text: Two weeks later, you are on Walter Berringer's private yacht in the South Pacific. It is now early November; when you left New England there were hints of oncoming snow in the air, but here, out on the open sea, the weather is sunny and almost uncomfortably warm. Meredith seems perfectly pleased with the setting, however; she is lounging in a deck chair soaking up the sunlight like a lizard, her dress suit replaced with a pastel bikini. There is a colorful cocktail of some kind beside her, on a stand right next to her ever-present notepad.
  
  You can see her through the window as you peruse the maps that Berringer has provided you. They are sprawled out across a table inside the yacht's main salon — four large sheets, each covering a different quadrant of Woban Island. You had been under the impression that such things didn't exist, but nevertheless here they are.
  
  The yacht is just hours away from Woban Island, and you are starting to feel the excitement of the moment. By this time tomorrow you should be in the field, bushwhacking your way up some previously unknown mountain, stealthily evading the native population while seeking the stone that will ultimately make you a millionaire. 
  
  It has been quite the interesting journey getting to this point. It began with a trip to an REI store located just a few blocks away from Fenway, where you stocked up on gear and provisions for your expedition. With a quarter-million dollars in your bank account, you decided to upgrade all of your gear: a new backpack, moisture-wicking clothing, solar-powered lamp, trekking poles, new boots, gaiters in case the island is muddy, and most importantly, a new tent. They also had a lightweight folding rocking chair set up as a display model, weighing only a couple pounds; it was tempting, but silly considering the nature of your trip, and so you passed on that one. You also looked at a top-of-the-line GPS, but that turned out to be rather pointless since it had no maps of your destination.
  
  Then, a few days later, you boarded a plane for Honolulu — business class this time, with Berringer and Meredith as traveling companions. While your employer prepared his luxurious yacht, the Big Papi, for the voyage south of Hawaii toward Woban and Auri islands, you enjoyed some downtime exploring Oahu, particularly the various forest reserves on the island's north shore, where you sought to immerse yourself in the type of environment you expect to find on Woban. One day after returning from one of your hikes, Berringer presented you with the maps you are examining now. "I had a contact at Hickam Field print these off for me," he explained.
  
  Now the Big Papi is sailing toward a spot just off Woban Island's northeast coast, where you plan to take an inflatable runabout to shore. You and Berringer selected the landing location after perusing the maps, deciding that this part of the island seemed to provide the best landing area and the most direct route to the island's main summit, where the Stone of Vul-Kar is supposed to be. Always a sucker for a good topographic map, you have been scrutinizing these for most of the time you have been at sea. 
  
  "If you keep this up, you'll have those maps memorized by the time you make landfall." It's Berringer, strolling into the salon in a silk robe, his customary empty glass in hand. He has been resting in his stateroom, but is now heading to the liquor cabinet to pour himself another bourbon. Now that you are nearing the islands, you've noticed that he has stopped offering to pour you a drink as well — best not to dull your edge.
  
  "Good afternoon, sir," you say. "Yeah, according to this northeastern quad the route looks so easy. I don't see what all the trouble is. Drop me off in the morning, let me do my thing, and make sure you have dinner ready for me when I return that evening."
  
  "Ha, if only it would be that simple." He takes a seat to your right at the table, whiskey glass in hand. "This whole part of the island is crawling with Wobans, and this part down here is rugged wilderness. According to the intel I picked up back at port, you're going to have company in those hills: people like you, hired by people like me, all with one objective in mind. You can be certain some of those people will be dangerous."
  
  "Do you know exactly who I might encounter out there?"
  
  "Just rumors, I'm afraid, but reliable ones. Here, I wrote them down."
  
  He pulls a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and hands it to you. Unfolding it, you see a list of three names jotted down in Berringer's scratchy brand of penmanship:
  
  Gary Gaffney
  
  Dr. Brian Bolt
  
  Martian Pop
  
  "Do these names mean anything to you?" he asks.
  
  "No," you say, "but are you sure about this last one? Martian Pop?"
  
  "I thought you might like that one," Berringer says. "Yeah, that's a real name. He's Romanian, so my guess is it's not actually pronounced 'Martian Pop' in Romania. Pay close attention to this Gary Gaffney fellow. He might be working for a rival of mine back in Boston, and he's already been on the island for a few days. I'd be very unhappy if he got the Stone of Vul-Kar first."
  
  "The way you're describing it, it's a crowded field on which we're about to play," you say. After all of this time with Berringer, you've started to speak in terms of sports metaphors, too.
  
  "There may be others as well — rogue players that nobody knows. There were some vague reports last week of some young couple running around trying to steal a boat. And there is also a research team from the University of Chicago camped out on the southwestern shore of the island."
  
  "Sounds like it will be quite the party if all of us get together at the same time."
  
  "I'm trying to make it sound dangerous," Berringer says. "We've only known about this place for less than three years, and already people have gone missing. You're good, but this job isn't going to be like digging up caribou antler carvings from the thawing permafrost outside Nome. This place is going to try and kill you. Now let's talk about the Wobans themselves—"
  
  "Walter, I'm hungry. What do you got around here to eat?" It's Meredith, entering the salon from the aft deck where she has been sunning herself, notebook in hand. She reeks of coconut-scented sunscreen.
  
  "You're too late for lunch, too early for dinner," Berringer says rather gruffly. "Why don't you go to the galley and see what Cookie can scrounge up for you."
  
  Meredith has been quiet for much of the voyage, nursing a grudge over some unknown grievance. She glowers at Berringer for a second, but he's not looking and doesn't see it. Then she sullenly leave the room.
  
  "So what's the story with her, anyway?" you ask. "Three years is an awfully long time to be writing a newspaper article."
  
  "You noticed that too, huh?" he says. "The truth is she reminds me of someone I used to have a crush on in high school. As you know, I acquire things. The key to acquiring people is to let the person you're acquiring feel at all times as if they're exercising free will. It tickles me, though, that her last name is Nowitki. She really does strike me as being witless sometimes."
  
  That evening, as the three of you are in the dining room enjoying a swordfish dinner, the captain of the Big Papi makes an announcement over the intercom. "Sir, we are about to move into position five nautical miles to the northeast of Woban Island, just as you directed."
  
  "You must be eager to see the place," Berringer says to you.
  
  "Actually, yes," you say. "But it can wait until after dinner."
  
  "Nonsense. I'm curious myself. Let's head up to the Skylounge Deck and take a look."
  
  The three of you take your drinks — coffee in your case — up to the observation deck just below the bridge. Woban island is just ahead, a dark landmass occupying much of the horizon. Your first impression is that it is much bigger than you expected; a landmass that evaded detection for centuries should be little more than a speck of dirt, you had thought. But this is several miles in breadth, with a range of mountains rising darkly into the sky. From here, it is unclear which of them is the main summit atop which the jewel is located.
  
  "My, my. It looks like we have some company." Berringer is not looking toward the island, but off to starboard. There is indeed a small speck of red on the ocean waves, moving in a straight line toward the Big Papi. "Meredith, honey, go and get my binoculars. They're in my stateroom, desk drawer on the right."
  
  Meredith looks at him for a moment with silent resentment, but turns to obey the request when she determines that no "please" or "thank you" will be forthcoming.
  
  "Who do you think it is?" you say.
  
  "I was about to ask you the same thing," Berringer says. "I wasn't expecting any company. I assume you weren't, either."
  
  You're about to say something about a Woban coast guard, but decide against it; all of the evidence seems to suggest that Walter Berringer possesses an underdeveloped sense of humor.
  
  A moment later Meredith returns with the binoculars, handing them over to Berringer without saying a word. He lifts them to his eyes.
  
  "It looks like a runabout," he says. "Two people. I don't see the mother ship, though."
  
  He hands the binoculars over to you. It takes you a moment to find the incoming craft through the lenses, but when you do you see a small inflatable boat, much like the one at the rear of the Big Papi awaiting your use in the morning. This one is red instead of white, however. It is too small to have traveled very far on its own, and you agree with Berringer that there should be another yacht or something somewhere out in that direction, but you see nothing.
  
  "Could just be someone marooned here, looking for a ride home," he says.
  
  "It could be the competition, coming to scope us out," you say.
  
  "Well if that's the case, then at least we know they don't have the stone yet."
  
  "They could still be dangerous, though," you say. "I doubt they'd just be making a social call."
  
  "If they're in trouble, then we need to help!" Meredith says, breaking her silence.
  
  "What do you think?" Berringer says. "You're the one with the keen instincts for this kind of situation, right? Should we stay and see if they need our help, or are they up to no good? I can have the captain move us further away." 
  
  __________________________________________________
  > stay and offer assistance.
  "I guess there's no harm in seeing what they want," you say. "You and Meredith are right; this could just be somebody who needs assistance."
  
  "All right, then." Berringer pulls what looks like a cordless phone out of his pocket. "Mark, slow her down," he says to the yacht's captain. "We have people approaching from starboard, and we want to see what they're about."
  
  Within seconds you feel the Big Papi begin to slow. The giant wake the boat had been cutting across the ocean seems to catch up with the bow as you come to a full stop.
  
  The incoming boat is so far off, though, that it takes quite a while to reach you. Berringer lets you keep the binoculars so you can study the two people as they get closer.
  
  "Anybody we know?" he asks.
  
  You see what appears to be a young couple in a red Zodiac; the woman is steering the boat while the man is peering back at you through a set of binoculars of his own.
  
  "I've never seen these people before in my life," you say.
  
  The three of you move to the stern, where the Sun Deck with its pool and array of empty lounge chairs sits a little closer to the water. A quarter of an hour passes, however, before the little red boat comes close enough that you are able to make voice contact with its passengers. The blond woman steering the red Zodiac cuts the outboard engine as the inflatable boat continues to drift closer to the Big Papi.
  
  "That's an impressive little canoe you guys are riding!" the man says, eyeing Berringer's yacht from stem to stern. He sports a well-trimmed set of mutton chops and a gray flat cap, as if he were ready for a night out at his favorite downtown pub. "Are you here to fish?"
  
  "We have some business to transact on Woban Island," Berringer says. "Is there something we can do for you?"
  
  "Honey, they must be here for the Stone of Vul-Kar too!" the woman says to her companion. "Why don't you ask if we can help."
  
  "But Charlei, look at the boat they're on!" he says to her. "I thought it was a cruise ship at first. We're in the presence of the One Percent! How could we possibly be of use to them?"
  
  There is a certain passive-aggressiveness in the way they are speaking to each other that makes you uneasy — their private remarks about you are something they clearly want you to hear. The Zodiac they are riding has now bumped up against the stern of the Big Papi. Captain Mark and one of his crewmen have come down from the bridge to see what is going on, perhaps worried that these newcomers might be scuffing up the hull.
  
  Berringer is starting to look annoyed. "Again, is there something we can do to assist?"
  
  "Not really," the man says. "We just saw this magnificent craft sailing toward Woban Island, and we just had to come in for a closer look. Do you mind if I ask how long she is? What kind of engines you got? You must have quite the crew to run her!"
  
  You and Berringer both look at each other. Didn't he mention rumors earlier about a young couple who had been observed on Woban Island trying to steal a boat?
  
  __________________________________________________
  > Next page.
  "Mark, why don't you fire up the engines again and get us out of here," Berringer says.
  
  "Aye, sir," Captain Mark says, and then steps aside to give orders to his crew over a wireless headset.
  
  "I don't think they want to talk with us, Gordy," the woman says. "Maybe we don't move in the same social circles. Maybe we aren't good enough."
  
  "That's funny," her companion replies. "I would have expected life on the open ocean to be more egalitarian, but even here we are followed by fat kings and lean beggars."
  
  The woman chuckles, but then stands up in the boat, seemingly unconcerned about the rocking of the waves. "'Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table: that's the end.'"
  
  "'Alas, alas!'" the mutton-chopped man says. "'A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.'"
  
  She feigns alarm. "'What dost thou mean by this?'"
  
  "'Nothing but to show you how a king may go a-progress through the guts of a beggar!'"
  
  The purpose of this little drama escapes you, but the performance in the Zodiac is clearly outside the bounds of normal behavior. Are these people unhinged? Have they been marooned out here for so long with nothing but that little motorized raft that they've lost their mind?
  
  Berringer looks disgusted. "They've been wasting my time. Make sure they don't try and get on the boat." And then he turns to go up the stairs to the main salon.
  
  But the couple seems to have no intentions of storming the Big Papi. They have already pushed off from the yacht, and the woman is trying to start the outboard. "Honey, can you give me a hand with this?"
  
  The guy gets up as his girlfriend slinks back out of the way. "'The bark is ready, and the wind at help, the associates tend, and every thing is bent... for England!'" With one good yank on the pull cord, the Yamaha engine fires up.
  
  "'For England!'" the woman says. "'Good!'"
  
  "'So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes," the man says, and the boat speeds away without either of them turning to look back.
  
  "Are we done with those twits?" Berringer says, looking down at you from the upper deck.
  
  "It looks that way, Walter," Meredith says, forgetting for the moment all of her sullen moping. "I can't believe they came all the way out here to put on a performance of Hamlet for us."
  
  "Is that what that was?"
  
  "I'm pretty sure, yes. Maybe if we're lucky, they'll treat us to a few scenes from King Lear tomorrow night."
  
  "Well, I see it cured you of your pouting, so I guess it wasn't all bad."
  
  Meredith rolls her eyes and sighs, but takes the cocktail glass she's been holding all this time and heads upstairs to join him.
  
  You are left down below with the binoculars, with a sense of dread that you can't entirely explain. Nothing of what just happened seemed right. Who were those two people, and what were they up to? You raise the binoculars to your eyes and watch them speed away, back in the same direction from which they came. But then the Zodiac stops and turns, maybe a mile away. The couple is sitting and leaning against each other shoulder-to-shoulder, looking back in your direction as if they were about to share a romantic moment watching the sun set.
  
  The yacht's engines are starting to rev up, and the boat is slowly moving forward again. But before you have a chance to pick up speed, there is a flash of light emanating from the point where the Zodiac had briefly brushed against the hull. You are blown backward and slammed against the nearest bulkhead by the force of the explosion, which rips the back end of the Big Papi apart. It spreads debris over the ocean and causes the rest of the ship to start taking on water; what wasn't destroyed in the blast will be sitting on the ocean floor within minutes.
  
  It's a performance that delights the two people who are watching from afar in the Zodiac.
  
  THE END