No one challenged him. The wire-net barrier was already swung up under a brightly-lit billposter: AIR U.S.A. — HANDS ACROSS THE SEA. The airfield beyond was a vast pool of mist humming with distant engines. Murray followed a sign, Air U.S.A., Traffic Enquiries, to a door with an engraved plaque: Major W. Y. Gaccia — Traffic Manager. Please Enter.
A dark clean-shaven man in a floral shirt and blue slacks rose and held out his hand. ‘Morning sir! Mister Murray Wilde — I’m Bill Gaccia. Luke Williams sent me up your flight papers. You’re a little early.’
‘I thought I might get a chance to watch the rice being loaded. And get a cup of coffee. My hotel sleeps late.’
‘Sure thing, Mr Wilde. Let’s just get the formalities over.’
Murray handed him the pass Luke had given him yesterday, and Major Gaccia gave him the familiar Xeroxed slip for ‘notification of next-of-kin in case of accident’. As usual — or in want of anyone else — he filled in the name and office address of his literary agent in London, a pretty, alarmingly efficient young woman whom he had occasionally considered on his rare visits home since his divorce.
‘Right, I’ll take you through,’ the major said, leading him out into the corridor, and Murray wondered what the Y in his name could stand for (Yuri? Yorick?), as they entered a long, low-ceilinged room full of glaring neon and the chatter of teleprinters. It was bitterly cold. A number of casually-dressed men in early middle age, all looking very fresh and clear-eyed for the hour of the morning, strolled in front of maps fixed with coloured pins and plastic numbers. No one was in uniform, Murray observed: this was the generation that was past Korea and Vietnam, but still too young to drop the kicks, or the idealism.
‘We have two categories of rice-drop,’ Major Gaccia was explaining, ‘milk-run and rollercoaster. The first’s a cinch, just a fun-ride round the hills, but on the second — what we call the rollercoaster — you get into those high mountains, electrical storms, no visibility, and up there, sir, you keep your safety-belt fastened!’ He grinned: ‘You’re booked on the rollercoaster, Mr Wilde.’
On the walls were aerial photographs of some indefinable terrain; weather charts, a great sign IN GOD WE TRUST, and a smaller one by the door as they went out: ‘No transistor radios or battery-operated shavers to be utilized during any flight. Your safety is our safety. Thank you.’
‘How long does the loading last?’ said Murray. It was already 5.15 and scheduled take-off was for 6.30.
‘Shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes. You’ve got time for a coffee and a chance to meet your pilots.’ They had entered what Murray recognised as the ‘Hi-Lo Snack-Bar’. It was again very cold, with soft piped music — Ray Conniff against the rising scream of a turbo-prop. Major Gaccia led him to a table where two men sat in flying-suits drinking black coffee.
‘Gentlemen, may I introduce Mr Murray Wilde, a writer and newspaperman from Great Britain. Mr Wilde, your chief pilot, Mr Samuel Ryderbeit. Your co-pilot, Mr Jones. Mr Wilde will be joining you gentlemen on Flight Applejack Six.’
The men at the table nodded without a word. Murray examined them both with the stirrings of misgiving. Unlike the men in the operations room next door, neither looked in the least fresh or clear-eyed. The co-pilot Jones, the older of the two, had not shaved and was wearing dark glasses. He was a grizzled pale-grey Negro with sunken, almost wasted cheeks and a hand that made the coffee lap over the edge of his cup.
The other man, Ryderbeit — perhaps because he was designated as chief pilot — was even more disturbing. A very tall man with a hooked, hairless face of slightly greenish hue and long yellow eyes of astonishing brightness, but with a hint of orange at the edges. He was wearing under his partially unzipped flying-suit a black silk turtle-necked shirt, and black suede flying-boots. Both men wore on their wrists identification discs of solid gold.
Major Gaccia was saying to Ryderbeit, ‘Sammy, Mr Wilde here is anxious to watch the loading. Perhaps you could take him out and show him, after he’s had his coffee.’
Sammy Ryderbeit nodded again, not looking exactly enthusiastic at being cast as Murray’s guide.
Major Gaccia turned and said, ‘I have to get back now, Mr Wilde — there’s another passenger due on your flight, checking at my office at five-thirty.’
‘Who is it?’ said Murray.
‘Some photographer, I think. In your line of business, anyway.’
Damn! he thought: So it threatened to be a P.R. outing after all. He sat down opposite Ryderbeit and for a moment the two of them scowled at each other across the stainless steel table. Jones had loped away to an iced water tank in the corner where he was helping himself to a relay of paper cups.
‘You ever done this before, Mr Wilde?’
‘No.’
‘Takin’ pictures or writin’?’
‘Both.’ A Lao waitress had come up to him and he ordered black coffee.
‘You use a typewriter or work in long-hand?’ Ryderbeit said, leaning across the table leering.
‘Typewriter,’ Murray said blankly, and looked back into those yellow eyes, dilated like a cat’s — puzzled now by the man’s accent.
‘I once knew a scribbler,’ Ryderbeit went on: ‘Mad poet bastard — used to grow his fingernail long then slit it up the middle and use it as a quill. You ever heard of such a tactic in your trade?’
‘Never,’ said Murray, irritated that he could not place the
