Within hours, most of America and a good part of the rest of the world had learned not only the name of Howland Island but its exact longitude and latitude, its proximity to the other features of the Pacific Ocean, its history, its geologic composition, its native flora and fauna, its boobies and terns, its guano pits and Polynesian rats, its poverty of fresh water, and its general capability for supporting human life for various lengths of time.

Within a day, the U.S. Navy had dispatched a ship north-northwest at full steam, along with a reporter and a photographer from United Press International, on the express orders of Mr. George Morrow.

As evening fell on Howland Island, the twenty-third of August (Howland squatting there on the other side of the International Date Line, remember), the USS Farragut plowed through the ocean a hundred and fifty miles away, and Sam and Irene lay side by side on the sand of the island’s windward side, listening to the surf—there seemed to be some weather out there on the wide blue sea, somewhere—and watching the stars. They returned to the question of whether they would ever be rescued, whether they would live out their lives on these thousand acres.

“God forbid,” Irene said. “Think about your daughter.”

“Except for Pixie, sure.”

“And flying. Sure would be nice to go up in the air again.”

“That too.”

This evening there had been none of the usual banter between them, keeping up spirits. Irene busied herself with the distilling apparatus. Sam cooked the crabs in their shells. They ate and drank almost without speaking, because food and water were now precious things, in short supply, and required some concentration. As the sky darkened, Irene had thought Sam looked like a shaman, poking his stick into the glowing ashes, not saying a word. Eventually he settled back in the sand. When the last ember died, Sandy stalked between them, washed herself thoroughly, and curled up next to Sam’s ribs.

Finally Irene spoke. “Did you see that pack of dolphins swimming to the north this afternoon?”

“Pod. Pod of dolphins. Yep, I saw them.” He laid down the stick and looked at her. “They’ll catch up with us soon. The navy, I mean, not the dolphins.”

“Oh, I know they will. It’s just funny they haven’t shown up yet, that’s all. It’s not like we’re hiding or anything.”

“Yeah, it’s funny, all right. Won’t be too much longer, though. We’ll be on our way, back to civilization.”

“A hot bath would be grand. Chicken dinner, mashed potatoes. About a pound of butter melting on top. Tall glass of cold lemonade, all you can drink.”

“All of that,” he said, “but I’m sure going to miss these stars. Won’t you?”

Irene looked up at the spangled sky. “Yes.”