of the ship with the captain.
“See the man next to the captain on the bridge?” Waltham asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“His name is—or was—Ian Saxon. He was an ex-Aussie Navy man who ran coastal freighters out of Melbourne. He’s the one who finally recovered the lens from Torres Island. Only thing is, the day before the ship sailed, old Ian choked on an egg roll in a Chinese restaurant and went toes up at dinner. The ship and the lens sailed for Melbourne the next day without him, and that is the last I ever heard of it.”
“Well, that is not quite like having a spare bulb!”
“Hold on, junior. Those pictures are nice, but I think the pages will be more—pardon the pun—enlightening,” Waltham said with that now-familiar sly smile of his.
I dropped the photos and pulled the papers out of the file folder.
“Check out that shipping invoice from the steamship company, and look at the signature of the captain at the bottom.”
“Holy shit!” I yelled.
“Name ring a bell?”
“Singer!” I shouted in total amazement. “His name was Singer! Captain Stanley Singer!”
“Looks like lighthouses are in your family blood.”
Half an hour later, the familiar sound of an airplane engine came from the north. It was my ride. The Cessna 185 on floats made an arcing turn to parallel the shore and touched down out of the swell at the mouth of the river. It was obvious he had done the landing a few times before.
I smiled as I watched the landing. I don’t get to see many of my own, and I thought to myself, “This is why we fly these things, because they can get to places like Dalvalo.”
Waltham rowed me out to where the pilot anchored the plane. It had been a hell of a couple of days. I remembered that opening line from Star Trek: “To boldly go where no one has gone before.” I thought I had just done that.
Waltham greeted the pilot and introduced me. Then we ferried my gear from the dugout to the aft compartment of the plane.
“The flight is on me and the happy citizens of Dalvalo, who were inspired by your message. We will be praying that you find your light. I expect an invitation to the lighting up of that lighthouse of yours, and I warn you, so will Parfait.”
“If I find the other Mr. Singer and the light, I will send you a ticket,” I said.
“Be careful about promises like that. We Keedos can turn anything into religion,” he said. “Seriously, though, I thank you on behalf of my people for your understanding of our struggle to hang on. I know our way of life doesn’t scratch the surface in this high-tech world, but I believe it is worth saving. I would rather we believe in Captain Keed and his return than see them all turn into a generation of fry cooks for expanding fast-food restaurants.”
With that, he pulled a weathered old baseball cap out of his knapsack. It was sealed in a plastic bag. On the front of the cap was written VP 23, and there was a patch of a PBY sewn above the bill.
“It belonged to Captain Keed,” Waltham said. “It is a gift from all your friends on Dalvalo. Think of us when you wear it, and if you run into our leader in your travels, tell him to get his ass back here. We are still waiting.” Waltham gave me a huge hug and stepped back into the dugout.
“Permission for a fly over Sacola,” I said as I changed hats and put on my new prized possession. I snapped my right hand up to the brim.
“Permission granted,” Waltham said and returned the salute.
We taxied down the shore, turned back, and took off above Waltham. I watched him wave from his dugout as we climbed toward the volcano. The morning clouds were just beginning to form, but the rim of the crater was clearly visible, as was the procession of villagers walking, antlike, down the path and back to Huakelle. They all stopped and waved as we flew over.
At the top of the mountain, the pilot lined up the runway and made a low approach about twenty feet off the ground until he was abeam of the tower. Then he pulled back on the stick and climbed. As I looked out the window of the plane, I saw the bull’s-eye lens in the tower had been covered up with the canvas again. The high priests patrolled the catwalk,