She touched her still-flat belly.

"My husband would like a boy, but I don't care as long as it's healthy."

Laugh-track noise from the TV. She turned her head and smiled along with the electronic joy.

"Bye," I said.

She waved absently.

When I got back to the beach, Robin's snorkel was a tiny white duck bobbing near the outer edge of the reef. Our blankets were spread, and Spike was leashed to the umbrella post, barking furiously.

The object of his wrath was Skip Amalfi, stark naked, peeing a high, arcing stream into the sand, several yards away. Anders Haygood stood next to him, in knee-length baggies, watching. Skip's bleached-bone buttocks said skinny-dipping wasn't a habit. His green trunks lay next to him like a heap of wilted salad.

Spike barked louder. Skip laughed and aimed the stream closer to the dog, shaking with glee as Spike growled and spat drool. Then the arc dribbled and died. Spike shook himself off theatrically, and moved closer to the two men.

I ran. Haygood saw me and said something to Skip, who stopped and turned, offering a full frontal view. I kept coming.

Grinning, Skip looked over his shoulder at Robin's snorkel. His urine trail was drying quickly, a brown snake sinking into the sand. Spike was pawing the blanket, finally moving enough of it to reach sand and scatter it.

Skip stretched and yawned and massaged his gut.

"Is that going to be the official welcome at your resort?" I said, smiling.

His face darkened, but he forced himself to smile back. "Yeah, living naturally."

"Better watch the ultraviolet radiation. It can lead to impotence."

"Whu?"

"The sun."

"Your hard-on," said Haygood, amused. "What the man's trying to tell you is bruise it and lose it. Watch the UV on your tool or you'll be hauling limp wiener."

"Fuck you," Skip told him, but he looked at me edgily.

"It's true," I said. "Too much UV to the genitals heats up the scrotal plexus and weakens the neurotestostinal reflex."

"Boil it and spoil it," said Haygood.

"Fuck you in the ass," said Skip. Looking for his trunks.

Haygood lunged, grabbed them up, and began running down the beach. Stocky but fast.

Skip went after him, potbelly quivering, holding his crotch.

Spike was still drooling and breathing hard. I sat down and tried to calm him. Robin had moved into shallower waters. She stood, lifted her face mask, and waved. Then she saw the two men running and came out of the water.

"What was that all about?"

I told her.

"How rude."

"He was probably hoping you'd come out and see him playing fireman."

"Shucks, I missed it." She squatted and petted Spike. "Mama's all right, sweetie. Don't worry about those turkeys. It's gorgeous down there, Alex. Come on in."

"Maybe later."

"Is something wrong?"

"Let me just stick around for a while in case they return. Though I may have traumatized old Skip."

I recounted my UV warning and she cracked up.

"You probably ruined what little sex life he's got."

"Reverse therapy. My education is now fully validated."

"Don't worry about them, Alex- dive with me. If they come back, we'll give Spike a run at them."

"Spike can be drop-kicked by a twelve-year-old."

"They don't know that. Tell them he's a neurotestostinal pit bull."

We visited every crag in the reef side by side and emerged an hour later to an undisturbed beach. Spike slept noisily, under a cloud of sand flies. The drinks had warmed, but we poured them down our throats. Then Robin stretched out on a blanket and closed her eyes, and I picked up the spring 1988 issue of Island World.

The article that had caught my eye was on page 113, after come-hither tourist pieces on Pacific Rim archaeological sites, choice dive spots, restaurants and nightclubs.

Bikini: A History of Shame

The author was a man named Micah Sanjay, formerly a civilian official of the Marshall Islands' U.S. military government, now a retired high school principal living in Chalan Kanoa, Saipan.

His story was identical to the one Moreland had told me: failure to evacuate the residents of Bikini and Majuro and the neighboring Marshall atolls. Clandestine nighttime boat rides doling out compensation.

The exact same story, down to the amount of money paid.

Sanjay wrote matter-of-factly but his anger came through. A Majuro native, he'd lost relatives to leukemia and lymphoma.

No greater anger than when recounting the payoff.

Sanjay and six other civil servants assigned the job.

Six names, none of them Moreland.

I reread the article, searching for any mention of the doctor. Nothing.

If the old man had never been part of the payoff, why had he lied about it?

Something else he said the first night resonated:

Guilt is a great motivator, Alex.

Feeling himself culpable for the blast? He'd been a Navy officer. Had he known about the winds?

Was it guilt that had transformed him from a trust-fund kid in dress whites to a would-be Schweitzer?

Coming to Aruk to atone?

Not that his lifestyle had suffered- living in a grand estate, indulging his passions.

Aruk, his fiefdom… but his daughter couldn't be permitted to fraternize with the locals.

Did he want the villagers isolated? So he could enjoy Aruk on his own terms- an idealized refuge for noble savages with good hygiene and clean water?

Maybe I was judging him unfairly- residual anger about the cockroaches.

But it did appear that he'd lied to me about the Marshalls' compensation program, and that bothered me.

I looked over at Robin's beautiful, prone body, gleaming in the sun. Spike slept too.

I was hunched, fingers tight on the magazine.

Maybe Moreland had indeed been in those boats. Another payoff team, not Sanjay's.

One way to find out: talk to the author.

Sanjay had worked for the government forty years ago, then as a school principal, meaning he was Moreland's age or close to it.

Still alive? Still on Saipan?

Robin rolled over. "Umm, this sun is great."

"Sure is," I said. "Hot, too, and the drinks are all gone. I'll bop over to the Trading Post and get us some more."

21

I jogged this time, veering from the beach to the docks where Skip and Haygood sat dangling fishing poles. Haygood watched me. Skip kept his eyes on the water. He had his trunks on and a T-shirt, the most clothes I'd seen him in.

Inside the Trading Post, Betty Aguilar was watching a game show and munching a Mars bar.

"Hi. Back so soon?"

"Couple of beers, two more Cokes."

"You're definitely my best customer- hold on, I'll get them for you."

"Does the pay phone work?"

"Usually, but if you want to call Dr. Bill's place, I can let you use the one in back for free."

"No, this is long distance."

"Oh- do you need change?"

"I thought I'd use my calling card."

"I think that'll work." She went in back and I lifted the receiver. Another rotary. It took a while to get a dial tone, a lot longer to work my way through several operators and finally obtain permission to use the card. Each successive connection was worse than the previous one, and by the time I reached Saipan Information, I was speaking through a hail of static and the echo of my own voice on one-second delay.

But Micah Sanjay was listed, and when I called his number an older-sounding man with a mild voice said, "Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Sanjay, but I'm a free-lance writer named Thomas Creedman, on temporary stopover in Aruk."