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Marissa touched his arm. “The others are gone,” she answered. “Karama has expelled them. No one hears us now.”
    The doubt in Bobby’s eyes revealed how well he knew this. “The Asari do, Marissa.” He paused, his next words betraying that he, like she, could not forget the killings at Lana or the dangling corpses or Okimbo’s threat. “I cannot let them down, or they would be right to lynch me.”
    When Bobby resumed writing, Marissa gazed out the door again, hoping the women in the marketplace would distract her from her anxiety.
    She fixed on Omo and her mother, covering their sparse offering of pineapples in anticipation of what was to come. Their expressions were less animated and, to Marissa’s mind, their movements bore the weight of uncertainty. Every so often Omo cast her eyes at the sun: the pendency of an eclipse created a sense of awe among a people for whom the natural world held more mystery and meaning than it had in Marissa’s childhood. Watching the girl, her favorite, she barely heard the fax machine ringing.
    A moment later Bobby appeared at her side, gazing down at a fax with a look of such devastation that Marissa felt her throat clutch. “What is it?”
    When he shook his head, as though unable to tell her, she took the document from his hand.
    It was signed by four of his lieutenants, including Eric Aboh, his second-in-command. Marissa scanned the agreement, more heartsick with each phrase. “On behalf of the Asari people,” the four leaders had met with “representatives of the government and PGL” and had “amicably resolved the current tensions in exchange for further talks.” Therefore they urged the Asari to “disclaim violence and provocation” and “allow all lawful economic activity to resume unimpeded.” For his part, Colonel Paul Okimbo had promised to “stabilize Asariland to prevent the unwarranted loss of life.” Slowing, Marissa read the final paragraph: “We urge Bobby Okari to place the good of the Asari above his own ambitions, and to call on his remaining followers to resume their normal lives.”
    Watching her face, Bobby said softly, “How many pieces of silver it required, they do not mention.” He took the paper from her hand. “This is a hunting license, Marissa. Karama and the oilmen have isolated me. Now I will bear sole blame for whatever they choose to do.”
    Before she could respond, an elderly subchief appeared at their door. Formally addressing Bobby, he said, “Your father, Chief Okari, must speak with you.”
    Bobby glanced from Marissa to the man. “With both of us,” he answered.

4

    R ESTLESS , P IERCE SCANNED THE I NTERNET FOR DESCRIPTIONS OF AN eclipse.
    In the middle of the day, he read, a shadow moves across the sun. For a few moments, the sky becomes like that of a moonlit night; animals and birds go silent, and nature seems in suspension. Though the sun has vanished, its outer edge is visible as a ghostly hole around the black disk of the moon. But for that, and the gas flaring Marissa had so vividly described, Goro would be plunged into darkness.
    Anxious for news, Pierce returned to the BBC Web site. A new bulletin was reporting an agreement. For a moment he was hopeful. Then he read Colonel Paul Okimbo’s promise to restore Asariland to a state of order and knew, from weeks of following the Asari movement after the massacre at Lana, that his friends’ peril had only deepened. In that moment, he thought of Bobby and Marissa twelve years ago, heading blindly toward this day, and imagined what might have happened had he met Marissa sooner.
    THE AUDITORIUM WHERE Bobby Okari would speak was small. A scattering of white and black students mixed with some older people from Berkeley—the men often distinguished by ponytails or beards, the women by an absence of makeup—whose worldview, Pierce surmised, had been shaped by the sixties. At Marissa’s behest, she and Pierce sat close to the stage, where Bobby Okari waited behind a