The huge tree on which they floated had been torn out by the roots and the root-ball that came with it was several meters in diameter. Root-balls, Ramon knew, had little cave-like hollows between the buttresses.

Franz had showed him a cave like that the first time he took Ramon out to the woods with him. Those caves were a place of safety, Franz said, and safety was important to Ramon in those days. Ever since, he had sought a cave among the roots of a tree when he needed time to think.

Franz was Ramon's foster father, and the only father Ramon remembered. He had found the boy on a beach just south of Panagra where a friend had loaned him the use of an isolated cabin for a week. Franz made an arrangement with a young lady of doubtful reputation and a taxi had dropped them on the road that passed about a kilometer from the cabin. As they walked to the beach they saw the bow of a fishing boat that had been wrecked and washed ashore.

The girl ran ahead for a closer look, and her screams brought Franz.

Ten-year-old Ramon was the only survivor, and his survival was in doubt. He was more dead than alive from sunburn, thirst, exposure, a few cuts and -- mostly -- fear. Franz had had to pry his hands from the stanchion to which he clung, and carry the near-catatonic boy to the cabin.

They should have taken him to a hospital but the taxi would not come back for a week and there would be no other traffic on the road. Instead of the sensuous pleasures they planned, Franz and his friend spent three days tending the little boy until he regained consciousness, then two days restraining him until his sanity returned. The last two days of their vacation both Franz and the young lady became fond of Ramon, and Franz decided to take him back to the camp where he worked.

Franz was a powderman -- an explosives expert -- and he worked as a splitter for a big company logging the coastal forests of Costa Grande. Many of the trees they cut were too big to be loaded on a truck in one piece, and Franz' job was to split them with carefully-placed charges of dynamite. There was no place to leave a boy in camp while he worked but Franz took Ramon into the woods every day and set him among the roots of a tree to watch the work.

He would be safe there, Franz said. Nothing could hurt him while he stayed between the roots.

At first the boy just watched but he wanted to help and soon Franz let him help cut the greasy sticks of dynamite into smaller charges. Later Ramon learned to insert the thin brass detonators and to spool out the wire and make connections.

He was sixteen years old and the assistant powderman when he made his first mistake. After one look at Franz' remains, Ramon ran and hid in a cave among the roots of a tree.

He came out three days later and wandered for three weeks before he stopped to work on a construction camp more than fifty kilometers away. That was fourteen years ago and Ramon had held a half dozen jobs since --- the last four of them as a foreman.

He was a good foreman, but considered moody by many of the men he worked for and those who worked for him. When he was confused, they learned, he would retire to a cave among the roots of a tree and sit, legs drawn up and arms wrapped around his knees, to consider the problem.

He was sitting like that, gazing out to sea, when Pedro approached.

"Ramon!" Pedro said. "How are you?"

Ramon looked at him. "Well enough, I guess, senor." He glanced at the corpsman, then turned his eyes again to the sea.

"What's wrong?" Pedro squatted near the mouth of the cave. "You don't look happy, my friend!"

"I am not." Ramon looked at Pedro.

"I heard what the man in the plane said, senor. We are a long way from land, and drifting farther -- and they cannot send help to us."

"Cannot send it yet, my friend."

"And do not know how to send it later. They will try, but..." Ramon shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know, senor. I do not like this." He gazed out over the sea for a moment, then turned again to Pedro.

"And the man in the plane was angry with you. Why, senor?"

Pedro grinned. "I disobeyed orders when I jumped. He told me not to."

"But you jumped. With a parachute?" Ramon looked at Pedro with interest.

"I have heard of your rescue corps, senor. It is like an army, no?"

"Not quite -- we don't fight wars. But we're better equipped than most armies, and better trained."

"And you disobeyed orders. If you go back -- they will shoot you?"

Pedro grinned. "No, we don't shoot people in the Corps. Besides, I was right. I said there were people down here, and that we could help them."

"But you disobeyed orders."

"Yes -- but they will forget about that if I come back, and if I don't come back it doesn't matter.

Ramon considered this for a moment. Then -- "What is a beacon, senor?"

"A beacon is -- oh my god!" Pedro scrambled to his feet. Looked toward the raft then back to Ramon.

"A beacon is something I forgot!"

Turning, he ran to the raft and jumped aboard. Pushed people out of the way so he could reach a package tied to the side-wall. Maria followed and watched through the door as he opened the package and pulled out a red plastic box a bit bigger than a loaf of bread.

He opened the lid and pulled out a telescoping antenna that reached almost to the peak of the roof of the raft, then flicked switches and waited until a light on the control panel glowed green. Maria heard a burst of static as he turned a knob, then words she could not understand.

"Ramirez -- that you?"

Pedro unclipped the microphone from the side of the radio, held it to his mouth and pressed a switch before he spoke.

"It's me," he said. "Just got back to the raft."

"You took your time about it," the voice from the radio said. "Message center has been trying to reach you for half an hour. This is CRC 968, with some goodies for you."

"Is Johnston with you?"

"No, you're in luck this trip. I don't know whether he wants to bomb you or jump down there himself -- what did you do to him, anyway?"

"Punched him in the gut."

"Punched Johnston? My God! No wonder you had to jump! You don't plan on coming back, do you?"

"Sure do."

"Oh well. Nobody will believe it anyway. If you give him a week, Johnston won't believe it himself."

"Just get me back, then I'll worry about it."

"Seems to me I heard something about that at headquarters, but fortunately it's not my problem. We'll be there in about twenty minutes."

"Good, I'll be waiting. Pedro clipped the microphone to the side of the radio, then stood and thought for a moment before he turned toward the door of the raft where Maria waited.

"Muchacha?"

"Si senor?"

"Can you write, muchacha?"

"Si senor."

"Good. Would you do something for me?"

"Of course, senor."

There was a ball point pen and a small note-pad clipped inside the cover of the radio. Pedro pulled them free and handed them to her.

"We have to know who is here, muchacha. The names of the people here and the names of the towns where they used to live."

"Si senor." Hesitantly, Maria accepted the notebook and pen.

"That way, muchacha, we can send a message back to let people know who is safe. Other people are doing the same all over the country -- so people everywhere will know who is safe and who is not."

"Si senor." She held the book and pen protectively, in both hands.

"Will you do it?"

"Of course, senor. And when I am finished, senor, I will give the book back to you, no?"

"No, muchacha. Give it to Ramon. He knows how to use a radio and I will show him how to use this one."

He didn't notice the look she gave him as he stepped past her and onto the tree.

Ramon still sat in the hollow among the roots but he was watching the raft now. Pedro put his hands to his mouth like a megaphone and called.

"Ramon!"

"Si?" The foreman began to stand as he answered.

"Aqui, por favor!" Pedro beckoned with his hand as he spoke. Ramon trotted the length of the tree-trunk and stepped down onto the branch.

"Si senor?"

"I want you to run the radio, Ramon. The muchacha is getting the names and addresses of everyone here, for a message center my friends have set up on land. When she has the list complete, I want you to call it in for me."

"Si, senor."

"Come. I will show you the radio." Pedro stepped back into the raft, Ramon followed, and both knelt by the radio.

"This is simple to use." Pedro said. "You will have no trouble."

"Si senor." Ramon looked over the controls. "It will be no problem."

"That light means the beacon is on," Pedro said. It stays on all the time, now I've set it. The message center is on channel three -- here is the channel switch. When the muchacha has the list of names, you will call them in."

"Si, senor."

"And then," Pedro twisted a knob as he spoke. "You can listen to the regular broadcasts if you want. Turn this and the radio will receive regular commercial frequencies -- am, fm and short wave. I guess you'll want am or short wave out here."

"I see, senor. We need listen for only a few moments -- to save the batteries."

"No need. These," Pedro indicated the solar cells inside the lid, "make electricity from sunlight. We'll leave the radio open tomorrow and the sun will charge the batteries for us."

"I see, senor. Could we listen to it now?"

"Sure. Let's see if we can get the news." Pedro began to twist the dial but then the radio squawked.

"Guess we'll have to wait for that," he said. "That's my call signal -- it means someone is trying to get through on a communications frequency." He flipped the switch again and picked up the mike.

"Ramirez."

"CRC 968 here. Five minutes out."

"Right. We'll be waiting." Pedro put the mike down and looked at the people who crowded round the door of the raft.

Manuel, the fisherman, spoke. "You were talking on the radio, senor. Do we go now?"

Pedro stood and stepped out onto the branch. "We go," he said.

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He turned back to Ramon.

"Any questions?"

"No senor." Ramon still knelt by the radio, his hand resting on it. "You go ahead, senor. I will take care of things here."

"Right." Pedro stepped down the branch and stooped to untie the boat. He stepped aboard, then held it close to the tree and waved the fisherman into the stern.

"You run the motor," he said.

It started on Manuel's first pull of the rope. Pedro pushed off from the branch and Manuel rested one knee on the stern seat, reached down and put the motor into gear. Slowly, the boat pulled away from the tree.

"Where do we go, senor?" Manuel craned his neck as he spoke, looking for the best route through the floating debris.

Sitting sideways on the middle seat, leaning back against the side of the boat, Pedro waved his hand toward the south.

"Out there," he said. "About half a kilometer. We have to get out to some clear water, so the bundles don't get tangled in trees when they land."

"Si senor." Manuel grinned. "And we must get there without getting our propeller tangled in the trees!"

Pedro looked up at him. "Is that why you're going so slow?"

"Of course, senor. If I hit anything it may sink us or damage the motor. I am not used to rubber boats and I don't trust them."

"You're right to be cautious," Pedro said. "We could be bounced out if we hit something -- but don't worry about the boat -- it's stronger than the boats you're used to. The motor is safe too -- it's built for this sort of work."

Manuel glanced at the motor then looked again to see where he was going.

"Built for this, senor? Water like this is not good for an outboard -- for any motor. The propeller is so delicate!"

"Not this one, it's protected. We use these boats in flood areas, and there's a steel cage around the propeller."

Manuel glanced down at him, curiously, then turned his eyes back to the sea ahead.

"A cage, senor? The propeller will not hit things? Would not tangle if I ran over a rope?"

"No. You speak as though you've had experience with motors that were not protected."

"I do, senor. I ran over a floating rope one night, and I nearly lost my boat because of it!"

"Nearly lost your boat?" Pedro took a package of gum from the pocket of his T shirt and offered it to Manuel. The fisherman shook his head, and Pedro took a piece for himself. He unwrapped it and put it into his mouth, then looked curiously at the fisherman.

"The rope tangled in the propeller," Manuel said, "and that broke the gears. It was very expensive, and I had to borrow money to pay for it. Then I had bad luck fishing, and I had trouble paying the loan. I was afraid I was going to lose the boat."

He glanced back toward the island, then forward again.

"Now I have lost it, and it doesn't matter. Nothing matters very much now."

Pedro caught the glance and looked back himself. Then turned to Manuel again and spoke.

"Your boat is in there somewhere?"

"It is. It is lost. I am afraid my house is also lost, and my wife and my son." His voice remained calm.

"Your house -- it would have been on the coast?"

"In San Felipe, senor. It is a little village ... ," Manuel paused, the corrected himself, "it was a little village near the mouth of the river."

"I know -- I saw it from the air. We dropped a field hospital near there."

"You saw San Felipe, senor?" With a catch in his voice Manuel leaned forward. "Was there much damage?"

"Very much, I'm afraid."

Manuel leaned back, hope gone from his face.

"My house was on low ground -- near a little creek. I thought it was a good place with the water nearby, but I don't suppose there's any chance it survived."

"No, I'm afraid not. Your family was in the house?"

"My wife and my son, senor. I am sure they must have been there. I can hope, but I know the hope is foolish, no?"

"Hope is never foolish."

"Perhaps not, senor. It is a hard thing to lose one's family."

"I know."

"You have lost a family, senor?"

"Yes. when I was six years old. An earthquake in Costa Grande. A landslide swept my father's house away. My parents and my sister were killed, and I was trapped for three days."

"That is sad, senor. And how were you rescued?"

"The Canadians."

He smiled at the memory. "I was a village boy of six years old, and I saw the bright red planes, the bright red uniforms. I thought I was dead, and that the Canadians were devils come to get me! I've had dreams about it ever since."

"But they were not devils. And when you grew up you joined them, senor?"

"They were not, and I did."

"And now you are here. Nobody could have saved my Carmine and Manuelo, senor, but you can save some people here. It is enough."

Manuel scanned the water ahead. Pedro turned sideways on the seat, leaned back and rested his head on the soft gunwale.

Glimpsing something in the water Manuel cut the throttle and turned the boat slightly. A minute later he dipped his hand, scooped up a coconut and dropped it into the boat.

"That will be a good one, senor."

Pedro sat up. Looked at the coconut, then looked around as he spoke.

"Are there more of those around here?"

"Si, senor. Many of them. Sometimes we call them the fishermen's friends, because we may find them anywhere. I think there are many of them now, because of the flood. Look over there."

Pedro stood and looked while Manuel turned the boat to the south. Manuel scooped another coconut out of the sea and dropped it in the boat before Pedro realized there were a dozen or more floating around them.

"It takes practice to see them, senor. Do you want more?"

"All we can get." Pedro moved to the bow of the boat and sat by the right side. Manuel covered the left and they had half a dozen coconuts in the boat when the Manitou roared overhead, seeming to clear them by only a few meters.

"Hola!" Manuel ducked, then turned to watch as the plane passed on. The radio crackled.

"Hello the boat. How's the fishing?"

Pedro lifted the radio. "It was fine until you scared them off. Who are you -- the game warden?"

"No, the postman. Seriously -- were you getting anything there?"

"Coconuts. The sea is almost covered with them."

"Sounds good." The plane had climbed a few hundred meters as it pulled away from them, and now it circled over the island. "You have a bit of a wind down there now, have you?"

"A bit," Pedro agreed.

"And it's blowing toward the island?"

"Yes. You going to drop a streamer?"

"No, we don't need it for a low-level drop. There's a clear spot about fifty meters to the west of you -- just the other side of that floating tree. We'll put it there."

"Okay." Pedro lowered the radio and turned to Manuel.

"They're coming in the other side of that tree," he pointed. "We might as well get around it, so we can watch."

"Seguro, senor." Manuel shifted into gear and twisted the throttle. The boat lifted slightly and plowed ahead.

The plane came back low over the water and the drifting debris. As it passed about a hundred meters from the boat a yellow drag chute popped out of the open back door pulling a string of three yellow bundles -- each one nearly as big as the boat. Parachutes blossomed as they left the plane and, seconds later, they splashed into the sea as the plane began to climb.

The boat was past the end of the tree when the bundles splashed down Pedro and Manuel watched as, one by one, three of the four parachutes collapsed.

But the drag chute retained its canopy. It bellied out in the breeze, dipping one edge in the water but still up and pulling the string toward the island.

Manuel looked at Pedro. Pedro lifted the radio to his mouth again.

"Hello the plane. Is that it?"

"That's it. Better get them back quick -- there might be some weather coming."

"We know, thanks." Pedro clipped the radio back on his belt as Manuel steered the boat toward the floating bundles and opened the throttle slightly.

"We'll have to get that parachute first." Pedro pointed to the one that had not collapsed.

"Si Senor." Manuel had already turned the boat toward it. Now he opened the throttle farther and the boat lifted, half planing and weaving slightly as Manuel steered around bits of floating wreckage.

In minutes they arrived at the first bundle and Manuel throttled back and pulled the boat close so Pedro could reach to release the steel clip that held the drag-chute. But Pedro didn't release the clip -- instead he reached up and grabbed the rope with one hand, then held it while he motioned Manuel to turn toward the chute.

"If we let it go," Pedro explained, "we'll never see it again -- and we can use the cloth."

The chute settled into the water at Pedro's pull and in a moment he had bundled it into a dripping mass that he pulled into the boat. Now Manuel turned back toward the bundle and moved close so Pedro could release the clip. Then he maneuvered so Pedro could release the clips that held the main parachute to the bundle.

It took about a half hour to remove and recover the four parachutes and to fasten tow lines to the bundles. The sun was beginning to set as the boat, like a tug with a tow of barges, began the slow trip back to the group that waited on the tree.

Maria was moving the spare radio, the water and the food from the second raft into the first. Ramon and two other men were helping but one young man sat on the edge of the raft and watched.

Maria knew him from the village. He was called Pablo, she recalled, and he worked as a helper on one of the big fishing boats.

She laid the bag of water cans she had been carrying with the others, along the edge of the raft away from the branch, then glared at him.

"You might help, Pablo!"

"But why, move them senorita?" Pablo remained where he sat on the edge of the raft. "They are better the way they were," he said. "Spread about, with some on each raft."

"No they're not. The senor left me in charge of all the food and the water, and I want it stacked where I can see it."

"But it is wrong. If they are all in one place they will pull the raft off balance! It is dangerous!"

"No matter. The raft is tied to the branch. You saw what happened this morning, when it started to tip over?"

"I was not here this morning, senorita."

"Well we found out then that it will not tip. Not if all the weight is on one side. So there is no reason to worry -- and it is better this way."

"It is not safe, senorita. I work in boats and I know about these things."

"The boy is right, muchacha."

Maria turned. It was the schoolteacher with the fine clothes who had spoken. She had not noticed him sitting there in the shadow.

"Quiet!" Ramon's voice boomed from the side. Startled, the three of them turned. He stood at the door of the raft with a bag of water in his hands.

"The senorita is in charge of the food and water and it will be stored where she wants it stored!

He glared at Pablo.

"You will stop talking about it and help with the work! Here -- take this bag!"

"But senor... "

"Quiet, I said. Stop talking and help. Take this bag!"

"Si senor." Cowed, Pablo stood. Walked to the doorway and took the bag Ramon handed him.

"And you." The foreman turned to the little man with a sneer.

"A city man! I bet you can't work, but at least you can stay out of the way!

"When it's time for you to speak, someone will tell you what to say!"

Peter Steiger was watching TV when his phone rang. He used his remote to mute the sound before he picked up the receiver.

"Collect call from Mr. Bill Forsay in Portland. Will you accept the charge?"

"Sure. Put him on."

"Thank you. Go ahead please."

"Pete?"

"Bill?"

"I got hold of Alex Foster, and I got the name you were looking for."

"Great!" Steiger pulled a pencil from his pocket and found an envelope on the table beside him. "Shoot."

"His name's Clive Jonas and he's in Vancouver, Canada. His company is Jonas Recovery."

"Great! Got a phone number?"

"No, but Alex says you don't need one. It's a big company and he's easy to find. It's easy to reach Jonas too -- he's a big shot but he takes every call that comes in. Just ask for him and you'll get through any time of the day or night.

"Great. I'll do that."

"Got something for him?"

"I think so. Something big."

"Care to let an old buddy in on the secret?"

"Okay -- but don't talk it up too much. You know that flood in San Cristobal?"

"Don't I! The papers are full of it."

"Well, the sea's full of it too. There's a fortune in logs floating off the coast down there."

"Sounds good. How do you know about them?"

"Saw them in satellite pictures. You say this guy takes calls day or night?"

"Twenty four hours a day, Alex says."

"Okay, I'll try him now then. Thanks for the help, Bill."

"You're welcome. Just remember me when you're rich and famous."

"I'll do that. G'bye."

"Bye."

Dark fell as Pedro and Manuel worked the boat and the bundles slowly through the scattered debris. Pedro used his portable radio to keep the boat heading toward the radio beacon that pulsed aboard the unseen raft. Manuel used a flashlight to help pick a route around the drifting trees.

The wind was picking up now and Manuel found he had to compensate for it with his steering. The mass of logs suppressed the swells but the slap of wavelets against the bow of the boat was clearly audible over the drone of the motor. Some of the trees were drifting as fast as the boat with its tow of bundles.

In the rafts Maria had handed out food bars and cans of water for supper nearly a half-hour before. After dinner Ramon had shared the last of the cigarettes with the men and the two women who smoked, and had used the radio to send Maria's list of names and addresses to the message center.

Then he switched it to receive news broadcasts from Hidalgo and most of the people were now crowded into the raft, or at the doorway of the other, listening. Maria sat to one side with her feet drawn up, her arms wrapped about her knees and her chin resting on her arms. While the others listened to the radio she listened to the grumbling of the trees as they rubbed and bumped together.

She tried to visualize Pedro in his red shorts and T shirt, in the boat somewhere out there in the darkness. The fisherman had been running the outboard motor when they went out but surely the senor would be running it now. He would be half-kneeling on the stern seat as he had when he had brought her here.

She had seen the big plane circle overhead and swoop low to drop the bundles. She remembered the way the senor had stood in the back of the boat and held his parachute to guide the plane before, and she wondered if he had done the same this time. She could have seen him, she thought, except for the floating trees.

But the plane had come and gone hours ago. The senor and the fisherman would have tied the bundles to the back of the motorboat -- as he had tied the raft that first time -- and would be on their way back now. Maria remembered that the boat had been slow with the bundled raft in tow -- it would be very slow towing many bundles. That must by why he had not yet returned.

Still -- there was a wind now, and there had been only a light breeze in the morning. It was cold, and the senor had not taken his coveralls with him. He had left them with his red bag in the raft. Maria had taken personal charge of them and she sat now with them beside her. He must be cold without them, she thought.

Above the sound of the trees and the waves she heard a scrubbing sound, as though something were rubbing against the side of the raft.

What was it? The senor would know.

Maria sat up and listened, and now she noticed that the motion of the raft had changed. It had been rocking gently and bumping against the branch on one side. Now there was less motion now, but it felt as though the raft were bumping into something else, beside the branch. There was a strange sound -- almost like a pop -- and she realized that one of the tubes against which she leaned felt soft. She whispered toward the group that clustered about the radio.

"Ramon?"

He did not answer. The radio was louder than her voice.

"Ramon?" She spoke louder. And again, "Ramon?"

"Si senorita?" Ramon raised his head and looked at her. He stood and stepped carefully through the crowd that surrounded the radio, then knelt beside her.

"Ramon -- there is something wrong!"

"There is nothing to fear, senorita." Gently, Ramon laid a hand on her arm as he spoke.

"Yes there is!" She took his hand and pressed it against the tube that felt soft. As she moved she heard another pop, and felt another tube begin to soften.

Ramon squeezed one tube, then another. Maria couldn't see his face but she heard him catch his breath.

"Quickly, senorita!" He stood and pulled her arm. "The raft is sinking!"

He half dragged her to the door and lifted her out onto the branch. Then he turned and called to the group gathered around the radio.

"Get up! Go to the other raft -- go to the tree! This one is sinking!"

There was a moment of silence, of disbelief. Then a man leaning against the sidewall realized that it was no longer as hard as it had been.

He jumped to his feet, swayed a moment then stumbled over people as he ran to the door. Others scrambled, some to the other raft, some to the tree. Two more tubes popped and the floor of the raft began to sag at the outer edge, where the bags of canned water were piled.

A woman scrambled past Ramon to the low side of the raft.

"The water! Save the water!"

She picked up one bag and tried to carry it to the high side of the raft but she fell as the floor sagged under the piled supplies. Then she slid back, still trying to throw the bag of water to the high side of the raft.

There was a babble of voices in the raft now and Ramon had to shout to make himself heard.

"Senora! Forget the water. Get out of there!"

"I can't." The floor sagged farther under the weight of more than a dozen bags of canned water. The supplies were out of sight and the woman was waist-deep and sinking into the floor.

Then the battery-powered lantern fell and rolled into the hole with the woman. It still shone, casting some light and strange shadows on the roof, but the inside of the raft was dark now. Flashes of light lit the woman's face from below and Ramon heard feet and hands slipping on the rubberized fabric as she tried to climb out of the trap.

He moved to help her and bumped his head on something hard.

But there should be nothing there to bump his head on! Ramon felt for the rubberized canvas of the roof and found it pulled taut.

Felt something hard and sharp that pressed from the outside. Beside it was something else, also hard and sharp.

The sounds of panic were louder now, and the roof of the raft was sagging. Ramon dropped to his knees and felt the floor with his hands. He crept toward the bags of water that were dragging one side of the raft down.

A hand touched his forearm and clutched desperately. Fingernails gouged his skin and slipped off.

The roof was pressing down on him now but Ramon crawled forward, feeling ahead and below with one hand. He could sense the woman's struggles, transmitted by the fabric of the raft, but he could not reach her.

Fumbling, squeezed by fabric above and below, he unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his pants. Buckled it again in a loop and pushed it into the hole ahead of him.

"Find the belt senora. Hang on to it!"

He felt tension on the belt, then heard the woman's voice. "Yo lo tengo." I have it.

"Hang on!" Ramon pulled and felt resistance. He pulled harder and felt movement as the woman began to slide toward him.

"Gracias." The woman's voice. She was helping him now so she must have room to move. Ramon rose to his knees and backed toward the high side of the raft. Something hit his feet from behind and slid past him to settle into the pocket from which he was pulling the woman.

He felt the wall of the raft behind him, and pressure as the floor sank below water level. He fumbled with one hand and finally found the door. His hand reached fresh air and the edge of rubberized fabric as he pulled the woman up beside him.

Most of the raft was under water now, but it was still supported by bubbles of air caught under the roof and by the ropes that tied it to the branch.

"Hang on, senora!" Ramon guided the woman's arms around his neck. With both hands he grabbed the edge of the door and pulled.

He breathed fresh air as his head passed through the door and he could see the dim shapes of men on the branch. The other raft still floated beside them.

"Help me here. Take this woman." Ramon hooked one leg over the collapsed edge of the raft and placed his hands on the woman's waist. He lifted her to a man on the branch who bent to take the arms she held out to him.

Ramon let go as the other man lifted the woman to the branch and set her down. The man turned back to Ramon.

"And you?"

"Please." Ramon stretched his arm up and felt his hand grasped by two others. He felt them pull, and pulled himself until he could lift his feet to the branch.

There was enough light outside to show the silhouette of another huge tree pressing against the rafts. Sharp ends of broken branches must have punctured the first raft and more branches pressed against the other one. Over the confused babble of voices Ramon heard the pop as the first tube was punctured.

A dozen people were talking, but Ramon's voice drowned them out. He stood, made a funnel of his hands and placed it to his lips.

"Hola!" His voice roared. "The raft will sink! You must climb onto the tree! Get out of the raft! Get up on the tree!"

In a tent at the CRC base near San Felipe, radio-man Giles Plessy sat with his chair tilted back, his feet on a desk and a magazine in his lap. Plessy liked the night watch because it gave him time to read and because nothing happened, most nights.

When the beep sounded he raised his eyes to the instrument panel in front of him and saw one light blinking red.

He leaned forward and keyed his microphone.

"San Felipe, calling any CRC aircraft. Any CRC aircraft, San Felipe."

A few seconds later the speaker above him crackled into life.

"This is CRC 328, San Felipe. CRC 328."

Plessy keyed the microphone again.

"Where are you, 328?"

"328 is inbound to Hidalgo from Key West, San Felipe. We are at 6,000 meters, about to descend."

"Thank you, 328. Can you check a reading for me? Beacon CRC 0987. Should be --," Plessy paused a moment to check the map posted beside him -- "should be bearing about 250 or 260 degrees from Hidalgo."

A few seconds of silence, then the speaker came to life again.

"Negative, San Felipe. Negative. We get no reading from that beacon. Where is it?"

"Should be 150 or 200 kilometers out to sea now."

"That the guy that punched his centurion and jumped on the trees?"

"That's him."

"Still no reading, San Felipe. Radar shows some storm activity about 100 kilometers off the coast. Can't see from here how far it extends -- but it looks like a series of small squalls."

"Thank you, CRC 328. San Felipe, out."

Plessy ignored the aircraft's sign-off. He glanced at his watch and made an entry in his log.

Then he spun his chair to face a keyboard and tapped out a message to CRC group command. It would be transmitted automatically to a printer in the message center at Hidalgo, and passed on next morning to whoever had ordered the beacon monitored.

Pedro and Manuel were just a few hundred meters from the tree but they were making slow progress. The wind had blown the bundles sideways into the branches of a large tree and they had lost more than half an hour hacking them free with machetes. Now, sweeping the light back and forth, Pedro saw that they were surrounded by drifting trees.

"Where are we -- do you know?" He turned to Manuel who sat at the back of the boat beside the silent motor, one hand holding the end of a branch.

"Lost, I think." Manuel was silent a moment, then he pointed.

"The rafts should be over that way -- but it would be dangerous to move now and we may never find them in the dark. Perhaps tomorrow."

"We might find them tonight."

"And we might not. I am afraid to use this boat here at night, senor. The trees are moving and some of those branches are sharp. If we should bump into one of them... "

Pedro shone the light to the side. It caught the white end of a broken branch pointing like a spear at the side of the boat.

"You're right," he said. "Let's tie up for the night. I'll call Ramon and tell him we'll be there in the morning."

"Seguro, senor." Manuel caught a branch and pulled the boat in a bit closer to the tree. He reached to tie it up.

Then they heard the roar of Ramon's voice and the rising sounds of panic.

Pedro stood to listen. Manuel looked up, then finished mooring the boat.

Pedro thumbed the talk switch of his radio and lifted it to his lips.

"Ramon? Hola, Ramon?" He released the talk switch and listened. Nothing.

"Something is wrong, senor." Manuel dropped the rope and stood. "We should get back there!"

"We will. Pedro flipped the switch of his radio to direction finding and swung it back and forth, looking for the signal from the beacon. There was none.

The drifting tree bore down on the second raft now, and people scrambled to safety in the dark. Ramon heard a pop as the raft was punctured, and the hiss of escaping air.

He was standing by the doorway of the sinking raft, reaching into it with his looped belt to help people out, when Maria grabbed his arm.

"The boats, senor! The boats! We can still save them!"

He looked at her a moment.

"The boats!"

"Yes!" Leaving the raft Ramon felt his way along the branch on hands and knees, Maria at his heels, as he felt for the ropes that tied the boats. He found the one that held the inflatable motorboat and pulled.

But the boat didn't move. Peering through the dim light, Ramon could see the branch that held it in place.

"Too late, senorita. The boat is stuck."

"The other one senor. The wooden boat!"

Ramon moved farther down the branch until he felt another rope, and pulled again.

A branch bore down on the wooden boat too, but had not snagged it. Slowly, as Ramon pulled, the boat moved toward him until he could grasp the gunwale.

"Help me, senorita!" Struggling to keep his balance, Ramon tried to drag the boat out of the water and slide it over the branch. Gasping, he held it until Maria grabbed the other gunwale and added her weight to his own.

They strained as the boat slid up onto the branch. Then it passed the balance point and began to slide into the water on the other side.

But the mooring rope was not long enough to allow it to slide over the branch. As the rope came taut the boat swung sideways and pushed Maria into the water. She let go the gunwale, sank beneath the surface and came up spluttering between the boat and the branch.

"My hand, senorita!" Ramon dropped face down on the branch and reached his hand toward her. She grasped it and held on while he pulled her to the branch and she helped as he lifted her onto it.

Then she sat sideways on the branch, legs trailing in the water, and coughed. Ramon knelt beside her a moment, then stood and offered her his hand again.

"Come, senorita. We will join the others."

The others had climbed to the trunk of the tree and now they clustered about the base of the branch and looked down at the dim yellow smudges that were the remains of the rafts, now completely submerged. There were tears in Maria's eyes as she joined them.

"All our food was there," she said. "All our water."

"The radio was there," Ramon said. "The beacon!"

Maria turned to him. "Now," she said, "You must call Senor Pedro."

"Yes," he said. "I will call." He reached to his waist where the radio had been clipped beside his machete. Reached for the radio and found nothing. Felt for his machete and found nothing.

Then he looked at the folded belt in his other hand, and turned to Maria.

"The small radio is also down there, senorita," he said.

The babble of voices in the night was lower now. Manuel stood again in the bow of the boat and shouted.

"Hola? Aye hombres?"

"Hola! Aqui!" The answering shout was Ramon's.

"Donde estas?" Where are you?"

"Over here." The voice came from the other side of the tree to which Pedro had moored the boat. Manuel felt for the branches he knew were there and climbed to the trunk.

"Where?"

"Over here!"

"I can't see. Have you a light?"

"No. Have you?"

"Momentito." Manuel began to climb down, then stopped as he felt the hand on his ankle. Pedro held the flashlight up to him. He took it and climbed back onto the tree. With the light he found a vertical branch off to the side, then climbed a couple of meters up it and locked his leg into a crotch. He switched the light on again and shone it at the branches above him as he shouted.

"Here is the light. Can you see it?"

Standing on the tree and craning his neck, Ramon searched for the light. Most of the other men looked too.

"There it is! Off to the right!" A voice from near the end of the tree. Ramon turned to the right where a pale glimmer of light shone in the distance, behind at least one other tree. It was perhaps a hundred meters away.

Hands funneled to his mouth, he shouted. "We see you now. About 100 meters."

"Can you show a light?"

"No. We have none."

"What happened?"

"The rafts sank."

"How?"

"Trees drifted in. They poked holes in them."

"Was anybody hurt?"

"No. I don't think so. But we lost the radio. And the food and the water."

Pedro had climbed out of the boat and now he stood on the tree-trunk at Manuel's feet. Looking down, Manuel could see him dimly in the light reflected from the branch above.

"You hear him?"

"I hear him."

"What now?"

"I don't know."

Ramon's voice boomed out again, over the floating trees.

"Senor Pedro. Are you there?"

Pedro cupped his hands to his mouth to answer.

"I am here."

"Can you come to us?"

"Perhaps." Pedro looked into the gloom, then shouted again.

"No. We cannot see well enough."

"Shall I come to you?"

"No. It's too dangerous. I do not think you would find us."

"What shall we do?"

"Are you safe there?"

Ramon looked around in the dim light at the people huddled on the tree, then shouted again.

"I think so. We are not comfortable, but we are safe."

"Can you spend the night there?"

"I guess we have to!"

Maria stood beside Ramon. She cupped her hands to her mouth.

"Senor Pedro! We lost the water."

"I know."

"And the food."

"Yes."

"I am sorry."

"That's all right. You can last the night without water, can't you?"

"Yes."

"We have water here. We'll see you in the morning."

"I hope so. Good-night, senor."

"Good-night, muchacha."

Pedro looked up at Manuel, still braced in the crotch of the tree.

"You might as well come down, my friend. We'll be all right here for the night. I'll take that light, if you want." He reached for it.

On the tree Ramon sat down. In a minute he felt a gentle hand on his arm and turned to see a woman sitting beside him.

"I am called Juana, senor," she said. "I want to thank you for pulling me out of there -- I think you saved my life!"

She was not young but she was not an old woman. About his own age, Ramon thought. She was thin, but she looked strong. A woman who had lived. She sat close, inviting contact but not quite touching him.

He reached his arm around her and she melted toward him.

Maria sat with her heels drawn up, her hands clasped about her ankles and her chin resting on her knees. She looked out over the sea where she had seen the senor's flashlight.

Muchacha! Little girl! The others -- even Ramon -- called her senorita. When would he learn?

She glanced to the side where Ramon and the woman he had rescued sat together. His arm was around her and her head rested on his shoulder. Maria shivered in her wet clothes, but she had no one to comfort her.

The movement of the trees bothered her too. The wind was still rising and the tree on which she sat was rocking like a boat. The whole island was moving, and the night was loud with the thuds of huge trees bumping together and the crack of branches breaking.

She was cold and wet all night, but not cold enough or wet enough to accept the suit-coat the little schoolteacher offered her. She was lonesome, but not lonesome enough to appreciate the way he sat beside her and talked to her.

As she watched Ramon and the woman he had pulled from the raft she thought of looking for the fisher-boy -- Pablo -- then dismissed the idea.

It was past midnight when Manuel awoke and wondered at the sound -- almost like a puppy whimpering. No -- it was a man. The senor, having some kind of a bad dream.

Something to do with his mother. Among the whimpers Manuel heard the word "madre." Listening, he heard a phrase -- "I cannot help you, mother."

Above, the sky was dark. To one side was a slight glow where the moon shone above clouds.

Manuel pushed aside the parachute that covered him as he slept and sat up. Bumped his head against something as he came erect.

With his hand he felt the branch of a tree. Looking around he saw other branches -- some of them sharp, like spears -- closing in on the boat.

"Senor!" Urgently, Manuel shook Pedro's shoulder.

"Huh?" Pedro stirred.

"Senor!" Manuel shook the shoulder again.

"Huh? What?"

"Turn on the light, senor. There is a tree drifting in on us. We must move the boat or it will sink!"

Pedro sat up suddenly and bumped his head. Cursed. Found the light and turned it on. Then he saw the branch that pushed the boat against the tree to which it had been moored.

"Too late, senor." Manuel was pushing the branch now, trying to get the boat out from under. It would not move.

Pedro added his weight to Manuel's but the boat still would not move. Even as they watched, one air tube burst under increasing pressure.

"The boat is lost, senor." Manuel climbed to the tree as he spoke. "We must save what we can!"

Manuel stood on the branch, while Pedro dismounted the motor and passed it to him. Two more tubes burst as he passed the supplies and the equipment to safety. He was about to pass the radio when the last tube burst and he, and the radio, sank into the sea.

Johnston was at breakfast in the mess at Hidalgo when Martin's call came through. He carried his coffee to the mess office, settled himself at the desk and picked up the field phone.

"Johnston here."

"Martin here. I've found a way to get your boy back."

"Pedro?" Johnston leaned forward, his elbows on the desk."That's great, sir. How?"

"There's a Japanese freighter -- the Honshu Maru -- about 600 kilometers north of him. She's heading for Manzanillo but she will divert for a pickup.

"She won't be able to get right to them but we think she should be able to get within about fifteen kilometers, from the north. He's on the south side of those trees, isn't he?"

"Yes sir."

"Okay. Drop him enough boats and fuel to take everyone, and get him started to meet the ship.

"I don't know whether he'll want to go through the trees or around them -- you might want to scout a route while you're out there.

"Just make sure he gets there on time. The Japs will be off the north side of the island late tomorrow afternoon, and we can't ask them to hang around for long. If he's not there at least three hours before sundown they'll be stuck all night, because they can't move through that stuff in the dark."

"Right sir -- I'll make sure he's there. What about communications?"

"I don't have the ship's frequencies but you can get in touch with them from the plane. Tell them Pedro's frequencies and get theirs for him. They can set a beacon for him to home on."

"Right sir, I'll do that." Johnston glanced at his watch.

"There's a plane going out there in about an hour. I'll get the extra boats loaded on it now."

"Okay -- and send that son-of-a-bitch in to see me when you get him back. If he's bringing survivors in with him I can't put him on charge, but I can rake him over the coals a bit!"

"Will do sir, but I can guarantee he'll be well singed before you see him. I've got a few things to say to him myself!"

Johnston disconnected, then dialed quartermaster central. With the two boats he had dropped already, he figured three more and a couple of drums of fuel would be enough. He would stop at San Felipe and pick up some corpsmen from Pedro's own decade to handle the drop.

Pedro clung to a branch that cracked and swayed under his weight nearly ten meters above the boat. From here he could see people on the other tree -- about 100 meters away -- but he could also see that there was no way to float the bundles over to it.

Looking in other directions he could also see how floating trees had moved in during the night to surround them and cut them off from the open sea. The bundles below him were undamaged, but they were trapped in a closed space between two trees.

He pulled a fluorescent red bandana from his pocket, waved it and shouted.

"Ramon! Can you see this?"

"The red, senor? I see it."

Clinging to the branch with his knees, Pedro tied the bandana to a twig.

"See it now?"

"I can see it, senor."

"Okay. Have you got something you can put up? Something bright-colored?"

"One moment, senor."

Ramon had climbed a few meters up the tall vertical branch that stood alone below the crown of the tree. Now he locked his legs around it and looked down at the people below.

"I need some bright cloth" he said. Something for a flag..."

One of the men untied a polka-dotted red bandana from his neck and climbed the branch until he could pass it to Ramon.

"Gracias!" Ramon leaned down to reach it, then waved it above his head.

"Can you see this, senor?"

The bandana was barely visible against the dirty green and black of the trees behind it, but Pedro saw it. He waved.

"I can see it. Tie it there."

"I will, senor."

"And stay there, Ramon. We will come to you."

"We will be here, senor. The rafts have not sunk all the way -- they are still tied to the tree. I think we can still save the water and the food."

"Good. We have the bundles here anyway. We will be there soon."

Locking his legs around the branch, Pedro lined up the sights of his wrist-compass on the bandana. He took a reading, then slid down the branch. Manuel waited below.

"What now, senor. Can we reach them?"

"We will have to. They need water soon."

Holding a branch with one hand Pedro reached out, caught a corner of one of the bundles and pulled it toward him.

With his knife he slit the plastic cover and pulled out a small carton, then another like it. He passed them both to Manuel, on the tree trunk.

"Water, senor?" Manuel put the cartons down as Pedro stepped back to the tree.

"Water." Pedro tore loose a piece of one of the parachutes and knelt to tie it into a bag around the two cartons.

"You will carry it over to the other tree, senor? I will help you."

Pedro paused and looked at Manuel.

"How well do you swim?"

"Swim, senor? I swim well -- but you will not swim here."

"Swim, climb, everything. It would take all day to get over there on the trees -- and then we'd probably get wet anyway."

"But you must not swim, senor."

"Why not?"

"Because of the sharks." Manuel gestured at the sea around them. "Whenever there is stuff floating on the sea like this, senor, the sharks gather.

"And there were animals and people drowned in the flood -- they must have been swept out to sea too, and they will be floating among the trees.

"I think most of the sharks in the sea must be under us now, and they will hear you if you try to swim!"

"I was swimming yesterday."

"And you were lucky, senor. But that was yesterday -- when there were few sharks here. Now they have had a day and a night to gather, and there will be many of them!"

The plane was approaching San Felipe when Plessy's message was finally passed on. The radioman brought a print-out back to Johnston, and stepped back quickly as the centurion jumped to his feet.

"Where did you get this?"

"It was just passed on, sir." The radioman glanced again at the message, reading the top line upside down as Johnston held it.

"It was sent about ten o'clock last night, our time. It would have been received last night at headquarters and --- "

"Never mind that. C'mon."

Johnston strode toward the flight deck. He paused at the door to look back at the radioman who stood and stared.

"Come here, dammit!"

"Yes sir!" The radioman ran to the front of the plane and through the door to his equipment. The Centurion followed.

"Sit down," Johnston said. Can you read this beacon?" He looked at the message again. "0987."

"One of ours, sir?"

"It's not Peter Pan's."

"Yes sir." The radioman turned to his equipment, closed a switch. Spun a dial, paused, then spun the dial again.

"Can't find it sir."

"Should you be able to get it from here?"

"Is that Ramirez, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then it should be less than 200 kilometers away now. We could read it easy if it was working."

"So it's not working."

"I would say not, sir."

"He's got another raft out there. Can you find it?"

The radioman snapped switches and watched lights flicker.

"Scanning all our raft frequencies sir. No beacons."

"Try the hand-sets. He has a couple of those. Could you get them from here?"

"We might, sir -- it depends. Normal range is about fifty kilometers but we can do better from the air. Sometimes a lot better." The radioman spun dials and snapped switches. Lights flickered and numbers flashed on the screen in front of him. He watched for a couple of minutes.

"Hand sets in use all over the place sir, but none at sea."

Suddenly he reached out to slap a switch. The computerized display stopped, backed up, then stopped again. He touched another switch and another set of numbers appeared on the screen.

"No -- that's not it. It's in the right direction but it's not far enough. Either on the beach or just offshore." The radioman turned in his seat and looked up at Johnston.

"He might be using a hand set sir, but we can't find him from here if he is."

"Right." Slowly, Johnston walked back to his seat and sat down. Lit a cigarette, leaned back and closed his eyes.

Ramon and several other men pulled the sunken raft toward them with the rope that still tied it to the branch. Most of it was still near the surface but it was snagged on an underwater branch and it would come no closer.

"It's caught on something." Ramon peered into the water. "I see it -- it's on that branch there!" He pointed, then turned to the man beside him.

"Can you swim?"

"Si, senor."

"Well enough to go in and free that raft?"

The man looked. Shrugged. "Si, senor."

"Do it then." Ramon and the others watched as the man stripped and dived into the water.

Pablo had crossed to the tree that had drifted in on them and was now several meters above water level, creeping out to the branch that had punctured the motorboat. The boat was held in place by the branch and by the mooring rope, and he might be able to reach it.

He looked toward the others when he heard the splash, then shouted.

"Senor -- no!"

Ramon shot him an irritated look. "No what, boy?"

"Do not let anyone go in the water senor!"

"Why not? He can swim." Ramon turned back to watch the swimmer.

"Sharks, senor! There are sharks here!" Pablo crawled backwards now, back toward the trunk of the tree. He broke off a small branch and carried it with him.

Ramon paled, hesitated, then appeared to gain control of himself. He spoke with a deliberate sneer.

"Sharks? People swim in the sea all the time, boy. They don't all get eaten by sharks!"

"But there are sharks here, senor." Pablo was still above the water, looking down into it. He screamed.

"There! Look!"

"Quiet boy, we're working here." Ramon turned back to the swimmer.

He was over the raft now and, as Ramon watched, he dived and began to pull it clear of the snag. A red box floated to the surface as he worked. Ramon and the others could see him clearly against the yellow fabric.

They saw the shark too, as it passed over the raft and nosed the man's thigh.

He turned, saw it and swam frantically for the branch. The shark grabbed his leg just below the knee and the man thrashed about as he was pulled beneath the surface. Bubbles burst from his mouth as he tried to scream.

Then the lower half of his leg came off and the shark swam away with it -- but another was approaching with it's mouth open as he broke the surface.

In panic he grabbed the box that floated beside him and thrust it into the shark's mouth. The jaws closed with an audible crunch.

Someone threw a rope. The man grabbed it and held on as two men pulled him back toward the branch until they could grab his hands.

They were lifting him out of the water when the second shark struck again. It took a chunk of meat the size of a football out of his waist and nearly dragged him back into the sea in a tug-of-war with the men who held him.

He screamed and moaned for several minutes after they carried him up to the trunk of the tree, then he fell silent. Maria knelt beside him and touched a tentative hand to his forehead.

Ramon put a tourniquet on the stump of the severed leg but could do nothing about the bite in the man's side. He stood and watched for a moment as the man's intestines oozed out of the hole and blood dribbled down the side of the tree trunk. Then, his face white, Ramon turned and trudged to the end of the tree.

People backed up and stepped aside as he approached, then watched as he passed them by. As he walked the length of the trunk to sit among the roots and look out over the sea.

Juana stood, glanced at Maria, then followed Ramon.

The Mother-of-all opened her eyes suddenly and struggled to sit up. With a little cry of alarm the small boy who knelt beside her reached to help.

A young man dropped from above to land on the branch beside the platform of woven sticks on which the old woman rested. He stepped onto the platform and knelt to slip his arm behind her.

"Mother," he said. "You must rest, Mother!"

The old woman turned her pain-wracked face to him. Spoke.

"I was resting, Hotan, but something happened! Someone is dying!"

The man was concerned. "One of our people, Mother?"

"No, Hotan. Not one of our people. But someone not very far away."

A look of wonder crossed the Indian's face as he looked at her.

"But there can be no other people near us, Mother! We are on the big water! You said we are very far from land!"

"There are others near us, Hotan."

"How can there be, Mother? They had no warning! They were killed by the water! You felt them die!"

"I felt many people die, Hotan -- very many people. But there must be others. One of them is dying now. Something bit him."

"A snake, Mother?"

"No. A fish. A big one. A shark."

"And he is near us, Mother?"

"He is not far, my son. I could not feel a white man very far away." She knitted her brows, concentrated.

"There are others, Hotan. They try to help the one who is dying, but they cannot. He is too badly hurt.

The old woman tried to smile.

"Worse than me, Hotan!"

Worry showed again on the Indian's face as he looked at her.

"You will not die, Mother! You must not!" He picked up the half-coconut shell beside her and offered her a sip of the milk it held. After she drank he laid her gently back on the pallet and watched as she closed her eyes.

Still kneeling, he looked again at the gash on her leg, and the angry red flesh that surrounded it.

He raised his eyes to the woman who knelt by the boy. Watched as she took a wad of chewed leaves from her mouth and spread them over the infected cut.

"Is there nothing more you can do, Yama?"

The woman glanced at him, then used a rag to wipe the sweat from the old woman's face.

"Nothing, Hotan." She said. She looked up at the man and made a gesture of helplessness with her hands.

"The leaves make it less painful, that is all.

"To stop the poison we need moulds and spiderwebs, and we have none. The moulds we need grow close to the ground on rotten trees, and those trees do not float. We will find none out here, and we will find no spiders here.

"We have not even water for her to drink!"

Frustration showed on the Indian's face.

"If we could get to land!"

"But you can't, Hotan. She says it is too far and she will not let you try.

"But she told me she will not die. That we will not die out here. She says help will come from the sky. A bird of some kind."

"We have seen the metal birds of the white men -- but they will not help us."

"She knows they will not, Hotan. She says another kind of bird will come."

The Indian looked at the old woman for a minute, then rose to his feet. Turned again to the younger woman.

"Watch well, Yama." He glanced to the side where three Indians sat on another platform weaving strips of palm-leaf into a mat.

"We will have a house for her soon," he said.

Turning, he stepped to the branch, flexed his knees and jumped. He caught the branch above and swung himself up to a higher platform.

Ramon had no memory of his father or of the two brothers he had lost when their boat was wrecked, and he know only what Franz had told him of the wreck. But the sight of the shark attacking the man in the water had been familiar somehow, and long-lost memories began to come back as he sat in his cave among the roots of the tree.

There were tears in his eyes when Juana knelt beside him. She gathered his head into her arms and pulled it against her breast.

Near the other end of the tree Pablo knelt on the branch and reached for one of the ropes that held a raft. Slowly he pulled it toward him.

As the raft came within reach he knelt and turned it so the open door was uppermost.

As the doorway came to the top a water bag popped out of it. Then another and another.

"They float!" The tone of Maria's voice betrayed her amazement.

Pablo turned his head, looked at her.

"The cans contain fresh water, senorita. It floats on salt water."

Lying flat on the branch, he reached down. Picked the bags one by one out of the sea and passed them to the man behind him.

Pedro made crude packsacks of rope and parachute cloth so he and Manuel could carry one case of canned water each. He slung an extra length of rope around his shoulders, clipped his knife and his machete to his belt and crammed the expanding pockets of his coveralls with hundred-gram food bars.

Now the two worked their way toward the others -- walking and climbing over and through the criss-cross branches of floating trees. Several times they came to dead ends where they had to work their way back, then try another route.

The straight-line distance they had to cover was no more than 100 meters but there was no straight-line route. If they were lucky, Pedro thought, they might have to travel no more than a kilometer.

At one point they had to cross a floating log barely big enough to hold the weight of one man. Manuel went first, holding his arms out to each side for balance. He nearly made it.

But not quite. He was three meters from safety when the log turned under him and he fell with a splash.

He floated without a movement when he came to the surface. Drifted toward the floating log and rested a hand gently on it.

"Manuel!" Pedro began to edge out on the log. "Are you all right?"

"No senor -- stop." Manuel's face was tense, his voice little more than a whisper. "Please be quiet. Go back. Find a small branch, and beat the water with it."

"Why..."

"Please, senor."

Manuel's face was serious and his whisper intense. Pedro moved back to the larger log and knelt. Picked a branch the size of a baseball bat out of the water and held it up for Manuel to see.

"How about this?"

"That will do, senor. Now beat the water! Hit it many times, and as hard as you can!"

Bending, Pedro swung the branch at the surface of the water. Slashed back and forth.

As Pedro beat the surface of the sea, Manuel grabbed the small log with his hands and pulled himself along it until he could reach the branch of a tree. He pulled himself quickly onto the tree and stood, about ten meters from Pedro.

"All right, senor," he said in his normal voice. "You can rest now. Thank you."

Sweating from his exertion, Pedro straightened up and rested the tip of the branch on the tree at his feet.

"All right. Now can you tell me what that was about?"

"Sharks, senor. A small one right beside me when I fell in. He was nosing my leg to decide whether I was dangerous or not."

"And you just floated there?" Pedro's eyes opened wide.

"If I had moved, senor, he would have bitten me!"

"Eaten you, you mean."

"Not him, senor -- he was too small to eat anyone. But if he had bitten me I would have struggled and big ones would have heard it. While I stayed very still, I was safe for a while."

"And the branch? Beating the water?"

"Noise, senor. You scared the small one away -- you might have scared a big one if he had been close enough -- and you made more noise than I did when I moved. If a big shark had come he would have gone to where you were beating the water -- not to me."

"Okay." Pedro thought for a moment. "What now?" You're over there and I'm over here -- and there are sharks in between."

Manuel smiled. "Now senor, I think we wait. A shark might still come to see what the noise was, but in half an hour I think it will be safe for you to cross. I will have a branch ready while you do it."

"Wait? Here?"

"There is a big tree behind you where you will be comfortable, senor, and one over there that will be comfortable for me. I think it would be best if we went to them -- unless you would rather take your chances with the sharks?"

"I'll wait, thanks." Pedro turned and began to work his way back to the tree.

Pedro's crossing was easy enough. Arms spread, he edged along the log. Looking down into the water at the half-way point he saw the small shark -- perhaps six feet long -- that waited below. Looking up he saw Manuel ready with a branch.

But Pedro did not fall and in minutes they were on their way again. Manuel led from tree to tree and from log to floating log until mid morning when they came to a tree that rubbed up against the next, but was not tangled with it. Manuel stopped and pointed.

I think we have made it senor. That" -- he pointed to the next tree, "was there before. This" -- he pointed to the tree on which they stood, "has just drifted in. Look -- they are not tangled."

Pedro raised his arm and took a sight with his wrist-compass. Then he pointed to his right.

"That way."

"No senor." Manuel's face was sober. "Not that way. That would take us back onto the new trees. The ones that drifted in last night."

"But look. The compass shows...."

"The compass is wrong, senor, because the logs are moving."

"Moving -- yes -- but ..."

"Moving in a circle, senor. Spinning around." Manuel held his hand before him, forefinger pointed down, moved it in a circle.

"I noticed it while we waited senor. When I crossed the log, the sun was behind me. A half hour later, when you crossed it, it should have been to your left."

"I didn't notice."

"But I did, senor. The sun was on your right -- the left side of your face was in shadow."

"Then we are lost?"

"A little bit lost, senor, but not very much. It is not far to the others." He pointed to a near-vertical branch on the next tree.

"From that branch I think I will be able to see them."

Two big branches formed a bridge between the tree on which they stood and the one with the vertical branch. Manuel shrugged off his load of water and left it with Pedro before he crossed the bridge and climbing. About two meters up, he froze.

"Senor! His voice was soft, like a stage-whisper."

"Si?"

"Mira." Look.

Following Manuel's gaze, Pedro saw nothing. He looked again, and again he saw nothing.

"By the base of that big branch, senor."

By the base of a big branch on the tree beyond Manuel a man, wearing only a loincloth, stood with a short bow and a two-meter arrow. The bow was bent, held horizontal at waist level, the arrow pointed at Manuel.

Pedro spread his arms. Held his hands out, palms up, empty. Smiled and slowly stepped onto the branch that led to the other tree. The Indian turned to point the arrow at him.

"Buenas dias?" Pedro smiled.

"He may not speak Spanish, senor." Manuel's voice was soft.

Pedro kept his voice soft and his eyes on the Indian as he spoke.

"Who is he?"

"I think perhaps he is an Ayuba, senor. They live in the swamps near the mouth of the river."

"Are they friendly?"

"Some of them come to San Felipe to trade, senor, but they do not allow others to enter their swamp."

"And he thinks this is his swamp."

"It is where he lives now, senor."

"Then what do we do?"

"I think, senor, we move very slowly back to that other tree and find some other way to reach our friends."

"This man will need help too."

"He will, senor. But we cannot talk to him and he does not know you can help him. Step back senor, please."

"I will." Still smiling, hands still held in front of him, Pedro backed slowly down the branch to the tree he had started from. As he stopped, the arrow swung back to point at Manuel again.

Now the fisherman slid slowly down the branch and held out his hands to show that they were empty. Then, watching the Indian, he slowly backed to the bridge of crossed branches and edged his way back across it.

"Now we are safe, I think." Manuel knelt slowly to pick up his load of water and slowly swung it to settle on his back. He held out his hands again to show the Indian they were empty, then turned to head back in the direction from which they had come.

"One moment." Pedro reached back over his shoulder into the case from which he and Manuel had taken a couple of cans of water earlier.

From it he lifted out one can and held it so the Indian could see his hands. He popped the seal, lifted the can and took a drink from it. Then he bent to set the open can on the log at his feet. He reached again to remove six more cans from the case and set them beside the first.

Then he followed Manuel, keeping his hands spread with palms up.

As the white men retreated Hayma relaxed his bow, squatted and tried to control the pounding of his heart. He closed his eyes and thought of the Mother but that didn't help him now. Even when she slept he could feel her comforting presence as long as she was well, but now he could feel only the pain of her swollen leg.

He opened his eyes again and looked after the white men. They were out of sight but he could still hear them, and they were still moving away. That was good.

On the tree stood the seven cans one of them had left behind. Hayma eyed them suspiciously. He recognized the cans -- they were like the ones Domec sometimes brought back from Rio Blanco when the trading had been good -- but for more than a hundred years his people had known better than to accept gifts from a white man.

Still, such cans usually contained drink and the white man had drunk from one of them. This would not be the water Mayta said the Mother needed, but it might be better for her than coconut milk.

Like a ghost, Hayma faded back among the branches behind him. Silent and nearly invisible he searched for the trap he feared. It was nearly twenty minutes before he approached close enough to touch the cans.

It was nearly an hour after they met the Indian that Pedro and Manuel heard the call -- faint at first and then louder as though the caller were coming closer.

Manuel called back and the two moved toward the sound. Another call and another answer.

Finally they were close enough to make out words through the screen of trees and branches that muffled them.

"Hola, senor. Where are you?"

There was a vertical branch nearby. Manuel climbed it and looked about, then turned his eyes down as a movement caught his eye.

There -- at the end of the tree. A small wooden boat, moved backwards through the branches. A young man sat in the bow, using an aluminum oar to paddle the boat like a canoe.

"Hola! You with the boat" This way"!"

"I see you now!" the young man dug his paddle into the water and drove the boat ahead. A few more strokes and he rested. The boat coasted to a stop beside Pedro while Manuel was still climbing down from the branch.

Manuel studied the boy's face as he approached.

"Don't I know you? Are you from San Felipe?"

"Si senor. I am Pablo Gutierrez. I worked on the Santa Anna."

"Now I remember. Your father is Gonzalez Gutierrez."

"Si senor."

Manuel turned to Pedro. "A boy from my own village. I know his father well -- he is a good fisherman."

He turned to the boy again. "And you were on the Santa Anna? Where is Sanchez?"

"The boat is gone, senor, I don't know about Captain Sanchez. We were just clearing the harbor when we were holed by a log. I was knocked overboard but there was another log and I grabbed it. I don't know what happened to the boat after that, senor."

"Well, we are all here now, anyway." Manuel stepped into the boat and held it steady while Pedro boarded.

Pedro looked about the boat and recognized it.

"This is the boat the girl was in, isn't it?"

"I don't know, senor. It is from San Felipe -- I have seen it there -- and it was moored by the rafts when I came with you the night before last. The big man -- Ramon? -- he saved it when the raft and the other boat sank.

"Ramon? Did he send you to find us?" Pedro sat in the center seat as he spoke. Manuel moved to the stern.

"Ramon did not send me, senor. I came because I knew you would need a boat."

The boy backed water with his paddle, then dug in to turn the boat and drive it ahead. Deftly, he guided it through the maze of branches into clear water. Manuel picked up the second oar that lay in the bottom and began to paddle along with Pablo.

"What is Ramon doing now" Pedro asked. "He was going to try to get the rafts back -- did he do it?"

"The rafts are safe, senor. They have holes in them but we took them out of the water and hung them on the tree.

"But Ramon did not get them -- he is sitting among the roots of the tree now, wishing he was back on land."

"But the others have food and water?"

"Yes. Maria -- the senorita from the store -- has it all piled on the tree and she gives some to people when they ask. Most of the other things from the rafts are piled on the tree too."

"The radios?"

"The radios." Pablo's face showed distress. "One of them is on the tree, senor. We hope you will be able to make it work."

"One of them. That will be the one that was still sealed, I guess. It will work. The other -- the one that was in use -- will have been ruined when the raft sank. Did Ramon throw it out?"

"No senor. That is the one on the tree. It is wet -- does that mean it will not work now?"

"No, it won't work. But the other one will. It floats, and it can float in the sea for six months and still work. It has to be there someplace."

"But it is not sealed, and it does not float. It was bitten by a shark, senor, and it sank."

"A shark? How did that happen?"

"When they were pulling in the rafts, senor. One of them caught on a branch, and a man jumped into the sea to free it. Sharks attacked, and the radio was floating beside him. He pushed it into the mouth of one of the sharks."

"Damn! Did he survive? Did the sharks get him?"

"Ramon and the others pulled him out of the water senor, but it was too late. He died in a little while."

"Shit!" Pedro hung his head. For several minutes he stared at the bottom of the boat.

"Senor?" Manuel touched his shoulder.

Pedro raised his head and turned to look at him.

"Yes?"

"Without the radios, senor, they will still be able to find us? We had no radio when you found us."

"Yes, they will find us. There were radar reflectors on the rafts -- those square things on top. We will have to hang them on the highest branches we can find."

"We lost one of them too, senor." Pablo spoke with regret. "It tore off when we pulled the raft from the water, and it sank."

Pedro turned and looked at him.

"There is still one left?"

"One, senor."

Now Manuel spoke.

"One is enough. Even without the radar reflectors -- you found us."

"Yes, but that was one chance in a million. We found you the first time because one man in the United States looked at the right part of a photograph with a magnifying glass. We cannot hope that will happen again."

"But they are looking for us now."

"They are, but the sea is very big, my friend, and with all this stuff floating around us it would be very hard to find anything. They cannot look forever."

"Perhaps not, senor. But we must hope."

"Yes we must." Pedro hung his head again and thought of the man killed by the shark.

"Senor?" Manuel's voice was soft. A whisper.

"Yes?" Pedro turned to look at him.

The fisherman faced straight ahead, but his eyes were turned to the side.

"We have company, senor. Don't look now, but in a minute take a look at that big tree to the right. In the shade of the third branch."

Pedro kept looking at Manuel.

"More survivors?"

"No, senor. An Indian. The one we met, perhaps. I saw him before too -- he is following us!"

"Oh." Pedro swung sideways on the seat and leaned back against the gunwale. The movement turned his face to the left and when he lay back, as though relaxing, he could study the trees.

"Third branch, you said?"

"Just to the left of it. Above that floating bush."

Now Pedro could make out the legs. The body and the suggestion of a head.

"Is that the same one?"

"I don't know for sure, senor. It might be."

"And why would they follow us?"

"To see who we are, senor, and where we came from and where we go. You gave him water, and it is very valuable here. He must wonder about us."

"But he wouldn't try to rob us, would he?"

"I don't think so, senor. One man in San Felipe accused an Indian of robbing him."

"What happened?"

"There was a fight, and the man from San Felipe was killed."

"And?"

"Two policemen went into the swamp to arrest the Indian. They did not come back."

"Oh."

"The others, senor. They have food and water now. They do not need what we bring."

"No, they don't. Not for a while."

"I do not like leaving the bundles out there. I think it is dangerous."

"The Indians?"

"Perhaps. But also remember that those trees drifted in last night. They may drift out again tonight."

Pedro looked at him. "You're right."

"We have the boat, senor. Could we go now to get them?"

"We couldn't get all of them in this boat."

"No senor. But we could bring some of them."

"Okay -- but I can't help you. I have to go to the others. Pablo?"

"Si senor?"

"Take me to the tree first and leave me there. Then go with Manuel and help him get the bundles."

"Si senor." Still paddling, Pablo nodded his head. "When I was looking for you senor, I got very close to the tree where you hung the marker. If I had a machete, I think I could reach it. Is that where you left the bundles?"

"A machete?"

"Si senor. There were only a few small branches between me and the tree."

"I looked this morning and I didn't see any way."

"There are branches to be cut, senor." Pablo stopped paddling for a moment and pointed ahead. "There is the tree where the others wait."

The tree had been on the edge of the floating island when Pedro found it but it was surrounded by others now. The one that had punctured the rafts still floated end-on near the branch where the rafts had been moored and others crowded behind it, leaving a channel about ten meters wide half-full of branches, small logs and other debris beside the trunk.

About twenty people waited, most of them sitting or lying in small groups on the trunk. Some appeared to be trying to sleep, others were sitting up and talking.

The remains of the rafts were partly visible, draped like yellow tents over a couple of nearly-horizontal branches in the crown, and most of the supplies were stacked near the base of the tall vertical branch where Ramon had tied the polka-dotted bandana.

Someone shouted as the boat came in sight and most of the crowd stood to watch it approach. One slender figure broke from a group near the base of the vertical branch and ran the length of the trunk toward the approaching boat, waving and calling.

"Hola senor! Buenas dias senor!" Maria sounded almost like a child in her excitement.

"Buenas dias, Maria." Pedro was trying to see how badly the rafts had been damaged, and he kept his eyes on them as he spoke.

They were in the channel beside the tree now, heading toward the branch where the rafts had been moored. Maria kept pace, talking as she walked.

"You have a visitor senor!"

"Oh?" Pedro looked at her now.

"An Indio. An Ayuba, from the swamp at the mouth of the river. He says you met a friend of his."

"I did, muchacha." Pedro turned to look at the rafts again.

"He wants to speak with you, senor." There was a trace of resentment in her voice.

"I will speak with him, muchacha." Pedro spoke with patience, as to a child.

Two men waited on the branch as the boat approached. They caught it, swung it alongside and held it.

Pedro handed one of them the two cases of canned water he and Manuel had brought. The other survivors gathered on the trunk near the base of the branch as he turned and spoke to Manuel.

"You will go back for the supplies now, my friend?"

"I will, senor, in a few moments. But first I think we have another job to do." He pointed to the parachute draped over a shape on the tree trunk. Blood oozed from under it and stained the bark.

"It would not be good to keep him around too long, senor. The weather is warm."

Pedro looked at the shape and at the people who stood on the tree.

"You are right my friend. But what do we do?"

"Sink it, senor. That is the only way, at sea."

"How? Everything here floats!"

Manuel thought for a moment. "On a ship, senor, he would be wrapped in sailcloth and weighted. Here -- we have the parachutes, but I do not know about the weight."

Sitting in the bow, Pablo reached down and lifted what looked like an old paint can with a rope fastened to the handle.

"This is very heavy, senor. I think it is filled with sand or gravel."

Manuel looked up. His face brightened.

"The anchor. We will not need that!"

"Will it do?"

"It will do, senor. It is heavy enough to sink the body before the sharks find it."

"Won't they find it anyway when it's on the bottom?"

"Something will find it, senor, but we will not see it, and it will not be the sharks we see up here. It is not good to let sharks that hunt near the surface learn what human flesh tastes like."

"Okay." Pedro turned to the boy in the bow. "Give me the anchor, Pablo." He took it and set it on the branch at his feet. Then he turned to Manuel.

"I'll do the burial while you and Pablo get the water. Take a couple of others with you." He turned to the two men on the branch.

"I will go senor, if there is work to be done."

"And I, senor."

"Good." Pedro turned to the fisherman. "Manuel?"

"I will go, senor, but -- not yet." He pointed to the log where Maria and the others waited. Beside Maria stood a brown skinned man wearing only a gee string.

"You have a visitor," Manuel continued, "and I think it may be important that you speak with him. I will prepare the body for burial -- it will not take long."

"Okay." Pedro concealed his relief. He had helped with burials before, but he was not anxious to handle this one. He glanced at the Indian, then back to Manuel. As he turned toward the group on the trunk of the tree, a man scrambled down to the branch, slipped and nearly fell. He regained his balance and spoke as he approached.

"The Indian, senor. Do not trust him."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because, senor, he is an Indian." The man glanced at Maria.

"The muchacha, she talks to them. I think she is half-Indian herself!"

Pedro looked at the man. Saw the ragged clothes, the bronze complexion and the high cheekbones.

"And is that bad?"

"It is," the man replied. Indians are not civilized like you and I. You should not trust them!"

"I'll keep my eye on them." Pedro turned and walked to the trunk of the tree.

"Senor?" Maria called.

"One moment, muchacha."

Pedro stepped onto the trunk. Knelt and lifted a section of the parachute cloth that covered the body. Looked at the face beneath. Lifted the cloth further and saw where the chunk had been bitten out of the man's side.

He was about to lower the cloth when he heard Manuel's gasp behind him. His words.

"Pablo! What is this?"

He turned and saw Manuel and Pablo staring at the trickle of blood that dripped into the sea. Manuel's face was serious, Pablo's red with embarrassment.

"He tried to stop it, senor." Maria spoke from the tree. "He warned the men they should not swim."

"It's too late to worry about it," Pedro said.

"Too late to worry about the man, senor. But look."

Pedro looked where Manuel pointed and saw the dribble of blood.

"I don't... "

"In the sea, senor. Look into the sea!"

Under the trickle of blood, three huge sharks waited.

"You must be very careful now, senor. Warn the others to be very careful.

"They taste the blood. They will strike immediately if anyone falls in."

Pedro looked thoughtfully at the sharks.

"Is there anything we can do about them?"

"Not now, senor. Just be very careful."

Pedro turned his eyes back to the dead man, then lowered the parachute cloth. Looked about at the people who watched.

"I will," he said. "We all will."

He stood and walked toward Maria and the Indian, who offered a shy smile.

Maria turned half sideways and gestured toward the Indian. "This is Hotan, senor. He is an Indian. An Ayuba."

"Mucho gusto!" Pedro stepped forward smiling, with his hand outstretched. Alarmed, the Indian stepped back.

"They do not shake hands, senor." Maria remained calm as she spoke. "He does not speak Spanish."

"Oh." Pedro relaxed. He dropped his hand and stepped back a half-pace, then turned to Maria.

"You know them?"

"A little, senor. My mother was of their tribe. They came sometimes to trade at my father's store."

"Oh? What did they trade?"

"Leaves, senor. Bark from trees. Herbs. Things to make medicines from. Matte, for my mother."

"And you speak their language?"

"A little, senor. Not well."

"But you can interpret? Translate?"

"I can, senor. He says one of his friends saw you this morning. He is sorry his friend pointed an arrow at you" -- Maria looked concerned as she spoke -- "but he was afraid."

She paused. "They do not trust white men, senor. They still remember the Spaniards.

"But he says you gave his friend water, senor."

"I did."

"He thanks you, senor, and he asks if you have more."

"Tell him we have lots of water. He can have all he needs."

"He does not ask for gifts, senor. The Ayuba are traders, and he brings food to trade for water." Maria turned to the Indian and spoke a few words in a strange guttural language. The Indian stepped back, knelt and picked up a string of three fish. He held them up for Pedro to see.

"How did he catch those?"

"They shoot them, senor, with the bow and arrow. His friend was fishing when you met him."

"With a bow and arrow? I've heard of that, but I thought it only worked in shallow water."

Maria turned to the Indian and translated. The Indian spoke for a moment, moving his hands to illustrate something.

Now Maria spoke again to Pedro. "He says that is usually so, senor. But one of his friends noticed that some fish come close to the surface here -- to feed on things that float in the water. His friend began fishing. He says there are many fish around here."

The Indian watched them as they talked and worry crept into his face. He reached behind him again and brought forward six coconuts in a loose net of knotted fiber. He set them beside the fish.

Then a bundle of sticks, each about one the size of a baseball bat. He set them beside the fish and the coconuts.

"What are those?"

"Palmetto, senor. Part of the center of the tree is soft, and very good to eat."

"Did he get all that stuff out here?"

"He did, senor. Coconuts float -- the fisherman find them often. I have seen palmetto floating around here myself."

Pedro looked at the Indian, wonder in his face. "I know about the coconuts -- we found some yesterday -- but I didn't even think about the other stuff. I bet he could live out here forever!"

"For a long time, senor."

"Is he alone?"

"He came to us alone, senor, but there are many of his people near. They knew about the flood, senor, and they went out to sea in their canoes before it caught them.

"Some of the canoes were turned over and some were lost, but most of the Indians lived. Some are watching us now, I think, but we cannot see them."

"And they need water. How much have we?"

Many cans, senor. Enough for a week or more if we are careful."

"Okay. Give him one of the cases Manuel and I brought, and tell him he can have more later. Tell him we have more water over there" -- he pointed toward the tree where the bundles had been left.

"Tell him we will bring them here soon, and that he can have more then."

Maria turned to the Indian. Spoke and listened. The Indian spoke for more than a minute before she turned to translate.

"He knows about the things you left, senor. When his friend brought the water back to camp, some of the others went to see where you had come from.

"He says the things you left are not safe, senor. He thinks they may drift away.

"He says there is no need for you to bring the water here, senor -- he can meet you there and trade. He says that is closer to where his friends camp than we are here."

Pedro had been facing Maria as she spoke. He would have replied to her, but she flicked her eyes to the Indian. Pedro paused, then turned to face the Indian as he spoke the words Maria would translate.

"Tell him we thank him for the warning, and we will bring the water here soon. Tell him it would not be good for him to go there, because it is very difficult to get there without a boat."

Maria didn't bother to translate this. "Not for him, senor. He lives in the swamp and he can walk on water."

"Walk on water? How?" Pedro turned to face Maria now.

"It is something they learn, senor, from living in the swamp."

"What do you mean? People can't walk on water!"

"He can, senor. He did it to reach us, and you will see him do it again when he leaves."

"He could bring the others back here. This tree is big enough, and my friends will be looking for us."

"They will not come, senor. It is their way to live separate from white men."

"Okay." Pedro thought a moment. "But if they won't come here we'll have to find out where they are, so we can pick them up when help comes.

"Now what? Do we give him the water?"

"We do, senor." Maria turned to a woman who stood nearby and asked her to fetch the carton of water. Pedro turned to go for it himself, but stopped when he felt Maria's hand on his arm.

"Let the woman do it, senor."

"I can get it."

"Please let the woman do it, senor." Maria glanced toward the Indian. "He would be surprised if you went for it."

"Do they not carry things? Do their women do all the work?"

"We are in camp, senor. This is our home. Men carry things outside the home and some things in the home -- but food and water are womens' business among his people. In the home, men take them only from a woman."

"Oh." Pedro stood uneasily while the woman fetched the carton of water and handed it to him.

"You must put it down, senor, beside the goods he brought."

Pedro knelt, placed the carton beside the fish, the coconuts and the palmetto. Stood and saw the happy smile on the Indian's face.

"What now?"

"If he picks it up, senor, he makes the trade."

With a smile the Indian knelt and picked up the carton. He nodded his head to Pedro, then to Maria, turned and trotted toward the roots of the tree.

Pedro watched in amazement as, carrying the carton, the Indian turned and jumped from the tree to a small log that floated about two meters from it. Pedro would have sworn the log would not support a man and his judgment was confirmed as the Indian sank knee-deep on it.

But as he sank he ran the length of the log and jumped to another small log, then another and another.

In seconds he had crossed twenty meters of water, leaving a half-dozen small logs -- none of them big enough to bear his weight -- bobbing behind him when he jumped to another tree.

Something moved among the branches at the far end of the tree and Pedro thought he saw a human form.

The Indian stopped just before he reached the branches. Turned, lifted the carton to arms' length above his head. Lowered it, turned again and disappeared.

Pedro looked after him in wonder until he heard Manuel at his shoulder.

"Senor?"

"Yes?" Pedro turned.

"Yes?"

"The body, senor. The dead man. He is ready for burial now. Will you watch?"

Behind Manuel the body lay wrapped in a parachute. A rope from the boat anchor was fastened to one end. Most of the people of the tree waited.

The funeral was simple. Manuel spoke a few words, then Pablo and Ramon slid the dead man's body off the side of the tree. There was a splash as the anchor hit the water, a bubble of air was forced out of the parachute, and the body was gone.

Forward to book four of Rescue Trooper

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