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  Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out some keys and gave them to me.

  "Thanks," I said. "When do you want to start working?"

  He smiled. "We already have."

  6

  We walked back through the silk-papered gallery, Moreland moving stiffly despite long strides, Robin and I slowing down for him.

  "I like your paintings," I said.

  He gave a puzzled look. "Oh, those. They were done by my late wife."

  He made no further comment till we reached the entry hall and a door slammed upstairs from the vicinity of the Pickers' suite.

  "I heard about Lyman's behavior at dinner," he said, stopping. "I apologize."

  "No big deal."

  "They'll only be here another week or so. She's just about completed whatever it is she came here to do. He has nothing to do, which is part of the problem. He's unhappy about the lack of exotic molds."

  "He may still be hoping to find some," I said. "They're flying over the banyan forest tomorrow morning."

  Thin arms folded across his chest. "Tomorrow?"

  "That's what he said."

  "Flying in what?"

  "A plane owned by a man named Harry Amalfi."

  "Good lord. Those are junk heaps. Harry bought them from surplus years ago, expecting me to hire him to dust crops. I decided to use only organic pest control, tried to explain it to him. Even after I compensated him, he convinced himself I ruined him."

  "You paid him, anyway?" said Robin.

  "I gave him something because he'd taken initiative. I suggested he use the money to open a car repair business. He and his son know how to do that. Instead, he spent every penny and hasn't taken any initiative since. There's no reason to go up in one of those rattletraps. What do they expect to see?"

  "The forest."

  "There's nothing down there. The area is mostly Navy land, the rest public domain that would have been cleared long ago except that it's not safe. Land mines left by the Japanese. And who's going to fly them? Harry hasn't been up in years. And he drinks."

  "Picker has a pilot's license."

  He shook his head. "I must have a talk with them. Those land mines are a real danger if he tries to land. I had barbed wire put up along the eastern wall of my property to make sure no one climbed over. I'd better go up there right now."

  "He may not be receptive," I said.

  "Oh . . . yes, you're probably right. Tomorrow morning, then. . . . Now, in terms of your recreation here at the house, we don't get television reception but the radio in your room should be working. There's also a small library on the other side of the dining room." He gave a little wave. "Converted silver room. You may not find much of interest there. Mostly condensed books and biographies. There are many more books in your office, and mine. Periodicals come in with the provisions. If there's something specific you're interested in reading, I'll do my best to find it for you."

  He bent slowly and petted Spike. "Well, I'll let you go now. Is there anything you need?"

  Robin said, "It's so pleasant out I thought we might walk some more."

  Moreland nodded happily. "Have you noticed the sweetness in the air? I've planted for aroma. Frangipani, night-blooming jasmine, old roses, all sorts of things."

  "Picker said the soil isn't good," I said.

  "He's right about that. Any residues of volcanic ash have drifted into the jungle, and the rest of the island is too high in salt and silica. In some places, the dirt only goes down a couple of feet before you hit coral. With the exception of a few pines planted by the Japanese, this place was scrub when I bought it. I brought in boatloads of topsoil and amendments. It took years. It's turned out fairly well. Would you like to see— no, forgive me, I won't interrupt your walk."

  "We'd love to," said Robin.

  He blinked. "I believe you're being kind to an old bore. But at my age, one takes what one gets— let's go, little doggy."

  • • •

  Behind the house was a courtyard planted with privet-hedged rose gardens and precisely cut flower beds. Big conifers, some pruned in the spare, graceful Japanese style. Then, looser plantings of palm and fern and crushed rock walkways lined with low-growing lilies. Artfully placed spotlights allowed just enough illumination for safe passage. The botanic perfumes blended in strange combinations. Sometimes the result was cloying.

  "It goes back a ways," said Moreland, pointing to a wooden arbor at the rear of the lawn. To the side, high-voltage spots exposed a grass tennis court without a net, then more grass. Off to the left stood a group of flat-roofed buildings: one huge hangarlike structure and several smaller sheds. Moreland led us to them, saying, "It's too dark to see, but I've got all sorts of things behind the arbor. Citrus, plum, peach, table grapes, bananas, vegetables. Feel free to go picking tomorrow. Everything's safe to eat."

  "Are you self-sufficient?" I said.

  "For the most part. Meat and fish and dairy products, I buy for the staff and guests. I used to keep a goat herd for milk, but we didn't consume enough to justify it. As I wrote you, I conduct nutritional research. Sometimes there's surplus for the village."

  "Do people in the village grow anything?"

  "A bit," he said. "It's not an agricultural culture."

  As we got closer to the outbuildings, he said, "Those are my offices and labs and warehouses. Your office is the nearest bungalow and I've set aside studio space for you, as well, Robin, right next door. A nice room with northern exposure and a skylight. My wife used to paint there. How's your wrist doing?"

  "Better."

  He stopped again. "May I?" Lifting her arm, he flexed the joint very gently. "No crepitus. Good. Ice for acute inflammation and follow up with warmth for pain. Keep it relaxed and it should knit nicely. The southern lagoon stays very nice all year round. Swimming's a low-resistance exercise that will strengthen the muscles without unduly stressing the joint."

  Releasing her arm, he looked out into the darkness.

  "I should probably dig up some of that lawn. Ridiculously labor intensive and useless, but I grew up on a ranch and the smell of new grass brings me back to my childhood."

  "A ranch where?" I said.

  "Sonoma, California. Father grew Santa Rosa plums and pinot noir grapes."

  We continued walking.

  "Do you see patients here?" I said.

  "No, that's done at the clinic in town. The X-ray machine is there and it's a lot more convenient for the villagers."

  "So what kinds of labs do you have here?"

  "Research. I have a long-standing interest in alternative pesticides— are either of you squeamish?"

  "About what?" said Robin.

  "Natural predation." He blinked. "Spineless creatures."

  "If they're crawling all over me, I am."

  He laughed. "I certainly hope not, dear. If you're ever interested, I have some very interesting specimens."

  "You keep live specimens here?"

  He turned to pat her shoulder. "Under lock and key in that big building over there. I'm sorry, dear. I should have told you. Sometimes I forget how people get."

  "No, it's all right," she said. "When I was a kid I had a tarantula as a pet."

  "I didn't know that," I said.

  She laughed. "Neither did my parents. A friend gave it to me when her mother made her get rid of it. I hid it in a shoebox in my closet for weeks. Then my mother discovered it. One of the more memorable episodes of my childhood."

  "I have tarantulas," said Moreland. Excitement tinged his voice. "They're really quite wonderful, once you get to know them."

  "Mine wasn't that big, maybe an inch long. I think it was from Italy."

  "Probably an Italian wolf spider. Lycosa tarentula. Here's something for you, Alex: the bite of the Italian wolf was once thought to cause madness— weeping and stumbling and dancing. That's how the tarantella dance got its name. Nonsense, of course. The little thing's harmless."

  "Wish you could have been there to convince my mother," said
Robin. "She flushed it."

  Moreland winced. "If you'd like to see another one, I can oblige."

  "Sure," she said. "If it's okay with you, Alex."

  I stared at her. Back home she called upon me to swat mosquitoes and flies.

  "Love to see it," I said. Mr. Macho.

  "I'm afraid you'd best leave him outside, though," said Moreland, looking at Spike. "Dogs are still basically wolves, and wolves are predators with all the hormonal secretions that entails. Little scurrying things may set off an aggressive response in him. I don't want to upset him. Or them."

  "Humans are predators, too," I said.

  "Most definitely," said Moreland. "But we seem to be naturally afraid of them, and they can deal with that."

  • • •

  We tied Spike to a tree, gave him a cheese-flavored dog cracker, and told him we'd be back soon.

  Moreland took us to the hangarlike building. The entrance was a gray metal door.

  "The Japanese officers' bath house," he said, releasing a key lock. "They had herbal mudpits here, wet and dry steam, fresh and saltwater pools. The saltwater was brought up from the beach in trucks."

  He flipped a switch and light flooded a windowless room. White tile on all surfaces. Empty. Another gray door, closed. No lock.

  "Careful, now," he said. "I have to keep the light dim. There are thirteen steps down."

  Opening the second door, he flicked one of a series of toggles and a weak, pale blue haze stuttered to life.

  "Thirteen steps," he reiterated, and he counted out loud as we followed him down a stone flight, grasping cold metal handrails.

  The interior was much cooler than the main house. At the bottom was a sunken area, maybe sixty feet long. Concrete walls and floors. The floors were marked by several rectangles. Seams, where concrete had been poured to fill the baths.

  Narrow windows so high they nearly touched the ceiling let in feeble dots of moonlight. Translucent wire glass. The blue light came from a few fluorescent bulbs mounted vertically on the walls. As my eyes got accustomed to the dimness, I made out another flight of stairs at the far end. A raised work space: desk and chair, storage cabinets, lab tables.

  A wide aisle spined through the center of the sunken area. Metal ribs on both sides: ten rows of steel tables bolted to the concrete.

  The tables housed dozens of ten-gallon aquariums covered by wire mesh lids. Some tanks were completely dark. Others glowed pink, gray, lavender, more blue.

  Random spurts of sound from within: flutterings and scratchings, sudden stabs, the ping of something hard against glass.

  The panic of attempted escape.

  A strange mixture of smells filled my nose. Decayed vegetation, excreta, peat moss. Wet grain, boiled meat. Then something sweet— fruit on the verge of rot.

  Robin's hand in mine was as cold as the handrails.

  "Welcome," said Moreland, "to my little zoo."

  7

  He led us past the first two rows and stopped at the third. "Some sort of classification system would have been clever, but I know where everyone is and I'm the one who feeds them."

  Turning left, he stopped at a dark tank. Inside was a floor of mulch and leaves, above it a tangle of bare branches. Nothing else that I could see.

  He pulled something out of his pocket and held it between his fingers. A pellet, not unlike Spike's kibble.

  The wire lid was clamped; he loosened it and pushed, exposing a corner. Inserting two fingers, he dangled the pellet.

  At first, nothing happened. Then, quicker than I believed possible, the mulch heaved, as if in the grip of a tiny earthquake, and something shot up.

  A second later, the food was gone.

  Robin pressed herself against me.

  Moreland hadn't moved. Whatever had taken the pellet had disappeared.

  "Australian garden wolf," said Moreland, securing the top. "Cousin of your Italian friend. Like tarantula, they burrow and wait."

  "Looks as if you know what it likes," said Robin. I heard the difference in her voice, but a stranger might not have.

  "What she likes— this one's quite the lady— is animal protein. Preferably in liquid form. Spiders always liquefy their food. I combine insects, worms, mice, whatever, and create a broth that I freeze and defrost. This is the same stuff, compressed and freeze-dried. I did it to see if they'd adapt to solids. Luckily, many of them did."

  He smiled. "Strange avocation for a vegetarian, right? But what's the choice? She's my responsibility. . . . Come with me, perhaps we can bring back some memories."

  He opened another aquarium at the end of the row, but this time he shoved his arm in, drew out something, and placed it on his forearm. One of the vertical bulbs was close enough to highlight its form on his pale flesh. A spider, dark, hairy, just over an inch long. It crawled slowly up toward his shoulder.

  "Does this resemble what your mother found, dear?"

  Robin licked her lips. "Yes."

  "Her name is Gina." To the spider, now at his collar: "Good evening, señora." Then to Robin: "Would you like to hold her?"

  "I guess."

  "A new friend, Gina." As if understanding, the spider stopped. Moreland lifted it tenderly and placed it in Robin's palm.

  It didn't budge, then it lifted its head and seemed to study her. Its mouth moved, an eerie lip sync.

  "You're cute, Gina."

  "We can send one to your mother," I said. "For old times' sake."

  She laughed and the spider stopped again. Then, moving with mechanical precision, it walked to the edge of her palm and peered over the edge.

  "Nothing down there but floor," said Robin. "Guess you'd like to go back to Daddy."

  Moreland removed it, stroked its belly, placed it back in its home, walked on.

  Pulling out his doctor's penlight, he pointed out specimens.

  Colorless spiders the size of ants. Spiders that looked like ants. A delicate green thing with translucent, lime-colored legs. A sticklike Australian hygropoda. ("Marvel of energy conservation. The slender build prevents it from overheating.") A huge-fanged arachnid whose brick-red carapace and lemon-yellow abdomen were so vivid they resembled costume jewelry. A Bornean jumper whose big black eyes and hairy face gave it the look of a wise old man.

  "Look at this," he said. "I'm sure you've never seen a web like this."

  Pointing to a zigzag construction, like crimped paper.

  "Argiope, an orb spinner. Custom-tailored to attract the bee it loves to eat. That central "X' reflects ultraviolet light in a manner that brings the bees to it. All webs are highly specific, with incredible tensile strength. Many use several types of silk; many are pigmented with an eye toward particular prey. Most are modified daily to adapt to varying circumstances. Some are used as mating beds. All in all, a beautiful deceit."

  His hands flew and his head bobbed. With each sentence, he grew more animated. I knew I was anthropomorphizing, but the creatures seemed excited, too. Emerging from the shadows to show themselves.

  Not the panic I'd heard before. Smooth, almost leisurely motions. A dance of mutual interest?

  ". . . why I concentrate on predators," Moreland was saying. "Why I'm so concerned with keeping them fit."

  A brilliant pink, crablike thing rested atop his bony hand. "Of course, natural predation is nothing new. Back in nineteen twenty-five, levuana moths threatened the entire coconut crop on Fiji. Tachinid parasites were brought in and they did the job beautifully. The following year, a particularly voracious destructor scale was done in by the coccinellid beetle. And I'm sure you know gardeners have used ladybugs on aphids for years. I breed them to protect my citrus trees, as a matter of fact." He pointed to an aquarium that seemed to be red carpeted. A finger against the glass made the carpet move. Thousands of miniature Volkswagens, a ladybug traffic jam. "So simple, so practical. But the key is keeping them nutritionally robust."

  We moved further up the row and he stopped and breathed deeply. "If it weren't for public prejudi
ce, this beauty and her compatriots could be trained to clear homes of rats."

  Shining the penlight into a dark tank, he revealed something half covered by leaves.

  It crawled out slowly and my stomach lurched.

  Three inches wide and more than twice that length, legs as thick as pencils, hairs as coarse as boar bristle. It remained inert as the light washed over it. Then it opened its mouth wide— yawning?— and stroked the orifice with clawlike pincers.