Under Bikini's palm and pandanus trees, bright in the South Sea sun and dark in the shadow of the Bomb, primitive man and progressive man held palaver. The U.S. Navy's softspoken, sensitive Commodore Ben Wyatt might well have wondered why progress had to sacrifice this lovely coral atoll, instead of an empty wasteland, a dismal slum or a plaguesome Buchenwald. Bikini's tall, tawny Paramount Chief Juda, manor lord of 160 Christian islanders, took comfort in the will of Heaven.
Ben Wyatt talked. In simple words, with eloquent gestures, he told Juda and...
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