NationStates Jolt Archive

The people of Fatatatutti are pleased to invite the people of all nations to National Luau Week, beginning on Friday, April 10 and continuing until everybody goes home. Come and enjoy the Fatatatutian culture and, of course, the food.

There is plenty of room to sleep on the beach - and the more timid souls are sure to be offered accomodation by a friendly Fatatatutian family. For the exceptionally finicky, limited hotel accomodations are also available.

(Note: No weapons of any kind are permitted. Anybody caught with a weapon more dangerous than a paper clip will be stripped naked and thrown unceremoniously into the cargo hold of the first plane out - bound for anywhere.)

Come one, come all. Don't miss the biggest party in the world in the most peaceful place in the world.

Ackroyd Higgins leaned on his tiny yellow Fiat with his arms folded over his Fatatatutti United T-shirt. He was wearing a rainbow-striped rasta hat, dreadlocks, sunglasses and a huge smile. Every time somebody came out of the terminal, his smile would get even bigger and he would call out, "Welcome to Fatatatutti, mon! Taxi?"

Oddly enough, the buses in Fatatatutti all had 'Bus' painted on the side but the taxis were unmarked.

A prospective customer approached, eyed him with ill-disguised suspicion and asked, "Is there a good hotel nearby?"

"Dat would depend on yo definition of 'good'," Ackroyd replied cheerfully. "But you doan need a hotel, mon. I can let you sleep in my back yad fo free. I have to charge you fo da taxi ride, dough. Gas ain cheap. Five cocos o five USD. Yo choice."

"The hotel will be fine."

"Suit yosef. Five cocos o five USD. Yo choice."

"Is it five cocos or five USD to everywhere?" the man asked sarcastically.

Ackroyd laughed. "No. Ony if it's close. Mo if it's fa." He stuffed the man's luggage into the back seat and opened the front door. "You alone? Ony, if you have somebody wit you, I have to make two trips."

"Is it five cocos or five USD per person?"

Ackroyd laughed again. "Now you gettin de aritmetic, mon."

"Never mind. I'm alone."

"Jess doan get in yet. Let me star da engine. I might need a push."

The customer looked down at the rear bumper, which was bare except for a Radio Fatatatutti bumper sticker. "Are you licensed?" he asked.

"Dat depend on yo definition of 'licensed'," Ackroyd replied cheerfully.

"What's your definition?"

"Well, it's complicated. De ca is licensed but I doan know whea de plate is. I tink somebody borrowed it. But de ca is not officially licensed to be a taxi. And I am licensed to drive de ca but I'm not officially licensed to drive a taxi. So it all evens out, mon."

"I supposed you don't know where your driving license is either?"

"I'm pretty sure it's at home, mon. De kids like to play wit it. Dey preten dey police an dey arrest each udda."

"Well, let's hope that doesn't happen to us."

Ackroyd laughed. "You funny, mon. No problem gettin arrested, mon. De police is all off duty fo National Luau Week."

Sian Davies leaned on the cold, steel railing of the customs counter at the Terminal. His bag - packed to bursting - seemed to weigh more than a large car; and it had been a miracle that the thing had even gotten on the plane in the first place - the lady at the checkout counter in Reijvajik seemed to be having a rather lax day. The line was moving slowly; as it would be expected of something like a Luau Week.

Somehow though, he made it to the customs desk, and, after showing them his passport, stepped out into the nation that was Fatatatutti. He looked around for a taxi; but finding them to be non-existent (or something of the sort), hailed a bus and headed off towards the city centre.

Mickey Chang looked across the aisle at the young man with the huge suitcase. "You must be from out of town," he said with a big smile. "Welcome to Fatatatutti."

The bus driver looked in the rear-view mirror and called out, "Prime Minister, this is your stop."

Mickey got up. "I'm sorry, this is my stop. It was nice meeting you. Enjoy your stay." As he got off the bus, he waved to the bus driver and called, "Thank you."

"That was the Prime Minister," a woman in a flowered muumuu said proudly. "I voted for him thirteen times." She nodded decisively. "Not all in the same election," she added.

"Polititians!" somebody muttered loudly from the back of the bus. "They're all alike. He didn't even pay."

The woman in the flowered muumuu turned halfway around. "He doesn't have to pay. He's a senior citizen." She turned back toward the young man with the huge suitcase. "Do you have a place to stay?"

The Emperor was a busy man. He had many advisors he needed to consult with each day, and even more candidates for advisorship he needed to interview once he was done consulting with his advisors because of the number of vacancies that he'd left. Indeed, the only people busier than him were the cleaners, who always had new and exciting patterns of blood splatter to scrape off the walls before the Emperor came in and yelled at them for not leaving the place spotless. Nonetheless, when he really did not feel like it, the Emperor could delegate tasks to any number of Loyal Minions, who -- although they lacked the Emperor's idiosyncratic view of the world -- still somehow managed to get things done efficiently with a minimum of violence.

During those times the Emperor was at his most dangerous, because he found things to do that could actually affect the world around him. And, of course, his word was law, so if he got it into his head to do something, there was little that could stop him from ordering the rest of the country to follow suit.

Loyal Minion #8957 was methodically licking the Emperor's set of boots clean when his master entered, gesturing with the aluminum sword as though it were a third hand. "Minion! Have you ever heard of -- What are you doing?!"

"I'm cleaning your boots, sire," said #8957 uncertainly.

"With your tongue? Are you some kind of... shoe polish vampire? You know I said no vampires in the citadel!"

"No, Your Emperorness. You told me I couldn't use shoe polish. Because we were rationing it."

"Ah, I see, carry on. Have you ever heard of Fatatatutti?"

"Isn't that a flavour of ice cream, Your Holiness?"

"No, you blithering idiot, it's a place. Ye gods, I'm surrounded by fools and backstabbing sycophants! There's a 'world's largest party' occurring there, on the beach."

"You wish to go to a party, Your Imperial Majesty?" #8759 asked, brightening. "My sister's a dressmaker, I can ask--"

"Shut your trap, lackey, and don't interrupt me. It's a large party. On the beach. Do you follow?"

"Er...."

"Answer when I'm speaking to you, stupid!"

"Swimming, Highness? Or fishing? Or--"

"NO!" The Emperor swiped with the sword. The Loyal Minion ducked and felt bits of debris from the wall cascade over him from where the sword had cleaved it. "It's on the beach! Our ships can land there, deploy our warriors, and seize the innocent partygoers while they sleep, to be impressed into the Tactical Shocktrooper Legions of Terror and to cement my unequivocal rule over the entire known universe! Mua ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha! Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!"

"You're doing the maniacal laughter thing again, Emperor."

"Was I? I don't think I was."

"You were, sire. With respect."

"It was barely audible. That hardly counts." The Emperor frowned. "Anyway, it is a perfect time to launch a surprise attack! Now, find out where Fatatatutti is, and my finest fleet shall sail for thence at dawn!"

"Will do, O Supreme Ruler of Everything."

"Aye."

And so it happened that dawn saw the Emperor, with four of his finest legions accompanying him, sailing in eight ships out from Novi Sad Harbor, each boat propelled by sails and oars, the stylized wooden designs on each one's prow resembling a dragon, or a wolf, or a lion, or whatever other suitably dangerous-looking creature the woodcarvers could be convinced to make. The warriors swarmed onboard in masses, bristling with pikes and javelins and swords and axes and even the odd firearm, although most of these remained in storage during the ocean crossings because the soldiers also manned the oars, in shifts of course.

Fatatatutti was within their reach, if they could follow the rather crudely-drawn and lacking-in-detail map Minion #8759 had produced -- the kind that, when delivered orally to a passing motorist, would include a lot of pointing and waving of arms.

(OOC: Note that this is not a war thread. I don't want a bunch of yahoos trying to sneak through customs, etc. If you try any nonsense, you will be turned away non-violently. If you can't take get-the-hell-out-of-here for an answer, you will be ignored.)

Woody Stuka was generally acknowledged to be one of the richest men in Fatatatutti. He had made nearly 800,000 USD the year before, as much as forty ordinary Fatatatutians but it wasn't his income that made him rich. It was the fact that he didn't pay any taxes - and he didn't spend anything.

Woody moved his metal detector methodically from side to side, his practised ear waiting for the characteristic change in tone that signaled a coin or a watch or....

He sometimes found cars buried in the sand. Visitors to the island never seemed to learn that you can't park on the beach. The tide would come in unexpectedly - despite its legendary punctuality, nobody ever seems to expect the tide - and undermine the wheels, not only making it impossible to drive away but literally sucking the whole car under the sand overnight. The sound of a buried car in his earphones was unmistakeable and Woody would meticulously mark its location on his GPS. Digging it up himself would be too much work - if he wanted to work hard, he'd get a job. But he knew a guy who knew a guy who was interested in such information and was willing to pay for it. Now and then, he'd see the hole and pile of sand left behind by a salvage operation and eventually the tide that had started the whole chain of events would clean up after itself. In a few days, there would be no sign.

He paused, knelt on the sand and took a garden trowel from his belt. A few seconds of digging brought up a two-coco coin, called a 'doubloon' by some, which he threw into his mesh bag. When it got too heavy to carry comfortably, he'd mark where he left off on GPS, then go over and swish the bag in the ocean, then carry it up to the road and spread his catch out to dry. He had several hundred coins spread out already along the five-hundred-meter stretch that he planned to search that day and it was barely mid-morning. Everybody knew that the piles of coins on the road were his and he had never been robbed.

He paused again and this time he dug up a watch, not expensive but not worthless - and not inscribed. If there was any clue, he felt honour-bound to try to find the owner and there was no money in that. Watches went into a separate bag - no washing in the ocean for them. Woody reflected with an odd satisfaction that half of Fatatatutti wore his watches - half of the Fatatatutians who wore watches, anyway.

He hoped to finish sweeping the long stretch of beach that tourists frequented before National Luau Week got into full swing. This time of day, there was nobody around but surfers and a few sunbathers but in a week it would hardly be possible to walk on the beach, never mind scan it or leave valuables lying around. You can trust a Fatatatutian, he told himself, but foreigners are notoriously light-fingered.

Next week, and for much of the summer, he'd be restricted to the very early morning hours. But on the bright side, foreigners were much more likely to lose things on the beach and much less likely to go back and look for them than the frugal Fatatatutians.

OOC: Well aware of that. No war is actually planned.

OOC: Well aware of that. No war is actually planned.

(OOC: Fair enough. Have at it, then.)

Dooley Kamehameha - everybody called him 'Bruddah' - strolled though the main dining room of Numbah One, his first restaurant and the one closest to his house. It was National Luau Week again but that was no big deal. Every day was a luau at Bruddah's place.

"Hey, Bruddah," a customer called.

Bruddah smiled and waved. "How's it goin'?" he asked, stopping at the table. "Everything okay here?"

"We hear you're doing a forty-pigger this year," the man said.

"Forty? Come on. You know I never done more than thirty-nine in my whole life."

The five people at the table roared with laughter.

"I'd need a friggin' backhoe to dig a hole that big," Bruddah smiled. "You wanna hear a backhoe diggin' out back while you're tryin' to eat?" Bruddah sometimes thickened his native Fatatatutian accent for the benefit of the customers, to make him seem more bruddahly. In real life, he had never spoken native Fatatatutian at all.

"What's a 'forty-pigger'?" somebody asked naively.

"Ain't no such thing," Bruddah said. "Now, a thirty-nine pigger, that's a hole for thirty-nine pigs. You start with a hole for one pig, just like you're having a little family weekend luau. When the pig is ready, you start eatin' him at one end. When you get close to the other end, you dig the hole a little longer and you throw in another pig, so he's ready when the first one is gone. Then you continue all the way around in a big circle until you get back to where you started. That can be done with thirty-nine pigs but nobody ever did it with forty."

"When you get back to the beginning, can't you just go around again?"

"Again?" Don't you have homes to go home to?"

The customers roared with laughter again.

"You don't want too much of a good thing. National Luau Week would last all year if we did things that way, instead of just half the summer. You have to have something to look forward to."

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Radio Fatatatutti coming to you from the National Luau Week festivities in beautiful downtown Fatatatutti. Whoa! A girl just flashed her breasts at me. I don't know what she's thinking. Half the girls are topless anyway.

"We're down here near the wharf, near Old Fatatatutitown. I wish you could smell all the food over the radio. I'm told our technicians are working on that even as we speak. But for now, you'll have to come down here to take it all in.

"Get on a plane, jump in the car. Well, no, don't jump in the car. We are an island. We are still an island, aren't we? Yes, I thought so. Are we planning on building a bridge any time soon? Like, before the end of the week? No? Okay, well, I guess the car is out of the question then. But get on a plane, or a boat. We'll be here for a while if you can stand the wait. Just get down here, take some vacation time, call in sick, or quit your job if you have to. You don't want to miss this.

"Take the kids out of school. There's lots for them to do down here. There's one of those castle thingies where they can bounce around and hurt themselves. There's a lot of clowns. Some of them are politicians but a lot of them are real clowns, I think. Just kidding guys. We love our politicians and we love to pay taxes. Don't audit me, please. And there's a guy with really long legs. I think they might be stilts. He's giving balloons to all the kids, so if you're short of balloons, this is the place to be.

"Now, I'm told that the schools in Fatatatutti will be open all through National Luau Week, so the locals can still send the little ones off for the day, and I'm sure our foreign visitors will be welcome in our schools too.

"Later on in the evening, there's going to be fireworks and if you've ever been to a Fatatatutian fireworks show, you know to bring a fire extinguisher or at least stand close to the water. No flammable clothing please because that can spoil the fun real fast.

"We'll be coming to you live from the festivities throughout National Luau Week, so if you can't get down here in person, at least never turn your radio off. Ooh! There go some fireworks now. I don't think that was part of the show. Was that part of the show? No, I don't think so either. Anyway, there don't seem to be any casualties. So stay tuned and we'll try to keep you up to date on all the fun down here."

Bruddah went up to the little stage and raised his hands for silence. He was a commanding presence at nearly two meters tall and over a hundred kilograms, in a pink flowered shirt. And besides, he was Bruddah.

"Ladies and gentlemen." He didn't need a PA system. "Pardon the interruption. I see some of you are trying the duck. It's pretty good, if I do say so myself. The rest of you might want to consider it for your second course. I just wanted to say that you can eat the duck off the menu but if you see a live duck around here, don't eat him. He's my daughter's pet and she'd get upset. He's not supposed to be in here but you know how ducks are. He's white and his name is Alphonse. If you see him, just give your waiter a shout. Thank you."

The room filled with laughter. Alphonse was almost as legendary in Fatatatutti as Bruddah was and his name got mentioned on a regular basis. The staff knew that they'd be bothered for the rest of the evening with supposed Alphonse-sightings but at least that was better than a real visit from Alphonse. He was a biter.

"Welcome back. This is Radio Fatatatutti coming to you live from the National Luau Festival. In case you missed the preliminaries, the festivities are officially starting today. There's always room for one more in Fatatatutti so don't be the only one on your block to miss out.

"We have a little bit of clarification here for our international listeners. You've heard us talk about National Luau Week and the National Luau Festival. Well, don't be confused because it's the same thing. We've had National Luau Week for as long as anybody can remember. It started as a celebration of spring and it probably goes back to when the first Polynesians came to Fatatatutti hundreds of years ago, maybe thousands.

"Now, you might have noticed that the festival goes on for quite a bit more than a week, sometimes more than a month. Well, that's because, over the years it's become a sort of festival of festivals. Take the Dragon Boat Festival, for instance. A while back, somebody thought it would be a good idea to have the Dragon Boat races during National Luau Week, and that was very popular. Then somebody thought it would be a good time for the national surfing finals too because everybody is already here on the island.

"So finally, after this competition and that festival was added, it got so that there were too many things happening at once. Some people didn't get to see the surfing because they were at the Dragon Boat races and so on.

"So now they try to avoid scheduling conflicts, to give you a chance to take in everything. The surfing finals might be the week before Luau Week and the Dragon Boat races might be the week after. But it's all called National Luau Week now. There's a movement to change the official name to National Luau Festival, and that makes sense, but you know how slow people are to change.

"So, now you know. Call it National Luau Week or National Luau Festival, whichever you like. Just don't miss it.

"And speaking of not missing anything, The Piggery - that's another one of our fine local restaurants, in case you don't already know - the Piggery is barbecuing ribs just upwind from our booth . So. I'm going to head over there right now because a pig only has so many ribs and I don't want to be left out. Just sing to yourselves or something until I get back."

Auxilliary Constable Ackroyd Higgins leaned into the open window of the car with his dreadlocks, sunglasses and baseball cap emblazoned 'Police'. "Good aftanoon, dahlin'. I'm sorry about de traffic hole-up. Dare some kids playin' street hockey, y'know because of de national team playin' in some tournamen' way over in some god-fosaken place on de wrong side o' de worl'. So, if you could jess go aroun', dat would be perfeck. Tank you."

The driver looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face. "Can't you clear them out? I mean, isn't there a playground or something?"

"Oh yeah, dare a playgroun' righ' down de block. But dat would be playgroun' hockey, wouln' it? Dey's playin' street hockey. Ain' nuttin' to be done about it."

"Well, can I...?"

"You can drive up in de sidewalk. Dat would be fine. Jess doan run over de spectators. I'd have to give you a ticket."

"Maybe I'll just go back...."

"Dat soun' like a good idea. Come back layta. Maybe suppatime. Game be finish by den." He straightened up. "Have a nice day, dahlin'." He watched, smiling with satisfaction, as the car manoevered to turn around.

I. In Which the Emperor Submits To A Customs Inspection

David Mu watched the brightly painted sailing ships approaching from afar, a bemused expression on his face. He wondered briefly if they were part of some historical reenactment society. Certainly it was a better choice to exercise his cadets than the warship that had been spotted passing several dozen nautical miles to the south: that one he'd be pleased to leave to the navy. While this was the final test for most of the cadets, he wasn't prepared to deal with something that had five-inch guns and the ability to turn his coast guard vessel into scrapmetal. Besides, historical reenactments were fun.

They hadn't responded to his radio hails, but they'd obeyed his orders, which was good enough for Mu. He'd told the students that -- maybe they were having radio problems or something, it was always a possibility, especially with older vessels. As the wooden ships approached closer Mu could now see the elaborate designs of swords and skulls and snakes on their sails, and the carved figurines on the prows. He almost laughed at the gaudiness. Evidently these were Viking reenactors, or maybe even real Vikings who'd traveled in time -- certainly nothing to worry about, although the language barrier in the latter case could be insurmountable.

Contrary to narrative convention he didn't feel any sense of foreboding or any faint chills, even ones he would have dismissed as the wind.

* * *

The Emperor's flagship did have a radio, surprisingly enough. It was not the kind one could send messages from, though: it was the kind one has in one's car stereo system, currently tuned to 108.6 KILL-FM. It was unattended apart from Loyal Minion #710, the Emperor's best scribe and sycophant, who faithfully endured the abuse and neglect resulting from the Emperor's callous nature mostly because it kept him alive.

"108.6 KILL-FM, your channel for all the greatest ominous Latin chanting and most bombastic classical music in the repertory! In the next hour we'll hear the Dies irae from Verdi's Requiem Mass followed by the remix of-- KSSSHHHHHT FFFFFFFFT KKKSHHHHH Greetings unknown FFFFFFT ships, you have entered Yaforite waters without CRRRRRRR please proceed to KKKSHHHHH coordinates at once and prepare for a customs inspection FFFFFFT SHHHHH CRRRRRR KSSSSHHHH with José Romano conducting the Royal Novikov Philharmonic Orchestra--"

#710 shut off the radio unhappily and headed up on to the deck, where he found Loyal Minion #1702 (steering the boat) sound asleep. #710 whacked him a few times with a book to wake him, and when he had come fully awake he stared in incomprehension.

"You're to go to the coordinates 86˚ 14' 22" N, 25˚ 8' 57" W," #710 said.

"Wha?" #1702 said.

#710 sighed. "You're to go that way. We got orders through the radio."

"Through the radio?"

"Aye. That's directly from God, y'know. Can't argue with Him."

"But it'll totally ruin our map! We'll be lost!"

"Lackaday, a more awful fate I cannot comprehend," #710 said, in a flat monotone. "Look, leave the navigation to me; you do the steering."

"All right, fine. The Emperor won't be happy."

"And tell the others -- no, I'll tell the others to prepare for a customs inspection."

"A what?"

And so it happened.

* * *

David Mu was surprised by the grapnels. They were the first sign that everything was not as it should be; the vikings had disobeyed his order to stop, but it was hard to stop a sailing ship, so he was willing to offer them leeway. The grapnels -- that was another matter. He examined them. They were of this century's metallurgy; no markings adorned their utilitarian surfaces to identify the origin. The lead longboat was approaching much faster now; the grapnels appeared to hold in most places, having been fired and subsequently reeled in from cannon-like apparati on the sides.

He gave a whimsical shrug and waited for the ship to approach, but now somewhat doubtfully. A few of the cadets had joined him as a guard of sorts, and he could hear them murmuring and snickering among themselves quietly, before the group shushed itself by common consent.

David only started rethinking the whole thing when the boat got close enough that he could see who was on board. The deck had a party of soldiers on it. At least, they were wearing uniforms and carrying weapons. In the front was a man who must have been the commander; he had a fancier helmet, better armour, a shortsword that looked distinctly Roman, and a bandolier of throwing knives. They were primitive weapons, for sure; but the look on the man's face suggested quite plainly that he didn't need guns or rocket launchers. He was first over the planking that some sickly-looking minions threw up between the two ships, and came down in front of Mu, smiling. Or at least, the corners of his mouth were turned up and his teeth were visible.

"Thou art the inspector of the customs, aye?"* he said, nodding affably at the coast guard escorts. Somehow it didn't come across as particularly affable.

"Um, yes. Welcome to Yafor 2, by the way. We'll just need to take a look around inside your ship--?" he pointed over the planking behind the man. Four more warriors, similarly attired, had come over as well and were flanking him. They weren't smiling. The man didn't move.

"Prithee, I desire thou shouldst tell me. What is this customs inspection? What customs must thou learn of us?"

"We just need some information. What you're carrying, where your final destination is, et cetera. It's possible you've just blundered into Yaforite waters by mistake, in which case we'll most likely just let you go with a pointer in the right direction?.... Which historical reenactment group are you, by the way?"

The man didn't answer that. "What information dost thou require from the Emperor's servants? And who appointed thee to obtain it?" He stabbed a finger towards Mu. Mu swallowed. The group behind him moved back a little.

"Name, ship name, country of origin, destination, cargo, anything you'd have to declare, anything we don't allow through our waters...." Mu frowned. "And threatening a customs official is a crime punishable by--"

"Thou hast it mixed up," the man said, taking a step forwards. Mu stepped back. "Threatening a servant of the Emperor? That is a crime, punishable by death." He smiled again. "Name? I am called Captain Stoneheart of the Emperor's First Legion. The ship is hight Bloodsail. We are bound from the Most Glorious Empire of Vojvodina-Nihon, Which rules over the Known Universe and is Unquestioned In Its Almighty Sovereignty, and are bound for a soon-to-be-eradicated cesspit of immorality whose name is so blasphemous we cannot even pronounce it--"

"Wait, wait. You're saying this is a battlegroup?" Behind him Mu could hear the cadets trying hard not to laugh.

"Aye, a group that does battle, against all the enemies of God and His Second Incarnation On Earth, the Most Glorious Emperor Himself, May He Live For A Trillion Years," Stoneheart said. "What we have on board? Supplies, our weapons, stores for the journey to the edge of the world --"

"Because battlegroups can't pass through Yaforite waters. We're neutral, see. We don't want to be involved. You'll have to turn around."

"Thou deniest the Emperor's safe passage through these waters?"

"I'd deny Ahura Mazda if he was leading a war fleet," Mu said. The soldiers behind Stoneheart exchanged glances in confusion.

"But the Emperor is not Ahura Mazda," Stoneheart explained patiently. "He is God's Avatar On Earth, Ruler of the Multiverse, and a being of such holiness that everything he touches is forever sanctified."

"Doesn't change a bit. Still denied. International waters are that way--"

"<What is holding us up here?>*" a voice called from behind the soldiers. The small group parted; coming across the planking was the Emperor himself, in stag's skull crown, bearing the aluminum sword, and accompanied by a retinue of soldiers. Mu had, honestly, expected something more from someone who was God's Avatar on Earth; although the Emperor was tall and intimidating, he wasn't nearly as tall and intimidating as even the less powerful class of Eldritch Abominations. The retinue took up places in a semicircle incorporating Stoneheart and his men, laying out cloth for the Emperor to tread on so that his feet would not touch heathen metal.

"<O Most High And Mighty Emperor, this man has refused to let our battlegroup pass through for some reason.>"

The Emperor descended and came level with Mu. In somewhat more modern English he said, seizing the coastguard official by the lapel: "I have no patience for this, Mister... whatever your inconsequential name is. You will let my ships through, or you will face the consequences. I am more than capable of turning your boat into firewood, nay, burning your whole nation from the surface of the earth with cleansing fire. Do you understand?"

Mu said nothing.

"And that goes for all you who follow him as well. The decision is in your hands; for let it never be said that I, the most Gracious and Merciful Emperor, have never given My subjects a choice. The choice, in this case, is compliance or death. Which one do you take?"

Mu remained silent.

"If you do not speak I will make the choice for you, understand."

Mu was quiet. He also began slowly sliding down to the deck floor, and now the cadets could see that it was because he had an ornamental dagger buried up to the hilt in his throat.

Blood pooled around Mu's head and the crew now noticed that every Vojvodina-Nihonian soldier around the Emperor had weapons, formerly idle by their sides or slung across their backs, now in their hands, alert. Swords, axes, knives, crossbows, lances, even the odd pistol or rifle. It was subtle, but not that subtle.

The Emperor straightened up and smiled brightly at the crew.

"He made his choice. Who's next?"

A quarter of an hour later the eight ships of the Emperor's taskforce set sail again, various warriors stowing the planking and the grapnels while others divided up the last of the provisions the coast guard ship had been carrying. Sails unfurled, oars maintaining a constant rhythm as the crew gauged the wind and checked the maps. Cut loose from the longboats, the coast guard ship drifted apparently aimlessly, no human hand within to guide its instruments; it gradually began turning through the efforts of the waves to face the open sea.

High above a gull wheeled against the dying sun and shrieked aloud to the winds. A storm was coming in.

* All previous discussion amongst Vojvodina-Nihonian characters translated from Old Church Slavonic.

(OOC: Maybe I wasn't clear enough but I do not want any violence in this thread.)

Bruddah made his way to the stage again and raised his hands. "Thank you, thank you. I just have an announcement or two about the hula contest. It's going to be outside as usual, unless it rains. If it rains, it will be inside because those grass skirts don't like to get wet. We still have coconut shells in some sizes but the more popular sizes are going fast, so if you're bashful, reserve your coconut shells as soon as possible. Now, the coconut shells are optional, but if you want the x-rated hula contest, that's down the road at the Blue Dolphin. Oh, and somebody asked me about open-mike night. We will be having open-mike night later in the week, in case you know any jokes or you think you can sing. But we can't find the mike, so we don't know when that's going to be. I guess you'll just have to come back every night until we find it. If you happen to find it, don't eat it. It's the only one we have. Thanks again and enjoy your evening."

"Welcome back to Radio Fatatatutti. We're here live at the National Luau Week celebration. We're out and about, just talking to some people on the street. Let's see if we can talk to this police officer here. Officer? Officer?"

"Good evenin', mon. What can I do to serve an' proteck you?"

"We're from Radio Fatatatutti. We'd just like to talk to you for a minute, if that's okay."

"Sure. What you wanna know, mon?"

"What's your name, please?"

"Ackroyd Higgins. Dat's Auxilliary Constable Ackroyd Higgins when I'm wearin' de hat."

"And how long have you been a police officer?"

"Since dis aftanoon. I'm really a taxi driva by profession."

"So you moonlight as an auxilliary constable for extra money?"

"Oh, no. I'm jess doin' my civic dooty, mon. Dey doan pay me at all. Dey even make me buy my own bullets. But dey ran out of guns, so if you misbehave, I gotta trow de bullets at you."

"Well, we'll try to stay on your good side then. Are you having many problems? The crowd seems pretty well-behaved."

"We had some loss kids but we foun' dem. So now we jess gotta fine de parents. So, if you loss any kids, jess come down an fine me an' we get you right back togedda. O if you wanna trade fo' some betta kids, maybe we can make a deal dat way too."

"Okay, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Children for sale, down here by the waterfront. Thanks for talking to us, constable."

"No problem, mon."

"We're just going to continue down the boardwalk here.... Who do we have here?"

"Me."

"And what's your name, young lady."

"I'm not a lady. I'm a girl."

"Okay then, what's your name, little girl?"

"Choo-Choo."

"That's a nice name. How old are you, Choo-Choo?"

"Eight."

"Eight. That's pretty old."

"I know."

"Are you having fun at National Luau Week, Choo-Choo?"

"Yes."

"Have you been on the boucy castle yet?"

"I don't know what that is."

"It's the thingie that you bounce on. Have you been on that yet?"

"Yes. Alphonse didn't like it."

"And who's Alphonse?"

"My duck."

"Oh, I see. Is that the famous Alphonse?"

"He's the only Alphonse I know."

"I see. Well, thank you for talking to us, Choo-Choo."

"You're welcome."

"Have a nice evening."

"Okay."

"We're going to take a little break now, There's an ice cream sandwich calling my name. So, we'll send you back to the studio."

To: Madam Harmony Chang, Fatatatutti
From: The Department of State, The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

Dear madam Chang,

I heard from the Prime Minister( Sir Jonathan Roosevelt) that he wanted to come to your national festival week. But sad enough the Prime Minister isn't able to come over because he and the Ambassador at the World Assembly have to "defend" their proposal about Embassy disarmament of nuclear, biological and chemical weapons.

But the Prime Minister doesn't want to dissapoint you. And he asked me as Under Secretary of State to come over and take part of the festivities. And if possible to meet with your father, the prime Minister of Fatatatutti.

I hereby send you a little list of what I will take with me;
* I will arrive with one of our Government Aircrafts (http://cdn-www.airliners.net/aviation-photos/photos/6/4/0/1326046.jpg).
* I will take my own Diplomatic vehicles (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v205/MarkL/100_0895.jpg) with me (1 armoured Ford Scorpio Limousine and 2 armoured Audi A8's)
* The cars will be brought by a Noordeinde Airforce Boeing C17 (http://www.ipms.nl/pim/04044-Boeing-C-17.jpg)

I hope you appriciate my replacement of the Prime Minister, and give me permission to visit your country.

Sincerrely Yours,
John Adams
Under-Secretary of State
The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

To: The Department of State, The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde
From: Harmony Chang

Your message has been forwarded to me, since I am still out of the country.

There won't be any problem with you using your own vehicles. Only offensive weapons are prohibited. However, our traffic situation in Fatatatutti is quite unique, as you may be aware, and the congestion will be at a maximum during the Luau Festival. I strongly recommend that you at least try our local buses and/or taxis. You will find that our local drivers are more experienced with our conditions and will get you to your destination much faster than your own drivers ever could.

I have mentioned to my father that you would like to meet him and he is quite willing. During the festivities, he likes to be out among the people, so he won't be doing any official meetings. However, I'm sure we can arrange something informal.

We hope you enjoy your visit.

To: Madam Harmony Chang, Fatatatutti
From: The Department of State, The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

Dear madam Chang,

I'm glad that your father might have the time to have a little informal meeting with me. actually I'm glad that it will be informal, I'm quite new on the job and a little bitt unexperienced.

I heard of the traffic congestions, but my vehicles have blue lights and sirens to get through traffic quick, and it would be greatly appriciated if your police would help to get us through traffic as well.

I'm sure this visit will be one of the highlights in my young carreer.

And as you mentioned about weaponry, all my guards will be unarmed and we will let the Fatatatutti security forces peform this special duty.

Sincerrely Yours,
John Adams
Under-Secretary of State
The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

To: John Adams, Grand Duchy of Noordeinde
From: Shoshone Chang

I forwarded your message to my sister. She's hoping to be back later in the week. I'll try to meet you myself at the airport.

I'm afraid your lights and sirens won't have much effect on the traffic. They're liable to attract attention but that only slows things down. Your big car will probably be treated like a museum on wheels. (You might want to think about offering tours.) And the police are there to keep the traffic from running over people. They're also more likely to slow it down rather than speed it up.

But I'm sure you'll have no problem getting where you're going eventually.

I hope you enjoy your stay in Fatatatutti and I hope to see you when you arrive.

To: Mister Shoshone Chang, Fatatatutti
From: The Department of State, The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

Dear mister Chang,

I'll keep it in mind to maybe give tours with my official vehicle, LOL.

I would be delighted to be received by you at the airport, I just received the flightplan of the pilot who will fly me over to Fatatatutti, I'm departing tomorrow morning and we will touch down around 3PM at your Capitol Cities Airport. So I Hope to see you then!

But I have one question, don't you have any Motorcycle officers who can get my convoy through town? My chieff security is kind of worried about being in such a crowded car congestion.

Sincerrely Yours,
John Adams
Under-Secretary of State
The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

To: John Adams, Grand Duchy of Noordeinde
From: (Mr.) Shoshone Chang

You can reassure your staff that there will not be any security problems unless you bring them with you. During National Luau Week there are some problems caused by overcrowding and the occasional boisterous individual. Police are busy keeping everybody safe in those circumstances and can't be expected to give you special treatment. That's Fatatatutian egalitarianism in action.

I hope you enjoy your stay.

To:Mister Shoshone Chang, Fatatatutti
From:The Department of State, The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

Dear mister Chang,

We uderstand that you can't make exeptions for us, and I am already honored that you will be waiting down the aircraftstairs at my arrival at the airport.

I will absolutely enjoy my stay in Fatatatutti.

Sincerrely Yours,
John Adams
Under-Secretary of State
The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde.

Shoshone Chang picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"You got de Higgins residence an' taxi company," the answering machine said. "Mistah Higgins ain' home right now an' Miz Higgins ain' home an' you know de kids ain' home 'cause den youda got a bizzy signal. Leave a message at de beep, ony de beep doan work so jess leave a message."

"Hi, Ack. It's Shoshone. I have to meet somebody at the airport tomorrow at three, so if you can give me a lift, let me know. Thanks."

The night before the arrival of the Under Secretary of State, Mister John Adams, A grey Noordeinde's Airforce Boeing C17 Globemaster (http://www.ipms.nl/pim/04044-Boeing-C-17.jpg) landed at the airport of Fatatatutti's Capitol City, onboard: 3 armoured Diplomatic Vehicles (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v205/MarkL/100_0895.jpg), that will be used by the Under-Secretary of State.

Afther Touch-down the plane imediatley dissapeared into a Hangar for safety reasons.

Private Cindy Russell watched the Globemaster roll into the hangar. "That's a honkin' big airplane," she said. "How would you like to jump out of one of those?"

"I wouldn't be caught dead jumping out of an airplane," Private John Higgs replied.

Cindy hooked her fingers in the chain-link fence. "At least paratroopers don't have to walk everywhere."

"I'd just as soon be able to walk," John said. He adjusted his rifle sling on his shoulder. "I prefer my legs in their current unbroken condition."

"Broken legs are the least of your worries, " Sergeant Lester Kalikimaka growled. He smiled to himself when they both jumped. "If your chute doesn't open, they send you home in a mop bucket."

"Yes, Sergeant," Cindy still looked longingly at the Globemaster.

"Now, if we can get a little walking action out of you...."

"Yes, Sergeant." They followed him into the darkness.

Afther a member of the secret service watched the soldiers marching away he gave "the green light" to the drivers of the Diplomatic vehicles (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v205/MarkL/100_0895.jpg) to make a little test drive over the tarmac, making sure that all cars were in top-condition for tomorow.

The cars made several manouvres on the tarmac and dissapeared in the Hangar, the hangar doors closed and the night took over the airport, it was surch dark outside.

The next day, probably around 2.30PM the Under Secretary of State, Mister John Adams, was already flying in Fatatatutti airspace, the "fast in your seatbelt" sign went on and the pilot made an announcement. "Mister Under-Secretary 30 minutes to touchdown, were decending in altitude, please put on your seatbelt and make yourself clear for landing".

The Chieff of Staff, aslo onboard of the Government Aircraft (http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_UXUJef_nS7w/R5iz0gRSS_I/AAAAAAAABME/fWDn_Jc_m5g/s400/F+28++PH-PBX+01.85.jpg), sat down next to the Under-Secretary, putted his seatbelt on, and asked if it was time to call the special agents on the ground to get the Diplomatic vehicles (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v205/MarkL/100_0895.jpg) ready. the Under-secretary reacted positive, and the Chieff of Staff started calling.

A young Asian man with a bleached-blond brush cut, wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket over a rainbow T-shirt, stepped toward the Noordeinde delegation. "Welcome to Fatatatutti, sir. My name is Shoshone Chang. My sister asked me to meet you."

A teenaged girl in a red beret, green T-shirt and camouflage combat pants, carrying an assault rifle bigger than she was, stumbled against him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"My fault," she smiled up at him. "I'm lost. Have you seen anybody dressed like me around here?"

"I think they're over by that gate," he pointed vaguely.

"Thanks." She walked away uncertainly.

"I'm sorry," Shoshone turned back to the Noordeinde delegation. "There's a parachute regiment training nearby. Nothing to worry about. Standard procedure." He looked around him. "I hope the place doesn't look too much like an armed camp. The fences are mostly to keep the taxis from driving on the runway. And the Army is always training. They train where they might have to fight, so... you're likely to see them now and then. That's how we stay peaceful.

"Come to think of it, there are actually two parachute regiments in the neighbourhood at the moment. The Fallschirmjager Regiment is made up of immigrants from German-speaking nations, so if you hear them singing 'Red Shines the Sun' in German, don't worry. We haven't been invaded."

A group of obvious tourists walked by, in flowered shirts, Bermuda shorts and Argyle socks, snapping pictures as they went.

"I'm sorry about the weather too," Shoshone said, indicating his jacket. "It went down to twenty-three Celsius last night. I think that's a record. Some people say there's an Ice Age coming." He smiled. "Joke. That won't be till after you're gone."

One of the tourists came up to him. "Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?"

"A little."

"Which way are the restrooms, please?" the tourist asked in a loud voice, pronouncing each word distinctly.

"Inside the terminal, by the luggage carousel," Shoshone pointed vaguely, "and by the exit. You'll have to go through Customs first." He pointed again. "There's an information kiosk right over there, too. The commissionaire will give you a map of the terminal."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Welcome to Fatatatutti. Enjoy the festival." Shoshone turned to the Noordeinde delegation again. "Sorry about that. When we were kids, we were taught to be representatives of Fatatatutti wherever we are. I feel like a tour guide most of the time."

An ice cream vendor pushed his cart past, calling, "Fudge-sicle, Pop-sicle...."

"I don't think they're supposed to be on the tarmac," Shoshone said. "Oh, well... are you ready for Customs?"

Hello Mister Shoshone, thank you for your kind words and the fact that you came all the way her to the airport, the Under Secretary of State sad.

"And it is such nice to see that all of the Fatatatutti people are such good representatives of their homeland."

"Well let's go to Customs, i'm quite tired, yesterday evening i had a meeting with the cabinet untill like 2AM, then i was brought home, and I went to bed at 5AM and had to leave at 8AM to be at 9AM at the airport, so I didn't had much time to sleep, and I have the bad habbit that I just cannot sleep in a plane, so I like to have some sleep while "my guys" drive me to the hotel".

The Under Secretary of State went through Customs quite fast, afther Customs a special agent took his briefcase and brought it already to the waiting Diplomatic vehicles (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v205/MarkL/100_0895.jpg).

The Under Secretary of State thanked Shoshone again and gave him a compliment for his cool clothing. Then a Special agent came up to the Under Secretary and told him that they had to leave.

the Under secretary stepped into his limousine (http://aycu14.webshots.com/image/30293/2002169352388956070_rs.jpg) and waved to Shoshone and the convoy drove away heading their hotel downtown

Shoshone stepped out of the terminal and noted with satisfaction that it was warmer on the sunny side of the building. Ackroyd's taxi was waiting where he had left it, with two wheels up on the sidewalk.

"Shony, mon, whea you frens?"

"They have their own vehicles," Shoshone said, getting into the passenger seat.

"Dey own vehicles? Well, good luck on dem, mon. I can hahdly move in dis traffic an' I was practickly bon hea." In Fatatatutti, horn-honking was considered impolite but cutting off a moving car was not, so he did that. "Whea to, mon?"

"I suppose you want to get to work?"

"No, mon. I'm takin' de day off. De kids is downtown gettin' dey faces painted. Dat'll take two coats at least. White kids got all de advantages."

"I didn't know how much time those Noordeinde people would take. They just seemed eager to get to their hotel, so I'm on the loose for the rest of the day."

"Hotel, mon? What kinda host ah you? I got tree, fo', five people stayin' in my back yad. De kids put up a ten' fo' dem."

"What can I say? Foreigners have an obsession about hotels."

"So whea you goin' mon?"

"I guess I'll go to my parents' place for lunch. Wanna come?"

"Tanks, mon, but I gotta feed de kids, I guess."

"Okay. Is it faster to drive over there or to walk?"

"Too close to call, mon."

"I might as well walk then."

"Too col' to walk, mon. Still ony twenny-fo degrees. I got de heeta on."

"I didn't think this thing even had a heater. You might want to close the windows when the heater's on."

"You tinK? Den whea do I put my elbow?"

Shoshone smiled. "I'll see you later." He opened the door and stepped out of the moving car, since it was moving barely at walking speed.

"Laytah," Ackroyd called as his car disappeared ever so slowly into traffic.

Bruddah stepped up to the microphone. "Well...." his voice echoed through the restaurant and several customers literally jumped out of their chairs. He cupped his hand over the microphone and looked offstage. "Could you turn that down just a wee smidgen? A few revolutions to the left. Thank you." He turned back to the audience. "That's an old Fatatatutian joke, a few revolutions to the left...." He looked offstage again and said, "Thank you," again.

"Well," he began again, "as you can see, we found the mike...." He waited for the laughter to subside. "So, it's open mike night tonight. If you have some jokes or if you think you can sing, let your waiter know and we'll call you up when we're ready for you. And no throwing food, please. A simple 'Boo' will express your opinion just fine. Enjoy your evening."

Later...

A young man stepped hesitantly up to the microphone and cleared his throat. "If your taxi.... If your taxi has a calendar instead of a meter, you might be in Fatatatutti."

There was scattered applause and some whistling from the back.

"And if a regiment of paratroopers lands in your back yard and invites you to a luau, you might be in Fatatatutti.

"For our foreign visitors, the Fatatatutian armed forces train anywhere that they might have to fight and that might be your back yard. So it isn't unusual to see a bunch of paras marching down the street singing 'Red Shines the Sun'. If you find a machine-gun nest on your front lawn, you should maybe stay out of the way, because they train with live ammunition.

"Isn't it terrible when you have to explain the jokes?"

"Yes, it is." Bruddah put his hand on the would-be comedian's shoulder. "Ladies and gentlemen, the comedy stylings of Tommy.... I've forgotten your last name but I don't think that's going to be a problem, is it? Let's have a hand for Tommy. Thanks for being with us tonight. We have some lovely parting gifts for you. Eddie, give this man a coconut.

"I've been told that we have some visitors from Noordeinde in the audience," Bruddah continued. "I don't know exactly where that is but I hope you enjoyed your trip. Welcome to Fatatatutti and enjoy the luau. If you can sing any Noordeindian songs or anything, feel free to step up to the mike. Talent isn't restricted to Fatatatutti, at least not by any law I know of."

Olivia and Marco had only been in Fatatatutti for a handful of hours when they ran into someone whose accent they could not understand in the slightest. Of course, perhaps, considering where they were, it was more that they had remarkable been in the country for three whole hours before meeting such a person. As they made their way, walking slowly so as to “blend in” with the general relaxed nature of the local populace, they were nearly hit by a car making an unsignaled turn onto the street from which they came. It was Olivia who yanked Marco back out of harm’s way … well, if a car moving at barely more than five miles per hour was truly all that harmful.

He grumbled, “Damned cars. That’s why they’re not popular.” He was referring, of course, to the societal disapproval of private cars in many Santherese cities and communties.

Nearby was a local who called out something in what seemed, to him, to be absolute gibberish at the outset. It was a moment before he realized that it was English … of a sort.

Olivia, however, always a talented linguist and master of six languages in her own right, seemed to get the gist of it. She shook her head and waved a little, hoping her motions were indeed the same negative they were at home. Of course, the former would be but the latter was a bit of an awkward sign, being palm-inward and perhaps saying more of “what did you say?” in many parts of the world. She hadn’t really thought of that when she did it, however.

“What’d he say,” Marco asked.

She shrugged. “Just, umm, said to watch yourself.”

A lie, most assuredly, otherwise she wouldn’t have responded the way she did. He let it go. “They do speak English, correct?”

She nodded.

“Indeed, so I wasn’t just dreaming some familiar words.” He paused for a second as they crossed the street. “Think they speak better Italian or Spanish?”

“Probably not, Marco; I mean, honestly, you cannot expect any nation to push for multilingualism.”

That was probably true.

Spotting what they assumed was a taxi, they waved. Their suspicions were confirmed (at least, ostensibly) when the driver pulled to stop and didn’t seem to complain when they opened one of the rear doors.

Before getting in, Olivia thought to ask, “I hear sleeping on the beaches is popular here, is that true? I would love that, it’s not very often you can back home.” As typical Santherese, she slipped in perhaps a little too much into her sentences, including the obligatory mention of home while speaking to a new acquaintance. Her speech was, to compensate for the excess content, quite fast, as well. “We have, I’ve found, fewer restrictions on clothing choices at the beach. Do you here, too? I imagine if people stay there, but you know… I ....”

At that point, she actually ended up trailing slowly into an unintelligible mumble as she finished her sentence with what was, in all likelihood, absolutely no content but was there simply because she had backed herself into a lingual corner and had nothing to actually say follow “but you know,” yet still felt the need to attempt a wrap-up, no matter that it meant nothing and barely resembled a couple of words.

Before getting in, Olivia thought to ask, “I hear sleeping on the beaches is popular here, is that true? I would love that, it’s not very often you can back home.”

"Yes," the driver smiled. "It's cool on the beach with the night breeze coming in off the water. And it's free."

“We have, I’ve found, fewer restrictions on clothing choices at the beach. Do you here, too? I imagine if people stay there, but you know… I ....”

"There aren't any restrictions on clothing that I know of." He himself was wearing the ubiquitous flowered shirt that passed for formal attire in Fatatatutti. "Some people with pale skin like to cover up. No offense."

A horde of children raced by on bicycles.

"First time in Fatatatutti?" he asked.

Mickey Chang sat at his favorite table in his favorite sidewalk cafe, sipping his coffee and smiling and waving at the passers-by.

At this time of year, it was easy to tell who the tourists were. To them, he was just another little old Asian man. They ignored him as they passed, at most offering a polite smile or nod.

To Fatatatutians, he was well-known as their eight-non-consecutive-term Prime Minister, though if they had missed today's news, they might not be sure if he was still Prime Minister. Not all of them were friendly. After all, not everybody voted for him - if they did, his terms wouldn't have been so non-consecutive. But all of them recognized him. He didn't particularly care to be recognized but he was used to it.

He was dressed in conservative Fatatatutian business attire - khaki shorts and a pale blue shirt with no flowers - which suggested that he was there in an official capacity. In fact, he hoped to meet some visitors from Noordeinde.

(OOC: Santherese are actually primarily a Polynesian/Hispanic mix, so we shouldn’t be all that pale. For the sake of continuity, I’ll say Olivia is one of our rare white girls, though. Hope you don't mind my making Fatatatutti a popular vacation destination for my people.)

Free was always good. Being of common standing, both Olivia and Marco were used to doing whatever they could to save on money, including taking advantage of any and all opportunities for free, well, anything. Free things were common in Santheres, as well.

"There aren't any restrictions on clothing that I know of." He himself was wearing the ubiquitous flowered shirt that passed for formal attire in Fatatatutti. "Some people with pale skin like to cover up. No offense."

“I’m used to it. Back home is, well, quite the same as here, really. Except … active. And faster. And … yes, quite hot and sunny, and our beaches are fairly famous.”

Marco nodded and spoke noticeably slower. “Yes, she should be fine. I don’t burn, myself.”

A horde of children raced by on bicycles.

"First time in Fatatatutti?" he asked.

“Quite so, yes,” Marco said. “First time out of Santheres, actually. Decided a country close to home would be best for our first trip.”

Since Santheres was just south of Fatatatutti, the similar climate -- and as far as the common classes were concerned, social atmosphere -- it was becoming a quite viable option for popular tourist destinations. The fact that Marco was actually dressed exactly like the locals was more than telling enough that even the lay Santherese were getting the hang of visiting the place.

Though, perhaps, the other clear fact being that Olivia stuck out like a sore thumb perhaps made this quite less obvious. The quick speech of the northwestern Santherese didn't help at all.

Marco added, "Suggest a good place to eat?"

(OOC: 'Pale foreigners' is kind of a running joke in Fatatatutti, almost a form of reverse racism, a way to tell 'us' from 'them'. You can be as light or dark as you want. They'll still think of you as 'pale'.)

Back home is, well, quite the same as here, really. Except … active. And faster. And … yes, quite hot and sunny, and our beaches are fairly famous.”

"We're pretty laid-back here. No hurry. Taxis charge by the trip, not the kilometer. Five cocos or five USD is pretty standard, unless you want to go to the far side of the island. That would be a bit more," he laughed. As it happened, the exchange rate was currently about .99 but the coco-to-USD equivalence was universal and permanent.

Marco added, "Suggest a good place to eat?"

The driver laughed again. "See, that's how I can tell you're tourists. Every place in Fatatatutti is good to eat. How do you think I stay so slim and trim?" He was, indeed, on the 'slim' side of a hundred kilos. "You could come to my house for supper. My wife is a pretty good cook, as you can probably tell. I feel kinda funny charging you to take you to my house for supper.

"But if you want the real Fatatatutti experience, you have to go to Bruddah's. It's a luau every night but during Luau Week... well, I'm not sure what it is but there's more of it. Hula contest every night." He glanced in the rear-view mirror. "Grass skirts and coconut shells provided. Or not. Your choice.

"My name is Carlos, by the way, but everybody calls me Pancho."

One of the locals walked past and slapped the roof of the car with the palm of his hand. Pancho smiled and waved.

Well, that was a dilemma then, wasn’t it? On the one hand, it was fairly unheard of where both Marco and Olivia were from to both turn up unannounced for supper, and to go to the house of a complete stranger for such. Too much, culturally speaking, risk of being randomly poisoned -- not that anyone was at all anymore. Too inconvenient.

However, it made the cab ride free and dinner was more than likely to be cheaper. And the driver did look well-fed.

While Marco was considering his options carefully, Olivia was marked by the impulsive and excitable nature of northwesterners.

“Oh, well, Pancho, I’m Olivia and I would love to see your home and sup with you!” She had a huge smile and clasped her hands tightly in front of her chest. “We can go to a luau any day, we’ll be here for awhile, I’m sure. I’ve never been to one before, we don’t have them at home, but I can wait another day, especially if they’re every night.”

Marco rolled his eyes, having made up his mind while his companion was speaking. “Ah, Olivia, perhaps we might get a little more acquainted with the public side of the island? Meet more people at … Brother’s,” at this point, she quickly corrected his pronunciation, “and that’s what you wanted to do.”

Olivia, at least, appeared to suddenly understand his reservations.

Eight intrepid Quodites had set off for Fatatutti for the Luau Festival. There hadn't been much time to get to know one another, the drone of the tiny charter jet's engines and the perpetual fear of death rather preventing small talk, but now they were landed and waiting for the rather leisurely baggage reclaim, they did exchange a few words.

"I'm Alma, and this is my partner Bob," said a tall blonde woman in her thirties. "We always try to get away somewhere nice to celebrate our anniversary - ten years this week! We've meant to come here before, but you know, with the price of air travel these days, we've only just managed to save up for it now. And the insurance! Such high premiums - I mean, what's the worst that could possibly happen..."

She continued to patter on while Bob stoically hoisted her vast collection of suitcases onto an increasingly creaking trolley, seemingly oblivious to the gyrations of her subject, who was frantically disrobing. Oliver Mills came from the south of Quintessence of Dust, below the Antarctic Circle, and was struggling to remove the layers of clothing he had unwisely worn. "Uh huh...yes...that's nice...oh, I know..." He managed to stutter out occasional comments while peeling his trousers down his left leg and hitching a pair of overly tight shorts up his right. They arrived at a tricky junction, which he wandered off into a more discreet location to navigate.

Three young woman, Daniela Gottschalk, Michelle Freitag, and Wan Yuan, who were students at University College Highmark, sidled up to a fourth, who had a ponytail and dark glasses. "Excuse me, are you Jessica Jensen?"

"Yes, I am."

"Wow! Can we have your autograph?"

"Oh, sure, sure. Um, do you have a pen?"

"Thanks. You're amazing. We always watch your matches."

"Thanks. Here," she doodled on their pad of paper, and then added a number. "Look, give me a call if you want to hang out. I don't really know anyone here - I just came because I wanted a break."

"Oh, we got a research grant to come here. We're anthropologists, well, anthropologists-in-training. We're doing a study on the process of modernisation in cultural space."

"Ok, I didn't understand about the half the words in that sentence. But if you have any time free, well, let's hang out."

"Oh my quod! This is cool!" The students emitted high-pitched screams that any other anthropologists might have mistaken for some form of battle cry. "We're looking forward to it all: sleeping on the beach, watching the dancing, eating the pig..."

"Uh, no, I don't eat pork. Well, unless it's organic. Do they have organic ham here?"

"Um...I really don't know."

"Well, maybe I can get a salad. Anyway, perhaps I'll see you around."

Júlía Maria Jónsdóttir watched the young woman with amusement. Of course, a football player got all the attention, while Quintessence of Dust's most eminent international economist went unnoticed. Especially by anthropologists. She wasn't jealous, though, as she was looking forward to a nice, quiet, week, not having to worry about trade policy, fiscal policy, monetary policy, or really any policy but the most important of all: should she go barefoot, or stick to sandals?

Oliver, now more suitably attired, approached her. "Excuse me, but did those young women just say 'sleep on the beach'?"

"Yes. I mean, I'm going to take a hotel room, but I hear it's quite popular."

"But...they'll freeze to death! What about the ice tide?"

"The ice tide? This isn't Quintessence of Dust. It's warm - enjoy it!"

"They'll be gored by Antarctic Walruses!" He'd saved two straws from his drink on the plain, and used them to briefly mimic the goring action of an Antarctic Walrus.

"I don't think they have any of those in Fatatutti. Again, too warm."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"Oh, I don't. But they have the most delightful radio station, and I decided I'd earned a holiday. I'm Júlía Maria, by the way."

"Oliver."

"Well, Oliver, I hope you enjoy Luau Week; maybe I'll see you around."

The Quodites began to filter out into the bright sunshine and unaccustomed heat, their Nordic complexions standing out even among the other white tourists, and walked off in groups to sample Fatatutti's delights.

“Oh, well, Pancho, I’m Olivia and I would love to see your home and sup with you!” She had a huge smile and clasped her hands tightly in front of her chest. “We can go to a luau any day, we’ll be here for awhile, I’m sure. I’ve never been to one before, we don’t have them at home, but I can wait another day, especially if they’re every night.”

Marco rolled his eyes, having made up his mind while his companion was speaking. “Ah, Olivia, perhaps we might get a little more acquainted with the public side of the island? Meet more people at … Brother’s,” at this point, she quickly corrected his pronunciation, “and that’s what you wanted to do.”

"Fair enough, Bruddah's it is, then, I guess."

Pancho stopped short, bumper-to-bumper with a large truck - large by Fatatatutian standards, anyway. It had a refrigerator strapped to the back that seemed to overlap on every side. "Somebody's on the wrong side of the street," Pancho muttered, though he didn't specify who it was. To an outsider, it would have been difficult to tell, since there were vehicles going past on both sides. Pancho and the truck seemed to have simultaneously invented a third lane.

The truck driver got out, took a quick look at his bumper and then stepped into traffic and held up his hand for the cars to stop. Then he waved Pancho forward.

"Thank you," Pancho called, as he manoevered within a centimeter of the truck's bumper. "During Luau Week, tourists have the right of way," he explained. "At any other time, there might be some... discussion."

They had gone half a block or so when a troop of soldiers came boldly out of a side street and crossed right in front of them. A young girl with an assault rifle bigger than she was smiled and waved at them. "Hi, Daddy."

"That's my daughter, Tiffany." Pancho explained. "She just finished high school. She's protecting us from the foreign devils for the summer. No offense. Just an expression. I want her to go to university in the fall. I don't think the Army is the career for her. She forgot her bullets at home yesterday."

"My wife is in the Women's Auxilliary of the local artillery regiment. Maybe I shouldn't be telling you that. You might be spies. Anyway, she bakes a lot of pineapple upside-down cake to buy gunpowder and whatnot. That's how I stay so slim and trim.

"If you want to come by our place some other time, just let me know. I don't have a phone but if you want to get a hold of me, just call the long-distance operator. My sister-in-law works right next door to the phone company, so they'll get a message to her and she'll get it to me in no time."

Leilani McWhirter mechanically stamped passports as she watched the strange little man change his clothes. Don't they have suitcases in... Quintessence of Dust? she wondered. What an odd name for a country.

Sometimes she stamped passports upside-down, just to break the monotony. That is, the stamp was upside-down, not her, she smiled to herself. With such a boring job, she needed every joke she could think of to get through the day. She viewed the stamp as a souvenir for the visitor more than anything else. It was the big guys in the back room going through the luggage that kept everybody safe. What was that one guy's name again? He was cute.

"Welcome to Fatatatutti," she said mechanically.

Archie Kalikimaka pushed his cowboy hat back on his head and strained to see the first rays of the dawn. During the night, over the constant murmur of the herd, he could make out the glow of the fire and the sounds of laughter and music from the camp. Once or twice, he thought he even smelled the food. But it had been quiet for several hours now.

The thought of cowboys celebrating Luau Week out on the bald prairie amused him and he didn't mind missing out on it, not really. He'd rather be alone with his thoughts and thirty thousand cattle - and he was thankful that thirty thousand cattle didn't spook at the smell of one of their own being cooked. Beef at a luau struck him as wrong, but what are you going to do out on the bald prairie with thirty thousand cattle and no pigs?

He watched the eastern sky as it noticeably turned to blue, then pink. Some people said that the early morning was the best part of the day - but those people hadn't been up all night. To Archie, the best part of the day was breakfast. Maybe there would be luau leftovers.

As the moon set and the sun rose, he could see his relief approaching, his horse picking its way up the rock-studded hillside.

"Next?"

Choo-Choo could just barely see over the counter of the concession stand. "What do you have that's good for ducks?" she asked.

"We don't have any ducks here. Try the Chinese place down the line."

"I don't want to buy a duck. I already have a duck. I want something to feed him."

The attendant leaned over the counter to look down at her. "You want duck food?"

"Yes, please."

"What does your duck like to eat?"

"He likes peas and asparagus. Not at the same time."

"How about a salad?"

"He can't eat lettuce. He doesn't have any teeth. He likes mushy stuff."

"How about if I strain some soup for him?"

"Okay."

"That'll be two cocos or two USD, your choice."

Choo-Choo reached up and put a coin on the counter. "I found it in the couch."

"I'm glad to see the economy is strong." The attendant replaced it with a paper cup. "Do you want a lid?"

"No, thank you." Choo-Choo took the cup in both hands and looked over the rim as if it was as high as the counter. She was used to everything being too high to see over.

"Tell your duck to enjoy his meal."

"His name is Alphonse."

"Of course it is. Next?"

"Well, here we are again, Radio Fatatatutti, coming to you live from the National Luau Week festivities. We're at the beach today, just outside the city. There are millions of people down here. Well, thousands anyway.

"Get down here if you get a chance at all. There are buses coming and going all day long or you can catch a taxi. I have to warn you though that the taxis cost money. The buses are mostly free unless you get a driver who's really gung-ho. Or you could just hitch-hike.

"There's a surfing contest starting later on, or maybe it's started already. It's hard to tell with surfing contests, those surf bums are so laid back. The surf has started already anyway and it's pretty high. I'd guess it's probably... well, it's pretty high. I'm told there will be lifeguards on duty, so the danger should be minimized to that extent anyway. And I've been asked to remind you that our lifeguards can swim, even if nobody else on Fatatatutti can. That's not an invitation to attempted drowning, though. Play safe, kids.

"We have a troupe of acrobats performing down here on the beach. Somebody's juggling flaming torches but there don't seem to be any casualties so far. That bouncing castle thingie seems to be following me around too. I think I'm going to try that out later on when nobody's looking.

"And I think there's supposed to be a sand-castle building contest later on. I'm not sure if it's today or later in the week. I'll get back to you as soon as I find out anything. You don't want to miss that. Get down here with your shovels and wheelbarrows. It beats mowing the lawn.

"I have a note here about the Dragon Boat races. As you know, the Dragon Boat races are held to support cancer research. There are several Dragon Boat festivals all over Fatatatutti throughout the year and one of the biggest is right here during National Luau Week. We have several teams of breast cancer survivors competing, so come out and cheer for those brave ladies. I'll have more details on times and places later on."

Marco felt the tension in his shoulders ease as they set off toward Bruddah’s. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the locals, it was just that, well, he didn’t know the area or people well enough to make any assumptions as to their actually-good nature.

“That's my daughter, Tiffany." Pancho explained. "She just finished high school. She's protecting us from the foreign devils for the summer. No offense. Just an expression. I want her to go to university in the fall. I don't think the Army is the career for her. She forgot her bullets at home yesterday."

"My wife is in the Women's Auxilliary of the local artillery regiment. Maybe I shouldn't be telling you that. You might be spies. Anyway, she bakes a lot of pineapple upside-down cake to buy gunpowder and whatnot. That's how I stay so slim and trim.

Olivia laughed loudly over the spy comment, perhaps somewhat nervously. She had been one of the many people who worked for the military in lieu of college following grade school -- in fact, she had ostensibly gone career working in a Ministry intelligence service, making her, technically speaking, a spy.

The irony of the moment wasn’t missed by Marco, either. He smiled at the thought of his companion actually being on some kind of secret mission to take down the Fatatatuttian war machine. Oh, a mighty foe indeed.

Of course, the Santherese military had fifteen-year-olds straight out of secondary school, too, and some of them actually were barely taller than their rifles were long, so it wasn’t the age or size of the girl that seemed ridiculous. Buying your own necessities and having to bring your own bullets, on the other hand, was just silly.

“How old is she?” He wondered aloud. The mental jury was still out on that.

"If you want to come by our place some other time, just let me know. I don't have a phone but if you want to get a hold of me, just call the long-distance operator. My sister-in-law works right next door to the phone company, so they'll get a message to her and she'll get it to me in no time."

“Oh, I’m certain I will,” Olivia said excitedly. “Wow, everything here is just so friendly and small-town.”

‘Quaint’ was the word Marco would have used. On a good day.

“How old is she?” He wondered aloud. The mental jury was still out on that.

"She'll be eighteen, um, next moth, um. the seventeenth," Pancho said, hoping he had the children's birthdays straight.

“Wow, everything here is just so friendly and small-town.”

‘Quaint’ was the word Marco would have used. On a good day.

"Yeah. I couldn't live in the big city," Pancho stopped as a bus, conveniently marked 'Bus' slid by, centimeters from his bumper.

"Hello, Mr. Kanekarides," several small girls smiled and waved to him.

"Some friends of my other daughter," he explained. "One of my other daughters," he elaborated.

When the bus had gone past, he pointed in the direction of a sidewalk cafe. "There's the Prime Minister. I didn't vote for him. I wonder what he's all dressed up for." He waved as they passed the small Asian man in khaki shorts and a plain blue shirt. "Man of the people. Working man's clothes not good enough for him." Pancho touched the short sleeve of his own bright red-and-orange flowered shirt for emphasis.

He turned down a particularly narrow street but the traffic was also thinner. "In case you do want to get a hold of me, I have an outrigger canoe race with my brother-in-law tomorrow, or maybe it's the next day, so we have to practice. We figured out it doesn't matter which end goes in front because they're both pointed. Now we have to practice paddling and drinking beer at the same time. But you can still get in touch with me the usual way."

They stopped outside a low building surrounded by palm trees. The sound of surf was distinctly audible. "Here we are," Pancho announced. "Bruddah's Place, Number One. And here's the man himself. "Hey, Bruddah."

The man himself was a larger version of Pancho, well-fed and in a pink flowered shirt with shorts, sandals and sunglasses. "Hey, Pancho," he beamed, "Did you bring me some more of your relatives?"

"We're all bruddahs and sistahs undah de skin, ain't we?" Pancho laughed, slipping into the local patois.

Bruddah opened the car door. "Welcome to Bruddah's Place," he said.

Marie-Louise Castro-Stalina was used to sleeping in the cargo hold of a C-130. It might be an exaggeration to say that the sound of the engines was music to her ears, but at least it was familiar. She was trying to compute how many hours she had spent listening to those engines when she drifted off again.

"General?"

She opened her eyes.

"General, I'm sorry." It was the loadmaster. "We have to divert. This baby is needed elsewhere." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the tarp-covered shape behind him.

She had no idea what the 'baby' was or where it had been needed before or where it was needed now. "How long?" she asked.

"A couple of hours. Maybe four. A day or two tops."

Good old Fatatatutti time - today, tomorrow, next week, all the same. She nodded to the loadmaster. "Keep me up to date."

"Aye, General."

The good thing about Fatatatutti time was that home would still be there when she got there. The Luau Festival wouldn't end until she got there. Her mother would have enough food to feed half the island - and she would wind up feeding half the island. And if the world somehow came to an end and her mother ran out of food, then the neighbours would bring forty casseroles - and another forty the next day. She dozed off again as visions of poi and pineapples danced in her head.

"Radio Fatatatutti coming to you live again from beautiful downtown Fatatatutti.

"Here we are, entering the second week of National Luau Week. If that seems confusing, in Fatatatutti a day can be a week, a week can be a month and 'yes' means 'tomorrow'. We should look into making a documentary on Fatatatutti time.

"We're down on the waterfront again, near Old Fatatatuttitown. The tourists like to come down here to absorb the local culture. We're also surrounded by a lot of the cosmopolitan facets of Fatatatutti. Pataaritown is just up the block and Little Noordeinde is over by the canal. Visitors from those countries might want to look up your relatives over there. We have immigrants and refugees from almost everywhere in the world here in Fatatatutti and a lot of them have settled in this area.

"It's still early in the morning, so the place hasn't really come to life yet. The street vendors are out in force though. You can buy a grass skirt and a lei and masquerade as a real Fatatatutian. Don't worry, there isn't much in the way of public nudity laws here.

And there's food. There's always food in Fatatatutti. You can get one of those breakfast bacon bagel things - I guess it's more of a brunch bacon bagel thing by now. And there's frozen poi on a stick. I'm waiting for the guy that barbecues ribs. I want to find out where he sets up when it isn't Luau Week so I can have barbecued ribs for lunch every day. If anybody knows, please call in or come down to our booth and let me know. There's a bumper sticker in it for you.

"I'd like to thank the girls over at Tim Horton's for keeping us supplied with coffee. There's also a guy with a big Thermos thing on his back if you want to try the traditional Fatatatutian coffee. And the Ladies' Auxilliary of the, lets see... 69th Lesbian Light Infantry is having a bake sale right next to our booth. They're still setting up but we expect to clean them out in about an hour, so you'd better hurry down here if you want your share. Those chocolate-chip cookies smell good. Is that chocolate grown in Fatatatutti? It is? Well, there you go. Nothing like home-grown chocolate chips.

"The acrobatic troupe is down here again. There seem to be quite a lot of unicycles today - a unicycle circus, almost. It has to be seen to be believed. Almost makes me wish we could send pictures over the radio.

"That bouncy castle thing doesn't seem to be here yet. I guess I gave it the slip.

"Anyway, lots to do around here, so hurry on down. You never know how long a week might last in Fatatatutti."

Lieutenant Smith stood on the bridge of the Lionfish with his feet apart and his elbows on the rail. The sea was flat as a mirror and it was hard to see anything against the glare. It was a perfect morning and he was having trouble concentrating on his binoculars until the lookout next to him shouted, "Alarm!"

He hit the red alarm button with his palm and immediately jumped for the hatch. As the bells started jangling, he thought he could hear the Diving Officer order, "Flood!" The lookout was almost on top of him, sliding not climbing down the ladder. Smith pulled him out of the way and the second lookout too. There was only a short pause while the third lookout closed the hatch and dogged it.

Smith climbed at a more leisurely pace down the next ladder into the control room. He glanced instinctively at the 'Christmas tree' and noted with satisfaction that all the lights were green. All the screen doors were closed, as he liked to joke to himself. He glanced at his watch and tried to remember their best time for the dive drill.

-------------

Smith was momentarily distracted by the smell of barbecued ribs. How did Cookie manage to barbecue ribs in a galley the size of a toaster? he wondered. She hated being called 'Cookie' but he dared to do it in his head.

"Periscope depth," the Diving Officer reported.

"Up periscope."

The periscope slid up out of its well and Smith crouched to meet it halfway, rising as it did and flipping the handles down. He turned his baseball cap around backwards, hung his arms over the handles and peered into the eyepiece. He swung around quickly, changed the magnification and then swung around again, more slowly. "Cruise ship," he said. "Big one. Who's on the guest list for today?"

The First Officer looked at his clipboard. "Angelus, no home port listed."

Smith looked at the big ship at maximum magnification. He could see the passengers plainly, lounging on deck without a care in the world. He wondered how his ancestors would have felt as they were about to slip a torpedo into her.

He straightened and flipped up the handles. "Down periscope." It slid soundlessly down into its well. "Surface."

There would be no torpedoes today.

-------------

Smith was first up the ladder. He undogged the hatch and heaved it open. Everything was still streaming with water and the boat's black skin gleamed in the sunlight as it found its surface trim.

The Angelus towered over him, even though it was more than a hundred meters away. We don't come out in our war canoes any more and swarm all over your ships, he thought to himself. Apparently, that used to give some visitors the willies. But today, one little submarine would be as close as they'd get to the authentic Fatatatutti experience.

"Loud hailer," he said to the second lookout. The lookout went to the hatch and repeated the order and the bullhorn was passed up from below to him and then to Smith. "Ahoy, Angelus," he said into it and his voice echoed across the water. "This is the Lionfish. Welcome to Fatatatutti."

"Welcome to Bruddah's Place." Bruddah smiled. "We have a lot of options for you. We can seat you inside or outside. If it's outside, we can seat you on a chair or on the ground in true luau style. If you sit outside, I hope you're not inclined to dissolve in the rain because it does rain sometimes in the evening and we devote our efforts to protecting the food. Customers have to fend for themselves.

"You can order off the menu or you can go for the luau, which is sorta buffet style but everything gets passed around.

"There will be a hula contest later on tonight, costumes provided if you're shy. Girls usually win it but we don't discriminate. It's more important to participate than to win.

"There are also some acrobats and jugglers who go from table to table, so I hope you're not wearing anything flammable."

-------------

Choo-Choo put the plate on the table and slid it until it rattled the water glasses. "It's fruit," she said. "You can eat it. Daddy says it's on the house but it's really on a plate. He thinks he's funny." She looked at the customers as if waiting for them to eat. "I washed my hands," she added.

-------------

"What lovely children you have," Bruddah smiled as he passed out the menus. "I have seven children myself - and I know all of their names, in order, no less. There's Kelly, the oldest. She's out of the country at the moment, playing hockey, but we expect her home any day now. She's a student at the University. Then there's Chance. He's a semi-professional surfer - 'professional' meaning he doesn't do anything else and 'semi' meaning he doesn't make any money. Then there's Joey. She's the smart one. She can invent anything, especially things that are on fire. She's starting high school in the fall so I hope they have the building fire-proofed by then. The twins - Zoe's the girl and Zev is the boy but they think they're identical - they don't talk to anybody but each other. Then there's Choo-Choo. You'll probably meet her tonight. She's helping out here. She's eight. Be sure to tip her because she has a lot of expenses. And the baby is Banquo. He's starting kindergarten in the fall. That's seven, isn't it? I'm not counting Alphonse because he isn't strictly human even if he thinks he is. Don't believe anything he says."

Archie Kalikimaka was in town for his night off. He was wearing his good hat and a clean shirt and he fancied he could hear his spurs jingling as he walked down the street. But he wasn't wearing spurs, he was wearing sandals.

He stepped into the cool darkness of Bruddah's Place. It wasn't the Bruddah's Place, not Numbah One in the big city, not even the usual franchise in the usual small town. And the hostess definitely was not the Bruddah. She was a pretty young thing in shorts and a lei and nothing else. He might have taken a shine to her if she didn't remind him of his daughter.

"Hi, Archie," she smiled. "I thought you'd be off tonight."

"Hi, Kristi. The pig smells good."

"You're just in time. They're just pulling the rocks off him. The boys are waiting for you. I'll bring you a beer."

Archie parted the cliche beaded curtain and stepped into the cliche back room. Cowboys in flowered shirts and shorts, having a luau in the back room of the saloon, only in Fatatatutti, he smiled to himself.

-------------

Pancho looked in the rear-view mirror at the unsuspecting tourists in the back seat. "I don't really speak any Spanish myself," he said. "My ancestors came with Magellan, I think. Or the Armada. But when the whalers came a couple of centuries ago, everybody started speaking English. So everybody speaks English now, except maybe some of the old-timers back in the hills. The kids learn other languages in school, but it isn't the same as learning from Grandma, is it?" There was no response but that didn't slow him down. "Now, the new immigrants, they all speak their own languages, of course. And we encourage that. But facts are facts and business is business, right? You can't make a coco or a USD, your choice, in Fatatatutti unless you speak English. Well, maybe back in the hills somewhere...."

They pulled up in front of the low building, half-hidden among the trees, that was the destination of so many of Pancho's trips. "Bruddah's Place," he announced. Oddly enough, though he brought customers there on a regular basis, so regular that some suspected there were kickbacks involved, he had never eaten there himself. "Five cocos or five USD," he said. "Your choice."

Commander Raymond C. Jarvik was known as 'Rick' to his friends, which he approved, and as 'FlotCom' to the Navy, which he did not approve. A flotilla commander he was, but 'FlotCom' lacked the romance of the sea, to his ear at least.

He leaned on the rail of his 'balcony', which would have been a gun emplacement in wartime, with his office behind him. God only knew what his office would have been in wartime. He looked down approvingly at the low black lines of the Lionfish, which was tied up on the port side of his headquarters, the submarine tender Barbican. On the starboard side, behind him, was the Sunfish. Whoever had named the Fish Class of submarines at least had some sense of dignity, which was more than he could say for whoever came up with 'FlotCom'.

He imagined he could smell the pig cooking below, though he knew in fact that what he smelled was diesel. He remembered with some fondness his service on submarines where everything smells of diesel - your clothes smell of diesel, your hair smells of diesel, your food smells of diesel. It was less pervasive on the Barbican but it was still there. She carried enough fuel, after all, to fill all six boats in the flotilla twice over.

His father had been a fisherman and he had grown up complaining about the 'boat bread' that dad had brought back from a trip uneaten. He and his brothers and sisters had turned their noses up at the diesel-scented bread but now, he secretly longed for the 'good old days' sometimes. He wondered where the old man was now.

And he wondered how he could ever live without the smell of diesel. He was too old for sea duty, at least according to official doctrine and he had written the doctrine himself. But he would have settled for being a wrench-monkey on a little 'gypsy' tender like the Holland if he had to, anything to be near the little diesel boats that he loved.

"Commander?"

"Yes?" He didn't turn around.

"Will you be eating in the mess?" the yeoman asked, "Or should I bring up a tray for you?"

"The mess, I think. It is Luau Week after all, isn't it? No time to be solitary."

"Only, cook says the pig is ready."

"I'm on my way," Jarvik said. In a sense, he was annoyed at being shaken from his reverie but in another sense he was glad. From a morale point of view, it did the crew good, including the crews of the two submarines, to have the old man celebrate with them. (He smiled to himself at the thought that he was 'the old man' now.) No segregated messes on a Fatatatutian ship - the officers ate with the men and women. It made for a closer bond and it also made for better-behaved officers. You get more respect if you can carry yourself well with a mouth full of pig.

And from a human point of view, it did him good too. He was, when the rank and responsibility were stripped away, a Fatatatutian and a brother to all Fatatatutians. What better place for him during National Luau Week than at the ship's luau, celebrating with his brothers and sisters the bounty and the cameraderie that was Fatatatutti?

He realized that he was daydreaming again. He turned and disappeared into the darkness of the ship, following the aroma of boat pig.

Ackroyd Higgins was slouching outside the terminal building with his hands in his pockets, in taxi mode but with no taxi in sight. He spotted a couple of obvious tourists among the crowd and sauntered over to them. "Welcome to Fatatatutti, sir and madame," he smiled. He would have taken off his rasta hat if he could have done it without rearranging his dreadlocks. "Ackroyd Higgins, at yo service."

"Hello. Thank you," the two of them said, clearly uneasy.

"I doan have my taxi wit' me today because de General is due to arrive any minute now an' you can see de crowds. Dey no poin' in tryin' to drive in dat. But I be glad to give you directions to wayevah you goin'. No charge."

-------------

"Welcome back to Radio Fatatatutti. We're live at Fatatatutti International Airport, waiting for the arrival of General Castro-Stalina. At the moment, the General is one of Fatatatutti's most revered citizens and we're all very happy that she's able to be back home for National Luau Week.

"We're out here on the tarmac. I don't think we're officially supposed to be here but a lot of other people don't seem to have gotten the memo either. I'm told that the General's plane is on the ground and is taxiing toward the terminal, so we should be able to see it any time now.

"The people out here are pretty excited and so are the crowds outside the fence, the ones who did get the memo, or at least the ones who couldn't figure out a way to get inside. I can hear cheering in the background.

"And there's the General's plane. It's a C-130 Hercules, the main transport aircraft of the Fatatatutian armed forces. The General is retired but she's been on some kind of mission for the government - I'm not sure what kind of mission, a diplomatic mission, maybe - and the Fatatatutian government uses military aircraft as much as possible.

"The crowd is going wild. Outside the fence, I can see people waving signs and banners, 'Welcome Home, General', "We Love You, General'. She's like a rock star around here. Her peace-keeping activities are legendary.

"The plane has stopped. We're pretty close. We're waiting for the door to open. They don't need the stairway. These Hercs are built pretty close to the ground.

"The door is opening. We'll try to get closer. We'll try to get a word with the General. Airport security is holding us back. They don't want anybody to walk into those propellors.

"And there she is. I can see the General now. There's our Blondie. She's in the doorway, she's smiling and waving. She seems a little overwhelmed by the response. But how else could we respond to our best girl coming home at the best time of the year?

"She's on the ground. She's waving with both hands. We're trying to get closer but so is everybody else. General? Can you hear me? General?

"She can't hear me yet. The crowd is making so much noise. I don't think I've ever seen a crowd like this. General? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you."

"Radio Fatatatutti here. Radio Fatatatutti here. General, welcome home."

"Thank you. It's good to be home."

"General... General... Were you expecting this kind of reception?"

"No... No. I... I don't know what to say. I'm just an ordinary citizen. It's very humbling."

"Well, the whole nation loves you, General. We appreciate what you've done for us and for peace in the world. General?

"The General is moving away from us now, moving toward the terminal. General? General? She can't hear me. We'll try to get closer again but the crowd is going to be really crazy inside the terminal.

"There she goes. She's wearing her camouflage fatigues and that legendary red beret, the legendary red beret of Fatatatutti's paratroopers. She's entering the terminal.

"There's a roar from the crowd. Can you hear that at home? You can probably hear it without the radio. It almost knocked the General over. She's such a tiny thing, no more than a meter and a half tall, I'd guess. But she's such a wonderful person.

"We're going to try to get into the terminal but I'm not optimistic about getting close to the General again. We'll do our best and we'll get back to you again later with some reactions from the crowd. For now, we'll send you back to our studio."

Rick Jarvik was trying to hear a joke being told by a young torpedoman down the table when his yeoman came up behind him and whispered in his ear, "Commander?"

Jarvik nearly jumped out of his chair. I've really got to put a bell on that guy, he said to himself again. "What?"

"Message from the Starfish."

Jarvik took the single page from the yeoman and read the single word, 'Barney.' He stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies. I have something I need to attend to. Please go on with your party."

"Shall I bring your plate?" the yeoman asked.

Jarvik hesitated, "Yes." Then he made his way to the aisle, patting this person on the shoulder and nodding or smiling at that one. He hurried out of the mess and up the companionway to the communications room. "What is it?" he asked the Signals Officer.

"Just that one word. We're trying to raise him again."

'Barney' was a code word, pseudo-Cockney rhyming slang - Barney Rubble for 'trouble'. Starfish was in trouble.

The yeoman set his plate down on a small table and Jarvik sat down. There was no point in letting good food go to waste. "Have you eaten yet, yeoman?" he asked.

"Aye, sir. I ate in the galley."

"Check with the men here. See if they want anything brought up. It could be a long night."

"Aye, sir."

"I have the First Officer," the Signals Officer said. "He says it was a minor collision. No serious damage."

Jarvik didn't know if it was proper protocol to keep eating, so he did. It was Luau Week, after all, and he was doing all he could for the Starfish. "Let me talk to the captain, at his convenience." Cardiston was a good man, if a little too cocky sometimes. But the First Officer, Christian, was just stodgy enough to even things out.

"I have Lieutenant Cardiston." The signalman held the microphone out to him but Jarvik had to get up to reach it.

"Cardiston? What's happening?"

"We had a minor collision, Commander. We were leaving the area when a big nuke boat came up behind us at high speed and bumped us. I think it hurt them more than us."

"Doesn't anybody use sonar any more?" Jarvik growled without trying to hide his annoyance.

"We heard him coming," Cardiston said. "We even pinged him. He just outran us, I'm afraid. those nuke boats are fast."

"What's the damage situation?"

"No serious equipment failure. A broken coffee mug here and there. I'm going to put a few more klicks between us before I put a diver in the water to check for hull damage."

"What about leakage?"

"As far as I know, the leaks are all internal fluids. We'll know better when we can get a diver in the water."

"Well, keep me posted. I want to know everything you've done to my boat." When his commanders did well, it was their boat. When they screwed up, it was Jarvik's boat.

"Aye, sir."

How does a submarine, even a nuke boat, sneak up on you that fast? Jarvik suspected that Cardiston was covering for the sonar operator. Loyalty was a good thing, as long as it didn't endanger the boat or its crew. He handed the mike back to the signalman. "Yeoman?"

The yeoman was right there at his elbow. "Commander?"

'First, put a bell around your neck.' Jarvik restrained himself from saying it out loud. "Get me the personnel records for the Starfish crew, in my cabin." Maybe it was time for a shuffle.

"Aye, Commander."

Jarvik looked thoughtfully out the porthole at the gathering night. "If there's any further development," he said, "I'll be in the mess." There was a large slice of pineapple upside-down cake, a la mode, calling his name.

It was raining that night in Fatatatutti. It was a warm and fine rain that made you feel damp but not in a bad way. The lights of the sparse traffic reflected on the wet pavement like a mirror.

Travers LaRue sat in the corner booth of the Tim Hortons that served as his heaquarters, half watching the cops in the far corner and half looking past them at the rain. The waitress came to refill his coffee cup and he looked up at her, mostly to break the monotony. "Something wrong, Red?" he asked.

She hesitated and then said, "No."

"Don't feel like you have to talk about it if you're pressed with other things to do."

She looked at him with one eyebrow lowered. "If you must know, my boyfriend left me."

"Mm, that's too bad," he said, not sure if it really was.

"Didn't even take his stuff. Just up and left. Like that."

LaRue would have asked, 'Like what?' but he didn't have the energy.

"He left this on the kichen table," she added, taking an envelope out of the pocket of her apron where her order pad should have been and tossing it on the table in front of him.

He looked down at it, wondering why she would even bring it up.

"You like mysteries and stuff like that, don't you?" she asked in a rhetorical tone. "What do you make of that?"

"It's an envelope," he said.

"I know it's an envelope. Look at it."

The return address was 2 Morrow Road. To the best of his knowledge, there was no Morrow Road in the city.

"There is no Morrow Road in the city," she confirmed, "or on the whole island, for that matter. I Googled it."

"Tomorrow Road. Somebody thinks he's funny."

"Yeah. But look at the other corner."

He looked at the other corner. "Your boyfriend's a stamp collector?" he asked. The corner was torn off where the stamp would have been.

"No. He isn't."

LaRue looked up at her again. A glimmer of interest had crossed his mind but he couldn't put his finger on it. "This came in the mail?"

"I told you, it was on the kitchen table."

He looked past her again at the shining street. "Mind if I hang onto this?"

"Knock yourself out."

"You working tomorrow?"

"I work every night during Luau Week. You know that."

"I'll see you tomorrow then."

She nodded and stood there waiting for him to move, but he didn't move. Finally, she asked, "Doughnut?"

"What else have I got to do?"

She glanced at the envelope as a hint but he didn't react and she decided not to push him. She went to get his chocolate glaze.

Cheryl Oswego-Farnsworth took off her apron and hung it in her locker. Here it was, hardly two weeks into National Luau Week and the crowds seemed to be thinning already. When she was young, it seemed like you couldn't get into a restaurant in Fatatatutti during Luau Week, and she was only twenty-six. Even the rain wouldn't have stopped the pedestrian traffic a few years ago.

Or maybe she was just longing for the good old days because her own life was such a mess. Her choices tonight were to go home to an empty house, an empty kichen, but with 'his' stuff still lurking everywhere - or to go out and pretend to have a good time. She could open a can of something for supper or try to eat with strangers. Either way, she would probably wind up drinking too much. At least if she was home, she'd be less likely to do something stupid.

That LaRue was a nice enough fellow but she wasn't ready yet to think about him, much less actively pursue him. She wondered if she had brought up the envelope in a subconscious attempt to involve him in her life. She had been serving him coffee for years but what did she really know about him? What kind of guy drinks coffee by himself at midnight?

She glanced at her reflection in the glass door and brushed a stray strand of red hair into place.

"Good night," the teenager who had replaced her behind the counter said, with the same conviction that he would say it to any customer.

"Good night," she murmured.

What could be worse than being lonely during Luau Week? She stepped out into the warm rain.

"Here we are again on the beach in beautiful Fatatatutti, Radio Fatatatutti is bringing you coverage of National Luau Week. We're beginning the third week of the festival. It's wall-to-wall people out here today, except that there aren't any walls.

"They're running the Dragon Boat races today. We have all kinds of ladies walking around in pink T-shirts - that's in support of breast cancer. And I think a lot of them are paddlers too. Each team has its own colour of T-shirt.

"The preliminary races are finished and they're taking a bit of a break before the finals. So you still have time to get on down here and see all the action. There's playground equipment set up for the kids in case they get bored and that bouncy castle thing is here. You just knew that was going to find me again, didn't you?

"And there's food. I'm still looking for the barbecued ribs guy. I think maybe he made enough money off of me to retire. If anybody knows where he is, call in and let me know.

"We're also set up again right next to the bake sale table. What are the odds? We have the, uh, Ladies Auxilliary of the 17th Reconnaisance Battallion. These ladies are usually the mothers and the grandmothers, sometimes the aunts and great-aunts, of our boys and girls in uniform. They're doing their part to provide binoculars and cameras and whatever our brave soldiers need to do their reconnaisance. So come on down and do your part and put on a pound or two. Everybody who spends at least ten cocos or ten USD, your choice, at the bake sale gets a free Radio Fatatatutti bumper sticker. How's that for a deal?

"We're not going to try to call the action of the Dragon Boat races because, well, we can't actually see them from here. All we can see is girls in bikinis and pineapple upside-down cake. No, the girls aren't in pineapple upside-down cake - but that's quite an idea, isn't it? No, the pineapple upside-down cake is at the bake sale table. So we can't see the Dragon Boats, but who's complaining? We'll try to get you the results of the races tomorrow.

"wait, we have a call coming in. Hello, caller?"

Hello.

"Hello. Who's calling, please?"

Me.

"Can I have your name, please?"

No. It's mine.

"You can keep it. I just want to know what it is."

Okay.

"What's your name, please?"

Choo-Choo.

"Do I know you?"

Yes.

"I thought so. How are you doing, Choo-Choo?"

Good.

"That's good. Why are you calling?"

Because Daddy has ribs at his restaurant.

"He does? Who's your daddy?"

His name is 'Daddy' but some people call him 'Bruddah'.

"Bruddah? Is that the famous Bruddah?"

I don't know.

"You say he has ribs?"

Yes.

"Can you deliver?"

Okay.

"Can you deliver to our booth at the beach?"

Okay.

"Well, thank you. I'd really appreciate that."

You're welcome.

"Thanks for calling, Choo-Choo."

You're welcome.

"Goodbye, Choo-Choo."

Goodbye.

"Well, that was little Choo-Choo. You might remember her. She's called in before. She's about eight years old, I think. She says she's sending some ribs down, so... I don't know if we should hold our breaths waiting. But you never know, do you?

"Right now, I'm going over to get an appetizer from the ladies next door, so I'll put some ukulele music on and you can strum along. Don't go away."

"We're back, Radio Fatatatutti, coming to you from the Dragon Boat festival, which is part of the National Luau Festival.

"We have some excitement here. There's a taxi, is it a taxi? It looks like a taxi - it has a surfboard strapped to the roof. It's stopping right here at our booth. Did anybody call for a taxi?

"Wait... is it? Can it be? There's a little girl getting out of the taxi. She has a big bag.... Could it be? I think it is.... She's coming over to our booth. That bag is almost as big as she is. I hope it's what I think it is.

"Hello, sweetheart. Is that what I think it is?"

"It's ribs."

"It is. Here, let me give you a hand with that. Whoa, that's heavy. So you must be Choo-Choo."

"Yes."

"It's nice to meet you in person."

"Thank you."

"Hey, is Kelly Kamehameha your sister?"

"Yes."

"I've talked to her too, on the radio. It's a small world, isn't it?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it must seem pretty big to you. You're eight years old, aren't you? I thought you'd be bigger."

"Mama says I drink too much coffee."

"Well, that explains it then. I didn't start drinking coffee till I was nine."

"Twenty-two dollars. Or cocos. Your choice."

"Ah yes, of course. It smells good. Here you go. Keep the change. Do you have to pay the taxi?"

"It's not a taxi. It's my brother's Mister Bishi."

"I thought it looked like a Mister Bishi. Half the cars in Fatatatutti are named Mister Bishi. It must be confusing."

"We always park in the same place."

"That's a good idea. Does your brother want to come and talk on the radio?"

"No. We're going surfing."

"Okay. I won't keep you then. Thanks for the ribs."

"You're welcome."

"They sure smell good. I'm going to dig in right now. There she goes, little Choo-Choo Kamehameha. She delivered my ribs. How do you like that? That little girl is going to go a long way."

Marie-Louise sat cross-legged on the beach, watching the surf roll in. Not far away, she could hear the music and the occasional ripple of laughter. The cool breeze felt good on her bare skin. Out of the corner of her eye, she could just see the last of the setting sun. She wondered when the moon was due to rise and then she remembered that she didn't need to know.

It was good to be home, away from the roar of engines and the babble of brainless people. She resolved to stay away from any more government missions for a while. Foreigners were just too frustrating. It was good to be home, where people were normal.

She sensed movement behind her. It was gratifying to notice that she didn't react like a soldier. Instinctive behaviour can save your life in the field but it can ruin your life at home.

It was Kat, Sam's girlfriend. She sat down on the sand and looked sideways at Marie-Louise. "Are you coming back to the party?"

Marie-Louise nodded. "Are you going to hula?"

Kat smiled her crooked little smile. "You know I wouldn't miss my chance. You?"

"I don't know. My heart isn't in it."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Marie-Louise hesitated. "After everything I've seen out in the world, sometimes I feel guilty about having so much here."

"No need to feel guilty. Most of the world could have what we have if they learned to be content. But they don't listen. They're too busy trying to grab what the other guy has."

Marie-Louise nodded. "Very profound."

Kat grinned and slapped Marie-Louise's knee with the back of her hand. "Come on. I'm dancing with Choo-Choo. You can join us and we'll be the Three Stooges."

"More like the Three Ironing Boards. You know what Choo-Choo says, it's always the girls with the boobies that win."

Kat laughed. "You don't dance to win. You dance to dance."

Marie-Louise got up. "Okay then, let's go before I have a chance to change my mind." They walked back toward the trees, hand in hand.

The little fleet slipped into Fatatatutti harbour without fanfare and dropped their anchors. The Oil Creek, with its helicopter and floatplane and the Juan de la Cierva with its heavy-lifter Skycrane helicopter were the 'carrier group' currently leased to Standard Oil of Fatatatutti. The Devonian Challenger carried two drill rigs and all the trucks and accessories needed to run them, also leased to SOF.

Sean McAleskie stood looking out the window of his modest office. Though he couldn't see the harbour, he knew his ships were home.

Great-grandpa McAleskie had married into a native Fatatatutian family and learned dugout canoe building from them. With the skills he acquired, he soon developed a thriving wood-boat repair business that served the visiting whalers. The following generations had evolved McAleskie's into one of the major shipyards in Fatatatutti. Sean and his twin sister Siobhan still owned the little wood-boat yard and it still made money but the bulk of their business today was in repairing, refitting and converting iron ships.

The Cierva had been converted from an ordinary freighter, with its aft cargo masts replaced by a wooden flight deck and fuel tanks in the holds. The Oil Creek had a catapult added over the bow for its seaplane and a small helipad and hangar aft. All the conversions had been done in the yard that Sean was looking down on.

He looked again at the card in his hand, 'Harmony Chang - Juggler'. Then he went over to his desk and touched the intercom button. "Send her in." He went to the door to meet her. "Harmony. It's been a long time."

Harmony smiled. "It's good to see you. They say I missed Siobhan."

"Yeah. She's up at the old folks' country place for the Festival." Siobhan was the Chief Engineer at McAleskie's. She did the hard part while Sean handled the business end.

Harmony had been to the 'country place', so she knew it was just a simple wooden house, not the luxurious villa that some people associated with the term. The McAleskies were what passed for 'big business' in Fatatatutti but they were still Fatatatutians and Fatatatutians have simple tastes. "I don't want to take up too much of your time with reminiscing," she said. "I'm actually here on business."

"Sit down."

"Why don't you come up to my pop's place tonight? He'd be glad to see you. He's barbecusing beef."

"Beef? During Luau Week? Only your father could get away with such blasphemy."

Harmony laughed. "He has some old buddies down at the Kalikimaka Ranch. They send him a big slab of beef every Luau Week. I don't know if it's some old joke or if they're trying to get a foothold in the market."

"Beef sounds good for a change," Sean said. "I'll see if I can make it. Now, what kind of business can I expect from a juggler?"

Harmony smiled. "Okay... there's no money in place yet, so I wouldn't expect you to get too serious, but I want to convert two ships for a start, and if they're successful, maybe more. One would be a hospital ship. The other would be a helicopter carrier, with air ambulances to ferry patients back and forth from hospital ship to shore."

Sean put his finger tips together and nodded thoughtfully. "We've done a helicopter carrier before. She's in the harbour right now. Maybe you'd like to go down and have a look at her one of these days."

"That might be a good idea. I'll call you and we can arrage a time."

"But a hospital ship. We'd have to do some research into that. The building of it wouldn't be anything major but the equipment...."

"Like I said, I wouldn't expect you to lay out any money."

He waved his hand. "Any research is an investment. You never know when somebody's going to order a hospital ship." His forehead wrinkled slightly. "So, what do you need a hospital ship for? Planning on going to war, are you?"

Harmony smiled. "It's for disaster relief."

"Ah, now that would make more sense."

"We're so far away from everything. We've only been able to fly in supplies and field hospitals and so on. In a major disaster, a proper hospital and air ambulance would be invaluable."

Sean nodded thoughtfully. "So, a first-class hospital... and fast, too, to get there before it's too late. Any thoughts on budget constraints?"

"I have no idea. That's why I came to somebody I can trust. But just between you and me, I'm looking at a billion dollars for the whole project, over several years, of course. That's for building and operating the ships. Once they're in place, I think ongoing funding won't be much of a problem."

Sean continued to nod thoughtfully. "Well, I can build your two ships for under a billion. I can't speak for the cost of hospital equipment." He sat up and looked at her. "So, Miss Silver-spoon-in-the-mouth, how does a juggler raise a billion dollars? And you, who could barely get a passing grade in mathematics."

"I still have some influence in the government."

"Ah yes. I seem to recall a certain cabinet minister named Chang a while back. Defense, wasn't it?"

"And Transport."

"Ah yes, Transport. Well, then, if it's government money we're talking about, it's a bottomless well, isn't it?"

"Hey, I came to you because I knew I could trust you not to pad the budget."

"And so you can. After all, It's for poor disaster-ridden foreigners, isn't it? It wouldn't do to take advantage of them, would it now? Bad karma all round."

"I'll leave it with you, then. Come around tonight and maybe we can talk about it again between the poi and the pineapple."

"All right." He got up to escort her to the door. "I'll be there with bells on. And as soon as big sister gets back, I'll put her on the case."

"Thanks, Sean. I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight it is."

Harmony Chang put her arm around her brother's waist and watched their father turning the steaks. "Sean McAleskie might be coming," she said, casually.

"There's plenty of food," her father said, smiling as always. There was always plenty of food. If Sean brought two friends and they each brought two friends, there would still be plenty of food.

"Is Siobhan still up at their parents'?" Shoshone asked, looking down at his sister.

"Mm hm."

"We got another invitation from Noordeinde today," their father said, brushing a little more sauce on the steaks. "Some kind of state dinner. Feel like going back?"

"Not really," Harmony said, thoughtfully. "The last trip wasn't very productive. I don't see much point in wasting the people's money on a purely social occasion." Then her eyes smiled playfully. "Anyway, it's Shony's turn."

"No thanks," he laughed. "You two are the politicians in the family. I'm just a freak." He was wearing his usual tight jeans, rainbow T-shirt and leather jacket. His bleached-blond hair was spiked even higher than usual.

"Did you ever meet those people from Noordeinde?" Harmony asked.

"No...." There was a note of disappointment in her father's tone. "We keep missing each other."

"They're probably just having too much fun at the Luau Festival," Shoshone smiled. "They don't have time to hang out with the old folks."

"Hey. Have some respect," his father smiled even more broadly. He was glad that his children didn't need a stern father any more because he had never been good at that anyway. Now that they were grown up, he was glad to have them as friends.

"Are you ever going to get Archie to come up here for a visit?" Shoshone asked. Archie Kalikimaka was the one who had sent the steaks. Though he worked as a simple cowboy, often night-hawking, he was in fact a one-third owner of the vast Kalikimaka Ranch, which supplied practically all of Fatatatutti's beef.

"He won't leave the ranch," Mickey said with resignation. "Don't you think it's funny that we're up here during Luau Week, eating beef when we eat pork all year round. And he's down there eating pork when he eats beef all year long?"

"Hilarious," Shoshone said. "I bet that's why he sends you half a cow every year during Luau Week - for the hilarity."

Mickey smiled even more broadly.

"I'm going to go give mom a hand in the kichen." Shoshone peeled his sister's arm off his back. "Don't talk about me when I'm gone." He walked away across the grass.

"So, did you talk to Sean about your idea?" Mickey asked.

"That's why I went to see him."

"And here I thought you went to invite him to the party."

Harmony laughed.

"What does he think? Can he do it?"

"Yeah. The helicopter carrier he's not worried about. The hospital ship is going to take some research."

"I think it's a good idea - the ships."

"So do I. That's why I thought of it."

"I know. I'm proud of you."

Shoshone came out of the house with a huge platter of fruit and salads. "Aren't those steaks ready yet?" he called across the yard. "Are you trying to make shoes out of them?"

"Have some respect." Mickey smiled. "Have some respect."

"Radio Fatatatutti here again, at the National Luau Week celebration. We're at the sand-castle building contest today. It's all action here today. The shovels are flying. A dumptruck just went past. I don't know if that's strictly within the rules but we'll see what the judges have to say about that.

"One of our honorary judges here today is Mickey Chang, the Prime Minister of Fatatatutti. And another is the one-and-only General Castro-Stalina. She's getting a lot of attention, signing a lot of autographs. It isn't every day you get to see a paratroop general in a bikini.

"We saw out little friend Choo-Choo a while ago. She's building a sand-castle, so I guess we can't count on any deliveries from Bruddah's Place for a while. She had her pet duck with her, the great Alphonse, a really big name in the local duck community. I don't know how much help he is in sand-castle building, though. I think that might be outside his area of expertise.

"When Choo-Choo visited our booth a while ago, she said she was on her way to find a book about castles. Seems she's not quite sure what a castle is. She knows a thing or two about sand, though.

"We have some pretty impressive edifices going up around here. That one looks like a Gothic Cathedral. I'm not quite sure exactly what a Gothic Cathedral looks like, but if I ever see one, I'm guessing it's gonna look a lot like that.

"And we have a long, rambling Great-Wall-of-China kinda thing going on over there. And then there's a lot of regular, run-of-the-mill Sleeping Beauty castle type of things. The judges are going to have their work cut out for them. But they say that there's nothing a Fatatatutian soldier can't do. And the Prime Minister is a Communist, so there you go.

"The ice cream guys are doing a lot of business here today. It's a scorcher. I just had a Fatatatutti-frutti Surprise. I can't honestly say I was surprised, but it was pretty good. Come for the sand-castles, stay for the ice cream.

"We'll be bringing you the results of the contest later on. There are several categories. Children under twelve. Our friend Choo-Choo will be in that one. Teenagers, adults, senior citizens, professionals. I wonder if there's good money in professional sand-castle building. There's a People's Choice category, so get on down here and vote for your favourite. And it isn't too late to enter, in case your favourite is your own.

"A bunch of naked girls just went by. Hi, girls.

"Oh, I see. They're on their way to the Miss Nude Fatatatutti contest, right next door. I guess we can't cover that on the radio, can't do it justice anyway. It's not restricted to girls, but let's be realistic, guys.

"There goes that dumptruck again. Somebody seems to be using a whole lotta sand. I thought the whole beach was made of sand.

"Wait. Here comes General Castro-Stalina. Let's see if she'll have a word with us. I'm trying to wave her over. General? General? She sees me. She's coming this way. General? Hello, General.

"Hi. Call me Marie-Louise."

"All right, Marie-Louise. This is Radio Fatatatutti. Is there anything you'd like to say to our listeners all over Fatatatutti and all over the world?"

"I'd just like to tell everybody to have a great day. Enjoy your families and your friends, the weather, your freedom."

"Thank you, General, uh, Marie-Louise. I must say, it's good to see you out of uniform, uh, so to speak."

"Thank you. It's good to be out of uniform for a change. I'm sorry, but I have to go. I have a lot more sand-castles to look at. The Prime Minister is counting on me."

"We know we can always count on you, General, uh, Marie-Louise. Thanks for taking the time out to talk to us. Bye now."

"Bye."

"Ladies and gentlemen, General Castro-Stalina, or just Marie-Louise, the girl next door. She's mighty cute in that bikini, isn't she?

"We're going to go back up to the studio for a news break right now and I'm going to take a little break. Be sure to stay tuned for more of our coverage of National Luau Week."

Mickey Chang sat on a park bench, contentedly watching the ducks. A shadow fell across his feet and he looked up. "Mr. Waverly," he smiled.

"Prime Minister."

"Sit down. It's a lovely afternoon."

Waverly sat down and looked across the duck pond. "And all's right with the world? I expect not, or you wouldn't have called me."

Mickey smiled. "Astute as ever. And my apologies for taking you away from your grandchildren."

"Not necessary. As much as we love the little rascals, they can be somewhat wearing, can't they? An hour or two away will do me the world of good, and make me appreciate them more as well."

Mickey smiled but didn't answer.

"So? World coming to an end, is it?"

Mickey sensed by Waverly's sarcasm that he was less patient than he let on. "We had some people from Noordeinde here for the Luau Festival. My daughter invited them. They expressed a fairly strong desire to meet me in person - I can't imagine why. My son met them at the airport and then they disappeared - fell off the edge of the world, as my son would say."

"And you want me to find them?"

"They shouldn't be hard to spot. They had a fleet of armoured vehicles big enough to sink the island - my son's words again."

"I'll look for perturbations in the earth's magnetic field then, shall I?"

Mickey never knew when Waverly was joking. He suspected never. "It's not that I expect foul play or anything. If there was anything foul going on in Fatatatutti, we'd know about it, wouldn't we?"

Waverly didn't respond.

"But if you could put some feelers out, I'd appreciate it."

Waverly nodded. "It isn't such a big island - not that many places for a bunch of Noordeindians to hide." He stood up. "I'll get back to you as soon as I hear anything. Good afternoon, Prime Minister."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Waverly." Mickey watched a little girl feeding bread to the ducks.

Mickey Chang picked up the phone on the seventh ring. "Hello?"

"Prime Minister? Alexander Waverly."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Waverly."

"I'm pleased to inform you, Prime Minister, that the members of the Noordeinde delegation are safe and well in their hotel rooms."

"Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Waverly."

"Shall I keep my operative on their 'tail', as the television programs call it?"

"No. I don't think that will be necessary. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Not at all, Prime Minister."

"Thanks again. Enjoy the rest of your day."

"Your wish is my command, Prime Minister."

"Goodbye, Mr. Waverly."

"Goodbye, Prime Minister."

Mickey hung up the phone, smiling as always. If the intelligence chief's respect for the office of Prime Minister, or its present occupant, was less than absolute, that possibility was lost on Mickey Chang. He picked up his pen and continued to write.

Under-Secretary of State John Adams heard of one of his staff members that the Prime Minister was looking for them, but couldn't find them it seems to be he had time to receive them.

The Under-Secretary oredered the Secret Service agents which accompannied him to get the limo (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v205/MarkL/100_0895.jpg) in front of the hotel at the entrance so that they could go on their way to the General Department where normally the Prime Minister works.

April Liliuokalani was in the communications chair at FI6 that afternoon. She was barely seventeen and she would rather have been at the beach but it didn't pay as well. As summer jobs went, answering the phones at 'spy central' wasn't so bad.

"Superior Dry Cleaning," she said. She had learned with difficulty to speak in code without giggling.

"The windmill is turning," the voice on the phone said.

She had heard that voice earlier the same day. She had been told not to remember voices but she couldn't help it. "Thank you for the information," she said, briefly noting the time in her log. The caller hung up.

She remembered the voice but she had difficulty remembering who or what the 'windmill' was, so she looked it up on the Secret Decoder Wheel, which was what she called the daily list of codewords. Noordeinde.

Noordeinde? How can a country be moving? The earlier message had been, 'I am at the windmill,' which she had interpreted as, 'I am in Noordeinde.' But now Noordeinde was moving?

Reluctantly, she dialed Mr. Waverly's number again. Usually, he was nice enough, like an uncle, more like a great-uncle actually. But he had seemed annoyed earlier in the day and she didn't know if he was annoyed in general at being bothered on Saturday or just annoyed at being bothered about Noordeinde.

"Alexander Waverly."

"Mr. Waverly, it's me again, April Liliuokalani."

"Yes, my dear. I know who you are." Evidently, nobody had told him not to recognize voices.

"I have another message from, about the windmill. It's moving."

"I see. Thank you."

"I didn't know if I should bother you."

"It's all right, child. You're doing fine." Waverly hung up the phone. Nearly three weeks since Noordeinde had been in the country and not a word from them. Now he was hearing about every breath they took. He wondered if the Prime Minister would be interested and decided not. It's not such a big island, he reminded himself of his own words. If they wanted to find the Prime Minister, they would.

Afther 2 hours of standing in bussy traffic the secret service vehicles and the limo of the Under-Secretary arrived at the General Department of the Prime Minister.

They walked in fast because they just had an hour left and afther that the would leave Fatatatuti afther 3 great weeks.

All 3 weeks they traveled the country and met the Fatatatutti people, it was a great experience so far.

Sherwood Tunnicliffe didn't like working on Sundays. What were the odds that anybody would come in looking for the Prime Minister on Sunday? He was seldom here on weekdays.

Yet, as if deliberately to shatter his theory, here they were, bright and early on Sunday morning, apparently wanting to see the Prime Minister. They seemed oddly formal, as if they were on their way to church - or at least, they looked like he imagined people must look on their way to church. And they were clearly foreign.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he smiled. "What can I do for you on this fine day?"

"Goodmorning Sir, let me introduce myself, Under Secretary of State John Adams of The Grand Duchy of Noordeinde, I am here to see if it is possible to meet with the Prime Minister."

"Good morning, sir. My name is Sherwood Tunnicliffe. I'm, er, minding the store this moring. I'll just give the Prime Minister a call and let him know you're here, shall I? If you'd care to look around the reception area, you'll see some works of art by our local Fatatatutian artists."

He went behind the desk and dialed the Prime Minister's number. After several rings, there was an answer.

"Hello?"

"Prime Minister? It's Sherwood Tunnicliffe."

"Mr. Tunnicliffe, good morning. How are you today?"

"I'm fine, sir."

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Yes sir, it is. Sir? I have some gentlemen here from Noordeinde. They arrived in a motorcade that would be the envy of an armoured division. I don't see anything about them in the appointment book." The last part was a convenient fiction, since there was no appointment book.

"Noordeinde. Wonderful. I've been trying to meet with those gentlemen since they arrived. We seem to keep missing each other. Whatever you do, don't let them get away."

"No, sir." He wondered what he would do, personally, to stop the armoured convoy.

"Send them right over," the Prime Minister continued. "Have they had lunch yet?"

"I'll have to check on that, sir."

"Okay. I'll be expecting them."

"Very good, sir."

"Thank you for calling."

"You're very welcome, sir. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mr. Tunnicliffe."

Sherwood hung up the phone and heaved a sigh of relief. Talking to the Prime Minister was like talking to his kindly uncle, but it always made him nervous. He bent down to write the Prime Minister's address on a memo pad.

"Gentlemen?" He handed the address to Mr. Adams. "The Prime Minister would be pleased if you would join him for lunch at his residence. It's only a few minutes away. You shouldn't have any trouble finding it. Just ask around if you have to."

"Thank you Minster Tunnicliffe, it was verry nice to meet you, but if you excuse me now I'll go try to find the Prime Ministers residence." The Under-Secretary laughed.

Under-Secretary Adams stepped in his vehicle, the driver shut his door and stepped in himself and the convoy started moving.

It took them eventually 15 minutes to reach the Prime Ministers Residence due the heavy traffic in town, but they finnaly reached it.

The Under-Secretary stepped out his vehicle and walked towards the door, where he rang the bell.

Mickey Chang opened the door. He was wearing sandals, shorts and a shirt with bright red flowers. "Gentlemen. Welcome. I hope you didn't have any trouble finding the place. My name is Mickey Chang. For the moment, I'm the Prime Minister of Fatatatutti."

"Hello Mickey, Mister Prime Minister, didn't I met you at the airport? And no we didn't have a big problem finding your fathers residence, we are only a bit late due the heavy traffic here in town."

"You flatter me," Mickey smiled. "You met my son Shoshone at the airport. Won't you come through to the back yard?"

He led them through the darkened house, the shades drawn in anticipation of a hot day. "I'm sorry about the traffic. It is Luau Week, after all. But it should quiet down in another week or so. Then we're just another sleepy island until Extra Christmas."

He led them out onto the patio, where food was laid out on the table. "Have you eaten yet? Breakfast or lunch? Meals tend to run together in Fatatatutti, especially on weekends. Some claim that we invented brunch but some others would argue the point. We have fruit. My wife gets it from the local farmers' market. I'm afraid my wife can't be with us today. She's at a bake sale, supporting the troops, you know. There's some bacon and eggs in the chafing dish. The coffee is fresh. I just put it on when I heard you were coming. Please dig in."

The back yard was large but private, surrounded by shrubbery and shaded by tall trees. "I was just watering the flowers when the doorbell rang," Mickey said. "It's been quite dry lately."

"we would love to have something to eat, and thank you for the offer afcourse. I must say I have been here now for several weeks, I met lots of people while touring across the country and I really started to love this country."

"And well to bad your wife isn't here, but what she does is great, I know myself out of my time in the militairy how important such support is."

"I'm glad you had a chance to tour the country. I hope you found it interesting." Mickey watched with his hands in his pockets as they perused the table. "We have a saying that it's not a very big island. By that, we mean mostly that there are no strangers. We have six billion people, so it's hard to know who might be a relative or a friend of a friend. We try to treat everybody like a member of the family.

"Geographically, of course it is quite a large island - nearly eight million square kilometers, I think. The coastal areas around here, you've seen, of course. They're much the same all around the island, although the local culture varies somewhat. The highlands in the interior are a bit different. It's drier, different vegetation and so on. And then in the southwest, we even have some grasslands.

"Do try the papayas. They're rather good. Can I get you anything else? I could make some toast...."

"I would love to taste some papayas, I heard good stories about the Fatatatutti Papaya. It seems to be that everyone in the country likes them" John Adams laughed.

"We Fatatatutians have simple tastes," Mickey smiled. "But when you have all the benefits of a tropical paradise, who needs sophistication?

"Did you get a chance to try any of our local restaurants? Bruddah's is one of the best-known. It's owned by a friend of mine - and not just a friend in the traditional Fatatatutian sense but a real personal friend. He used to be our cultural ambassador to a place called the Unity of Archipelagoes.

"Bruddah puts on a fine luau, not just during the festival but all year round. It's one of the few luaus where you can get roast pig, poi, lasagna and perogies all in the same meal. Like most Fatatatutians, Bruddah comes from a diverse cultural background. His grannies and aunties taught him how to cook dishes from all around the world."

"Well no...to bad that we missed that place. But we had 3 great weeks here, we really tasted the way of Fatatatutti live, and ofcourse the food here, it really tasted delicious. But if he is in the area I woudld still like to meet him."

"Bruddah's Place isn't far at all. In fact, if you go straight down the street and turn right at the main road, you'll pass right by it on your way back downtown. It's kind of hidden away in the trees and the sign isn't very big but just follow all the cars that are turning in.

"I have to warn you, he will feed you, even if you just ate five minutes ago." Mickey smiled even more broadly. "They say you can't visit Fatatatutti without putting on a pound or two. I hope your aircraft can handle the extra weight."

"haha I guess that won't be a problem, to bad I can't visit him, this is our last official visit within Fatatatutti, so afther this great brunch were going back to the airport and fly back to Noordeinde, but I'll keep it in mind for another time."

"You're always welcome in Fatatatutti. Come again when you can stay longer," Mickey smiled. "I can't promise that I'll still be Prime Minister. The voters must be respected, you know. Even when they don't vote for me, they must be right.

"But now you know where I live. Drop by any time. There's almost always somebody home.

"Maybe next time we can go fishing. Do you like fishing?"

"It would be great to go out fishing, but we should do that indeed if we had more time." The Personnal Assistent of Under Secretary John Adams whispered something in his ear.

"Well I just heard it's time to leave otherwise I would miss the scheduled flight, so I guess it's time to say Goodbye."

"I'm so glad we could finally get together," Mickey smiled. "Have a good trip home and come back any time."

"we will surtenly do sir, and thank you so much for receiving us at your home." The Prime Minister and Under Secretary shaked hands and Under Secretary Adams stepped into his vehicle afhter that."

John Adams waved a last time to the Prime Minister and the convoy started to move, within an hour they were at the airport where the Under-Secretary could step into his plane immedialty afther arriving at the airport, the plane became airborn.

Their was only one thing going on in John Adams head while the plane climbed to cruise altitude.

"Wow what a great time I had in Fatatatutti, I'm surtenly going back ones when I have time..."

Marie-Louise woke up conscious of having had at least enough coconut wine the night before. There was a joke about the coconut hitting you on the head instead of trickling down your throat, but she couldn't remember it.

Then the old man of the sea was standing over her. A personal friend of Poseidon, he had taught Davy Jones how to tie his knots, a thousand years old if he was a day....

Or close to seventy, by her best guesstimate. It was Duncan, the manager - and for all she knew, the owner - of the marina where she tied up the Pom Pom Galli, the seven-meter sailboat that she called home.

She was used to sleeping in the cockpit when it was too stuffy below and she was used to seeing Duncan on his morning rounds, making sure that none of the boats in his care had slipped its moorings or caught on fire. "What time is it?" she asked, sleepily.

"Daylight," he said, "and there's only so much of it." That was his kindly way of telling her that she was wasting her life.

She was also used to sleeping naked and she was used to his reaction - or lack of it. She was aware that, from certain angles, she looked like a twelve-year-old boy. Sometimes, she was mildly annoyed at not provoking more of a reaction from men, but this wasn't one of these times.

"Comin' up to the shack for tea?" he asked.

"Give me ten," she mumbled.

"Just enough time for the kettle to boil," she smiled and turned away.

Marie-Louise could hear the creaking of the maze of floating docks as he walked away. She was tempted to go back to sleep but she knew that Duncan would tolerate no tardiness. He didn't wear a watch but his internal clock was uncannily accurate.

There was a good reason why she didn't get up early. The shower, which was little more than a water-bag hanging from the mast, was heated by the sun - and even at this hour, it was barely warm. It woke her up though, and it stiffened her nipples. But there were few around to watch her morning ritual and even fewer who were interested. She went below to find some clothes.

-------------

Duncan's 'shack', as he affectionately called it, was in fact a neat little houseboat that he had built himself from the keel up. Inside, every available space was occupied by his woodcarvings, little people, scenes from the Bible and from story books. On one wall, there was Noah's ark with dozens of animals, Noah and his little family, and a steam engine. On another wall was 'Main Street', though he had never in his life seen such a place with people bustling to and fro, going about their business. He had always lived by the water where it was quiet. Along another wall was the 'Park', with a bandstand and a fountain and little picnickers and a little wedding. She remembered him talking about being married once, long ago.

She walked past the window and paused in the open doorway just long enough to be polite.

He was eating toast with one hand and pouring her tea with the other. He pointed to the only other chair in the room with the teapot.

She sat down and plumped a sugar cube - of which he disapproved but always had for her anyway - into her tea. She stirred absently.

"Heard you on the radio this morning," he said. "Toast?"

She shook her head.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, they say." Duncan had a habit of adding 'they say' to the end of most sentences, even though he seemed to put little stock in what other people said.

Not when you just ate half a pig a couple of hours ago, she thought.

"Hear you're goin' on a trip," he said, buttering more toast.

She nodded.

"Gettin' that noisy thing outa here for a while."

She knew he didn't like her motorbike, even though it wasn't that noisy and it only left and came back once a day, usually. She suspected that he would miss her, miss their morning tea together at least, and was covering up by pretending to be gruff.

"Where ye headed?"

"Up into the hills, nowhere in particular." She knew he didn't approve of aimless ramblings either.

For a Fatatatutian, he had an odd work ethic. You'd never see him doing nothing. He was always helping somebody fix their boat, or tacking a new board on to the rickety docks, or more often, wiring something back together. And when there was nothing 'useful' to do, he'd drag his chair out onto the dock and sit there whittling, the chips going in the water where he didn't have to sweep them up.

Once he had confessed to her that he felt guilty about carving the 'silly' little things.

She sipped her tea.

"I'll watch your boat for ye," he said.

She nodded and said, "Thanks," even though that was what she paid him to do.

"How long will ye be gone?"

She shook her head. "Dunno. Couple of weeks, maybe." It occured to her that she was starting to talk like him when she was with him. "I'll send you a postcard." She knew that his son had been in the Navy and had sent him postcards from all over the world. He still loved receiving postcards, even if they only had a lowly Fatatatutian stamp on them.

"When ye leavin'?"

"Tomorrow. Next day." Since leaving the Army, she rather enjoyed living on Fatatatutian time. As commander of the fabled 'Tuesday' Division, she was used to being punctual. When you said you'd be there on Tuesday, you'd be there on Tuesday. Usually, somebody's life depended on it. But she had no trouble adjusting to civilian life or Fatatatutian time. When you said you'd be there on Tuesday, it could be any Tuesday, or any other day. It only meant that you intended to be there, eventually.

"I'm going to a luau tonight," she said. "You should come." She knew he wouldn't.

"Nighttime is for sleepin'," was all he said. He had a kerosene lamp, but he lost more kerosene to evaporation than to burning, she reckoned.

"I'm going into town in a bit," she said, still trying to be helpful. "Need anything from the hardware store?"

He hesitated, thoughtfully. "I could use an Orange Squash," he said, finally. He reached into his pocket.

"Never mind. It's on me," she said, "in return for the tea."

"Ye could drink a barrel o' tea for what an Orange Squash costs," he protested. He left the marina so seldom that he didn't seem aware of the different kinds of shops where Orange 'Squash' was available, yet he seemed to be aware of the cost.

"Then I guess I'll have to come back for more tea," she said. "When I get back," she added.

"I guess so, missy. I guess so."

Marie-Louise had made a point of drinking nothing but fruit juice at the luau. She wanted a clear head in the morning, if not necessarily an early start.

She had danced in the hula contest - topless, and almost bottomless too, since they don't make grass-skirt strings the way they used to. She wondered sometimes, with amusement, what other countries would think of their top generals dancing in a hula contest. But she was Fatatatutian, after all, and in Fatatatutti the ability to hula looks good on any resume - just be prepared to prove it at the interview.

She had planned to leave early but without a watch, that was easier said than done. The height of rudeness at a Fatatatutian party is to leave before the food is gone, so a half-naked general is much more acceptable than one who goes AWOL.

So it was late when she woke up - a coconut headache would have woken her earlier. By the height of the sun, it appeared that Duncan had already given up on her attendance at tea.

The shower was warm already, another way to gauge the lateness of the day. She resolved to take it with her. Folded up, it would fit nicely into her saddlebags, along with clean underwear and a pair of jeans for formal occasions.

She looked in the direction of the city, beyond the trees on the far side of the cove, and said her silent goodbyes. This would be the end of Luau Week for her.

Samantha Smith leaned on the railing of the footbridge, watching the ducks swim past below. A large man in sandals, shorts, sunglasses and a pink-flowered shirt came along the bridge toward her and it shook slightly with his steps. He stopped and leaned on the rail beside her, almost touching her. She half expected the rail to snap off and dump them both into the water.

"Nice rack," he said, staring straight ahead.

She smiled and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. "You watch too many movies."

"If you're going to act like a spy, then you can expect to be treated like you're in a movie."

"Well, I am a spy. But I only asked you to meet me here because I have to meet somebody else here in a few minutes."

"So, what can your Bruddah do for you in the next few minutes?"

"I need to plan a luau."

"You don't 'plan' a luau, sistah. A luau just happens."

"Okay, I need a luau to 'just happen' tonight, then."

"You don't need to make a reservation at Bruddah's. You know that."

"It's for eighty-seven people, more or less."

"Ah... well, that might need a little boost to make it 'just happen', even at Bruddah's."

"Can you do it?"

"Of course. Nobody ever goes hangry at Bruddah's. I can't promise one whole pig for just your eighty-seven, but I can make some calls."

"Thanks. I'd appreciate that."

"So, did your eighty-seven friends just drop onto the planet today, that they don't know about National Luau Week until it's almost over?"

"Something like that. They're from New Verona."

"New what? Never heard of it."

"The man knows three hundred ways to cook a pig but he doesn't know there's any geography outside Fatatatutti."

"What do I need to know outside Fatatatutti when I'm inside Fatatatutti? The foreigners come to me. I don't go to them."

"They're not foreigners. They're Fatatatutians who were living in New Verona."

"So they finally came to their senses and came home?"

"Behave. There's some kind of drug war going on over there and the police seem determined to make it worse instead of better. So I *ahem* helped some of our people escape."

He nodded thoughtfully. "So, they're not the smartest of all Fatatatutians, since they were living off-island, but they're not the dumbest either because they're coming home."

"They don't have to be smart to go to a luau. They just have to be hungry."

"I can't argue with that, sistah."

"So sixish?"

"Done."

They turned to face each other and gave each other a bone-crushing hug - though it was hard to tell whose bones were crushed more.

Sam kissed him on the neck because that was as high as she could reach. She watched as he walked away across the bridge, still shaking it slightly but fairly light on his feet for such a big man. He had been a champion soccer player in younger days, as she recalled.

When she turned back toward the rail, Alexander Waverly was already standing there, waiting for her.

It looked like any school bus, except that it was purple. It had 'Bus' painted on the side to avoid confusion. Samantha Smith stood with her hands on her hips, staring vacantly at the door as it swung upen.

"Good aftanoon, dahlin'," Ackroyd Higgins smiled with even more teeth than usual. "Is dat you, Sammy?"

"You driving a bus, Ack? Did your car finally get so full of junk that there was no room for passengers?"

"No, dahlin'. De cah is in de shop. Somet'ing fell off an' I t'ink it was impahtant."

"I know the feeling." Sam stepped up and the door closed behind her.

"Jess between you an' me, dis is not a real city bus," he said, glancing in the rearview mirror at the other passengers. "It's a gypsy bus."

"I never would have guessed."

"Whea to? I have to make a stop down by de beach, but den I'm headin' back to town, unless you wanna go somewhea else."

"Downtown is fine." Sam took another step up and sat down in the first seat.

"You not workin' today? Gov'mint workers, lazy bahstards." He smiled even more broadly. "No offense."

"None taken. So, did you steal the bus from blind children or what?"

"Doan be silly. Bline chillen can't drive. What dey need a bus fo'? No. I borrowed it from my bruddah-in-law."

Sam smiled. 'Borrowed' was a Fatatatutian euphemism for 'nobody was there to stop you from taking it' and 'bruddah-in-law' was anybody you were related to by virtue of being human. But she had borrowed a thing or two in her time, too. "Are you making any money?" she asked. He hadn't asked her for any and she wasn't about to remind him because she didn't have any.

"It ain' about de money, dahlin'. It's about de public service."

Only in Fatatatutti would stealing a bus to drive people around for free be considered a public service, Sam thought.

Ackroyd stopped the bus and looked in the rearview mirror. "Is dis close enough, sistah? On'y, I can drive up on de sidewalk if you wan'."

"Thank you." A large older woman got out of her seat and festooned herself with packages and bags, then came rustling and jostling up the aisle.

"Can I help you wit' dat?" Ackroyd asked as she stepped down to the curb.

"Thank you," the woman said again as she moved off down the street.

"Nice lady," Ackroyd said. "I t'ink she my granmuddah's fren's neighbuh."

"I didn't know your grandmother lived in Fatatatutti."

"She doan, but her fren do." He put the bus into gear again. "You nevah said whea you goin'."

"I'm not going anywhere in particular. I just got back into town and I'm hoping to relax for a few days."

"Soun' like a plan. You wanna come to my place fo' suppah tonight? We havin' de lass luau of de season."

"Sure. Why not? I haven't been to a luau since last night."

"Big t'ing?"

"Just eighty-seven people that I brought home from New Verona."

"You bin to New Verona? Dat's right close to whea I come from."

"I know."

"Did you go see my granmuddah?"

"No."

"She be mad you didden come see huh."

Sam had never met Ackroyd's grandmother in her life. It was both amusing and comforting to know that there was somebody she didn't know on the far side of the world who would be glad to see her.

"You need to go home an' change, or anyt'ing?" he asked.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she asked, pretending to be offended and knowing that she wasn't succeeding.

"Not a dam t'ing. I jess t'ought you might wanna get you own coconut shells or somet'ing."

Sam smiled. "I guess I'll just have to do without coconut shells."

I guess so," he agreed. "I guess so."