Island of the Sequined Love Nun

appearance of the High Priestess.
    In her bed chamber the High Priestess was doing her nails. The Sorcerer entered through a beaded curtain, moved up behind her, and cupped her naked breasts. Without looking up, she said, "You know, I used to get a pretty good buzz doing this in my studio apartment. Close the windows and let the fumes build up. Want a whiff?" She held the polish bottle out behind her.
    He shook his head. He was in his mid-fifties, tall, thin, with short gray hair and ice blue eyes. He wore a green lab coat over Bermuda shorts. "Missionary Air just radioed. Their Beech is broken. They're waiting for a part from the States and won't have it fixed for a month. Our pilot's stuck on Truk."
    The High Priestess fired a glare over her shoulder and he could feel himself going to slime, changing, melting into the lowest form of sea slug. She could do that to him. Her breasts felt like chilled river rocks in his hands. He stepped away.
    "It's all right," he said. "I've sent him a message to fly to Yap. He can catch the Micro Trader there tomorrow and he'll be here two days later."
    She was not impressed. "Don't you think it might be a good idea for me to meet this one before he gets here? It took long enough to find him."
    The Sorcerer had backed all the way to the beaded curtain. "You were the one that didn't want any more military types."
    "Because it worked so well last time. It's bad enough I have to be surrounded by ninjas. I don't like it."
    The Sorcerer couldn't believe anyone could walk that slowly and still express so much; it was positively symphonic. He said, "They're not ninjas. They're just guards. This will all be over soon and you can live in a palace in France if you want."
    He held his arms out to receive her embrace. She turned on a red spiked heel and quickstepped back to the vanity. "We'll talk about this later. I have to go on in an hour."
    Feeling stupid, he dropped his arms and backed through the beaded curtain. In the distance the Shark People began the chant to call forth the Priestess of the Sky.

12 – Friendly Advice
    Tuck was sweating through a slow-motion dream rerun of the crash. The end of the runway was coming up too quickly. Meadow Malackovitch was bouncing off of various consoles in the cockpit. Someone in the copilot seat was screaming at him, calling him a "fuckin' mook." He turned to see who it was and was awakened by a knock on the door.
    "Mr. Case. Message for you."
    "Just a second." Tucker scrambled in the darkness until he found his khakis on the floor, shook them to evict any insect visitors, then pulled them on and stumbled to the door. Rindi, the driver-rapper, stood outside holding a slip of paper.
    "This just come for you from the telecom center." He reached past Tuck and clicked the light switch. A bare bulb went on over the desk.
    Tuck took the note, dug in his pants pocket for a tip, and came up with a dollar, but Rindi had already shuffled off.
    The note, on waxy fax paper, was covered with greasy fingerprints. Tuck guessed it had probably passed through a dozen hands before getting to him. He unfolded it and read.

    To: Tucker Case c/o Paradise Hotel
    From: Dr. Sebastian Curtis Mr. Case,
    I deeply regret that my wife will not be able to meet you on Truk as planned. We have reserved a seat for you on tomorrow's Air Micronesia flight to Yap, where we have arranged transport aboard the supply ship, Micro Trader, to Alualu. Your plane will arrive at 11:00 A.M. and the Micro Trader is scheduled to sail at noon, so it will be necessary for you to take a taxi to the dock as soon as you clear customs.
    I apologize for the inconvenience and would ask that you refrain from discussing the purpose of your visit with the crew of the Micro Trader-or with anyone else, for that matter. It would be unfortunate if this research reached the FAA before it had been thoroughly investigated. Rumors travel quickly in these islands.
    I look forward to discussing the intricacies of the particular strain of staphylococci with you.
    Sincerely, Sebastian Curtis, M.D.

    Staphylococci? Germs? He wants to discuss germs? Tuck couldn't have been more confused if the message had been in Eskimo. He folded it and looked again at the fingerprints. That was it. He knew that other people would be reading the note. The germ thing was just a red herring to confuse nosy natives. The bit about the FAA obviously referred to Tuck's revoked pilot's license. In a way, it was a threat. Maybe he ought to