“We don't see many Americans here in Skaalshavn,” she said, speaking English with a Scandinavian lilt. “Welcome.”

“I hope I'm not the last.”

“Gunnar lives up there on the hill. Just follow that little road.” She smiled again. “I hope you have a good visit.”

Austin thanked her once more, got back in the car and followed a pair of gravel ruts for about a quarter of a mile. The road ended at a large grass-roofed house built of vertical, dark chocolate-colored planking. A pickup truck was parked in the drive. A hundred yards down the slope was a smaller twin of the main house. Austin climbed the porch stairs and knocked.

The man who answered the door was of medium height and slightly on the portly side. He had an apple-round face and cheeks, and thin strands of reddish-blond hair combed over his bald head. “Ja,” he said with a pleasant smile.

“Mr. Jepsen?” Austin said. “My name is Kurt Austin. I'm a friend of Professor Jorgensen's.”

“Mr. Austin. Come in.” He pumped Kurt's hand like a used-car salesman greeting a prospect. Then he ushered him into a rustic liv- ing room. “Dr. Jorgensen phoned and said you were coming. It's a long drive from Torshavn,” Jepsen said. “Would you like a drink?” “Not now, thanks. Maybe later.”

Jepsen nodded and said, “You're here to do a little fishing?” “I've heard you can catch fish on dry land in the Faroes.” “Not quite,” Jepsen said with a grin, “but almost as good.”

“I was doing some ship salvage work in Torshavn and thought fishing would be a good way to relax.”

“Ship salvage? Austin.” He swore in Faroese. “I should have known. You're the American who saved the Danish sailors. I saw it on the television. Miraculous! Wait 'til the people in the village learn I am entertaining a celebrity.”

“I was hoping I wouldn't be bothered.”

“Of course, but it will be impossible to keep your visit a secret from the townspeople.”

“I met one of them outside the church. She seemed nice enough.”

“That would be the minister's widow. She's the postmistress and head gossip. Everyone will know you're here by now.”

“Is that the professor's cottage down the hill?”

“Yes,” Jepsen said, removing a key ring from a nail in the wall. “Come, I'll show you.” Austin got his duffel from the car. As they walked down the hard-packed path, Jepsen said, “You're a good friend of Dr. Jorgensen?”

“I met him a few years ago. His reputation as a fish scientist is world-known.”

“Yes, I know. I was very honored to have him here. Now you.”

They stopped in front of the cottage, whose porch offered a view of the harbor, where a picturesque fleet of fishing boats was anchored.

“Are you a fisherman, Mr. Jepsen?”

“In a little place like this, you survive by doing many things. I rent out my cottage. My expenses aren't great.”