Soaked with sweat in the heat of the Brazilian noon, intrepid musicologist Barry Tone ran his fingers around the edges of a large boulder. His Guaraní-speaking skills were a little rusty, sure. But if his translations were correct, he’d find what he was looking for somewhere atop this hill overlooking Rio de Janeiro and the shimmering harbor. Could there be an entrance to a cave hidden behind this big rock? And given the queasy state his breakfast had left him in, could Barry move it before that morning’s mingau de fubá came up on him? He heaved and hoed, yanked and shoved, but the great stone sat unmoved. Just when Barry’s stomach felt like it was about to hurl out its contents – the boulder gave way. Yes! A cave!

Lighting a torch, Barry moved into the musty space, too excited to vomit now. And there it was, on a pedestal at the back of the shallow cave, glinting in the flickering light of the flame: the Pearl of Rio. A triumphant ecstasy filled Barry as he ran to the Pearl and seized its slender, tapered body in its hands. There was its storied display screen, and the simple track controls that the local natives had whispered about. Was the rest of the legend true? Did this tiny totem really contain 6GB of storage space? Could you really connect it directly to your computer via a USB 2.0 connection? Would its mythical battery actually run for up to 20 hours on a single charge? Barry was anxious to get it back to the lab and find out.

As he was slipping the Rio Pearl into his shirt pocket, a shadow crossed the cave entrance behind him, followed by an ominous click. Barry turned to see his nemesis, the bald, bespectacled Nazi agent Klaus Neuerock. “Veddy good, Dr. Tone,” murmured the mocking Germanic voice. “Der Fuehrer appreciates your service. This MP3 player will be quite useful in our European campaign. As a token of his thanks, let me present you with one genuine German bullet.”

But before Neuerock finished his insults, Barry was gripped by a tremendous heaving. Copious quantities of half-digested cornmeal splashed out of his mouth and all over the leering Nazi. “Vas ist-,” Neuerock sputtered, gloved hands wiping in vain at the regurgitated mingau de fubá covering his eyes. The German agent stumbled backwards, then, to Barry’s astonishment, right out of the cave. With a comical “AAAAIIEEE!” the puke-blind Neuerock lost his footing and tumbled down the hill and out of Barry’s sight. Barry ran to the cave opening in time to see the Nazi’s limp, lifeless body come to a stop at the foot of the hill, hundreds of feet below. Pocketing the MP3 player, Barry gave silent thanks that he himself had not become one of the many casualties claimed by the hunt for the Rio Pearl.

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