‘If you’re coming on our ride you better have some of this,’ Ryderbeit called suddenly as the waitress came back with Murray’s coffee. He had pulled a stout pigskin flask from inside his flying suit, and without asking permission, poured a generous spout into Murray’s cup. ‘That’s good Napoleon brandy! Don’t sneer at it, soldier. You’ll be glad of it in a couple of hours. You haven’t seen the weather reports. Not like me and No-Entry Jones here — we’re privileged.’
His co-pilot had returned, settling down with a sigh, and Ryderbeit leant over with his arm round the Negro’s scrawny neck: ‘Isn’t that right, No-Entry? We have seen the reports and we are not afraid! We do our sacred duty for the honour of peace and freedom in this best of all possible worlds.’ He smiled at Murray with a double row of very sharp white teeth. ‘Mister Wilde, let me introduce you to No-Entry Jones, one of the unsung heroes of the struggle against Communism!’ He shook the older man in a rough affectionate way, still watching Murray with his leering stare; and suddenly Murray recognised the accent — slightly distorted, like that of so many expatriates, but still unmistakable. South Africa.
He sighed, thinking, That’s all I need! Mad white mercenary and a middle-aged Negro who looked as though he had a hangover: both armed with Napoleon brandy at 5.30 in the morning, all ready for a flight over high mountains near the Chinese and North Vietnamese borders. He decided that either Air U.S.A. were out of their minds, or that Sammy Ryderbeit and No-Entry Jones must be very good pilots indeed.
Ryderbeit, after their first encounter, had now become surprisingly genial: ‘Mr Wilde, do you know why they call this old soldier here No-Entry?’ — and Jones shook himself free and growled, ‘Aw come on, Sammy, give us a break!’
‘No, no, I’m telling Mr Wilde. After all, his life’s going to be partly in your hands, No-Entry.’
Murray looked at his watch: only about twenty minutes left for the loading.
‘Jones was doing a reconnaissance flight in an L 19 spotter-plane down over the Plain of Jars last year — one of these flights we’re not supposed to talk about out in Laos, Mr Wilde, because the Security Council would get all hot and bothered, because it’s naughty you see —’
‘Ah shut up,’ Jones groaned, but without effect.
‘Anyway, the Pathet Lao took a pot-shot at him, and because an L 19’s got a floor like paper and old Jones was being careless and not sitting on his groin-protector, he got a bullet through his guts.’ He clapped his hand back round the Negro’s neck, who seemed too exhausted to resist. ‘And because this old soldier here does not believe in dyin’ nor fadin’ away, he floated that little plane down over the mountains and brought it in at Luang Prabang, so perfectly no one knew anythin’ was wrong till they pulled Jones out and the floor of that plane was sloppin’ an inch deep in blood — not countin’ what must’ve already dripped through the floor. And you know, Mr Wilde?’ — he leaned closer to Murray, still shaking the grizzled Negro beside him — ‘when they got Jones to the hospital they found an exit wound in his belly the size of this coffee cup.’ He gave a sudden ferocious cackle: ‘But the funny thing was they couldn’t find the entry wound. They searched and they searched — but that Pathet Lao bullet went up and out of old Jones and it left never an entry wound.’
His co-pilot muttered, ‘Aw leave it, Sammy, it’s an old story.’
Murray smiled and stood up. ‘How about a look at the rice loading, Mr Ryderbeit?’
Ryderbeit rose slowly, supple and sneering half-humorously: ‘Don’t worry about the loading, soldier. It’s the unloading that should be troubling you.’
Outside the light was coming up fast. Ryderbeit climbed into an Air U.S.A. Mini Moke parked outside. ‘You’re bloody keen, I must say,’ he said, starting the engine. ‘Not many journalists would bother to get on a rollercoaster for the first time, then worry about the loading. Any ulterior motive?’
He drove very fast across the wide empty apron towards the arc-shaped hangars on the far side that showed through the dawn like superstructures out of science fiction. Murray glanced at him sideways, and found to his consternation that Ryderbeit was doing the same.
‘Eh soldier?’
‘I don’t quite follow you.’ Murray was worried by Ryderbeit — far more than by the prospect of the rice-drop ahead. ‘I’m doing a story.’
Ryderbeit’s cackle carried even above the drone of the Moke. ‘Come on, soldier, I’m not an infant in arms, and nor are you. I read, you know — and more than just the local rags.’ He nodded at the bundle of Bangkok Worlds Murray was still gripping foolishly under his arm. ‘You’re a serious writer. I know your type — you want to record history in the making, witness a rice-drop, get all the details down in your notebook — bit of experience off from the usual bloody little chores of going to Press conferences and hearing about poor sods getting sliced in half by fifty-calibre machineguns while they’re walking through elephant grass. Two paragraphs, O.K.?’
Murray sat very still, watching the gaping rear-ends of the transport planes forming out of the gloom. His fists lay clenched in his lap; it did not seem a good idea to punch his pilot on the snout before they’d even taken off.
Ryderbeit had turned the Moke left, driving under the wing-tips that swished over them like a fan. ‘I’m not trying to be rude or anythin’,’ he added, ‘I just want to know why you want to see a lot o’ bloody
