Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  "Fairly decent perimeter road in there a ways," Benteen FLYI told them.

  "The guy's got a scooter left over from biblical times. Ever hear of a Cushman?"

  Most of them had skinned elbows on those chugging little two-wheelers before Benteen was born, and Myles said so. "That means they have some technology we can use. That schoolteacher kid mentioned fuel and movies; like we figured, somebody's got electric power here."

  Benteen found her half-consumed soda and chugalugged it like a man. "I think all the modern blessings must be concentrated around that Pelele goon; God's gift to women," she said finally. "so the power is where the power is," said Lovett, and saw her head tilt. He went on quickly,

  "That's not the truism it seems; I mean, he'd keep things like electricity and fuel as symbols of clout. Pretty standard strongman tactic in lots of places. Lucky we have inverters and fuel of our own."

  "Something worrisome about this setup," she said, studying her deck shoes as she swung her legs from the doorsill. "Can't place it yet.

  Maybe it's just because the elders of this entire population were shipped in here piecemeal during the war and kept behind barbed wire as forced labor. I can tell you this much: if young Mr. Keikano knows there are other aircraft on Fundabora, he's an accomplished liar."

  Reventlo had found a soda for himself and, between sips, said, "Very well, you're our Maggie Thatcher. If it wasn't about aircraft, what state secrets did your young academic share?"

  Benteen laughed aloud, which took ten years from her age. "You won't believe it. He told me I hadn't fooled Rongithat's the big gorgeous hunk I was talking with earlier-and the others for a second. They could plainly see I'm a woman," she said, with a headshake of wonderment.

  Then, in mock despondency: "Woe is me."

  "What's his problem," Chip asked.

  "He said I should've, well-covered up. worn something that doesn't give me away. Apparently it's too late now."

  "Yeah, the boobs are outa the bag," Myles said.

  "One of them certainly is," she replied, staring at Myles for a long instant. "The point is that Keikano was doing me a big favor, in his mind, because it's an important factor here. Their Mr. Rongi was humoring me but I mustn't try to be your leader when we meet Fundaboran high society. Women's lib hasn't washed ashore here." She looked around.

  "What, no rousing cheer?"

  "Not with that pistol of yours so close at hand," the Brit assured her.

  "Our small arms are something we should probably keep out of sight. I'm willing to continue to translate but even Keikano assumes we will have a single leader. I mean, Christ, they've never known anything else!"

  "well," Myles drawled, easing forward.

  "Forget it," she and Lovett said together.

  A two-beat tableau. "I nominate Cris," said Gunther. "He's used to command and he comes on like Winston friggin' Churchill."

  "Oh give over, will you," Reventlo muttered, slightly aggrieved.

  Lovett: "Second the motion. He looks the part. Well, shit, Cris, you do.

  Just don't forget to confer with your ministers before you go declaring war or anything. Mel?"

  With a sigh that might be half genuine: "I suppose so. Eagle-eyed elder statesman type, and we could do worse. Chip?"

  The youth looked up in surprise. "I get a vote on the geezer patrol?" He saw one shrug, a nod, and three smiles. He fell silent for a moment.

  Then: "I admit this is partly my bias, but I vote for my pop. I happen to know he's got more invested than anybody else. He's a businessman who makes deals. And I know he can command when he needs to." He was grinning as he added, "I never saw anybody make so many good snap decisions as when he was one jump ahead of those airheads in Wichita."

  An uneasy silence fell over the crew. "Strong showing," murmured Reventlo.

  Gunther said, "Myles, who do you like that won't make me laugh right out loud?"

  "I'll put my money on the duke of earl," said the Texan, earning another pained look from the Brit. "Sorry, kid."

  "It's okay," Chip said, "honest. Doesn't matter now how you vote, Mr.

  Reventlo, you're elected and no hard feelings. I'm just more used to Pop being a leader. And he has yet to fly me through a grove of palms," he finished, his grin askew. 'He just never had the chance," the Brit said, winking. "Very well, I'm the figurehead. And, ah-Benteen?" She gave him an expectant glance. "In future, Benteen, please do us all the favor of staying closer to the, ah, more or less legitimate males in our little party. That means you will kindly, kindly, not go perambulating alone with the locals."

  "I love it when he talks dirty," she murmured. The sexuality was exaggerated and bogus, but Lovett felt it still worked, and faintly damned himself for the feeling.

  "I mean it." Reventio's complaint was earnest, and he pressed it well.

  "You tell us women are chattel here, more or less, and a well-meaning native has as much as warned you already. Now I admit I haven't your background with island cultures, but I've spent time in this part of the world. You may risk your honor as much as you like another time, but we came here for the profit motive. We did not come here to play Menelaus to your Helen of Troy."

  Chip sat erect, recalling his classics. "You think she'd get kidnapped, like in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?"

  "Or perhaps as in the rape of Nanking," Reventlo said darkly. "I think, if you must be chattel, you must be our chattel. Someone's, any one of us-purely a formality, you understand."

  The look Melanie Benteen turned on their elected leader was a salad of dismay and amusement, with a sprinkle of resignation as seasoning.

  "Whose," she asked in the tone of one holding a horsewhip.

  Three men said, "His," at once, Lovett and Gunther point9 at Reventlo, the Brit pointing at Lovett. "I love it," Myles grunted. "I can see I've swept you all off your feet," Benteen said.

  "But if I'm to have any status-and I'd better-it's best if I'm your little cuddle-bunny, Reventlo."

  "Cuddle-bunny. The mind reels," said the Brit, closing his eyes briefly.

  "Though I can't fault your logic, my dear. Or your taste."

  "Don't, for a millisecond, imagine," Benteen began.

  "That I shall leap slavering onto your nubile bones at my first opportunity? When dingoes lay eggs and run for parliament, and not a moment sooner."

  "I've spent time in Sydney. I'm told some of them already sit in parliament," she renfinded him. "I stand corrected. Not even then, madam," he said primly. Judging by the Brit's high color, Lovett concluded that Crispin Reventlo's dry sense of humor pretty much blew away with the dust when he felt truly slighted. Now Lovett felt even better about their choice of a leader; there actually was an indefinable something in Reventlo that commanded respect.

  By now they could hear the clatter and whine of some large machine approaching, still invisible through the trees. It might almost have been a small military tank but, as it bulled its way through underbrush to the beach, Myles broke into a smile. "A dinosaur," he chortled, "a goddanm dinosaur!"

  The half-track vehicle made almost as much noise as a T rex, the size of a truck, smoking like a cigar salesman, with wheels up front for steering, treads and bogies like a tank, in the rear for traction. Fifty years earlier these sturdy relics had slogged troops and cargo through many a shallow swamp but, with side panels that would turn a rifle bullet, it was not the kind of vehicle that floated.

  The driver wore a baseball cap, a huge belt with leather pockets full of tools, and not much more. Beside him sat a skinny gent of middle age and vast dignity who carried a fly whisk of yellow feathers that looked as though it had seen many, many better days, some of them on a trash heap.

  His brown skin seemed pale. next to the black he wore: black striped pants, black waistcoat, black cummerbund, black tie. Th effect was marred by his lack of a shirt but as he eased over the low door without opening it, they could see that he wore black shoes, with cutouts for his bunions and toes.

  Reve
ntlo murmured, "What, no praetorian guard?"

  "No socks," Chip marveled. "This dude is up to date." Then he saw young Keikano rise up from the cargo compartment to brush himself off, and waved. Keikano was too busy scrambling to the side of His Nibs to return the wave. The driver stayed at his post, blipping a pedal to keep the engine from guttering out.

  "Can't be Pelele," Benteen muttered as she moved forward at the side of Reventlo, whose "mm-hm" was almost inaudible. The Brit waved the rest of the crew back as he advanced with Benteen.

  The potentates gazed at each other for a moment before the islander raised his fly whisk and spoke. When he did, the effect was electric. A stream of some unfamiliar language erupted from him in the basso prof undo of a bullhorn. To Lovett it seemed as if he was making up for the light tenor used by the other men on the island. To hear a voice like this from such a little fellow was astonishing enough to provoke a smile, but young Keikano, with a look that was slightly gnm seemed to be setting an example. Laughter, he was telling them, was definitely not the best medicine right now.

  When the islander fell silent, Keikano spoke. "Merizo, First High Minister of the Fundaboran Republic, welcomes you on behalf of President Jean-Claude Pelele. He invites you to unroll your mats in the council house."

  Reventlo gave a sage nod, as if thinking it over. "We thank the minister on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen and the President of the United States and, um, all that," he said, "but some of us must stay with the, ah, aero canoe. Doesn't he speak anything else?"

  "Some, but this is fon-nal talk. And he means it as an order," Keikano said. The little minister was already speaking to Keikano, however, and the youth's face darkened in embarrassment. Keikano tried again: "The low interpreter forgets himself. The low interpreter will not forget himself again." Then he launched into the island language, presumably repeating what Reventlo had said.

  Merizo thought about it for a moment and seemed satisfied that the formalities had been observed, because he began to speak pidgin, using the fly whisk to help his gestures.

  Benteen, speaking loudly enough for the crew to hear, said, "Merizo will provide a giiard for the plane. He urges us to accept Pelele's hospitality to avoid giving (Yffense. We'll be treated like presidents, which I think means like God Almighty."

  "Tell His Exquisiteness," said Revendo, with a bow from another century,

  "we'll be glad to go, bringing gifts--except for one who must stay and monitor the radio at all times in case our prime minister across the sea grows concerned."

  Benteen gave him a long searching glance, but then began her spiel; something about a littlefela box alltime tok for bikbik headman beilong whitefela, and so forth.

  After a few more interchanges and some seriocomic pantomime on the part of Keikano who now stood a pace behind his minister, Crispin Reventlo dirust out his hand. It was taken, after the briefest of pauses, by Merizo, as Benteen spoke in an urgent undertone. Reventlo completed a formal handshake, took three backward steps, did a military aboutface to shame a Coldstream Guard, and climbed aboard the aircraft with Benteen following.

  "Whatthehell was all that about," Gunther complained, unable to hear much of it.

  "I think Keikano was trying to tell him to kneel," Chip said.

  "I'm bleeding certain of it," Reventlo said, turning to bestow a thousand-watt smile and wave from the plane to little Merizo. "And bending our knees is not the right message, if I'm any judge."

  "No doubt; the little guy's game is status," Benteen said. "It used to be bad form to turn your back on a high muckymuck, and I think you hit the right note. We need to talk some more with this Keikano character."

  "At the moment," Reventio mused, gazing out at the waiting Fundaborans,

  "we need to choose our sentry."

  "And gifts,'.' Lovett reminded him. "I'll stay behind, but I'll want a side arm."

  "Let me," Gunther put in. "I got a bum leg anyway. But I could fire up the Briggs and Strattons if I had to. Don't forget to leave me a wame-Wbe and a pistol," he added.

  Myles dug into his own cargo, brandishing a device that had a folding stock and a shortish barrel. "Ever see one of these," he asked as he handed it over. "Don't forget whose it is."

  "Grease gun," Lovett nodded, remembering its nickname from two generations back. "Ugliest thing General Motors ever made."

  " 'Cept maybe a fifty-one Buick," Gunther said.

  "I've got a fifty-one," Myles protested.

  Gunther, checking the magazine with its stubby forty-five caliber rounds: "I rest my case."

  "Rest your case on this," said Myles, giving him a stinkfinger salute.

  "For the love of God," Reventlo burst out, "will you stop bickering? Our carriage awaits."

  With a limited choice of gifts that they could afford to offer, Lovett chose two bottles of scotch and tossed a pair of N4RES, meals ready-to-eat, to Chip. The MRE, in its olive drab plastic pouch, might not be a gourmet's dream but it came as varied entrees, provided a day's calories, and unlike older rations it would float. It seemed appropriate as a gift to an islander. In -moments they were ready, or thought they were, and streamed out to the burping old half-track with a final wave to Coop Gunther.

  If that half-track still carried shock absorbers, they had long since lost their erections. Lovett estimated that the vehicle clunked and bounced for two miles along the perimenter road before emerging into a broad expanse that once might have been a golf course. The open vista revealed a white building that dominated the middle distance, a rambling two-story affair curved in a crescent. A low porch ran the full length of its frontal curve, and colunms met in arches to support the overhang.

  Small cottages stretched away from it in a sinuous line, protected by distant palm groves with the beach far beyond.

  Though he could not see it clearly from that angle, Lovett knew from their overflight that a fingerlike lagoon intruded near those cottages, temiinating in a pool flanked by the arms of the the main structure. It had looked idyllic from the air, but a closer look proved that everything had become seedy with neglect.

  Nearer, grass fought a losing battle against some knee-high, all-encroaching ground cover-ivy with an attitude. Lovett had seen similar stuff in Southeast Asia; it left the impression that if you spent ten minutes within its reach it would strangle you like a python.

  The road of crushed shell curved between outbuildings and fenced areas that had once been tennis courts. Two curved metal buildings like huge half-buried barrels, probably surplus Quonset huts, were flanked by rusting vehicles, suggesting abandoned efforts to maintain the island's equipment.

  "These guys could use a mechanic or two," Myles noted.

  Young Keikano, sitting near Benteen, replied only loud enough to be heard by her and Lovett. "President Jeanclaude agrees. But if the repairs fail, the workman finds life very unpleasant. Do not say I told you' As they drew nearer the big central building, they saw scores of natives running to gather down the length of its covered porch, their knee-length skirts a pulsating riot of color.

  Benteen: "Different tribe?"

  Keikano: "Same people. They have dressed for you."

  Benteen nodded as she noticed the handsome oaf she had spoken with before. "What special advice can you give for this?"

  "Our President speaks some English but he may not wish to. Let your leader talk and you translate. He should offer the gifts. Smile and stand tall, but never higher than the President," he said, with a darted glance toward the little minister who sat ahead, unable to hear over the squeals and grunts of his vehicle.

  Benteen passed this on to Reventlo, who hurriedly filled his arms with scotch and MRE packets. Lovett saw to his astonishment that Myles was dictating to Chip, who had his little palm top computer open on his knee.

  As the half-track rumbled to the building's portico, Lovett thought he recognized a few more of the Fundaborans, all of them lining up along the porch to flank the central entrance, adopting solemn expressions.

  B
efore that entrance was a high bench with an outsized, high-backed rattan chair in its very center. Ranked behind it stood a half-dozen bruisers, stem faced and much overfed, holding carved, clublike wooden staffs.

  Occupying that huge chair, flanked by half a dozen bare breasted beauties, sat a huge bronzed fellow in glorious Technicolor. He stood up as the vehicle stopped; made a gesture. The engine clattered and died as little Merizo scurried from the vehicle to his place at the right side of his leader. Keikano was almost as quick, hopping to the ground, moving to stand at the left.

  "My God, the man's a giant," Reventio muttered, easing himself down with the crew members.

  "Fee, He, foe, fum," Chip agreed, the computer under his arm now.

  Giant he was, in a vest of some native material brilliant in red and yellow, his lava-lava skirt of heavier scarlet stuff with black decorations and a broad straw mat the color of dried blood around his waist, worn like a cummerbund. He wore sandals on his size umpteen feet, keg-legged, with huge calves and arms to match. His face was fleshy but unlined, with a prizefighter's nose, button eyes deeply set and lively, no discernible neck, the big head crowned by a headdress of sun-yellow feathers that added half a yard to his height. Unadorned, he might have stood an inch under seven feet, tipping the scales at three-fifty or more. Lovett found himself thanking God the man was smiling as he came up out of his rattan throne in a curiously graceful surge and stepped forward.

  For one pregnant moment, giant Fundaboran and starchy Brit faced each other with formal smiles. Then something seemed to click into place behind the big man's eyes. He thrust out an enormous paw, each finger armored with rings, and Reventio took it after shifting his loot to one arm.

  Lovett heard the faint exhalation, half sigh, half grunt, from Reventio as the handshake lingered. Then President Jeanclaude Pelele's sn-tile broadened into something more genuine and he released his prey as he spoke.

  Benteen's forehead creased with effort. The words were totally unfamiliar but the voice was light in tenor, almost breathy, yet resonant in a chest cavity that would suffice for two ordinary men.