Pedro and Ramon met at the fire and sat down together. Ramon took a sip of coconut milk, swallowed, turned to Pedro and spoke.

"So. Today we build the platform, senor."

"Wrong. You build it, my friend. It is your job."

"If you wish, senor. But may I have help?"

"All you want. Manuel will take some men for fishing, and the teacher will be working on the reflector, but you can use everyone else.

"I'll help too, when I can. Have you planned the job yet?"

"I have, senor." Ramon pointed to the branch to which the rafts had been moored and to another, also nearly flat on the water, about ten meters from it.

"If the Indians bring the axe, senor, I can cut logs to build a platform across those two branches. That would give us plenty of space."

"But can you find the logs?"

"I think so, senor, with the boat. I saw some when we went for the bundles, and there must be others."

Manuel spoke from behind them.

"You will find the logs, my friend, but I don't think you want to build your platform that way."

Ramon turned. "Oh? Why not?"

Manuel carried a fish. He handed it to Juana before he turned back to the men.

"It would be too heavy, my friend. Don't forget this tree is floating in water." He squatted beside Ramon and pointed.

"See. Even now those branches slope down to water level. If you build your platform with logs it will be very heavy, and they will slope down farther."

He turned to Pedro.

"And I wonder, senor, how it will change the stability of the tree."

Pedro looked up. "How so?"

"I have been thinking, senor, and I am not sure this tree is stable. It might roll over in a strong wind or if we get big waves."

"Roll over? How?" Ramon was incredulous. "Look at those branches lying on the water -- they will keep it steady."

"Perhaps, but look." Manuel pointed to the high vertical branch nearby.

"How much does that branch weigh? And all those other branches sticking up?

"How much wind do they catch? Very much, my friend -- as much as the sail on a big boat.

"And with that wind, they could tip the tree. Just a little bit."

"A little bit of tip won't hurt."

"No? Think again." Manuel pointed down. "Think of the branches under the tree -- the ones we can't see. How many are they, and how big?

"Those branches are trying to float -- they are pushing up. For now, they do us no harm.

"But if the tree leans a bit -- then what? It may try to find a new position to float in and it may roll over."

"And the sharks are waiting." Pedro said.

"The sharks are waiting, senor."

"So what do we do?" Ramon asked. "Is there anything we can do?"

"I think so, my friend. You have seen an outrigger canoe?"

"I haven't seen one, but I have seen pictures."

"They are very stable." Manuel pointed to the branches Ramon had chosen for his platform.

"If you were to push a big log -- perhaps a meter in diameter -- under those branches, it would lift them out of the water a bit and make them level.

"And then if you tie the log to the branches very securely, this tree would be stable like an outrigger canoe. It could not roll this way" -- he moved his hand in a circle -- "because the log would hold the branches up. It would not roll this way" -- he moved his hand in a reversed circle -- "because the log would hold the branches down."

"Yes."

"You might even be able to get two logs under there. One at the tips of the branches and one beside the tree. They would be only a few meters apart."

"Yes!" Ramon's interest showed in his face and in his tone of voice. "Then it would be easier to build the platform because we would have only a few meters to bridge, not ten."

Ramon glanced at Pedro, then turned back to Manuel.

"But there is a problem, my friend. How do we get the log under the branch? We have no tractor."

"And you don't need one. You could use levers to push the end under, no?"

"We could. But then?"

"Then -- do you know a Spanish windlass?"

"Ramon nodded. "I know it, but we need ropes."

"I think you have them, my friend." Manuel turned to Pedro. "The small ropes from the parachutes -- they are very strong, no?"

"They are."

"And the parachutes are gone now -- the women used the cloth and some of the rope to make parachutes. Could our friend not use the rest of the ropes?"

"Of course -- but what's a Spanish windlass?"

"A fisherman's trick," Manuel explained. We use it to haul heavy boats up on the beach."

"You run two lines very close together -- or you double one line. Then you push a stick between the lines and twist them, one around the other. It is hard on the ropes, but one can pull very big loads with it."

"It's a logger's trick too," Ramon said, "for moving heavy logs when there is no tractor. I have never done it, but I seen it done."

"But," he turned to Manuel, "it works best with very thick ropes. The ropes from the parachute may be strong enough, but they that very thin!"

"There are very many of them," Manuel said. "A bundle of thin ropes works just as well as a thick one."

"True." Ramon nodded his head slowly.

"We could put three logs under the branches, perhaps. That would be better still for the platform."

"Three logs would be better, my friend, but don't forget that someone must cut them!"

"Senor?" Maria spoke as she approached.

"Yes?" Pedro turned as she knelt beside him with some chunks of coconut and a fillet of cooked fish on a piece of coconut shell in one hand and an open can of water in the other.

"Your breakfast, senor."

As Maria returned to the fire she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Hotan, the Ayuba, splashed across some apparently-open water and jumped onto the tree with a bunch of plantains balanced on one shoulder and a string of coconuts hanging from the other hand. Maria watched him approach and wondered if he had ever left a woman to spend the night alone. She was sure he had not.

But as the Indian neared, his pace faltered. He sniffed the air, hesitated, then walked slowly forward and spoke to her.

"Good morning, lady." Hotan's language sounded guttural but the words were more courtly than Spanish. But Hotan did not look courtly now -- his face was troubled.

"Good morning, Hotan."

"Your gentleman, lady. He is eating breakfast?"

Maria glanced to the side where Pedro sat about two meters away. Pedro had stopped eating and waited for the Indian to turn to him, but Hotan appeared to be unaware of his presence.

"He is eating, Hotan."

"I am sorry, lady. I am late. I did not know he had fish and I thought to bring him plantain for his breakfast." He broke a plantain off the bunch he carried and handed it to Maria.

"Thank you, Hotan. I will cook it for his lunch." Maria took the plantain and set it beside the fire.

"I came to speak with him, lady. May I wait?"

"Please do, Hotan. Would it please you to sit while you wait?"

"Thank you, lady. It would." Crossing his legs, Hotan sank to a sitting position on the log and closed his eyes. The women continued their cooking and the other men continued eating as though the Indian were not there. Pedro waited a minute, then spoke to Maria.

"Muchacha?"

"Senor?"

Pedro nodded toward the Indian. "Did he come to see me?"

"He did, senor."

"But ... " Pedro hesitated. "But why doesn't he speak to me?"

"Because you are eating, senor. He will not interrupt."

"But I can't just ignore him! Should I speak to him?"

Maria glanced at the Indian and shook her head.

"While his eyes are closed, senor, he pretends he is not here. He would be offended if you noticed him."

"Then what should I do?"

"Finish your breakfast, senor. When you are through I will tell Hotan and he will open his eyes."

"What does he want to talk about?"

She nodded toward the plantains and the coconuts now resting on the tree beside Hotan.

"He wants to trade, I am sure, and I think he wonders about our fish."

"I'd better speak to him."

"He will be offended if you notice him before you finish your breakfast." She shot a glance at the Indian. "He wonders what we are speaking about now, senor."

Pedro looked at Hotan and saw the look of worry on his face. He gulped the rest of his fish, drained the can of coconut milk and stood.

"Okay. I'm done. What now?"

Maria grimaced. Perhaps the senor did not care for her cooking! She kept her thoughts to herself and answered his question.

"Now I tell him you are finished, senor." She spoke a few words to Hotan. The Indian opened his eyes, jumped to his feet and spoke.

"He greets you, senor. He hopes you enjoyed your breakfast."

"I did, thank you. And tell him I'm glad to see him. He glanced at Ramon and Manuel, who continued eating, then turned back to Maria.

"Can we offer him anything? Should we?"

A cigarette, senor.All Indians smoke when they can, but cigarettes are very expensive and they do not have much money."

"It would be good to offer him a can of water too, senor."

"Give him water, of course. From the corner of his eye he saw a movement and turned to see Ramon, without looking at him, take a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket and hold them up. Pedro took the pack, pulled a cigarette from it and offered it to Hotan as Maria translated. He smiled, and spoke as Maria brought the can of water.

"He hopes, senor, that you are keeping enough cigarettes for yourself and for the others here. He sees there are not many left in the package."

"Tell him we have more.

An eager look came over Hotan's face as Maria translated.

"He asks if you have matches, senor. He says it is very difficult to make fire out here.

"They make fire with stones," she explained.

With Ramon's lighter Pedro lit Hotan's cigarette. As Hotan watched he lit the lighter a couple of times, to demonstrate how it worked, then handed it to the Indian. Hotan accepted it dubiously and set it down on the tree.

"Please apologize to him. Tell I should have thought about a lighter."

Maria spoke. Gravely the Indian bowed his head.

"He thanks you, senor. But he wonders what he can offer in exchange for it."

"Would he accept it as a gift -- with no exchange?"

"Not from you, senor. He would accept a gift only from a member of his family or a very close friend. Never from a stranger, and especially not from a white man."

"Why not?"

"It is his way, senor."

"Okay." Pedro thought for a moment, then continued. "Tell him that Manuel left a boat among the trees somewhere. The boat is no good now, but there are things in it that we want. Tell him we will give him another lighter and three packages of cigarettes if he will find the boat and bring these things to us."

The Indian looked worried as Maria translated. He hesitated before he answered.

"He knows where the boat is, senor. He asks what things you want from it."

"Everything, but we don't need it all at once. The axe is most important -- we need that first. There are also fish-hooks and lines, ropes and nets."

The Indian's face fell as Maria translated. He spoke slowly, obviously embarrassed.

"He says he is sorry, senor. When they found the boat, his friends thought it had been abandoned. They have used the axe, they have used the fishline and the rope to make things with, and they have cut some of the nets to make hammocks. They will bring you the axe, senor, and the hammocks they made from the nets."

"That's all right. The boat was abandoned, and we don't mind them using things. Tell him to keep the nets, the ropes and the line -- anything they have made from them. We want the axe and the file though -- tell him we need them to make platforms with. The other things don't matter."

The Indian's face brightened as Maria spoke.

But the smile did not last. It faded. The Indian spoke again.

He is still sorry about using the tools, senor. He cannot accept the lighters for bringing you what is already yours.

The lighters still lay on the trunk of the tree in front of Hotan. He pushed them toward Pedro as Maria spoke.

He knows that we catch our own fish now. He wonders if we do not wish to trade for water any more, and he is worried."

"Tell him we still wish to trade for water, but we don't need fish. He brings coconuts and fruit now -- we will trade for nuts and fruit."

He would rather trade for fish, senor."

Why?"

"Because they need much water, senor. "Fish are expensive, and coconuts and fruit are cheap. They know the water is expensive, and they offer us more expensive food in trade for it."

Pedro took a long, slow drag on his cigarette, then flicked the ash from it before he spoke again.

"Why does he think the water is expensive?"

"He knows it is, senor, because it is in cans."

"Does it have to be expensive because it comes in cans?"

Maria looked at him curiously. "Does it not, senor?" "Why should it?"

"Because of the cans. Everything that comes in cans is expensive, even if it is very cheap without the cans.

"In San Felipe the children throw fruit at each other for play -- but fruit in cans is very expensive."

"Tell him that fruit and nuts are very valuable to us. More valuable than fish.

"Tell him it is easier for us to catch fish than to find coconuts and plantain and palmetto, because the fish will come to us but the nuts and fruit will not."

Maria spoke, the Indian answered.

"He is glad, senor, because they have no fish for themselves when they trade fish with us. He says fruit and nuts are easy for the Indians to find, for now.

"But he wonders what they will do when fruit and nuts become harder to find. He says the fruit will be spoiled in a few days, and he is afraid the trees will not stay together very long. He is worried."

"Tell him I am worried too, but my friends are looking for us. Tell him he will have water as long as we have water, and that he and his friends will be able to return to land with us when my friends come."

"He thanks you, senor."

Now Pedro heard Manuel's voice off to the side. Manuel faced Ramon as he spoke and Hotan did not realize that Manuel had joined the conversation.

"The fuel, senor! I had three or four hours' fuel in the boat -- that would be five or six hours for your motor, because it is smaller than mine. They could not bring my motor but they could bring the fuel. Tell him the tank will float -- he doesn't have to carry it while he walks on water."

Pedro turned to Maria. "Can you translate that as though I said it?"

She nodded and translated.

Hotan nodded, and answered. Maria turned again to Pedro.

"He will do it, senor."

"Does he know about fuel and fuel tanks?"

"Of course, senor. They had a motorboat of their own."

"I'm sorry. I don't know anything about them. Will he bring the axe now? Ramon needs it soon.

"Maria spoke. The Indian stood and waited."

"He will, senor. But he came with plantains and fruit to trade -- he would like to make a trade before he leaves."

"Of course." Pedro stood. "What should we offer him?"

"A case of water, senor?"

"Okay." Pedro watched as Maria stepped to the fire and picked up one of the cases of water stacked beside it. She handed it to him and he placed it on the tree beside the plantains and the coconuts.

The Indian smiled and picked up the case. Nodded and turned. Ran down the tree and splashed across the water on three small logs.

The trees that had punctured the rafts had drifted away, and left nearly fifty meters of open water. Pablo was running the boat and he had dropped Ramon and four others on the drifting trees, where Ramon planned to cut a supply of poles while he waited for the axe.

Alfredo had gone with them, still dressed in the remains of his suit and still wearing his hard-soled shoes. He had collected every can within reach of the tree and piled them on the trunk, but many had floated away and some now drifted around the trees on which Ramon's crew would work.

Now the boat carried five fishermen to other trees where they would try their luck for the day. Manuel stayed on the home tree to fish from the branch to which the rafts had been moored.

Pedro stood near the base of the vertical branch where the polka-dot bandana still waved, patiently pumping up the boat he had repaired. He didn't see Maria approach and he was startled when she spoke.

"Senor?"

Pedro looked up.

"The radio senor. The schoolteacher said it would not work."

"Yes."

"And he was right. You tried it this morning, and it did not work."

"Yes."

"But the schoolteacher has been collecting cans, senor. Why does he do that?"

Pedro looked at her. Saw her curiosity.

"He hopes to make a radar reflector, muchacha. To replace the one we lost to the shark."

"He can do this senor? He understands these things?" Maria was impressed.

"He understands, and he might be able to it. Do you know about radar?"

"I have heard of it, senor. It finds things in the dark, and in storms when men can't see."

"Yes -- but it can't find everything. It could not find the life-rafts."

"No, senor? Why not?"

"Because they are made of rubber and air, and rubber is like glass to radar. It will not reflect a radio beam.

"Even these trees do not show well on radar. They are just a blur.

"Radar works best on metal. That's why the reflectors on the rafts are made of metal, and they are shaped to reflect the radar beam very well."

"So the radar can find them, senor?"

"Right. Radar can find a reflector like that from a long way away. It makes a signal that is very easy to see."

"But the plane that was looking for us before had no radar, senor?"

"It had radar and it was looking for our reflector. But the reflector was down here among the branches, so the signal was weak and the radar couldn't see it. That's why I wanted to get it out into the open."

"And the shark ate it."

"And the shark ate it, muchacha.

"But Alfredo thinks he can make another one. If he ties a lot of cans together into a big bundle and hangs it up high, the radar will be able to see it. The man watching the radar will know it is metal, and the plane will come."

"Alfredo will make a bundle of those cans and hang it up high, senor?"

"He will." Pedro pointed to the vertical branch, it's top about fifteen meters above the trunk of the tree.

"Up there. Where it will be out in the open so the radar can see it."

A scream of pain rang over the sea. Pedro jumped to his feet. Pushed past Maria and ran to the open part of the tree trunk. He looked across to the trees where the wood-cutters had landed, and saw the boat with four men in it heading that way.

Pedro shouted but the boat did not turn.

"He cannot hear you over the motor, senor." Still holding his fish-line, Manuel joined Pedro.

"We've got to get him." Pedro funneled his hands to his mouth and shouted. "Pablo!"

Manuel's hand caught his arm. "Wait, senor, the fisherman said. When he reaches the tree he will stop the motor. Then he will hear."

Pedro looked at the fisherman and nodded.

"You get him back here then."

Pedro dashed back to the piled supplies and found his jump bag. He heard Manuel's shout and saw the boat start to return as he turned back to the fisherman.

The boat came at full power, then slowed and swung a sharp turn to coast past the tree. Pedro jumped and landed on one of the four men still in it.

He heard a thump beside him as Manuel landed in the boat. The fisherman stumbled and caught himself on the gunwale. Then Pablo opened the throttle again and the boat surged forward.

Pedro stood with one foot on the gunwale as the boat approached the other tree and jumped as it swung alongside. He sensed that Manuel and at least one man had jumped with him and were keeping pace as he ran toward the screams. He jumped the gap to the next tree and turned to where four men with poles worked at the tree beyond.

Pedro skidded to a stop beside them and saw that the next tree over lay directly beside this one, leaving a gap of a few centimeters between trunks three meters in diameter.

In the gap was Alfredo, one leg caught at the knee and the other raised at an un-natural angle with the foot almost pushed into his face. His screams were weaker now and his face was white and beaded with sweat.

Ramon sat above him on the tree-trunk, feet braced against the other tree. He was trying to lift the injured man out of the gap while the others pried the trees apart.

"He slipped, senor." One of the men spoke as he leaned against his pole."

Pedro set his jump-bag down and opened it. Pulled out a sealed paper packet which he slipped into his shirt pocket, then turned and spoke to the men with the poles.

"Lay off that for now."

As the men relaxed Pedro slid down the sloping side of the tree trunk and caught himself with both feet on the far tree when he was within reach of the injured man. Through his legs he could feel the gentle movement of the trees as they rubbed, one against the other.

He pulled the packet from his pocket, tore the paper and lifted out a one-shot hypodermic needle. Caught Alfredo's flailing arm with one hand but could not hold it still.

Then Ramon caught the arm with both hands and held it while Pedro tore the shirt loose at the shoulder, pushed the needle in and pressed the plunger.

They both watched as the screams stopped and Alfredo's face relaxed.

"Hold him!"

"Si senor." Ramon slid his hands under Alfredo's arms as he slumped.

Pedro looked at the men who stood on the log above him. The fishermen had arrived now, and the wood-cutters were explaining the problem to them in graphic detail.

"Manuel?"

"He is not here, senor." One of the wood-cutters interrupted his tale of horror to answer. "He went back to the boat."

Another voice. "Here he comes now, senor. He has rope."

"Good. You others -- there are more of you now. Someone cut more poles."

"Si senor." Four men moved off toward the branches.

"Two of you," Pedro spoke again. "Get ready to help lift him out!" Two men slid down until they could straddle the gap.

Manuel jumped across and stood on the tree at Alfredo's back. He held a coiled rope in one hand.

"I have rope, senor. We can pull from above!"

"Okay. Throw it down."

Manuel dropped the end of the rope behind Alfredo. Pedro caught it, slipped it under the man's arms and around his chest, then passed the loose end back to Manuel.

"His chest, senor. He should have something to pad it." Manuel stripped off his shirt as he spoke.

He looked across to the men standing on the other log.

"Your shirts," he said. Manuel threw his own shirt down to Pedro and watched as Pedro wadded it in under the rope.

The others took their shirts off and threw them down, and Pedro stuffed them in too.

There were eight men above them now, each with a three-meter pole jammed into the gap. As they leaned on the poles the trees moved a few centimeters apart. Manuel strained on the rope, but Alfredo did not move.

Pedro looked up at Manuel, then turned to The foreman beside him.

"Ramon," he said. "Get up there and help Manuel!"

"Seguro." Ramon climbed out of the gap and grabbed the rope. Pedro stayed with the injured man and watched as Alfredo rose slowly free of the trap.

Manuel had Alfredo laid out on the tree and Ramon was already cutting one of the poles into shorter lengths when Pedro climbed out of the gap and knelt to cut the pants from the crushed leg.

Manuel looked at him. "Senor?"

Pedro looked up. "It's bad, but I'll do what I can. Do you know how to make a stretcher with shirts and poles?

"I do, senor." Ramon set the shorter sticks, cut for splints, beside Pedro as he spoke.

"Do it then." With his knife, Pedro began cutting Alfredo's pant leg into strips.

Hotan was waiting with Maria and the others when they returned to the tree. Alfredo, his leg carefully splinted, rested on a stretcher made of poles and shirts slung sideways across the gunwales of the boat as Pablo eased it carefully up to the trunk.

Under Manuel's direction two men held the boat in place with ropes while four others gently lifted the stretcher onto the tree and carried it into the shade of a leafy branch.

The women followed and one, about thirty years old, stepped forward to kneel by Alfredo and use the hem of her skirt to wipe the sweat from his face. Then she turned to Pedro.

"He sleeps, senor."

"Yes. I gave him a shot." Pedro mimed squeezing a hypodermic with one hand.

The woman looked at Alfredo, then turned back to Pedro.

"And he will wake?"

"Yes. Probably in about two hours."

"But he will not be well?"

"No. His leg is broken. I've done what I can, but it is very bad."

The woman nodded sorrowfully, then turned back to Alfredo and stroked his face gently. She looked at Pedro again.

"I will stay with him, senor," she said. She sat beside Alfredo and gently stroked his face.

As Pedro turned he saw Maria standing close behind him, Hotan at her side. The Indian carried an axe, pliers, a machete and a packet of leaf tied with fishline.

Maria spoke first. "Senor?"

"Yes?"

"Hotan is here, with the tools from the boat."

Pedro turned to Hotan. Maria spoke.

"He says there are fish-hooks too, senor."

Hotan offered the packet. Pedro hesitated but the Indian smiled and pushed the packet forward. Pedro accepted it, untied the line and opened it.

Inside were four lead sinkers and a half-dozen fish-hooks stuck into a piece of twig. Pedro turned to Maria.

"Thank him for the tools. And tell him we thank him for the fish-hooks, but we don't need them. We have some of our own. Would he like to have these ones?"

"They don't use fish-hooks, senor. They fish with the bow and arrow."

"But bow and arrow is not very good for fishing out here. They could catch more with these." He picked the twig with the fish-hooks out of the package.

"He would not use them, senor."

"He could. Manuel could show him how."

"He knows how, senor, but his people do not use them."

"Ask him."

nMaria spoke to the Indian.

Hotan smiled and looked down. Shifted from foot to foot, then looked up and answered.

"He does not want to talk about fishing, senor. He asks about Alfredo. He hopes he will live."

"He will live, but he may have trouble walking."

The Indian's face was somber as Maria translated.

"He is very sorry to hear that, senor, but he is not surprised. One of his friends saw the way Alfredo was trapped.

"He wonders why Alfredo stopped screaming after you climbed down to him."

"Say it's because I gave him some medicine that made him sleep."

Hotan looked at the injured man as Maria translated, then spoke again to her.

"He thought that, senor. He wonders whether the medicine will hurt Alfredo."

"No. It will just make him sleep so he feels no pain."

The Indian spoke again.

He wonders whether you have more of this medicine, senor, and whether it is very expensive."

"Does he need some?"

"A friend of his is very sick, senor. If the medicine is not too expensive, he would like to buy some for the friend."

"The medicine is not expensive but he would have to bring the friend here. I would have to give it to him myself."

The Indian's reply was a long one and he gestured as he spoke.

"He was afraid of that, senor. He says his friend is too sick to come here. He wonders if you will come to their camp?"

"Could I get there?"

"He will take you, senor."

"What is wrong with the friend?"

"It is a woman, senor. She has a bad cut on her leg. It is infected, and he is afraid she will die.

"I think the woman is very important to him, senor. He speaks of her as the Mother-of-all."

"The Mother-of-all?"

"The Ayuba are different from us, senor. Their women are very important among them. Their chief is a woman -- a very powerful witch. I think it is this woman he speaks of."

"A witch?"

"Their chief. The Mother-of-all."

"And she's dying."

"He thinks she is, senor."

"Okay -- tell him I'll come if he can help me get there."

"I will, senor."

She turned to the Indian and spoke. He smiled and answered, then turned and ran down the tree. Splashed across to another tree and disappeared. Maria turned to Pedro.

"He thanks you, senor. He has already asked some of his friends to bring a canoe. He goes to get them."

"A canoe?"

"They had canoes, senor, when they left their village. He does not use one here because he can travel more easily without it, but he knows you cannot walk on water."

Maria turned and walked to the fire. Picked up four cans of water and brought them to Pedro. Watched as he put them in his jump-bag. Then she sat beside him.

"The teacher, senor. He is badly hurt?"

"Very badly. I think he will live, but I don't think he will be able to walk again."

"You have seen such injuries before, senor?"

"I have. They're part of my job."

"And you know what to do about them. You are a doctor?"

"Not a doctor, muchacha. I have been taught what to do about injuries when there is no doctor."

"Are there doctors in your rescue corps, senor."

"Yes. Every medical student in Canada has to serve in the corps before he is allowed to practice."

Maria had been watching the other tree as he spoke. Now she pointed as a dugout canoe crewed by four Indians emerged from among the branches of the tree to which Hotan had run.

It crossed the open water quickly, sliding right over a couple of the small logs Hotan had used as stepping stones, and glided to a stop at Pedro's feet. Hotan, riding near the middle, waved him into it.

Carefully, Pedro stepped into it and stood while Maria passed him his jump-bag.

But he held his hand to stop her when she would have climbed into the canoe with him.

"No! You're not coming."

Maria stopped with a look of surprise on her face.

"Why not, senor? Who will translate for you?"

"No one. We'll get along somehow!"

"But senor...."

"No!" Pedro sat in the center of the canoe and nodded to Hotan.

With a grin the Indian braced his paddle against the tree and pushed off. Four paddles dug into the water and the canoe shot away from the tree.

Maria watched until the canoe disappeared among the branches. Then she stood and looked round the tree.

Pablo and most of the men were back in the boat, slowly crossing to the other tree. Three women sat by the fire cleaning fish and cutting the hearts out of palmettos. Beside them were stacked cases of canned water, and another stack of empty cans the schoolteacher had collected.

Alfredo lay among the branches, sleeping quietly under the morphine. Beside his improvised stretcher the woman -- Carla -- sat and watched.

Maria had scorned Alfredo in San Felipe and had resented his attentions on the raft. But she had begun to feel respect for him after the senor told her about Alfredo's plan to improvise a radar reflector.

Maria did not believe in magic but she thought of radio, radar and of most technological devices as superstitious people think of magic. She believed in them and knew that they worked, but she assumed that it required more than human wisdom to understand them.

The senor had such wisdom, of course. He was from a far country where such things were known.

But the schoolteacher? Alfredo? Maria had seen only his clothes as he strutted around the village. She had not realized that he shared the sort of knowledge that people like the senor had.

And it was so simple the way the senor explained it. There was a secret shape to radar reflectors -- that was obvious -- but it was more important that they were made of metal. The same metal the cans were made of. The teacher had known that, and Maria knew it now.

Hesitantly she turned toward the pile of empty cans and wondered how she might bundle them.

Hotan turned to Pedro as they approached the crown of a tree and signalled him to lie down. Then ducked himself as the canoe speared through the screen of leaves, bumped over a nearly-submerged branch, and passed out into clear water again -- headed for another tree.

They pulled alongside the trunk of this one and the four Indians sprang out to hold the canoe while Pedro climbed out. Then they lifted the canoe over the tree and into the water on the other side. They held it while Pedro climbed in, then jumped in themselves and set off again.

They made several more portages, skimmed through a couple of barely visible channels, then coasted to a stop under the branches of one tree that looked no different from the others.

Hotan smiled, and signalled Pedro to alight.

Now Pedro realized that they had stopped beside a platform of sticks supported on the crotch of a large branch. A teen-aged boy wearing only a loincloth knelt on the platform to steady the canoe and a second watched from another canoe that floated nearby. Pedro stepped gingerly onto the platform and found it solid.

They were near the center of the floating island here and the trees were packed tightly, their branches forming a maze so close that it was hard to tell where one started and another stopped. Hotan led the way along one branch to the trunk of the tree, then across a bridge of sticks to another branch which led to another tree. Indians on several other platforms smiled and nodded their heads at Pedro as he passed, and the paddlers and others followed behind.

Now they approached a platform shielded by two walls and a roof of woven sticks. On a pallet of sticks under the roof lay an old woman, clad in a ragged gray dress, partly covered by a light blanket. Wisps of white hair framed a face contorted in agony. Beside her, the tiny butts of a half dozen cigarettes had been stubbed out on the platform. A naked boy, perhaps six years old, squatted beside her and fanned her face with a large leaf.

Standing on the platform, Pedro looked around. A dozen hammocks -- some made of fish-net, others woven from some kind of fiber -- hung from nearby branches and men, women and children sat in some of them. Hotan stood behind him and the three others who had paddled the canoe stood to one side.

The woman moaned softly as Pedro knelt beside her and rested a hand on her forehead. Her fever was high and she was barely conscious -- probably delirious. Pedro lifted the blanket aside and saw that the skirt of her gray dress was pulled up and a rough bandage of dirty cloth wrapped her right thigh.

With his knife, Pedro carefully cut the bandage from the wound and scraped the poultice of chewed leaves aside. The festering cut under them had originally been a puncture, from the look of it, but it was torn about twenty centimeters to one side.

And it was badly infected. Pedro felt a familiar nausea as he looked at the angry red flesh and the dripping puss, and the feeling of helplessness he knew in the face of tiny microbes he could not see, but which he knew could kill.

Any infection bothered him but for some reason this was worse than others. He felt dizzy for a moment, and thirsty. His leg hurt too now, with a dull ache. He might have banged it on something on the way to the camp but it felt more like an old injury -- as though he had hurt it some time ago.

Usually Pedro felt himself turn cold and methodical -- machine-like -- as he started to work on a patient but this was different, somehow. Something about the old woman and her injury disturbed him.

He opened his bag and took out two sealed hypodermics. Tore the paper wrappers from them and gave the old woman a shot of morphine and an antibiotic.

Then he sat back and watched. In about two minutes her breathing slowed and her face became less flushed. Around him, Pedro felt an electric air of tension relaxed. Behind him, the watchers murmured among themselves.

Pedro felt better now. He was still conscious of the dozen or so Indians who watched every move he made, but he no longer felt as though he were being watched.

There was a water can on the platform beside him. He picked it up and saw that it was empty. Lying flat on the platform, leaning over the edge, he could just reach to fill it with seawater.

He dipped his knife into the water then scrubbed the blade on his pants to clean it. Then he opened an antiseptic swab from the jump bag and used it to polish the knife blade.

With the edge of his knife, he gently scraped the pus off her leg. He could see now that the wound had not started to heal.

Setting the knife down, he gently pulled the edges of the wound apart. Behind him, he sensed the movement of the watching Indians. Someone stepped forward and knelt beside him.

Pedro turned his head and saw Hotan, his face gray and sweat beaded on his brow. The boy with the fan fell sideways in a faint and Pedro grabbed his arm just before he slid off the platform. A woman stepped forward, lifted the boy in her arms and carried him away.

Pedro touched Hotan's shoulder and pointed to the woman's face, now relaxed. The Indian smiled faintly and seemed to relax a bit.

Now Pedro opened a third antiseptic swab and used it to scrub his hands. He opened another and set the paper wrapper on the platform beside him, then set the swab on the paper.

With his hands he pulled the wound open and held it with two fingers while he used the swab to wipe the pus from inside the hole. He looked into it.

There was something inside. He found a pair of forceps in his jump bag, unwrapped them and set them on the sterile paper in which they had been wrapped. Then he took Hotan's hands in his own and placed them one on each side of the wound. He used Hotan's hands to pull the wound open, then took his own away.

The wound closed.

He put his hands on Hotan's again, used them again to pull the wound open. He looked at Hotan until the Indian met his eyes, then took his hands away. This time the wound stayed open. He picked up the forceps, reached into the wound and probed.

Hotan's eyes were shut tight now and his lips were contorted as though he was in agony. The woman slept peacefully.

Pedro probed again and found something hard at the bottom of the wound. A sliver of wood, perhaps. He pulled, and felt it pull apart.

He drew out a piece of wood perhaps six centimeters long by two in diameter and set it beside him on the platform.

Hotan's eyes were still closed but he still held the wound open.

Pedro probed again and found the rest of the sliver. Pulled it out and set it on the platform.

He probed again but found nothing this time.

He didn't even notice the wail of the Manitou as it passed over.

When he could not see or feel any more foreign objects he opened a packet of antiseptic powder and sprinkled it into the wound.

Then he looked at Hotan again and saw that the Indian's eyes were still closed tight, the sweat beaded on his forehead.

Gently he took Hotan's hands and lifted them from the woman's thigh. Heard the Indian's sigh of relief and saw him open his eyes again.

Pedro reached for another antiseptic swab and wiped the area around the wound.

Unwrapped a suture and stitched the gash closed. Wrapped a clean bandage around the thigh. Looked again at the woman's face.

Then fainted.

Ramon ran out from among the branches and looked across the jammed logs to the home tree. The tall branch where Alfredo would have hung his home-made radar reflector was empty.

He turned to look at the plane that had passed almost directly overhead, then back to the tree.

The eight women stood in the open, holding a ragged bundle above their heads. Ramon stared in disbelief. It looked like a hundred or so tin cans, tied together with bits of string. As he watched, one can slipped loose and bounced off the tree trunk and into the sea. Then another and another.

He put his hands to his mouth and shouted.

"Senor! Senor!"

There was no answer and no sign of Pedro. The women still held their bundle as they turned to watch the receding plane. Then slowly -- as though sagging -- they lowered it as the plane disappeared.

"They did not see us, senorita!" Juana was almost in tears. "We were too late!"

"Not yet!" Maria's voice was fierce.

"The radar can see for a hundred kilometers! The senor said so!"

"But we'll never get this done in time!" One of the women was looking at the bundle they had spent the last hour tying together.

"No." Maria let go her end of the bundle, stepped back and looked at it.

Then she turned to Juana and spoke excitedly.

"We don't need a bundle! A bag will do!"

She ran to the crown of the tree and took down the first hammock she came to. Brought it back to where the women were collecting the cans they had dropped.

Ramon watched and wondered. Then he began to understand as three women held the hammock like a bag while the others filled it with empty cans. When it was three times the size of a man, they tied it closed with riser cord.

They carried it to the base of the tall branch and tied more riser cord to it. Maria took one of the cords between her teeth and approached the branch.

She turned her head to drag the improvised bag behind her as she began climbing but she could not take the weight. It pulled her head back and twisted her neck.

She backed down. With Juana's help she tied the cords in a loop which she slung over her shoulder like a knapsack, then tried again.

Ramon looked round in despair. Pablo and four other men had lifted the boat over the tree on which they stood, and were now searching the trees behind him for logs they could use. They had stopped when the plane passed, and the boat now drifted on the other side of a clump of debris about thirty meters away.

Ramon funneled his hands and shouted. Shouted again and saw Pablo wave and start the motor. He turned back to watch the women.

The branch was slightly off vertical and Maria had started on the high side. About three meters up she passed the polka-dotted bandana Ramon had tied to a twig two days before.

Caught between her arm and the tree it tore loose and Maria slipped sideways, part way round the branch. Trying to get back to the high side she slipped further, until she was hanging from the underside of the branch with the bag of cans hanging beneath her.

Ramon watched as she tried to work her way back, but could not. Each move she made she slipped a bit further and finally, clinging desperately, she slid back down.

Three women at the bottom caught her and lowered her to solid footing.

She moved around to the high side of the branch and started up again.

Ramon watched, then turned as he heard the boat approach. It moved slowly as Pablo eased it around a tangle of small logs. Ramon shouted.

"Hurry Pablo!"

Then he paced back and forth looking now at Maria in her struggle with the branch, now at the boat, until Pablo reached him.

Maria was about ten meters up when Pablo and the others jumped out of the boat. They grabbed it and hauled it onto the tree trunk.

Then they spun it round, to clear the motor, and let it slide again into the sea.

All six jumped in. Pablo started the motor and opened the throttle.

Near the top of the branch, Maria clung desperately. She tried to pass a rope around it but each time she reached with her arms she began to slip and had to grab for support again.

As the boat came closer, Ramon saw how the rough bark had scratched her arms and her legs.

Maria was tired now and she knew she was beaten. She looked at the sun-dappled water below and saw the dark shadows cast by several branches. There were also several shadows that seemed to move and which might not be branches, and Maria remembered the screams of the man who had been killed by the shark.

She saw the boat approaching and, in despair, she called to Ramon.

"I cannot do it, senor!"

"That's all right, senorita! Let go the bag! Let it drop!"

"But senor --"

"It will float, senorita! Let it drop!"

The bag dropped into the water, settled a bit, then floated.

Maria clung to the branch, tears and terror on her face. Blood ran from cuts on her arms and legs.

The boat was almost below her. In the bow, Ramon held up his hand and Pablo cut the motor. As the boat drifted, Ramon stood and called to Maria.

"Come down, Senorita. It will be all right.

Maria clung desperately.

"Come down. Move slowly. You will be safe."

"I can't," she wailed. I will fall!"

"We are here, senorita. You will be safe!"

"There is a shark!"

Ramon peered into the water. There were shadows down there, but he could not tell what caused them. He looked back to Maria and called again.

"Come down senorita. There is no shark! We are here!"

Maria started to climb down, and slipped.

The motor roared as she hit the water. Ramon leaned low over the bow as the boat moved forward, and caught her under the arms as she surfaced. He lifted her aboard.

A few minutes earlier and nearly a hundred kilometers away, the Manitou had reached the end of one sweep and banked into a turn to begin another. Leaning over the navigator's shoulder, Smithers watched him twist a knob and saw the range-rings change on the screen.

"What's that for."

"Quick check on long range, just to see what's around us. I get nervous with it on short range all the time -- I like to know if there's other traffic about."

The navigator scowled at the scope. "Shit, look at all that clutter."

"What's that? Smithers finger stabbed at a brilliant spot on the screen. The navigator looked at it.

"Don't know. Something strange."

As they watched, the spot disappeared.

"Gone now. You see things like that, sometimes."

"What could it be?"

"Don't know. It has to be metal to show so bright -- an oil drum or something perhaps. When they're at the right angle they sometimes flash like that."

"Could it be a reflector?"

"No way. A reflector is brighter than that, and it reflects from any angle so you get a steady blip. Besides -- we just flew over that area and we didn't get anything. If there'd been a reflector there, we couldn't have missed it."

"What about going back to check?"

The navigator turned in his seat and looked at him.

"We could. But we'd lose a half hour at least -- maybe more -- and we'd screw up the search pattern. That would cost us another hour to make sure we didn't miss anything. Would you rather spend the time checking one random flash that I know isn't them -- or would you rather cover the whole area?"

He leaned back in his seat and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Shook one out into his hand and put it between his lips. Set the pack on the ledge in front of his console.

Smithers looked at him, then turned his eyes to the scope again. Saw the clutter of drifting logs, but no bright blips.

"Okay. Do it your way.

"I guess I'm a bit up-tight," he said. "The corpsman out there is a friend of mine."

"They're all somebody's friends," the navigator said. I know that. And we'll find him if he's out there.

"But we'll find him because we're a professional search crew, not because we're his friends." He waved a hand at the scope.

"Friends waste time on things like that, because they grasp at straws. They waste so much time on straws that they never make a proper search. Professionals lay out a search pattern and they cover the whole thing."

"I guess so. Thanks." Smithers stepped back from the scope. "I'd better get back to my post." He turned and walked slowly back to the observation port.

The plane was in level flight now, starting another run. The navigator switched his radar back to short range and Smithers and the other spotters peered out of their bubble windows. A hundred meters above the sea they passed over the floating trees with human and electronic eyes searching a path about five kilometers to each side of its course.

Maria and the others saw it from the tree as it passed about eight kilometers from them.

Ramon was more than half-way up the tree by then with the bag full of empty cans well above the surrounding branches. Desperate, he held it out toward the plane and waved it.

The radar in the plane showed nothing, because the branch with it's bag of cans was beyond the designated sweep. Less well-trained searchers might have seen Ramon and the brilliant hammock of parachute cloth, but the corpsmen kept their binoculars on the area they were supposed to cover -- within five kilometers of the plane's flight path.

As the plane flew into the distance Ramon and the others on the tree watched it. Then Ramon continued up the branch and hung the bag near the top before he climbed down.

Slowly, head hanging, he trudged to the end of the tree where he sat in the little cave among the roots. Juana followed and sat with him.

Six Indians carrying four big machetes and two axes splashed across to the tree about an hour later. Surprised and frightened, Carla let out a little cry of fear when they jumped onto the trunk near where she sat beside Alfredo's stretcher.

She jumped to her feet and backed away from them. The Indians turned toward her, smiled in apology and nodded their heads, then turned away. One of them spoke, and all six marched toward the fire.

The five women working there jumped to their feet as the Indians approached. Four of them scuttled toward the crown of the tree, where the men were working, but Maria walked forward to meet the Indians.

They stopped about three meters from her, then one man stepped forward and nodded his head. Maria nodded hers in return, and spoke.

"I do not know you, gentleman."

"I am called Hayma, lady."

The men who had been working on the platform clustered on the trunk now, about six meters behind Maria. Ramon stepped forward to stand beside her.

"The senor is not here," Maria said. He went with Hotan to your -- to Hotan's -- camp. I expect them back soon.

"He is at our camp," Hayma answered, "and he is well, lady. He sleeps now, but I think he will be back soon."

"He sleeps?"

"He performed great magic on the Mother-of-all today, lady. He was tired when he finished, and he went to sleep."

"He is well, but he sleeps in the daytime. I do not understand this, Hayma."

"I do not understand it either, lady, but there was great magic. We all felt it."

Ramon did not understand the words, but he recognized the tone of concern in Maria's voice, and the look of worry on her face.

"What is it," he asked. "What has happened, senorita?"

"I don't know, senor." Maria turned to him as she spoke. "He says senor Pedro performed magic in their camp, and that he sleeps now."

Hayma turned his eyes to Ramon as the foreman spoke again.

"Why are they here? Do they want water?"

"I don't know, senor. He didn't say." Maria turned to the Indian again.

"I thank you for the news, Hayma," she said. "But I wonder why six of you come, when one can carry news."

The Indian smiled and spoke. Maria nodded her head, turned to Ramon and translated.

"They come to help us, senor. He says senor Pedro has helped the Mother-of-all -- their chief -- so they will help us build platforms to sleep on."

"Do you believe him?"

Maria looked at him curiously. "I do, senor. If the senor helped their chief, of course they would want to help us."

Ramon looked at the six Indians suspiciously, then spoke again to Maria.

"We could never get Indians to work on the plantation. I wonder how much help they'll be?"

Maria felt anger, but she kept her answer courteous. "They do not like to work on plantations, senor, and they do not like to work for money.

"But they are used to building platforms, and they want to pay their chief's debt. They will be very unhappy, senor, if we do not accept their help."

"Ask him when the senor will return."

Maria spoke. Hayma answered and Maria translated.

"Soon, senor. He does not know. Senor Pedro was sleeping when they left their camp."

"So what should we do? You think we should accept their help?"

"I know we should, senor. I think we should thank them and that you should drink water with them. I will translate, and you will tell them how they can help us."

In the Indian camp, Pedro recovered from his faint with his face pressed against something warm and soft. He opened his eyes and realized that he lay against a woman's bare breast. Pulling back, he saw a broad, flat face with friendly eyes.

He raised his head and looked about. It was mid afternoon, from the position of the sun, and he was still on the platform beside the old woman. A small fire burned on the tree beside him and four Indians sat around it.

The boy who had been fanning the old woman lifted a water can from the fire and set it beside Pedro. Pedro looked at the old woman, now covered again with the gray blanket. He laid his hand on her forehead, and found it still hot.

He lifted the blanket that covered her and looked at the bandage. There was no drainage and he unwrapped it carefully. He lifted the gauze pad that covered the wound, and inspected it.

The angry red color had faded, there was little swelling, and the stitches looked good. The woman would be all right if she recovered from her fever. His jump bag was still open and he used a fresh gauze pad to cover the wound before he rewrapped the bandage.

Now he looked at the can the woman had set beside him -- a water can with the top cut off, half filled with a dark liquid in which tiny bits of bark floated.

Curious, he glanced at Hotan and saw the Indian pick up a similar can and drink from it. The Indian smiled and beckoned Pedro to join him and the others at the fire.

As he approached, the woman who had held him while he slept took another water can from beside the fire and stirred something into it. As he sat, she took the cool can from his hand and set the hot one beside him. Hotan lit a cigarette at the fire and offered it to him. When Pedro shook his head, the Indian took a puff, then passed it to another who stood nearby.

Then the Indian took another sip from his own can, smiled, and nodded to Pedro. Pedro picked up the can beside him and found it almost too hot to hold comfortably. Lifting it to his nose he sniffed, and almost sneezed at the pungency.

He tasted the liquid, and found it surprisingly good. He smiled at the Indians and nodded his appreciation. They nodded and smiled back.

Now the woman picked up two sticks and used them to pull something out of the fire. It looked like a partly burned stick as she laid it in front of Pedro, but as she peeled it with the sticks he realized it was a fresh-baked plantain. He reached to touch it and she caught his hand.

As he looked at her she mimed touching something hot and jerking her hand away in pain. Then she smiled and patted his arm.

He smiled and turned to face Hotan again.

The Indian pointed to the old woman and raised his eyebrows in query. Pedro spread his hands, palms up, trying to indicate hope, but not certainty. Beside him the woman spoke, with certainty in her voice.

Hotan smiled, and Pedro glanced at the woman in surprise. She smiled at him and nodded her head, as thought she were certain the old woman would recover. He hoped she was right.

"CRC San Felipe. CRC San Felipe, this is Honshu Maru. Honshu Maru calling, do you read?" The first mate was Japanese, but his English on the radio was crisp and precise.

"CRC San Felipe here." The corpsman on radio watch barely had time to get the words out before Johnston grabbed the mike from his hand and repeated the answer.

"San Felipe here, Honshu Maru."

"Good afternoon, San Felipe. Honshu Maru is now standing by, as close as we can get to the trees. Have you found your party, San Felipe?"

"Just a second." Johnston looked at the radioman. "What plane are they in?"

"392, sir."

Johnston lifted the mike again.

"CRC 392, 392, this is Johnston in San Felipe. Do you read?"

"We read you, San Felipe."

"What's the word?"

"No word, San Felipe, no word."

"CRC 392, this is Honshu Maru. Are you nearby? We have a lot of clutter and we cannot see you."

"We are nearby, Honshu Maru, but flying low. Hang on, we'll squawk."

The pilot flipped a switch on his control panel. As the ship's radar beam swept over the plane a radio responder flashed a strong signal on radar frequency, making a huge blip on the ship's main radar scope.

"We see you now, 392, thank you.

"Honshu Maru has an unidentified echo from something about 15 kilometers from us -- about 75 kilometers to the west of you. It looks like a large object made of light metal. Could that be your party, 392?"

The plane climbed slightly. The pilot turned and signalled the navigator who flipped switches to scan a circle about 100 kilometers around the plane.

"Got it, skipper." The navigator inspected the blip produced by the section of parachute filled with cans. "It's metal all right, but it's fuzzy. Not a reflector."

"Have we covered that area?"

"We did, sir." The navigator checked his log, then continued.

"Got it. It's pretty close to where we saw that raft they lost in the trees. That could be it."

"Okay." The pilot keyed his mike again.

"We have identified that echo, Honshu Maru. Echo identified. Not our party."

"Anything else, 392?" Johnston.

"Nothing sir. No sign."

"How much longer will you stay out there?"

The pilot glanced at his fuel gauges, then thumbed his mike again.

"We can spend another 20 minutes on station, sir. Just long enough for the sweep we're on now, then one more on the way back."

"Okay." Johnston paused a moment, then spoke again.

"Guess we have nothing for you, Honshu Maru. Thank you for stopping."

"You're welcome, San Felipe. Honshu Maru returning to course now. Out."

The mate clipped his mike back in its holder and signalled the helmsman to resume slow ahead.

He stood for a minute studying the strange blip on his radar screen -- almost within sight of where he stood on the bridge, nearly twenty meters above water level.

A man at the masthead with binoculars could check it visually, he thought. He reached for the inter-com phone to call the bosun.

Then the door opened behind him, and the captain spoke from his cabin.

"Are they coming?"

"No sir." The mate turned as he answered. "They've lost track of them, and they can't even find them now. They think they may be lost."

The captain walked to the window and looked out over the mass of drifting trees, then glanced up at the sun.

"A pity," he said. "But we can't help look for them and we can't wait. It will take at least three hours to get to clear water, and we have barely that long 'till sun-set. We'd better get moving."

"Yes sir." The mate cast one more glance at the strange blip on his radar, then turned his eyes to the tricky business of picking a course through the floating debris.

Pedro was eating a second baked plantain when he heard the murmur voices behind him. He turned and saw the young woman helping the old one sit up, and placing a framework of small branches tied together with fishing line behind her to support her back. Hurriedly, he moved to her side.

The old woman's Spanish was poor but he could understand her words. "Thank you, my son."

The other Indians nodded their heads as she spoke, but Pedro did not. He stared, wondering about his feelings for her. She looked at him, curious.

"You are surprised at the way I speak, my son? Please forgive an old woman.

"I am the oldest woman of the Ayuba, and they call me the Mother-of-all. I get used to calling men "my son." Please forgive me if it offends you. White men like to be called by their names -- have you a name I can use?

"I am not a white man, Madre, I am half Indian. I am called Pedro." He spoke mechanically, his mind in a daze.

The Mother smiled as she spoke. "You are half Indian, my son, but you think like a white man. No matter -- I thank you, Pedro. You have given my children water, and you have saved my life."

"It is nothing, Madre."

"But it is something, my son. I am shamed to admit it, because I have some small reputation as a healer myself -- but you have saved me. There are no moulds on the trees out here and no spiders to spin webs. I could not have cured myself.

"That is my job, Madre. That is why I am here."

"No, my son. It is your job, but it is not why you are here." She studied his face carefully, closed her eyes for a moment then opened them again.

"No, I cannot see. Among my own people I can see thoughts -- I can see some people's future through their thoughts -- but it is harder to see the thoughts of a white man."

"It is not important, Madre."

"Yes it is, my son. It is important to you, though I do not know why. It is important to me too, because I must live to lead my children back to land again."

"That may not be so easy, Madre."

"Not for a white man, my son. Difficult even for me. But I know some things that you do not. Some of the old ways. We will see."

"Yes, Madre."

"But first my son you must tell me what you know about where we are, and why you are here, and about your friends who look for you with the airplane."

"It is a long story, Madre." Pedro looked at her curiously, wondering how much she would be able to understand.

The Mother-of-all reached forward and rested her fingertips on his arm.

"If you have trouble telling it, my son, there is no need. I must know, but if you don't want to speak just think about our problem. I may be able to understand."

Pedro looked at her. Saw her eyes gaze into his. He looked around the camp and saw the Indians frozen in place, watching him.

Then he felt a tingling in his arm where her fingers rested and he turned back to the Mother. As he looked at her a feeling of calm came over him and, without conscious effort, he closed his eyes and thought about the earthquake in Costa Grande. About the death of his mother and his own rescue.

About the dream that had haunted him ever since, and about the hours of extra study he had put in as a student. About his determination to be accepted as a corpsman.

He thought about the corps, too, and about his life in it. About the red alert in the middle of the night, the flood and his parachute jump to the island of trees. About the people he found there, the lost radios and the search plane that had not found them.

"Thank you, my son." Pedro opened his eyes when the mother spoke again. The camp came to life again as she lifted her hand from his arm.

Her eyes were soft. "I am sorry about your mother," she said. "And about your dream -- but you will not dream again."

Ignoring his look of surprise, she glanced at the sun and continued.

"You are tired now, and you have time to sleep before you return to your camp. Then you will eat, and Hotan will take you back."

Afraid, and not quite sure what he was afraid of, Pedro tried to get up.

"No Madre," he said. "I must return."

But he found he could not stand. Her eyes held him, and as he settled back again onto the platform beside her, she reached out to touch his arm again.

"You are tired," she said. "You will sleep now. Then you will go back to your own people -- there is a woman there who waits for you.

He was tired, and there was no rush to get back to the others. He lay down and went to sleep.

Maria took time from her cooking to cut one special piece of fish from the tender part just ahead of the tail. She cooked it separately and carried it on a flattened water can to Manuel.

He smiled as she knelt to place it beside him.

"Gracias, senorita."

"De nada, senor."

Manuel broke off a small piece of fish and put it into his mouth. Chewed and swallowed, then looked at her with approval.

"It is very good, senorita. Thank you."

"Thank you, senor." From habit, Maria started to rise to her feet as he spoke but then she remembered her purpose and stayed where she was. Manuel had expected her to rise too, and he was surprised when she didn't. He looked at her curiously.

"Can I help you, senorita?"

"I hope so, senor. May I speak with you a moment?"

"Of course, senorita, please do." Manuel put another piece of fish into his mouth and chewed slowly. Maria stayed, but she did not speak. Twice she opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again in silence. Then Manuel swallowed and offered her an opening.

"I think you knew my Carmine, no?"

"Si senor." Maria nodded her head. "She used to shop at my father's store and we spoke, sometimes."

Manuel looked out over the sea. His eyes glazed and his voice softened.

"She went shopping three times a week. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. Saturday she shopped early, because she spent most of the day preparing dinner for Sunday."

"Si senor."

"And little Manuello used to go to the store with her. You remember Manuello, senorita?"

"Si senor." Maria's voice was soft with compassion for the man rather than with memories of Carmine and Manuello. The woman had been a customer, but not a friend.

"But I talk too much, senorita." Manuel smiled and turned to her again. "You did not come to listen to my memories."

"No senor."

"Then what do you want to talk about? My success as a fisherman? I had none. My plans for getting back to land? I have none. What else, senorita?"

"I wish to ask questions, senor."

"Yes?"

Maria's eyes turned down to the log. She blushed slightly as she looked up again.

"You have spoken with senor Pedro, senor. You know him a little, I think."

"A little. Yes."

"I have seen him, senor, and I have heard him speak. But I have not spoken with him. Only a little -- when he first jumped out of the airplane. He landed beside my boat."

"Yes."

"And I wonder about him, senor. Who he is. Why he comes here.

"He is not married, is he senor?" Maria blushed as she waited for his answer.

"No, senorita." The fisherman smiled gently. "I don't think he is married. I don't think he even has a novia."

Maria dropped her eyes before she spoke again.

"That is good, senor. It would be very sad for his wife with him away so long."

"Manuel smiled but did not speak. He watched as Maria stared out over the sea. The she turned and lifted her eyes to him in distress.

"Am I ugly, senor?" Pain showed in Maria's eyes. "Am I not attractive to men?"

Manuel's look of amazement turned into a grin, then softened into a look of concern as he answered her. "Surely, senorita, you make a joke. You must know you are beautiful."

"I am not joking, senor. I have heard men say that I am not ugly -- Giorgo used to say I was beautiful -- but I do not know. I do not know what men see, and I know people may say one thing out of kindness when they mean another."

"This is not kindness, senorita. You are beautiful."

"But he calls me muchacha, senor! Little girl, not young woman!"

Now it was Manuel's turn to stare at the sea. His voice was soft.

"You are not a muchacha, senorita. I used to call you muchacha because I remembered the little girl I saw at your father's store a few years ago. But I know you are a senorita, and I know you like senor Pedro very much."

"But he does not like me, senor. And he never saw the little girl in my father's store, but he calls me muchacha. He does not look at me -- does not know I am here."

She blushed violently and looked down as she continued.

"I made him a matrimonio yesterday, senor. Last night he slept in it -- alone. And this morning, he did not tell me he would wake up early. He lit the fire himself and he would have cooked his own breakfast!"

"I know, senorita."

But why, senor? If I am a senorita -- if I am not ugly -- why does he not even notice me?"

"He has insulted you, senorita. He should have told you he would get up early, and he should have asked you to cook his breakfast.

"But he does notice you, senorita. He does!

"Who did he put in charge of the food and water? You. Who interprets when the Indians come? You do. If he were to come for a meal -- ask for a drink of water -- who would he ask? You help him, senorita, and he knows that."

"But you must understand that for years he has lived in barracks, like a soldier. He knows many things, but there are many things he does not know. We spoke this morning, senorita, and he is sorry he insulted you. He will not do it again."

"I want to do more for him, senor."

"I know you do, senorita. But -- senor Pedro was raised in an orphanage by priests and nuns. Did you know that? His mother died when he was six years old, and most of the women he knew when he was growing up were nuns."

"He told you this, senor? I did not know of it."

"We have spoken, senorita. He lived in the orphanage until he was a little older than you are now -- and then he joined the rescue corps and he moved to Canada."

"He had no home?" Maria's voice was sad.

"He had none, senorita, and he does not know about women. He told me once that women in Canada are not considered women -- that they do not marry -- until they are more than twenty years old."

"So old?" Maria was shocked.

"So old, senorita. Ramon says it is a very cold country -- perhaps women take longer to grow up there."

"But I am grown, senor."

"You are, senorita." Manuel let his eyes rove over her body, then forced them to return to her face. "But senor Pedro may not think so.

"And there is another thing."

"Senor?"

"Senor Pedro is like a soldier in some ways -- that is why he wears the uniform. But when he is working, senorita, he must care for people. He does many of the things that a priest does."

Maria was thoughtful. "He does. And does he live like a priest?"

"While he is working, senorita, it is a rule he must follow."

"Then I should stay away from him, senor? I should not tempt him?"

Manuel smiled. "But why not, senorita? It is a foolish rule, and there is no one here to know or care if he breaks it." Manuel took another bite of fish and chewed as he continued. "And he will not wear that uniform much longer, senorita. It is like the army -- men wear the uniform for a while, and then they take it off.

"Senor Pedro has worn that uniform for three years now, and if he were in Canada he would take it off in a very few days."

Maria looked at him carefully, not sure whether he was teasing her or not. "And what do you think he will do then, senor?"

"I don't know, senorita. Get married, perhaps?"

Maria's face was reddened as she stood.

"Thank you, senor," she said. "I will leave you now."

"De nada, senorita."

Manuel watched her walk away. He had never noticed the slow swing of her hips before. Perhaps, he thought, she had not had it before.

Pedro was six years old again in his dream, and he was again trapped in the ruins of the hut. Again he watched the bright red planes fly down the valley, saw the corpsmen jump to the ruined village.

But this time it was different. As the boy watched, one of the planes swung away from the village and flew low over the mountainside, it's cargo door open. At the door, two men fought.

Now the plane swung back and circled again. One man jumped from it to a perfect landing beside Pedro's mother.

As an adult Pedro would have expected the man to roll and to collapse his parachute, but to a six-year old it did not seem strange that the parachute disappeared as the man landed.

With one hand he flicked the boulder from Pedro's mother's leg as the ground on which she lay turned into a pallet of sticks.

Young Pedro was free now too, a six-year-old Indian boy who watched in wonder as the corpsman knelt by the woman and swabbed the injured leg.

He plucked the spear of wood that had punctured it, then dusted antibiotic powder into the wound and sewed it up. As the boy watched, the swelling subsided and the angry red color faded.

His mother's eyes opened. She sat up and looked -- not at the corpsman who had helped her but at the six-year old who watched in a mixture of terror and fascination.

Was it his mother or the Mother-of-all? The six year old was not sure, but he heard and understood the words.

"Thank you, my son. You have saved me."

In Vancouver, Clive Jonas was on the phone to his wife Mary.

"You been following the news, girl?"

"Of course. Someone has to."

"I know -- but why should I when you know everything?"

"Flattery got you this far. What now?"

"That San Cristobal flood. Do you hear anything about the trees that are floating off the coast?"

"Just that there were some people on them, but I think they're given up for lost now. One corpsman jumped to try to help them, but there was a storm and they think the life-rafts probably sank. Anyway, some of the planes have been called back to those fires in the Yukon, so there isn't much of a search now."

"No talk of what the trees are worth? Nothing about recovering them?"

"Not public, anyway."

"What do you think?"

"I think you should go for it."

"It'll mean two or three weeks away. Maybe more."

"From here, not from me. I could use a tropical vacation so I'll set up a shore base in Panama, or rent a yacht or something."

"You like it then?"

"I like it."

"Okay -- you're on. See you tonight."

"You mean you want the lights on again? Bad boy!"

Jonas grinned. "See you."

He hung up the phone and turned to the secretary who stood beside him.

"Okay. Get hold of this Hernandez guy and charter his plane, starting tomorrow. Get a couple of seats on the first plane to Costa Grande tomorrow and call Jim Cosby. Tell him to go home and pack, then meet me at Sea Island whenever the plane leaves."

"Can I tell him how long he's going for?"

"How should I know? We're going until we come back -- and that depends on what we find there!"

Pablo was fishing from the roots of the tree. He saw the canoe glide out from among the branches and the flash of the paddles as it approached.

He stood. Waved and called. Saw Pedro's answering wave.

Then he turned to call to the others, saw Maria already running full tilt to meet the canoe. Ramon and Manuel ran behind her and others walked. Maria laughed, but tears ran down her cheeks.

Pedro might have seen the tears had he looked more closely, but he had other interests. For the first time he saw the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips, and he felt something stir within him.

In the Indian camp the Mother-of-all raised her hand and closed her eyes. The talk stopped and the camp fell silent. Then she smiled, lowered her hand and opened her eyes. The camp relaxed, and people again spoke and moved about.

There was a flurry of greetings as Pedro stepped onto the tree. Maria, Manuel and Ramon were in the forefront, but one woman pushed her way through the crowd and demanded his attention.

"Senor. You must come to see Alfredo!

Pedro recognized her now. She was the one who was taking care of the injured schoolteacher.

"He is in pain," Carla said, "and his leg is swelling."

Pedro had forgotten about Alfredo and now he felt guilty. He began to push his way toward the branches that had sheltered the stretcher.

"No senor, this way." Carla, called him back toward the roots of the tree.

"The men were working up there, senor. He was in their way, and they were disturbing him, so I had them bring him here this morning."

The stretcher lay near the root ball, with a crude shelter of parachute cloth stretched on poles above it. Alfredo lay under a blanket from one of the rafts. Carla ran ahead of Pedro to kneel beside him again.

Alfredo's face was pale and sweat beaded on his forehead. His lips moved slightly as Pedro approached.

"Senor." Pedro had to lean close to hear him speak.

"Yes?" Pedro was kneeling beside the stretcher now.

"Senor. Thank you. I remember you climbed down to me while I was caught."

"Don't worry about that. How are you now."

"It hurts, senor. My leg hurts very much."

Gently, Pedro lifted the blanket and looked at the crushed leg. It was swollen, and tell-tale red lines of infection crept up his thigh.

Pedro touched the angry red flesh. Alfredo winced.

Pedro lowered the blanket and his eyes clouded for a moment.

"Senor?" Worry showed on Carla's face as she looked at him. Then resignation as she read his thoughts.

"My jump-bag?" Pedro looked up, searched for Maria.

"Senor." She stood behind him, with the bag.

He took it. Set it down and opened it. Found a syringe of morphine and shot it into Alfredo's arm. Then a multiple-antibiotic shot that might stop the infection.

He watched Alfredo's face as it relaxed before he passed out.

"Senor?" Carla's voice betrayed her worry. "It is bad, no?"

"It is bad." Pedro stood as he spoke, and looked down at the man on the stretcher without really seeing him.

"He will not die?" Carla looked hopefully up at him.

Pedro felt her eyes on him. He wondered whether he should lie or not.

"I don't know." He looked at her. "It is bad, but if we could get him to a hospital..."

"They would cut off his leg, senor." Ramon stepped forward as he spoke.

Pedro turned his eyes to the foreman. Considered, then spoke.

"Yes. They might."

Manuel looked at Pedro dubiously. "And if you cut off his leg, senor?"

"I could not. He would die."

"He will die if you don't," Ramon said.

Pedro turned again toward the man on the stretcher.

"It must be done." Ramon insisted.

"But how? I have no tools!"

Ramon shook a cigarette out of its package. Put it into his mouth and lit it.

"We have machetes," he said.

"Amputate with a machete? Impossible!"

"No. There is a little green snake that lives in banana plants, senor, and it sometimes bites men who cut the plants. The snake is deadly -- there is no cure for its bite.

"When a man is bitten he cries out. He cannot help it.

"And other men hear him. Even if he fights them, they will cut off his hand or his arm if he has been bitten. They hold it down on a log and cut with the machete."

Pedro looked at the foreman. "And the man dies, and they are charged with murder."

"No senor. Most times the man does not die. They take him immediately to the hospital and he recovers.

"But they know he would die if they did not cut off the arm, and so do the doctors and the police. If he dies, nothing is said.

"But if a man was bitten and another man knew it, if the other man did not cut off the arm -- then people would say it was his fault when the man died."

"But that's an arm."

"Si senor. And this is a leg."

"It's different. The bone in a leg is very big -- very strong -- and we have only small machetes here. They could not cut it quickly.

"And there is a very big artery in the leg. It runs up the inside of the thigh and a man can bleed to death in a few minutes if it is cut."

"Better to bleed to death in a few minutes than to die slowly." Ramon kept his eyes locked on Pedro's as he puffed his cigarette.

Pedro looked again at the injured man, now sleeping quietly under the morphine. He turned again to Ramon.

"He would not bleed to death. I can stop that by burning the cut with hot steel. But he is very weak now, and he would go into shock if I cut his leg. He would probably die in two or three days."

"Better to die in two or three days than to die tomorrow. Better to die in two or three days than to live a week in pain."

"He would not feel the pain -- I can give him morphine."

"While it lasts, senor, or while he lives. But we may be here a long time. Someone else may need morphine and you will have no more."

"Still.... " Pedro let his voice trail off. He turned to the circle of faces that surrounded him and saw the decision in their eyes. Saw it, but refused to accept it.

"Tomorrow," he said. "The injection I gave him may stop the infection, and we may be able to save the leg. We will know tomorrow."

"It is a strong injection, senor?" Manuel was dubious.

"Very strong."

"And if it works, will the leg heal?"

"It will not heal straight, but it will heal."

"Will he be able to walk, senor?"

"Not well, but a little."

"Better a bad leg than no leg at all." Manuel said. "If you say so, senor, it can wait until tomorrow." He looked at the injured man, then turned to Pedro with a wry smile on his face.

"Not a good welcome back, senor."

Pedro relaxed a bit. Tried to smile.

"No, but it's what I'm here for."

"We heard about what you did in the Indian camp senor -- the Indians told us. They said it was magic."

"Just first aid with modern drugs."

"Modern drugs -- magic." Manuel shrugged. "I wonder how important the difference is. You did well, senor -- the Mother-of-all is a very powerful witch doctor."

"She is a fine lady." Pedro looked at the faces that surrounded him and realized that Hotan was not among them.

"Hotan? Where is Hotan?"

"The Indian?" A voice from the back of the crowd. "He went to speak to the others."

"The others?" Pedro looked at Ramon curiously.

"The other Indians, senor. Six of them came while you were at their camp. They are helping us build the platform.

"It is nearly finished now."

He glanced around the crowd. "I see that all our people have come to greet you, but I guess the Indians are still working."

"They came to help? How? Why?"

"They came to help us, senor, because you helped the Mother." Maria stooped to pick up Pedro's jump-bag as she spoke.

"They work very hard," Ramon said. "They have better tools than ours -- big machetes like the ones we use on plantations -- and two axes.

"They can stand on floating logs and cut them. Two of our men nearly fell off trying.

"And they use split vines to lash the platform together. The parachute cord does not work well -- it stretches too much.

"They do better lashings than any of our men can," Manuel said. "Better than I can do myself."

"Oh?" Pedro edged toward the crown of the tree now, Maria, Manuel and Ramon with him. The crowd parted to make way for them and, as Pedro came into the clear, he saw the hammock stuffed with cans hanging on the tall branch. He pointed to it.

"What's that?"

"The cans," Ramon explained. "The cans Alfredo collected.

"A plane came past while you were away, and the senorita hung it up there."

"And did they see it? Did it circle?"

"No senor." Maria looked down as she spoke. "I was too late. The plane had already passed."

"She tried, senor. She tried very hard." Ramon spoke earnestly. "She might have killed herself!"

"What happened?"

"She slipped, senor. She fell from the top of the branch into the water."

"Into the water?" Pedro glanced at Maria. Saw the cuts and scratches on her arms and legs.

"But the boat was close," Maria said. "Ramon pulled me out."

"The plane passed again," Maria continued, "but it was farther away the second time. The first time it came very close."

"But they didn't find us, senor. I wonder if the reflector could be up wrong?" Ramon looked at it dubiously as he spoke.

Pedro glanced at it, the turned back to the foreman.

"No -- there is no wrong way to put it up." he was silent a moment. "They should have seen it, but sometimes on a search pattern they use the radar on very short range when there is a lot of clutter -- it gives a sharper picture. The plane might have been too far away when you put it up.

"Did you try the rockets?"

"Rockets!" Maria had been glowing with pride, but now her shoulders sagged.

"I am sorry, senor. I should have thought. I should have known!"

"You did think, senorita!" Ramon insisted. "You did more than any of us -- you could not think of everything!" Maria blushed as he spoke.

The branch was clear of the water now, supported on two logs each more than a meter in diameter. Smaller logs resting on them formed cross-pieces, and the Indians were lashing poles in place to form a platform that would be at least five meters wide and perhaps ten meters long. Hotan was working with them now.

Pedro stopped and stared when he saw it. "How in god's name did you get that much done in a day," he asked.

"Twenty men working," Ramon said.

"And a slave-driver behind them." Manuel, added.

The foreman waved his hand in dismissal. "I tried to get them to keep up with the Indians, senor, but they could not."

The Indians waved as Pedro approached, but most of them turned back to their work. Hotan jumped from one of the smaller logs to the trunk and came to meet him. Pedro turned to Maria.

"Muchacha?"

"Senor."

"Please tell Hotan I am sorry I was so rude -- going away as soon as we came."

"He understands, senor. He told me before -- when you first went to see the sick man."

"Tell him anyway. And give him my thanks for the help here."

"I have done that too senor. I have thanked them for all of us. They say they are glad to do it, because you saved their Mother."

Now she turned to the Indians and spoke a few words in their language. They smiled and nodded. Hotan spoke.

"He says the work goes well, senor, and that the platform will be finished tomorrow. He asks your permission for some of them to spend the night here, senor."

"Of course they can -- but why? I thought they did not like to live with white men."

"They do not, senor, but they help with the platform to pay a debt -- and the debt is not paid until it is finished. It is very important to them to pay their debts."

"But why spend the night? What difference does that make?"

"They can't work at night, senor, but if they stay here they do not leave the job. If they go back to their own camp, they are not paying the debt as fast as they can."Pedro shook his head gently in wonder, then froze in surprise at Hotan's look of resentment. He turned to Maria and began to form a question, then stopped as she spoke before he did.

"Please, senor -- you must not do that?"

"Do what?"

"Do not shake your head like that, senor! It means 'no' to him! He thinks you are refusing him permission to stay."

Without waiting for Pedro to answer she turned to Hotan and spoke rapidly. The Indian's face softened as he spoke to her, and he smiled as she turned to Pedro to translate.

"I told him," she said, "that you shook you head because you do not believe they can finish tomorrow. I told him you had never seen a debt paid so fast."

"Thank you." Pedro grinned, then sobered. "But this debt -- it's ridiculous! They don't owe us anything!"

"You helped the Mother-of-all, senor, and they wish to thank you. It is very important to them to pay their debts as soon as they can."

"So what should I do now? What should I say?"

Instead of answering, Maria spoke to Hotan. He listened, nodded his head, turned and walked back to where he had been working.

"What did you say?" Pedro's surprise sounded in his voice.

"I told him you were impressed and pleased with the work," she said, and that you thank them for their help." Maria's tone was apologetic.

"I am sorry, senor -- but you asked me what you should say. Hotan was wondering what we were talking about, so I spoke to him as though I was translating what you had said."

Pedro grinned. "Just in case I didn't say it, eh?"

Maria flushed. "No senor. I did it because I was afraid he would know that I was telling you what to say, and he would not respect you if he thought that."

Pedro looked at her with appreciation. "Good thinking," he said. "And now --what should I do? Can I help them on the platform?"

"No, senor -- you must not work on the platform." Maria thought a moment, then continued. "I think it would be best, senor, for you to sit with Ramon and Manuel and drink some matte. It will please the Indians to see you rest -- and the matte is very good!"

"Matte?" Is that the drink I had at the Indian camp? It was good!"

"It is very good, senor, when you have fire.

The Indians could have made it before, but they had no fire until you gave Hotan the lighter." Maria explained.

"Oh," Pedro was thoughtful. "I should have thought of the lighters earlier."

Maria was edging him back toward the fire now, and he accepted her lead. Ramon and Manuel still walked with them.

"Have we food enough for the Indians?," Pedro asked.

"We have," Maria said. They brought some with them, and we have plenty of fish and coconuts, as well as the food bars."

"The women were fishermen today," Manuel said. "They caught twelve fish!"

"Oh?" Pedro turned to the fisherman with a smile. "And you, my friend. Did you do the cooking?"

"No senor." Manuel was embarrassed. "I worked on the platform part of the day and I fished part of the day."

"He caught four fish." Maria said.

"And now, senor," she continued, "you must be tired. You have not had a chance to sit down since you arrived -- and we have matte to drink!"

Pedro looked at Manuel and Ramon, then turned back to Maria.

"That will be good, muchacha. Thank you." He turned toward the fire.

The three men sat near the base of the tall branch while Maria went to the fire where Juana heated water. Pedro gazed around at the tree that had been his home for -- was it only three days?

Maria approached now, the hem of her skirt gathered in her hands to protect them from the two cans of hot matte she carried. Watching, Pedro noticed her legs for the first time. They were smooth and muscular -- the legs of an young woman who had walked or run most of the miles she had travelled in her lifetime.

Maria knelt to set the cans down, one each in front of Pedro and Manuel.

"Be careful," she said. "The can is very hot."

"Thank you, mu ---" Pedro paused, then corrected himself. "Senorita." He barely heard her words -- he was fascinated by the thrust of her breasts and the way her nipples stretched the cloth of her dress. It was obvious that she wore no brassiere but her breasts did not sag. They must be firm, he thought.

He looked at her face and realized that she had seen his look. He felt himself blush.

Maria saw the blush and stood hurriedly. She turned back to the fire, her own face shining.

"Something happened!" Juana's voice was low, almost a whisper as Maria returned to the fire. Maria's was a whisper as she answered.

"He looked at me! He called me senorita! He knows I am grown up!" Blushing, she reached to pick up the third can of matte Juana had prepared, but stopped as Juana laid a hand on hers.

"Wait a minute, senorita -- not yet."

Juana stood and walked to the men. Knelt by Ramon and spoke to him.

"Senor, I need your help."

"What?" He turned to her.

"I need your help, Ramon. Please -- may I show you?"

She stood and waited until Ramon stood, then led him away toward the fire. Maria could not hear what she said to him.

But Ramon could. He turned back and called to Manuel.

"My friend -- I will need your help for this."

"Oh?" Manuel looked up. Pedro looked up too and began to stand as Manuel rose.

"No senor -- you are tired and the two of us will be enough," Ramon said.

They were approaching the fire as Manuel asked Ramon what help was needed, and they were passing it as Ramon answered. Maria heard the answer.

"I need help with my sex life, my friend. Juana says I will sleep alone for a month if I don't get you away from the senor!"

Now Juana handed Maria the can of matte she had prepared for Ramon.

"No sense this matte going to waste, senorita, and the senor should not have to sit alone!"

"But I can't! What will I say?"

Juana turned her and pushed her toward Pedro.

"It doesn't matter what you say, senorita, as long as it is you who say it."

Hesitantly, Maria approached Pedro. She felt herself flush as she saw how he watched her.

But she smiled as she approached and she felt warm as she saw the way his eyes caressed her body. She knelt beside him.

"You are alone, senor. May I sit with you?"

"Of course, senorita."

Pedro did not look at her but he could feel her presence. Idly, he plucked a flake of bark off the tree with his fingers, broke chips off it and flicked them aside. Watched them fall into the sea as he listened to her.

"I spoke with Manuel last night, senor. He told me about your parents."

"Yes?"

"It must be very sad to grow up without a mother."

Pedro's voice was soft, and Maria had to lean forward to hear him. "I watched her die, senorita. I have dreamed of it ever since."

"Senor?" Maria was shocked.

"My father's house fell down in an earthquake. My father and my sister were killed, my mother and I were trapped. I was still alive when the Canadians found me but she was not."

"And when you grew up, senor, you joined the Canadians."

"I did."

"You could not help your mother, senor, but you have helped many people."

"I guess so." Pedro picked up his can. Swirled the remaining matte about in it and peered into it.

"Do you drink matte in San Felipe?" he asked.

"Sometimes, senor. But it is very expensive, and coffee is very cheap. We drink more coffee."

"But you say you like matte better?"

"I do, senor. Some do not. They say coffee is the white man's drink and that matte is for Indians."

Pedro smiled. "I am half Indian -- does that mean I can drink both?"

"I am half Indian too, senor, and so are most of the people in San Felipe. But when they speak of Indians and white men, most people in San Felipe don't think about the color of the skin. They speak of how people live. In San Felipe, senor, you would be considered a white man.

"And you?"

"I am considered white, senor. I lived in the village and my father owned a store."

"And that makes you white. Was your father an Indian?"

"No senor. My mother was an Ayuba."

"Manuel tells me you were to have been married soon."

"Next month, senor. But Giorgo is dead now. I am sure of it."

"I am sorry."

"I am not, senor. Not very. Giorgo's father was an important man in the village, and the marriage was my father's idea -- not mine."

"You did not like Giorgo?"

"I did not care much, senor. In the village, one young man looks very much like another. My father thought he was a good man, and he was kind to me. As kind as most men." She looked out over the sea a moment, then continued.

"If we had been married I would have been happy, I think." She turned to him. "You are not married, senor?"

Pedro picked another flake of bark off the tree and began to pull it apart.

"No. I am a member of the Rescue Corps, and corpsmen are not allowed to marry."

"Never, senor?"

"Not while they are corpsmen. Officers can marry."

"But you are not an officer, senor?"

"No. I can't be an officer because I'm not Canadian." He threw the last chip of bark into the water. "I guess I'm not even a corpsman now."

"Manuel told me, senor, that you were to be discharged soon. He said you are allowed to serve only three years."

"Yes."

"He said you were not happy, that you would rather stay with the corps."

"Yes." Pedro paused. "I wanted to stay."

"Even though you could not marry, senor?"

"I never thought of it that way. I never wanted to marry."

Maria's eyebrows rose. "But a man must marry, senor! He must have a home!"

Pedro pulled another flake of bark from the tree and inspected it while he answered her.

"Must he? I guess so. I don't really know -- I never had one. Many of my friends did not."

"I don't understand, senor."

"I grew up in an orphanage and I went from there into the Rescue Corps. I guess the orphanage and the Rescue Corps were my homes for most of my life."

"Manuel says you still dream about your mother."

"I do, senorita. I wanted to help her but there was nothing I could do."

"You joined the corps, senor, and you have helped many people since."

"I did, and I have."

"But you did not save your mother. Manuel says he thinks you are still looking for her."

Pedro sat for a moment lost in thought. "He might be right."

"Are you happy, senor?"

"I guess so. I don't really know."

"And you do not want to get married?"

"I never thought about it, I guess." He turned to face her. "I've never had much chance to think about it. There were no girls in the orphanage."

"But you went to school, senor. There must have been girls there?"

"There were, but they did not speak to boys from the orphanage."

"But you met girls in Canada, senor?"

He looked away from her. "I am half Indio, senorita. In Canada you do not stop being an Indian just because you live as a white man."

"Are there no Indians in Canada, senor?"

"There are -- but not in Newfoundland, where I was stationed."

"That is sad," she said. She looked into his eyes. "I am half Indio, senor. And in San Felipe an Indio who lives as a white is considered a white. Most of the Indians think they are better than whites.

"But you have helped the Mother-of-all. In San Felipe you could take your choice -- live in the village and be white, or live in the swamp and be Indian if you wanted to."

Forward to book six of Rescue Trooper

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