRBA)\n\nThere are four developed campgrounds. Lower Lehman Creek, Upper Lehman Creek, and Wheeler Peak are located along Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive. Baker Creek Campground is located at the end of unpaved Baker Creek Road. Lower Lehman Creek is open year-round. Upper Lehman and Baker Creek are open from May to October. Wheeler Peak is open between June and September. The largest campground is Wheeler Peak (37 sites). It is not uncommon for campgrounds to fill, especially during summer weekends and holidays. Pit toilets are located at each campground, but water is only available during summer. (In winter, water is available at the visitor centers.) There are no hook-ups or showers. A dump station ($5 fee) is available near Lehman Caves Visitor Center during the summer. All sites cost $12 per night. Non-group sites are available on a first-come, first-served basis. Group camping is available at Grey Cliffs on Baker Creek Road by reservation only (775.234.7331 ext. 213). Free primitive campsites are available along Snake Creek and Strawberry Creek Roads.\nDriving (GRBA)\n\nMost Great Basin visitors arrive via NV-488\/Lehman Caves Road, which travels west from Baker, NV directly into the park and ultimately to Lehman Caves Visitor Center. The 12-mile Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive, which intersects Lehman Caves Road just beyond the park boundary, provides access to some of the most scenic viewpoints, climbing more than 3,000 feet to Wheeler Peak Campground. Vehicles longer than 24 feet are not allowed beyond Upper Lehman Creek Campground due to its steep (8% grade) and winding nature. Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive is open year-round to Upper Lehman Creek Campground, but usually closes beyond this point from November to May, depending on weather conditions. Baker Creek Road also intersects Lehman Caves Road. It's an unpaved but well-maintained road providing access to Baker Creek Campground and Grey Cliffs Group Camping Area, as well as some of the park's better backcountry hiking trails. Baker Creek Road is typically closed from December through April. Further south, running parallel to Lehman Caves Road, is the unpaved Snake Creek Road, which not surprisingly follows Snake Creek into the park. A high-clearance 4WD vehicle is recommended, but not required. A handful of primitive campsites are available along the way. Strawberry and Lexington Arch Roads should only be accessed by high-clearance 4WD vehicles. Snake Creek, Strawberry, and Lexington Arch Roads are open year -round, but may be impassable due to snow or mud.\nBest of Great Basin\n\nActivity: Hike to Wheeler Peak\n\nRunner-up: Grand Palace Tour\nHiking (GRBA)\n\nStella Lake \u00a9 Chris Wonderly\/NPS\n\nGreat Basin is a relatively small area, and all the maintained trails beginning along Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive can be completed in a day. The most interesting hike is Bristlecone Trail, a 2.8-mile (roundtrip) waltz through a forest of bristlecone pine trees, many of which were growing long before the Phoenician Alphabet was created in 2,000 BC. From the end of the Bristlecone Trail you can continue 1.8 miles (roundtrip) on Glacier Trail to the base of Nevada's only glacier.\n\nFor views of the Great Basin, there's no better vantage point than the summit of Wheeler Peak. The 8.2-mile trail begins at Summit Parking Area on Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive and steadily climbs more than 3,000 feet across rocky mountain slopes. Be sure to pack water and a jacket for this heart-pounding romp. The climb up will make you sweat, but it cools down quickly once you're soaking in the views from the completely exposed mountaintop.\n\nAnother visitor favorite is Alpine Lakes Loop. In just 2.7 miles of fairly easy hiking you visit two beautiful alpine lakes. Stella Lake is larger and more enchanting, but Teresa Lake is also nice and particularly pretty when snowpack remains on the surrounding slopes.\n\nWheeler Peak Scenic Drive\n\nTrail Name | Trailhead (# on map) | Length (Roundtrip distances) | Notes\n\nMountain View | Rhodes Cabin (1) | 0.3 mile | Trail guide available at Lehman Caves Visitor Center\n\nLehman Creek | Upper Lehman Creek Camp (2) | 6.8 miles | Connects Upper Lehman Creek and Wheeler Peak Campgrounds\n\nOsceola Ditch | Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive (3) | 9.6 miles | Trail follows an old ditch built by gold miners\n\nWheeler Peak (favorite) | Summit Trail Parking Area (4) | 8.2 miles | Strenuous hike with 3,000+ feet elevation gain\n\nAlpine Lakes Loop (favorite) | Bristlecone Parking Area (4) | 2.7 miles | Views of Wheeler Peak and scenic Stella and Teresa Lakes\n\nBristlecone | Bristlecone Parking Area (4) | 2.8 miles | Interpretive trail among some of the world's oldest trees\n\nGlacier & Bristlecone | Bristlecone Parking Area (4) | 4.6 miles | Continues from Bristlecone Trail to Nevada's only glacier\n\nSky Islands Forest | Bristlecone Parking Area (4) | 0.4 mile | Paved and accessible interpretive trail of alpine forest\n\nOther Areas\n\nPole Canyon | Grey Cliffs Campground (5) | 4.0 miles | Easy hike along an old road \u2022 Can connect to Timber Creek Tr\n\nBaker Lake | Baker Creek Road (6) | 12.0 miles | Leads to a beautiful alpine lake\n\nBaker Creek Loop | Baker Creek Road (6) | 3.1 miles | Take connector trail to South Fork Baker Creek Trail\n\nSouth Fork Baker Creek\/Johnson Lake | Baker Creek Road (6) | 11.2 miles | Cuts back before reaching Johnson Lake \u2022 Passes historic Johnson Lake Mine structures\n\nBaker\/Johnson Lakes Loop | Baker Creek Road (6) | 13.1 miles | Combines Baker Lake and Johnson Lake Trails\n\nJohnson Lake | Snake Creek Road (7) | 7.4 miles | Shorter and steeper route to Johnson Lake\n\nLexington Arch | Outside park, south of Baker (8) | 3.4 miles | Day-use area \u2022 Trail leads to a six-story limestone arch\nBackpacking (GRBA)\n\nThere are more than 60 miles of hiking trails at Great Basin. Backpackers are not allowed to camp within 0.25-mile of developed areas (roads, buildings, campgrounds, etc.), within the Wheeler Peak or Lexington Arch Day Use Areas, or in bristlecone pine groves. You must set up camp a minimum of 100 feet away from all sources of water and at least 500 feet away from any obvious archeological site. Camping in the backcountry does not require a permit, but it is recommended you sign in at trailhead registers.\n\nThe park's best backpacking route is to take Baker Lake Trail, which begins at the end of Baker Creek Road, all the way to Baker Lake. From here you can follow an unmaintained trail to Johnson Lake and return to Baker Road via Timber Creek Trail or South Fork Baker Creek Trail. The entire loop is slightly more than 13 miles. Backpackers should always carry a good topographical map. For information on trail conditions and routes stop in at a visitor center or call (775) 234-7331 ext. 212.\nCave Tours (GRBA)\n\nParachute Shield \u00a9 Bowersox\/NPS\n\nEver since Absalom Lehman discovered the cave in the 1880s, tourists have marveled at its intricate and fragile formations. The National Park Service continues the tradition by offering daily tours. The cave is only 0.25-mile deep, which makes for tours heavy on information and light on walking. Lodge Room Tour ($8, 60 minutes, 20 people) covers the first 0.2 miles of cave including Gothic Palace, Music Room, and Lodge Room. Grand Palace Tour ($10, 90 minutes, 20 people) travels 0.6 miles while visiting all the rooms of the Lodge Room Tour as well as Inscription Room and the Grand Palace where you will be able to see the famous \"Parachute Shield\" formation. Tickets are required and can be purchased in advance by calling (775) 234-7331 ext. 242 between 9am and 4pm, Monday through Friday. Tickets can also be purchased at Lehman Caves Visitor Center upon arrival. Advance tickets must be picked up at Lehman Caves Visitor Center at least 15 minutes before the tour or they will go on sale to walk-in customers. The cave is a constant 50\u00b0F with 90% humidity, so dress appropriately.\nOther Activities (GRBA)\n\nWheeler Peak at night \u00a9 Night Sky Team\/NPS\n\nStargazing: There are few places in the continental United States better for stargazing than Great Basin National Park. Clear skies, high altitude, and 200 miles of distance from cities' light and noise provide the perfect atmosphere for gazing into the heavens. Park Rangers hold astronomy programs every Wednesday and Saturday evening between Memorial Day and Labor Day. The park also holds an annual Astronomy Festival in late July. Additionally, \"star parties\" are held on various holidays. Telescopes are provided by the park to be shared among guests. If you'd like to view the stars on your own, Wheeler Peak Parking Area is a great place to camp out with a blanket and a set of binoculars.\n\nBiking: Cyclists are only allowed on park roads. The ride up to Wheeler Peak is a nice short workout with a fun descent back down to Lehman Caves Visitor Center or Baker.\n\nSpelunking: Lehman Caves is only one of more than 40 caves in the park, eight of which are accessible with a cave permit. Spelunkers must show adequate horizontal and vertical caving techniques to be issued a permit. The park website (www.nps.gov\/grba\/planyourvisit\/caving.htm) has information on caves, closures, permit procurement.\n\nFishing is allowed in all creeks and lakes. A Nevada state fishing license is required.\n\nHorseback Riding: Horses are allowed in the backcountry, but there are no nearby outfitters offering trail rides. You will have to provide your own horse(s) and follow park regulations regarding horseback riding in the backcountry.\nDid you know? (GRBA)\n\n  * Bristlecone pines live longer (4,000+ years) than any known organism. Their needles alone can live 25 \u2013 40 years.\n\nVisitor Centers (GRBA)\n\nGreat Basin Visitor Center is located outside the park just north of the town of Baker on the west side of NV-487. Here you'll find an information desk, exhibits, and a small theater playing an orientation film. It is open daily, April to October, from 8am to 5:30pm, with summer hours extended to 5:30pm between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Lehman Caves Visitor Center (775.234.7331 ext. 212) is located 5.5 miles from Baker, just inside the park on NV-488\/Lehman Caves Road. You can purchase cave tour tickets, browse exhibits, and view the orientation film here. It also houses a bookstore, cafe, and gift shop. Lehman Caves Visitor Center is open every day of the year, except New Year's Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas Day. Hours of operation are 8am to 5pm.\nFor Kids (GRBA)\n\nChildren who visit Great Basin have the opportunity to become Junior Rangers. To receive an official certificate and badge, your child must attend one of the following programs: Lehman Caves Tour, Campground Evening Program, Night Sky Program, or a Ranger Talk. Children must also complete an age appropriate number of activities in the park's Junior Ranger booklet: three activities for kids 5 and under, five activities for children between the ages of 6 and 9, and seven activities for everyone else. Booklets are available free of charge at either visitor center. Family Adventure Packs are also available at the visitor centers.\nRanger Programs (GRBA)\n\nIn addition to Cave Tours and Stargazing Programs, the park provides evening campfire programs, children's programs, and full-moon hikes between Memorial Day and Labor Day. For a current schedule of events, visit the park website, call the park at (775) 234-7331 ext. 212, or stop in at a visitor center to pick-up a copy of the park's publication, The Bristlecone.\nFlora & Fauna (GRBA)\n\nGreat Basin is home to 73 species of mammals, 18 species of reptiles, 2 species of amphibians, and 8 species of fish. At least 238 species of birds reside in or visit the park, which makes for excellent bird watching. Mammals you're most likely to see include mule deer and squirrels, but fortunate visitors may spot a mountain lion, badger, or coyote. More than 800 species of plants, including 11 species of conifer trees, reside within park boundaries. Bristlecone pine are the elder statesmen of the bunch. At least one known tree, Prometheus, lived to the ripe old age of 4,862. Singleleaf pinyon trees are fruit bearers, with pine nuts that can be gathered and eaten by visitors. You'll find them in areas between 6,000 and 9,000 feet elevation.\nPets (GRBA)\n\nPets are allowed in the park, but must be kept on a leash no more than six feet in length at all times. They are not allowed on trails, in the backcountry, in Lehman Caves, or at evening programs. Basically, pets are allowed wherever you can get with your car: along roads, in campgrounds, and in parking areas.\nAccessibility (GRBA)\n\nBoth of the park's visitor centers are fully accessible to individuals with mobility impairments. Accessible campsites are available at Upper Lehman Creek, Wheeler Peak, and Baker Creek Campgrounds. Island Forest Trail is paved, but may require assistance for the second half, as the grade increases to about 8%. Cave tours are accessible with assistance. Wheelchair users can also enjoy evening programs at Upper Lehman Creek and Wheeler Peak Campgrounds.\nWeather (GRBA)\n\nWith nearly 8,000 feet in elevation difference between Wheeler Peak (13,063 feet) and the valley floor, temperature varies greatly depending on where you are in the park as well as what season it is. Summer average high temperatures at Lehman Caves Visitor Center (6,825 feet) reach the low to mid-80s\u00b0F. Overnight summertime lows average in the mid to high 50s\u00b0F. Between December and February the average highs are in the low 40s\u00b0F and average lows are right around 20\u00b0F. Even if it's 80\u00b0F at Lehman Cave Visitor Center you should bring a jacket if you plan on hiking to Wheeler Peak or touring the cave. The temperature is usually 20 degrees cooler and it's often windy along the mountain's ridgeline. The cave is a constant 50\u00b0F all year. The region is arid, receiving about 20 inches of annual precipitation, but afternoon thunderstorms are common in summer and snow can fall in the high elevations any time of year. The majority of precipitation comes in the form of snow between November and March.\n\nVacation Planner (GRBA)\n\nLehman Caves \u00a9 Frank Kovalchek\n\nIf you only want to catch the main attractions at Great Basin, a single day should suffice. Lehman Caves and the most popular hiking trails\/viewpoints are all located in the same general area. With that said, Great Basin is a relief from bumper-to-bumper traffic and shoulder-to-shoulder hiking experienced at more popular parks of the West. So, you may want to pack a cooler and your tent and spend a few nights under the stars. Nearby dining, grocery stores, lodging, festivals, and attractions are listed in the What's Nearby (link) section.\n\nDay 1: Skip Great Basin Visitor Center (unless you want to see the cross-section of Prometheus, the 4,862 year old tree). Stop at Lehman Caves Visitor Center to pick up or purchase cave tour tickets. Reservations are a good idea, but if your group is relatively small and you aren't traveling on a summer holiday weekend, you should be able to get tickets upon arrival. Plus, tours are offered several times a day during the summer. Fill in the blanks around your cave tour(s) by taking Wheeler Peak Scenic Drive, stopping at pull-outs of your choosing, to Summit Trail Parking Area. Hike the 8.2-mile Wheeler Peak Trail. Allow at least 4 hours for this mountain trek. If it's a beautiful day, bring a lunch and picnic at the peak. Stella Lake is another great location for a picnic. If you aren't interested in Wheeler Peak or are looking for another hike, Alpine Lakes Loop and Bristlecone\/Glacier Trail are excellent. Both trails begin at Bristlecone Parking Area. With an early enough start it is possible to hike Wheeler Peak, Alpine Lakes Loop, and Bristlecone Trail in one day, but you'll be exhausted. Cap the day off with an evening ranger program (check the park newspaper, The Bristlecone) or stargazing from your campsite.\nArches to Great Basin - What's Nearby\n\nDownload the What's Nearby maps here.\n\nDining\n\nArches\/Canyonlands Area\n\nMoab Brewery | (435) 259-6333 | 686 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Burgers: $7+ | www.themoabbrewery.com\n\nMoab Diner | (435) 259-4006 | 189 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Burgers: $6.50+ | www.moabdiner.com\n\nMilt's Stop & Eat (favorite) | (435) 259-7424 | 356 Mill Creek Dr; Moab, UT 84532 | Burgers: $3.50+ | www.miltsstopandeat.com\n\nBar-M Chuckwagon (favorite) | (435) 259-2276 | 7000 N US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | Admission: $28\/Adult | www.barmchuckwagon.com\n\nMiguel's Baja Grill | (435) 259-6546 | 51 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Entr\u00e9e: $12 \u2013 22 | www.miguelsbajagrill.com\n\nSunset Grill (favorite) | (435) 259-7146 | 900 N US-191; Moab, UT 84532\n\nDesert Bistro (favorite) | (435) 259-0756 | 1266 N US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | Entr\u00e9e: $20 \u2013 45 | www.desertbistro.com\n\nLa Hacienda | (435) 259-6319 | 574 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532\n\nParadox Pizza | (435) 259-9999 | 702 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Pizza: $10+ | www.paradoxpizza.com\n\nWake & Bake Cafe | (435) 259-0101 | Ste 6, 59 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.wakeandbakecafe.com\n\nPeace Tree Juice Cafe | (435) 259-8503 | 20 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Breakfast: $8 \u2013 9 | www.peacetreecafe.com\n\nEklecticafe | (435) 259-6896 | 352 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532\n\nLove Muffin Cafe (favorite) | (435) 259-6833 | 139 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.lovemuffincafe.com\n\nK&A Chuckwagon (favorite) | (435) 587-3468 | 496 N Main St; Monticello, UT 84535\n\nWagon Wheel Pizza (favorite) | (435) 587-2766 | 164 S Main St; Monticello, UT 84535\n\nSubway | (435) 587-2757 | 481 N Main St; Monticello, UT 84535\n\nPeace Tree Juice Cafe (favorite) | (435) 587-5063 | 516 N Main St; Monticello, UT 84535\n\nShake Shack | (435) 587-2966 | 380 N Main St; Monticello, UT 84535\n\nChow Hound | (435) 564-3563 | 30 E Main St; Green River, UT 84525\n\nCathy's Pizza & Deli | (435) 564-8122 | 185 W Main St; Green River, UT 84525\n\nRay's Tavern (favorite) | (435) 564-3511 | 25 S Broadway; Green River, UT 84525\n\nGreen River Coffee | (435) 564-3411 | 25 E Main St; Green River, UT 84525\n\nCapitol Reef\/Bryce Canyon Area\n\nRim Rock Restaurant | (435) 425-3388 | 2523 UT-24 E; Torrey, UT 84775 | www.therimrock.net\n\nSlacker's Burger Joint (favorite) | (435) 425-3710 | 165 E Main St; Torrey, UT 84775\n\nChilizz | (435) 425-2600 | 155 E Main St; Torrey, UT 84775\n\nLuna Mesa Oasis | (435) 456-9122 | 2000 E 925 N UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775\n\nSubway | (435) 425-3302 | 675 E UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775\n\nCafe Diablo (favorite) | (435) 425-3070 | 599 W Main St; Torrey, UT 84775 | Entr\u00e9e: $22 \u2013 30 | www.cafediablo.net\n\nLa Cueva (favorite) | (435) 425-2000 | 875 N UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775 | Entr\u00e9e: $9 \u2013 15 | www.cafelacueva.com\n\nCastlerock Coffee & Candy | (435) 425-2100 | 875 E UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775 | www.castlerockcoffee.com\n\nHell's Backbone Grill | (435) 335-7464 | 20 N UT-12; Boulder, UT 84716 | Entr\u00e9e: $17 \u2013 26 | www.hellsbackbonegrill.com\n\nBoulder Mesa Restaurant (favorite) | (435) 335-7447 | 155 E Burr Trail; Boulder, UT 84716\n\nSunglow Family Restaurant | (435) 425-3701 | 91 E Main St; Bicknell, UT 84715\n\nRed Cliffs Restaurant | (435) 425-3797 | 2600 E UT-24; Bicknell, UT 84715\n\nBurr Trail Grill | (435) 335-7503 | UT-12; Boulder, UT 84716 | www.burrtrailgrill.com\n\nBlondie's Eatery | (435) 542-3255 | 300 N UT-95; Hanksville, UT 84734\n\nClarke's Restaurant | (435) 679-8383 | 141 N Main St; Tropic, UT 84776\n\nRubys Cowboy Buffet | (435) 834-8027 | 26 S Main St; Bryce Canyon City, UT 84764\n\nPizza Place | (435) 679-8888 | 21 S Main St; Tropic, UT 84776\n\nSubway | (435) 834-5888 | 139 W UT-12; Bryce, UT 84764\n\nZion & Grand Canyon Area\n\nParallel Eighty Eight (favorite) | (435) 772-3588 | 1515 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84532 | Entr\u00e9e: $16 \u2013 32 | www.paralleleighty-eightrestaurant.com\n\nWhiptail Grill (favorite) | (435) 772-0283 | 445 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84737\n\nSwitchback Grille | (435) 772-3700 | 1149 Zion Park Blvd; Hurricane, UT 84737 | Entr\u00e9e: $14 \u2013 38 | www.switchbacktrading.com\n\nBit & Spur | (435) 772-3498 | 1212 Zion Park Blvd; Hurricane, UT 84737 | Entr\u00e9e: $13 \u2013 25 | www.bitandspur.com\n\nZion Pizza & Noodle Co | (435) 772-3815 | 868 Zion Park Blvd; Hurricane, UT 84737 | www.zionpizzanoodle.com\n\nFlying Monkey (favorite) | 971 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | www.flyingmonkeyzion.com\n\nCafe Oscars (favorite) | (435) 772-3232 | 948 Zion Park Blvd; Hurricane, UT 84737 | www.cafeoscars.com\n\nSpotted Dog | (435) 772-0700 | 428 Zion Landing; Springdale, UT 84767 | www.flanigans.com\n\nCafe Soleil | (435) 772-0505 | 205 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767\n\nTsunami Juice & Java | (435) 772-3818 | 180 Zion Landing; Springdale, UT 84767\n\nMean Bean Coffee House (favorite) | (435) 772-0654 | 932 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767\n\nR P's Stage Stop (favorite) | (928) 638-3115 | 114A AZ-64; Grand Canyon, AZ 86023\n\nWendys and McDonalds are available near the Grand Canyon's South Entrance on AZ-64\n\nRed Raven (favorite) | (928) 635-4980 | 135 W Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | Entr\u00e9e: $15 \u2013 27 | www.redravenrestaurant.com\n\nThe Singing Pig BBQ (favorite) | (928) 635-2904 | 437 W. Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | Sandwich: $8+ | www.thesingingpigroute66.com\n\nOld Smokey's Restaurant | (928) 635-1915 | 624 W Route 66 (near 7th Ave); Williams, AZ 86046 | www.sideeffectsllc.com\n\nPine Country | (928) 635-9718 | 107 N Grand Canyon Blvd; Williams, AZ 86046 | Entr\u00e9e: $9 \u2013 22 | www.pinecountryrestaurant.com\n\nDara Thai Cafe (favorite) | (623) 551-6676 | 3655 W Anthem Way, # B127; Anthem, AZ 85086\n\nRolando's Mexican & Seafood (favorite) | (928) 635-1990 | 401 W Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046\n\nBrown Bag Sandwich Shoppe | (928) 635-5204 | 112 S 1st St; Williams, AZ 86046 | Sandwiches: $7+ | www.bbsandwichshop.com\n\nGrand Canyon Coffee & Cafe (favorite) | (928) 635-4907 | 125 W Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | www.grandcanyoncoffeeandcafe.com\n\nJ D's Espresso | (928) 635-2770 | 219 E Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | www.jdsespresso.com\n\nGreat Basin Area\n\nSilver State Restaurant | (775) 289-8866 | 1204 Aultman St; Ely, Nevada 89301\n\nTwin Wok Restaurant | (775) 289-3699 | 700 Park Ave; Ely, NV 89301\n\nEvah's | (775) 289-4271 | 701 Avenue I; Ely, NV 89301\n\nMargarita's (favorite) | (775) 289-6296 | 945 N Mcgill Hwy; Ely, NV 89301 | Entr\u00e9e: $10+ | www.margaritasely.com\n\nLa Fiesta | (775) 289-4114 | 700 Avenue H; Ely, NV 89301\n\nRed Apple (favorite) | (775) 289-8585 | 2160 Aultman St; Ely, NV 89301\n\nMany chain restaurants can be found in Moab, Richfield, Kanab, and Hurricane, UT; Page, and Williams, AZ; Ely, NV, and along I-70 and I-15.\n\nGrocery Stores\n\nArches\/Canyonlands Area\n\nCity Market Food | (435) 259-5182 | 425 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532\n\nVillage Market | (435) 259-3111 | 702 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532\n\nDave's Corner Market | (435) 259-6999 | 401 Mill Creek Dr; Moab, UT 84532\n\nWalmart | (435) 637-6974 | UT-125; Green River, UT 84501\n\nCapitol Reef\/Bryce Canyon Area\n\nChuck Wagon General Store | (435) 425-3288 | 12 W Main St; Torrey, UT 84775\n\nClarke's Country Market | (435) 679-8633 | 141 North Main St; Tropic, UT 84776\n\nRuby's General Store | (435) 834-5341 | 26 S Main St; Bryce Canyon City, UT 84764\n\nZion & Grand Canyon Area\n\nSol Foods | (435) 772-0277 | 95 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84737\n\nWalmart Supercenter | (435) 635-6945 | 180 N 3400 W; Hurricane, UT 84737\n\nFarmers Market | (435) 635-0774 | 495 N State St; La Verkin, UT 84745\n\nSimpson's Market | (928) 679-2281 | US-89 & AZ-64; Cameron, AZ 86020\n\nGreat Basin Area\n\nRidley's Family Markets | (775) 289-3444 | 1689 Great Basin Blvd; Ely, NV 89301\n\nLodging\n\nArches\/Canyonlands Area\n\nRed Stone Inn | (435) 259-3500 | 535 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $70+\/night | www.moabredstone.com\n\nBig Horn Lodge | (435) 259-6171 | 550 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $80+ | www.moabbighorn.com\n\nRiver Canyon Lodge | (435) 259-8838 | 71 W 200 N; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $90+ | www.rivercanyonlodge.com\n\nApache Motel | (435) 259-5727 | 166 S 4th East St; Moab, UT 84532\n\nGonzo Inn (favorite) | (435) 259-2515 | 100 W 200 S; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $129+ | www.gonzoinn.com\n\nAarchway Inn (favorite) | (435) 259-2599 | 1551 US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $130+ | www.aarchwayinn.com\n\nBowen Motel | (435) 259-7132 | 169 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $90+ | www.bowenmotel.com\n\nKokopelli Lodge (favorite) | (435) 259-7615 | 72 S 100 E; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $70+ | www.kokopellilodge.com\n\nAdventure Inn (favorite) | (435) 259-6122 | 512 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.adventureinnmoab.com\n\nRiverside Inn (favorite) | (435) 259-8848 | 988 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532\n\nInca Inn | (435) 259-7261 | 570 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $60+ | www.incainn.com\n\nRed Cliffs Lodge (favorite) | (435) 259-2002 | Mile Post 14, UT-128; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $120+ | www.redcliffslodge.com\n\nSorrel River Ranch | (435) 259-4642 | UT-128; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $399+ | www.sorrelriver.com\n\nDesert Hills B&B (favorite) | (435) 259-3568 | 1989 Desert Hills Dr; Moab, UT 84532 | www.deserthillsbnb.com\n\nMayor's House B&B | (435) 259-3019 | 505 Rosetree Ln; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $100+ | www.mayorshouse.com\n\nCali-Cochitta B&B | (435) 259-4961 | 110 S 2nd East St; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $95+ | www.moabdreaminn.com\n\nCastle Valley Inn B&B (favorite) | (435) 259-6012 | 424 E Amber Ln; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $105+ | www.castlevalleyinn.com\n\nSunflower Hill B&B | (435) 259-2974 | 185 N 300 E; Moab, UT 84532 | Rates: $165+ | www.sunflowerhill.com\n\nLazy Lizard Hostel | (435) 259-6057 | 1213 S US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | Dorm: $9 | www.lazylizardhostel.com\n\nArchview Resort | (435) 259-7854 | US-191 and UT-313; Moab, UT 84532 | RV Sites: $35+ | www.archviewresort.com\n\nCanyonlands Campground | (435) 259-6848 | 555 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | RV Sites: $35+ | www.canyonlandsrv.com\n\nKane Springs Campground | (435) 259-8844 | 1705 Kane Creek Blvd; Moab, UT | RV Sites: $27.50+ | www.kanesprings.com\n\nRiverside Oasis Campground | (435) 259-3424 | 1871 N US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | RV Sites: $35+ | www.riversideoasis.com\n\nKOA | (435) 259-6682 | 3225 US-191; Moab, Utah 84532\n\nThere are a dozen small BLM campgrounds located along Hwy 128, three each along Hwy 279, Hwy 313, and Kane Creek Road, one at Ken's Lake, another on Sand Flats Road, and two more on Canyon Rims Recreation Area Road.\n\nInn at the Canyons (favorite) | (435) 587-2458 | 533 N Main St; Monticello, UT 84535 | Rates: $75+ | www.monticellocanyonlandsinn.com\n\nMonticello Inn (favorite) | (435) 587-2274 | 164 E Central St; Monticello, UT 84535 | Rates: $71+ | www.themonticelloinn.org\n\nRiver Terrace (favorite) | (435) 564-3401 | 1740 E Main St; Green River, UT 84525 | Rates: $100+ | www.river-terrace.com\n\nRunnin' Iron Inn | (435) 220-1050 | 6780 N US-191; Monticello, UT 84535 | Rates: $59 | www.canyonlandsbestkeptsecret.com\n\nGrist Mill Inn B&B | (435) 587-2597 | 64 S 300 E; Monticello, UT 84535 | Rates: $89+ | www.oldgristmillinn.com\n\nRobbers Roost Motel | (435) 564-3452 | 325 W Main St; Green River, UT 84525 | Rates: $40+ | www.rrmotel.com\n\nShady Acres Campground | (435) 564-8290 | 350 E Main; Green River, UT 84525 | www.shadyacresrv.com\n\nAOK RV Park | (435) 564-8372 | 610 S Green River Blvd; Green River, UT 84525\n\nGreen River KOA | (435) 564-8195 | 235 S 1780 E; Green River, UT 84525\n\nCapitol Reef\/Bryce Canyon Area\n\nAustin's Chuckwagon (favorite) | (435) 425-3344 | 12 W Main St; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $75+ | www.austinschuckwagonmotel.com\n\nSandstone Inn (favorite) | (435) 425-3775 | 955 E UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $68+ | www.sandstonecapitolreef.com\n\nBest Western Capitol Reef Resort (favorite) | (435) 425-3761 | 2600 E UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775\n\nRed Sands Hotel (favorite) | (435) 425-3688 | 670 E UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $75+ | www.redsandshotel.com\n\nBoulder View Inn | (435) 425-3800 | 385 W Main St; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $40 \u2013 75 | www.boulderviewinn.com\n\nCowboy Homestead | (435) 425-3414 | 2280 S UT-12; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $69 \u2013 79 | www.cowboyhomesteadcabins.com\n\nTorrey School House B&B (favorite) | (435) 633-4643 | 150 N Center Street; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $110+ | www.torreyschoolhouse.com\n\nSky Ridge B&B | (435) 425-3222 | 950 UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $109+ | www.skyridgeinn.com\n\nThousand Lakes RV Park | (435) 425-3500 | 1110 W UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775 | Rates: $27.50+ | www.thousandlakesrvpark.com\n\nBest Western Grand Hotel (favorite) | (435) 834-5700 | 30 N 100 E; Bryce Canyon City, UT 84764 | $135+ | www.bestwesternbrycecanyongrandhotel.com\n\nBest Western Rubys Inn | (435) 834-5341 | 26 S Main St; Bryce Canyon City, UT 84764 | Rates: $80+ | www.rubysinn.com\n\nBryce Canyon Pines | (800) 892-7923 | Milepost 10, UT-12; Bryce, UT 84764 | Rates: $65+ | www.brycecanyonmotel.com\n\nStone Canyon Inn (favorite) | (435) 679-8611 | 1220 W 50 S; Tropic, UT 84776 | Rates: $145+ | www.stonecanyoninn.com\n\nBryce Canyon Inn (favorite) | (435) 679-8502 | 21 N Main St; Tropic, UT 84776 | Rates: $70+ | www.brycecanyoninn.com\n\nBryce Country Cabins | (435) 679-8643 | 320 N Main St; Tropic, UT 84776 | Rates: $85+ | www.brycecountrycabins.com\n\nBryce Trails B&B (favorite) | (435) 679-8700 | 1001 W Bryce Way; Tropic, UT 84776 | Rates: $135+ | www.brycetrails.com\n\nBuffalo Sage B&B | (435) 679-8443 | 980 N UT-12; Tropic, UT 84776 | www.buffalosage.com\n\nRiverside Resort & RV Park | (800) 824-5651 | 594 N US-89; Hatch, UT 84735 | www.riversideresort-utah.com\n\nGrand Staircase Inn | (435) 679-8400 | 105 N Kodachrome Dr; Cannonville, UT 84718 | Rates: $49+ | www.grandstaircaseinn.com\n\nBryce Valley KOA | (435) 679-8988 | 215 Red Rock Dr; Cannonville, UT 84718\n\nZion & Grand Canyon Area\n\nDriftwood Lodge | (435) 772-3262 | 1515 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $79+ | www.driftwoodlodge.net\n\nPioneer Lodge | (435) 772-3233 | 838 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $149+ | www.pioneerlodge.com\n\nBest Western Zion Park Inn (favorite) | (435) 772-3200 | 1215 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767\n\nDesert Pearl Inn (favorite) | (435) 772-8888 | 707 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $138+ | www.desertpearl.com\n\nCliffrose Lodge & Gardens (favorite) | (435) 772-3234 | 281 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $169+ | www.cliffroselodge.com\n\nBumbleberry Inn | (435) 772-3224 | 97 Bumbleberry Ln; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $58+ | www.bumbleberry-inn.com\n\nCable Mountain Lodge (favorite) | (435) 772-3366 | 145 Zion Park Blvd; Hurricane, UT 84737\n\nCanyon Ranch Motel (favorite) | (435) 772-3357 | 668 Zion Park Blvd; Hurricane, UT 84737 | Rates: $99+ | www.canyonranchmotel.com\n\nMajestic View Lodge | (435) 772-0665 | 2400 Zion Park Blvd; Hurricane, UT 84737 | Rates: $79+ | www.majesticviewlodge.com\n\nZion Ponderosa Ranch Resort | (435) 648-2700 | Twin Knolls Rd; Mt Carmel, Utah, UT 84755 | Rates: $64+ | www.zionponderosa.com\n\nRed Rock Inn | (435) 772-3139 | 998 Zion Landing; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $122+ | www.redrockinn.com\n\nZion Canyon B&B (favorite) | (435) 772-9466 | 101 Kokopelli Cir; Springdale, Utah 84767 | Rates: $135+ | www.zioncanyonbandb.com\n\nCanyon Vista Lodge, B&B | (435) 772-3801 | 2175 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $139+ | www.canyonvistabandb.com\n\nHarvest House B&B | (435) 772-3880 | 29 Canyon View Dr; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $120+ | www.harvesthouse.net\n\nUnder the Eaves | (435) 772-3457 | 980 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $95+ | www.undertheeaves.com\n\nNovel House Inn | (800) 711-8400 | 73 Paradise Rd; Springdale, UT 84767 | www.novelhouse.com\n\nFlanigan's Villas | (435) 632-0798 | 425 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rates: $259-359 | www.flanigansvillas.com\n\nAmber Inn B&B | (435) 772-0289 | 244 W Main St; Rockville, UT 84763 | Rates: $100+ | www.amber-inn.com\n\nDesert Thistle | (435) 772-0251 | 37 W Main St; Rockville, UT 84763 | Rates: $110+ | www.thedesertthistle.com\n\nBest Western Squire Inn | (800) 622-6966 | 74 AZ-64; Grand Canyon, AZ 86023\n\nCanyon Plaza Resort | (928) 638-2673 | 116 AZ-64; Grand Canyon, AZ 86023 | Rates: $100+ | www.grandcanyonplaza.com\n\nGrand Canyon Hotel (favorite) | (928) 635-1419 | 145 W Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $40+ | www.thegrandcanyonhotel.com\n\nRed Feather Lodge | (928) 638-2414 | 106 AZ-64; Grand Canyon, AZ 86023 | Rates: $80+ | www.redfeatherlodge.com\n\nHoliday Inn Express | (928) 638-3000 | AZ-64; Grand Canyon, AZ 86023\n\nThe Lodge on Route 66 (favorite) | (928) 635-4534 | 200 E Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $90+ | www.thelodgeonroute66.com\n\nCanyon Country Inn | (928) 635-2349 | 442 W Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $66+ | www.thecanyoncountryinn.com\n\nThe Red Garter Inn (favorite) | (800) 328-1484 | 137 W Railroad Ave; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $120+ | www.redgarter.com\n\nDumplin Patch B&B | (928) 635-1924 | 625 E Linger Ln; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $155+ | www.dumplinpatch.net\n\nCanyon Motel & RV Park | (800) 482-3955 | 1900 E Rodeo Rd Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $70+ | www.thecanyonmotel.com\n\nKaibab Lodge | (928) 638-2389 | 18 miles north of North Rim | Rates: $95+ | www.kaibablodge.com\n\nJacob Lake Inn | (928) 643-7232 | 45 miles north of North Rim, Jacob Lake, AZ | Rates: $89+ | www.jacoblake.com\n\nLodging and dining are extremely limited at the North Rim. See page 450 for in-park accommodations.\n\nGreat Basin Area\n\nHotel Nevada (favorite) | (775) 289-6665 | 501 Aultman St; Ely, NV 89301 | Rates: $35 \u2013 125 | www.hotelnevada.com\n\nProspector Hotel & Casino | (775) 289-8900 | 1501 Aultman St; Ely, NV 89301 | Rates: $79+ | www.prospectorhotelandcasino.com\n\nBristlecone Motel | (800) 497-7404 | 700 Avenue I; Ely, NV 89301 | Rates: $60+ | www.bristleconemotelelynv.com\n\nJail House Motel & Casino | (775) 289-3033 | 211 5th St; Ely, NV 89301-1581 | www.jailhousecasino.com\n\nFour Sevens Motel | (775) 289-4747 | 500 High St; Ely, NV 89301\n\nChain hotels can be found in Moab, Richfield, Kanab, and Hurricane, UT; Page, and Williams, AZ; Ely, NV, and along I-70 and I-15.\n\nFestivals\n\nSundance Film Festival | January | Park City, Salt Lake City, Ogden, UT | www.sundance.org\n\nWinter Birds Festival | January | St. George, UT | www.sgcity.org\/birdfestival\n\nWestern Stars Cowboy Poetry | February | Moab | www.moabwesternstars.com\n\nBryce Canyon Winter Festival | February | Bryce Canyon City | (800) 468-8660\n\nSkinny Tire Festival | March | Moab | www.skinnytireevents.com\n\nDixie-Escalante Kite Festival | April | Sun River Golf Course | www.dixiekitefestival.com\n\nMoab Arts Festival | May | Moab | www.moabartsfestival.org\n\nCanyonlands PRCA Rodeo | June | Moab | www.canyonlandsrodeo.com\n\nUtah Shakespeare Festival | June | Cedar City, UT | www.bard.org\n\nGrand Canyon Music Festival | August | South Rim | www.grandcanyonmusicfest.org\n\nMoab Music Festival | September | Moab | www.moabmusicfest.org\n\nEverett Ruess Days | September | Escalante, UT | www.everettruessdays.org\n\nWorld of Speed | September | Bonneville Salt Flats, UT | www.saltflats.com\n\nPumpkin Chuckin' Festival | October | Moab | www.youthgardenproject.org\n\nRed Rock Film Festival | November | St. George, UT | www.daysofcamelot.com\n\nMoab Folk Festival | November | Moab | www.moabfolkfestival.com\n\nDickens' Christmas Festival | December | St. George | www.dickenschristmasfestival.com\n\nAttractions\n\nArches\/Canyonlands Area\n\nCastle Valley Ridge Trail (favorite) | Advanced, 19 mile MTB loop, trailhead located on FR-110 (up Nuck Woodward Canyon from UT-31) | Manti-La Sal National Forest\n\nCorona Arch (favorite) | 3 miles (roundtrip) | Trailhead is located on UT-279, 10 miles west of the UT-279\/US-191 junction\n\nNegro Bill Canyon | 4 miles (roundtrip) | Trailhead is located on UT-128, 3 miles east of UT-128\/US-191 junction | Creek crossing is required (wear appropriate footwear)\n\nFisher Towers | 4.4 miles (roundtrip) | Trailhead located off a 2.2 mile dirt road accessed via UT-128, 21 miles east of the UT-128\/US-191 junction\n\nDead Horse Point State Park (favorite) | (435) 259-2614 | US-313; Moab, UT 84532 | Day-use: $10\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nSkydive Moab | (435) 259-5867 | US-191 N; Moab, UT 84532 | www.skydivemoab.com\n\nChile Pepper Bike Shop (favorite) | Rentals | (435) 259-4688 | 702 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.chilebikes.com\n\nRim Cyclery | Rentals | (435) 259-5333 | 94 W 100 N; Moab, UT 84532 | www.rimcyclery.com\n\nMoab Cyclery | Tours (Road & MTB) | (800) 559-1978 | 391 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.moabcyclery.com\n\nWestern Spirit Cycling (favorite) | Tours (Road & MTB) | (435) 259-8732 | 478 Mill Creek Dr; Moab, UT 84532 | www.westernspirit.com\n\nSolfun Mountain Bike Tours (favorite) | (435) 259-9861 | PO Box 1269; Moab, UT 84532 | Tours: $100+ | www.solfun.com\n\nRim Mountain Bike Tours | (435) 259-5223 | 1233 S US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | Tours ($85+) | www.rimtours.com\n\nMoab Adventure Center | Climbing, rafting, hot air ballooning, and more | (435) 259-7019 | 225 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.moabadventurecenter.com\n\nMoab Desert Adventures | Guided rock climbing and canyoneering trips | (435) 260-2404 | 415 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.moabdesertadventures.com\n\nTag-A-Long Expeditions | Land & Water Adventures | (435) 259-8946 | 452 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.tagalong.com\n\nCoyote Land Tours | (435) 259-6649 | 397 N Main St, # 2; Moab, UT 84532 | Tours: $59\/Adult | www.coyotelandtours.com\n\nHigh Point Hummer & ATV | Rentals & Tours | (435) 259-2972 | 281 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.highpointhummer.com\n\nFarabee Jeep Rentals | (435) 259-7494 | 1125 S US-191; Moab, UT | Rates: $150+\/day | www.farabeesjeeprentals.com\n\nCanyonlands By Night | Land, Air, and Water Tours | (435) 259-5261 | 1861 US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | www.canyonlandsbynight.com\n\nNavtec Expeditions | River & Jeep Tours | (435) 259-7983 | 321 N Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.navtec.com\n\nRed River Adventures | Multi-sport Tours | (877) 259-4046 | 1140 S Main St; Moab, UT 84532 | www.redriveradventures.com\n\nTex's Riverways | Rentals & Shuttles | (435) 259-5101 | 691 N 500 W; Moab, UT 84532 | www.texsriverways.com\n\nMuseum of Moab | (435) 259-7985 | 118 E Center St; Moab, UT 84532 | Suggested Donation: $5 | www.moabmuseum.org\n\nCastle Creek Winery | (435) 259-3332 | Milepost 14, UT-128; Moab, UT 84532 | www.castlecreekwinery.com\n\nSlickrock Cinemas 3 | (435) 259-4441 | 580 Kane Creek Blvd; Moab, UT 84532\n\nGravel Pit Lanes | (435) 259-4748 | 1078 Mill Creek Dr; Moab, UT 84532\n\nHole N' the Rock | (435) 686-2250 | 11037 S US-191; Moab, UT 84532 | Admission: $5\/Adult | www.theholeintherock.com\n\nJohn Wesley Powell River History Museum | 1765 E Main; Green River, UT | (435) 564-3427 | Admission: $6\/Adult | www.johnwesleypowell.com\n\nGreen River State Park | (435) 564-3633 | 450 Green River Blvd; Green River, UT 84525 | Day-use: $6\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nColorado River & Trail Exp. | (435) 564-8170 | 1117 E 1000 N; Green River, UT 84525 | Rafting: $74+ | www.crateinc.com\n\nGoblin Valley State Park (favorite) | (435) 275-4584 | Goblin Valley Rd; Green River, UT 84525 | Day-use: $7\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nCapitol Reef\/Bryce Canyon Area\n\nHondoo Rivers & Trails | Horseback & Vehicle Tours | (435) 425-3519 | 90 E Main St; Torrey, UT 84775 | www.hondoo.com\n\nBackcountry Outfitters | Multi-sport Adventures | (866) 747-3972 | 677 E UT-24; Torrey, UT 84775 | www.ridethereef.com\n\nAnasazi State Park | (435) 335-7308 | 460 N UT-12; Boulder, UT 84716 | Fee: $5\/Person | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nWayne Theater | (435) 425-3123 | 11 E Main St; Bicknell, UT 84715\n\nGrand Staircase Escalante National Monument (favorite) | (435) 679-8980 | 10 W Center St; Tropic, UT 84776 | www.ut.blm.gov\/monument\n\nEscalante Canyon Outfitters (favorite) | Multi-day Hiking Tours | (888) 326-4453 | PO Box 1330; Boulder, UT 84716 | www.ecohike.com\n\nUtah Canyons | Hiking & Shuttle Service | (435) 826-4967 | 325 W Main St; Escalante, UT 84726 | www.utahcanyons.com\n\nKodachrome Basin State Park (favorite) | (435) 679-8562 | PO Box 180069; Cannonville, UT 84718 | Day-use: $6\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nEscalante Petrified Forest | (435) 826-4466 | 710 N Reservoir; Escalante, UT 84726 | Day-use: $6\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nBryce Canyon ATV Adventures | (435) 834-5200 | 139 E UT-12; Bryce Canyon City, UT 84764 | Rides: $35+ | www.brycecanyonatvadventures.com\n\nMoqui Cave | (435) 644-8525 | Admission: $10\/Adult | 4518 N US-89; Kanab, UT\n\nFrontier Movie Town | (435) 644-5337 | 297 W Center St; Kanab, UT 84741 | www.frontiermovietown.com\n\nCedar Breaks National Monument | (435) 586-0787 | 2390 W UT-56, Suite 11; Cedar City, UT 84720 | Entrance Fee: $4\/Person | www.nps.gov\/cebr\n\nZion & Grand Canyon Area\n\nZion Adventure Co. (favorite) | Tons of tours, shuttle service for Zion Narrows, gear rental, courses, and tubing | (435) 772-1001 | 36 Lion Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Narrows Tour: $150+ | www.zionadventures.com\n\nMild To Wild Rhino Tours | (435) 216-8298 | 839 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84737 | www.mildtowildrhinotours.com\n\nZion Rock & Mountain Guides | Shuttle Service to Zion Narrows Trailhead (Chamberlain Ranch), Tours, & Rental | (435) 772-3303 | 1458 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84737 | www.zionrockguides.com\n\nZion Cycles | (435) 772-0400 | 868 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | Rentals ($15+\/hr) & Tours | www.zioncycles.com\n\nSouthern Utah Adventure Center | Rentals (boat, jeep, ATV, etc.) and Tours | (435) 635-0907 | 138 W State St; Hurricane, UT 84737 | www.southernutahadventurecenter.com\n\nPioneer Corner Museum | (435) 635-7153 | 95 S Main St; Hurricane, UT 84737\n\nZion Canyon Theatre | (435) 772-2400 | 145 Zion Park Blvd; Springdale, UT 84767 | www.zioncanyontheatre.com\n\nThe Wave (favorite) | Coyote Buttes North | To prevent overuse, only 20 hikers are allowed to hike here each day. All permits ($7) must be purchased in advance. Ten permits can be obtained via an online lottery. Ten walk-in permits are available 24 hours in advance via lottery at Paria Contact Station (Kanab Field Office in winter). Successful applicants will be given detailed instructions & maps to reach the Wave. Additional information on the permit process is available at the following web address: | www.blm.gov\/az\/st\/en\/arolrsmain\/paria\/coyote_buttes\/permits.html\n\nWire Pass (favorite) | Coyote Buttes North | Don't forget to take a stroll down Wire Pass (1.7 miles, one-way) when visiting the Wave. It's the most scenic entry point to Buckskin Gulch. Wire Pass Trailhead is located 8.3 miles down House Rock Valley Road (washboard, dirt, inaccessible after rain). House Rock Valley Road is accessed from US-89 (between mile markers 25 and 26). A permit is required ($6).\n\nBuckskin Gulch (favorite) | One of the longest (13+ miles, one-way) and deepest slot canyons in the world is also one of the best hiking trails in the United States. Wire Pass is the most popular (and beautiful) access point. Buckskin Gulch continues into Paria Canyon. A permit is required ($6).\n\nParia Canyon | Paria Canyon can be accessed via Buckskin Gulch or from White House Trailhead (near Paria Contact Station). The trail follows the canyon and Paria River to Lee's Ferry Trailhead at the Colorado River just southwest of Page, AZ and Lake Powell. A permit is required ($6).\n\nThese hikes are fantastic, but not without danger. Using a shuttle or two cars is a good idea (if not necessary). Pack plenty of water. Wear water shoes. Check the weather forecast (flash floods are a significant problem\u2014in 2010 the area experienced multiple floods that removed high water campsites, added obstructions, and changed the river bed). Most importantly talk to a ranger about trail conditions when you obtain your permit ($6).\n\nDay hike permits for Buckskin Gulch, Paria Canyon, and Wire Pass can be purchased at self-pay stations at each trailhead.\n\nKanab Field Office | (435) 644-4600 | 318 N 100 E; Kanab, UT 84741 | www.blm.gov\/ut\/st\/en\/fo\/kanab.html\n\nParia Contact Station | (435) 644-4628 | Located on US-89, about half-way between Kanab, UT and Page, AZ\n\nCoral Pink Sand Dunes | (435) 648-2800 | Accessed via US-89 north of Kanab, UT | Day-use: $6\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nDinosaur Discovery Site (favorite) | (435) 574-3466 | 2180 E Riverside Dr; St. George, UT 84790 | Admission: $6\/Adult | www.utahdinosaurs.com\n\nSt. George Temple | (435) 673-3533 | 250 E 400 S; St. George, UT 84770\n\nTuacahn Ampitheatre | (435) 652-3200 | 1100 Tuacahn; Ivins, UT 84738 | Tickets: $17.50+ | www.tuacahn.org\n\nSnow Canyon State Park | (435) 628-2255 | 1002 Snow Canyon Dr; Ivins, UT 84738 | Day-use: $6\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nSand Hollow State Park | (435) 680-0715 | 4405 W 3600 S; Hurricane, UT 84737 | Day-use: $10\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nQuail Creek State Park | (435) 879-2378 | 472 N 5300 W; Hurricane, UT 84737 | Day-use: $10\/Vehicle | www.stateparks.utah.gov\n\nCoral Cliffs Cinema 8 | (435) 635-1484 | 835 W State St; Hurricane, UT 84737 | www.coralcliffscinema8.com\n\nVermilion Cliffs National Monument | (435) 688-3200 | Marble Canyon, AZ 86036 | www.blm.gov\n\nAntelope Canyon | The most-visited and most-photographed slot canyon in the American Southwest. A guide is required for both Upper and Lower Antelope Canyon. | www.navajonationparks.org\n\nOverland Canyon Tours (favorite) | (928) 608-4072 | 48 N Lake Powell Blvd; Page, AZ 86040 | Tours: $32+\/Adult | www.overlandcanyontours.com\n\nAntelope Slot Canyon Tours by Chief Tsosi | (928) 645-5594 | 55 S Lake Powell Blvd; Page, AZ 86040 | www.antelopeslotcanyon.com\n\nNavajo Tours | (928) 698-3384 | PO Box 4586; Page, AZ | Tours: $25 \u2013 40\/Person | www.navajotours.com\n\nGlen Canyon National Recreation Area | (928) 608-6200 | US-89; Page, AZ 86040\n\nLake Powell Vacations | House Boat Rentals | (928) 608-0800 | 620 Industrial Rd; Page, AZ 86040 | www.lakepowellvacations.com\n\nGrand Canyon Field Institute | (928) 638-2485 | 4 Tonto St; Grand Canyon, AZ 86023 | Day & multi-day classes | www.grandcanyon.org\n\nMarvelous Marv's (favorite) | (928) 707-0291 | 200 W Bill Williams Ave; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $85\/Person | www.marvelousmarv.com\n\nPygmy Guides | Overnight & Day Tours | (928) 527-1601 | www.pygmyguides.com\n\nCeiba Adventures | Food\/Shuttle Service & gear rental for river Trips | (928) 527-0171 | 7165 Slayton Ranch Rd; Flagstaff, AZ 86004 | www.ceibaadventures.com\n\nJeep Tours & Safaris | (800) 320-5337 | 106 AZ-64; Tusayan, AZ 86023 | Tours: $64\/Adult | www.grandcanyonjeeptours.com\n\nFountain Outdoor Rec. | Snow Tubing & Skiing | (928) 635-2434 | 2467 County Rd 73; Williams, AZ 86046 | www.elkridgeski.com\n\nBearizona Wildlife Park (favorite) | (928) 635-2289 | 1500 E Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | Rates: $16\/Adult | www.bearizona.com\n\nGrand Canyon Deer Farm | (928) 635-4073 | 6769 E Deer Farm Rd; Williams, AZ 86046-8419 | Rates: $9.95\/Adult | www.deerfarm.com\n\nGrand Canyon Brewery | (928) 635-2168 | 233 W Route 66; Williams, AZ 86046 | www.grandcanyonbrewery.com\n\nImax Theater | (928) 638-2203 | AZ-64 & US-180; Grand Canyon, AZ 86023 | Tickets: $12.50\/Adult | www.explorethecanyon.com\n\nPipe Spring National Monument | (928) 643-7105 | HC 65 Box 5; Fredonia, AZ 86022 | Entrance Fee: $5\/Person | www.nps.gov\/pisp\n\nGreat Basin Area\n\nWard Charcoal Ovens State Hist. Park | PO Box 151761; Ely, NV | (775) 289-1693 | Entrance Fee: $7\/Vehicle | www.parks.nv.gov\n\nNV Northern Railway Museum | (775) 289-2085 | 1100 Avenue A; East Ely, NV 89301 | Museum ($4\/Adult) & Train Excursions ($24+) ww.nevadanorthernrailway.net\n\nSunset Lanes | (775) 289-8811 | 1240 E Aultman St, # B; Ely, NV 89301\n\nLas Vegas Area\n\nHoover Dam | (702) 494-2517 | Located 30 miles southeast of Las Vegas on US-93 | Parking: $7, Visitor Center Admission: $8, Powerplant Tour: $11, Hoover Dam Tour: $30 (Tours include Visitor Center admission) | www.usbr.gov\/lc\/hooverdam\n\nRed Rock Canyon National Conservation Area (favorite) | 1000 Scenic Dr; Las Vegas, NV | (702) 515-5350 | Day-use: $7\/Vehicle | www.blm.gov\n\nDig This (favorite) | (702) 222-4344 | 3012 S Rancho Dr; Las Vegas, NV 89102 | Rates: $400\/3 hr | www.digthisvegas.com\n\nBellagio Hotel | Stop to see the famous fountains | (888) 987-6667 | 3600 Las Vegas Blvd S; Las Vegas, NV 89158 | www.bellagio.com\n\nVegas Indoor Skydiving | (702) 731-4768 | 200 Convention Center Dr; Las Vegas, NV 89109 | Rates: $85 | www.vegasindoorskydiving.com\n\nPinball Hall of Fame | (702) 597-2627 | 1610 E Tropicana Ave; Las Vegas, NV 89119 | Free | www.pinballmuseum.org\n\nThe Atomic Testing Museum | (702) 794-5161 | 755 E Flamingo Rd; Las Vegas, NV 89119 | Admission: $14\/Adult | www.atomictestingmuseum.org\n\nExotics Racing | (702) 405-7223 | 6925 Speedway Blvd, Suite C105; Las Vegas, NV 89115 | Rides starting at $99 | www.exoticsracing.com\nYour Guide to Great Basin National Park, First Edition (electronic)\n\nISBN: 978-1-62128-034-7\n\nPublished by: Stone Road Press\n\nAuthor\/Cartographer\/Photographer\/Designer: Michael Joseph Oswald\n\nEditor: Derek Pankratz\n\nCopyright \u00a9 2012 Stone Road Press, LLC, Whitelaw, Wisconsin. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without written permission of the Publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Stone Road Press; c\/o Michael Oswald; 4927 Stone Road; Whitelaw, WI 54247.\n\nThe entire work, Your Guide to the National Parks is available in paperback and electronic versions. Content that appears in print may not be available electronically.\n\nPaperback ISBN: 978-1-62128-000-2\n\nLibrary of Congress Control Number (LCCN): 2012934277\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\nE-Book ISBN: 978-1-62128-065-1\n\nCorrections\/Contact\n\nThis guide book has been researched and written with the greatest attention to detail in order to provide you with the most accurate and pertinent information. Unfortunately, travel information\u2014especially pricing\u2014is subject to change and inadvertent errors and omissions do occur. Should you encounter a change, error, or omission while using this guide book, we'd like to hear about it. (If you found a wonderful place, trail, or activity not mentioned, we'd love to hear about that too.) Please contact us by sending an e-mail to corrections@stoneroadpress.com. Your contributions will help make future editions better than the last.\n\nYou can contact us online at www.StoneRoadPress.com or follow us on\n\nFacebook: www.facebook.com\/thestoneroadpress\n\nTwitter: www.twitter.com\/stoneroadpress (@stoneroadpress)\n\nFlickr: www.flickr.com\/photos\/stoneroadpress\n\nFAQs\n\nThe world of electronic media is not cut and dry like print. Devices handle files differently. Users have a variety of expectations. These e-books are image- and map-intensive, requiring fairly powerful hardware. All books were tested for use on the Kindle Fire, Nook Tablet, and iPad. You can expect to have the best user experience on one of these devices, or a similar tablet, laptop, or desktop. In the event you have issues please peruse our Frequently Asked Questions (www.stoneroadpress.com\/faq). If you still can't find the solution, do not hesitate to contact us at faq@stoneroadpress.com.\n\nMaps\n\nNumerous map layouts were explored while developing this e-book, but in the end it was decided that the most useful map is a complete one. Unfortunately, due to file size concerns and e-reader hardware limitations, some maps included in this guide book are below our usual high standards of quality (even using zoom features). As a workaround all of this books maps are available in pdf format by clicking the link below each map or visiting www.stoneroadpress.com\/national-parks\/maps.\n\nDisclaimer\n\nYour safety is important to us. If any activity is beyond your ability or threatened by forces outside your control, do not attempt it. The maps in this book, although accurate and to scale, are not intended for hiking. Serious hikers should purchase a detailed, waterproof, topographical map. It is also suggested that you write or call in advance to confirm information when it matters most.\n\nThe primary purpose of this guide book is to enhance our readers' national park experiences, but the author, editor, and publisher cannot be held responsible for any experiences while traveling.\n\nPhoto Credits\n\nFront cover: View from Wheeler Peak Summit \u00a9 Loren Reinhold\/NPS\n","meta":{"redpajama_set_name":"RedPajamaBook"}}