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ole。 With his free hand he checked the settings； calibrated and zeroed the instrument； and then began walking steadily across the long flat staring fixedly at the screen。 As he walked； fog drifted in and the sky grew dark。 Near the center of the flat； he suddenly stopped。
Masangkay stared at the screen in surprise。 Then he adjusted some settings and took another step。 Once again he paused； brow furrowed。 With a curse he switched the machine off； returned to the edge of the flat； rezeroed the machine； and walked at right angles to his previous path。 Again he paused； surprise giving way to disbelief。 He marked the spot with two rocks； one atop the other。 Then he walked to the far side of the flat； turned； and came back； more quickly now。 A soft rain was beading on his face and shoulders； but he ignored it。 He pressed a button； and a narrow line of paper began spooling out of the puter。 He examined it closely； ink bleeding down the paper in the mist。 His breath came faster。 At first he thought the data was wrong： but there it was； three passes； all perfectly consistent。 He made yet another pass； more reckless than the last； tearing off another spool of paper； examining it quickly； then balling it into his jacket pocket。
After the fourth pass； he began talking to himself in a low； rapid monotone。 Veering back toward the mules； he dropped the tomographic sounder on the drysack and untied the second mule's pack with trembling hands。 In his haste； one of the panniers fell to the ground and split open； spilling picks； shovels； rock hammers； an auger； and a bundle of dynamite。 Masangkay scooped up a pick and shovel and jogged back to the center of the flat。 Flinging the shovel to the ground； he began feverishly swinging the pick； breaking up the rough surface。 Then he scooped out the loosened gravel with the shovel； throwing it well to the side。 He continued in this fashion； alternating pick and shovel。 The mules watched him with plete impassivity； heads drooping； eyes half…lidded。
Masangkay worked as the rain began to stiffen。 Shallow pools collected at the lowest points of the graveled flat。 A cold smell of ice drifted inland from Franklin Channel； to the north。 There was a distant roll of thunder。 Gulls came winging over his head； circling in curiosity； uttering forlorn cries。
The hole deepened to a foot； then two。 Below the hard layer of gravel； the alluvial sand was soft and easily dug。 The hills disappeared behind shifting curtains of rain and mist。 Masangkay worked on； heedless； stripping off his coat； then his shirt； and eventually his undershirt； flinging them out of the hole。 Mud and water mingled with the sweat that ran across his back and chest； defining the ripples and hollows of his musculature； while the points of his beard hung with water。
Then； with a cry； he stopped。 He crouched in the hole； scooping the sand and mud away from a hard surface beneath his feet。 He let the rain wash the last bit of mud from the surface。
Suddenly； he started in shock and bewilderment。 Then he knelt as if praying； spreading his sweaty hands reverently on the surface。 His breath came in gasps； eyes wild with astonishment； sweat and rain streaming together off his forehead； his heart pounding from exertion； excitement； and inexpressible joy。
At that moment； a shock wave of brilliant light burst out of the hole； followed by a prodigious boom that rolled off across the valley； echoing and dying among the far hills。 The two mules raised their heads in the direction of the noise。
They saw a small body of mist； which became crablike； broke apart； and drifted off into the rain。
The tethered mules looked away from the scene with indifference as night settled upon Isla esolacion。
Isla Desolacion；
February 22； 11：00 A。M。
THE LONG bark canoe cut through the water of the channel； moving swiftly with the tidal current。 A single figure； small and bent； knelt inside； expertly feathering a paddle； guiding the canoe through the chop。 A thin trail of smoke rose from the smoldering fire built on a pad of wet clay in the center of the canoe
The canoe rounded the black cliffs of Isla Desolacion； turned into the smoother water of a little cove； and crunched onto the cobbled beach。 The figure leapt out and pulled the canoe above the high tide mark He had heard the news； in passing； from one of the nomadic fishermen who lived alone in these cold seas。 That a foreignlooking man would visit such a remote and inhospitable island was unusual indeed。 But even more unusual was the fact that a month had passed； and the man had apparently not left
He paused； catching sight of something。 Moving forward； he picked up a piece of shattered fiberglass； and then another； looking at them； peeling some strands from the broken edges and tossing them aside。 The remains of a freshly wrecked boat。 Perhaps there was a simple explanation after all。
He was a peculiar…looking man … old； dark； with long gray hair and a thin little mustache that drooped down from his chin like the film of a spiderweb。 Despite the freezing weather； he was dressed only in a soiled T…shirt and a baggy pair of shorts。 Touching a finger to his nose； he blew snot out of his nostrils； first one； then the other； with a delicate motion。 Then he scrambled up the cliff at the head of the little cove。
He paused at its brink； his bright black eyes scanning the ground for signs。 The gravelly floor； dotted with mounds of moss； was spongy from the freeze…thaw cycle； and it had preserved the footprints … and hoofprints … excellently。
He followed the trail as it made its irregular way up a rise to the snowfield。 There it followed the edge of the field； eventually cutting down into the valley beyond。 At a brow overlooking the valley the prints stopped； milling around in a crazy pattern。 The man paused； gazing down into the barren draw。 There was something down there： bits of color against the landscape； and the glint of sunlight off polished metal。
He hurried down。
He reached the mules first； still tied to the rock。 They were long dead。 His eyes traveled hungrily across the ground； glittering with avarice as they registered the supplies and equipment。 Then he saw the body。
He approached it； moving much more cautiously。 It lay on its back； about a hundred yards from the mouth of a recently dug hole。 It was naked； with just a shred of charred clothing clinging to the carbonized flesh。 Its black； burnt hands were raised to the sky； like the claws of a dead crow； and its splayed legs were drawn up to its crushed chest。 The rain had collected in the hollow eye sockets； making two little pools of water that reflected the sky and clouds。
The old man backed away； one foot at a time； like a cat。 Then he stopped。 He remained rooted to the spot； staring and wondering； for a long time。 And then … slowly； and without turning his back on the blackened corpse … he turned his attention to the trove of valuable equipment that lay scattered about。
New York City；
May 20； 2：00 P。M。
THE SALE room at Christie's was a simple space； framed in blond wood and lit by a rectangle of lights suspended from the ceiling。 Although the hardwood floor