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cream-coloured nun’s habit. She nodded and smiled gravely at me, standing aside to admit a languid young Sinhalese whose portly frame was draped in an elegant white suit. Around his neck was a stethoscope on which the fingers of his right hand seemed to be playing a tune. His round, handsome face stared rather sardonically at me. He glanced at the watch on his plump wrist. “Not bad. Almost exactly on time.”
    My first attempt at speaking was not very successful. My second was better. “You,” I said, “or me?”
    “Both of us.” He took a silver case from his pocket and opened it, offering the cigarettes to me. I showed him my bandaged hands. He smiled apologetically. “The nurse will light it for you if you want one.”
    “Not now. Thanks.”
    He lit a cigarette for himself. “Well, you’re on the mend I’m glad to say. We put you in this room because your shouting kept the other patients awake. You’re an airshipman, are you?”
    “I am,” I said. “I was on an airship which crashed.” I told him my name and what had happened to me. I asked where I was.
    “I’m Dr. Hira. This is St. Charles’ Hospital, Rowe Island.” He smiled ironically. “I can see you’ve never heard of Rowe Island. Few have. Perhaps that’s why the war hasn’t touched us directly. Nobody passes this way either by air or by sea. In a few more months I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re the last outpost of civilization on the globe.” He drew heavily on his cigarette and glanced out of the window at the harbour. The Pakistani nurse got extra pillows and helped me sit up.
    “If you can call this civilization,” said Hira. “Are you hungry?”
    “Very.”
    “Good.” Hira patted the shy nun on the shoulder. “Fetch the patient some soup, my dear.”
    When the nurse had gone, closing the door behind her, I gestured with my bandaged hands. “I thought this whole bloody place was a mirage, at first.”
    Hira shrugged. “Maybe it is. A pretty run-down dream, though. You survived Singapore, eh?”
    “It’s hard to believe it really happened,” I said.
    “It happened. We heard.”
    “So there’s some communication with the outside world?”
    “The mine people took all the decent equipment when they left. It was the news of Singapore that caused the evacuation. A needless panic as it turned out.”
    “I see. So there’s no way of contacting, say, Darwin?”
    “We’ve a radio which occasionally works. Hand-cranked thing.”
    “And those dhows are the only means of leaving the island. No ships of any kind?”
    “Not any more, Mr. Bastable. The mine people scuttled our only steamer with some idea of stopping the island being used as a base for enemy shipping.” Hira pointed out of the window at the harbour where the rusting superstructure of the wreck could still be seen.
    “So I’m stuck here unless the radio can be made to work. You said it was ‘hand-cranked’. Haven’t you any proper power?”
    “No more fuel. We use oil-lamps for lighting now.”
    “When is there a chance of my getting a message to Darwin?”
    “That depends on the state of the radio and the state of Underwood, the operator. I’ll ask someone to go up to the airpark tomorrow and see if Underwood is sober enough to work the radio. That’s about the best I can do. Eager to get back into the fray, eh?”
    I looked suspiciously at him, trying to detect irony in a face which now regarded me blandly.
    “I’ve a duty,” I said. “They’ll need experienced airmen, after all.”
    “I’m sure they will. I must be off on my rounds now. See you soon, Mr. Bastable.”
    Hira raised the stethoscope in a kind of salute and left the room.
    I sank back into the bed and sighed. An old radio and a drunken operator. I was pessimistic about my immediate chances of leaving Rowe Island.
    * * *
    A week went by and every day I grew stronger. I was making a splendid recovery from what had been a very serious case of exposure. But I also grew more and more