Yonatan, swept by an obscure longing, laid a pensive hand on Azariah’s shoulder. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “Isn’t it, pal?” Udi urged that they all hurry back to the kibbutz and report what they had seen to Etan R., who was in charge of security. Despite their haste, the hikers remembered to take along their mushrooms and relics, not to mention a small turtle found by Azariah after the storming of the mosque. Lovingly, secretly, he had named it Little John.

Etan R. telephoned the police, who immediately notified the border patrol and regional army headquarters. The Saturday ended in general commotion. Someone suggested asking the air force for a small observation plane while there was still enough light to see by. Before nightfall, patrols had been sent out to comb the deserted village, the orchards of the kibbutz, and the three wadis that ran down from it. The depth of the mud impeded the search, and by the time darkness came not even the bloodhounds had managed to come up with anything. Etan R. proposed pushing on with the aid of artillery flares. On Udi’s advice, the kibbutz doubled its guard force and switched on the large searchlight atop the water tower.

“I’m the one,” said Azariah, “who first realized he was out there. Don’t forget I warned you the very minute we set out.”

“With a little luck we could have bagged him easy,” said Udi.

“We could have,” said Yonatan, “but we didn’t.”

“You’re all tired,” said Rimona. “Let’s get some rest.”

At three o’clock that same afternoon, before the first of the border patrol’s olive-green jeeps had arrived, the hikers had sat down to drink coffee at Udi and Anat’s before turning in for a sabbath nap. Udi did most of the talking, conducting a post-mortem of his unsuccessful blitz. The whole thing, he estimated, had taken no more than forty seconds. Rimona listened as if following another story altogether. She sat quietly on the mat, absorbed in herself, the calves of her bent legs resting against Yonatan and her shoulders against Azariah, who strove furtively to match her slow breathing with his own.

Around them, weedy plants grew from empty shell cartridges. Copper coffee mugs of all shapes and sizes, some sooty black, some silvery bright, stood on the shelves. An ancient nargileh adorned the coffee table, as did a charred helmet, from which there branched a wandering Jew. Several curved, oriental daggers jutted out from the inside of the front door. Hanging from the ceiling on a machine-gun belt was a chandelier of three light bulbs set in defused hand grenades. The mats and low stools were of wicker. A copper tray ornamented with Arab calligraphy, set on an old ammunition box, served as a table. Anat served coffee in little black cups that gave off a steamy smell of cardamom.