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“The hell you say,” Drake growled. “For all you know, it’s got a hole punched right through it. How do you plan on getting off the island, Quedak? Or are you just going to stay here?”

“I will leave at the proper time,” the Quedak said. “I want to make sure that we all leave together.”

V

The wind died. Huge gray thunderheads piled up in the sky to the southeast, their tops lost in the upper atmosphere, their black anvil bottoms pressing the hot still air upon the island. The sun had lost its fiery glare. Cherry-red, it slid listlessly toward the flat sea.

High overhead, a single bird of paradise circled, just out of rifle range. It had gone up ten minutes after Recetich had shot the first one down.

Monty Byrnes stood on the edge of the cleared area, his rifle ready. He had drawn the first guard shift. The rest of the men were eating a hasty dinner inside the copra shed. Sorensen and Drake were outside, looking over the situation.

Drake said, “By nightfall we’ll have to pull everybody back into the shed. Can’t take a chance on being exposed to the Quedak in the dark.”