In the distance several dogs were barking, and now they heard children’s voices. As Condley looked across the clearing he could see a hundred people emerging from the far trees and walking toward them. A collective, expectant electricity seemed to pulse through them as they walked. They were of all ages. They wore the coarse blue or black pajamas and conical straw non la hats of rural Viet Nam. The little yellow dogs chased among them, yapping at their feet.

“The village is not far from here,” said Colonel Pham, as if explaining their eerie approach. “We are not invited there. Not yet.”

Hanson Muir’s mouth was agape, his eyes transfixed on the villagers. “Brandon, look. There they are.”

Condley followed Muir’s gaze. Walking toward them, mixed among the native villagers, were several half-black children.

The district government officials waved to Colonel Pham and began to walk forward. Condley, Muir, and Colonel Pham followed them to the center of the clearing. They were immediately surrounded by the excited villagers. For several minutes it was impossible to speak. The villagers curiously inspected them, talking to one another about them as if they were frozen statues in a museum. They touched their clothing and their hair and ran their fingers along their skin, conversing in such a thick, slurred rural dialect that Condley had great difficulty understanding their words.

“I thought one of our search teams visited them before,” said Condley in a near-whisper, eyeing the half-black children among them and remembering his conversation with Professor Muir at the Rex Hotel.

“No,” grunted the colonel. “I will be honest with you, because I made them explain this. They brought that search team to a different place. Another village, nearer to the road, where the black American did not live. The children from this village heard about the visit and some of them went down there to spy on the foreigners. The children were playing. Your people saw them only by accident.”

A thin, bent-legged old man with a wispy white beard, obviously the village chief, moved to the front of the villagers, leaning on a cane as he walked. He wore gray shorts and a faded green soldier’s shirt. He had a serious, etched face. Even at his advanced age his eyes burned brightly with a discerning curiosity. He stared at Condley and then Muir for a long time, saying nothing. And then finally he turned to Colonel Pham.

“We have nothing for them,” he said, turning his palms upside down in a helpless gesture as his clever eyes danced on Pham’s face.

Another negotiation, thought Condley wearily, giving Hanson Muir a secret, cynical glance. Another little toll booth.

“What do they want, Colonel?”

The villagers erupted in surprised laughter, recognizing for the first time that Condley spoke Vietnamese. The old man’s face brightened momentarily, and he addressed Condley.

“We want nothing. Only to be left alone.”