Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  Reventlo smiled harder. Young Keikano translated: "In the name of Fundabora, President Jean-Claude Pelele welcomes the shipwrecked. We will help you get passage on the next ship. You have nothing to fear from us."

  But something in the way Keikano said shipwrecked and fear lent a special urgency to those words. Benteen spoke low into Reventlo's ear:

  "Sounds like a claim for salvage rights."

  As if he had not heard her: "We thank you for your welcome, but we were not wrecked, sir. We want only to rest our ship. We bring gifts to show our thanks." And with that, he held out his offerings.

  Pelele took them, with a perplexed glance at the MRE packs and a delighted grin at his scotch. He handed it all over to the hovering Merizo; seemed to reach some internal decision; said, "Pelele can tok English all same youfela," and grasped Reventlo in a one-armed bearhug.

  The demonstration must have meant something special to Fundaborans, who began to whoop and cheer while surrounding the strangers and gabbling in what sounded like pig latin from hell.

  Pelele liked to look at Benteen; and whatever he liked to do, he did.

  She found herself crowding close to Cris Reventlo, shielding herself from the big man's gaze. Pelele's English was laced with pidgin, most of it readily understood. He might ask, "Name belong you," while pointing at Benteen, but after getting the answer he could also confide like a sailor on shore leave to Reventlo, "Good knockers," Low benches were dragged onto the porch for the crew, who soon began to relax their wary stances. With her smiles, Benteen showed her relief that Pelele had so quickly discarded the formalities she'd been led to expect. The only ritual that seemed formal was in the sharing of some opaque liquid in a bowl, served in a cup of coconut shell in a grave silence broken only by someone's low chant to the plaintive beat of a small wooden drum. After his first experimental sip, Myles claimed it tasted as though someone had lost some mild Mexican peppers in muddy water. After two cups, Lov ett wondered aloud why his lips were numb. Benteen get their minds at ease by telling them it was the local version of kava, harmless and nonalcoholic. Once the bowl was empty, the last vestiges of ceremony disappeared and platters of unidentifiable foods were placed before them.

  Lovett wasn't sure when the seals came off the scotch, intent as he was on staying near Chip amid the friendly jostle of a hundred mostly naked men who'd never heard of deodorant. He did take a taste when the scotch was passed to him for a swig, and saw Chip take more than a taste, and then got involved with a serious-faced man who wanted to swap a tiny misshapen pearl for "small rocks bilong docta, fix head bilong missy bilong me, head alltime no good," perhaps aspirin for his wife's headaches. He did not show interest in cash. Lovett expressed enthusiasm but could only say things like, "later" and "another time," which eventually became "long time soon" with a wan smile from the pearl's owner.

  The formidable Pelele appropriated one bottle for himself, repeatedly asking the crew's names between pulls at the scotch until he had everything memorized. Little Merizo never strayed far from the giant's elbow though the youthful schoolteacher, Keikano, must have received some signal that his services would no longer be needed. Kelkano too in tow, discussing tidbits of fish and fowl, and then someone brought in a crock of what proved to be home brew, and for Lovett, after that, the sequence of events got a little hazy.

  Lovett's hangover was not hazy, it was solid as a concrete overcast. He awoke to the last rays of sun, a spear of molten gold through an open window that fried his retinas and made him flinch. He swung his legs to the floor, blinking, and found he'd been lying on a rattan couch. Myles sprawled nearby on a double bed, snoring, one arm caught in mosquito netting. There was no sign of Reventlo or Benteen but Chip was sitting in a woven chair, gazing out of their second-story window as he talked into one of their transceivers.

  "The drink was probably spiked, Mr. Gunther," he was saying, between staccato bursts from the sleeping Texan across the room. The radio squawked softly, and then Chip spoke again: "That's just Mr. Myles, snoring the twenty-one gun salute from the 1812 Overture. He was slugging that awful crap down like he had a leak in his neck. Serves him right. My pop is," he paused, glanced toward Lovett, waved and smiled,

  "here with me, too. Mr. Reventlo and Miz Benteen went easy on the drinks. Last I saw, they were on a walking tour of the building with the President. Make that a staggering tour. They took it pretty easy on that home brew, thou h, like I did."

  More squawks from the radio, as Lovett walked to the window, willing to let Chip save him the trouble of talking. Below them in the driveway of crushed shell, the half-track's driver was sitting literally on his vehicle's engine, bent over its carburetor with water pump pliers.

  Lovett winced, shook his head. Because they chewed up fittings so fast, water pump pliers were a good mechanic's choice only after the failure of wrenches, fingernails, and teeth. Aircraft mechanics called them Mexican speed wrenches and kept them with plumbing tools. Lacking professional mechanics on Fundabora, these people were lucky to maintain anything more complicated than a teeter-totter.

  With the sun's escape below the horizon, dusk came hoering in like a heavy gauze curtain. Lovett had forgotten how fast daylight became night in the tropics but that poor bastard slaving over a cold carburetor now had a lit candle to help him, and to blow him clear off the island if serious gasoline fumes were present.

  Fascinated, Lovett watched, and then remembered the powerful little Maglite in his pocket. He could either concentrate on his headache or do something to take his mind from it. "I'm going outside, Chip, but I'll stay within earshot. You do the same, okay?"

  The youth nodded, obviously keeping company with the solitary Gunther in the only way he could, and Lovett's'step became steadier as he found his way to a broad stairwell. The council house, he had learned before conking out, had been a postwar hotel for a decade and now, with peeling paint and tatters of old carpet, it reminded him of cut-rate lodgings in some one-cop Mexican town. He descended into a deserted lobby whose windowpanes had been removed, welcoming the sea breeze, hurrying outside to the half-track and its hapless mahout.

  The native, a wiry fellow in his forties, jerked nervously as Lovett's footstep crunched on the drive's shells, then seemed relieved to see that it was only one of the strangers. He bent to his task again. Lovett twisted the Maglite to a medium-focus beam, pinched the candle out. "We don't need an open flame," he said.

  The driver-mechanic straightened, took the flashlight in one hand to inspect it, handed it back. Lovett realized that the fresh dark smear on the instrument was blood, and that the native's fingers were a gory mess. After a few moments he saw that the poor ignoramus was trying to force a length of tubing over a hose fitting-had been trying for some time without loosening the hose clamp. It seemed likely that he did not realize you could loosen or tighten a hose clamp, and for good reason: the clamp's little finger holds were rusted tight.

  "Let me try," Lovett said. The man made no sign he had heard until Lovett patted his wrist and pantomimed helping.

  "Pipe belong bun wata," said the native, indicating the fuel hose, and straightened the kinks from his back. He watched as Lovett, with one finger, transferred a smudge of oil from a puddle on the -engine to the corroded hose clamp, then produced his Swiss knife and used its tough little pliers to loosen the clamp. The native ahhhed in awe. Lovett trimmed the shredded end of the hose neatly with his knife blade, the native murmuring in pidgin as he studied the operation, then shoved the hose onto its fitting and repositioned the clamp before tightening it.

  The native showed a lively curiosity about the "knife pinga pinch iron,"

  meaning the tiny pliers, and soon the two men were ranging over the antique engine as Lovett was shown all the things that didn't

  'Ida work, or worked poorly. Some of the newer fittings looked like good hardware, but not the'a N" fittings America had made standard across the globe. Lovett guessed they were Chinese.

  After a half-hour, they had fixe
d a few more small glitches. Lovett knew the fellow's name, Pilau, and began to have a smattering of pidgin, Biin wata, water that bums, meant fuel; Lubbet was Lovett himself. And he knew that Pilau was almighty anxious to get that brute of a half-track the hell out of the drive before his President returned.

  Pilau knew how to prime a carburetor with raw fuel, which smelled like any other gasoline, and soon had his vehicle lurching off toward the Quonsets. Lovett's ears welcomed the silence for a long while but presently he could hear an exchange of distant voices inside the council house and hastily wiped his hands on ivy leaves before entering the building.

  Though no electric lights were in evidence, kerosene torches held by Pelele's men lent a warrn flickering glow to the lobby and explained some of the carbon smudges on nearby walls. Lovett gave them a silent wave as he approached the group. The huge headman had three of his burly retinue, still silent and impassive, with him. Love'tt saw no sign of the schoolteacher or minister Merizo.

  Reventlo, with Benteen's occasional help, was explaining to the huge Pelele that it didn't matter whether they had transportation or not; his crew would find the airplane. Thanks ever so much, perhaps tomorrow they would sleep in the guest houses, but for now they had business with the airplane. As for rounding up their sleepers, not to worry; they would manage somehow.

  "I slept it off pretty fast," Lovett announced. "A splash of water should do wonders for Myles-uh, fella grass belong face," he added, manfully trying out his pidgin.

  "Awright, youfella go, Jean-Claude don't give a shit," the. giant said in mild exasperation. With that, he turned and set off down the hall from the lobby, arms swinging with elbows held wide, his guards one step behind. Robbed of torchlight, the lobby became a pit of gloom.

  "We pissed him off, didn't we," ]Lovett asked, producing his Maglite again.

  "It's not a difficult chore," Reventlo muttered, still looking at the retreating backs. "He's not used to being denied. Wanted us to be his guests tonight whether we liked it or no.

  Benteen: "Give the man some credit, Cris. He's dealing with it better than a lot of headmen do. Uh, how many of those flashlights do we have with us, Lovett?"

  "Let's find out," said Lovett, and led the way upstairs.

  They found Chip and Vic Myles together sharing the light of a candle stub, Chip tapping away on his computer while a bleary-eyed Myles enveloped himself in the smoke of a corncob pipe and dictated. "About time," Myles rumbled, getting up. "What's for supper?"

  "Whatever Coop hasn't eaten," said Reventio. "We were afraid we'd have to drag you back unconscious."

  "Somebody slipped me a Stone Age mickey. Sure didn't last long though-hold it. Drag me? We don't get a ride?"

  The Brit shook his head. "Under the circumstances I thought we'd be wiser not to beg one; let the beggars know we can fend for ourselves.

  Let's have a show of pocket torches, shall we?"

  Only Chip and Benteen lacked a flashlight. Myles pocketed his candle stub-with all its odds and ends, that hunting jacket must have weighed ten pounds-and soon they were trudging through the path of white shell toward the beach. Myles poked, his side arm into the front of his belt though Reventlo said they should be safe enough. "Our friend Jeanclaude seems to be a benevolent dictator, and dictators run a tight ship. I suspect muggers would have a rather short career on Fundabora."

  They proceeded along the broad swath of sand in starlight, the black of the tree line to their left and pale shifting lines of surf to the right, using their flashlights now and then to identify the dark lump that would become seaweed or a palm stump rounded by surf and sand.

  Civilization had its points, Lovett decided, but they were not points of heavenly light;

  with no smog, no atmospheric glow from nearby cities, Fundabora's sky remained pristine, unsullied by modern barriers to the stargazer. The sea braze cleared foggy heads nicely though the sand made their calves ache, and they saved their lungs for the walk, venting sighs of relief when they saw a row of dim glows far ahead near the tree line. Myles found his second wind and forged ahead a few paces to the plane, only to find the cargo door closed. He rapped on it.

  From inside, Coop Gunther: "I told you to get. away from here; go on, scat!"

  "It's us, Coop," Reventlo called. Heavy footfalls, and the door swung wide. "Whyn't you let me know," the old man grumped.

  The Brit followed Myles in, rubbing his calves as he took one of the bucket seats. "I gather you've had unwanted company, Coop."

  "That little half-pint in the Halloween tux? Him and some TV wrestlers showed up about sundown. Skulked around in the woods awhile before he came out with one of the biggies to have another look around the plane, trying to look innocent as Laurel and friggin' Hardy. I was watching from the cockpit, didn't say anything 'til the big guy gave a tap on the rudder. Then I raised hell."

  Lovett eased his aching butt to a seat. "We need these people to stay friendly, Coop," he said.

  "We need an airchime in one piece, too. He does his tapping with a goddanm six-foot club, Wade. But he ain't Gene Krupa and that ain't a snare drum back there, okay?" Chip: "Who's Gene Krupa?"

  Myles: "I'm gonna kill this kid."

  Benteen, worried: "You didn't shoot, Coop?"

  "Naw. Opened the door and cycled the bolt, though. It's a noise that gets attention."

  "They might not recognize it," said Myles.

  Gunther, with a snort: "If they didn't, from the way they moved out they both made a damn good guess. They gotta have guns here."

  "I think," Reventlo mused, "you walked a fine line, Coop.

  Good on you; proves we can be serious, but not too bloody minded. They were probably just testing to see if anyone was home. Ah, have you tried the comm set ' to check the weather?

  I'd hate to see our nice C-Fort become a "Sea fort," Chip put in, his pun earning a groan from the Brit.

  "CAVU ahead," Gunther nodded, a shorthand phrase indicating Ceiling and Visibility Unlimited---clear weather. "Checked just before dinner."

  That reminded Myles of his belly again, and presently they were sharing the mysteries of a few MRE packs. Though these modern analogs of C-rations still got their share of curses, they would last until the blast of Gabriel and provided well-rounded menus. Each olive-drab plastic pack carried one of a dozen labels: chicken with rice, spaghetti with meat sauce, beef or chicken stew, even pork chow mein; all precooked, each with separate packets for crackers, cookies, condiments with a plastic spoon, and a powdered drink niix. Chip was considering one labeled "Chili con came with beans" until Reventlo plucked it from him with, "Not in my airplane. Does 'fart in a spacesuit' have a familiar ring?"

  "If he did, it would," Lovett said. "At least he has perfect pitch."

  Chip sighed and tried the "Escalloped potatoes with ham," instead.

  During and after the meal they compared notes in the glow of a single cabin light. From Lovett they gained the impression that, while such simple remedies as aspirin were known on the island, the common folk had to barter for them.

  Reventlo and Benteen had stayed closer than Siamese tw'ms during their tour of the council house. "Actually, it might be wise to accept Jean-Claude's offer," Benteen suggested. "If we stay in the council house, it will make negotiations simpler.

  "Not unless we taxi the plane up near the place with those Palms as a windbreak," said the Brit.

  "Yeah, and keep an eye on our transportation," Coop said. 'You two learn anything about the stash?" Reventlo shrugged. "Not a glimmer. I noticed there are lights in the presidential suite, though. That means a working generator.' I "in the harem, too," said Benteen, which brought several heads up sharply. "Well, I don't know what else to call it. I think it began as a little convention hall but it's partitioned off for, oh, a half-dozen of the poor things. Did you see the bamboo bars over their windows? They didn't pay much attention to us. Must be a boring life."

  "Interrupted by an occasional night of sheer terror, I should think,"

&nbs
p; Reventlo said. "Do you suppose any of his wives would have influence?

  You'd be the one to look into it, Melanie

  "I could try," she said. "And the sooner we find the best way into Jean-Claude's heart, the better."

  "All the better reason to taxi the plane back and bed down in the council house. There are plenty of rooms for us," Lovett pointed out,

  "and it sure beats sleeping here."

  No one argued against that. They'began to arrange their sleeping bags as Chip described his discussion with the schoolteacher. Before Keikano left the party, he had asked a million, questions of Chip: whether the youthful American knew of any hostilities between Pacific islands; whether the aircraft would return, assuming they left soon; whether any of the crew was a doctor or nurse; and whether he, Keikano, might purchase a ride to some city.

  "Wants to see the bright lights, does he," Benteen smiled sadly. "Lots of young islanders make that mistake. Without money they wind up displaced, disillusioned, drunk, or all three."

  "Like the Klinkit," Gunther nodded, "in Alaska."

  "I don't think that's it, exactly. And if he can pay with pearls, he's far from broke," Chip said, producing a lovely orb the size of a small pea, with a soft nacreous pink luster as though lit from inside.

  "Ohh, ho," said Reventlo, taking the object between thumb and forefinger. Now he murmured to the pearl: "Any more at home like you, my dear?" Chip merely nodded, but Lovett thought the youth's eyes shone almost too brightly.

  Reventlo spoke to Chip again: "He just gave this away?"

  "Uh-swapped him my flashlight," Chip admitted.

  Lovett, who knew his grandson had brought one: "So that's where it went."

  "Not a good idea," Benteen said. "Look, I know it's tempting, but we can make trades when we're warming up the engines."

  "Never know when you'll wish you could buy that hardware back, kid,"

  Myles put in.

  For once, Benteen seemed to value Myles's input. "Let's not show much interest in pearls; not if we want a good price later. So young Mr.