Analysis Published of Jar from Seven Site

Joe Cerniglia, in league with chemist Greg George and archaeological bottle expert Bill Lockhart, and with me as a kibitzer and editorial critic, has produced what I think is an admirable paper on the notorious “freckle cream jar” from the Seven Site.  It’s now posted on the TIGHAR website at http://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/Archives/Research/ResearchPapers/freckleintime/FreckleInTime.html.

Critics will sniff that the jar is not a smoking gun; it does not prove that Earhart lived or died at the Seven Site.  That’s true, but the paper rather definitively allows us to assign the jar to the growing list of painstakingly analyzed evidence that something odd happened at the Seven Site.  Something, that is, involving medicinal and cosmetic products from the United States, some of which (e.g., the apparent compact with its mirror and rouge) was most used by women.

The paper shows that the jar almost certainly contained a mercury compound, and that Dr. Berry’s Freckle Ointment, alone among substances currently known to have been sold in such jars, contained mercury.  It also shows that the jar was most likely manufactured in the United States in the 1930s, and it puts forth a plausible rationale for the fact that it is translucent rather than opaque – as contrasted with all the Dr. Berry’s Freckle Ointment jars we’ve been able to find in collections and on Ebay.  Finally, it summarizes the evidence suggesting that Earhart wanted to diminish her freckles. 

What I like best about the paper is that it leaves few stones unturned.  The conclusion that the jar contained a mercury compound is based on multiple laboratory tests on the jar and on several controls.  The conclusion that it was made in the 1930s draws on detailed research into its embossed manufacturer’s logo and the history of the firm itself.  The paper exhaustively compares the artifact with a number of “siblings” that contained non-Berry’s products or whose original contents are unknown.  It does not jump to conclusions, and it does not claim more than it can justify.  It does, however, make a strong case for the notion that the jar contained a cosmetic/medicinal substance used in the 1930s by freckle-faced women seeking smoother complexions.

TIGHAR Field School is Underway

TIGHAR's Aviation Archaeology Field School begins today, at the site of a fatal 1936 Lockheed Electra crash on what is now part of the Panhandle National Forests in Idaho.  For those unable to take part, here are a few images from our 2004 site survey, the report on which can be accessed on TIGHAR's web site at http://tighar.org/Contract_Services/Kellogg/Kellogg01.html.

Gary Quigg overlooking the site

The site
Mapping the site

Nessie's aunt?  Landing gear

 

So You Want To Go To Nikumaroro?

With all the recent publicity about sonar images on the Nikumaroro reef (http://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/Archives/Research/Bulletins/66_NikuVIIUpdate/66_NikuVIIUpdate.html) and the discovery of 1939 aerial photos (http://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/newzealandphotos/NewZealandPhotos.html) , there’s been an uptick of interest in visiting Nikumaroro by other groups and individuals.  For example, the Tri-County Amateur Radio Club of North Texas, WC5C, is raising money for a trip to the island to develop baseline radio transmission data (See  http://www.wc5c.org/WC5CClub/NikumaroroAmeliaEarhartHamRadioTest/tabid/570/Default.aspx), and historical filmmaker Matthew Arnold has a kickstarter campaign to fund a study of the island’s “historical and mythological landscape” (See  http://vimeo.com/64976217).

Such interest is very welcome, but if you’re thinking about a visit, bear in mind that it’s a long way from the closest commercial airports and seaports (in the Samoas and Fiji, 600-900 nautical miles) and you have to carry all your own gear and supplies -- no human beings live on the island or in its near vicinity.  In practical terms this means having your own ship.  Moreover:

1.     Nikumaroro is part of the Phoenix Islands Protected Area (PIPA), with a fragile environment that's protected under international law and the laws of the Republic of Kiribati.  Kiribati and PIPA's administrators must give permission to access the island, and they impose various (not very onerous but nevertheless real) protective conditions. Information and contact points for PIPA can be found at http://www.phoenixislands.org/.  

2.     To ensure that its rules are followed, Kiribati requires that a government representative accompany expeditions, at the expedition’s expense.

3.     The island's archaeology is also very fragile and subject to easy and unwitting disturbance. This includes not only whatever archaeological remains there may be of Earhart's and Noonan's time there, but the remains of the colonial village that existed on the island from 1939 to 1963, those of the US Coast Guard station that operated there from 1944 to 1946, the wrecked steamship Norwich City, and scattered prehistoric sites. Under an agreement with the government of Kiribati, TIGHAR has an exclusive license to conduct archaeological research on the island in connection with the Earhart mystery; Kiribati refers all applications for similar licenses to TIGHAR for review and recommendations.

4.     Don’t neglect to take a doctor or emergency medical technician. Although the island is generally a pretty benign place, it's easy to get coral cuts, slip on the reef, get jabbed by the vegetation, and so on. Diving on the reef or in the lagoon creates additional risks.

5.     You’ll want to avoid the tropical cyclone season (roughly November 1-April 30).  Rough weather can make the island inaccessible, and of course can also sink your ship and kill you.

6.     There’s only one generally usable access point to the island, via a channel blasted through the reef flat during the island's evacuation in the 1960s. Depending on tide and weather conditions, it can be pretty tricky to load and offload personnel and equipment there; this is one of the major danger points in any visit to the island, at least when seas are rough.

I outline these considerations not to discourage interest in visiting Nikumaroro or other islands of the PIPA (e.g. Manra, Orona, Kanton, Enderbury, McKean) – all beautiful places (well, maybe not McKean) with their own fascinating histories and environments, but just to emphasize that visiting is not a lark to be undertaken lightly; it requires some planning and costs money.  AND most importantly, I want to emphasize that the island is a sensitive place, that must be approached with care and consideration.

TIGHAR’s spent more time on and around Nikumaroro than just about any group of people alive today, and we’re happy to discuss possibilities with anyone who wants to consider a visit.  Check tighar.org for information and points of contact, or drop me a note at tfking106@aol.com.

The landing channel: image by Graham Berwind, 2010

What if It's an Airplane?

So what if we're able to get a camera-equipped remotely operated vehicle (ROV) down on the anomaly imaged in side-scan sonar on the Nikumaroro reef (See http://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/Archives/Research/Bulletins/66_NikuVIIUpdate/66_NikuVIIUpdate.html) and find that it does indeed look like the remains of an airplane? What then?

Well, we definitely do not go grapple it up to the surface, for at least three reasons:

1. The reef is a fragile environment, protected under the laws of Kiribati and international law, so any recovery will have to be done in accordance with a carefully thought out and vetted plan, with full environmental controls.

2. An airplane is a complex, multi-metal artifact, whose chemistry is strongly affected by long immersion in sea water. Bringing it up into an oxygen-rich environment may cause it virtually to explode, and will at the very least cause its rapid (probably very rapid) deterioration. Whatever is brought up will have to go instantly into a laboratory setting for detailed, planned, conservation treatment.

3. We want to understand how the plane (sic) got where it is; what's its story? To gain that understanding -- as in any archaeological study or crime scene investigation -- we need to understand the thing's physical context.

So we'll want to take a good hard look at the thing and its surroundings -- image it in all kinds of ways, from all kinds of angles, and prepare a map. We'll want to look at how it's interacting with the reef: is it partly buried? Grown over in coral? Home to a colony of fish? What kinds of fish? How firmly attached is it to the reef? What kind of shape is it in? (Probably not good)

Once we've done this, we can, if it makes sense, develop a recovery plan for all or part of the wreckage. This will need to be done in consultation with a variety of specialists and with the administration of the Phoenix Islands Protected Area (PIPA) and other Kiribati government offices. Once that plan has been developed and approved, then and only then can we send down an ROV to very carefully try to pick up the pieces.

There are only two exceptions I can think of to the above sequence. One would be if the initial inspection reveals a piece or two of easily recoverable wreckage -- just lying there, relatively unencumbered by coral -- and the inspection ship is equipped with a conservation lab that's able to take care of it. In such a case it might be justifiable to plot the exact location of the wreckage and then bring it up. Another exception might be if the wreckage were in some kind of imminent danger -- about to fall off a ledge or be crushed by a falling slab of coral. Then some kind of rescue operation might be in order, but even that would take a good deal of planning.

As TIGHAR's senior archaeologist, my greatest fear is that some dufus with more money than brains will get excited by the current media frenzy and go try to snag the thing (whatever it is) with a net or trawl or something. That could be a disaster both environmentally and archaeologically. It would also be illegal, but the Pacific is too much like the wild west for that to be much of an impediment.  I only hope that everyone will be responsible and cool their jets while we figure out how to handle the thing (if it's really a thing) with the care and respect it -- and the environment -- deserve.

Belief, Reality, and Marks on the Reef

It’s being widely reported in the media, and it’s accurately discussed at http://tighar.org/Projects/Earhart/Archives/Research/Bulletins/66_NikuVIIUpdate/66_NikuVIIUpdate.html.  In a nutshell, the Earhart Forum’s Richard Conroy has detected an interesting anomaly in the 2012 side-scan sonar imagery of the Nutiran reef at Nikumaroro.  Detailed analysis has led to the suspicion that it may represent the fuselage of Earhart’s Electra, leaving a debris trail as it slid down the reef face and was simultaneously displaced by the south-flowing current.

I see that at least one television news channel (admittedly, the foxy faux one) has been saying that we “believe” the thing to be the Electra.  This strikes me as typical of the tabloid media; reality is all about what we “believe” to be true.  Which may be what reality is, but we science-types like to think (believe?) that we’re trying to discern reality, not make it up.

And what we discern is what seems to be a sort of diagonal mark on the reef face, which might be some kind of natural formation – but if it is, it’s the only one like it we can see – and which looks a lot like the signature of something about the size of the Electra’s fuselage, working its way down and along the reef face under the combined influences of gravity and the N-S current.  And its location is sensible vis-à-vis where we hypothesize that Earhart landed, and where Eric Bevington photographed the “Nessie” object in 1937. 

Until we can get an ROV down on the site, we won’t know whether it’s the Electra or not, and what any of us “believe” is irrelevant.  Gerald the Skeleton may know, but he’s not talking.

Gerald's Adventure, Part Nine (The End)

The Continuing (but here concluded) Adventure of Gerald the Skeleton on Nikumaroro, 2010.

 

The expedition was almost over.  The two TIGHAR ships – Nai’a and VVs1 – hovered off the northwest reef while Jesse, John and Walt sent ROV down on his last dives; AUV was already tucked away in the forward deckhouse, relaxing.  At the Seven Site they were drilling cores out of trees, flying kites with cameras on them, scanning with ground-penetrating radar, and continuing to scratch along in their excavation lanes, but nobody was really expecting now to turn up a smoking gun, not this year.  Grandpa Tom was pleased with the information they’d collected, but frustrated because they hadn’t finished all the lanes.  Ric was just frustrated.
 

Last Days at the Seven Site

 

Karl bores a ren tree

 

Radar probes the depths

 

 

The Site from a Kite

 

One night I went to the forward deck house to talk with AUV and ROV.  Maybe they could help me figure out what to do about the airplane, and the Sheel family.

“You have come to the right place,” ROV buzzed when I’d explained the situation.  “Machine intelligence is 725% faster and 362 % more reliable than meat-based intelligence.”

“Those percentages have been disputed,” AUV grumbled, “but in general terms….”

“Yes,” I said quickly; “that’s why I’ve come to you – besides the fact that I can’t talk to the humans.  So what do you think I should do?”

Both machines were silent for a time.  Finally AUV spoke.

“It is not our normal function to exercise judgment.”

ROV flashed several LEDs on his display -- red, yellow and green.  “But we understand how it is done.  Let us weigh the facts.  You are certain, Gerald, that what you saw is Amelia Earhart’s airplane, correct?”

“Yes, it looked like it, it’s in the right place, and no other airplane….”

“…is recorded to have crashed here; correct with at least 92% confidence.  So it is almost certainly what the TIGHARs are looking for.”

“Well, they're also looking for evidence of what happened to Ms. Earhart and Captain Noonan after they got here, particularly at the Seven Site.”

“Not relevant for current purposes.  The airplane is the so-called smoking gun.”

“Yes, it would prove their hypothesis.”

“Precisely.”

“So…..”

“So, the answer is simple.  If your highest priority is helping the TIGHARs do their research, you must find a way to tell them.  You could perhaps access someone's computer....”

Somehow this answer didn’t satisfy.  I couldn't think of anything to say, and found myself just looking out over the dark sea. The sky was full of stars.  A passing pod of dolphins cast sparks of phosphorescence. 

“Perhaps,” AUV buzzed, “that is not Gerald’s highest priority.”

“I’m just thinking of Sheel, and all his chum,” I said softly.

“Living creatures,” AUV said, and if a machine voice can be sympathetic, his was. 

“Meat,” ROV interpreted, but from him it didn’t sound insulting or dismissive.

“Yes, living…..”

ROV's LEDs blazed red.  “They will find it anyway,” he said firmly.

“…creatures… uh, why?  Why will they – who, the TIGHARs? – why will they find it anyway?”

ROV hesitated for a moment, LEDs flashing different colors.  Then they all glowed steady yellow.

“I have imaged pieces of it – probably pieces of it.  73.8% probability.”

“What?  Where?”

“Up the reef slope from the location you give for Sheel’s house, and below the feature photographed in 1937, that the TIGHARs call Nessie.  Linear and curved objects, not consistent with natural formations.”

The 1937 Nessie Photo

 

Nessie enlarged

 

“Pieces of the airplane, then, scattered down the reef face!”

“83.976 probability, assuming Sheel’s house is the airplane and Nessie is a piece of landing gear.”

“So Jesse already knows.”

“Jesse does not know.  Jesse has not yet analyzed the imagery.  But when he does, he will know.”

“Oh dear.”

Multi-colored LEDs flashed on both robots.

"Oh dear?" AUV inquired.

"Well, I.... er...."  I lapsed into embarassed silence.  So did they, but their LEDs flashed.  Finally ROV spoke.

“I tentatively, conditionally conclude from your words, Gerald, that when confronted with the reality of the aircraft’s recovery and the loss of Sheel’s residence, your preference is to leave it where it is.  Am I correct?”

My empty head ached, but I had to acknowledge that he was right.  I nodded.

“I interpret that as an affirmative, correct?”

“Yes.  Correct.  Affirmative.”

“Well then….”  Lights flashed all over the display panels on both robots; for the first time I realized that they communicated with each other via by a wireless network.  The LEDs settled down to a steady green glow.

“We have decided,” ROV said, “that we will not let them find it.”

“What?  How.”

“ROV will cook the data,” AUV buzzed, and I swear there was glee in his voice.

I looked from one robot to the other, confused.

“Cook the data?”

“I will adjust the resolution on the imagery so as to make certain images very hard for a meathead to interpret, and I will muddle the navigational data….”

“So,” AUV put in, “even if they do see something, they won’t know where it was.”

“This will not save Sheel’s home forever,” ROV cautioned, “but I calculate between a 77.2 and 99.8% probability that it will delay its discovery at least two years, considering the typical frequency of TIGHAR expeditions and the challenges inherent in fundraising….”

"And the lifespan of a sheel," AUV added, "is only two years."

“Oh.  But….”

“But calculating the probability of human actions is not an exact science.”

"And there is a 99.714% probability of new generations of sheels."

"However, they will not be our sheels."
 

My tibiae and fibulae felt weak; I leaned heavily against the bulkhead.  “But – your job is finding the airplane!  How can you just decide not to?”

“It has been said,” AUV buzzed after a moment, “that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.  There are how many TIGHARs?”

“Uh…”

“Eight hundred seventy seven world wide at last count.  And how many sheels?”

“Uh…. Four thousand eight hundred and – uh – forty six.”

“Well.”

“One can also consider qualitative factors,” ROV hummed, somehow sounding self-satisfied.  “Is having a secure and happy home not more important to meat creatures than solving some historical mystery?”

“Whose solution,” AUV put in, “has less than 0.2% probability of making the world a better place for man or machine?”

I sat slowly down on the deck.  “You guys are making value judgments?”

“Many capacities of the machine mind,” said ROV – a bit pompously, I thought – are not yet understood by meatheads.”

"And plastic is derived from organic molecules," AUV added.

So that’s how it happened.  Something Jesse couldn’t explain scrambled ROV’s data, greatly compromising the maps he tried to make, and obscuring the suspicious things that ROV actually imaged, while leaving enough innocent things to be seen – the rope, some steel bars that were probably lost fishing spears; things like that – that the TIGHARs thought they were getting a more or less accurate picture even if they couldn’t tell just where anything was.  Ric blamed Jesse, Jesse blamed machine errors, and nobody ever guessed that the machines did it deliberately.

Departure Day: the Boats Come Aboard

 

And then the day of departure came.  SSv1 left first, for a cruise around the island before heading back to Samoa.  Awhile later Nai’a winched in her boats and turned her prow south.  The TIGHARs lined the rail and watched as the island’s shores slid past; I watched out the salon window.  I could make out filmy shapes hovering over the remains of the Norwich City, and knew that Ismael and his brethren were wishing me a safe journey, insh’allah.  Honk and Honkette flew over and dipped their wings before flying back to little (well, not so little) Honkito.  I couldn’t see Polly, of course, and who knows where Clavicle was.  A whale spouted in the distance, and I fancied it was Ginger.  Dolphins played in our bow wave; red-tailed tropicbirds hovered over our wake.

Niku falls astern

And as we slid past the southeast end and began to take the long rolls of the unimpeded Pacific, I thought I saw a couple more ghosts watching us from the shore.  One of them had curly hair and a checked shirt.

SSv1 overhauled us not long after Nikumaroro had dropped over the horizon astern, and quickly left us behind, but we all made it safely to Apia in Samoa after three days at sea.  There Grandpa Tom took off my legs again and with Tom Roberts’ help packed me back in my box.  I rode a truck to the shipping company’s warehouse, and it was there that I was able to get out, work my way across to the office in the dark of night, and start composing these letters to you, Noah and Jake.

Samoa in sight

With love, your peripatetic (Polly said that means wandering) skeleton,

Gerald

Noah, Jake, and their mom anxiously await Gerald's homecoming

 

Gerald's Adventure, Part Eight

The Continuing Adventure of Gerald the Skeleton on Nikumaroro, 2010

The Excavations Continue

 

There were just a few days left in the expedition, and some of the TIGHARs were getting pretty worried.  AUV hadn’t found any airplane parts in the lagoon.  ROV had found some metal and rope on the reef (far above Sheel’s home), but it didn’t look like anything from an airplane.  Down at the Seven Site they were finding things – metal and bottles and animal bones, buttons and even pencil lead.  Grandpa Tom reported every evening on what they’d found, and everybody talked about them.  Grandpa Tom and Ric often argued about how to interpret what they found, and Karl kept shouting “I disagree!” just for the fun of it.  Sometimes Gary, Ric, Grandpa Tom or others composed silly songs that they’d sing to keep everybody’s spirits up.  But they weren’t finding what they kept referring to as “the smoking gun” that would prove that Amelia Earhart had been at the Seven Site, or anywhere on Nikumaroro.  It made me feel very conflicted; should I tell them what I knew?  If so, how?  And if I did, what would happen to Sheel and his chum?

One night I crept out of the salon while everybody was on deck playing guitars, singing songs, and watching the star theater.  Down by the stern platform Frederick was waiting; he never told me how he knew I’d be coming.  I slipped over the side, grabbed the edges of his shell, and away we went. 

As we closed in on the Club Fred beach, I could see something going on there.  Two somethings, actually.  AUV was back on the ship, but Honk and Honkette were both there, jumping up and down and flapping their wings.  Their egg had hatched!  Their baby – a pretty big baby bird, all covered with fluffy grayish feathers, was reeling around on unsteady feet, and his parents had their wings full keeping him from running into trees or stumbling and falling on his face. 

Honk and Honkito

 

But the big excitement was among the ghosts.  They were everywhere!  I’d seldom seen so many ghosts, even on Halloween back in Cutler Ridge.  Adult ghosts and baby ghosts, woman ghosts and man ghosts, all drifting ghostily around among the trees, mostly in groups of three or four.

“Wow!” I burbled, getting water in my mouth and spitting out a small fish.  “What’s going on?”

“Their egg hatched,” Frederick grunted.  “Pretty exciting, in the life of a bird.  Now, when we lay our eggs…..”

“No, I mean the ghosts!”  Then I remembered that he couldn’t see them.  “Oh, never mind – yes, you guys are much calmer about your eggs.”

“Yup, bury ‘em in the sand and hope for the best.  No muss, no fuss.  What ghosts?”

“Oh – uh – I was just thinking about something else.”  I’d seen Ismael and the other Norwich City ghosts sitting under a palm tree talking.  “If you’ll just let me off here at the beach, I think I’ll visit the village again tonight.”

“Suit yourself; I’m going to drift out here in the cove and get some sleep.  Rattle some bones when you’re ready to go back to the ship.”

“Thanks, Frederick; you’re a real friend.”

“Hey, it’s not every day I get to hang out with a skeleton.  Enjoy the village; I hear it’s pretty spooky.”

That was putting it mildly.  Ghosts everywhere, drifting up and down the overgrown streets, sitting around in the ruined house sites, strolling – well, ghosts don’t exactly stroll, but they put on a pretty good imitation – up and down the beach.  I found Ismael and his friends under their tree.

“Salaam aleikum, Ismael effendi,” I said politely, as he’d taught me.

“Gerald effendi; waleikum a salaam.  Praise be to Allah, the merciful and compassionate, who has brought you back to us.”

I bowed to him.  “It is kind of you to speak so, Ismael.  But what is going on?  Why are there so many ghosts?”

“So many?  Oh, Gerald effendi, a thousand pardons; we have not explained.”

“Explained what?”

“We are – uh – always here – all of us.”

“But,” Usama said, raising a filmy finger, “’always’ implies the existence of 'time,' and as we all know…..

“True, true, brother,” and they all began to explain things to me, or to each other; I wasn’t sure which.  I couldn’t really get it all – it was about time and space and what exists and what doesn’t, but I guess the main message was that the ghosts were there on the island all the time, and at the same time in other places, and at the same place in other times, but there were only certain conditions that allowed the reality we experience to connect up with theirs, and tonight those conditions – whatever they were – were right.

“So all these people died here?” I asked, watching what seemed to be a family of ghosts drift by – a lady ghost, a man ghost, a little kid ghost.  The man was telling a story, and his family were laughing.

“It is true,” Ismael nodded, “as did all the crabs, birds, fish….”  I hadn’t noticed it before, but there were ghostly crabs and other animals scurrying around.  I looked for Polly, but all I could see were ghosts.

The village in 1942.  Lots of brave people died here, so there are lots of ghosts

 

“Most of the people ghosts were colonists from other islands, may peace be upon them.  And then there are a few – there, for example – “  He pointed a misty finger at the beach, where two male ghosts were drifting along, deep in conversation.  Both were tall and thin; one wore khaki shorts and a starched white shirt, and the other was in dark shirt and pants.

“There, for example, are Gallagher effendi and Captain Noonan.  Salaam aleikum, my friends.”

Gerald Gallagher himself?  And Captain Noonan!  Could that be Fred Noonan?  Amelia Earhart’s navigator?  The two ghosts came drifting over, smiling.

“Waleikum asalaam,” they both said politely, with little bows. 

“Welcome to Nikumaroro, Mister Skeleton,” Mister Gallagher added.  “I’ve not seen you here before.”

“Thank you, Mister Administrator, and greetings.  Yes, I’ve been here only a few weeks, with the TIGHAR group out there on the ship….”

Captain Noonan slapped his forehead and shook so hard his ectoplasm almost dissolved.  He was laughing.

“Those poor numbskulls,” he chortled, “looking for Amelia and me, and that bloody Electra.”

“Well,” I said, somewhat offended for my friends, “what’s wrong with that?  You’re obviously here.”

“Oh indeed we are.  But frankly, Mister Bones, who gives a….”

“Now, now, Fred,” Mister Gallagher put his spectral hand on Captain Noonan’s filmy shoulder.  “What Captain Noonan means, Mister – er….”

“My name’s Gerald, sir; actually Grandpa Tom named me after you.”

“Well, I’m – er – honored, I’m sure.  Anyway, Gerald, what Captain Noonan meant was…”

“Really Gerald,” Noonan interrupted, talking to Mister Gallagher, “I’m capable of explaining it myself.  Look, Gerald, we’re dead, aren’t we?  Myself and Amelia?”

“Of course, sir,” I said quickly, “there’s no denying that.”

“So they’re not going to find us alive, are they?  Rescue us or something?”

“No, but they’re looking for evidence…..”

“Ah, and that’s what’s so endlessly amusing.  Watching them find something we left – like pieces of Amelia’s compact, or that pot she kept her freckle cream in, and puzzle and puzzle about what they are, so earnest and taking it all so seriously….”

“And of course what’s even funnier,” Mister Gallagher put in, “is watching them puzzle over things you DIDN’T leave, but WE did, or the Coast Guardsmen did, all with the same sort of earnestness, wondering if it could be yours….”

“And you know, Gerald effendi,” Ismael added, “it is really something of an insult to Gallagher effendi, and to us from the Norwich City, and to all the brave colonists who died here, for your friends to be so…so...”

“Fixated,” Mister Gallagher offered.

“Fixated.  Thank you.  Fixated on Amelia hanum and Fred effendi.  Are we all not equal in the sight of Allah?”

“Indeed we are, Ismael effendi “ – the voice came from behind my shoulder, and made me jump.  “But not in the sight of American public opinion.”

“Salaam aleikum, Amelia hanum,” all the Arab ghosts said in unison, while Mister Gallagher made a slight bow and Captain Noonan raised a hand to his brow.

She came into the loose circle of ghosts and looked at me.  A slender ghost with short curly hair and a checked shirt.  Just like her pictures in the books the TIGHARs kept consulting.

“So,” she said, “you’re with those TIGHAR types, are you….”

“Gerald.”

“Named after our Gerald?  That shows a little class, but you've a lot to live up to."  Mr. Gallagher made a dismissive hand wave, as Ms. Earhart went on.

"So tell me, Gerald, why do they want to find us?  They know we’re dead, yes?”

“Oh yes, but what happened to you is a great mystery.  People wonder about it, argue about it ….”

“Yes, I’ve heard about it from my mother and sister since they came over – all the wild stories about being captured by the Japanese, or being so incompetent that I – we, sorry Fred – ran out of gas and went into the drink.”

“Well, so the TIGHARs want to solve the mystery.  And they think you landed and died here.”

“So, you can tell them they’re right, and they can stop wasting money coming here and disturbing the birds and crabs.”

“Oh, Amelia,” Captain Noonan objected.  “It gives us something to make jokes about.”

“And,” Mister Gallagher smiled, “it’s rather fun to throw false clues in their paths.”

Captain Noonan chuckled:  “Or clues that aren’t quite false, like that shoe.”

“The shoe they found in 1991,” I asked, “that looked like Miss -- er, Mrs. Putnam’s but was too big?”

“Right,” Ms Earhart giggled.  “My shoe all right, but part of the pair I wore with thick socks when it was cold in the plane, so bigger than the ones they had pictures of.  Has that confused them as much as we planned?”

“Oh yes, it was very embarrassing when one of the people who thinks you crashed in the sea pointed out how the size was wrong.  They still argue about that.

“Good, good.  Argument keeps their brains alive.  But I’m really of two minds, Gerald, about whether to let them find us – or find the plane.  Find definitive proof.  What do you think?”

“Why not?”

“Well, it would bring the mystery to an end, wouldn’t it?  And don’t you think people need mysteries?”

“I don’t know.  I’m a plastic lab skeleton.”


"But a very well made one, I must say."  I would have blushed if plastic could blush.


"And a modest, brave and wise one, Gerald effendi," Ismael said with a bow.  But Amelia hanum, surely it is not for us to decite whether the TIGHARs will learn the truth.  Such decisions surely lie only with Allah, the all-knowing."


"Well, to avoid another interminable theological debate, Ismael -- granting that we have ample 'time' for such things -- let me just take the matter under advisement.  Perhaps I'm being selfish...."


"It would be a shame if the TIGHARs stopped coming," Mr. Gallagher mused.  "They're endlessly amusing."


There was a bit of a silence, as though everyone were recalling a favorite TIGHAR episode.  Then Mr. Gallagher shook himself.


"In any event, Gerald, I'm delighted to be your namesake, and very pleased that you've come to talk with us.  Very glad to have met you.”

“Goes for me too,” Captain Noonan reached out to shake my hand.  “But I’m afraid the sun’s coming up, and they’re likely to miss you if you don’t get back to the ship.”  He stepped over to the beach and let out a shrill whistle.  In just a couple of minutes Frederick came swimming up, looking confused.

TIGHARs head for the beach in the morning; I had

to be back aboard before they got up.