§ § § -- February 13, 1982

This weekend, Tattoo was with them at the plane dock and Julie had another project to attend to. So when their first guest emerged from the plane, it was Tattoo who asked the opening question. "Oh, boss, she's sure a pretty lady. What's her name?"

"Her name is Miss Rebecca Walters," Roarke replied; "she is the manager of a florist shop." Tattoo grinned.

"If she came here to find some pretty flowers, she came to the right place, right, boss?"

Leslie grinned at this, and Roarke chuckled. "Yes, that's quite right, Tattoo…but Miss Walters' fantasy is to meet a very special man: a man who will do anything for her, a man who will always be around…a man who will need her just as much as she needs him."

"Isn't that every woman's fantasy?" Tattoo said with a wink at Leslie.

"Yes, Tattoo, but in the case of Miss Walters, I think she'll soon discover that finding that kind of man could be a most…unnerving experience." Roarke smiled mysteriously, and Leslie shrugged her shoulders.

"If you say so," she said. "But you'd never find a woman who'd believe it." Roarke's smile lingered, though he made no reply. Instead he centered his attention on a trio of business-suited folks, two men and a woman, coming down the docking ramp. "Are those the ones with the information on the history of the island?" she wanted to know.

"Yes, you might say that," Roarke said, frowning. "The first gentleman is the shipping tycoon, Douglas Picard; the lady with him is his sister, Eunice. And the other man is Mr. Picard's financial advisor, Mr. Justin Rothwell. I think we'll find that Mr. Picard's fantasy is one of the most unusual and challenging ever to confront us."

"Why?" Tattoo asked.

"Mr. Picard's fantasy is to claim ownership of Fantasy Island," murmured Roarke. The statement, delivered so calmly, made Leslie and Tattoo stare at each other in alarm, and neither could quite understand how Roarke, delivering his weekly greeting, could remain so composed when their very home was at stake. But Roarke's grim stare at Picard betrayed his own anger and concern.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Miss Walters, do you think you would immediately recognize this 'ideal man' if you were to meet him?" Roarke asked. He and Leslie and Tattoo were strolling with their guest across a bridge not far from one of the more secluded beaches on the island, one where Leslie occasionally went when she really needed to think about things.

"Oh, absolutely, in a minute!" Rebecca Walters said confidently. As Tattoo had said, she had a pretty face; but her hairstyle and dress made her seem older than she really was, shy and retiring, like a spinster. Rebecca's simple pink dress with its demure cream-lace Peter Pan collar seemed to hark back to the late nineteenth century, at least in Leslie's opinion, which she kept to herself.

"How would you know?" Roarke asked.

Rebecca said, "Oh, well, he would be courteous, and—and dignified, yet spiritual. Fun-loving, you know, and never predictable. And he'd be kind and wonderful to me."

"Ah," Roarke said, smiling broadly. "And that is your image of the perfect husband for you?" Rebecca nodded firmly.

"Oh yes," she said.

"Yes…" Roarke said, then glanced at his assistant. "Tattoo, will you escort Miss Walters to the lagoon, please?"

Tattoo shot a dubious glance in that direction, then protested incredulously, "Boss, men don't hang out on the lagoon!" Leslie snickered.

Roarke, for his part, glanced skyward with some exasperation. "Tattoo, you must follow your own advice." It was advice he'd given Leslie the previous evening at supper when she had admitted she was dying to know what kind of information Douglas Picard had on the island. "Practice patience! Remember, patience?" Tattoo rolled his eyes a little and nodded, but he clearly wasn't happy about it. Leslie tried hard to suppress her smile while Roarke turned to their guest and announced, "You will now be taking your first step towards fulfillment of your fantasy, Miss Walters." He gestured toward the lagoon.

"Thank you, Mr. Roarke," Rebecca said with breathless anticipation, clasping Roarke's hands. He smiled.

"You're most welcome," he replied. With that, Rebecca turned and left with Tattoo at her side; Roarke watched with a smile, and Leslie leaned on the bridge railing and gazed after them.

"Well," she said at length, "if nothing else, they can at least enjoy the beach."

Roarke turned a bit sharply, doing something of a double-take, as if he had forgotten she was there. "Yes," he said as though humoring her. "We have an appointment, so I suggest we hurry."

They arrived at the main house just in time to meet Douglas Picard and Justin Rothwell; the two men wore grim, determined expressions. When Roarke introduced Leslie, Rothwell shot her a dismissive glance; Picard didn't even go that far.

"This island was originally purchased by a Captain Verdugo, who sailed with the Spanish Armada," Douglas Picard said flatly, without even bothering to make eye contact with Roarke; he simply forked over a sheet of paper. Roarke took it and studied it while Picard continued, "They transferred the deed to the island on June 27th…Justin, fifteen…"

"Fifteen eighty-eight," Rothwell supplied.

"Fifteen eighty-eight," Picard echoed him, staring straight ahead through the open French shutters. Roarke let a pause elapse, primary attention on the deed, before speaking.

"Have a seat, won't you?" Without bothering to see whether they did, he moved back behind the desk and stared intently at the deed; Leslie, left standing near the windows, scuttled over to join him, using only her toes as if afraid to make any noise. She was quite intimidated in actual fact; the deed looked authentic to her, and she was terrified that this might be her last weekend ever on Fantasy Island. She huddled beside Roarke, casting a furtive glance at the two men before peering at the deed across Roarke's arm.

Finally Roarke looked up. "May I ask how this document happened to come into your possession, Mr. Picard?"

"Quite by accident," Picard said tonelessly. "I recently bought a villa in Madrid that was built originally by that same Captain Verdugo. It stayed within his family for the last four centuries." Roarke nodded and returned his gaze to the deed.

"The purchase price included all other assets, and we found the deed to this island among them," Rothwell added. "I can assure you that it's valid."

"Oh, I have not questioned its validity, Mr. Rothwell," Roarke said with cool politeness. "But this island means a great deal to me, just as it is now, filled with the cherished memories of so many people." He grew brisk and moved back out from behind the desk, with a quick hand on Leslie's shoulder to indicate that she was to stay put—something she was more than happy to do. "Which is precisely the reason I don't intend to sit idly by and let you take it away from me."

Bravo, Mr. Roarke! thought Leslie with relief. It wasn't that she had been afraid he would do such a thing; but he had seemed so strangely calm about the situation that it was extremely reassuring to her to see him show his true emotions at last.

"Well, I'm afraid there's very little you can do about it, Mr. Roarke," Picard said.

Roarke leaned against the front of the desk. "Oh, no, Mr. Picard, there is something I can do about it, and I intend to. When you consider the antiquity of this document, I am curious to see how an international tribunal would resolve this matter."

"Are you threatening litigation?" demanded Justin Rothwell.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Rothwell, I certainly am," Roarke said, calmly but firmly. "And as you know, a settlement could take years to be resolved in the courts. During that time, naturally, I would get an injunction, and continue to operate precisely as I do now."

Rothwell and Picard looked at each other; then Picard, fingering the deed which Roarke had returned to him, remarked, "I thought you might take this step, Mr. Roarke, so perhaps we can resolved our problem in some other manner."

Roarke's slight smile was chilly. "Well, that, of course, depends, Mr. Picard."

Picard got to his feet. "May I suggest a competition—a competition between us." Leslie stood up straight and stared at him; Roarke frowned at him curiously. "Something the French call l'épreuve d'esprit du corps la raison."

"A test of the mind, the body, and the spirit?" translated Roarke with awakening interest. Picard stared at him with the ghost of a smile; Roarke straightened up and gave a nod. "Very well, Mr. Picard, I accept your challenge." He extended his hand, and Picard shook it. Leslie caught her lower lip between her teeth and began to gnaw on it as if it were a chunk of bubble gum, frightened anew.

Once the two men had been taken to their accommodations, Leslie turned to Roarke, who slowly lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. "That guy's about the coldest character I've ever seen," she ventured her assessment. "I mean…he's worse than Michael was. Michael had a real temper, but at least he showed some emotion and reacted to whatever anyone said to him. This guy's like a walking block of ice. Nothing penetrates him. It's like…he always gets whatever he wants."

Roarke had been watching her. "And that worries you immensely, doesn't it?" he asked.

She nodded. "I really don't like this. What happens if he wins? He'll probably kick us all out of here, and tear down the hotel and the bungalows and…and this house…"

Roarke shifted in his chair to regard her fully. "And are you so certain he will win? What happened to your faith in me, young lady, the faith that we so carefully cultivated just a few months ago in our last battle against Mephistopheles?"

Leslie folded her arms over her chest. "Mr. Roarke, I'm no dope—I'm almost seventeen, you know. We don't even know what kind of competition this guy's got in mind! I do have faith in you, but there's no telling what this guy's planning to do. It could be anything. It could be something that even with your powers, you'd have no way of beating. How do we know what your odds and his odds are till we find out what kind of contest it's gonna be?"

Roarke relaxed a bit and smiled. "You make a good point, Leslie," he said. "However, you must remember that Mr. Picard's abilities are limited, both physically and mentally, to the very best that he can possibly do. As you don't know the odds in whatever contest he may dream up, neither do you know how his and my respective abilities in said contest will match up against one another. Even without my powers, I stand as good a chance as anyone else of besting him. A little optimism is a very enlightening thing, Leslie. It can impart courage, resolve, perhaps even a measure of extra strength." He paused to let that sink in, then smiled at her. "Try to remember that. Now, suppose we have a little walk; I think we could both benefit from some fresh air, don't you?"

They had been strolling down the lane for no more than a few minutes when, quite out of nowhere, a pearl-gray Rolls-Royce popped into existence from nothing at all, gliding slowly along the dirt track toward them. Rebecca Walters sat in the back of it, quite a bit more elegantly dressed than she'd been when they first met her, sipping from a glass of champagne. Leslie and Roarke stopped while the car pulled up alongside them and came to a halt.

"Mr. Roarke, I really don't understand what's happening, but it's a terrific start," Rebecca complimented him, raising a glass of champagne in salute.

"Well, I'm delighted you approve, Miss Walters." She handed him the glass, and he said in surprise, "Oh, thank you!" Rebecca raised her own glass, clinked it against Roarke's and settled back while the car drove off. Roarke watched it depart and lifted the glass after it before turning at Leslie's touch on his arm.

"Could I have just a taste?" she asked hopefully. "I've never tried champagne."

Roarke raised an eyebrow at her. "Perhaps when you turn eighteen," he said and chuckled when she rolled her eyes. He took a sip and playfully saluted her with the glass.

‡ ‡ ‡

About ninety minutes later the pair went to a mansion Picard had rented in the Enclave; Rothwell let Roarke and Leslie inside, and Picard turned from a window. "Mr. Roarke, I'd like to introduce you to my sister Eunice," he said.

"I am very happy to meet you, Miss Picard," Roarke said, shaking the woman's hand. "Are you enjoying your stay on Fantasy Island?"

Eunice glanced at her brother before admitting, "Actually, I haven't seen that much of it yet. I'm not that much of a mixer, Mr. Roarke." Roarke nodded, but no one else spoke; Leslie's head drooped somewhat and her demeanor became timid. Roarke glanced at her, as if he sensed her withdrawing into herself. She had insisted on coming with him, particularly as Tattoo was heavily involved in Miss Walters' fantasy; and he knew she was concerned over the fate of the island and preferred witnessing whatever contests Picard dreamed up rather than sitting it out in agony at the main house. If truth be told, he himself would rather she were with him anyway. Unfortunately, the Picards and Rothwell had ignored her almost completely, ever since their initial arrival.

Eunice turned and walked away, and finally Picard spoke. "Yes…well, uh, shall we get down to the rules of our little competition, Mr. Roarke?"

"By all means, Mr. Picard," Roarke agreed.

Picard led the way to a small round table whereupon were laid out nine oversized playing cards, face down. "Each row of cards represents one of the three categories we'll compete in."

"The mind, the body and the spirit," Roarke said.

Picard nodded. "Correct. Now, there are three cards in each row, and it's your choice, Mr. Roarke. On the other side, it will tell us which one of the events it will be. The first row is that of the mind." He indicated the table.

"This one," Roarke said quizzically, and Picard nodded. Leslie watched, holding her breath, as Roarke reached out and lifted the middle card in the top row, overturning it to reveal a stylized knight against a checkered background.

"Ah, chess," Picard said. "Excellent. Do you play chess, Mr. Roarke?"

"On occasion, Mr. Picard, on occasion…yes," Roarke said. Leslie smiled faintly; she knew nothing whatsoever about chess, but she had seen Roarke play a couple of times, at least before Chester the Chimp had pilfered some of the pieces of his set. She grimaced to herself; that had been at least two years ago.

"And now, the test of the body, Mr. Roarke," Picard prompted. Roarke reached out again and this time chose the right-hand card in the middle row. When he turned it face-up, it showed two sets of arms locked against each other, one set upside-down relative to the other, elbows touching. Leslie's eyes grew huge.

"Arm-wrestling," she breathed in astonishment, in spite of herself.

Picard spared her the barest glance. "No explanation necessary?" he inquired, and Roarke shook his head. "Now, the third and final card…the test of the spirit."

Roarke nodded slowly, contemplated the cards for a second or two and picked up the middle card on the bottom row. This one bore a paragraph in elegant script, which Roarke read aloud for Leslie's benefit as much as Picard's. " 'Since the spirit is an intangible human quality, the winner of the Third and Final contest shall exhibit a compassionate, unselfish act which must surpass, by mutual and ethical agreement, that of his opponent.' " He looked up at Picard with lively interest in his dark eyes. "The most difficult test of all, Mr. Picard."

Picard leaned forward intensely. "When shall we start?"

Roarke extracted his gold pocket watch and regarded it for a moment. "Shall we say, twelve noon?" he suggested.

"Excellent," Picard said.

Roarke nodded, smiled with minimal warmth and dropped the cards on the table. "Will you excuse us?" He guided Leslie out the door, bidding Eunice farewell on his way out. At the door, however, Roarke hesitated, and Leslie stopped in the hallway, staring anxiously at him over her shoulder.

"Uh, Miss Picard, there is a great deal to discover on Fantasy Island," Roarke said. "I sincerely hope you decide to look around."

"I'll think about it, Mr. Roarke," Eunice told him crisply, but with a smile.

"Please do," Roarke urged quietly. "Mr. Rothwell." Rothwell nodded back and closed the door behind him. Leslie fell into step beside him, feeling almost as though she had returned to a warm room from a pool of stark chill.

They had an early lunch along with Tattoo, who had left Rebecca Walters with company, as it happened. "Well, I'm not sure what to make of it, boss," he admitted frankly when Roarke asked who Miss Walters' "company" was. "He, uh…says he's a genie."

"A what?" Leslie blurted.

"Wonderful!" Roarke said as if he hadn't heard her; his face lit up, surprising her greatly. "The currents and the tides were favorable after all! I knew Justinaphocales Araminian Aristopholous was passing this way, and your report confirms that he did indeed land on the beach as I had hoped. Thank you, Tattoo."

Tattoo looked almost as startled as Leslie was. "I thought…I didn't know you knew Joe." At Roarke's raised eyebrow, he explained, "That's what Miss Walters is calling him—Joe. She couldn't pronounce his real name."

"Geez, no wonder," Leslie said, still disbelieving. "A real, honest-to-gosh genie?"

"Yes, indeed," Roarke told her. "And yes, Tattoo, I've known Mr. Aristopholous for a great many years. I haven't seen him for an unimaginable stretch of time, so it's good to know that he is doing well. I think Miss Walters is in good hands—and as well she is, for I'll need your help."

"Sure, boss, with what?" Tattoo asked.

Roarke explained to him about the contests that were to be set up between him and Douglas Picard. "The first contest is the test of the mind, for which there will be a chess match," he said. "To be certain we are completely impartial, I have arranged for a larger-than-life-size board and pieces to be set up, so that someone other than Mr. Picard and I can move the pieces. Leslie has warned me that her knowledge of chess runs solely to the names of some of the playing pieces; so if you would, my friend, I'd like you to move the pieces around the board for us."

"Okay, boss, that's fine," Tattoo agreed. "When's the game?"

"At noon," Roarke said, "directly after we finish the meal. And we are running short on time, so we'd better hurry."

Sure enough, in the clearing where the luaus were normally held, there was a large chessboard laid out on the ground, about thirty by thirty feet, stocked with chess pieces almost Tattoo's height. Tattoo would execute each move as Roarke and Picard called it out. Now he stood in the middle of the board and announced, "Gentlemen, by mutual agreement, you've got a thirty-second time limit for each move. May the game begin."

Roarke, playing the white pieces, settled into a high-backed chair, reminiscent of a throne, on a dais. Leslie stood nervously by his side, and he took a moment to glance at her. "Perhaps you'd better sit down," he advised with a smile. "This could take some time, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"I will be anyway," she murmured, biting her lip, but did as he suggested and seated herself Indian-style a couple of feet away. Roarke gave her a wink, meant to reassure, and turned his attention to the chessboard while Picard, playing the red pieces, sat in his own chair. Eunice and Rothwell stood just off his dais, watching.

"Mr. Roarke?" Picard offered.

Roarke, without acknowledging, surveyed the board and said, "Pawn to queen four." Tattoo moved the piece in question, and Leslie watched him do it, wondering if he had as many abdominal butterflies as she did. If so, he didn't let it show.

"Ah, the queen's gambit, Mr. Roarke," Picard observed. He made a dismissive gesture at the board and requested the same move from his own side.

"Pawn to bishop four," Roarke said.

"Thank you, but I decline the gambit, Mr. Roarke," Picard said from across the board. Leslie glanced up at him, without the slightest idea what he meant, but determined to stick it out to whatever bitter end might come.

Roarke smiled. "A wise decision, Mr. Picard."

Some ninety minutes later Leslie had shifted positions at least five times and was now standing at the corner of the dais, staring at the remaining chess pieces on the board. Picard had nine pieces left; Roarke had seven, one of which was almost completely surrounded by opposing pieces. It was Picard's move, and he sat rubbing his temple and scowling at the board in perplexity.

"Time, Mr. Picard," Tattoo called out.

"Yes, yes. Knight takes pawn," barked Picard. Tattoo picked up a red knight and moved it to the requested square, bumping another of Roarke's pieces off the board; as he lifted the ousted white pawn, he looked up at Roarke and said, "Uh-oh." Leslie straightened sharply and pressed a fist against her mouth. As little as she knew about the game, she was pretty sure that Roarke having fewer pieces left than Picard wasn't a good thing.

But Roarke was as calm and collected as ever. "Bishop's pawn takes pawn," he said.

Tattoo shifted the indicated piece, hefted up a red one and brought it over to add to the collection of others Roarke had taken throughout the game. Setting it down, he looked at Roarke and murmured, "Are you sure?" Roarke said nothing, merely glanced at him with an unreadable expression. Leslie took in his lack of reaction and sighed quietly.

"No, no, I won't let you queen that pawn, Mr. Roarke," snapped Picard, visibly perturbed. "Bishop takes pawn!"

Tattoo swung around to Roarke. "You see, I told you!" he said and went off to carry out the move. Roarke still said nothing, merely contemplated his next move.

"Bishop to knight five," he said after a moment or two.

Tattoo made the move; Picard took it in and then seemed to realize it meant something. Roarke, to Leslie's surprise and perplexity, arose from his chair and stepped onto the board. "Discover check; double check; and mate, Mr. Picard."

Picard looked at his sister, who eyed him back and then appraised Roarke. Rothwell sighed gently. Picard arose and moved onto the board himself. "Clever combination," he admitted gruffly. "Clever." He stopped in front of Roarke and said, "You might like to know you just defeated the eighth-ranked chess player in the world, Mr. Roarke."

"Oh, you are indeed an excellent player, Mr. Picard," Roarke complimented him, shaking his hand, "and I consider myself fortunate to have won."

"Clever," Picard said one more time and sauntered off the board, with Rothwell following him. Roarke returned to the dais and slipped an arm around a stunned Leslie.

"I don't get it," she said, "but if he says you won, I sure am glad!"

Roarke chuckled and led her over to Tattoo, who announced proudly, "Boss, I knew you could make it!"

"Really!" Roarke said, eyes twinkling. "For a moment there I thought I detected doubt in your attitude." Tattoo shook his head, and he smiled. "No? Well, I'm happy I was wrong." Tattoo and Leslie both grinned, as much from relief as anything else.

Just then they all saw movement from the dais and watched as Eunice Picard got to her feet, regarding Roarke for a deliberate moment before putting on her large glasses and leaving wordlessly. Tattoo remarked softly, "Boss, I think Miss Picard likes you."

"She's a very nice lady," Roarke said, "but deeply troubled, I'm afraid." Leslie peered up at him and then glanced at Tattoo, who shrugged. If events turned out as usual—and if they managed not to lose Fantasy Island—they'd quite likely get to the bottom of that.