Kotak Field was sticky with humid heat. They walked to the small open shack that was marked KASTOM in roughly painted letters. To one side of the building was a wooden fence and a gate marked with a red hand-print and a sign that said, NOGOT ROT.

“Ah, nougat rot,” Bradley said. “Must be a local tooth problem.”

“Actually,” Sanjong said, “the red hand means kapu. ‘Forbidden.’ The sign says ‘No Got Right,’ which is Pidgin for ‘You don’t have permission to pass.’”

“Huh. I see.”

Evans found the heat almost unbearable. He was tired after the long plane ride, and anxious about what lay ahead of them. Alongside him, Jennifer walked casually, seemingly fresh and energetic. “You’re not tired?” Evans said to her.

“I slept on the plane.”

He looked back at Sarah. She, too, seemed to have plenty of energy, striding forward.

“Well, I’m pretty tired.”

“You can sleep in the car,” Jennifer said. She didn’t seem very interested in his condition. He found it a little irritating.

And it was certainly debilitatingly hot and humid. By the time they reached the customs house, Evans’s shirt was soaked. His hair was wet. Sweat was dripping off his nose and chin onto the papers he was supposed to fill out. The pen from the ink ran in the puddles of his sweat. He glanced up at the customs officer, a dark, muscular man with curly hair and wearing pressed white trousers and a white shirt. His skin was dry; he looked almost cool. He met Evans’s eyes, and smiled. “Oh, waitman, dis no taim bilong san. You tumas hotpela.”

Evans nodded. “Yes, true,” he said. He had no idea what the man had said.

Sanjong translated. “It’s not even the hot time of summer. But you’re too much hot. You tumas hot. Ya?”

“He got that right. Where’d you learn Pidgin?”

“New Guinea. I worked there a year.”

“Doing what?”

But Sanjong was hurrying on with Kenner, who was waving to a young man who had driven up in a Land Rover. The man jumped out. He was dark, wearing tan shorts and a T-shirt. His shoulders were covered in tattoos. His grin was infectious. “Hey, Jon Kanner! Hamamas klok!” He pounded his chest with his fist and hugged Kenner.

“He has a happy heart,” Sanjong said. “They know each other.”

The newcomer was introduced all around as Henry, with no other name. “Hanri!” he said, grinning broadly, pumping their hands. Then he turned to Kenner.

“I understand there is trouble with the helicopter,” Kenner said.

“What? No trabel. Me got klostu long.” He laughed. “It’s just over there, my friend,” he said, in perfectly accented British English.

“Good,” Kenner said, “we were worried.”

“Yas, but serious Jon. We better hariyap. Mi yet harim planti yangpelas, krosim, pasim birua, got plenti masket, noken stap gut, ya?”

Evans had the impression Henry was speaking Pidgin so the rest of them would not understand.

Kenner nodded. “I heard that, too,” he said. “Lots of rebels here. They’re mostly young boys? And angry? And well armed. Figures.”

“I worry for the helicopter, my friend.”

“Why? Do you know something about the pilot?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why? Who is the pilot?”

Henry giggled, and slapped Kenner on the back. “I am!”

“Well, then, we should go.”

They all started down the road, away from the airfield. The jungle rose up on both sides of the road. The air buzzed with the sound of cicadas. Evans looked back with longing at the beautiful white Gulf-stream jet, poised on the runway against a blue sky. The pilots in their white shirts and black trousers were checking the wheels. He wondered if he would ever see the airplane again.

Kenner was saying, “And we heard, Henry, some people were killed?”

Henry made a face. “No just killed, Jon. Olpela. Ya?”

“So we heard.”

“Ya. Distru.”

So it was true. “The rebels did it?”

Henry nodded. “Oh! this new chif, him name Sambuca, like a drink. Don’t ask why this name. Him crazy man, Jon. Longlong man tru. Everything back to olpela for dis guy. Old ways are better. Allatime allatime.”

“Well, the old ways are better,” Ted Bradley said, trudging along behind, “if you ask me.”

Henry turned. “You got cell phones, you got computers, you got antibiotics, medicines, hospitals. And you say the old ways are better?”

“Yes, because they are,” Bradley said. “They were more human, they allowed more of the human texture to life. Believe me, if you ever had a chance to experience these so-called modern miracles yourself, you would know that they’re not so great—”

“I got a degree at the University of Melbourne,” Henry said. “So I have some familiarity.”

“Oh, well, then,” Bradley said. And under his breath, he muttered, “Might have told me. Asshole.”

“By the way,” Henry said, “take my advice, don’t do that here. Don’t talk under your breath.”

“Why not?”

“In this country, some pelas think it means you’ve been possessed by a demon and they’ll get scared. And they might kill you.”

“I see. Charming.”

“So, in this country, if you have something to say, you speak up!”

“I’ll remember that.”

Sarah walked alongside Bradley, but she was not listening to the conversation. Henry was a character, caught between worlds, sometimes speaking in an Oxbridge accent, sometimes dropping into Pidgin. It didn’t bother her.

She was looking at the jungle. The air on the road was hot and still, trapped between the huge trees that rose up on both sides of the path. The trees were forty, fifty feet high, covered in twisted vines. And at ground level, in the darkness beneath the canopy above, huge ferns grew so thickly they presented an impenetrable barrier, a solid green wall.

She thought: You could walk five feet into that and get lost forever. You’d never find your way out again.

Along the road were the rusted hulks of long-abandoned cars, windshields smashed, chassis crumpled and corroded brown and yellow. As she walked past she saw ripped upholstery, old dashboards with clocks and speedometers ripped out, leaving gaping holes.

They turned right onto a side path and she saw the helicopter ahead. She gasped. It was beautiful, painted green with a crisp white stripe, the metal blades and struts gleaming. Everybody commented on it.

“Yes, the outside is good,” Henry said. “But I think the inside, the engine, maybe is not so good.” He wiggled his hand. “So so.”

“Great,” Bradley said. “Speaking for myself, I’d prefer it the other way around.”

They opened the doors to get in. In the back were stacks of wooden crates, with sawdust. They smelled of grease. “I got the supplies you wanted,” he said to Kenner.

“And enough ammunition?”

“Oh ya. All things you asked for.”

“Then we can go,” Kenner said.

In the back, Sarah buckled her belt. She put on headphones. The engines whined, and the blades spun faster. The helicopter shuddered as it started to lift off. “We have too many people,” Henry said, “so we will have to hope for the best! Cross your fingers!”

And giggling maniacally, he lifted off into the blue sky.