“It’s classified, sir,” said the sailor, becoming suddenly official. “I’m not allowed to tell you. We have a joint communications facility with the Aussie Navy. The town itself sort of feeds off us. If you look hard at the map and think submarines, you know why we’re here. The Indian Ocean ends just to our north, funneling naval traffic all the way down from the Asian mainland so that it has to cruise between Australia and the Indonesian Islands. I mean, you’ve got the Straits of Malacca up there at the end of the Malaysian peninsula, and down here, unless you want to go all the way around the west coast of Australia toward Antarctica, you have to pass us. So if they’re transiting east to west or west to east, no matter where they start and no matter where they end up, they pass through this bottleneck.”

“So you watch them,” said Condley.

“Mostly we listen.” The sailor shrugged, retreating into his Navy-regulation pose. “Sorry, that’s all I can really say. It’s classified.”

“Lovely place,” said Muir sarcastically, looking out the window at the persistent scrub that surrounded them. “A marvel of tranquillity.”

“Best skin diving in the world,” said the sailor. “But if you don’t swim, forget it. Take a jog every now and then. Learn to like Foster’s. Sit around, waiting for your weekend every month or so in Perth trying to get laid.”

The road curved, and the blistered little town appeared suddenly to their front. Except for them, the road was completely empty of traffic, as if the entire little town went indoors during the day to escape the baking heat. Muir was all business now, his briefcase open on his lap, studying a map and looking out the windows for landmarks.

“Well, at least we know why he left home,” said the professor.

Condley chuckled. “Yeah, some sailor probably snaked his girl.”

“Oh, no,” protested the sailor as they began to pass blocks of weary-looking, dilapidated shacks. “Don’t date the townies. Unless you want to get married, that is. The dads out here shoot to kill.”

“There it is,” said Muir, checking the map on his lap and then pointing out the window toward an old one-story cinder-block building. A small sign was posted in its yard:

JOSEPH McHENRY, JOSEPH McHENRY, JR.
DENTAL SERVICES

“Objective number one,” announced Muir. “Pull in there, would you, Alfred?”