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They managed finally by rolling the entire crate onto its side, and onto
the cart in the process. "This is one tippy bitch," Coop said, affixing
both ends of two ropes to the top of the crate. "Let's see if we can get
it out of here without killin' somebody."
The shadows were long and tempers frayed before they strained and cursed
the overloaded cart two hundred yards down the path. The engine swayed
horrendously, though steadied by the ropes, and finally began to tip
despite men fighting its inertia. It fetched up against a small palm,
and heeled over at a perilous angle, the cart with two wheels in the
air, the other two now bent.
"That does it," Coop said in disgust. "It'll take hours to fix those
axles."
"We're more than halfway there. I'll get Pilau's guys; they can't see
where we started from here," Chip panted, looking back up the path.
I-oveu complained that as a dead lift, that load would be too much even
for their ten men. Reventlo said he'd seen astonishing weights carried
by islanders, as long as they could somehow take that load on a pole
over a shoulder, and asked Chip to bring in Pilau's reserves.
They succeeded, at last, by cutting five sapling trunks for I poles
and lashing the poles beneath that crate. Pilau's crew showed no
misgivings, but squatted below their poles and, with cadence called by
one of them, began to stand erect while the Boff crew helped all they
could. Then the ten men slowly centipeded forward down the path, muscles
knotted, taking small steps. I "I'm not a lotta help," Coop muttered to
Lovett. The neither," Lovett managed. He noted that all the gasping and
grunting seemed to be from the visitors; the damned cadence-counter did
not shut up or vary the pace until they had reached Pilau's half-track.
Engine, accessories, cart, and APU all fitted easily into the
half-track's open cargo bay and Pilau's men stood watching as Coop roped
the engine in place. Lovett's exhaustion faded I the instant he
turned from his Cushman seat to see the old vehicle chum forward behind
him. Chip was grinning, Reventlo was grinning; even the face of the
surly Myles glowed with elation.
Dusk came as they waved Pilau back toward the C-47, their prized antique
engine lurching against its lashings like a petrified sumo wrestler,
Reventio swinging the cargo door wide in anticipation. They imagined
that their little problem in transportation was solved until after
Pilau, having backed within inches of the plane's tender hide, helped
pass engine accessories to Lovett and Chip who now stood in the C-47.
Then he got his men to tip the big engine so that one end of its crate
lay inside the plane. At that point, Pilau explained to Benteen why
their job was complete.
His crew would not be of any further help in this enterprise, he told
her. Jean-Claude Pelele had invoked terrible punishment for any villager
who so much as touched the big aero canoe, and that was that. His
expression said, "game over."
Male curses and Benteen's most piteous imploring did no good. The only
way to get further help would be through the orders of Jean-Claude
himself; and this, Reventlo would not hear of. "It's borrowing trouble,"
he said, "and I want no further complications."
Then, despite a few inches of upslope: "We can do it," said Coop, who
flung himself hard against the crate. Reventio and the others, including
Benteen, followed suit. Crate boards creaked; an inch was gained.
"No, we bloody-well can't," Reventlo wheezed at last, as his boot soles
skidded along the half-track's flooring.
Coop looked around him, breathing heavily. "Any ideas?"
Pilau did not understand the words, but he understood the situation. And
while he was far from the fox of fable who knew many things, he was the
hedgehog who knew one very, very important thing. Smiling shyly, he
produced a beer bottle full of used crankcase oil from beneath the
driver's seat; mimed smearing it on the floorplates and the crate's
wooden skids.
Coop Gunther slapped a palm against his forehead with the clap of a
gunshot. "I've done that a hundred times," he cried, snatching the
bottle, patting Pilau's shoulder.
"You'd have thought of it," Reventlo surmised. "Tomorrow."
The crate went in as though on wheels, proceeding more slowly as they
oiled floor plates and hauled the engine further forward, still upslope,
at Reventlo's urging. Lovett understood perfectly; a C-47 was a
forgiving airplane but a half-ton mass far to its rear during flight
would not make it happy.
Without explanation, they passed the remainder of their stowed goods out
to Pilau's men to be stored in a maintenance shed, then closed the plane
up again. Pilau's last stop was the shed where everything, including the
APU and its much abused cart, was removed. Handshakes and smiles all
around, and then the two crews went their separate ways.
Though the others gorged on the lobby buffet, Crispin Reventlo drank
only coconut milk and jotted notes as they talked softly. "I'm more
wakeful on an empty stomach, and tonight I'll be a crew of one," he told
them.
"You could wait and launch at first light," Lovett suggested." Not my
style," said the Brit, with a romantic old-bold lopsided grin for the
attentive Melanie Benteen. "I intend to be refueling on Yap or Koror
before double-ought-dark-diirty. Wherever I am, I'll no longer be
worrying about whether a certain largish Fundaboran gentleman wants to
interfere. Then it's on to Darwin by noon. I know there's secure storage
there.
"Don't forget batteries; aircraft quality," Coop said.
"Duly noted," Reventlo assured him. "And a trunk load of those sleazy
videos," from Benteen, and a few cases of cheap booze, for His Nibs down
the hall." A nod.
"And the medicine Keikano wanted," Chip said. "The blood-pressure stuff,
too."
"Look here," Reventlo said. "I haven't forgotten a jot or a little, any
of it. Perhaps you nice people can help me think of things like fuel
octane additives, battery acid, an inverter to recharge Chip's computer,
a drum of aircraft cable, hand torch batteries, a water purifier-things
of that sort."
They settled down then, able to think of little that Revendo did not
already have on his list. Finally, when their mental batteries had
flagged, Myles said slowly, "Maybe a cheap little Polaroid flash setup,
Cris."
"What's buggered with yours then," Reventlo asked.
"Nothing. I'm thinking of something disposable I can stash where it
can't be found, that might show us for certain who's our little hiend at
the cave."
"If it's a tripwire, he can follow it to the camera," Chip said.
"Not if it's done right. Just do it, Cris."
"Good on you. That's the kind of thinking I like," said the Brit,
scribbling again.
"And a fax machine," said Chip, "and Fritos."
Coop brightened. "Fritos! The old-fashioned kind, and beer. Jesus God,
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