Drug of Choice

13. EAST OF SAN CRISTOBAL

His first sensation was of the air: it was clear and warm and redolent of foreign scents, strange spices. Though the sun was setting behind the far hills of the island, and the sky beginning to deepen to purple, the air remained warm, with a mild breeze. He breathed deeply and looked around him.

The dock was thronged with porters and passengers and baggage, but looking up from the dock he could see a smooth white beach, with the water lapping gently against the land. Farther back was a structure which appeared to be the hotel. He could not see the tennis courts and swimming pools which he had seen in the photograph in the ad, and he assumed they were farther back inland.

Though newly constructed, the hotel had a quaint appearance; it had been built in a rather Spanish manner, with graceful arches leading into small gardens and terraces. There were flowers everywhere, lending smell as well as color to the scene. Sharon clapped her hands. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Clark had to agree that it was, but as he looked around, it seemed to him that something was wrong. He could not define it for several minutes, but then, as he walked up the dock with Sharon, it struck him.

“Kind of deserted,” he said. “Nobody on the beach. Nobody much around the hotel. It’s almost as if—”

“Probably,” Sharon said, “everybody is inside changing for dinner. A day in this sun can be exhausting, you know.”

“But the beach is smooth. There isn’t a footprint or—

“Silly. They brush it down.”

“They what?”

“Every night. They brush it down. Men come along with big brushes and sort of comb it. Like a horse.”

“Oh.”

As he came up to the hotel, he decided that his impression was incorrect. While registering at the desk, he could faintly hear the thwock! of tennis balls, a game being played on some distant court; and he could hear splashing and laughter from a pool.

At the desk, he left Sharon, following his own porter to his room. It was a pleasant single room overlooking the beach and the dock; directly beneath his balcony was a courtyard with a bar and a polished wooden floor. Undoubtedly it was used for dancing in the evening.

The room was comfortably furnished with a bed, a desk, and a television….

He paused. A television?

This island must be hundreds of miles from the nearest television station. They could not possibly hope to receive—

Abruptly, the screen glowed to life. It was a color set; he found himself staring at a pleasant, white-haired man in formal attire.

“Good evening, Dr. Clark,” the man said. “I am your manager, Mr. Lefevre. Allow me to take this opportunity to welcome you personally to Eden Island. I hope that in the next few days we can make your stay with us truly memorable. If there is anything which is not to your utmost satisfaction, please do not hesitate to report it to me. The television, by the way, is closed-circuit; feature films are shown twice a day at seven and ten. The waiter will be arriving at your room shortly with a drink and a bowl of fruit. Please accept it with our compliments, and our best wishes for a pleasant stay here.”

The screen went blank.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, and there was a knock at the door. A boy in a red jacket with gold buttons came in with a drink on a silver tray in one hand, and a bowl of fruit in the other.

“Compliments of the management, Dr. Clark,” he said. “If you need anything further, please call us.”

Clark reached into his pocket for a tip.

“No sir, thank you anyway,” the boy said, and closed the door as he left.

Clark looked at the fruit basket, and then at the drink. It was a rather peculiar drink, foamy and orange with cherries in the bottom. There was a small card alongside it, on the tray.

“Mango punch is a specialty of the island. It has been a native favorite for centuries. Enjoy it with our compliments.”

He sipped it cautiously: it was tangy, bittersweet, and very strong. He took a second sip, and decided he liked it.

He took the drink onto the balcony and sat down in a comfortable deck chair, and propped his legs up on the railing. From here, he could look down over the bar and the dance floor, and out to the dock, where the sailboats rocked gently in the soft wind as night fell. It was peaceful and quiet, though he could still hear the distant sound of a tennis game, and an occasional whoop of laughter from the pool.

It was, he decided, going to be an extremely pleasant vacation.

The telephone rang, and he was about to go inside to answer it when he saw there was an extension on the balcony.

“They think of everything,” he said, and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Roger? Sharon. Listen, isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it the most wonderful place you’ve ever been? Have you tasted the mango punch?”