to get into the embassy grounds and the American marines keeping them away, and helicopters flying in and landing on the roof and flying away with the Americans.”
“The fat lady sang,” Moon said.
Mr. Lee stared at him.
“It’s an American saying,” Moon said. “It means something is finished. We say, It ain’t over till it’s over. Now I guess it’s over.”
“I see,” Mr. Lee said.
“I had been thinking maybe we could find a way to go north. Find a way to slip into Saigon and get to the embassy. So much for that. Not a good idea now.”
“It was not a good idea ever,” Mr. Lee agreed. “I think what’s left of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam will be pulling back to Saigon, and the North Vietnam army and the Vietcong units will be moving there too. Gathering in close now, I think, for the last big battle.”
“I think so too,” Moon said. “And I don’t have any other ideas. Not even bad ones.” He used the back of his hand to wipe away the perspiration dripping from his eyebrows. “Did you hear anything else?”
“The man with the scarred face asked someone if he had completed an inventory of what was here, and they talked of how many sacks of rice, and sandalwood, and charcoal, and barrels of gasoline and diesel fuel. And what was in the kitchen and the bathroom. And a pistol found in the office was mentioned, and handed to the old man. Then someone who must have been out at the hangars came in and told the old man that Big Minh, the new puppet president at Saigon, was broadcasting a speech. He was telling the puppet army-”
Mr. Lee paused and gave Moon an apologetic glance.
“The Communists always call ARVN that,” he said. “I merely quote. The new president told the army. to continue the fighting. To defend Saigon. Not to run away. And then another man came in. I think he had been running. I mean, the way he was breathing.” Mr. Lee demonstrated the sound of panting. “This one, he said that the commander wanted them to move up along the river and that the old man was needed at the radio to receive their orders.”
“So they left,” Moon said.
“Yes,” Mr. Lee said. “But they~ will be back. Or someone else will come.”
“Is that something you heard?” Moon asked. “Or is it just a good guess?”
Mr. Lee’s face was shiny with perspiration, but Moon saw no signs of dripping. Maybe it was because he was so thin and frail. Maybe it was because he was used to this sort of heavy wet heat. But how could anyone ever get used to it?
Mr. Lee chuckled. “A guess. In a hungry country one does not walk away from food.”
“We don’t have much time then?” And, as he said it, thought, Time for what?
Mr. Lee shrugged. “Again, I must guess. What is the movement of their wind and water? What is the movement of our own? How can we know what that holds for them? Or for us? Perhaps the Yellow Tiger Battalion will be fierce and chase their Vietcong brothers into the Mekong. Or perhaps the Vietcong will chase the Tigers all the way into the Gulf of Thailand.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Moon asked. Osa was sitting beside Mr. Lee now, looking thoughtful.
Mr. Lee said, “Probably the same ones you have. The alternatives. We could stay here. The Vietcong will come back for the rice, or perhaps the Army of North Vietnam will come to collect the aircraft and the other equipment. Then, perhaps, we will be shot or taken into custody. Or perhaps we will not be shot. if all is well we would be returned to our countries or held for questioning. It is all very problematic. Or we could seek some means to escape to the sea. Or we could seek some way to continue our mission.”
“I am remembering what Mr. Rice said about the River Patrol Boats,” Osa said. “Some people in that ship must have escaped. Ran away in the boats that were missing. Where would they go? We didn’t hear such fast boats when we were coming up the river. Where could they be? We should try to find one of those. We should try to get out the way we came in.”
To Moon that seemed awfully close to hopeless. But he could think of nothing better. “What do you think of that?” he asked Lum Lee.
Mr. Lee pulled idly at his gray goatee, considering.
“How do we find the boat?” He made.a wry face, shook his head. “However, one with no horse must walk. One with no helicopter must try to float.”
Mr. Lee laughed at his own humor. Osa produced a weak chuckle. Moon didn’t even try.
“I will go now and see what I can see,” Mr. Lee said. “But first I must find something to make me look more like a Communist. More like a Mekong Delta Communist.”
“I think you are too tired for that,” Moon said. “Rest awhile. Have some food.”
Mr. Lee studied him, tugged at his goatee. “I am remembering what Ricky told me about you,” he said. “I think you plan to do this yourself. But you are too big, and too white, too American. You would be caught, and then we all would be caught.”
“I know,” Moon said. “I thought about that. Let’s see if we can find anything useful.”
The door at the far end of the warehouse opened into an office: two desks, one small, new, and gray metal, and the other big, old, and oak; a tall old-fashioned five-drawer filing cabinet; a small safe, its door standing open; and a long wooden table with four folding chairs beside it. Moon sat in a swivel chair at the bigger desk, felt the smooth wood under his fingertips. Wood polished by Ricky’s hands. In front of him, just over the desk, he could see through the rain-streaked window the open door of the hangar from which George Rice, the Huey copter, and all his hopes had flown away.
Mr. Lee had disappeared through the door behind him into the living quarters, followed by Osa. After a while he would go there himself. He’d see Ricky’s nest. See whatever Ricky’s friends had left when they collected his things to send back to the States. But not now. It could wait a minute while he would simply think.
Moon heard voices, something clattering. The monsoon wind rattled the window with a fresh barrage of rain. Sweat ran down his back, made his shirt slick against the plastic of the chairback. He wiped his face with his sleeve. Today was what? The end of April. Victoria Mathias would be sleeping in her bed in her hospital room.
Mr. Lee emerged, dressed in loose and slightly dirty cotton trousers and an even looser dark blue smock. He was carrying a conical fiber hat.
“Not perfect, but a lot better,” Mr. Lee said. “I go now. Mrs. van Winjgaarden said she will take a shower.”
“I think you would fool me,” Moon said, “but are you going to fool these local Vietnamese? Are there any Chinese around here, do you think?”
“You forget that I, too, am Vietnamese,” Mr. Lee said. “And there are Chinese everywhere in Asia.”
“But how the hell-? Just what are you going to do?”
Mr. Lee stopped at the door. “I tell anyone I can find that my son was a cook on the U.S.S.
“Um,” Moon said.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No,” Moon said.
“Remember that I am an old man. Remember that the Vietnamese respect their old.”
“Like the old man with his ear cut off,” Moon said.
Mr. Lee stared at him. “The scar was old. Somebody in your CIA was collecting ears that year, I think.” With that, Mr. Lee disappeared through the doorway.
Another gust of wind rattled the window. From the living quarters behind him, Moon heard a shower running. Odd, he thought, how we believe that water through a pipe gets us cleaner than the warm rain. Then a shout. Something between a shout and a scream. Osa’s voice.
A half dozen running steps to the door, jerk it open, the bedroom; large, mostly bare, a bed, a chest, a chair. No sign of Osa.
Then, through the doorway into the next room, he could see part of Osa: the back of her head, her right shoulder, the right side of her back, right buttock, right leg, the bare suntanned skin glistening with perspiration. She was standing stock still, facing directly away from him, holding a bundle of clothing against herself, looking
