The water becomes extremely clear the closer you get to shore, like a window onto the ocean floor. However, your focus is the island ahead of you, which appears dark even in broad daylight. There is a long beach in front of you, with a ridgeline rising behind it to the right. None of it looks familiar to you, as this is not the part of the island you spent the last few days memorizing with the maps. For all you know, you are heading straight toward a Woban village.

You and Berringer never did verify your new location, and so even if you still had the maps you would only be able to guess at which part of the island you are now approaching. All you know is that the jewel is said to reside in a ruined temple on the highest peak, which sits in a mountainous region on the south side of the island. You do indeed see a peak that matches the description: flat-topped with near-vertical slopes, somewhat like Devil's Tower in Wyoming. Getting to the top of such a mountain should be an adventure in itself, but you can only assume that there is a way up to the temple ruins that is not obvious from afar.

It is a long and anxious boat ride to shore, since you have no idea who (or what) else might be listening to the sound of your outboard motor. Nevertheless, you see no sign of movement on the beach ahead of you. Nor do you see the other runabout that Meredith stole.

You run the small inflatable boat onto shore, and then hop out and pull it the rest of the way out of the water. With no satellite phone to call for assistance should you need it, this white craft will probably be your only ticket off the island, when the time comes to return to the Big Papi. Looking around, you see quite a few footprints in the sand other than your own, telling you this beach is indeed a well-traveled thoroughfare. This motivates you to pull the runabout all the way into the bushes at the edge of the jungle, where you do your best to hide it. You note that the location of this hiding spot is just to the left of a large palm tree, which leans low over the beach before making a distinctive upwards curve; hopefully this natural landmark will help you find your boat when you return.

Then you look around at your surroundings. You intentionally landed close to that ridgeline you saw from the water, with the hope that this would put some distance between you and the nearest Woban village. You also noticed at the time that there seemed to be a pass straight ahead through the hills, which you theorized might be the most direct route to the base of the largest mountain. To get there, you'd have to follow the foot of the ridge up into the foothills for at least three miles, probably longer. The problem is that you have no idea whether any trails lead in that direction; if they do, none start here on the beach, at least. This means there is a good chance you'll have to bushwhack through thick brush to get where you want to go, and that is always a slow and arduous process.

The closest thing to a clear trail that you find begins to the right of where you stowed your boat. It leads up a steep and rocky slope, and you can only assume it goes all the way up to the top of the ridgeline. If it happens to follow that ridgeline once it gets there, then it too will lead you toward the foot of the big mountain, where your future wealth awaits. You'd make better time on a trail than you would bushwhacking through the jungle, even if the trail along the ridgeline would be longer.

But here's another thing you ought to consider: trails exist because they are used frequently by people — and on this island, the people who most concern you are the Wobans. If you could manage to avoid them as much as possible, you'll be having a good day.

Decisions, decisions. While you are pondering your options, you look back out at the ocean. The Big Papi is five nautical miles out from shore, holding its position while it awaits your return.

__________________________________________________
> You climb the steep trail.
The idea of moving swiftly appeals to you most, and so if the trail leading up the steep slope is the only one available, then so be it. By keeping to the high ground, you'll probably also have a better view of your surroundings; one way or the other, traveling along the ridge should prove to be beneficial, even if the trail does not turn out to be as good as you would like.

Without any further ado, you strike off. The trail is indeed steep, with scrambles from ledge to ledge at times, and very little vegetation to shade you from the tropical sun. You've seen mountain goat trails that were not unlike this one — although unless goats can fly or build canoes, you doubt there are any on Woban Island. The climb is grueling, and your pack fits you as well as if you were carrying a load of encyclopedias. The heat is oppressive, and all the sweat that is oozing out of your pores makes you feel like a spaghetti strainer. Just fifteen minutes up the hill, you stop and take a long swig out of the first Aquafina bottle. Ten minutes later you are stopping for a second drink. If your day continues like this, you're going to quickly regret not taking all six of the liter bottles that Captain Mark had scrounged up for you.

On the other hand, the pauses allow you to enjoy the setting. Under different circumstances — like, if you weren't on a paid gig, or on an island crawling with three-eyed man-beasts eager to kill you on sight — this might be a pleasant day. (And now that you think of it, it might also help if you had all that top-quality gear you bought in Boston. And if you had better prospects for tonight other than a meal of pepperoni sticks while huddling under a blue plastic tarp shelter.) The island itself is beautiful, with miles of seemingly pristine beach below you, and seabirds squabbling noisily for perching rights on a rocky point about half a mile away. There are no buildings of any kind on land, at least not that you can see; if there is a native village or two somewhere out in that expanse of jungle, you see no such thing. The closest thing to a structure is the Big Papi itself, which sits on the ocean like a distant white seagull floating contentedly on the waves.

The ridge only rises about four hundred feet above the beach, and so despite the effort required to make the climb it is over relatively soon. Just as you theorized, the trail continues along the crest, through pockets of grass and thickets of small trees. Even in the wooded sections there is very little shade, and so you pass the day exposed to the sun. Heat assaults you from above and below, as it reflects off the rocky terrain. You feel as though you are trekking across an endless parking lot on a sunny day in August.

The trail that you are following seems like a long and lonely highway; two hours pass as you follow it toward the foothills, with no signs of any Wobans. But despite all that forward progress, there are reasons to be concerned. You are down to your second Aquafina bottle, meaning you need to start being very careful with your water intake. There are no streams on this arid ridgeline, no places to replenish your supply; the handful of ounces remaining in the clear plastic bottle are all that you possess.

And so when the ridge trail begins to descend into a verdant valley where the sound of running water echoes gently off the surrounding hillsides, you start to get excited.

__________________________________________________
> Next page.
The excitement comes to an abrupt halt the moment you hear voices beside that stream. Knowing that you have no reason to trust anybody you might encounter on this island, you go into instant stealth mode. It sounds like there are several men ahead of you, and although you don't recognize any of the words, the voices are calm. The speakers are merely conversing among themselves, unaware of your presence. You creep forward, finding a place behind a large rock where you can observe the speakers unseen.

What you see chills you.

There are three men in colorful grass skirts standing in a small clearing beside the small stream, each casually holding a spear that is as long as they are tall. And these men are certainly tall, nearly seven feet so, with muscular bodies. The fingers that grasp the spear shafts are tipped with elongated black nails; those on the index fingers are curved and pointed, as if these people were descended from velociraptors. And on the forehead of each man, directly above the bridge of the nose, a third eye frowns at the world.

The Wobans seem to be concerned about something, although you are relieved it's not you. "‘A‘ole hiki ia‘u ke mana‘o hou i ha‘awi hou ke alaka‘i ia makou i ke kuleana kia‘i," one of them says.

"Ma hope o ka mea a makou i hana ai ia ia, aia anei kekahi kumu e pono ai ia ia ka lokomaika‘i ia makou?" says the Woban on the right.

"‘A‘ole wau ka mea nana i kau i ka nahe i kana ‘au‘au!" the Woban on the left says defensively.

"‘A‘ole, aka, ‘o ‘oe kahi me ka mana‘o!" the first one says.

"No ke aha i makemake ai ke ali‘i e kia‘i i keia ana? ‘A‘ole e hele kekahi ma ane‘i."

"Makemake paha ke ali‘i ia makou e hele."

"He naaupo oukou. E hele mai na kanaka ma ane‘i. Ke ‘imi nei na holoholona haole ia Vul-Kar, a alaka‘i ke ana i ka luakini."

"No laila makou e ku kia‘i ai a hiki i kahi poina e ke ali‘i no ka makou mea i hana ai."

"‘Ae, ‘o ia ko ka makou ho‘opa‘i."

You haven't the slightest idea what they're gossiping about, but they seem rather glum about something. Then they go silent, sitting on the ground facing each other. One draws a circle in the dirt with his black talon-like fingernail, and they each take turns idly tossing pebbles into the center, as if they were playing some kind of children's game.

Their presence poses a dilemma for you, though. The trail that you have been following cuts straight through this clearing where the three Wobans appear to be waiting for something (or someone). For you to continue following it toward the mountain, you'd have to carefully circle through the jungle to get around them unseen.

But then you notice something else interesting: the stream that lured you here appears to emanate from a dark cave in the hillside, just five yards from your hiding spot. There is enough small brush around it that you are pretty sure that you can crawl there unseen. You have no idea where that cave goes, or if it even goes anywhere, but if nothing else it looks like it would provide better cover while you wait for the Wobans to leave.

All you know is that you can't stay here. Should the Wobans start moving around, of if another happens to come down the trail, you will be spotted instantly.

__________________________________________________
> You circle through the jungle to get around the Wobans.
As cool as it might be to explore that cave, that's not what you're here for. This trail seems to lead right where you want to go, and the sooner you can get to the Stone of Vul-Kar and then get off this island, the happier everyone will be. These three Wobans seem distracted enough with their game that it should be easy to get past them, so the best course of action is probably to just sneak through the woods, put the Wobans in your rearview mirror, and continue on your way.

You venture out from behind your rock and creep into the woods, following the stream down for a hundred feet or so. Refilling your two Aquafina bottles with clear water from the little stream, you watch and listen for indications that the Wobans have heard you. From here you can't see them too well, but you can hear them well enough. As before, they seem completely unaware of your presence, their conversation focused some aspect of their game.

With your water supply replenished, you move on through the woods, using the sounds of the three natives as the center point for your circular route. "‘A‘ole ‘oe ke pa‘ani nei e na lula!" one of them shouts, but you quickly figure out that it's not about you. "‘A‘ole ‘oe e ‘ike i ka mea au e ‘olelo nei. Noho iho ‘oe a pani ‘ia," another one says, and the crisis seems to be over.

A moment later, your orbital route around the distracted Wobans brings you back to the trail, and you resume your journey.

The problem, though, is that you have apparently picked a rather high-traffic trail to follow into the island interior. Within minutes you come to a prominent junction, with a wide and well-worn path leading left and downhill, and an equally wide and well-worn trail continuing straight ahead and slightly uphill. For the moment you hear no voices, so you continue on the uphill route. But the path is filled with footprints of all sizes — and heading in both directions, as if you've come across a major Woban thoroughfare. Extra caution will be in order.

Ironically, you are paying so much attention to the footprints in the muddy surface of the trail that you don't notice the tattooed warrior sneaking up behind you. It is not until he bellows out a loud whoop! that you turn and see him, but by then it is much too late. Four other tattooed, three-eyed men emerge from the brush beside the trail, each with an enormous spear pointed directly at you.

"Ua loa‘a ia makou kekahi mea ‘aihue ‘e a‘e!" the largest of them says. "Hiki mai lakou i ka makou ‘aina e like me kahi ma‘i ma‘i o na pepeke."

"‘O keia ka lua a ka makou i hopu ai i keia la!" a fellow behind you says, sounding almost boastful.

"‘Ae, e ‘olu‘olu nui ke ali‘i i ka makou hana," the first Woban says.

None of this makes even the slightest sense to you, but you can figure out enough to see that you're about to be taken prisoner. Now that you're seeing them up close, the Wobans are huge; the smallest among them still rises head and shoulders above you, with sharp-tipped spears that are longer than the men are tall. Even without the third eye on their forehead these people would be intimidating; whatever evolutionary purpose else it might serve, the extra eye effectively triples the menace behind their glares.

Physically, you'd be outmatched by just one of these fellows; you have no doubts they could eviscerate you with ease with those "talons" they call hands. All that extra body mass that makes them so much larger must be invested in muscle, bone, and tendon. You are not going to best anybody here in a footrace or pin one down in a half nelson. Maybe trying to reason with them is an option, though, so you give that a shot.

"Look," you say, "I come in peace. All I want is to climb a mountain—"

Someone strikes you from behind, and you slump to the ground unconscious.

__________________________________________________
> Next page.
When you come to, you are lying on a dirt floor with a throbbing ache in the back of your head. Getting up seems highly ambitious given your groggy state, so instead you flop over and lie on your back. From what you can gather, you are at the bottom of a pit, with an oblong view of a small patch of sky a good twelve or sixteen feet above you. You have no memory of how you got here, but that's not surprising considering the force of the blow you received. Nor is it a mystery how you got to this place: the Wobans knocked you out and dragged you here. But where is "here"? What do your captors want, and how might you get free?

"I see you're awake," a voice says from the foggy corner of your consciousness. "You're already better off than the last person they dumped in here."

It takes a moment to realize you are not listening to a conversation between other people, but that there is someone else in this pit who is talking to you. You try to lift your head and look around, but that just causes more pain.

"Here, let me help." A man rises from the shadows and steps over toward you. He puts his hands under your arms and lifts you back against the wall, propping you up into a sitting position. It is more than you feel capable of doing yourself at the moment.

"The Wobans seem to be doing some housekeeping, I think, and we're the rubbish. 'Make Woban Island Great Again,' that kind of thing."

"Water?" you say. "Where is my water bottle?"

"Not here, I'm afraid. No food, either. Just you, me, and a dead woman."

It's unfortunate about the water. Sitting helps, though, so you focus on breathing deeply and trying to center your perception on recognizable objects.

Your boots. You see your boots, way out there at the end of your legs. Your legs are muddy, with red marks where you got scraped up on something. You have no recollection of that. Beyond your legs… someone else's legs. The man who helped you. There is not much light in this pit, but you can make out a wiry figure, slender but athletic, like that of a runner or something. Not a runner — scratch that. He is wearing a black harness that encompasses his torso and upper legs. He is a climber.

"Thank you anyway," you say.

"Hey, no problem," the rock climber says. "I could go for a long drink of water myself."

A moment passes while you sit quietly, waiting for your head to clear. The man fidgets, though, like someone not accustomed to silence.

"What's your name?" he says, but you choose not to answer; you're not sure you are in any position to provide an accurate answer yet.

"I'm Gary Gaffney, and right now I'm wishing I never heard of Woban Island. I think maybe I need a better travel agent. How about you? What do you think of the hospitality here? By the looks of the way they roughed you up, I'm guessing your Trip Advisor review will be fun to read. I just hope I get to read it someday."

"How long… have you been here?" you say.

"Not much longer than you. I was here for some epic rock climbing. You see, there was this broad in Boston who hired me to, uh, get some pictures of the island. I'd tell you more about that, but maybe the less you know the better. For your own sake, I mean. But anyway, yeah, I came to climb. There is some awesome rock on this island, I'll say that much. You should see the highest peak — sheer cliffs on every side. It's a thing of beauty. I know some guys who like to free-climb Yosemite who would give their left nut for a shot at this place. The problem is, you know, the Wobans. These guys will take more than just a left nut."

"Stone of Vul-Kar," you utter weakly. "Did you find it?"

"So you know about that? I should've known. It's a small island, after all. I'll bet you anything that Mrs. Adventure here knew all about it, too. She must've thought the Wobans would be so impressed by her pith helmet they would respect her well-dressed professionalism and leave her be."

"Pith helmet?"

"Yeah, you should see this thing. At first I thought the British East India Company was making a comeback. Judging by the way it's split open, though, it didn't do her much good. I think she was still alive when they tossed her down here — barely. But she was in rough shape, and the crash landing didn't do her any favors."

"E ho‘ike ‘ia ka mea‘ai i ke Ali‘i!"

Wobans are gathering around the top of the pit, preparing to drop ropes down.

"It looks like our court date has arrived," Gaffney says. "Time to appear before the local magistrate."

__________________________________________________
> Next page.
Three Wobans descend into the pit, each taking one of the prisoners: you, Gary, and the dead woman with the pith helmet. The body is hauled away once you reach the top, but your captors seem to have other plans for you and Gary.

The two of you are shoved toward the center of a large Woban village. It is late in the day, and the villagers seem to be preparing for a huge bonfire; there is a great heap of wood stacked near the center of town. Straw huts surround you, occupied by men, women, and children who for the most part wear only grass skirts and a few other simple adornments. Their village is situated beautifully in a valley high in the mountains; you can see forested slopes in three directions, each with its own cascading stream catching the evening light.

Above it all rises the island's highest peak, an impressive tower of rock that looms hundreds of feet above the valley. At the sight of it, your purpose here comes back to you. You remember now that the mountain is your destination; you were hired to find a way to the top and retrieve an item of extreme value. How ironic that the Wobans have helped you complete a portion of that journey.

"Didn't I tell you? I could spend the rest of my life here putting up new routes," Gary says, admiring the view of the mountain.

Your head is starting to clear, and you are coming to realize that your situation is dire. These people are known cannibals; if they are inviting you to a party, it's because you're to be the main entrée. As you are marched through the village, you sense the residents looking you up and down. Those extra eyes are no longer scowling; now they look eager, like they are assessing how well you might taste. The better to see you with, my dear.

The heart of the village is a big open space, with the pile of wood near the center, and a raised platform of earth upon which stands the largest hut of all. A man and a woman are seated before the hut, regally poised in feathered robes and wearing feathered headpieces. You and Gary are brought before the mound and forced to kneel.

"At least they haven't lost our luggage."

Gary nods his head to the left, and there before the mound is a small hut with an open entrance. Inside it you can make out a large backpack adorned with colorful rope and carabiners. You assume your modest book bag is in there, too. The packs seem unmolested, as if the Wobans have no interest in items they can't understand — or perhaps fear things they think are enchanted with dark magic.

The king in his feathered robe stands up and approaches the forward edge of the earthen platform like an actor on a stage. He looks over the two of you, all three eyes moving in unison as if assessing merchandise.

"Ua li‘ili‘i loa ka wahine," he says, his stentorian voice uttering words you have no way of understanding. "‘A‘ole lawa kana ‘i‘o e kako‘o ia makou. Pono makou e loa‘a hou na ‘i‘o."

The king gestures to one of the guards, who first forces Gary to his feet, and then you. Your talkative rock-climbing friend senses the gravity of this situation and remains quiet. The guard steps in front of Gary, eyes him up and down, and then does the same to you. When he's done, he grabs you by the back of the neck and shoves you a step closer to the king, who in turn subjects you to the most intense glare of your life. You can see now that in a staring contest with a Woban, you will always be outmatched on a three-to-two basis.

"Nau e koho!" he barks at you. "E koho i ka la au e makemake ai e make: I keia la? Apopo?"

You stand there waiting for him to continue; the king stands before you as if waiting for something from you as well.

"I keia la? Apopo?" he says more slowly.

"I think he's asking you a question," Gary says.

"I get that," you say. "I don't understand what, though."

"‘A‘ole hiki i keia holoholona ke ‘olelo!" the king bellows to the gathered villagers, who respond with nervous laughter. Then he settles his eyes back on you. "He ninau ma‘alahi ia. E koho i ka la au e makemake ai e make: I keia la? Apopo?"

His efforts to slowly enunciate the words aren't helping your ability to comprehend them. The best you can guess is that you are being asked to choose between two options.

"I keia la? Apopo?" the king says again, but this time he is stepping backward to rejoin his wife.

"I keia la or apopo?" you say.

"Ke pihoihoi nei keia," the king says, once more gesturing to the guard.

The warrior grabs you by your shirt. "I keia la! Apopo! E koho i keia manawa!" His words land like spittle on your forehead.

"Just choose one," Gary says. "Before they get mad. It's either 'i keia la' or 'apopo.' Your guess is as good as mine which is the right answer."

It's frustrating being forced to make a choice when you have no way of knowing what the consequences will be.

__________________________________________________
> You keia la.
"All right, I'll choose 'i keia la,' although it really makes no difference to me," you say.

"I keia la?" the guard says.

"Yes, i keia la."

The guard turns triumphantly to the king. "Ua koho ka holoholona ke make i keia la!"

"A laila e lawe e luku ‘ia," the king says dismissively.

"Well that seems to settle things," Gary says.

But the Woban guard grabs you by both shoulders and roughly marches you back into the cluster of huts. Everybody seemed content with your choice, so you have no idea what you've done wrong.

"Hey, i keia la! I keia la!" you say, but the guard only seems more irritated with you and grabs your shoulders even more tightly. His long claw-like fingernails are piercing your clothing and causing you much pain. You can feel blood dripping down your sides.

The villagers seem even more interested in you now than before, and some step forward as if to inspect you. But your guard acts as if he's on a tight schedule. "Ma waho o ke ala!" he shouts at them, and the people move sheepishly aside.

At the guard's forceful direction, you turn a corner and march directly toward one of the huts. At last you are about to find out what it is you have chosen. But your blood chills when the most massive Woban you've seen yet emerges from the straw shelter. He folds his arms as he watches your approach, and against his left shoulder you can see he is holding a short but sturdy stick. The wood is polished from years of use, and the blunt end is caked with dried blood.

Only then do you start to grasp the significance of "i keia la," as you approach the man with the cudgel: you have chosen to be tonight's dinner, and you are being led like a lamb to the slaughterhouse.

THE END


Three Wobans descend into the pit, each taking one of the prisoners: you, Gary, and the dead woman with the pith helmet. The body is hauled away once you reach the top, but your captors seem to have other plans for you and Gary.

The two of you are shoved toward the center of a large Woban village. It is late in the day, and the villagers seem to be preparing for a huge bonfire; there is a great heap of wood stacked near the center of town. Straw huts surround you, occupied by men, women, and children who for the most part wear only grass skirts and a few other simple adornments. Their village is situated beautifully in a valley high in the mountains; you can see forested slopes in three directions, each with its own cascading stream catching the evening light.

Above it all rises the island's highest peak, an impressive tower of rock that looms hundreds of feet above the valley. At the sight of it, your purpose here comes back to you. You remember now that the mountain is your destination; you were hired to find a way to the top and retrieve an item of extreme value. How ironic that the Wobans have helped you complete a portion of that journey.

"Didn't I tell you? I could spend the rest of my life here putting up new routes," Gary says, admiring the view of the mountain.

Your head is starting to clear, and you are coming to realize that your situation is dire. These people are known cannibals; if they are inviting you to a party, it's because you're to be the main entrée. As you are marched through the village, you sense the residents looking you up and down. Those extra eyes are no longer scowling; now they look eager, like they are assessing how well you might taste. The better to see you with, my dear.

The heart of the village is a big open space, with the pile of wood near the center, and a raised platform of earth upon which stands the largest hut of all. A man and a woman are seated before the hut, regally poised in feathered robes and wearing feathered headpieces. You and Gary are brought before the mound and forced to kneel.

"At least they haven't lost our luggage."

Gary nods his head to the left, and there before the mound is a small hut with an open entrance. Inside it you can make out a large backpack adorned with colorful rope and carabiners. You assume your modest book bag is in there, too. The packs seem unmolested, as if the Wobans have no interest in items they can't understand — or perhaps fear things they think are enchanted with dark magic.

The king in his feathered robe stands up and approaches the forward edge of the earthen platform like an actor on a stage. He looks over the two of you, all three eyes moving in unison as if assessing merchandise.

"Ua li‘ili‘i loa ka wahine," he says, his stentorian voice uttering words you have no way of understanding. "‘A‘ole lawa kana ‘i‘o e kako‘o ia makou. Pono makou e loa‘a hou na ‘i‘o."

The king gestures to one of the guards, who first forces Gary to his feet, and then you. Your talkative rock-climbing friend senses the gravity of this situation and remains quiet. The guard steps in front of Gary, eyes him up and down, and then does the same to you. When he's done, he grabs you by the back of the neck and shoves you a step closer to the king, who in turn subjects you to the most intense glare of your life. You can see now that in a staring contest with a Woban, you will always be outmatched on a three-to-two basis.

"Nau e koho!" he barks at you. "E koho i ka la au e makemake ai e make: I keia la? Apopo?"

You stand there waiting for him to continue; the king stands before you as if waiting for something from you as well.

"I keia la? Apopo?" he says more slowly.

"I think he's asking you a question," Gary says.

"I get that," you say. "I don't understand what, though."

"‘A‘ole hiki i keia holoholona ke ‘olelo!" the king bellows to the gathered villagers, who respond with nervous laughter. Then he settles his eyes back on you. "He ninau ma‘alahi ia. E koho i ka la au e makemake ai e make: I keia la? Apopo?"

His efforts to slowly enunciate the words aren't helping your ability to comprehend them. The best you can guess is that you are being asked to choose between two options.

"I keia la? Apopo?" the king says again, but this time he is stepping backward to rejoin his wife.

"I keia la or apopo?" you say.

"Ke pihoihoi nei keia," the king says, once more gesturing to the guard.

The warrior grabs you by your shirt. "I keia la! Apopo! E koho i keia manawa!" His words land like spittle on your forehead.

"Just choose one," Gary says. "Before they get mad. It's either 'i keia la' or 'apopo.' Your guess is as good as mine which is the right answer."

It's frustrating being forced to make a choice when you have no way of knowing what the consequences will be.

__________________________________________________
> You apopo.
"Um, let's go with apopo," you say. "I can't really see what the difference is, though."

"Apopo?" the guard says.

"Yes, apopo."

The guard turns triumphantly to the king. "Ua koho ka holoholona e make i ‘apopo, hiki ia makou ke ‘ai i kana hoa i keia po!"

"Ua lo‘ihi ka manawa i ho‘oholo ai," the king says. "Lawe i ka holoholona ma mua o ka ho‘ololi i kona no‘ono‘o." He gestures to a guard, who then grabs you by the shoulders again.

"E ho‘omakaukau i keia holoholona no makou e ‘ai ai." This time the king is pointing to Gary, and as another guard grabs him some of the villagers step forward to get a closer look at him.

"Wait, what's going on?" Gary says. "I am not 'apopo'! I think you're confusing me for somebody else!"

"Ka ne‘e, holoholona!" your guard bellows into your ear. You're not sure what you have just set in motion by choosing "apopo," but you and Gary are pulled in opposite directions. The last you see the rock climber, he is being steered through the crowd and into the cluster of huts. Meanwhile, your guard forces you back toward the pit on the edge of town. It is at least twelve feet deep, but rather than waiting to get pushed in headfirst you jump in on your own power. The landing winds you, and your momentum sends you sprawling face-first into one of the earthen walls that contain you.

"E ‘ike kakou ia ‘oe i ka la ‘apopo!" the guard says before disappearing from view, leaving you alone at the bottom of the pit.

Without Gary to fill up this desolate space with his friendly chatter, it seems so much more empty and forlorn. You are surrounded by vertical walls of hard-packed dirt, with nothing that you could grab onto for the purposes of extracting yourself. Gary's metaphor about being the rubbish seems apt: you feel like you have just been discarded into the waster paper bin.

Although on second thought, perhaps the more accurate analogy is that this is the Woban's food pantry. After a moment passes at the bottom of this pit, when you figure out that you are not in immediate danger, it dawns on you what just happened up above when you were standing before the Woban king. That choice you were forced to make — apparently "apopo" meant you were selecting Gary for tonight's meal, and saving yourself for some other occasion.

This leaves you not only alone as you huddle in the dark at the bottom of the pit, but terribly guilt-stricken. The fact that you had no idea what you were choosing at the time doesn't change the consequences of your choice. You feel as sickened with yourself as you would if you were the one making the killing blow. For all intents and purposes, you are complicit in Gary's murder at the hands of these beastly cannibals.

At least you feel buffered from the grisly celebrations that are being conducted a short distance away. Down here, the tall earthen walls muffle most of the sounds coming from the village, and all you can see is the light of the bonfires illuminating the trees directly above the pit. The details are left to your imagination.

So instead of imagining, you try to occupy yourself by exploring every cubic inch of your prison, or at least those portions within arm's reach, starting with the floor. The space is about eight feet long and six feet wide, and if you tried to dig at the walls you'd either wear your fingertips down to bloody stumps or trigger a cave-in. Everywhere you turn, you are facing dirt. Hamlet was wrong; being bound in a nutshell does not make you feel like a master of infinite space.

One end of the pit feels damp, but not with water; you reel back when you realize that this was where the dead woman with the pith helmet had fallen. You have no idea who she was, and you never did get a good look at her. Gary was correct, though: the pith helmet was a rather cartoonish fashion statement.

Groping around the edges, you come to the spot where you're pretty sure your rock-climbing friend was sitting when you first awoke. Expecting to find nothing but more dirt, your fingers brush past something metallic pushed up against the wall — tucked in so tightly that you have to dig the object out a bit. You then discover there are two objects, each about eight inches long and wedge-shaped. Holding them up, you can see that they are rock-climbing pitons. Clearly they were left here by Gary, who must've had them in his pockets when the Wobans first tossed him down here. He then hid them in the dirt where he had been sitting, knowing they would be useful in escaping this prison. All he needed was to wait for the right time — which for him never came.

And so now it is you who are sitting alone at the bottom of the pit, holding the two pitons in your hands and examining the walls above you. Even with the pitons to wedge into the dirt, it is not going to be easy climbing your way out of here. But considering how unimaginable the price of failure will be, you see no other alternative.

__________________________________________________
> Next page.
The trick will be to wait for the Woban festival to end. The only thing you can do is wait patiently for the glow of the bonfire to fade away, and the sound of voices to grow silent. Knowing you're only going to get one shot at this, the risk of getting caught trying to flee while there are still Wobans around who might see you is too great. You have no idea what the custom is here, but you hope that eventually even a three-eyed, seven-foot giant must sleep, and that after the party is over the people of the village will return to their huts for a night of contented sleep.

It is a long and agonizing wait, but your wishes to eventually come to pass. Keeping track of the time on your watch, the Wobans begin to lose steam well before midnight. Good — they're not night owls, living it up into the wee hours of the morning. The light in the trees directly above you grows dim, and slowly the sound of communal conviviality devolves into isolated banter. You momentarily panic when voices pass so close to the pit you can make out individual voices: "He ahaaina nui ia." "‘Ae, ‘o ka ‘i‘o ka tastiest a makou i lo‘ihi ai." But when they pass, you can detect nothing but darkness and silence from the bottom of the pit.

A sense of caution tells you to wait a little while longer to be sure — there may be other Woban voices you can't hear way down here — but you've been trapped so long in this pit that you can't sit still any longer. With a piton in each hand, you reach as high as you can and thrust the wedges into the earthen wall. There is a trickle of dirt from each impact, but the pitons hold as you lift yourself up. Immediately you can feel the stress this going to place on your upper arm muscles, so you kick at the wall with the toes of your boots. With some effort they carve out a slight toehold, letting you stand a short distance above the floor. A moment later you pull the right piton out of the wall, reach up, jam it in, and pull yourself up another few inches. Next you do the same with the left piton.

In this method, progress is made by a factor of inches. Your biceps are burning, and your fingers feel bruised as they tightly grip the small steel wedges — but this momentary discomfort is far better than the alternative. So rest on your toeholds when you can, and inch your way upward so that you may live to see another day.

The village is indeed dark when you are first able to peep over the rim. This is good, because at least there will be no witnesses to this graceless final maneuver to pull yourself over the top. You first hoist your torso onto the level ground, your feet still dangling in the maw of the pit. Then you swing one leg up and roll over, above ground but extremely worn from the effort. You try and let go of the pitons, but you have been gripping them so tightly and for so long that your hands are locked into position around them. Begrudgingly your fingers open slightly and the pitons slip away. You can see the red indentations they have left on your fingers and palms.

It takes a few minutes to work some life into your arms and hands. They have done a yeoman's service tonight, and now it's time to throw the rest of your body into your escape effort. You stand up from your position beside the pit, flexing your fingers to try and restore movement. Below you are the two pitons, right where you dropped them. Your first impulse is to pick them back up and keep them as souvenirs of your epic climb to freedom, but instead you kick them back into the pit. You probably lack the articulation to grasp them and place them in your pocket anyway, and the next occupant of this pit will probably need them as much as you did. Pay it forward, as they say.

So now you are standing on your own two feet, with nothing but a dark village before you and not a Woban in sight. All you have to do is slip into the jungle and put as much distance as you can between you and this place. But a thought has been nagging at you for a while now: Gary the rock climber, and the fact that he had just completed an "epic climb." He said that he had been hired to take pictures, but what if like you his real purpose was to claim the Stone of Vul-Kar? Where else would he have climbed other than that main summit?

If this is true, the gem that you seek is no longer in some ancient temple, but right here in the village. Therefore despite your sense of self-preservation, which wants you to leave this place immediately, you creep toward the huts, back toward the center of town where hours ago you uttered the fateful word apopo.

You hear snoring in the huts that you pass, the sounds of people shifting in their sleep, incoherent mutterings in the dark. If you are going to do the exact opposite of what common sense says you should be doing, then you might as well do it quickly. So instead of creeping, you shift gears and jog toward that small shelter near the king's "palace." The wood pile is now greatly reduced in size, and there is a smoldering heap of coals and embers. The hut you are seeking is just as you remember it, and there is Gary's pack with its ropes and carabiners, visible in the dim light of the setting moon. You open up the top, and the first thing you see is a purple crystal.

__________________________________________________
> Next Page.
So this is the Stone of Vul-Kar? It is certainly a large and hefty crystal, but more like a hunk of colored quartz than a priceless gem. But hey, it's Walter Berringer's money, and he can spend it on what he chooses. Right now you are just grateful for Gary Gaffney doing all the hard work for you, sparing you the need to climb the mountain. He deserved a better fate than what he got.

You have nothing to carry it with, though, so you turn to see if your borrowed book bag is in here too. But what you find is even better: your brand-new green REI backpack, the exact same one that Meredith stole.

It looks a little scuffed up, but otherwise it is still in good shape. You open a side pocket and find a six-inch knife that you've had since forever, and the folded-up military maps that Berringer procured back on Oahu. This is how you know beyond a doubt that this really is your own backpack, and not just someone else's look-alike. But that means…. You never got a good look at the woman in the pith helmet, but now with your stolen pack back in your possession, it makes sense that you had briefly shared the bottom of the pit with Meredith's broken body. You feel a chill go through you at the thought of it, but your employer will probably be pleased to hear the news.

So you place the Stone of Vul-Kar in your own pack and prepare to embark on your return journey. Meredith messed up all the strap settings, but that is easily rectified. What a doubly awesome discovery! You are reunited with your gear, and your mission is a success! Now it's just a matter of getting out of here.

However, that might be easier said than done. You are, after all, alone and in the dark of night, on an unknown part of the island. The quarter-moon will set soon, and when that happens you will have to fish out your headlamp if you don't want to grope your way through the lightless jungle. The Wobans must maintain several trails leading out of this village, but where do they go? Which one leads to safety, and not just into another trap?

The sound of moving water behind you catches your attention, and you turn to see a wide path leading down a bank. It brings you in a few hundred feet to the side of a wide stream — probably the combined output of those three waterfalls that you saw earlier, back when you and Gary were being led to an audience with the Woban king. This is interesting; all streams on this island logically must flow to the ocean, and the ocean is where the Big Papi is patiently waiting for your return. Therefore you have just found your way off the island! Even if this stream flows to the opposite coastline, all you need to do is make a quick call on the satellite phone to arrange a pick-up with Berringer.

The trail seems to turn and follow the small river downstream, right where you want to go. But then you notice that what you assumed was a log lying on the bank is actually a dugout canoe — a small craft for use on a small stream. This almost seems even better than the trail! Considering your poor luck so far following the Wobans' trail network, maybe you would fare better on the water. Sooner or later the Wobans are going to come looking for you, and you'll be harder to track if you aren't leaving footprints all over the place.

But who knows how navigable this stream is? The trail might lead you to more Wobans, but at least it will be easier to find your way.

__________________________________________________
> You take the canoe.
The last time you tried following a trail on this island, it led you straight into the predicament that you are now trying to escape. So if nothing else, the canoe seems attractive just for the sake of variety it offers. But more than that, you expect the canoe will allow you to put greater distance between you and the people who want to make you their next supper. And when it comes to avoiding cannibals, distance is a good thing.

The canoe is upside-down on the grassy bank, so the first thing you do is flip it over. From what you can tell in the dim light, it was made from a single log hollowed out by fire. There is no seat, so you assume the occupant is expected to kneel on the bottom, using the pole tucked inside to steer and propel the craft against the current. It is big enough to hold only a lone occupant, which suits your purposes just fine; you assume this is someone's fishing boat, and you could care less what they think about you taking it.

You stuff the backpack into the rear of the boat, slide the log hull into the water, grab the pole, and then gingerly step into the canoe. It wobbles at first, but seems more stable once you're inside. From what you can make out, there is a long section of stillwater here, a place where the river is calm like a linear pond. The mountains are silhouettes against the starry sky, and you can hear the distant waterfalls. That is not the direction you want to go, so you point the canoe downstream, where no hills block the horizon. That way lies the most direct route to the coast.

There is a slight current, so you don't need to push very hard with the pole to put the canoe in motion. Mostly you just need to steer, shoving the pole into the water until it hits the bottom, and then giving it a good push. You have no idea how long this stillwater extends, although you doubt it goes very far; the river must get rougher as it tumbles its way out of the mountains and down toward the ocean. The question is, how much rougher does it get?

An answer to that question comes soon enough. The current becomes swifter just minutes after you set off, and you can hear rapids up ahead. Considering that it is nighttime on an unfamiliar waterway, it seems prudent to land the canoe and seek your refuge on shore. But you've only just started; you didn't haul your way out of that pit only to huddle in the dark just a few hundred yards away from the village. So far this stream seems manageable, and you'd prefer to take all the distance it can give you before you call it a night.

But the current is only just starting to pick up steam, and soon you are getting buffeted against rocks you can't even see in the dark. OK, so this is starting to get too intense. You try and push yourself to shore with the pole, but at first you can't reach bottom. Then it gets wedged in something in the water, and the next thing you know the canoe is spun around backwards.

You clutch onto the pole as dearly as you did the pitons, but the river's current is very insistent. Given that the strength in your arms has long since been spent, there is little you can do to improve your situation. And when the pole snaps in half….

Now you have no ability to control yourself, no ability to see where you're going, and no knowledge of what lies ahead on this river. So maybe the canoe wasn't such a good idea. The waves are getting bigger, and you are getting drenched in spray. Perhaps you should consider yourself fortunate that the canoe is still upright. You resolve to get out of this thing as soon as you get kicked out of the current and drift to shore — hopefully before you reach the source of that unnerving roar ahead of you, which is getting louder and louder by the second.

But the current doesn't cooperate. It pushes you over the edge of a tall waterfall, which plunges over volcanic rocks into a boulder-filled pool below. Both you and the jewel are lost forever.

THE END


So this is the Stone of Vul-Kar? It is certainly a large and hefty crystal, but more like a hunk of colored quartz than a priceless gem. But hey, it's Walter Berringer's money, and he can spend it on what he chooses. Right now you are just grateful for Gary Gaffney doing all the hard work for you, sparing you the need to climb the mountain. He deserved a better fate than what he got.

You have nothing to carry it with, though, so you turn to see if your borrowed book bag is in here too. But what you find is even better: your brand-new green REI backpack, the exact same one that Meredith stole.

It looks a little scuffed up, but otherwise it is still in good shape. You open a side pocket and find a six-inch knife that you've had since forever, and the folded-up military maps that Berringer procured back on Oahu. This is how you know beyond a doubt that this really is your own backpack, and not just someone else's look-alike. But that means…. You never got a good look at the woman in the pith helmet, but now with your stolen pack back in your possession, it makes sense that you had briefly shared the bottom of the pit with Meredith's broken body. You feel a chill go through you at the thought of it, but your employer will probably be pleased to hear the news.

So you place the Stone of Vul-Kar in your own pack and prepare to embark on your return journey. Meredith messed up all the strap settings, but that is easily rectified. What a doubly awesome discovery! You are reunited with your gear, and your mission is a success! Now it's just a matter of getting out of here.

However, that might be easier said than done. You are, after all, alone and in the dark of night, on an unknown part of the island. The quarter-moon will set soon, and when that happens you will have to fish out your headlamp if you don't want to grope your way through the lightless jungle. The Wobans must maintain several trails leading out of this village, but where do they go? Which one leads to safety, and not just into another trap?

The sound of moving water behind you catches your attention, and you turn to see a wide path leading down a bank. It brings you in a few hundred feet to the side of a wide stream — probably the combined output of those three waterfalls that you saw earlier, back when you and Gary were being led to an audience with the Woban king. This is interesting; all streams on this island logically must flow to the ocean, and the ocean is where the Big Papi is patiently waiting for your return. Therefore you have just found your way off the island! Even if this stream flows to the opposite coastline, all you need to do is make a quick call on the satellite phone to arrange a pick-up with Berringer.

The trail seems to turn and follow the small river downstream, right where you want to go. But then you notice that what you assumed was a log lying on the bank is actually a dugout canoe — a small craft for use on a small stream. This almost seems even better than the trail! Considering your poor luck so far following the Wobans' trail network, maybe you would fare better on the water. Sooner or later the Wobans are going to come looking for you, and you'll be harder to track if you aren't leaving footprints all over the place.

But who knows how navigable this stream is? The trail might lead you to more Wobans, but at least it will be easier to find your way.

__________________________________________________
> You take the trail.
This is no time to be taking chances with unknowns in the dark. You didn't work so hard to climb your way out of the pit just to risk getting drowned in some rapids. Besides, the strength in your arms is pretty much spent, and you're not sure how much use they would be when it comes to paddling a canoe. You are better off sticking to land, so you sketch out in your mind a rough plan to get down this trail as far as you can, find a place to take cover and get some sleep, and then reassess your situation in daylight.

It looks like the trail leading down the river is not too wide, suggesting that maybe you have lucked out and stumbled across one of the less well-traveled routes this time. Before you go too far, you fumble through your backpack, hoping Meredith didn't move your headlamp. It was in one of the upper pockets the last you saw it. Your hand feels several empty Clif Bar wrappers at first, but then it settles on the elastic band of the headlamp. You have no intentions of turning it on so close to the Woban village, but you do want to have it handy.

After putting the pack back on, you set off down the trail. It keeps close to the small river at first, which you can hear gurgling on your right, even if you can't always see it in the dark. There is one spot where the trail passes a large opening on the bank; you suppose the view must be stellar in the daylight, but now it's just "stellar" in the sense that you can see a sky full of stars above the calm water. The mountains you saw earlier are now inky silhouettes.

But you are not here to go sightseeing. You rush down the trail, with the river growing louder as you continue. Within minutes of passing the canoe you begin to hear splashes in the dark, suggesting you are no longer following a calm waterway, but a rugged and wild mountain stream. It's hard to imagine how useful the canoe would be here. The terrain is getting more rugged too; after almost tripping over the fifth unseen rock, you concede to the reality of your situation and flip on the headlamp. Hopefully there are no Wobans around to see this unnatural beam of light you're about to cast about their jungle.

It's a good thing that you did, though, because the trail is now going down an increasingly steep slope, with more roots and rocks in your way than you suspected. There is also a distinct roar somewhere up ahead, suggesting that you are nearing a powerful cataract. Indeed, a few minutes later you reach the top of a precipitous drop in the terrain, where both the river and the trail descend a massive rock ledge that must span the width of the valley. For the river, this means a waterfall of at least fifty feet, ending with a plunge into a boulder-filled pool.

The trail around the falls isn't less steep by any means. Rather than the free-fall made by the water, your route is a slower and carefully-controlled descent down a series of ledges — which might even appear like a giant staircase if you were, say, sixty feet tall. This is certainly a more extreme hike then you would normally prefer to make at [checking wristwatch] 12:48 A.M., and you would be more than happy to find that hiding spot any time now. The problem is, though, that when you reach the bottom of the ledges, the trail continues steeply down a rocky slope. Even if you did find a spot to stop, you'd probably go a-tumbling down the hill if you fell asleep in a place like this.

So you continue to work your way off the mountain. Despite your downhill direction, it is still a very laborious effort due to the rocks in your way that make your footing very unreliable; one misstep and you'll go sliding on your butt to a very painful landing. There is no way you could have successfully negotiated this terrain without the aid of the headlamp — although at this point you can't even tell if you're still on the trail. For all you know, the trail made a turn you didn't see, and now you're proceeding in some random direction.

But then, as you near what might be the bottom of this long and treacherous slope, your heart stops when you see another light ahead through the trees. For a second you think it's just the light of your own headlamp reflecting off the water, but that can't be; with all of the meanderings to avoid the steepest parts of the slope, you have wandered some distance away from the river. Then as you scrutinize the phenomenon a bit more closely, you see two people sitting around a small campfire. You can forgive yourself for not making the identification sooner, as there are quite a few trees between you and the campsite, and this is the last place you'd expect to find backpackers — not that these people are likely to be your average weekend warriors.

You immediately turn off your headlamp, but it's too late: the other people turn on their headlamps and come rushing toward you.

"Who's there?"

You have to admit, you are relieved to hear English instead of Wobani, but nevertheless you remain on high alert. It's hard to imagine encountering anyone helpful on this island.

The beams of light cast by their two headlamps quickly zero in on you. "You're in an awful hurry to get somewhere," the same voice says. "And might I add, why are you coming down the mountain? Most everybody else here is trying to get up it."

What's that supposed to mean? Have these two mysterious night lurkers figured out just by circumstance that you have the Stone of Vul-Kar in your possession? Or was that some kind of an attempt at humor?

__________________________________________________
> You stay and talk.
So here's the thing: this has been a really long day, and you are really tired — so tired, in fact, that you can't really tell if this person just made a veiled threat or a weak joke. Neither individual happens to be pointing a weapon at you, and that's more than you can say of anyone else you've met on this island.

"I've been running from the Wobans," you say.

"Wobans? Where?" the first man says. With his headlamp on, it's hard to get a good look at him, but you can see that he is short, dressed in a green-checked shirt with brown trousers, wears round glasses, and has the beginnings of a dark beard along his neck and chin.

"Right up this trail. Maybe another mile."

"They aren't coming after you, are they?" the larger man says. If you didn't know any better, you would guess that he himself was a Woban, in terms of his physical size and dress. Because of the blinding glow of his headlight you can't count the number of eyes, but the grass skirt and tattooed torso make you feel intimidated by his presence.

"I really, really hope not," you say.

"I mean, are you sure though?" the man with the glasses says. "If you're leading the Wobans straight to us…."

"I don't know," you say. "Probably not. The entire village was asleep when I snuck away."

"An entire village?" the tall man in the grass skirt says. You shield your eyes and see that he indeed only has two eyes. Still, you keep your distance.

"Yeah, there were hundreds of Wobans. They had taken three of us prisoner. So far as I know they… they ate the other two people, a woman and a guy. For some reason they were saving me for something else."

"That's horrific!" the short man says. "And you said they were asleep when you got away?"

"Yes."

"Well they still might come looking for you, and I don't want to be here when they come. Ligru, do you think maybe we should put out the fire and move our camp further into the bush?"

"That might be a good idea, sir," the tall man says. Could it be he's an Auri, from the next island over? From what you recall, the Auris were said to be very similar to Wobans in stature, but lacked the third eye. But for a member of a tribe that was first contacted just a few years ago, his English is remarkably solid.

"Then let's do it, my friend."

You're not sure, but you think you might have just fallen in with this duo for the night, and so you follow them over to their little campfire. But instead of extinguishing the fire and gathering up the small amount of gear that you see — a small, yellow-and-black Eureka! pup tent, a light blanket on a mat of woven reeds, a couple tin cups — the Auri tosses more sticks on the fire, and both men settle down next to it.

"Feel free to join us, friend," the short man says to you as he turns off his headlamp. "We've been trying to finish off a bottle of whiskey so we don't have to carry it any further up the mountain. Do you drink? Maybe it will help calm your nerves, after your harrowing escape from the clutches of the cannibals."

None of what is happening here comes anywhere close to what you were expecting, but you are too physically exhausted to dwell on the details. And to be absolutely honest, downing a shot of whiskey next to a campfire sounds like a heavenly idea. You doubt you'll get a better offer anywhere else.

Without saying another word, you take off the pack and set it on the ground beside the fire, and then sit back against the end containing your rolled-up sleeping bag.

"Ligru, pass over the bottle. I'm afraid we don't have any extra cups, though. Go ahead and drink right from the bottle; we won't judge."

You take the glass bottle from the Auri, who is sitting to your right; the gap between you is so large that you both have to reach to make the transfer. Pendleton. The bottle is still a third full. You do have a titanium cup of your own, but assuming Meredith didn't lose it, you'd have to dig into your pack to find it… and of course the Stone of Vul-Kar is resting on top of everything else that you are carrying. The last thing you want to do is reveal that to people you don't even know, so you remove the cap and take a long swig straight from the bottle.

"Thanks," you say.

"Keep it," the short man in green says. "I've probably had too much, and sometimes I swear the island is spinning."

Indeed, his speech is a little slurred, but not so much that you can't pick up the Eastern European accent. That's a part of the world that tends to blur together for you, but you'll rule out Russian for one simple fact: no one here is drinking vodka.

"I'm not going to pry into your background, because it looks as though you've had a rough evening," he continues. "But my name is Martian Pop, and my friend here is Ligru."

Martian Pop — you remember now the weird name on Berringer's list of competitors. You are disappointed in the pronunciation, though: Mar-TEE-yan.

"Ligru… He must be from Auri Island?" you say, addressing Pop.

"I'm from Oakland," the giant man says indignantly. "Ligru Washington."

"Yes, that's right," Pop says. "Ligru took my Polynesian Ethnology course last semester, and was probably the only student who paid attention. The rest always seem to be disappointed when they meet me on the first day of class. Many of them are just sophomores in need of some liberal arts credit hours. I think maybe they see my name and they misread it. They show up expecting Jeff Goldblum and Chaos Theory; instead they get me and a long discussion of Polynesian planting calendars."

"I liked your class, sir," Ligru says.

"As you can see, Ligru likes to dress and act the part," Pop says. "So I suppose one could be forgiven for mistaking him for an Auri Islander. You should show our guest that spear you found."

"Yes, sir," Ligru dutifully says. He gets up from the log he has been using as a backrest and walks over to what looks like a pole stuck in the ground. When he yanks it out, you can see the stone tip.

"We found this a couple days ago," Pop explains. "A genuine Woban spear, left on the side of the trail. Ligru has gotten quite good at using it, too. Show us, Ligru."

The tall man in the grass skirt readjusts his grip on the spear shaft, holds it horizontally over his shoulder, and then pitches it forward almost as if he were hurling a baseball. But the spear flies true, and lands in the middle of a tree that is so far from the fire it appears as little more than a dim apparition in the darkness.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Pop says.

"Not bad for a kid from Oakland," you agree.

Ligru returns to the campsite with the spear, plants it back in the same spot, and returns to his spot by the fire.

"All right, I'm ready for another hit of whiskey," Pop says. "Would you mind passing it over?"

As you are about to reach to your left around the fire to hand the bottle of Pendleton over, Ligru snatches it from you.

"Professor, I think you've had enough," he says.

"Don't call me professor!" The sudden change in Pop's demeanor makes you flinch. He closes his eyes and sighs, then wipes the side of his face with his fingers, although you can see nothing that needs to be wiped off.

When he calms himself, Pop stares into the fire. "It's extremely difficult to get a tenured position these days. Although that could change if I am able to bring back an artifact of significant value."

"Is that why you and Ligru are here?" you say.

"Isn't that why all of us are here?"

You look up from the fire and see that Pop is staring right at you when he says this, reviving your earlier fear that he has already deduced you have the Stone of Vul-Kar — based on the simple observation you were coming down the mountain range that everybody else is trying to climb.

"I suppose we're all here for own individual reasons," you say.

"And I'm glad your purpose was not to fill a cannibal's pot," Pop says, stifling a throaty chuckle. "But no, gallows humor aside, I think you mistake my meaning. We may like to think we have free will, but all of us are pawns in someone else's game. Ligru here serves me. I brought him to Woban Island because of his obvious physical strength — and I have witnessed his ability to use that strength against others to achieve his ends. And now his ends are my ends. And my end is to become the head of an ethnography department at a prestigious institution. At this point, I don't even care which."

"Sir…" Ligru starts to say.

"No, I shall have my say," Pop continues. "I have lived in America for nearly twenty years, and never once has anybody pronounced my name correctly on the first try. Martian Pop, as if I were some green-skinned alien singing 'go insane, go insane, throw some glitter, make it rain!'"

"Sir, you're not even making sense anymore."

"I suppose it would amuse everyone to know I have a cousin who thinks he owns the sun."

"Sir, it's time for bed. Here, let me help you into your tent."

Pop stands and lets his student help him toward the yellow pup tent.

"He was named for Virgil. I'm Martian, named for Martianus. Both of us named for respected Romans, except that his name translates better."

"You might want to take your boots off, sir."

"But I've got one up on him. None of my books have ever been published on Lulu. Is there any more of that whiskey?"

"The bottle's empty, sir." Actually, the bottle is still beside the spot where Ligru was sitting, and there is still a good three fingers's worth of whiskey left inside it.

"That's a shame. That was good stuff."

"Good night, sir," Ligru says, stepping back from the little tent. "We have a long hike ahead of us tomorrow."

"Yes, that's right. We have to find a way around the cannibal village. Unless it turns out…." And then Pop suddenly goes silent as the whiskey finally overtakes him.

Ligru returns to his spot between the log and the fire. He opens the bottle of Pendleton once more and downs the rest of the whiskey. "Where do you plan to sleep?" he asks as he sets the now-empty bottle down between you.

"Frankly, I think I could pass out right here at any moment," you say.

"You should be fine," Ligru says. "There will be no rain tonight."

"Hmm," you agree, your eyes already closing. Inside the pack against which you are sitting is a nice down sleeping bag and a roomy tent, neither of which have ever been used — and you are not motivated to use either of those things now, either. Not only do you lack the time and energy to formally move into a corner of this campsite, but you are deathly afraid to open your pack in the presence of either Ligru or his liberal arts professor, lest you confirm their suspicions about its contents.

Before you fall asleep for real, you push the pack backwards so you can lie against it while remaining close to the fire. The last thing you remember is Ligru tossing more sticks onto the fire.

__________________________________________________
> Next page.
When morning arrives, you awake with a start. You have been dreaming that Pop and Ligru are rummaging through your pack, tearing all the contents out while you lie there alert but helpless, as if frozen by fear or indecision. Only when they find the Stone of Vul-Kar do you reach for the pack — and the sudden spasm in your arm is what wakes you. But the pack is right there behind you, exactly as it was when you fell asleep.

"My, we're awfully worried about that pack." It's Pop, sitting in his former spot beside the fire as if he never went to bed. "Don't worry, we didn't touch it."

You sit up and brush some of the dirt off your legs and shorts. Not only is the college professor sitting casually beside the fire, his back reclining against his own turned-around pack — legs extended, hands clasping a tin cup filled with a warm beverage — but Ligru is once again tending the fire, using one stick to move around the charred pieces of wood to make room for more fuel. It is almost like it was when you first joined them, but now in daylight.

"I thought you'd be long gone by now," you say.

"Us?" Pop says. "What makes you say that?"

"You mentioned having a long hike ahead of you today," you say.

"Oh, that. That can wait. We didn't want to leave you behind, not after the experiences you've had."

"Don't worry about me," you insist. "I've gotten this far; I can take care of the rest."

"You never did answer my question last night," Pop says.

"Question?"

"Yes. Where are you trying to go?"

You look around the campfire and see that both men are watching you with much interest. Pop's words may be expressing a polite concern about your well being on the surface, but you sense there is an agenda lurking underneath. Or are you just overreacting to that accent of his? The campsite is now cleaned up, with no sign of the yellow pup tent. Instead you see two backpacks, both ready for the day's trek: Pop is using his as a backrest, and Ligru's is sitting next to the spear.

"I'm just trying to get off the island in one piece," you say, trying to add a note of vulnerability to your voice. You need to throw these two off the scent, if indeed they really do think you have the Stone of Vul-Kar. "The Wobans can keep this place. Life is too short as it is already to be spending it running from cannibals."

"Yes, I suppose it is. But then you knew the risks when you came here, right?"

"But—" you start to say.

"But nothing," Pop cuts you off. "You came here for a purpose. We all did. None of us are here on vacation, just to post selfies with the natives on Instagram."

"I don't follow…."

"Don't play dumb — and don't take us for fools." Pop's voice has grown suddenly firm. "You came here in search of something valuable — so valuable that you'd risk getting eaten by three-eyed savages, if that's what you had to do to find it."

"Well look, now," you say, summoning your inner indignation. "I have no idea what you're talking about. But you didn't go through what I did last night. I was held prisoner with two other people, and after they dragged them away I never saw them again. It was sheer luck that I was able to get away—"

"And I suppose it was also by sheer luck that you were able to get away with that pack of yours, too," Pop says.

Ligru seems to be watching this exchange from the sidelines, as if waiting for a cue to get involved. You decide you need to be more aggressive in this conversation, and put Pop on the defensive for a change.

"You're the expert on Polynesian culture, Pop. So you tell me, do you think maybe these people might have left my gear alone because of some superstition?"

"First off, these people most certainly aren't Polynesian," Pop says with a bit of a huff. "Or Micronesian, or Maori, or Hawaiian, or anything even closely related to any other human population."

"That's interesting," you say. "Then what exactly are the Wobans?"

"Certainly nothing that Cook ever laid eyes on," Pop says.

Ligru speaks up for the first time this morning. "Weren't you saying the Wobans were their own separate species, sir?"

"Well obviously," Pop says. "Show me another human population that averages 2.2 meters in height, has claw-like digits, and of course looks at the world through three fully-functional eyes. This throws the whole evolutionary tree into disarray. Some have proposed that this species be called Homo teroculos, but I suspect that the Wobans aren't members of the genus homo at all, but rather some heretofore unknown offshoot of paranthropus."

How easy it is to derail an academic type by feigning interest in their pet subject matter!

"There you go!" you say. "We can't expect rational human behavior from people who aren't even human."

"I wouldn't go that far," Pop says.

"You haven't been their prisoner. I have. If you want to know why I'm eager to get off this island, then feel free to continue right up this trail for another mile. It leads right to the village — you can't miss it. They'll be happy to have you."

"That is a good point, sir," Ligru says from across the fire.

"So if you don't mind, I need to get going," you say. "I'm sorry to have held you up for so long. After what I went through, all I want more than anything is to get back to the States and schedule an appointment with my therapist."

You stand up and lift your pack, ready to hoist it onto your shoulders.

"Hold it!" Pop says, standing too. "Ligru, pfft."

The professor makes a hooking motion with his left hand, and Ligru immediately drops the stick he has been twiddling and takes a position behind you.

"What is this about?" you say.

"Enough of this nonsense," Pop says. "It's time for all of us to drop the pretenses and get down to business."

"Business?" you say, trying to maintain the same air of innocence — but finding it's hard not to be intimidated with someone as big as Ligru standing right behind you.

"Yes, business. I doubt that's such a strange concept to someone such as yourself, no? Two days ago, a massively large yacht shows up and anchors itself off shore. I said to Ligru, 'My, there must be one hell of a wealthy person on that boat.' And Ligru said, 'I'll bet you they're here to look for the Stone of Vul-Kar.' Then sure enough, the next morning we watched as not one but two small boats zipped away toward shore. And from what I could see through my binoculars, one of those people looked a lot like you."

"So yeah, I came here on a boat," you say. "This is an island. How did you get here?"

"You, my friend, are a mercenary, hired by the wealthy elite. You don't even possess the authenticity to come here to advance your own goals, as I do. You are here for but one purpose: to enhance the ego of someone whose sense of entitlement already knows no bounds. I'm sure you will be made wealthy if your mission is a success — so wealthy you'd risk your life among the cannibals, as you say. And now you'd have me believe you are returning to your master empty-handed? That when you met adversity, you ran for your life? How do you think that will be received when you return to that big yacht?"

"Pop, you have one hell of an imagination."

"That very well may be. Nevertheless, I'm afraid we can't let you leave here without knowing what's in your pack. It's quite possible you are in possession of something that I need very much."

It occurs to you that this would be a good time to use that gun that Walter Berringer gave you yesterday. Unfortunately, that's still in the little book bag that Captain Mark loaned you… and you left that back in the Woban village when you were reunited with your own backpack. This leaves you in the awkward position of being forced to choose between unappealing options, in a game where you clearly have the weaker hand. Either you can cave and give these weird goons what they want, or you can make a run for it — hoping that Ligru isn't as scary as he looks.

__________________________________________________
> You show them the Stone of Vul-Kar.
This may be one of the lowest moments of your career: conceding defeat to a second-rate college professor and his pet student. But despite the deep sleep you just enjoyed, you know you are still physically exhausted and starved. You were only asleep for a few hours, and you still haven't had anything to eat. Add the fact that the last liquid you consumed was whiskey, and your assessment of your condition is not good. You can't see how you'd have any advantage in a test of strength or speed with Ligru.

"All right, you win," you say, dropping your pack on the ground.

"Obviously," Pop says. "Now do this slowly. I always like a good reveal."

Like most backpacks, this one features a hood that sits over the main compartment, with two straps holding it in place. You release the clips and let the hood fall backwards, and then pull on the drawstring to reveal the contents of the pack. The Stone of Vul-Kar is the first thing you see.

"Where is it? I can't see," Pop says.

You realize that from afar neither he nor Ligru can see inside the pack — so not only can they not see the crystal, but they are also unaware of the surprise you just found.

When you last looked at the contents of your pack last night, it was dark and you were in a hurry to flee the Woban village. You found the stone in Gary Gaffney's pack, immediately realized the fortunate position you were in, and stowed it inside your own reclaimed backpack without scrutinizing too much what else it contained. But it seems that Meredith made an addition of her own, before she gave up the ghost.

"It's so beautiful," you say, stalling for time as you reassess your situation. "I just want to look at it one last time."

"Oh for crying out loud," Pop says. "Just let me have it already."

"Since you put it that way…." What you pull out is not the crystal, but the handgun that could only have been left behind by the woman who absconded with your stuff yesterday.

"Well hey now!" Pop says.

"Ligru, stand next to your professor," you say.

The young man in the grass skirt dutifully moves around you, his hands raised as he joins Pop. "Looks like we've been fooled, sir," he says.

"Now, I've enjoyed the time I've spent with you fellas," you say. "But this game has gone on long enough. I have a delivery to make, and while I appreciate the offer I really don't need your assistance."

The gun feels awkward in your hand, but you try not to let your inexperience show. It won't be much of a threat if your two companions don't think you can use it.

"Let's be reasonable here," Pop says. "If you fire that thing, you're likely to bring the Wobans down on all of us."

His hands are raised, but he is taking a cautious step toward you. For once you have the upper hand, and you want to keep it that way. So you flip the safety switch and fire a shot at the ground in front of Pop — the Wobans be damned. You don't intend to stick around long enough to see them come, anyway.

"All right! All right!" Pop says. "I had no idea you were such a lunatic."

"There are five more shots where that came from," you bluff; you have no idea what Meredith left you inside the chamber. "If you leave me alone, I'll leave you alone. It's that simple."

You worry that Ligru might try and jump you while you shoulder your pack once more, but the big man really seems unsure of what to do. You are unable to fasten the buckles without taking your attention off your companions, so you let the pack hang from your shoulders like a dead weight.

"I'm serious!" you say. "If you follow me, I'll be very unhappy." To emphasize your point, you fire one more shot into the ground. Both Pop and Ligru jump slightly as a little plume of dust rises at their feet.

And with that you run. Last night, as you were descending the steep and rocky slope, you were concerned that you might have lost the trail in the dark. Now, in the morning light, the way couldn't be clearer. The trail leads down a gentle slope, but with so many rocks and roots that you could easily get yourself killed if you weren't paying attention.

However, running with the pack hanging loose on your shoulders just isn't going to do. It feels like running a steeplechase with a seven-year-old child riding piggyback.

So after about a minute down the trail, you stop to buckle the waist strap. As you do so you turn around and see Ligru following at a distance. His big, gangly body wasn't built for running, but that isn't stopping him from trying. You'd much prefer that he didn't, and so you consider the handgun in your right hand. It's no exaggeration to say you don't like these things, and that in your experience they cause more harm than good. But you remember Ligru's demonstration with the spear last night, and it won't do to let him get too close. So you lift the gun, aim it at your pursuer, pull the trigger, and…

Nothing happens. The gun clicks, but no shots are fired.

Damn you, Meredith! Did she really just load this thing with two bullets? Or maybe she fired the other four before hiding the gun inside your pack. The dead tell no tales, so you may never know.

But whatever the explanation, the gun is worthless now. You toss it into the jungle and resume your jog down the trail, trying to set the best possible pace despite the ruggedness of the route. At some point last night the trail veered away from the small river, but you are starting to hear it more loudly now, as if you were returning to its side. And then, just moments later, the trail leads you right to its bank.

Well this sucks! The river is flowing through a rocky trench, like a miniature gorge with V-shaped walls. The current is swift and violent as the entire flow is funneled through this tight space. The only way across is a single log that spans the gorge, from a dead tree that fell long ago and has been rotting ever since. It is about three feet in diameter, and some of the bark has sloughed off. The bare, exposed wood looks incredibly slick.

If you weren't running for your life from someone with a spear — and the proven ability to use it — you could probably take your time and scoot your away across this thing. But it's a good four feet above the water, and the price of losing your balance trying to cross in a hurry would be catastrophic. So perhaps it would be better to duck into the jungle and elude Ligru that way.

__________________________________________________
> You cross the log.
If the log is going to be an obstacle for you, then it will be for Ligru, too. The advantage is that it you've done this type of thing before, whereas Ligru probably never had much of an opportunity to practice balancing on logs back in Oakland. Yes, there is a high probability of failure, but it's a risk you feel you can manage.

You step onto the near end of the log, finding that perhaps some of your fears might be exaggerated. The tree has been dead so long that the previous foot traffic has flattened a narrow walkway into the pliant, rotten wood. Still, it will not be an easy crossing. The best you can do is focus on the trodden portions of the log and ignore the frothing river below.

After a deep breath, you take the first step. When your boot grips the surface without slipping, you go ahead and take the next step, and the next. Despite appearances, the log makes a competent bridge after all. Nevertheless it is slow going, and it will take you a few minutes to cross the nearly hundred-foot-long span.

A problem arises, however, about two-thirds of the way across. You have reached a section of the log where the bark is still attached, and at first you expected the textured surface would offer added traction — making the rest of the crossing a cinch. But when you stepped on the corky covering, it slipped into the river in a huge sheet. The surface it exposed is just as slick and slippery as you feared, leaving a section about twelve feet long that will be almost impossible to cross standing up — at least not without the aid of some old-timey caulked boots.

"You didn't get so far after all, I see."

Turning, you see Ligru standing on the ledge behind you, holding his Woban spear.

"Feel free to join me, Ligru," you say, shouting over the roar of the river.

"Just give me the Stone of Vul-Kar, and I'll let you go," Ligru shouts back. "I'll tell the Professor you fell in. He'll never need to know."

"And you really think that after all this I'll just hand the stone over?" you say.

"I think when push comes to shove, you'll do what you need to do to save your own skin."

Interesting — when he isn't busy fawning over Martian Pop he is able to speak more than five words at a time. You still think that he is a gentle giant, so you decide to call his bluff.

"Ligru, you won't hurt me," you say. "Throwing that spear at a tree is one thing. Inflicting harm on a fellow human being is quite another."

"You think I learned how to be nice back on the streets of Oakland?"

"I think maybe you aren't as fierce as you want everyone to think you are."

"Well OK then," he says. "Allow me to show you how nice I really am."

He raises the spear horizontally above his shoulder just like last night, and then he pitches it forward — right at you. There is no time to react; for a split second you think of jumping in the river, but between the wild current and the heavy pack strapped to your body, you'd drown in seconds. So you stand there helplessly, remembering that scene in Jaws 3-D when someone fired a harpoon straight at the camera and you jumped in your seat at the illusion of a projectile hurled straight between your eyes. And if this is to be your final moment, how stupid is it to be remembering one of the worst movies ever?

But the spear sails past you, and instead of impaling you it lands with a dull thwack! in the log ahead of you.

Ligru is displeased with his failure to pick you off the log, so he mounts the far end and starts to come for you in person. This leaves you no option but to take your chances with the slick surface exposed by the bark. It is like trying to cross a tube of ice, but by being deliberate with your steps you do not slip. And the one moment when you do feel your balance faltering, you stable yourself by stepping on Ligru's planted spear. Two steps later and you're back on a textured section of the log, and at the first opportunity you jump off onto the opposite bank.

"Holy Christ!" Ligru shouts behind you. You turn just in time to see him slip off the log and tumble into the river. You wait a few seconds, but he does not resurface.

By some miracle, you have survived! It is still possible that Ligru will figure out a way to haul himself out of the river, so you decide not to linger.

__________________________________________________
> Next page.
For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, you are hiking along a Woban trail without the sense that you are in immediate danger. The villagers have not yet come looking for their lost meal, and if Ligru survived his plunge into the river you suspect he will have more pressing concerns than continuing to chase you. And without his overgrown student-henchman, Martian Pop can drop dead for all you care.

It is not exactly a leisurely stroll down the rest of the trail, but certainly the stress factor has decreased. For instance, without the need to constantly look over your shoulder you are free to notice the fact there are no footprints in this trail. Wherever it goes, this is not the type of major thoroughfare where you first got captured a day ago. But just as importantly, it is maintaining a steady course toward the ocean — wherein lies your salvation from this hellish place.

You fish out your compass and confirm what the position of the sun already told you: the trail is heading west, whereas your runabout is on the east side of the island. That will be a problem, but one that can probably be solved. As the trail continues to descend through the valley, and as the sound of the raging whitewater fades away, you spot a small rock knob rising a short distance above the trail. The forest canopy allows only a brief glimpse of the summit, but it is enough to see that it is only a couple hundred feet high, and barely two-tenths of a mile off the trail. It beckons as a watchtower from which you can finally get your bearings.

Indeed, scaling this rocky foothill proves to be quick and easy. It is rather warm on the exposed rock, but you find a ledge shaded from the tropical sun by the natural wall behind it, and from this vantage you enjoy a commanding view across the coastal portion of Woban Island: a series of rocky mountains to the south, a jagged headland beyond on the most distant portion of the shoreline, but then a long and uninterrupted section of oceanfront lowlands about a mile away. Assuming there are no further Woban villages along the way, you'll be there in less than an hour.

The scene is so pleasing that you decide to savor it. You fish out all the ready-to-eat food you can find in your pack, producing a smorgasbord of Clif Bars and packets of flavored tuna. All of this is washed down by the contents of the Nalgene that Meredith managed not to lose.

Next you pull out the maps that Berringer somehow procured from the Air Force, and you unfold the one that shows the southwestern quadrant of the island. It is a detailed topographic map, but now that you've seen Woban Island in real life you are more impressed by what it doesn't show: no trail network, no native villages. The map depicts the layout of the island, but says nothing about the dangers it contains. Someone should write a guidebook about this place, with the caveat that the best way to appreciate the island is from afar.

However, the map does show a blue line representing the one noteworthy river, which rises high in a mountain basin before plunging steeply into the western lowlands. And there, just a mile from the coastline, is the small knob that matches the description of the one on which you are sitting.

The last thing that you pull out of the pack is Berringer's satellite phone. Now that you know where you are, it's time to make that call to your employer. If he wants his prize, he's going to need to pick you up. There is only one number programmed into the phone's memory, so that is the one you dial. After a few rings, you hear a response on the other end as someone picks up the receiving phone. And then you hear Walter Berringer's voice.

"Meredith! How dare you—"

"I'm happy to report that I am not Meredith," you say.

"You!" he says. "You're the last person I expected to hear from."

"I'll try not to take that as a lack of confidence in my abilities."

"That's not what I meant," Berringer says. "As far as I knew, Meredith had the satellite phone. But nevermind. Please tell me your mission was a success."

"Indeed, I am in possession of a purple rock."

"And Meredith?"

"As far as I can tell, she'll never steal from you again."

"I can't wait to hear the details," he says.

"That's the thing. While I was successful, I came out on the wrong end of the island. If I gave you some lat-long coordinates, could you arrange to pick me up?"

"Well of course," Berringer says. "Just give us some time."

__________________________________________________
> Next page.
You wait on the rocky summit until you see the Big Papi sailing into view, and then you return to the trail. The final mile of the hike leads you through the flat bottomlands, where the once-raging river now flows languidly between sandy banks. Your heart almost stops when you spy a hut directly ahead of you, but it doesn't take long to figure out it is in severe disrepair. The trail leads to what appears to be an abandoned fishing settlement, and judging by the collapsed structures, the toppled trees, and the ocean flotsam scattered everywhere you deduce this place was ravaged by a typhoon and the resulting storm surge. Not a soul remains.

Captain Mark is already waiting for you when you arrive at the beach.

"Good to see you again!" he says cheerfully as you stride across the expanse of sand. "I trust everything went well."

"Well? No," you say. "But successful? Yes."

"The boss will be pleased, then."

One of his crewmen takes your pack from you and stows it inside the landing craft — another one of those white inflatable runabouts.

"I'm glad to see you had another one of these stored on board," you say as you step inside yourself. "I was curious how you were going to get me off the island."

"Well, let's just hope we have no difficulties getting back to the yacht," Captain Mark says. "Otherwise we'll be fresh out of runabouts."

"I'm sorry about your pack," you say. "As far as I know it's still up in a village full of cannibals."

"No worries. I'll get another."

The best part about the ride back to the Big Papi is that is leading away from Woban Island. And twenty minutes later, when a crewman helps you out of the runabout and back onto the big boat's Sun Deck, the first thing you appreciate is how distant the island appears from this far out at sea.

Berringer is coming down the stairs from the main salon. He is decked out all in white: white trousers, a white shirt, a white vest, a white tie, and a white jacket. If he had a cigar and a white hat, he'd be Boss Hogg.

"Welcome back!" he says, extending his hand.

"It's good to be back," you say.

"I know you probably want to rest and clean up, but it's almost dinnertime. I took the liberty of telling Cookie to prepare a celebratory feast, which should be ready soon. In the meantime, I've poured myself a drink upstairs. Would you care to join me?"

You know there is no point in declining, so you agree.

"After you," Berringer says, following you up the stairs as a crewman carries your pack. "I feel like a little kid on Christmas."

You suddenly feel too grungy to be in the posh setting of the main salon, but Berringer doesn't seem to care in the least. "Would you like a bourbon?" he asks.

Not really, you think, but again you choose to go along with the spirit of the proceedings.

"Was it difficult scaling the mountain?" he says, sitting with a drink in hand.

"Turns out I didn't need to," you say. "It's a long story."

"One that I'll be happy to hear over dinner, I'm sure. Now, please, I would love to see the item."

The crewman has set your backpack beside you, so you open the top just as you did for Pop and Ligru this morning. The purple crystal is right where you left it, no worse for wear. But like you were handling a newborn baby, you gently lift it out.

"That's it?" Berringer says. The disappointment in his voice is palpable, and it causes you to doubt yourself. You never did make it to the main summit, so how would you know if this were the Stone of Vul-Kar or not? But what else could it be? Gary Gaffney found it, and then you claimed it. Berringer admitted back in Fenway that he had almost no foreknowledge of what the gem looked like, so who is he to complain?

You decide it's best not to say anything, and just let your employer examine his prize undisturbed. He moves to a seat closer to a window, and then turns on a lamp for extra light.

"It looks like a normal amethyst," he says, turning the stone around in his hands. "Colorful quartz. I've seen people use things like this as paperweights."

The mood in the room has suddenly grown more tense. The crewman who had carried your pack had been lingering just outside the doorway, as if hoping to overhear your conversation without being too obvious, but now he rushes down the stairs to help his mates on the Sun Deck with the runabout. Berringer sighs as he examines the crystal.

At last he holds it up in his right hand. "It's a fake!" he declares.

You squirm in your chair, not sure how to respond. "How can you be sure?" you finally say.

"I assume you didn't look at it closely while you were on the island," he says.

Well, no. It was dark when you found it in the wee hours of the morning, and then you spent much of today trying to safeguard it against Martian Pop and Ligru Washington. You considered yourself fortunate just to get it off the island; never once did it occur to you to take it out and study it.

When you don't say anything, Berringer reaches forward with the crystal. "Here, see for yourself."

So you take the purple stone that up until now you had been calling the Stone of Vul-Kar. You have no idea what you're looking for as you turn it over — but then you see a flat spot with lettering inscribed into the surface. You hold it closer so you can read the words — and then you wish you were still on the island, working your way up that goddamned mountain.

Marty's Rock Shop, Albuquerque, NM

"I'll tell Captain Mark you'll be needing the runabout again," Berringer says, and at that moment you realize your adventures on Woban Island are far from over.

THE END