Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  "I've just gotta get a look at Keikano's dictionary," Chip smiled.

  But all this activity was preamble to the leadership games that would begin with contests among children, then adults. These games included individual feats of strength and more feasting after which, said Reventio, the top contenders were eligible to wrestle for the ultimate Fundaboran prize: the Presidency.

  Their research on Fundaboran customs had suggested as much but, "Good God," Lovett said; "I'm not sure I'd want to watch."

  "Oh, it'll be fair and aboveboard. Jean-Claude assured me of that,"

  Reventlo said, with an arch of the eyebrow that added, in his fashion.

  Coop Gunther gave them a perfect segue to their false goal. "Hey, what if the big guy loses out? Maybe we should wait and see before we work out an agreement for mineral rights."

  The Brit: "A good -point. That big strapping fellow Rongi seems to have been chosen by the villagers as their prime candidate. Personally I believe our friend Jean-Claude is the better man," he added, "but anything's possible."

  The others nudged the bait around. Lovett said they'd simply have to trust the Republic of Fundabora to honor its treaties. Reventlo cautioned the crew to avoid any show of interest in mineral deposits.

  But it was Chip Mason who planted the best piece of disinformation. "I know you've said those old aircraft parts aren't worth much, but wouldn't they bring a few bucks to a museum or a junkyard or something?"

  Into a chorus of doubters, Lovett said, "Hold on; it's possible. You know, that might be what we could tell them."

  Myles, overdoing it: "What? Listen, all that stuff is crap! I've seen it, and even if the jungle is full of it nobody in his right mind would want it."

  Reventlo seemed to enjoy himself immensely, arguing the point, making their real purpose seem a decoy for anyone listening. He sealed his position with, "It may be useless as antiques, but it should be worth something even as junk when I land in Alice Springs." His expression said that was about as likely as a Fundaboran snowstorm.

  "Yeah," from Coop. "Say we don't find any deposits worth mining. If we could sell that old metal, we wouldn't stand to lose so much. It's no good to the islanders anyway."

  Playing the perfect straight man, Reventlo said, "But Coop, how would we get a lot of junk metal to a pier or to the beach?"

  "We'll just have to try and rebuild that old earthmover, I guess," Coop said in "why me, Lord" tones. "We'll have to do it anyway if we find phosphates. Either that or have one shipped in."

  A stage groan from Lovett. "I hope you realize what you're asking, Coop.

  We'd be fixing up a lot of equipment we'd have to leave here for the Fundaborans."

  "Damn right I realize it, and I hate it, but we'd have to do it." This was a palpable lie from a man who loved tinkering on machines of any size.

  "Whose side are you on, Coop," Myles put in. "It's a better deal for them than for us."

  "Tell me a better plan if you got one," Coop rumbled. "All I can say is, you guys better find us some phosphates worth exporting."

  Myles and the others promised to do their best. Chip, plying the keys of his computer, silently showed its screen. It said, AND WHAT IF NOBODY'S

  LISTENING NOW?

  "I think we'll have some answers very soon," Reventio said, knowing that the crew would take the right meaning.

  On the following morning, Chip treated the council house to an impromptu recital on Fundabora's small grand piano. Though the instrument was pitifully out of tune, Chip ignored its shortcomings and pressed on as if he weren't playing one lost chord after another. From inside the piano bench, Keikano had unearthed a mildewed cache of sheet music, and stood by to turn pages at Chip's nod. Since the massive Jeanclaude appeared to enjoy it, Merizo and the stolid honor guard dutifully stamped for applause whenever their President did.

  Afterward, Cris Reventlo presented Jean-Claude with another bottle of scotch whiskey as an open inducement to some serious haggling. "I believe," he said, "we can do business to our mutual benefit."

  Little Merizo, clad in his everyday black lavalava skirt and fly whisk, called Keikano from Chip's side to help clarify these jaw breaking words.

  As Reventio began to explain his wishes, something in Jean-Claude's manner suggested that he wasn't exactly astounded by these overtures.

  "Traders alla time like swap for dead machines," he explained, after Reventlo mentioned the moldering junk near the airstrip. Asked what he would like in return, the dusky hulk spoke rapidly with Merizo, then with Keikano.

  The schoolteacher said, "Fundabora needs medicines. Salve for sores that do not heal, and for the pains of the elders."

  "Screw belong arm, leg, pinga hurt," Merizo put in, folowing some of this.

  "He means joints--elbows, kneesi-fingers," said Mel Benteen, smiling at Merizo. "Arthritis, I think."

  Keikano asked her to spell it, nodded when she did, then went on: "And headache pills. Medicine to stop tooth pains. That is a common problem here."

  But the crew had not brought these things in quantity, the Brit replied.

  Get plenty Alice Springs island," said Jean-Claude. Reventlo said that could be done. The amount of medicines was set, after some haggling, at the weight of Reventlo himself.

  "Plenty fuck tapes, too. This many," the giant insisted, hands spread apart as if holding a bushel basket. Reventio made a show of doubt at this, saying videotapes of that sort were expensive and rare.

  Pressed on the point-for it was obvious that Jean-Claude Pelele would sooner forgo medicines than pornography-Reventlo agreed. "While I travel, my crew must stay and work, search for more metal, repair your machines," he said; and this, Jean-Claude accepted easily. "Old machines and aero canoe parts we find on Fundabora, become our property," Reventio went on, his manner casual.

  Again, no evident problem. "Then it's settled. We will draw up a contract between B.O.F. Unliryfited-that's us, sire-and the Republic of Fundabora, for us to, uh, put our marks on," Reventlo said at length.

  Which created an impasse that needed some time to unravel. Mel Benteen finally managed to explain that "draw up" had nothing to do with pretty pictures, but was a sworn promise by both sides, written and signed.

  Since there wasn't even a rusty portable typewriter on Fundabora that worked, the document would be printed by young Mister Mason and young Mister Keikano. Merizo and his boss evidently did business with traders on a pure barter basis. They became very thoughtful when Reventio claimed that each side was bound by the might of their respective governments to see that the agreement was kept.

  Reventlo gave the impression that their business was nearly concluded, and the Fundaborans were glancing uneasily at each other, when the Brit said, "Oh, one more thing, just a detail. If we should find some dirt we like, B.O.F. Unlimited wants the right to take it."

  It was as though someone had released a valve to let all the wariness trickle out of Jean-Claude Pelele. Why, he wondered in ponderous caginess, would his guests care about such a detail?

  Well, they didn't care much, Reventio shrugged, a vast truth he was now sure the Fundaborans did not believe. But minerals had been found there before, he reminded them, and his crew proposed to look around the island, just on the off chance.

  But how would they remove the stuff if they found it, Jeanclaude wanted to know. That, Reventlo replied, was a problem they would find a way to solve. Perhaps heavy equipment could be shipped in; but it was barely possible that his mechanics might repair the existing machines, which would naturally become the property of B.O.F. Unlimited.

  Not so naturally, Pelele answered. 01' Cris could use it if he could fix it, but all equipment in those sheds remained, positively and absolutely, Fundaboran property. The big fellow entered into this phase of the haggling with the total confidence of a man holding four aces and, step by step, Crispin Reventlo let himself be driven from his position. The only concession he managed was the promise of free meals daily. Since the real issue was already
in the bag, Reventlo was not the toughest negotiator in town.

  At length, the Bfit sighed and shook his head, agreeing that though his crew could have free use of the fuel and equipment around the sheds, Fundabora would retain ownership. Of course, he went on, all of this depended on their fight to study the island without interference.

  When he understood this, little Merizo made it plain that a short recess was necessary and ordered Keikano to accompany the crew for a short stroll. Myles suggested a foray to the airplane for another bottle of scotch to sea] the bargain, and all seven of them trooped outside, uneasily quiet in the schoolteacher's presence.

  As they reached the plane Chip patted Keikano's shoulder lightly. "Why such a long face," he asked.

  Keikano looked as if he might burst into tears. "You do not like my face?"

  Laughing: "It's a nice face, Keikano,". Chip said. "That was colloquial.

  It means, why are you sad?"

  The islander brightened, but only a little. "I do not belong," he said simply. They turned their faces into the sea breeze and watched as Reventio and Myles disappeared into the fumacelike heat of the aircraft.

  "Don't worry about it," said Lovett, who hadn't missed a word. "They ordered you to come with us. We understand."

  "You do not understand. I do not belong there, either. That is why I am here."

  Benteen, who had heard this in silence: "Keikano, is it possible you aren't a Fundaboran?"

  "I am." And with this statement, a tightening of the gentle features, the faintest of slitting around the eyes. "I am, but not like them," he said, clearly eruneshed in some inner conflict, nodding toward the council house. Then he drew the narrow shoulders erect and swallowed hard. "I am from the north village. Many of the people there are-not friendly."

  "My God," Benteen said, her eyes widening. "That explains, um, well, we had no idea."

  "Jean-Claude wants you to have no ideas," was the bitter reply.

  Benteen: "Are the two ends of the island at war?"

  "Not war," the gentle schoolteacher said quickly. "But the ways of the north village are-different." It was obvious that Keikano was pausing to choose his words with great care, and saying those he chose with some reluctance. "If Jeanclaude Pelele or Merizo knew I spoke of these things, I would-" and now he paused, shook his head. "They would soon have another educated fool to teach the children," was the amended version.

  "No wonder you want to leave Fundabora," Chip murmured.

  "I do not want to stay away. I want to bring good things to Fundaboret.

  My-the elders need medicines; the children need clean paper, books. They need a President who cares," he burst out, as if fidding himself of something that tasted of bile.

  "Why can't your village," Benteen began.

  "Not my village now," said Keikano. "A few of us are tolerated everywhere, especially those who are no threat to the Pelele-gang? Yes, my dictionary says 'gang.' But if I am tolerated, I am not entirely accepted anywhere."

  "Poor little guy," Benteen said. "But why can't the north village do their own deals with the trading ships, Keikano?"

  "No moorage. The beaches, the rocks, no good for ships And it is a small village. The North shore is not worth their' trouble. Please, do not let them know I have said any of this."

  Lovett, squinting toward the council house, said, "But we really need to look over the whole island, Keikano. If they insist that we don't leave the south part, it could stop this whole agreement."

  At that moment, a voice with foghorn insistence floated from the council house portico: little Merizo, calling them back in his own jargon. Keikano turned and waved, then said softly, "That little land-crab." It seemed to impel him to another decision. "If they deny you the right to study the north part of the island, I will find a way to show you myself. I swear it."

  As Vic Myles carried a bottle of booze in each hand, Reventlo closed the cargo door and approached them sniiling. "Somewhere a great bell is tolling," he said, pointing toward the little man with the big voice.

  Keikano fell in beside him, speaking quickly. "This is worth my life: they can hear you talk in your rooms. Do not say what you do not want them to hear."

  "Well, I'm damned," said Reventlo, his gaze toward Keikano full of new surmise. "Does this mean they don't intend to honor the agreement?"

  "I believe they do. But they knew you expected to give back the great Letoumeau thing." A pause, as they walked on. "I knew it. They need me to translate some of what they hear in your rooms."

  "Thanks for the warning. We'll be careful," Reventlo promised.

  When the crew had seated themselves near him once more, Jean-Claude announced that he had made a decision. His guests could range freely on the island as far north as Fundabora's narrows, a salt swamp area flanked by rocky heights. That far and no farther, he said, because he could not protect them against a few "crazy heads, bad bastads belong north end.

  Reventlo tried to get a dialogue going on that topic but Jean-Claude would not elaborate at any great length. There were only a few, he said; outcasts that he, in his loving kindness, allowed to live without trouble so long as they stayed on their miserable end of the island. "No jail belong Fundabora, nogoods run away north end," he said with a beatific srmle.

  The Brit made a show of agonizing over this but eventually agreed. "We will draw up the agreement tonight," he said, rising. "Keikano can help us now, or he can study it tomorrow and suggest changes."

  Keikano, ordered to remain with his President, tried to avoid a show of disappointment and waved good-bye as the crew trooped upstairs. For the next hour, the entire crew gathered around Chip as he dutifully typed out the agreement, dictated chiefly by Lovett. Its wording was simple, but it was deceptive in one respect. It agreed that B.O.F. Unlimited had no rights to search or lay claim to anything north of the swampy isthmus. It did not promise that they wouldn't snoop there.

  MAN

  Easy on the sauce, Coop. We're to be two-wheeler Boffins today,"

  Reventlo said, as Gunther tilted the scotch bottle. By rmdmoming, after a few unimportant changes of phrasing, they had all signed the agreement which Lovett laboriously printed in neat draftsman's lettering, witnessing thumbprints by Jean-Claude and Merizo. It was a unique document, both copies done in ballpoint ink on water-stained stationery with a letterhead emblazoned "Funisle Resort." The schoolteacher evidently kept a hoard of the stuff, a relic of times past. Now everyone was beaming, shaking hands, and passing that bottle around to celebrate the event.

  From some moldy archival drawer, Keikano also produced a map of the island, complete with elevations. Murmurs rose from the crew as they studied the map; Fundabora, on paper, was a sweat sock with a fat elliptical foot seven miles long, two old volcanic prominences rising nearly eighteen hundred feet above the beach. The ankle narrowed to perhaps a mile at the swamp. Flanking the swamp lay that thin ridge they had almost flown into, rising to another spire at the island's broader northern "shin" end some three miles wide. It was there that, presumably, the "crazy heads" eked out a primitive living. Creeks meandered down from each prominence. "The map's dated 1957," Lovett said, and laughed. "The airstrip's plain as day."

  "We need a copy of that sucker," Myles muttered.

  "In good time," Reventlo said softly, folding his copy of the agreement inside his nylon windbreaker. He turned to Lovett with, "Well, chaps, let's all see to the maintenance sheds.

  Myles and Benteen made mutinous complaints on the way until the Brit pointed out that, the sooner they got several Cushman scooters running, the less time they'd spend walking. Jean-Claude watched for a time, swigging the rest of the bottle, before padding away toward the council house.

  Keikano had lunch brought to them and enlisted the half track driver, Pilau. When Pilau seemed reluctant to touch the scooters, Keikano explained why. "You have seen the scars on his back and legs," he said to the Brit. "He took these machines apart years ago but could not fix them. He worries that he will be pu
nished again."

  "I'd like to flog his butt myself if he's the guy who boogered up these bolts," Gunther said, laboring over a cylinder head. "Somebody try and scare us up a socket set, maybe in the other shed. Nobody touches our tools in the Gooney Bird unless we absolutely have to." Coop Gunther was a typical mechanic, and his horror of losing personal tools was downright pathological. As all good mechanics knew, he claimed, the damned things grew little bitty legs and scuttled off to hide like cockroaches the instant you took your eyes off them. Sometimes, they even hid in other people's pockets.

  In midafternoon, sputtering and cheering accompanied the revival of another Cushman scooter. While in the other shed with Pilau, Lovett heard still another do its Lazarus imitation two hours later. He found the oxyacetylene welding rig on its wheeled cart as Keikano had promised, tanks still heavy with compressed gases after years of neglect. Pilau, to prove his newfound mastery of all things mechanical, proudly oiled its wheel hubs before they trundled the welding rig to the other shed.

  For Coop Gunther, the Letoumeau was clearly Job One. He actually hugged the big green oxygen tank after coaxing a useable flame from the welding rig. "This'll weld half-inch plate, Wade," he said. "But we can't waste any gas on scooters and shit like that."

  No one argued the point. Their best estimate was that four Cushmans would remain serviceable for them, with five "hangar queens" to furnish spare parts. Pilau, who had now lost his fear of the scooters, beamed as they prepared to ride back to the council house. Four Cushmans, eight riders.

  And no brakes. They learned this when Chip careened past the veranda.

  "It won't stop," he called, fishtailing, Keikano gripping his waist for dear life as they continued along the drive.

  "Nothing wrong with-ahhhh, SHIIIIIT," thundered Coop, who had seen to the brakes of each scooter but now peeled off from behind Lovett, who rode smartly into the ivy and fell, damning his demon velocipede and Coop Gunther with equal enthusiasm.