He was lying on top of a blanket on a narrow bunk in the cabin of a ship. His head ached and his mouth was dry. Gently he caressed a bump on the side of his head. He swung his legs to the floor and stood up. He eased his way across the confined space of a cabin to a porthole. It was clamped shut too securely to be opened. Through the thick glass he could see the placid waters of the sea. There was no land in sight. Inside the cabin there were no other furnishings, but the available floor space was piled high with stencilled sacks of Guadalcanal Plains rice. Kella felt giddy and sat down again. At least he was alive. In fact, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to keep him that way. After he had been knocked out in the bush village, he must have been strapped to a makeshift stretcher and carried through the bush back down to the shore, where he had been loaded on to this ship. He took several deep breaths and picked his way over the profusion of bulging sacks to hammer on the cabin door.
