by Dean Ing
Meanwhile the plane described another arc, turning around the island's northern tip and following an inward curve of beach. "More roofs," Chip was exclaiming to Mel Benteen.
"Different tribal style; that's odd," she replied, then noticed Lovett.
"I hope Master Reventlo's enjoying himself up there," she said.
Lovett sat down to buckle in. "Not a lot. But he's willing to Out down on the beach if you'll chance it."
"I thought, the airstrip," Chip began.
"Sing out if you see one, guys. I'm afraid Elmo invented that part,"
Lovett said. They all, including Myles, stared at him silently. "Hey, it's decision time, everybody. The beach now, or a chartered boat from the Philippines in a week or so.' I
"Manila! Or Leyte. Just promise me Reventlo won't be our skipper," Myles said instantly.
Lovett looked at the woman. "Mel?"
She shut her eyes, licked her lips in a way that was strangely appealing, opened her eyes again after a long breath. "Abstain," she said. "I don't know enough to judge it."
"Chip?"
The youth looked at Lovett, then the woman, and swallowed hard. "You're not abstaining, are you, Pop?"
Lovett shook his head. "Even Coop thinks they can grease it in, and he's still not in love with his luck. I may be sorry, but this way we hit Fundabora today. Six beaches; no waiting.
Myles: "You hadda say 'hit Fundabora,' asshole?"
"No. That was just for you, Myles," Lovett smiled.
Chip, without further pause, but flicking his gaze toward Myles: "I say let's hit the sonofabitch now," Chip said, and managed something like a devil-may-care grin.
Lovett knew his young devil cared very much, grandstanding with the panache of youth, but only nodded before toiling forward again on floor plates that changed slope like a sloop's deck.
Reventio was looking out his portside window as Lovett leaned in. "You haven't voted, Cris."
"As it happens, the best stretch of beach is fairly near their tawdry Taj Mahal. The man from Alaska has convinced me," said the Brit. Gunther seemed ready to make a reply, but kept silent.
"Then it's one for Manila, one abstention, and four to hit the beach while the surf's up," Lovett said, wondering how that would serve as last words.
Reventlo let his actions speak. As he banked so that the narrow lagoon was visible at Fundabora's southwest tip, the big plane began to make noises attendant to flaps lowering, big wheels dropping from nacelles, and engines smoothing out, Gunther called back: "One thing about a real survivalist, he won't take dumbshit chances. 01' Vicis real as they get.
And you better get everybody strapped in good and tight, Wade; there won't be much landing roll with the gooshy shoes on this ol' Gooney Bird."
As Lovett hurried back, he called, "Buckle up aft of the cargo. Anything that jars loose might come forward!" As he took his own advice with Chip at his side, a tiny piece of his awareness nagged at him. It calculated the sudden movement of four people, say seven hundred pounds, twenty feet rearward as the plane flared out for its landing. Fourteen thousand foot-pounds of imbalance in an airplane that was lightly loaded, at the very moment its harried pilot was juggling more variables than a pro quarterback. It would be just dandy, his calculating cortex growled, if his advice caused poor Reventlo to stall his nice shiny C-47. The Aussie client would be short one airplane. The expedition could be short six lives.
Reventlo did stall the big plane. He did it the way aviators were taught to do it for carrier landings in the old days, about one foot above that sloping deck of wet sand, timing it so perfectly that when its wings were abruptly robbed of lift, the big transport dropped like a stone for twelve paltry inches and never even bounced. On landing it rolled only a few hundred yards before Reventlo coaxed it up the sloping beach near the tree line, safely above debris marking the highest recent tides.
Lovett added his whoop to the cheers and then, with fidgeting hands, loosened his seat belt. The whirl of propellers slowed, became individual blades, and stopped. The crew's collective sigh seemed to pressurize the cabin, Myles was out of his chute almost as fast as he got into it, stroking his beard, swaggering to the aft cargo door. "No sweat," he proclaimed. Reassessment on short notice was a Myles virtue.
Reventlo came padding back ahead of Gunther, dry washing his face. "I'd forgot I was a praying man," he confided, "but guess wot, mates, it still works."
Lovett gave the Brit a thumbs-up. "Maybe the Lord helps those who help themselves."
Gunther, with a shaky laugh: "He sure helps those who have ten thousand hours as flight captains," and to this Reventio made a slight, mocking bow.
The aluminum steps were quickly secured and Vic Myles was first to step onto the sands of Fundabora-perhaps because it would look good on paper one day. He stared back along their tire tracks for a moment before making a fast retreat back up the steps, diving for his backpack.
"Welcoming comniittee," he said tersely.
It was either that or an impromptu track meet, Lovett decided as he leaned outside to look. He could hear Myles entreating Reventlo to crank up the engines again, just in case, and Reventio refusing on the grounds that the last thing they needed was to decapitate some curious native with a whirling metal prop he couldn't even see. Benteen and Chip withdrew the steps and stood by the cargo door, ready to swing it shut.
Lovett heard a distinctive sound and whirled to see that Myles had jacked a round into the bore of a .45 automatic. "For God's sake, Vic, don't. wave that thing in their faces! They're not carrying spears; they seem to be happy."
" 'One may smile, and smile, and be a villain,' " Reventlo quoted, watching a score of natives run toward them. Myles lowered his side arm from sight. They could hear cries like those of children, faintly at first, but from the throats of men. When they finally approached the plane they were plainly winded from running, the first to touch the plane capering in delight, teasing the laggards. They carried no weapons, bare chests heaving from the exercise, wearing only knee-length wraparound skirts or apronlike loincloths. Few wore footgear. Most of them were adults, and all were male. Some had frizzy hair and black skin, though most had skin of a coffee tint and the straight hair of Polynesians. Lovett began to smile back at these people, the very image of grown children in vibrant health. They did not stay winded for long.
Some of them were shouting gibberish that sounded like ricochets off familiar language because that's exactly what it proved to be. Mel
Benteen, with her years on various islands, had warned early-on that this might be the case. She listened for a moment before she moved forward waving, then sat down cross-legged in the cargo opening.
"Pidgin. Let's see if mine works," she said to the crew.
She called out something very much like an Aussie "Goodday," and got the same in return, with an "apinoon," from one. She pointed at him, a husky specimen with a pron-dnent scar on his breast, who fairly glowed with good looks. "Yes, apinoon. Well, it is afternoon," she said in an aside.
Then, with a formal smile: "Youfela awrite?" the replies included several "All awrite" as the men crowded near, but not too near, their voices pitched for good humor instead of machismo. They seemed much intrigued by this person who dressed like a man, had a commanding presence like a man, but filled a blouse like no man they had ever seen.
"Tell them not to muck about with the plane," Reventlo begged. He had seen several of the curious folk rapping knuckles, on the tail, crawling beneath, one inventive goof already starting to play on the drum-tight tail fabric as if it were a set of bongos.
"Please, all you goodfela no brakem ship. Touchem ship maybe bun pinga, ship mashem pinga, no good, you no pogip mefela."
"Jesus, I almost understand that," Chip said in awe as he squatted low beside her. "What's a pogip?"
"Forgive," Benteen muttered in explanation, then waved her hand at him in an obvious brushoff. She had a more important conversation going. To one sally by the big strapping specimen who b
y general consent became the spokesman with Benteen, she said, "Solly, all 'em fela belong me no tok pisin."
The fuselage echoed with Myles's stage-whispered, "What's that about pissin'?" Benteen gave him a wave-off too, but had to repeat her next phrases because she was trying too hard not to laugh. At her next pause, she did turn toward Myles. "I said I was sorry but none of my people here talk pidgin. You guys really must let me concentrate, okay?" Myles stroked his beard and sat back on a lump of cartons to listen. All the male crew members darted looks at one another. It had never occurred to them that if Melanie Benteen by necessity, became their spokeswoman, she would begin their leader.
Somewhere in the near distance, the emphyseniic sputter of a small engine echoed among the trees. More natives began to arrive now, some because ten-year-old legs cover ground more slowly, and some who evidently filtered through from beyond the tree line. Lovett looked for women but saw none. Most of the younger children were obviously boys, lacking even a stitch of clothing. He noted that one of the adult late arrivals wore trousers and a shirt, a strikingly handsome youth in sandals with the eyes of a deer but vaguely Asiatic cheekbones. Unlike the others he squatted quietly near the trees on dry sand, slender arms folded across his knees, but smiling as if he knew a secret or two.
Lovett got the distinct impression that the young man was smiling directly toward Chip.
And when he glanced to one side, he got a distincter impression that Chip was returning the smile. Benteen seemed to be doing "awrite" with her musical mefela, youfela pidgin, but, Lovett mused, it might have been better to start with kids. No words, just kids.
Presently Benteen placed a hand on Chip's shoulder. "Ee sonson disfela yellagrass belong head," she said, and pointed to Lovett whose hair was indeed yellow. By now the entire crew was grouped near the door.
"Disfela he fightem machine," she said, indicating Reventlo. "Disfela he goodfela alltime docta machine," pointing to Gunther, and finally a thumb jerked toward Myles. "Fela kip grass belong face he sabby paypa tok, fight black stick," she said. To this, the Fundaborans reacted in some awe; even the smiling youth in sandals seemed to take note.
"That's a few too many for me," Chip murmured. "Fight black stick?"
"Works with a pencil; paper talk. He writes," she said quickly, eyes dancing. Lovett had not thought to wonder if Mel Benteen had kids of her own; certainly she showed less animosity to Chip than to the others in the crew.
Another few minutes and Benteen was blinking, touching fingertips to her forehead. She evidently called the dialog off with some discussion about
"kaikai," standing up and waving, and the crowd began to disperse. Most of them simply moved up through the trees rather than trudge through sand again, and Benteen closed her eyes, grimacing. "God, it's been a long time. Translating something I only half-know gives me a ripper of a headache. Pidgins differ. I can make this one out, though. Do we have some aspirin? A jolt of Bushmill's would do."
Reventlo found a soda still cold from the flight, and passed three aspirins to her as the others sat near to hear her summary. "I think it went well. I've said the plane is tired, so we can't go zooming around until we've doctored it. They suggest we wait while they bring us some food; you can tell something about their culture from that."
Chip: "That's kaikai, right?"
"You're a quick study. Yeah, kaikai is eat, food. Their offering it is a very good sign, though they could be stalling for time to see how to treat us. One thing though: if they offer food, you've got to taste it."
Myles: "No problem. I could eat a horse and chase the driver."
"Uh-huh," Benteen said, unconvinced. "Remember that if the main course is raw grubs or fried grasshopper. Sometimes they make beer by having toothless old ladies gum the mash and spit it into a bucket," she added, relishing the dismayed 0 that appeared in the middle of Myles's beard.
Chip grinned at Revendo. "I think she said you fight the airplane," he confided.
"By the Lord Harry, that's not far off," he said. "But I know you have to use some leeway with the Queen's English when you speak pidgin."
"No shit, Sherlock," Benteen sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"You know how to say, 'piano' in most pidgins? Big fella box, you fightem teeth, he cry."
"Coo-wull," Chip said, and laughed. "My piano teacher will bust a gut."
"Fundaborans keep a few words from Spanish, a little Chinese influence; nothing of Japanese, thank God. Pidgin Japanese is tough." Benteen gnawed her ip Towning, thin Ing. "It's an old-style pidgin but they're fai y hip. The plane is an acrocanoe-and get this: up the beach a few miles is what they call an aerodrome! Might mean a hangar or a runway."
I should very much like to know where the hell they hide it,' said Reventio with a touch of surliness.
A new voice, diffident and low-pitched-though even the lar est of these islanders seemed to avoid deep tones in ordinary conversation-made six necks swivel as one. "The island hides it. The field was overgrown when I was small." The young fellow in trousers and sandals had walked silently through the sand and now stood near the plane, big-eyed and friendly and, despite the broad islander nose, handsome as camal sin. He might have overheard everything Benteen said.
"You no tok pis-oh hell," Benteen chuckled.
"I do," said the youth, and extended a hand. "I must. I teach school here. I am Oht-Keikano," he corrected himself quickly. "First names are customary. I should not confuse you."
Benteen was first to shake that hand, naming herself as "Mel," followed by the others. "You could have saved me some trouble," Benteen said, her smile awry.
"First contacts can reveal much," said Keikano with a faint lowering of his head. "We must talk soon, you and I." Then, srniling at Chip: "If you have a piano teacher, maybe so, mm, perhaps you play."
"Some." Why boast that he was a budding concert pianist?
"President Jean-Claude has a," he paused and said the next phrase for Benteen, "bebe bik piano in the Council house. No one can play it. You, perhaps?" Benteen shrugged at Chip. "Large baby," she supplied.
Chip, surprised and pleased: "A baby grand piano? Sure, why not?".
This seemed to puzzle the youth as he repeated the question. "Why not?
But I think it would please him. And it would please me very much."
Benteen quickly explained that the expression meant "yes."
"You don't get many strangers here, do you, Keikano?"
"Only commercial traders. Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, Papuan. They take our pearls, some copra. No phosphates for long time now. They bring fuel, medicines, books, dirty movies. So," he went on with a change of pace that was bewilderingly abrupt, "the 'why not' is corroquial?"
"Colloquial," Benteen said, nodding.
"I can spell it. My mouth cannot," Keikano smiled. "Sometimes. You can help me. And I can help you," he said pointedly to Benteen. "Rongi and others will be back soon with a feast for you, and l@ am sure Minister Merizo will come too. We must talk now." And Keikano beckoned for Benteen to leave the plane.
Benteen did as she was asked, slinging her shoulder bag on, and the two trudged up into the tree line, the native taking her hand in comradely fashion. Their words faded quickly into the background of gentle surf noises, the whispering heartbeat of every Pacific island.
"I don't like them separating her from us like this without a handheld."
Reventlo hopped down to the sand to begin his postflight inspection and added, over his shoulder, "We don't know a damned thing about them, really."
Their pricey little handheld two-way radio transceivers were state-of-the-art stuff with multiple frequencies, a far cry from the huge old walkie-tames and scarcely larger than short-range modern toys.
Better late than never, Lovett burrowed into their cargo and laid out their four handhelds, one of which Myles appropriated instantly. For a fleeting instant Lovett wished he had demanded that Myles buy the thing, but in a pettiness contest Vic Myles was a sure winner.
"We know Benteen packs a little persuader in her bag," Lovett said with a chuckle. "I sure haven't forgotten that. Time to worry when she pops off a few rounds. And I'd worry about the other guy."
"I'm keeping ol' Betsy right here," Myles said darkly, thrusting the heavy automatic under his bush jacket between belt and skin at the small of his back.
Gunther, climbing down stiffly with a handheld unit to follow the pilot:
"You really call that fuckin' thing ol' Betsy? I'm glad you're along, Vic, you make me look real classy."
When he had gone: "Only class I worry about is the one I teach: survival," Myles muttered.
"Some of us think you charge too much tuition, but never mind," said Lovett. He continued to watch the tree line, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "Myles could be right, Chip. Ever since Captain Cook, whites have misjudged island cultures. In some places they're as open and friendly as a yard sale but they'll steal your skivvies while you're wearing them. In others, I'm told, letting them see the soles of your feet is like flipping 'em off, only worse. Just watch what people do and be careful, okay?"
"Okay, Pop. Believe it or not, I've been cramming on the Pacific. I even know this isn't really the South Pacific since we're north of the Equator."
Lovett nodded and continued to scan the foliage. He heard Benteen's contralto laugh once,'his anxiety level dropping as the ambience of Fundabora seduced him. Its beach lay all around them, sparkling off-white, its surf lulling, and a flash of color in the trees proved that rats hadn't killed off its bird population. He began to trudge into dry sand, strangely encouraged by the Swiss army knife he felt in his pocket, a device as bulky as a hand grenade and a hell of a lot more useful. Somewhere in it, he suspected, lay a kitchen sink if only he knew how to tease it out.
Crispin Reventlo had already announced that he was satisfied with his walk around inspection, and Lovett was feeling light-headed in the midday sun, before Benteen and the schoolteacher emerged onto the beach, still talking easily. Young Keikano took his leave there, waving as he disappeared in the riot of greenery, and moments later they heard the whirr and snivel of a sid all engine dopplering away.