"I thought Marines knew everything," Rick gibed.
"Almost everything," Scotty corrected.
The jeep moved onto the dirt road and in a moment their own cloud of dust obscured any slight haze that Connel's passing might have left. They were in strange territory now, and Rick slowed down somewhat. Connel had the advantage of lights. They wouldn't be able to gain on him.
"He can't get far," Scotty said reassuringly. "The road goes to San Souci and nowhere else. It can't be much of a town, so we'll find him."
Scotty was right. San Souci wasn't much of a town. There were a handful of fishermen's huts, a dock with a number of fishing boats, racks for drying fish, a single store, and nothing else. There was a paved road leading from the town to the main city of Calor, but Connel hadn't taken it. Nor was the jeep in San Souci.
Rick's halting Spanish was sufficient to communicate with a fisherman who spoke equally halting English. He had been taking the air all evening. No other vehicle had come to San Souci.
"Now what?" Rick asked helplessly.
"He went somewhere," Scotty responded. "And that somewhere has to be a turnoff between here and the pumice works. We must have missed it because we traveled without lights. Let's go back and look."
"I'm with you," Rick agreed. "But wherever he turned off must be a trail, because there are no side roads on the map." He swung the jeep around and started back. He had turned on the headlights as they approached the fishing village; he kept them on.
They found the turnoff about a mile from San Souci. The road widened slightly, and there was an opening in the foliage just wide enough for a car. Twin gateposts of concrete marked the passage. Rick turned the jeep, and the headlights picked out a name cut in the concrete pillars: Casa Guevara.