"A plane," the adjutant said, "a spotter plane. We have got police planes, haven't we?"
"We could ask a starfighter to do a bit of spotting," de Gier said.
"No," the adjutant said, "they are fools. They fly at a million miles an hour and all they have learned to do is strafe. If we ask them to help us they will dive at every pleasure yacht and at every fishing boat and people will dive overboard and drown and we'll never hear the end of it. The spotter planes are just what we need. Let's get to the launch and raise the airport on the mainland radio."
It wasn't as easy as the adjutant thought. Of the two available police planes one was being serviced. Of the four available pilots one had taken a day off, one had reported sick, and the other two couldn't be found. It took an hour for the plane to take off. The adjutant fretted and the sergeant made coffee. Grijpstra fussed with his pistol, which had jammed. Only de Gier felt happy, he was sitting on the roof of the launch cabin and admiring the view. It was nine o'clock in the morning and the sky was clear with only a few clouds drifting above the island. The starfighters had disappeared, having been asked by the police of the airport to clear off for a while so as not to bother the spotter plane.
"I thought you were all upset," Grijpstra said. He had managed to get his pistol in working order again and was feeling better.
"I have forgiven you," de Gier said.
"Thanks. Maybe I should have let you know, but he wouldn't have harmed you. You looked too innocent, sitting on that log in your duffelcoat."
"He gave me a piece of goat's cheese," de Gier said.
"Was it nice?"
"Wonderful," de Gier said. "It had a delicate taste. He had made it himself from milk that came from his own goats."
"Sha," Grijpstra said, and shuddered.
"No, really, it was delicious. We get spoiled in the city, you know."
Grijpstra had climbed on the cabin's roof and sat looking around him. He was mumbling.
"Goat's cheese," Grijpstra said. "I suppose he picks stinging nettles and boils soup with them. I have a niece who does that. A nature girl, goes all the way to France to run about naked."
"Good-looking girl?" de Gier asked.
"Not bad," Grijpstra said. "Look, there's our plane."
The spotter plane, a small Piper Cub, was gaining height.
"I could have been a pilot," de Gier said.
"No," Grijpstra interrupted. "Let's not have your fancies today. You might not enjoy it, you know, up mere in a mechanical fly. I was in one of them once."
"Yes? What was it like?"
"First I got scared, and later I fell asleep. You can't see much. Too high. You see a lot of green land and little cars."
"Yes," de Gier said. "I have been in a plane. Everybody has. But not in a little plane, don't tell me it wasn't an adventure."
"It wasn't. And the window wouldn't close, there was a draft."
"A draft," de Gier said, and shook his head.
Grijpstra pulled up his legs and clasped his arms around his knees. The sun was beginning to warm them. "Not bad," he said approvingly, "a lot better than all that mud. And those birds, they were really making me nervous. I don't mind them in the zoo, you can always get away from them. Holland was full of birds once, they say, billions of them. The whole country was marshland. Good thing we built dikes and drained the swamps. Imagine, living in a swamp with a billion birds flapping around and diving at you like that ballwit which had a go at you."
"Peewit."
"Peewit. Funny-looking bird. Some of them look all right but I still wouldn't like to live right in the middle of a whole flock of them, in a hut. The old tribes must have lived in huts, they were probably flooded twice a week." Grijpstra sneezed.
"And they had colds," de Gier said, "and diarrhea."
"Yes. So have I. And these damned oilcloth trousers. I couldn't get them off properly."
De Gier began to laugh. Grijpstra turned around, looking hurt.
"Listen," de Gier said.
Adjutant Buisman was talking to the pilot on the radio. "A small yacht," he was saying, "white mainsail and white foresail, only one foresail. The foresail has two patches in it, large patches, you should be able to see them."
"I only see a fishing boat," the pilot said.
"No markings on the yacht's sails. The boat we want is some thirty feet long, built of oak."
"Thanks," the pilot said. "Oak, you say. How do I spot oak from here?"
"Brown wood."
The radio crackled for a while.
"I am going east," the pilot said, "there's nothing this side except a fishing boat and a very expensive looking blue yacht. There is a girl at the rudder, I think. A pretty girl maybe."
"What's your rank?" Buisman asked.
"Sergeant, and yours?"
"Adjutant," Buisman said.
"Adjutant is higher."
"Go east," Buisman said.
"Sir."
"Here," the pilot said after a few minutes. "Small yacht, thirty feet. One man in it, or perhaps there is somebody in the cabin."
"Our man wears a green suit, a ranger's uniform."
"Green suit," the pilot confirmed. "I am very low now, shall I scare him?"
"Turn a few circles," Buisman said. "Can we have his position?"
"Just a minute," the pilot said. "Bring out your map, I am trying to find mine."
The water-police sergeant moved a lever and the launch picked up speed suddenly. Grijpstra began to slide toward de Gier who couldn't hold him and they landed up together on the small afterdeck, next to the sergeant.
"Let us know next time, will you?" Grijpstra said gruffly, picking himself up.
"Sorry," the sergeant said. "I got excited. Maybe we'll have a nice chase."
The launch went into a steep curve and its engine roared.
"Don't get too close," de Gier said. "He's got a shotgun."
"What have we got?" Grijpstra asked.
"I am not armed," Buisman said. "Do you have anything in the launch, sergeant?"
"A carbine, and I have a pistol."
"Three pistols and a carbine against a shotgun," de Gier said. "That should be enough."
The radio had been talking to them but nobody was listening.
"Hello," it shouted.
"Yes, pilot," Buisman said.
"Do you want the position or don't you?"
"Please."
They found the position on their map and the sergeant looked grim. The launch was going at full speed now, planing on the sea's calm surface, its two propellers churning the water behind into deep swirling eddies, its engine going at a steady low roar. De Gier was holding on to the cabin, trying to see everything at the same time and getting so excited that he was having trouble breathing. Buisman was arming the carbine, his eyes contracted into slits, and even Grijpstra felt the sensation of the hunt and was beginning to forget the pain in his lungs and the burning of his bowels.
"Hello," the radio shouted.
"Go ahead," Buisman said.
"He is going to Englishman's Bank," the pilot said. "I can see both of you now but you can't cut him off. He is very close already, his engine is going and he has lowered his mainsail. I'll dive at him."
"No," Buisman shouted, "he has got a shotgun."
"That what it is, is it? He is pointing something at me now."
"Get away," Buisman shouted.
"I have got away. What do you want me to do now?"
The launch was turning around the southern tip of the island and suddenly they saw both the yacht and the Piper Cub.
"Go home," the adjutant said. "We can see him. I don't think there's anything you can do now."
"O.K.," the pilot said.
"Thanks, sergeant, you've been a great help."
"You are welcome," the radio said. "Out.'
"We can't go any faster," the water-police sergeant said, "and he is almost there."