Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  And heard"... like an old movie set... unquestionably Chip's voice, from the little wall speaker before he toggled the switch off again.

  A prickly heat sensation crawled up his limbs to burst into gooseflesh at the base of his skull. "Why, the dirty son of a bitch," he whispered, then made himself smile as he turned to Pilau. "All okay," he said. He had intended to check other circuits but now he was in no mood for that.

  He headed for the lobby where he dismissed Pilau with a handshake and took the stairs two at a time.

  He found the crew lounging in Reventlo's room, gave them a smile and thumbs-up, and then sat, beside Chip, who was already busy at his keyboard. He said, very softly, "Can I white a line or two?"

  "Sure, just give me a sec-," Chip replied, then blinked as his grandfather whisked the little gadget onto his own knee with a muttered apology.

  "Hey, take a look, team," Lovett called as he typed. "Ever see a view like this?" He broke off typing to put a forefinger to his lips, then'

  resumed. One by one, the others crowded around.

  In full caps, Lovett typed, PELELE HAS U14TERCOM & CAN BUG OUR

  CONVERSATIONS. HAVE WE SAID TOO MUCH ALREADY?

  "Well I'm a dirty bastard," Myles muttered.

  It's a wise man who knows his worth," Lovett replied, then typed again: KEEP TALKING. Instantly, five voices began to prattle about the weather, the view, and empty stomachs, and Lovett handed the machine back to Chip with a helpless chuckle. "Subtle as a lightning bolt," he said.

  "Speaking of which-"

  He told them about his experiences in the kitchen and atop the building.

  They laughed over Pilau's discovering oil, or at least its magical uses.

  "I wondered who it was, tromping around up there," Gunther said, pointing toward the ceiling.

  "They're doing it for us," Lovett reminded them. "One good turn deserves another, I guess."

  Reventlo, louder than necessary: "Nice chaps. But you know, we really should contact the prime minister from the plane before we eat. And I mean, all of us." His gaze said more than his words.

  "No time like the present, your excellency," Benteen intoned with a raised eyebrow, and soon they were all trooping out to the aircraft.

  Keikano, biding his time in the lobby, shoed every inten him tion of going with them until Cris Reventio stopped at the outer steps with a gesture. "No need for you, Keikano, we're only going to the plane," he said decisively. The schoolteacher wheeled and walked back inside without another word.

  Fifty yards farther along, Chip said, "Uh, Mr. Reventio, could you be a little-well, nicer? Keikano's got feelings, too, and if we have a friend here, he's it."

  "Yes? And has our friend told you our rooms are wired for sound?"

  A grudging, "No-o," from the youth. "But he may not know it."

  "In any case, someone has to show a firm hand. By acclamation it happens to be me, for all my sins. Look here, Chip. We don't know whether Keikano's chatting you up out of a good heart, or a presidential order.

  Our best tactic is to keep smiling and stop giving our game away."

  Once inside the plane, they opened the little emergency door near the flight deck to lessen the ovenlike heat of an aircraft interior left baking all day in the sun, then took seats to confer. "So these innocents are a bit more high-tech than we thought," Reventlo said. "I can't recall what we may have given away. Anyone care to try?"

  No one could be sure. Lovett thought they might have lucked out but Myles was not so optimistic. "We talked airplanes; no one listening could've missed that."

  There was no denying this. They chewed it over among them until Lovett slapped his hands on his knees and said, "Okay, we know they can listen.

  We don't know if, or when, they do. I say let's openly talk about how disappointed we are that those Zeroes are trash, and say the same things when we're in our rooms. Use their audio pickups for our own purposes."

  Coop Gunther asked, "What does that buy us?"

  "An open-and-shut case. We just happened to land here, and hoped to make it pay, but tough tittie-wups, sorry, Benteen."

  "You'll never know, Lovett," she said in a languid murmur.

  He shrugged. "Anyway, I don't know what else it might buy us but whatever we want 'em to believe, we say in the rooms." Reventio liked that. What the Fundaborans had to believe, he said, was that the crew no longer hoped to find aircraft in repairable condition. "That leaves us needing a reason to keep pottering about on the island."

  "Minerals," Benteen said. "We already know they sold phosphates for years, and they don't. seem very prosperous now. They might jump at a chance to sell mineral rights."

  "Gives us a perfect reason to comb the damn island, too. We haven't even seen the interior. Say we find some real mineral deposit that looks even halfway good; we could scrape a road in there while we survey the island. Show me a politician who doesn't want a few more roads in his district," said Myles, regaining a little optimism.

  Evidently it was infectious. "And that means fix up that ol' earthmover.

  It'll be mighty handy in case we strike paydirt," Gunther added, ', I cause we'll need something that can tow an airchime better than that half-track gizmo." ' 'It's making sense," said the Brit. "We've found a natural separation for two teams. Benteen here has actually worked mineral deposits. Myles should be our best man for her in the bush, with all that survival lore of his. Lovett and Coop are our best mechanics, staying chiefly in the shops close by. Chip can split his time between teams. So could 1, for a few days.

  Myles: "Why only a few days?"

  Reventlo: "It may have escaped your notice that I have an aircraft to deliver, or become a wanted man. I can probably scare up another aircraft around Darwin, for a decent price. Something that will seat six and the odd bits of cargo. Fact is, chaps, I'm certain I could turn up something we can use."

  "Boy, it'd be a real shame if you couldn't," Coop muttered.

  "Not to worry," the Brit said loftily. "In this. part of the world there are lots of weary Willies to he had for a song, if you don't mind them looking a bit scruffy. Better yet, most of them are equipped for island-hopping."

  But Chip's brow remained furrowed. "I can't believe they'd let us loose on Fundabora without a guide. They seem to have picked Keikano for that, and he's not stupid. If we find those planes we're after, what do we do then? Convince him they're phosphate deposits? Lotsa luck, dude," he said.

  "Won't matter if we have that contract signed," said Reventlo. "We'll just have to word the agreement so that any valuable materials under the surface are ours."

  Benteen: "And if they turn out to be in a hangar somewhere?"

  "Then Elmo was wrong, mates, and we're screwed. But we might even make the agreement include surface rninerals and define aluminum as a mineral."

  Lovett put up a hand for attention. "Look, we can thrash the contract details out later, when we have more insights into what Big Boy Pelele wants for his little island empire."

  "That's well and good," said Mel Benteen, "so long as you don't think of that guy as a big dumb Candide." Lovett smiled. "If not Candide, then who?"

  "Try Idi Amin," she replied.

  Chip, stunned: "You mean a cannibal?"

  Benteen mulled that over, then said, "Not exactly. Just make sure he stays happy. If a third-world leader doesn't like the deal he's made, he might chew you up in ways that make the difference academic."

  When it became obvious that dinner would be another marathon affair on the verandah, Reventlo only said, "This time, remember: moderation."

  Then he took his indicated place on a low stool near the feet of President Jean-Claude, Benteen on his left, Keikano hovering near. The rest of the crew found mats awaiting them, each member separated from the others, each presented with a fragrant lei.

  Wade Lovett kept his analytical reserve for a time, then began to think how fetching Melanie Benteen looked when she had rearranged a lei blossom in her hair, a pate starburst again
st her own rich coloration.

  She wore a skirt with a fruit salad print, presented to her in the village earlier in the day, which showed off a set of fine strong legs.

  Lovett had not seen her without slacks until now. It made him think about things he very much needed not to think about, especially when their focus was a heavy equipment operator who could punch his lights out.

  Then the dancers appeared, and presently he became caught up in the festivities. Drums set the pace for barefoot young men wearing skirts, intricately painted designs on their bodies, and little else. Smears of red and black made fearsome masks of their faces. As the tempo increased they whirled clubs about them in mock battle, seemingly unaware of their audience. One by one, the combatants fell from pretended blows until one superbly muscled fellow symbolically defeated his last opponent. Lovett recognized the man by an old scar on his left pectoral, though the mark was partly obscured by whorls of red paint: under all those cosmetics was Rongi, the gent who had first greeted Benteen on the, beach. Then, the drumming silenced, Rongi knelt before Jean-Claude. The Fundaborans erupted in militant cheers as Jean-Claude pronounced some kind of benediction, though Lovett thought the President's gaze at Rongi held more calculation than good fellowship.

  The following exhibition was by only one man, a specialist of sorts.

  Lovett had seen more showy versions of the torch dance, but this young guy took chances that seemed truly 'dangerous as he flung the flickering torches about him like a baton twirler with a death wish. When he snuffed the torches in his palm at the finale, Lovett felt the pang himself The torch dancer's face, however, remained absolutely impassive.

  Lovett wondered how that trick was done.

  Not for long, though. Face paint scrubbed away, Rongi's group of dancers returned, to be met by young women who arrayed themselves opposite the men. It was at this point that Lovett realized the native on his right was nudging him. While the dancers chanted and postured in an obvious mating ritual, Lovett found himself trying to carry on a pidgin conversation with a man who wanted to trade a "rock belong Yster,"

  marble-smooth and of modest size, for his wristwatch. By the time Lovett made his refusal clear the dance tempo had increased to match the drums, male suitors stamping and twisting before their partners, women gyrating their midriffs with bumps and grinds so rapid it seemed they must have been impelled by vibrators. On one level, Lovett appreciated the demonstration as art, genuine as fine sculpture, an innocent celebration of the continuum of humankind. On another level, thanks to all those undulating hips and pulsating boobs, he had a nice erection going.

  Again. What is it with you? he asked himself, knowing all too well.

  After a dance like that, he decided, they should all do a pantomime of sharing cigarettes.

  After the last of the seminude dancers had departed gleaming with sweat in the torchlight, Jean-Claude invited his guests to his suite for further entertainment. Low stools had been brought in, arranged for the primitive ritual of video watching. Jean-Claude himself chose a cassette and punched appropriate buttons with a finger like a brown banana, then eased back on that small acreage of bed. Four of his teenaged lovelies crawled onto the same arena, then began to groom their lord and master.

  Lovett thought their actions had a certain air of resignation, and of familiar habit. He wondered how far that grooming would go, but was determined not to look. Pelele probably wanted him to look. Most Western politicians are exhibitionists at heart, he reminded himself. Probably the same everywhere, and damned if I'll give him the pleasure.

  Young Keikano had stayed close to Reventlo all evening for translating duties and sat near him now, eyes averted from the screen. Judging from his expression, Lovett thought the schoolteacher might be deeply humiliated.

  With good reason. The video featured a brace of Asian women, several men, four apparent sexes and no discernible plot. The distinguished President made frequent commentaries along the lines of, "Bigfella he no good for longtime, not fuck'em all same Jean-Claude, eh?" and, "Goddamn picture worse every time. 01' Cris tell Lubbet fix machine, okay?" The videotape, Lovett realized, was simply frazzled with repeated use.

  Before long, an urgent whispering began between Benteen and Reventio; then between the Brit and Keikano, who quickly moved near the bedside and whispered to Jeanclaude. The giant loosed a guttural chuckle and thrust his girls away, striding across the room to shut off the machine.

  Anyone who didn't see the huge rigid digit that protruded from his skirt simply wasn't looking. "Ol' Cris he get young ideas, eh? Okay, Jean-Claude sabby," he said, still laughing, waving them along. "Maybe so swap wife by-and-by, change his luck.

  When Chip decided to make Reventlo's exit a threesome, Lovett hurried to make it four, glancing toward Gunther as he left.

  "Naw, I'll stick with Myles. He needs a chaperone," said old Coop with a guilty grin. Victor Myles sat filling his corncob pipe with the air of a man who intended to live and die in that spot.

  Lovett thought Keikano's reaction was interesting. The schoolteacher had risen to follow Chip but, on learning that two of the whites intended to stay, took a position between his leader and Coop Gunther, face averted.

  Whatever his orders might be, Standing Order #1 seemed to be as liaison for any conversation that Jean-Claude Pelele might want with his guests.

  In the lobby, Reventlo paused at the stairs, wryly amused at their predicament. Very softly: "Do we really want to go to the room?"

  Benteen muttered, "Somehow I don't think our host would understand 'not tonight, dear, I've got a headache.' And I'm in no mood for faking moans and bouncing on a bed for five minutes."

  Reventlo drew himself up. "Five minutes? Well, thank you very much for that disparaging remark, I'm sure. There's one cheeky bird," he added to Lovett. "I could make a case for that 'rutting Reventlo' skit but a walk on the beach might be the better tactic for us all. Jean-Claude can imagine what he likes."

  A late moon hung in the west, casting ghostly shadows from the tree line, lending the trail of crushed shell a faint luminosity. They moved past the dark mass of the aircraft and on to the beach before Chip asked, "Does anybody know what a pearl is worth? They're really trying to push those things on me."

  Lovett said, "Me, too. Guy next to me at dinner? Tried to trade me one the diameter of a pencil. Worth a hundred bucks or so."

  A delighted laugh from Benteen. "The blind leading the blind; wonderful!

  Lovett, a cultured pearl that size, good lustre, perfect shape, might retail for twice that. These can't be cultured. They're natural."

  "They're trying the same bait on us all, according to Coop," said the Brit.

  "Cheaper, huh," Chip guessed.

  "Four to five times more expensive," Benteen corrected. "Cris, you recall when the village matrons had me try on those sarongs? One of the old girls showed me a pearl the size of a jawbreaker; maybe twenty millimeter. Said the President wanted me to have it, if," she said.

  "So drop the other shoe," Lovett suggested.

  "If I'd drop both shoes for him; what did you think? My God, don't be naive! The woman was pandering for Pelele."

  Reventlo sighed. "How much was it worth?"

  "Ten thousand or so," she said. "That's retail." 'May I at least glance at the thing," the Brit persisted.

  "You could if I had it," she said with some heat. "If I could see whether you're smiling I'd know whether to deck you for that innuendo, mister."

  "Serves you bloody right. Five minutes my arse," Reventlo chuckled, then grunted as her elbow landed lightly against his ribs. "All right, truce.

  The fact is, I had a similar offer, and for the same taste of sweets, from Merizo."

  Their companions forgotten, Benteen gasped. "Pelele wants your bod?"

  "Don't be an ass, he was dickering for yours."

  "You might have told me."

  "And the same, my crumbling crumpet, to you," said the Brit. "I'd say you must keep one of our transceivers on y
our slightly shopworn person at all times. You might've simply disappeared while trying on those sarongs."

  "Begins to look like that." Her face darkened as she said, as if to herself, "If he has me mugged I'll perforate the son of a bitch. I will." Then, "Guys, I never intended to be a problem," she said, morosely.

  "You're not," Reventlo said sharply. "I'll just have to make your position clear to our kindly host. They're getting ready for some kind of annual bash, according to Pelele. That may occupy what passes for his mind. Anyway, it shouldn't be an issue once we're not underfoot so much."

  "And when'll that be," Lovett asked.

  "As soon as I can manage it. Tomorrow, perhaps. It's time we set out our bait; so let's make a show of enthusiasm among ourselves over the mineral wealth we expect to find, when we're all back in my suite."

  "He's got to know there probably isn't any left," said Benteen.

  Reventlo's low laugh was merry. "Exactly. He profits; we don't. Should appeal to him."

  On their return to the upstairs suites, they found Coop waiting to the tune of Myles's snores. Asked how the entertainment had gone, Coop only said, "You wouldn't believe that big guy," with an air of disgust as he shook Vic Myles awake. A series of silent nods said that, whatever it was, they'd all believe it.

  They made small talk for a few minutes, enlivened by news of the upcoming leadership games. Only Benteen and Reventlo had heard these bits from Jean-Claude during the dances. By tradition, the festival always began with food, some of it from Jean-Claude's hoard of goods imported for the purpose. The major delicacy for the locals, said Benteen, seemed to be cheap boiled ramen pasta without flavoring; platters of it, mounds of it, shoals of it. "But poi tastes like library paste, so we shouldn't be surprised," she added. And of course all that pasta would be washed down with liquids of every de7 scnption.

  Another phase of celebration would be dances and what Keikano had interpreted first as free association, then as family planning. "The way Mayday did his family planning," Lovett suggested to his grandson.