Another blisteringly hot day – I am always up at first light, to enjoy the coolest part of the day. Indeed, Maria had been commenting rather sourly that I am the type who gets up at six no matter what the time is. Certainly it is quiet then in the Hoele’toemi household, and I can stroll over to talk quietly with Helen without much fear of being overheard.

            Helen was busily writing when I arrived: she has started keeping a diary of her own, though in plain text.  She says she will not be recording anything in it that will get her lost in one of those “tragic swimming accidents” that we see half a dozen of a year reported in the local papers. The minor staff of Embassies such as Cultural Attaches seem to be particularly prone to getting caught in undertows on deserted stretches of beach. That sort of information, she firmly says she will be leaving to me, adding that Lexarc shorthand is not a secure code if my old teacher has her attempts to popularise it sitting in remaindered book stalls around the world. It only takes one failure to really get us in trouble - rather like our Precautions, really.

            Anyway, we are dutifully following our orders and keeping an eye on the competing scientists – Professor Kurt has been given a compound just on the far side of the stream from his rival, which should make for some keen competition. I expect that danger signs might be one or more of them withdrawing his money from the local bank and quietly purchasing tickets – just the sort of thing we hope to be poised to spot.

            We managed to “shadow” Doctor Maranowski fairly well all morning, though there is nothing sinister to report. Indeed – far from heading out on the nearest flight, he recoiled quite violently from the sight of one of the holiday posters outside the Shawnee Pacific Airpaths booking office. Neue Suden Thule looks a perfectly respectable place to me, and the prospect of skiing and sledding is surely as exotic in this climate as a tropical beach must be at home. Spontoon has most sports, but I imagine their bobsleigh team must need to travel an awful long way to practice.

            Our quarry had vanished indoors for lunch at “Gefilte Fish a Go-Go” when we noticed we were being followed ourselves. A familiar figure though, and nothing sinister about her – I recognised Buko, one of Ada Cronstein’s friends, a slender brown-furred equine girl originally from the Fillyppines. She waved us over, and asked if we had heard from Ada, who is back home in Sealth City as far as we know.

            We had to disappoint her, but promised we would call at Songmark and see if there was any post arrived for her – and if we could forward it. I believe the compound is locked up right now except for the guard dogs and whoever feeds them. I hope someone does remember to feed them.

            Buko seemed fairly resigned, and invited us over for lunch – an offer we had to decline today, but hope to take her up on later. She seems very interested in my having been to a classic Public School, which she assures me she has heard a lot about. One supposes that, like the idea of a snow and ice holiday in Neue Suden Thule, from here it seems an excitingly exotic idea.

August 6th, 1935

Quite a sight! Today we gave ourselves a morning off, as it would not do to be noticed all the time following the tails of our inventive pair. Of course, seeing another SIRA competition added further temptation, and by ten o’clock we were back on our former perch at the Northern tip of Eastern Island with binoculars and a picnic basket. Despite being burned over not a month ago, the plants are already shooting up with marvellous speed, with all this sun and rain (more sun than rain today, thankfully.)

            Thankfully there were no unpleasant shocks today – there was a parachuting display showing the latest types, some of which are slightly steerable. According to Radio LONO, the two winners were a Vostok “barnstormer” hedgehog called Mikhail Mikhalovich and a young German direwolf, Otto Scorzonera. Helen says she was rooting for the German, but the Vostok competitor won on points.

            With our field glasses we can spot more tour boats coming in – no doubt the hotel staff are rubbing their paws with glee. And no doubt the problems will get a little worse – picking our way along Pebble Beach yesterday we had a few unpleasant surprises despite the harassed efforts of the beach patrol.

            Still, we returned to Casino Island for lunch, and met up with Buko as arranged. An interesting luncheon! She showed us over to a café tucked away behind one of the big hotels, though we have passed it several times without really noticing – other cafes have far gaudier signs to attract the passing trade.

            It was quite a nice place, tastefully furnished – and Buko had about a dozen of her friends in there to meet us, several of whom I recognised from the all-girl swimming and volleyball clubs. Indeed, there was not a gentleman to be seen in the place. We had a very elegant repast, and quite a long talk. I found myself quite the centre of attention, though Helen seemed rather ill at ease as the ladies gathered around within close scent range, complementing us very warmly on our athletic triumphs and very hard-trained figures.

            I fear I had to disappoint Buko about life at St. Winifred’s – I’m sure I don’t know what sort of stories she reads, but they must involve a lot of wishful thinking. From the questions she was eagerly asking, she seemed to think it was something like a mutual harem, plus hockey. She was right about the hockey, at least.

            Helen suddenly announced we had an urgent appointment elsewhere, and all but hauled me out by the tail. Honestly – it was hardly as if we were liable to be dragged off, and Buko had spotted my “Tailfast” locket anyway. Still – now we know where to look for Prudence and co. if ever they go absent without leave next term.

            A very different evening – Helen and I are now in the small “guest” longhouse, though Moeli comes over most evenings. She announced that she would be meeting her husband and children tonight, and invited us to join her. No question of us refusing!

            Even at sunset Haio Beach was quite busy with tourists out for a relatively cool evening stroll, but we pressed on into the jungle heading West, past the remains of the Forsstman giant triplane and past it to the very far corner, the southern “fish-hook” of South Island where the coast curves round to look back again at Haio Beach. It was quite deserted, being a long way from the last concession stall, and we could have seen anyone approaching several hundred yards off on the beach.

            Moeli walked out into the water just as the sun was on the horizon, and when she was waist-deep she began to hit the water, much like we had seen Beryl do in our hide and seek tests last term but in a definite rhythm. Helen murmured that Beryl had almost broken her eardrums at close range, and the sound should certainly carry a distance underwater. She repeated the “song” twice, and we waited while the last of the sun slipped away.

            What happened next happened very suddenly – one second we three were standing waist-deep in empty waters, and the next a dozen swimmers surfaced all around us! We recognised her husband [   ] and then a native girl with three youngsters in tow broke surface – two of them Moeli’s, I discovered later. The Natives of No Island speak Spontoonie, with a rather odd accent – possibly the original Polynesian dialect from before the resettlement a century or so ago.

            We were invited for a swim, which proved to be quite an experience. It was still light enough to see perfectly well, and the whole shoal of us headed out towards the Western side well away from any possible tourists. Still – at that range and in that light, even with field-glasses one would only really make out thirty swimmers – the occasional flash of their distinctive tail-ends above water would be hard to be sure of unless one knew what to look for.

            Although naturally they can carry very little with them, the youngsters had a ball that they played with constantly. I tried to play catch with them – and discovered I had no chance at all. It was like being Missy K in a hundred-yard hurdles race: they were that much faster that I could scarcely believe it. Without nets or equipment, they have the reflexes that could grab fish right out of a fast-moving school in the open water. Very impressive.

            Of that particular tribe, some were seal and the rest feline types, with very sleek fur that absolutely gleamed like silver in the last of the light. Like the Priestesses of the local religion, they seemed to have no trouble seeing in the dim light – though Helen and myself had to head for the beach after an hour, while we could still find our way back. Moeli stayed on, and we are not expecting her back very soon.

            A fascinating experience – and Helen seems very impressed with several of the gentlemen, as best we can see them. It maybe that Marti may have some competition in future.

            Back to our longhouse, stopping off at Haio Beach for a snack. There are really two sorts of snack bars around the tourist areas – those that serve Popatohi, roasted fish and other local specialities (quite cheaply, considering) and those that serve hot-dogs and chips etc. with made-up Native names. Sad to say, we were the only customers for the Popatohi stall – the party of tourists at the hot-dog stall next to us were loudly complaining about the heat and the wild jungle, and speculating with a shiver about all sorts of lethal snakes and spiders. Hearing these islands unfavourably compared to Boise, Idaho is more than somewhat irritating to us – happily for the Tourist Board, Helen’s rather anatomical comment was in Spontoonie.

August 7th, 1935

Back to work on our “case” – a momentous day for Dr. Maranowski’s project, the filling of the first fermenting tank with vegetable wastes. For a change he was quite conversational, explaining how the raw wastes enter through his gas-tight patented U-bend system. Charming. At least there was nothing obnoxious about the raw material he is testing it with – every year or so all the thatched Native huts repair or renew their thatch, and there should be a good steady supply to supplement the more noxious drainings the plant is meant to handle.

            Just across the brook to the East, there was furious activity as Professor Kurt had twenty workmen putting together his rival project. Having exhausted our welcome elsewhere, we crossed the brook to talk to him – a most charming wolf, we are both agreed. He explained that he had worked on the idea back in his home Reich, where the government are very keen on the Land and the Earth (he did indeed speak in capitals.) His Uncle, Count Franz Von Mecklenburg Und Strelitz aber nicht Schwerin, has a similar model on his estates producing twenty kilowatts of power in a far less favourable climate.

            Professor Kurt’s ether turbine design depends on having a radiator and a condenser, preferably cooled by deep ocean water. He tells us he will have to wait for a full-scale model to get a working pipeline, until which he is diverting some of the stream. I am a bit dubious about the array of ex-hotel cast iron radiators his workmen are installing in the cooling tank – they look as if they have had a long and exhausting first career, though of course this pilot plant is only a temporary structure. If any of the ether vapour gets out, it may prove more temporary than he expects.

            After work tomorrow, Professor Kurt has invited us to another meeting organised by the Friends of German Opera – more accurately an evening of beer and song at Lingenthal’s, lederhosen strictly optional. Of course we would not attend such an affair for fun, but we have a job to do and I feel sure Mr. Sapohatan would want us to use every opportunity to gather information.

            Helen says she has known several German-style saloons in Texas, and they tend to be rowdy – hardly the sort of sophisticated entertainment the tourist brochures describe for Casino Island. Still, sophistication is something one can have too much of – I recall over in Barsetshire that old rustic sports such as stand-up shin kicking contests are still as popular as ever – though folk have occasionally tried to cheat by bringing in innovations such as molybdenum steel boots rather than the classic iron-shod ones.
 

August 8th, 1935

A fine morning on South Island, made more interesting by the arrival of Beryl. I keep expecting her to show up in rags with tearful tales of how she was fleeced out of everything she has – but then, she is a graduate of Saint T’s, and has had a rather different education than most folk our age. Beryl had shed her cocktail dress for the day – she complained that the Casino was closed for a private party last night, so she had to go to bed “scandalously early” at midnight.

            Certainly, she was suitably dressed for the climate, despite what one would have called scandalously short shorts at home. She asked if we kept up with our self-defence classes, as she had been missing them. Indeed, every other day or so Helen and myself take an hour or so of vigorous falls and throws before our morning bath.

            Two hours of exceptionally energetic struggle commenced, Beryl being keen to practice, and to show off some new moves she has learned. It seems her friend Mr. Hoogstraaten Junior has various well-qualified family “servants” she has been taking instruction from. There is one trick she demonstrated that she claims the French Foreign Legion refined – it involves a back somersault to get out of grabbing range, instantly followed by a forwards flip delivering a two-footed kick. Spectacular indeed if it works, but it looks more of a circus stunt than a practical manoeuvre.

            We caught up with all the news – Beryl being more leisured than ourselves, and more centrally placed in the social whirl, she has a word of scandal about most folk. Our tutor Miss Pelton marries next week – and may not be returning full-time to the Songmark she founded. Missy K is in deep trouble with her family, having “borrowed” a seaplane and returned it somewhat damaged, and forbidden to fly for the rest of the holidays.

            She finished up by describing her trip to Main Village yesterday, where she says she watched my favourite stag dance – and that she quite understands what I see in him. Of course, I protested, pointing out it is Molly who has his affections, and that I am very happily Tailfast to Jirry – but it is no use arguing with Beryl once she has made her mind up. Even Helen was looking at me rather oddly, I thought.

            Still, she left us in peace by lunchtime, a most pleasant affair at the Hoele’toemi household with Saimmi dropping in to visit. Her sister is still off at sea, but by all accounts that is not uncommon. The Natives of No Island can even sleep in the water, she tells me, but there are many isolated beaches on Main Island they and their less aquatic friends can use. 
            Helen asked if she would teach her how to call them – but Saimmi just laughed, assuring that the sea folk would teach her if and when they wanted to. Certainly, there is etiquette to be followed for everything, no matter how crude it may appear – Beryl has said there is even a wrong and a right way to break a bottle.
            Back to Casino Island later on, contenting ourselves with asking Dr. Maranowski’s workmen how things are going. The big methane digester is digesting away quite happily, they assure us, but it will take a few days to get the air out of the system and then really begin to stoke it.

            We noticed the side facing the rival project across the river is heavily sandbagged and is being further protected with high earth banks, now the machinery is in place. Either they expect hostilities to commence fairly shortly, or they have as high a regard for the safety of Professor Kurt’s design as Helen has. Or possibly they know more than they are telling.

            Crossing the stream is rather like going through “no-man’s land” into the opposing side – though so far there are no craters or shots being exchanged. Professor Kurt is as always pleased to see us, and as affable as his rival is close beaked. He showed us around his project, with the mining-railway type loading ramps, the air vents and the liquid recirculators. He claims a ten tonne “charge” will generate enough heat in this climate to evaporate two tonnes of liquid a day – and still have enough spare power to run a hotel or two.

            An hour later we were across the island at Lingenthal’s, where various folk were already gathered and a traditional band was playing what one assumes is the latest hot tunes from Germany, thumping out on accordion and tuba. Very lively indeed. We were introduced to various folk we had seen before – the black-furred wolf aviatrix being Ilsa Klensch, a familiar name indeed to anyone reading the Schneider Trophy results. Everyone seemed really quite polite and charming, and the food was excellent – I had thought I had eaten enough cabbage for a lifetime at St. Winifred’s, but their “Sauerkraut” with smoked ham was really quite delicious. We must find a way to discreetly ask why Dr. Maranowski has such a down on this place.

            Professor Kurt is anything but curt, and was very willing to chat with us about our project. We had mentioned quite truthfully that we had written up reports on SIRA for Songmark, and if he assumed that Songmark commissioned our reports on his work, we did nothing to contradict him. If our Tutors are as involved with local affairs as we suspect, they will probably get to read them anyway.
            The only thing he had to say against anyone, was the various “Hula Junkers” who have stayed on over here – many of them folk of reputable families who would be more than welcome back home facing their responsibilities of rebuilding the country. Considering the state of their nation in 1918, anyone would have thought a life of beachcombing and fishing in these islands was far preferable to living on turnips and mouldy rye back in the snows and fogs of East Prussia.  I did ask if he thought the same of his countryfolk who had settled German Samoa and the Caroline Islands – but no, in his opinion those were staunch and loyal colonists heading out to develop their county’s interests overseas.

            I suppose last year I would have thought much the same myself, had I heard of Beryl’s current life as a gambler at the Casino here – rather than heading out like dear Gwendolyn from my St. Winifred’s dorm to be a nurse in the Even Newer Hebrides. Spending time over here exposed to the Native way of life does tend to mellow one – and although Professor Kurt has many virtues they are all highly vigorous ones and “mellow” does not really fit on the list.

            The scene reminded me of those pictures Irma Bundt showed of her Swiss home: same band, same quaint dances and the same costume, near enough. All very brisk and stirring tunes, obviously healthy outdoor songs such as “Auf die Lunenberge Heide” (On Lunenberge Heath) and “Wach am der Rhine” (Looking over the river Rhine, according to Professor Kurt).  It got definitely loud, but the songs are the sort one stamps one’s feet and sings along to without really needing to translate them. Although the rest of the party drank an awful lot of beer, Helen and myself stuck to a white wine apiece and made it last.

            A very jolly evening, which we excused ourselves at around ten and left in full swing. Despite having just the one glass, the atmosphere quite went to our heads – fortunately we are both fast learners, and having learned it we sang “Lunenberge Heide” all the way back to the water taxi. I was just saying to Helen that it was super of the Professor to let us join his party, when we came round the corner almost nose to beak with Dr. Maranowski. He gave us SUCH a look, and launched into a stream of language that neither of us could translate – which was probably just as well. At any rate, from his tone it was definitely not the conversation of a Gentleman.

August 9th, 1935

Alas – our investigation looks like it has come to an end, or at least it might have to be rather one-sided from now on. We returned to the site to be warned off by the workmen, who assured us that the Doctor was threatening to use us as digester fuel if we set paw on his area again. There was little new to do apart from watch concrete set on Professor Kurt’s side, so we retired to Tower Hill park where we found a shady bench by a pond to write up our notes. This will take some time – so before we started I sent a postcard addressed to Post Box Nine to let them know the news.

            A fairly busy morning writing up our notebooks and getting our ideas collated – every deduction tied to an actual fact or conversation, and all our quotes as accurate as if we had to produce them as evidence in Court. I suppose that to a casual tourist we might have been holidaymakers getting through our correspondence lists. One hardly expects Agents to be sitting around on park benches feeding the ducks, after all.

            Lunchtime with Beryl, who showed up wearing a new dress that looks slightly too small, and a grin that was several sizes too big. She let us take a peek in her bag, which was simply stuffed with local currency, mostly in twenties and fifties! I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much cash in one place before – more “shells” than one would find in an arsenal. She explained that her “System” has a sixty-five percent success rate, but that when she can spot the start of a card sequence it becomes three-quarters for the next bet. Very puzzling, and when Helen asked her more technical questions she just laughed and winked at us in that annoying way of hers.

            On this scale (according to my old teachers) she must obviously be building up to a fall of world-famous proportions, as I was brought up on tales of folk who started winning at shove-halfpenny and ended up in the Workhouse or the Asylum. Hard work and thrift is how I was always taught one should gain financial security (that and a prudent marriage.) She says she will have to be cautious, certainly – if the Casino changes its dealing technique she will have to start her whole “prediction run” from scratch. On the other hand, if she gets too greedy she can find herself barred from the Casino – and according to her, Casinos round the world trade lists of professional gamblers whose custom is decidedly unprofitable.

            While Helen puzzled over the menu deciding between the jumbo shrimp or the mini prawns, Beryl noted she had been having fun and keeping fit with a lot more self-defence lessons. I had noticed the “Trench comb” knuckle-duster in her handbag, but by her accounts that might have been just standard school issue. Anyway, she tells me she is learning “savate” and “llap-goch” and various other self-defence traditions. Certainly, anyone wanting to part her from her casino winnings would have to be prepared to work hard for it.

            I mentioned that we had been working with the local Guides, helping them with their tracking and training, and Beryl seemed very interested in the idea, especially when she heard of the “surprises” they were apt to set to slow us down. She is full of ideas on those lines herself – it seems that one does not open a door or pick up any item at Saint T’s without first checking it very carefully. We had to decline using some of her ideas though – otherwise the Althing would end up not with more guides, but fewer.

            The restaurant garden of the New Victoria certainly serves an excellent lunch, and it made a change to have roast meat that was not chicken. The price was what one might expect imported steak to be – in fact, by the price it might have been airfreighted, one steak per aircraft! It certainly makes one think, how much fresh fruit and cassava that would buy you in the Native market: probably more than one could carry, let alone eat. Anyone who insists on eating just the way they do at home, the locals are very happy to oblige, with a suitably priced menu. We have been living mostly on roast fish, breadfruit and a wide range of fruits, all of it caught or farmed locally – and judging by our fur condition it is doing us a world of good.

            Thinking about it, the Spontoonies certainly seem to have a good grip of their economy (and a firm one on the wallets of every tourist within range.) As my old Home Economics teacher Mrs. Maynard-Keynes so expressively put it – “buy cheap and sell dear.”

            On our return to South Island in the evening, we found a postcard awaiting us with a local stamp and no signature or return address – just the cryptic “Message understood – will be in touch.” Post Box Nine certainly has a first-class delivery service!

August 10th, 1935

Moeli is back – having been several days off with the side of her family who do not pose for postcards. It is a great relief, as there are a dozen small and fuzzy Hoele'toemi distant relatives who are quite a handful to look after. Being back in native costume myself, the kits do confuse me with her, which is embarrassing when they get hungry – and they are far too small to explain things to.

            A vigorous morning, keeping up on self-defence classes with Helen. We padded a palm tree with mattresses and practised what Beryl calls “the Legionnaire’s Trick” for half an hour or so, till sore paws and dizziness with all the somersaulting made me call a break. Then down to mingle with the tourists on Haio Beach – I had to admit, most of even the younger ones seemed a rather … unimpressive bunch, compared with the Guides we have been chasing round the islands. But then – as Helen pointed out, we have got used to an extremely physical life style out here, and one hardly expects the average Euro tourist to compete in six hours running up and down mountainous jungle trails a day.

            To judge from what Mrs. Hoele’toemi has let slip, Haio beach is something of a resort for the locals – where they compete to see how much spoof folklore tourists will actually swallow until their “suspension of disbelief” snaps with a loud twang. If one listens carefully, you can hear tourist guides telling the most outrageous tales with a straight face – and always managing to tie their yarns down to some real event or place. The favourite ploy is to tell tales nobody would ever believe without proof, then randomly point to some part of the islands and finish with “and it happened right there, in my Grandfather’s time.” At this point you can see tourist cameras starting to train in that direction, and postcards come out for note taking. Generally, once the Euro tourists have been put in a receptive mode, they are invited round past the Native souvenir stalls to be sold beads and trinkets, which is probably some subtle form of revenge.

            Although we have seen most of the building and maintenance takes place in the off season, there are a few small works going on. One of them is on a small bluff just above the beach, a round “swimming pool” looking out over the biggest gap in the reef. Helen and I strolled over, but refrained from commenting, sketching or taking notes – Helen murmurs it looks just like she has seen in “Jane’s All The World’s Fighting Trenches” with the article on “Building coastal batteries for fun and profit.”. We just strolled past, averting our eyes – we have seen quite as much as is healthy for us already, and the fact that the “swimming pool” has a sturdy metal pivot in the centre could be innocently explained away as the base for a central fountain.

            We were hailed by a familiar voice, and recognised Violobe with her Guide’s group, who invited us for lunch. Very nice – Popatohi, an extra pungent version that I doubt the tourist stalls would sell. We noticed they had a game going involving a handful of shells and pebbles – it is something she says is an old Native game, which certainly needs very little equipment. One player casts some of the available pieces onto a grid sketched in the sand – the other has ten seconds to memorise them before turning round, waiting another minute and drawing out an exact map of where everything is. It sounded simple, but when we tried it proved exceedingly difficult. Violobe laughed, and pointed out she and her friends had been doing it since they were quite small. *

            One of the guides mentioned they had found the remains of one of the Japanese balloons today, tangled in a tree on the far side of Mount Tomboabo – and that some more had been washed up in the lagoon. Although quite a few reached the islands, they do not seem too accurate at this range, and are hardly a commercial success if more than half miss by a mile. I will not trust my postcards home to balloon post. Helen commented that the prototype “Flying Fortress” being constructed in her homeland, is reputed to be able to “Drop a bomb in a pickle barrel from forty thousand feet.” An impressive feat, though rather petty if you ask me – though I suppose the psychological value might be worthwhile in a protracted struggle. One would hope they could find some more suitable military targets.

            On our return, we found a Florida postcard from Molly, who is looking around some companies her Family has acquired as a good home for its hard-earned capital. She writes that she is not used to being in a soft drinks factory, but that “Pensa-Cola” is selling well, her Family’s salesmen using their traditional techniques of clinching a deal with shopkeepers. It is certainly good to see their talents put to a peaceful purpose. She writes they are getting involved with the transport and construction trade – wines and spirits proving less profitable in the past year or so, with their Government repealing some recent laws. It certainly seems odd to me, that both her family and the teetotal movement had supported Prohibition.

* Editor’s Note: this seems very, very similar to the memory exercises used to train the Imperial Indian Intelligence services, as described in Rudyard Kipling’s classic “Kim”. One assumes Amelia hasn’t read the book or she would recognise it – and one assumes someone else on Spontoon HAS.
 
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