We flew south to Quito in one of the fast new jets of the Canadian Pacific Airlines and from there to the Galapagos in a much less comfortable Ecuadorean Air Force transport plane. The air-strip on Baltra Island, so busy during World War II, lay neglected and forlorn among the lava blocks and scrub. From it to the Governor's house on Chatham Island, we rode first by motor launch and then in a rusty old jeep, probably another relic of that war or subsequent lend-lease. "I wish I could see a tortoise," I said, clinging desperately to the struts of the canvas top as we bounded through clouds of dust from the jeep ahead. "They're probably all in zoos now," Pat said, mopping cautiously at her face where the makeup was slowly melting in the steamy tropical heat. "You couldn't see one anyway in this dust." It was a little cooler on the screened-in porch of the residence. The Governor, a fat little man who looked like the caricature of a Mexican snoozing under a tree, fussed around all the important visitors. With obvious pride he produced cold drinks from what was probably the only refrigerator on the island. I took a long draught of beer, settled back with a sigh and looked out over Wreck Bay. "Hey! There's the fishing boat." I sat up again excitedly and pointed it out to Pat. The officials exchanged nods and smiles. It was the boat ... the first test of identification was over. An hour later we went aboard although there was nothing to see that could be of use in solving the case. All the tanks intended for holding fish were empty and had been flushed with sea water. One tank held fish when the ship was captured, probably as camouflage. There was a well-equipped laboratory but that had been explained away as necessary for marine biology research. There was absolutely no clue. No trace of aerosol bombs or other apparatus for holding the virus had been found. Ashore again, we were taken to see the prisoners, watching them through peepholes as they exercised in the small jailyard. Almost at once Pat shook me and tried to point through the little peephole before she realized how silly that was. "Did you see that tall man on crutches?" "Yes, it's the one I tossed on the deck." "And there's the second man, and ... look over to the right there, by the wall! That's the leader, I'm sure of it!" "Wait till he comes closer," I said, "but I think you're right." The crew members were circling around the yard, getting exercise under supervision of the guards. As they came closer to our hiding place there was no doubt. Yellow-hair and his pals were there. One by one, the three Slavs were called in to stand before us. The blond leader was first. I thought his eyes widened a little when he saw me. There must certainly have been despair in his heart when he realized that they were not being held as poachers, but his control was admirable. "Do you know these people?" The question was in English. "No." "You never saw them before?" "No."