The Death’s Head Conspiracy

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The island of Mumura was like a tiny green jewel set in the deep blue velvet of the South Pacific. Tucked away in the corner of the Tuamotu Archipelago, Mumura was one of the few Polynesian islands not subjected to missionaries and civilization. The Mumuran people were still free in the fullest sense of the word. No one had put constricting shoes on their feet or covered the fine brown breasts of their women. Some five hundred of them in all, they were unaware of the paradise that was their island, for they had known nothing else.

Almost the entire population waited now on the golden beach as a motor launch sliced through the gentle breakers toward their shore. In the bow of this foreign craft stood Atu, tall and straight and unafraid of the speed of the craft or the roaring engine, as befitted a chief.

As the launch swerved to a standstill a few yards off shore the men ran down to their chief, while the women remained up on the beach laughing excitedly among themselves and cautioning the children not to get in the way.

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