"What are you going to do with them?" I asked the senior American officer after lunch.
"We have practically convinced the Ecuadoreans that these people are really saboteurs, but naturally nobody is going to say anything about that. Our Latin friends are past masters of the art of 'mañana'—I think they could give the Russians and Chinese lessons in procrastination. They have agreed to hold the ship as long as they can on the poaching charge. If neither the Japs nor the Soviets claim it, that could mean indefinitely. I think it's too late to do much good," he concluded thoughtfully. "The epidemic is already out of control down here. The health services are too small and the distances too great, to say nothing of the lack of education of many of the people, ever to stop a pandemic without outside help. We in the States used to send aid but this time we have our own hands full."
"It sounds pretty hopeless."
"It is. Thank God the measlepox isn't here too or this continent would go back to the jungle."
Back in Quito I stood with Pat on the balcony of our room. We were both quiet, pleasantly tired. In another few days we would have to return to the northern hemisphere and winter, but here, under the summer moon, it was almost impossible to imagine. I looked over the railing down the narrow street with its high-walled houses. In the cool air the faint sound of music and singing carried up from the town. Apparently the flu couldn't dampen all the liveliness of these people.
"If I had a guitar I'd get down there in the street and serenade you," I said playfully, my arm around her slim waist.
"If you could sing, I wouldn't mind," she retorted.
"Doggone it, already you sound more like a wife than a mistress," I complained. "Where have all those romantic ideas and that passionate lovemaking gone?"
She batted her eyes at me. "Why don't you take me inside and find out."