Beneath the morning sun forty different shades of green glimmered on the lovely isle, from the emerald of the lush grass to the olive of the leafy jungle. Something else on the island shone spectacular black-and-blue, but thanks to the Skipper's modesty, did not see the light of day.

The Skipper and Gilligan came out of their hut, the Skipper stiff and holding his hip. "Oh! I don't know if I can sit down, Gilligan. I must have a bruise the size of New York State back here!"

Gilligan glanced at the Skipper's stern. "I don't think New York State's big enough, Skipper. Probably more like Texas."

"Very funny!"

The communal table was set for breakfast, with bowls of papayas and pineapples and garlands of sweet-scented kamani. Gilligan took up a spray of the delicate white flowers. "Well, Mary Ann's up, anyway. I wonder where everybody else is?"

"Probably too bruised to get out of bed, I'd say. I wouldn't blame them."

"You're not far off, Skipper," came a soft, sultry voice, and Ginger appeared in her silver lame gown, not wafting as gracefully as usual. She grimaced as she sat carefully at one of the empty places. "I didn't notice it so much last night, but I'm sure noticing it now. You boys won't be seeing my wiggle for a while."

The Skipper's face fell. "Oh, that's too bad! I mean – ep – ep - I mean are you all right, Ginger?"

"Sure." Ginger smiled a little painfully. "I should be used to this by now. Still, gee whiz! In California we used to have tremors, but nothing like last night! It felt like San Andreas was right under my bed!"

"Oh, yeah? Too bad he wasn't, Ginger, 'cause maybe he could have broken your fall," said Gilligan.

"Who could have?" said Ginger, puzzled.

"Your Mexican friend. San Andreas."

The Skipper rolled his eyes. "That's San Andreas Fault, Gilligan."

"Aw, come on, Skipper. How could it be his fault if he wasn't here? I'm sure he would have caught Ginger if he was."

The Skipper gave Ginger a look as if to say, don't even try.

Ginger gave the Skipper a look as if to say, don't worry. "Thanks for checking on us afterwards anyhow. We were both pretty shook up – pardon the pun."

"I'll say we were!" From the way Mary Ann was walking, it seemed as though the breadfruit muffins and coffee pot on her tray must have weighed a hundred pounds. Gilligan managed to rescue it from her and set it safely on the table as she slumped into a chair. "Uhnn…thanks, Gilligan. Morning, everyone."

"My gosh, Mary Ann, what's wrong?" asked the Skipper. "You both seemed okay when Gilligan and I left you last night!"

She crooked a half-hearted smile. "Oh, I'm all right, Skipper. I'm not bruised – just tired. I just couldn't get to sleep last night after you and Gilligan left. I kept waiting for the fun to start all over again!" She looked up at her two sailor friends. "Thanks for coming in to see that we were all right. How are you two feeling this morning?"

"I'm fine," said Gilligan. "I got real lucky."

"You did?"

"Yeah. When we fell out of our hammocks, I landed on the Skipper. It was just like falling into one of those great big inflatable life-rafts we had in the navy. I haven't got a mark on me!"

The Skipper's fingers quivered, but he kept them away from his hat with Herculean will. "Let's just keep it that way, okay, little buddy?"

"Hmmm?"

Mary Ann decided it was time to run interference. Sitting up, she started pouring the coffee all 'round. "Come on, everybody, dig in. These muffins are best when they're fresh."

"Ep - shouldn't we wait for the others?" the Skipper asked.

"Oh…" Mary Ann suddenly remembered. "The Professor might be a bit late. I just found this note pinned to the supply hut." She fished a paper out of the pocket of skirt. "He says he left early to check on an experiment and he's not sure whether he'll make it back for breakfast. I've set a place for him just in case, but there's no point in you waiting."

"What about the Howells?" asked Ginger. "I couldn't believe it when you fellows told us they'd actually slept right through those fireworks last night!"

"Like babies," said Gilligan. "Mr. Howell turned over at one point and mumbled something about treasury bills and the gold standard, but that was it."

Mary Ann chuckled. "Sounds as though the smell of breakfast isn't going to be enough to wake them, then! Come on, you know the Howells by now. They can't be hurried for love or money!" She grinned impishly. "Well…maybe money. Anyhow, just get started. I made plenty."

Gilligan didn't need to be told twice. He slung himself onto the centre of the bench with the ease of an acrobat, while the Skipper lowered himself onto the bench's end as though it were a saddle on a particularly angry bronco. He finally made contact, wincing and grimacing.

Gilligan was concerned. "Gee, Skipper, do you want me to get you a pillow?"

Now the girls were concerned too. "Skipper, are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

Gilligan shook his head and looked towards the Skipper's backside. "Deep in the heart of Texas."

The Skipper's brow darkened ominously as Ginger peered at the first mate. "Gilligan, when you fell out of your hammock last night, did you land on your head?"

"No, Ginger, on the Skipper, like I said. Boy, was I lucky. He saved my life!"

The Skipper raised his eyebrows. "Gilligan, little buddy, I didn't save your life. Falling out of your hammock wouldn't have killed you."

"Yeah, but you landing on me would have! They'd have had to scrape me off the floor!"

"They will yet if you don't pipe down! Here!" The Skipper grabbed a muffin and stuffed it into Gilligan's mouth like a cork in a barrel. "Stow your gab and eat your breakfast – and that's an order!"

"Mmm – mmm, mmm," mumbled Gilligan sulkily, with a mock-salute.

At that moment the red-curtained French doors of the Howell hut swung open and the lord and lady of the island came swanning out, both resplendent in white. Both were clad in white cricket shirts and vests, and Mrs. Howell had teamed hers with a long, pleated white skirt to match her husband's white trousers. Thurston was even wearing the tall shin guards and cap, and brandished a large, white cricket bat. "Egad! Oh, to be in England, now that April's there! What a beautiful morning for a practice run at the pitch, Lovey! I feel as though I were back at Lord's."

"I feel as though I were back at Harrod's," Mrs. Howell murmured dreamily. "Our first new clothes in ages! What a perfect time for a garden party!" The couple strolled up and seated themselves next to Ginger. "Good morning, everyone!" Mrs. Howell looked at Gilligan, then at the platter of muffins. "Those muffins must be delicious, Gilligan. You certainly seem to be enjoying them!"

"Yes, my boy," teased Mr. Howell. "You couldn't wait for us, eh?"

Gilligan looked like a chipmunk storing up for a long winter. He chewed vigorously and swallowed. "Skipper's orders," he said dryly.

Mrs. Howell nodded in approval. "Oh, he must have thought you looked hungry. That's so kind of you, Captain. Always looking out for the dear boy."

The Skipper gave a wry smile. "That's what a Skipper does, Mrs. Howell. By the way: are you two all right? You were sound asleep last night when Gilligan and I checked in on you."

Thurston Howell chuckled. "That was very kind of you, Captain, but aren't bed checks taking things a bit far? Do you want to know whether we said our prayers too?"

"I wish you had, Mr. Howell," said Gilligan. "Maybe then we wouldn't have had that earthquake last night!"

"Great heavens, so that's what it was!" cried the millionaire. "I was afraid I'd taken too much brandy after dinner and couldn't remember the party. Our little hut is a shambles!"

"Oh, I do hope we don't have any more earthquakes before our garden party!" cried his wife. "They'll disarrange all my decorations. And however shall I write my invitations? The ink will go all squiggly."

"I'd say that's the least of our worries, Mrs. Howell," said the Skipper.

"Oh, Captain, au contraire! One can't send out slovenly invitations! I can't even bear the thought of the stamps being misaligned!"

The Skipper looked puzzled. "Stamps? Mrs. Howell, we haven't even got a post office."

Ginger smiled. "We could always play post office."

"Oh yeah?" Gilligan was intrigued. "I've never played that game before. Sounds like fun."

Ginger's smile broadened. "Oh, it is, Gilligan. It is."

"Could you coach me?"

The Skipper decided this had gone far enough. "Have another muffin, Gilligan," he urged, shoving another one in Gilligan's mouth.

"Dear me," said Mrs. Howell. "The dear boy is awfully fond of those."

"But you're absolutely right, Lovey," said Mr. Howell, determined to bring the conversation back under control. "Nothing can be permitted to interfere with the success of our venture. Why, we've already found the ideal site for the green: a lovely flat expanse on the west side of the island. Lovey and I have golfed there many a time."

"Oh, it's so picturesque!" cried Mrs. Howell. "Just below a lovely green hill, with the mountains beyond.

Gilligan gulped down the last of his second muffin. "You mean that place where I was caddying for you, Mr. Howell, and had to go all the way back to camp for the papaya juice?"

"Yes, my boy, that's the spot."

Gilligan's dark eyebrows rose. "It's kinda far from here, isn't it?"

"I daresay it is, Gilligan, but this side of the island is simply overrun with undergrowth - rather like the garden at our house in Long Island after the gardener discovered the back door to our wine cellar. In any case, cricket requires a wide, flat field."

"Oh, yeah, I get it. Like a baseball diamond."

"Precisely." Mr. Howell looked around imperiously, as though mustering the troops. Now we'll all have to pool our efforts: marking the field, practicing our runs and bowls…"

"Preparing the food and the entertainment," finished his wife. "It's going to be such fun!"

"By Jove, yes!" Thurston beamed. "The first annual Howell Garden Party and Cricket Match will be the major event of the season!"

"We're going to have a major event, all right, but that won't be it. I wish it were."

The castaways turned as one as the Professor emerged from the jungle carrying a small white tube of paper. The seat at the head of the table remained empty as the Professor remained standing. His handsome features were grave.

"Whatever do you mean, Professor?" demanded Thurston Howell. "Whatever could compete with a gathering of such sophistication and style?"

"I do hope we're all invited," said Mrs. Howell hopefully.

"Oh, we are, Mrs. Howell," the Professor said dryly. "Here's our invitation."

The Professor held up a narrow slip of paper about four feet long. Along its centre was a faint, broken horizontal line, and running the length of the paper was a bolder, solid, jagged line that cut back and forth across the broken line like stitching.

Gilligan stared at the strange script. "Boy, Professor. I've heard that doctor's handwriting is bad, but professors' handwriting is even worse. How'd you ever give all those lectures?"

"This isn't writing, Gilligan, it's the readout from my seismometer. Do you all realize what this means?"

Thurston Howell smiled. "Of course we do, Professor. We're not all as naïve as our dear young friend here."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it."

The millionaire pointed to the rising and falling angles. "Now Gilligan, my boy, pay attention. That bold black line is your stock price. When it dips far enough below the horizontal you buy, and then when it rises to its highest crest, you sell. You'll make a killing, my boy!"

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Howell!"

"Mr. Howell! Please!" The Professor fumed. "This is serious!"

"Why, so am I, Professor! How is the boy ever going to build a strong portfolio if—"

"Howell! Gilligan! Pipe down and let the Professor talk!" The Skipper glared at Mr. Howell, who sulked a little, then turned to Gilligan and held up a third muffin. Gilligan set his lips together and shrank back, silent. Satisfied, the Skipper turned back to the scientist. "Now you go ahead, Professor."

"Thank you, Skipper." The Professor took a deep breath. "Now, as I was about to say, a seismometer is a device that measures earth tremors. I created a makeshift model when I was monitoring the activity of our volcano."

"How does it work, Professor?" asked Ginger.

"Oh, it's a very simple device, Ginger. Just a long bamboo pole driven into the earth with a container holding a long roll of paper, like this one. The paper is attached to a stone that slowly unwinds the roll. I made this broken horizontal line myself: it represents a period of calm, where there is no seismic activity. A pencil in a little holder just above the paper makes this sold bold line. When the pole is jiggled by earth tremors, the line becomes jagged. The more jagged the line, the greater the seismic activity." The Professor held up the long slip of paper again. Now every peak and valley took on an ominous cast.

"Look at the size of these striations. I'm convinced we are in for a major earthquake!"

The cowed castaways looked at one another in alarm. "Like the one we had last night, Professor?" Mary Ann whispered.

"If the indications on my seismometer are correct, Mary Ann, last night's quake wasn't a tenth of what the coming one will be. In layman's terms, what happened last night was a waltz, and what's going to happen will be…

"Shake, rattle and roll," murmured Gilligan, and they all shivered.