Tony Hillerman - Finding Moon

The lamp hissed and buzzed and added its peculiar chemical odor to the various perfumes the room already offered. But it was better than waiting in the dark. Moon resumed his position on the sofa, sighed, and relaxed. Rice was relating his misadventures in the jungle. Osa was listening. They would wake him when they needed him.

“Why not one of the beds?” Osa asked. “You would be more comfortable.”

“I really don’t know,” Moon said. “I know you’re right. I think it’s because I have the idea that the lady should get the bed and the man should sleep on the sofa. Or because I’m stubborn. Or maybe I just enjoy having these cramps in my leg muscles.” He thought of another theory that had something to do with his headache. But Osa had lost patience with him. She was talking to George Rice.

“Did you see how they keep the water out of this room? When the high tide comes, these boards pull down into these slots and-see how tightly they fit.”

Moon didn’t hear the rest of it. He was asleep again.

Special to the New York Times

SAIGON, South Vietnam, April 24-Panic is clearly visible in Saigon now as thousands of Vietnamese try desperately to find ways to flee their country.

Few exits are left and most involve knowing Americans. U.S. Air Force C-141 transports took off all day and night from Tan Son Nhut air base with lucky passengers en route to Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines.

IT TOOK MOON A FEW MOMENTS to focus well enough to read the numbers on his watch: 1:07 A.M. When he blinked, it became 1:08.

Mr. Tung was holding back the bamboo screen. In front of it, five squared timbers had been dropped into place across the opening in the wall. The tide must have come in, because Moon could see the prow of a little boat nudged up against the planks.

“Be careful,” Mr. Tung said. “I think maybe you will have to get yourself just a little bit wet.”

Careful or not, Moon was soaked to about six inches above the knees. Cool water. It helped jar him awake. Mr. Tung stepped from the topmost timber into the boat, agile as a monkey. Captain Teele, now wearing a grimy Beatles T-shirt and pants that seemed to be made of canvas, sat amidships, holding a long-handled paddle.

Mr. Tung said, “We go now” in English and something in some other language. Teele slid them soundlessly down the bamboo tunnel and out into open water. Moon could see now that Mr. Tung’s hideaway was located behind the Puerto Princesa wharves, and once away from it there was less effort to maintain total silence. Teele allowed his sculling oar to splash. Moon scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on his face. He felt lousy. Tension. Change of food and water. Too little sleep. Someday he would lie down on something soft and sleep forever. If anyone came to wake him he would strangle them.

Captain Teele sculled past the barnacle-encrusted pillars supporting the dock, past what seemed to be some sort of naval auxiliary vessel, rusted and in need of paint. A dim light burned on its mast, but there was no sign that anyone aboard was awake. Probably an old U.S. Navy minesweeper, Moon guessed, turned over to the Philippine navy. They passed under the bow of a barge that smelled of turpentine and dead fish. Then the white shape of the Glory of the Sea was just ahead.

Moon had always loved cars and airplanes. In the army, he had even come to feel a rapport with tanks. Nothing that floated had ever interested him, though. But now the sleek white shape of the Glory of the Sea rose above its reflection in the still water, and Moon saw the beauty of it. Someone had built this thing with pride. He looked at Captain Teele, now steering their little boat carefully to the boarding ladder. The captain was smiling. As well he should be, Moon thought. A captain should love this ship. At the moment, however, Moon was feeling no such sentiment himself. He was feeling faintly seasick.

Nor, once on board, did the engine inspire any affection. It was an old Euclid, probably salvaged out of a landing craft left on a beach somewhere after World War II. A burly young man, barefoot and wearing only walking shorts, was standing beside it watching Moon approach, his face full of doubt. His hair hung in a long black braid. A design that suggested either a dragon or a tiger was tattooed on his shoulder, apparently by an amateur.

“Mr. Suhuannaphum,” Captain Teele said, “Mr. Moon.” Mr. Suhuannaphum bowed over his hands and pointed to the diesel. “Old,” he said.

“Do you speak English?”

Mr. Suhuannaphum looked nervously at Captain Teele, seeking guidance. Receiving none, he shrugged, produced a self-deprecatory smile, and said something in a language entirely new to Moon.

“Thai,” Captain Teele said, and made a wry face, as if that explained everything.

“Okay,” Moon said. “Let’s see what we have here.”

Moon discovered very quickly that what they had here was very close to the diagnosis he’d made sight unseen. Something was wrong with the fuel-injection system. Apparently Mr. Suhuannaphum had already reached that same conclusion and had done the preliminary dismantling. The injection system was mechanical, a system long since replaced by electronics. Archaic or not, it seemed to work, as Mr. Suhuannaphum demonstrated. At low pressure, diesel oil emerged evenly from each injection jet. Then, with his face registering first surprise and then disapproval, Mr. Suhuannaphum advanced the throttle. He gestured angrily.

Fuel spurted from one jet. The others died away to a trickle. “Alors,” Mr. Suhuannaphum said. “Kaput.”

“Do it again,” Moon said.

Mr. Suhuannaphum stared at him. Moon devised the proper hand signal.

Mr. Suhuannaphum repeated the process. This time he said, “Broke.”

Moon thought about it. He removed four screws, lifted a plate, removed the filter from the only jet that operated properly, blew through it, handed it to Mr. Suhuannaphum, and made washing motions. Mr. Suhuannaphum looked surprised, but he washed it.

With that done, Moon reinstalled the filter and replaced the plate. Simple enough, but would it work?

“Start it,” Moon said, gesturing to Mr. Suhuannaphum. Mr. Suhuannaphum’s expression formed a question.

“Let’s see,” Moon said, trying to think of a way to explain to this Thai why the old injection systems worked in this perverse way, increasing the pressure when the filter was dirty and thus starving the jets whose filters were clean. He didn’t understand it himself.

“Just start it.” he said.

It started, but it had started before. The question was whether the tendency to cut out with acceleration had been solved. Now it thumped with slow regularity, like a healthy heartbeat.

Moon had an eye on his watch, giving it a little time to warm. And thinking that if he had fixed it, and he probably had, he had once again cut his own throat. The condemned electrician repairing the electric chair. Moon Mathias, jack-of-all-trades, fixing the engine that would take him into the hands of the Khmer Rouge, who beat people like him to death with sticks.

It was a little after three A.M. and Mr. Suhuannaphum was looking at him anxiously, awaiting instructions.

“Okay,” Moon said, “go for it. Give it the gas. Vrooom, vrooom, vrooom.” He leaned back against the rail, fighting an urgent need to throw up.

The old Euclid diesel went vrooooooom, vrooooooom. Mr. Suhuannaphum eased off the throttle, clapped his hands, and produced a joyful shout. Captain Teele emerged from the darkness, grinning broadly. “Yes!” he said.

“Well, hell,” Moon said. “Nothing to stop us now, I guess. Here we go to meet the boogeymen.”