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to a Hank Williams LP on a portable record player. He had not bothered to question the headmaster. The Roviana man would never be told anything by the local islanders. Nor, with his attitude of benevolent self-interest, would Bulko want to know what was happening, unless it threatened his comfort or well-being.
    Instead Kella had inquired about Peter Oro, the missing schoolboy. Bulko had been typically vague. Yes, the boy was away on personal leave to arrange the funeral of his grandfather. No, he did not know much about the pupil, except that he was both bright and rebellious, but who wasn’t at that age? Wearily the headmaster promised to make inquiries among the teachers who knew the boy.
    Bulko was plainly less than enchanted with his charges. As he poured a beer for the sergeant he embarked upon a litany of complaints.
    â€˜Just because they’ve been selected for higher education they think they need never get their hands dirty again,’ he grumbled. ‘They’ll do anything to avoid working in the gardens. They slope off into the trees and go walkabout, make up sob stories, go sick. Why, last week some of them even broke into the tool store and scattered the gardening equipment all over the place, just to avoid working on the land. We’re still looking for some of the missing stuff.’
    â€˜What a shame,’ sympathized Kella. ‘Especially after the example of unrelenting manual work you set them.’
    â€˜That’s different,’ said Bulko firmly. ‘They only think they’re special. I am special.’
    After the meal, under the cover of darkness, Kella had gone to work, making his way by a circuitous route to the graveyard on the northern boundary of the station. Several hundred white wooden crosses extended over the well-tended ground leading into the trees. Kella crouched behind a bush. For several hours no one approached the cemetery. Even the converted islanders shared the Lau religion’s fear of death. Few would willingly come near the bone-yard after dark.
    It was past midnight before Kella heard approaching footsteps and the creaking of wheels coming from the direction of the mission house. The sergeant shifted his position. He was feeling so stiff that he was sure that some of the corpses around him would be able to give him a start and beat him over a twenty yards sprint.
    Three figures approached through the gloom. One was undoubtedly Sister Conchita in her white robes. She was accompanied by two frightened young island sisters wearing the blue habits of the Daughters of Melanesia. With some difficulty, the American nun was carrying three spades. The two island girls were pushing a wheelbarrow carrying something long and bulky encased in woven mats.
    Kella looked on as the three women started inexpertly to dig a grave. For fifteen minutes they worked doggedly at their task. Maliciously Kella let them get a couple of feet down into the ground. He did not move until the sisters had lowered their spades and were lifting the bundle from the wheelbarrow. Then he stood up and walked quietly towards them. The Melanesians saw him first. They screamed, dropping the mats and their burden. The mats separated, dispersing their contents of darkened bones on the ground.
    â€˜Place im e fall down no good too mas,’ said Kella, making one of his infrequent forays into pidgin. He translated for the benefit of the astounded Sister Conchita. ‘This is a bad place for a man to fall down.’
    The American recovered her self-possession quickly. ‘What is the meaning of this, Sergeant Kella?’ she demanded, in a voice that, for all her visible efforts, she was unable to prevent quavering. ‘You do realize that this is consecrated ground?’
    â€˜An appropriate enough place for a skeleton,’ agreed Kella. He was on his hands and knees, reassembling the framework in some sort of rough order. Sister Conchita was silent for a moment.
    â€˜How . .