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Paliekam pusiasalį, grįžtam į Puerto Madryn, iš kur traukiam toliau į pietus. Jau žinau, kad vidurio pietų Patagonijoje, okupuotoje naftos verslovių, nėra ką veikti (nebent ką domintų naftos išgavimo technologijos ir geodezija). Comodoro Rivodavia, nuobodžiame tarpiniame mieste turime pralaukti keletą nakties valandų, kol atsidarys autonuoma. Autobusų stotis pilna tokių, kaip ir mes, laukiančių. Prieš mus nukritęs į kampą ant purvinų grindų, pasidėjęs galvą ant tašės, miega keleivis su užgesusia cigarete lūpose.

But the town's most distinguished citizen was the Lithuanian, Casimir Slapelič. Fifty years ago he found the dinosaur in baranca. Now, toothless, hairless and in his middle eighties, he was one of the oldest flying pilots in the world. Each morning he put on his white canvas flying-suit, pottered down to the Aero Club in his Moskva and hurled himself and his antique monoplane to the gales. The risk merely inceased his appetite for life.

The wind has polished his nose and coloured it pale lilac. I found him at lunch ladling the borstsch into the ivory orb of his head. He had made his room cheerful, in the Baltic way, with flowered courtains, geraniums, diplomas for stunt flying and a signed photograph of Neil Armstrong. All his books were in Lithuanian, the aristocrat of Indo-European languages, and concerned his country's plans for independence.

His wife has died and he had adopted a young Indian couple, out of kindness and for company. The girl sat against the white wall, suckling her baby, devouring visitors with mica-shining eyes.

Casimir Slapelič was a prodigy. Once he had tried to be a bird man. Now he would like to go to the Moon.