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He stopped abruptly. From the copra shed he could hear the loud hum of a radio. And he heard Al Cable saying, “Hello, hello, this is Vuanu calling. We need help.”

Drake and Sorensen went into the shed. Cable was sitting in front of the transmitter, saying into the microphone, “Emergency, emergency, Vuanu calling, we need—”

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Drake snapped.

Cable turned and looked at him, his pudgy pink body streaked with sweat. “I’m radioing for help, that’s what I’m doing. I think I’ve picked up somebody. But they haven’t answered me yet.”

He readjusted the tuning. Over the receiver, they could hear a bored British voice saying, “Pawn to Queen four, eh? Why don’t you ever try a different opening?”

There was a sharp burst of static. “Just move,” a deep bass voice answered. “Just shut up and move.”

“Sure,” said the British voice. “Knight to king bishop three.”

Drake recognized the voices. They were ham radio operators. One of them owned a plantation on Bougainville; the other was a shopkeeper in Rabaul. They came on the air for an hour of chess and argument every evening.