An old freighter lay at anchor in a harbor on the west coast of Colodor, silhouetted in the moonlight. Waves lapped against its rusty hull. Rats squeaked in the hold and a guard snored on the deck.
Banana plantations filled the coastal lowlands of the country, while mangrove trees and shrimp ranches covered the edges of the wide jungle river that emptied into the Pacific. In the harbor, fishing boats and canoes clustered along the docks beside seafood shanties on the wharf.
Panting and weary from his long, hard day of near-death and near-marriage, Smith clomped up the gangplank of the freighter and went to see the captain directly. The snoring guard didn’t stir at all.
“Captain,” Smith said, banging on the door of the cluttered bridge house, “I understand you’re going up along the coast
