Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
27 July, 1936 to 4 August, 1936


Monday 27th July, 1936

Back to the mountain! We started off at six, and by seven had carried the ropes and equipment to the foot of the main face. The Prof is a fine climber for his age, and G-U-U were up the lower slopes as if they were monkeys rather than wolves. Still, one is no more secure than the rock one holds onto, and a flake came off in Ulric's paw as he was leading a pitch. He was belayed of course but fell about three yards down the sheer face before the rope brought him up with a jerk, and it was another few minutes before he was hauled to safety.

Having the rope tied round one's middle is traditional but not at all a comfy place to be suspended from, and Maria tells us some folk on the Eiger and other big climbs have perished from the pressure before being pulled to safety. There really must be a better way of doing things, and while we waited around at the base of the climb we put our heads together and began sketching ideas in the sand. Parachute harnesses are one idea, and we have seen folk comfortably sitting in canvas seats for an hour at a time working on telegraph poles. It should not be too hard to improve on a loop of rope around the midriff.

I must admit some other equipment the Prof has shipped over does look very handy. On our own climbing lessons we have learned to carry an assortment of beach pebbles to wedge in cracks and belay the rope around; an improvement is using big brass nuts with the inside thread machined out smooth and a loop of stiff rope threaded through ready for use. Definitely we will copy that idea next time we get to the machine shops.

I will certainly have words with Molly about keeping her snout shut; "loose lips sink ships" as the posters in the Great War warned. She gets on with the Prof very well, who is a jovial and fatherly type utterly unlike what she has mentioned her own father is; one gets the impression sometimes she unfavourably compares the two. Even so, it was awfully bad form of her to mention our Cranium Island trip, and far more so to mention we were looking for artefacts! That is absolutely the last person we want getting in ahead of us, especially as he has been inquiring about religious relics. It is just as well his climbing license runs out in a month, giving him the exclusive rights to this piece of rock but keeping him in the neighbourhood till he climbs it. We should get to Cranium Island before he does, at any rate.

On our return to South Island there was some disturbing news; Mr. Hoele'toemi is going off on a vital trade mission for two months and has asked Jirry to come with him. Jirry did say he is giving up being a Guide this year and it would be natural to join the family import and export trade, but this is rather a shock. He has mentioned some of these trips being profitable and others important - this is one of the "important" ones. It looks like Lars is not the only Spontoonie who is bringing things in which the League of Nations would want to question.

My tail definitely drooped as they discussed travel plans; I suppose I have taken a lot for granted as to the Hoele'toemi household being there whenever our adventures leave us free time. But then, I am the one training for a career as an Adventuress; it is a shocking thought that if Jirry was away as often as I am we would hardly ever meet!

Still, we have this time and indeed we made the most of it. Happily the weather has improved and the nights are warm and really quite excellent under the stars.


Tuesday July 29th, 1936

A busy time of things - yesterday we carried ropes and climbing gear up to Mount Kiribatori, and more of the same today - hard work but plenty of fresh air and good company. Today was rather different after work, in that we all headed out to Meeting Island to hear what Professor Schiller has to say about larger pieces of geography than a few thousand feet of bare rock.

I must say, it was jolly interesting. "Geo-politics" is not unlike our Geography lessons in school where we studied imperial power and the like, and learned why empires such as Austro-Hungary collapsed despite once owning colonies from Mexico to Franz-Joseph land near the North Pole (and the underground mining cities of Franz-Joseph land did rather well, being the last loyal pieces of the Hapsburg Empire fighting on alone against the Allies until 1921). But it was definitely a more ruthless philosophy, explaining how nations need hinterlands, buffers and the like which makes a lot of sense looking at the newspapers these days. It is a good thing Spontoon does not have anything strategic such as tin or oil, is all I can say.

His lecture was in the Althing assembly rooms and was very well-attended by Spontoonies, with a few other familiar snouts to be seen. Several of our friends from the dance class were there, plus Violobe and a lot of her junior Guide friends, and Mr. Tikitavi the sculptor. Of course, not all of it applies to Spontoon as such, as it is far too small and vulnerable to "project power" but other nations around the Pacific are not and it is as well to be warned as to how they might be thinking.

One could see Professor Schiller was getting quite carried away, and with a sympathetic-sounding audience I believe he said rather more than he might have planned. He talked a lot about "strategic depths" and the like which hardly seemed to apply to Spontoon being so small - but he mentioned that an ocean was probably even better than land for the purpose as it takes no damage being fought over.

Helen and I exchanged glances and she silently mouthed the words "aerial torpedo". Suddenly a lot of things made sense; if anyone seriously tries to invade Spontoon it will be far too late to engage them on the beaches since the whole islands are in range of a battleship's guns from anywhere in sight; folk found that out in the Gunboat wars and have not forgotten it. Given seaplanes and aerial torpedoes intercepting them out in the Kanim Islands things would be different.

We are invited to the next lectures, and will certainly come if we can. I doubt we will have to tell Mr. Sapohatan about this, as if he is not actually listening in the building somewhere I am sure he will have heard all about it by the time the Prof arrives back at his rooms on Casino Island tonight.

Of all the folk I least wanted to see in the crowd, Major Hawkins was there and spotted us leaving. He raised his hat to us and enquired after our good health - though if we were working for Professor Schiller the way I think he thinks we are, I hardly think he would wish us well. Actually he has news from Home - he mentions having spoken with my Brother in Intelligence and my cousin in the Royal Armoured Corps - neither of whom are likely to head this way. He did mention my cousin is in India on the North-west Frontier having a lively time with his light tanks - and asked politely if I had seen any such around Spontoon.

Actually, I could have wished he had a star-nosed mole for an aide as it would make a nice change to have something reassuring I could truthfully tell him. I said I had seen nothing of the kind since Vostok. Indeed, I have been reading Molly's copy of "Jane's Military Vehicles" and could point out that Spontoon is mostly hills and jungle. Somebody very high-ranking at the War Office has officially pronounced that hilly wooded areas such as Malaysia and the French Ardennes are quite impossible going for tanks, so that is that.

He nodded and murmured that I am certainly up with the latest thinking, and hopes everyone has read and believed the same reports. Tipping his hat to us again, he vanished into the night. Very disturbing.

Still, I managed to forget about our troubles for awhile on South Island. Jirry met us off the water-taxi, and he has the loan of a friend's longhouse to cover a week's fishing trip. A very welcome piece of news, as it was starting to rain and even in oiled fur, the great outdoors gets uncomfortable!


Wednesday August 1st, 1936

A sad day that came rather sooner than anyone expected. Today I waved Jirry off from the docks of Casino Island, as he follows his Father out on a semi-official buying trip. That is, the Althing is ultimately paying but he hints it is a Macao-registered company writing the cheques (you can get any sort of company registered there for ten guineas, no questions asked). Certain deals happen a few times a year, and one seizes them with both paws or misses out. There seems a definite sense of urgency in the air that was not there last year, sometimes one can almost scent it.

It was a very rare occasion, being on Casino Island at a loose end - usually we never have time to do more than the essentials, let alone relax. I tried wandering as a happy tourist for an hour, but it is what being a magician's assistant in the audience must be like - knowing what is happening behind the scenes it is hard to just sit back and marvel at the show. Quite a lot of the Spontoonies running the booths and stalls know me and only charged me half the regular price for a dish of Popatohi and a Nootnops Red - very nice of them indeed but it rather reinforced the feeling that I do not fit with the tourist stream.

Actually I am not the only one who looks at a loose end - sitting on the end of the Rainbow Bridge I spotted Zara, our third-year from Albania. She was watching the Schneider Trophy teams practicing (the first official race is next week) although her country had to pull out at the last minute through lack of funds. She says she was planning on going home with friends who were in the team, but is now rather stuck.

I noticed she was still wearing her Songmark jacket, but minus the collar badges and with different buttons sewn on. It reminded me rather shockingly of Father's tales of what happens to soldiers who are court-martialled - they have to take off the insignia and even the belt buckles, before being dismissed from their Regiment. I did not like to ask Zara if she was the one who has broken Songmark's winning streak of graduating everyone who reached the end of the course - but I got that impression.

She says she is staying on Casino Island until a ship arrives heading towards the Albanian South Indies where at least she will be one of the best qualified folk around there, and should find a position. I wished her luck, and left her to it.

A rather happier Songmark student turned out to be Jasbir Sind, who I did not at all recognise when she tapped me on the shoulder. Her scent has not changed but her fur pattern and costume has entirely - I would have said she was a pine marten rather than a mongoose, given a photograph. She has been professionally worked on - two days treatment at Madame Maxine's is awfully dear, but she can afford it.

Jasbir has absolutely set her heart on dancing at the Coconut Shell, and has passed their talent auditions. Unfortunately our Tutors have not just said no, but warned the management against her; she needs a new identity entirely to get around that. As part of it she is heading out to one of the small islands in the neighbourhood, where she is having two weeks' holiday away from it all and purchasing a few testimonials about being who she says she is. Gull Island, I think she said.

It was rather too early to drink Nootnops Blue (very nice but it makes the rest of the day rather a haze) so I joined her in an ice-cream. She knows the one place on the island that does cashew and betel nut, not a combination available in most places though very recreational.

I asked about the other folk who are staying on here that I have not bumped into recently - Jasbir has met Prudence's dorm who are auditioning for extras in Miss Margot Melson's latest film. I know the local studios tend to make more than one version for Polynesian and European markets, but in this case I think they will have to change the title as well for most countries. "Bride of the Serpent Queen" is perhaps a little blatant, though one can quite see why Prudence would give her tail to be in it. Molly has told us surprising things about the film industry, and hints that Miss Margot Melson has a lot of wear and tear on her "casting couch."

Certainly, I found myself thinking our Tutors have picked quite a range of talent over the years. Sometimes one wonders just what they are thinking of - they dismissed the very decent-looking Blackett sisters, and let in Beryl and that troublesome Red Dorm. Teaching Liberty Morgenstern to be a better shot is not what I call doing the rest of the world a favour. But on the other paw, I must admit that had I been in charge, having seen Molly's history I would have never let her in, and done myself out of a good friend. I would have spared Spontoon Beryl's presence although she does come from a proper, or more accurately improper, public school. No doubt she is busy on her "projects" already, whatever they may be. She even asked for a copy of my Pedigree, which I was glad to give her as it is perfectly good and no secret to anyone (a telegram and the search fee wired to the Public Records Office in London would get it anyway.)

To be honest, if I had been in charge of recruiting Songmark would look more like my old school with a different timetable, and . I could never sort out which of a dozen Mixtecan girls I wanted, let alone deciding how to find good in the most unpromising of people.

Back to South Island, where there is always something to at least keep one's paws occupied. With so many folk working the hotels and beaches the garden-plots need work and the weeds never give up. There is no telling how long Jirry is going to be away, and had it been a destination folk would want written up, I am sure he would have told me. I know his father is often away for a month or two at a time.


Thursday August 2nd, 1936

This Summer is developing into quite a roller-coaster ride already - or possibly a ghost train, one surprise jumping out after another. Strictly speaking this is hardly a surprise, but it is quite a development.

We are in one of the small Kanim Island villages, dressed in non-tourist Native costume and having the markings on our oiled fur re-drawn by the villagers. Helen has trusted her Tailfast locket to the local priestess, and consented to be re-marked as a local maiden. Someone involved in these raids has some local knowledge, and while we do not know how much it is best to be cautious. The villagers already know who we are but someone from a neighbouring island only needs to spot we are in matching fur markings.

Last night an urgent message came through just as we were finishing supper - from what the Detective magazines call "information received" we had warning of another raid expected in the area. There are three islands with significant settlements that are too small for a full-time constable - and we are on the small island of Wakalenga, a likely candidate. It has a very tricky coral reef all around making any large boat landings difficult, but it does have a mile of protected lagoon water behind it which would do well for a seaplane even at night.

I had less to lose than Helen, but it still felt sad to comb out my South Island fur patterns. We are expected to be here for a few days, by which time the raiders will probably have made an attempt or decided to leave the area - it is a business with profit and loss like any other and operating seaplanes is expensive. One idea is for us to head out from the village on fishing trips; the village can always use the fish and we look a more tempting target out on our own. Molly has borrowed back from Jasbir the spear-gun she sold her last year, and for once we are not objecting to her carrying it everywhere as it is very much "in character".

Molly has adjusted to the lack of firing practice quite well; that braided steel knout she was given in Vostok gets a lot of work, and indeed she has been demonstrating tree pruning to the locals. She is really getting rather good with it, and from a distance it looks like a coil of rope, quite inconspicuous.

The island is at its best this time of year and though we see the tour boats going past far offshore the reef protects it from any major tourist invasion; a lot of the younger inhabitants are off working on Spontoon so there are plenty of sleeping spaces in the huts and folk are pleased to see a new snout, especially as we can speak Spontoonie with them. All in all we would be quite enjoying the trip, if not for the knowledge of just why we are out here in the sunshine.

Molly has told us what Lars revealed about what happens to folk captured as she was, who end up in Kuo Han and other nameless places. Oh my. By the time they wake up most of them have been permanently ... modified, one might say, to fit them for their future career and nothing else. The disturbing thing is, the trimmed fur style we both wear was the first step in the process that had already been done to Molly, although we have kept it as it has advantages in other circumstances.

Definitely, anyone caught in this business will not get a public trial; one hears about smart lawyers getting completely guilty folk off on a technicality, but in this case they are not going to get the chance.


Saturday August 4th, 1936

Dear Diary: life as an Adventuress certainly has its thrills and chills. We are back on South Island recovering from a fur-raising time, and could use a week to recover. I doubt we shall get it.

On Thursday night we four headed out to fish on the far side of the island, having a small canoe and the appropriate nets with us. The story announced in the village is we are Main Island Spontoonies who have come to take a break from the crowds; some occasionally do that by the middle of Tourist season and with a lot of the younger island folk over there the Wakalenga villagers can certainly use the extra help fishing. The priestess and a couple of the village elders have the full story. There are no off-island tourists on the island right now, and apart from a few wandering anthropologists who make a point of heading to islands that are not listed in the guidebooks, there rarely are. Palm thatched huts and nice beaches are ten a penny around this part of the world, and most tourists can see all that on South Island and still have egg and chips for lunch in a Euro snack stall afterwards.

It was a relaxing evening and outwardly we did not have a care in the world, as looking after small boats is something we are all very comfortable with now. The reef waters are very rich especially since half the regular fisher folk are out on Casino Island shaking a grass skirt at the audience right now, and in an hour we had enough to take back and start preparing and drying. Four seaplanes came within sight of our fires, but none of them circled or came particularly low. The weather looked rather stormy in the last light of the sun, with big cumulus clouds rolling in from the West; our hammocks have mackintosh sheets that we can throw over ourselves if it rains in the night. Being high off the ground, the arrangement is actually rather drier than a tent, and we are in no danger of flooding.

We had a few party-sized Nootnops Blue bottles on conspicuous display but they were filled with the harmless red variant, which was very nice while we sat round the fire cooking spit-roast fish while most of the catch dried in the smoke. It was hard to relax even knowing the chances were that we would be quite undisturbed - but when the moon rose we scattered the bottles artfully near the camp fire and found our hammocks. Although it is not strictly "native" equipment, we had a good radium dial luminous wristwatch which whoever was on overwatch could check on; the idea is anyone making a stealthy approach will not get close enough to notice it.

Maria was on first watch, then Molly, then myself with Helen taking the dawn shift. Although I had thought myself too tense to sleep, a day's fishing is hard work and I was off before I knew it. The next thing I knew was Molly shaking me urgently, whispering about aircraft engine noises. She certainly has the best ears amongst us, and scheduled flights do not have regular routes over this island.

The island was about a mile and a half long, with a pronounced hook of beach at each end giving two spots of extra calm water. Molly yelled that we were on the wrong end - there was a seaplane descending towards the other side, a twin-engined model she said though added there was something odd about it. But then there was no more time to talk as we had grabbed our equipment and were sprinting along the beach just on the wet sand above the waterline, thankful the tide was going out and leaving the going firm under paw.

It is a good thing we are in top condition, as it was a mile run and we knew there was little time. The moonlight was just filtering through the clouds, but when we got near the village we saw there was not one but two seaplanes, a single engined Sikorski floatplane of some type and a Short Cockle. Including pilots they might hold a dozen people between them - long odds for us if those were all raiders but of course there would be empty seats if their plan was to leave with more folk than they arrived with.

The one thing that saved our plan was that the seaplanes had cut their engines on the approach and silently glided in, rather than taxing rapidly up to the shore. We dived into the shadow of the tree line and had to slow down further to avoid crashing into fallen branches and the like - fortunately there was still time as the crew of the Sikorski were on the floats silently paddling their aircraft ashore through the calm lagoon waters. We saw six of them land from the two aircraft and head out to the far end of the village where there was an isolated cluster of houses, far enough from the main block that folk there would probably not hear anything less than a gunshot. The wind was picking up, and far out on the horizon there was an occasional flash of summer lightning.

We had worked this out in advance, and a few words agreed on Plan 7A. Helen and Maria slipped further inland through the shadows to alert the folk in the main village, while Molly and I dived into the cover of a pulled-up fishing boat and started to swim out towards the aircraft now tethered ten yards offshore just out of the breaking waves. The water was shallow in the lagoon and we could just touch bottom with our foot-claws as we reached the Sikorski, coming at it from the seaward side. Our plan was to capture or disable the aircraft - and Plan 7A suddenly became 7B when we heard movement above and discovered the pilot was still onboard!

Molly's spear-gun was out, and she patted the float - but I had to shake my head at that idea, as a few small holes would not prevent the aircraft taking off in the time available and the pilot would definitely hear us doing anything extreme. Still we knew we had at most a few minutes before something happened - so as our Tutors teach us, we took the initiative and were the ones that made things happen.

We climbed carefully up onto a float apiece, moving together to keep the balance and not give the game away by rocking the aircraft. There was a step route up each support strut and we moved up quickly; it was a four-door cabin and both front doors were open, with the wolverine pilot standing at his seat looking out at the shore intently. He had a pistol but it was holstered at his side - and we definitely did not plan on giving him time to use it.

It could only have been seconds before he scented us or heard the sound of the water dripping from our soaked fur - and in those seconds we were on him. Molly counted down on her fingers and then we leaped up and yanked the back cabin doors open: he was just turning round when Molly looped the steel knout over his head and threw herself back, dragging him right out of his pilot's seat and into the back. Wolverines are awfully tough, and he managed to get a paw inside the loop as he landed on his back snarling; his musk was chokingly strong in the cabin, and he easily outweighed us. Our self-defence classes tell us to never get into a drawn-out fight - finish it fast and then away.

Molly kept tight hold of the knout and dived on him, planting one knee in the solar plexus but even that was not stopping him - he threw her off but as he started to get up I managed to get the Roedean Nerve Pinch on him. That settled his hash; he went down like a sack of potatoes.

For a second we just sat on him, panting, then Molly found a set of paw-cuffs and put them to better use than I fear its owners had intended. She grabbed his pistol holster - a Russian Tokarev, which means nothing in itself as they are all over the Pacific - and checked him over for any other weapons before helping me lash him tight with cargo strapping.

The Short Cockle was moored thirty yards away, but by good luck the angle had its engine blocking a direct view of our cockpit. Of course that meant we could not see theirs either, but we expected there would be another pilot in there primed for a fast takeoff and watching the shore for signs of movement.

I was about to suggest unscrewing the control cables to disable the Sikorski and swimming over to the second aircraft, when suddenly our time ran out. A flare suddenly arched out over the beach illuminating everything in harsh white light, and a crowd of folk suddenly appeared in the village. I recognised some of the villagers, who were surprisingly well-armed considering, and they headed straight for the end of the island where the raiders had gone.

The next thing that happened was a twin detonation from the engines of the Short Cockle, as its pilot fired starter cartridges and the props began to turn. Molly jumped into the pilot's seat of the Sikorski, yelled at me to keep my head down and hang on, and hit the self-starter button. Definitely these folk have invested in all the latest improvements, not surprising considering just how important a quick getaway is to them.

Looking down I saw the wolverine pilot already awake and glaring at us - we really do not want him gnawing out of his bonds in the cockpit with us. I motioned to Molly to swing us in past the shore and as we reached the shallowest point I opened the back door and heaved him out: it takes more than an eight foot drop into a couple of feet of water to do a wolverine serious harm, and with village folk already running across the beach towards us he was not going to drown before they fished him out.

By the time we had turned round the Short was already almost "on the step" with what must have been highly supercharged engines with throttles pushed to the firewall: Molly gave a wild whoop and jammed our own throttle wide open. I had to agree with her - we had already done a lot by depriving the raiders of their getaway wings, but having even one of them escaping with the news was not something we wanted. Of course, as we had kept things quiet our end the pilot in the Short hopefully still thought his wolverine pal was flying behind him, and indeed he throttled back slightly to let us catch up in formation.

I had to keep my head down below the cockpit just in case the Short got curious; the chances of spotting what species of pilot was wearing flying goggles at that distance were very poor, but if they saw two of us in the cockpit they would probably smell a rat. It occurred to me that the villagers were rather better prepared than they had led us to believe; not all those weapons they had suddenly appeared with could have been buried in oilskin under hut floors since the Gunboat Wars. Anyway, I could reach the radio from my position on the floor, and remembered the frequency we had been given. Channel Nineteen is one of those "allocated for future development" so the Althing can refuse anyone licenses to use it, but Mr. Sapohatan has said it is always monitored.

In ten minutes we were at five thousand feet heading South-East and probably invisible from the ground in the worsening weather. I used the code we were given, "Pan-Nimitz Airways Flight Echo One" and added my own call-sign of "Osprey". I added that we were heading into Spontoon ahead of schedule in formation, and asked for a weather report and to get a reception laid on, hoping any unfriendly ears listening would take us for a scheduled flight - and hopefully the equivalent of Post Box Nine would understand what I meant.

Another fifteen minutes of flight through the turbulence went past before Molly shouted that we were descending towards Spontoon, and she could see the lights of Casino Island dead ahead. The Sikorski was pitching violently and rain hammering all over making conversation almost impossible, and I was having a rather poor flight all round. I cheered up remarkably when I heard a calm voice on Channel Nineteen welcoming Flight Echo One to Spontoon and telling us our reception was arranged as soon as we gave final landing arrangements.

Of course, until the Short actually landed we could hardly tell them exactly where to go - so in my best Airline Pilot voice I mentioned that we were "Awaiting landing confirmation" and were in a landing queue of two. The other end acknowledged, and for a few minutes all we could see outside was the lightning outside and the lights of the Casinos and big hotels briefly shining through the shifting clouds. Certainly, had we lost sight of the Short for a minute and he changed course and we would have lost him for good - visibilitywas about half a mile and closing, with some truly awful weather ahead. Had we not already been heading into familiar Spontoon waters I would have been tempted to break off and let the "anti-pirate air patrol" chase him

- but as it was we stuck to his tail like burdock and by two a.m. saw him touch down on the North coast of Casino Island, heading into Student's Cove. I was on the radio as soon as I saw the Short go down off the step, and with some relief heard the landing details acknowledged. The rain was absolutely hammering down and the lightning getting much nearer - fortunately there was not much wind and we were landing almost directly into it with the bulk of the island shielding us a little. Although I have a steady stomach I was very glad to feel the floats touch water, as crouched in the foot well of a cockpit is no way to travel and a good way to get air-sick in the calmest of conditions.

Molly and I had a minute to think as we taxied towards the cove, lit by the lightning. The natural thing would be for the pilot of the Short to want to talk to his comrade about what went wrong and what to do next, which of course we cannot do. She had the flight suit and goggles on but even in this visibility nobody is going to confuse her with a wolverine at anything but the longest of ranges. Happily, I came up with a simple workable plan. Hurrah for St. Winifred's drama classes!

What the pilot of the Short thought he saw as he came out of his hastily moored aircraft was his comrade taxi up to the beach ready to join him. It was fifty yards away, but as the Sikorski pilot jumped out onto the beach with a mooring rope, a figure clad in Native costume emerged from the shadows beneath the aircraft having apparently hung grimly onto the float all the way from Wakalenga. The native girl came up behind, raised a spear-gun and without a second's hesitation shot the Sikorski pilot in the back at point-blank range - who threw up his arms and collapsed on the beach, not moving.

That was quite enough for the Short pilot, who took off in a panic with a career's worth of fear of Native revenge suddenly coming true. He did not turn around and see his "comrade" get to his feet - or hers actually, as Molly threw off the flying-jacket and joined me in hot pursuit through the sleeping rain-streaming streets. A spear-gun makes the same distinctive sound whether or not it is actually loaded.

As we followed him I could not help but note what a bizarre scene it was - all around us were thousands of sleeping tourists, dreaming in silk or fine linen sheets while the rain lashed the windows of their snug hotels. And there were we three out in the storm, a slaver, an ex-gangster and a girl of good pedigree chasing through the deadly darkness ripped asunder by lightning and echoing with tropical thunder. He turned round a few times but we were always within reach of cover; we had little fear of him outrunning us as very few regular citizens are as fit as Songmark girls and although our flying here was tiring work he had surely had more of it and less sleep than us that night. From what I could see of his tail he was feline, and we are better at sprinting than long-distance work.

In two minutes we were heading up towards Tower Hill Park, where the wider streets with clearer views made it harder to stay as close undetected. But just when we were getting worried about losing him help came from a source we would never have guessed. One of the distinctively dressed street cleaners one sees everywhere showed a surprising burst of speed, appearing as if from nowhere. He was a greyhound type, and before I could say anything hailed me as "Flight Echo One". I was rather staggered but pointed ahead to where our quarry was silhouetted against the crest of the hill and the lights of the hotels below - at which he gave a quiet bark of laughter and said there were folk already lined up ahead of us.

From then it was more like a regular hunt at home, with beaters closing in from every side. Or rather it was like hunting with an elastic net, in that we wanted to find where the pilot was going without scaring him off by showing our paw too soon. I don't know if he spotted that he was being chased, but he certainly had reason to worry and kept going at top speed all the way across to the South side of the island, where some bars and casinos and such are open all night. He was staggering at the end of it which we noted with a sort of grim satisfaction: having tried it we know someone fighting for breath rarely has the energy left to think too clearly, and the more he focused on bringing the bad tidings to his Boss the better for us.

By quarter past two we were amongst the big hotels, their neon signs and strings of hissing wet incandescent bulbs reflected eerily in the sheets of water flowing down the road. The street cleaners were there ahead of us, industriously taking the chance to scrub the pavements clean while the tourists slept and dreamed of hulas on sunny beaches for tomorrow. I had been freezing cramped in pedal well of the Sikorski with waterlogged fur and nowhere to exercise; at least the long run had warmed me up, though Molly and I dripped like soaked sponges and the rain hammered down in great curtains like a fire-hose falling on the sleeping streets.

Just then the pilot ducked into the entrance to one of the private casinos, its doorway still lit. I don't know what he said to the doorman, but it must have been quite decisive to let a dripping figure in flying costume walk into such a place at that time of night. The greyhound stopped us with a wave and whispered that our part in this was over - now we were just to wait and see.

In a minute we saw someone we had never expected - Lars himself, casually strolling down the pavement holding an umbrella raised above his horns, dressed in impeccable tropical whites! He winked at us and our guide, who gave a curt nod and pointed towards the brightly lit doorway. Though both of us were bursting to ask him what was going on, he flourished his umbrella and passed the doorman unhindered, vanishing into the interior.

We waited about five minutes - and then all pandemonium broke loose inside. The first thing we knew about it was a burst of light on the roof above, where by good fortune we had the angle to see a roof hatch opening up. Three figures scrambled out, then a few seconds another one after them - in the lightning we saw a familiar silhouette and knew that Lars was the last one out. Our guide beckoned urgently for us to follow and we dashed across into the nearest narrow street - in time to see a big ladder swing out across the gap and three figures teeter across, followed by a more sure-footed fourth one.

The next minutes were a hectic blur. Our greyhound guide had a key to one of the buildings opposite and we ran up echoing stairs, struggled with a padlock and were suddenly out on a roof, with the roar of the wind and the hard stinging lashing of the rain punching through our soaked fur to our hides, the cityscape of Casino Island lit as if by flashbulbs with one brilliant lightning burst after another. There had been ladders arranged in the gutters in various places; luckily it took time for the three fugitives to swing each one into position and we managed to start catching them up. From some scattered words down the wind I gathered they were expecting Lars to pull the ladders up behind them to slow pursuit or at least kick them loose - which he was definitely not doing. But as he kept just out of reach there seemed little they could do about it apart from stopping and unfastening the ladders themselves, and they were not slowing down to do that. Here and there I saw other figures suddenly appear on rooftops; evidently we were not alone in this. Some of the more old-fashioned hotels have "gothic" towers and tiny balconies like crows' nests on the topmost levels, and that night I realised they are not merely ornamental.

Suddenly I caught sight of the discreet but recognisable front of the Marleybone Grand Hotel, and realised we were aiming straight for it. The hotel towered two stories above the nearest rooftops, but as we approached I saw there is a lower kitchen wing at the back that our route took us towards. The tiles were steep and running with storm water, but Molly and Lars are mountain deer and my feline heritage held me in good stead. The greyhound guide was perfectly sure-footed too, not what one traditionally expects from a canine but it goes to show that practice can go a long way to helping out ancestry.

As the three fugitives crossed the final ladder there was a terrific gust of wind and one of them slipped - straight down he went, four stories to the pavement below. Nobody else screamed, at least not that I heard above the storm, and as I watched him tumble to the ground I felt myself only regretting he was not going to be captured alive to talk. Then they were on the roof, with Lars fifty yards ahead of us and a minute away across the treacherous tiles: soon we were over the ladder and climbing to the peak of the Marleybone, looking out over the whole expanse of Casino Island. In a brilliant lightning flash I saw what was happening, with the two remaining fugitives on the roof struggling to open a slanting maintenance door they had expected to be unlocked for them. I heard Lars laugh, but could not hear what he said. Then there was a crash of glass as they suddenly switched to Plan B and put a boot-heel through the nearest attic window, punching the jagged splinters aside as they dropped through into the hotel. Lars was straight after them, and ten seconds so were we - landing in a welter of burst stuffing in a laundry room, the sting of glass splinters almost going unnoticed as we dropped down and Molly crouched with her spear-gun cocked and loaded, a hundred and twenty pounds draw weight behind a steel-tipped expanding bolt factory guaranteed to stop a Great White shark extremely dead in the water.

For a second it seemed very quiet with the storm just above our heads and only the incongruous dripping of water on the polished floor - I was glad not to be the one who had to cclean this up in the morning.But that was only for a second, and then in the corridor I heard the sounds of a fight - the three of us burst out, Molly jumping high, myself going low in a roll and the greyhound leaping right to the far side of the corridor. It was a narrow servant's passage, less than three feet wide and too cramped to move forward and help, but we saw everything that went on.

Lars was there, his head down as he faced two opponents. One was already down and groaning, an Asian Sun Bear I think, and the other was an Annubis-like jackal, his shining fur plastered back by the rain. The jackal was cursing him, promising him his life was not worth a spit when news of this got out - at which Lars said in a rather chilling voice that it never would. Then the jackal pounced but Lars was ready for him and flattened him with a fairly unsophisticated "haymaker" under the muzzle - by which time there were other folk crowding into the narrow corridor behind who grabbed the jackal and hauled him and the Sun Bear away.

It took a minute or so to really take note of our injuries. Unlike in the films one does not hurriedly drop through a broken window unscathed, and everyone was bleeding more or less. The service corridor of a hotel we have no official reason to be in is no place for treating things, and though I pulled two obvious glass splinters out of Molly, we definitely needed looking over. Lars was having a hurried conversation with the others - I kept expecting to see Mr. Sapohatan but he is probably too senior to personally run around rooftops these days. Lars turned round and smiled - and announced that the hotel was being very cooperative.

It seems that the trade we had interrupted must have been shockingly profitable. The ringleaders had reserved some of the best suites in the Marleybone which the police were swarming over - but there were two others they had reserved and paid for that they had never even collected the keys for, so were of no interest as evidence. It was only a floor below us but we were all wincing at the trip downstairs, trying our best not to bleed on the carpet. We met some sleepy-eyed maintenance folk rushing past us with hammers, timbers and a roll of tarpaulin, as the rain was hammering down still outside and it was no time to have a missing window.

Although I have never been in sympathy with Liberty Morgenstern, it was quite a shock to see how the rich live, especially those with ill-gotten gains to spend. There were luxurious carpets I kept well clear of, soft furnishings, huge windows (now curtained) looking out over the bay and the biggest bathroom I have ever seen, which I hurried into and turned on the taps. Unlike some places, the Marleybone has as much hot water as one needs at all hours of the day, and it was some consolation that it had all been paid for.

All of us were soaked anyway, and practicality came first. The bathroom cabinet was superbly stocked, and a pair of whisker tweezers proved perfect for hunting glass splinters. The drinks cabinet was just as useful; in our first-aid courses we have learned there is an actual good use for vodka and we washed our injuries with it very thoroughly, taking half an hour while the water turned noticeably pink-tinged but we made sure to dig out and disinfect every last splinter wound. Lars was full of complements at our work, noting that we were a thoroughly skilled and dangerous pair these days and a credit to Songmark - and he hopes Molly will congratulate our Tutors for him. I hope she does not; they would decidedly not appreciate it.

It was when we had finished that the reaction set in; everything goes well enough as long as one keeps moving and there is no time to think. Although the water was warm I was suddenly shaking violently, and Molly was much the same. Even Lars was looking definitely pensive; he drained a glass of five-star Napoleon brandy and announced he was retiring for the night. He is quite a sight in the fur; I found myself quite glad that none of his injuries are liable to leave any scars, and neither should ours if we take proper care of them.

Molly and I looked at each other as he left; she whispered that she had never dreamed the first time she retired to sleep tonight, she would be finishing her shift like this. I definitely agreed, thinking of four empty hammocks by the ashes of our fire on Wakalenga. Had the raiders gone elsewhere my own night shift would scarcely be half finished - and possibly half a dozen local girls would be already on their way to a fate I do not much like to contemplate.

If I thought the bath was huge, the bedroom was even bigger. Lars was fast asleep, and when my own shivers wore off I had a choice between silk sheets or the carpet. It was a very nice carpet, but not much competition. Neither Lars nor Molly snore, but if they had rattled the windows like Maria I am sure I would still have fallen asleep the second my muzzle pressed the pillow.

Friday morning started rather early for us - after all, Molly and I had started the evening with four hours solid sleep on Wakalenga and despite everything we were both awake as the sun rose. She commented idly that this is definitely more comfortable than the beach in the Kanim Islands where we went ashore after the Parsifal sank - and she intended to make the most of it. Oh my. Whatever her faults might have been before arriving at Songmark, she is certainly as good as her word these days - and decidedly generous to share with a friend in need. Lars was a perfect gentleman, and seemed to be none the worse for his rough and tumble the night before (I must stop doing this. I should be Tailfast to Jirry, and if it was up to me I would be.)

Happily there were no interruptions, and the bathwater afterwards was as copious as the night before, although it did not turn red this time. We had more time to work on and clean our wounds with the rest of the bottle of vodka, which is much the best thing to do with the stuff. I hope the room staff do not get the wrong impression when they come to tidy up and see the empty bottles. In fact, if we do get any sort of reward money I owe them an exceedingly generous tip, whether the regular room fees are meant to cover it or not!

By nine we were all respectably dressed except that Lars's suit would probably never recover, and between us we wore more square inches of bandages than many modern bathing suits have in total. I had brief pangs of guilt imagining Mr. Sapohatan and the hotel staff camped outside our door since dawn impatiently looking at their watches. Actually there was nobody there although someone had kindly put a "Do not Disturb" sign on the door of the suite. The cleaners had done a thorough job; no guests were liable to be alarmed by trails of blood coming down the corridors when they made their way down to breakfast today. Outside the rain had stopped and the pavements were steaming; I should not be amazed if some very heavy sleepers or inebriated guests had missed seeing the storm entirely.

Mr. Sapohatan was waiting for us downstairs, where a breakfast buffet was ready in one of the side rooms we hurried into and shut the door before the other guests noticed. We were scarcely dressed for the Marleybone, two of us in rather tattered Native costume and Lars in a suit that was as much rust-red now as white. But the staff looked the other way, and indeed we were ravenously hungry. Crisp bacon and eggs, grilled sausages and kedgeree - I fear I had an appetite like a railway navvy and was very glad that the raiders had paid the bill. One never gets crisp bacon on Spontoon, unless it seems one pays the Marleybone's prices. It was only like Father's tales of setting captured ammunition alight to deny it to the enemy.

Lars was quite calm and said he trusted all had gone well - though he knew better than to really expect an answer. Watching him with Mr. Sapohatan was rather like the tales describe two duellists negotiating their choice of weapon, outwardly very polite but with a very deadly earnest.

The ferret nodded, and agreed that they seemed to have made a clean sweep of that side of the operation. He mentioned that folk were already working in Kuo Han and Shanghai as well as other places trying to follow the trail, but that was quite a different matter. Although I have never been there, the saying is "If God allows Shanghai to endure, he will have apologies to make to Sodom and Gomorrah." Anyway, one might say that the raid here was decisively wiped out; he mentioned to our relief that Maria and Helen are unhurt and will be returning soonest.

Lars smiled pleasantly and announced that he was moving on to other projects, and is selling his controlling interests in anything that is too troublesome. He said one strange thing; that in more troubled times properly placed people could expect new opportunities, and he expected quite a lot of them.

Mr. Sapohatan looked rather sour at that, but agreed. He bowed to us though and said he had no complaints about us, indeed quite the reverse. He asked which of us was most in need of a good word with Songmark - Molly was silent so a second later I nominated her. I know they object strongly to her and Lars, and hope Mr. Sapohatan does not tell them too much about this morning or they will be very unhappy with me as well. It hardly takes a top-class sleuth to ask the laundry maid if it was cat fur, deer fur or both on the sheets.

At any rate, the ferret left us to our breakfast and indeed we had a lot to restore in terms of nerves and otherwise. A side door let us out onto the street though Lars had to leave to get a suit that does not look as if he has been working in emergency accident ward all night. Native dress is more easily repaired and replaced, although we would have been better served last night by something more armoured. When I mentioned that, Molly did point out the little fact that we had been swimming and running across Casino Island, neither of which would be too easy in the leather Sidcot suit I had been wishing for as I went through the window.

Moral: leave it to film stunt-men to jump through glass windows. They are paid and insured for it.

As our Tutors have impressed on us, we had fixed a rendezvous point to use if separated: nowhere is better than home at the Hoele'toemi compound to wait for Helen and Maria. Mrs H was both pleased and shocked to see us, even when I explained our bandages were only on minor cuts and it had all been in a very good cause. She pulled a wry face, then smiled at us - commenting that her sons had chosen Adventuresses rather than stenographers, and were quite aware how adventures take their toll.

Helen and Maria arrived back at tea-time, looking worn to a frazzle having not slept a wink since the raid on Wakalenga started; Maria has not slept all night as she had just handed over when Molly first heard the engines approaching. They had been worried sick about us, as the last time they had news of us was a report we had arrived on Casino Island. Maria was asking for details of the chase, while Helen looked from me to Molly and back again, her ears dipped and her tail bristling. Unlike them, Molly looks very relaxed and contented, and I felt much the same myself. I fear Helen hardly needed to scent us closely to work out some details of our morning, though she did that too - and was very annoyed to find what we had in common. I noticed she had retrieved her Tailfast locket and was wearing it with pride.

Of course, having been so worried about us all day it must have been a shock to discover we had woken in five-star luxury, let alone in company Helen so dislikes. But one must make allowances and their nerves were in a terrible state; Helen was very glad to vanish after supper to the guest longhouse for the duration, while Maria sat by the fire with Molly and myself, drinking palm wine from coconut shell bowls and being very grateful we had got through it all intact, if not quite without a scratch. Poor Maria keeled over completely exhausted after one round, dropping her snout in her bowl as one sees on the Bustard Keaton film comedies - we gently dried her off and carried her to the village women's' hut before retiring early ourselves.

Saturday has been spent relaxing and working in the garden plots. Maria came back with a late issue of the Daily Elele, but there has been nothing reported except "Exercises of the anti-pirate air patrol in the Kanim Islands" which may mean much or little and would plausibly explain seaplanes taking off and performing emergency starts at odd hours.

Definitely, there is a lot happening in these islands that does not get in the papers. I would never have suspected the street cleaners as being involved in such things - but then, they have a lot of unexpected loose ends they are well qualified to tidy away. And someone had to shovel up the raider off the pavement.



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