Luiz came away from the table still idly shaking the dice in his hands; the croupier chased after him. Luiz said something fast and quiet in Spanish that stopped him like a slap in the face.
Then there were just Ned and me.
After a while he said: 'You want to get started on that drinking?'
'Yes; step aside. You're blocking the route to the bar.'
He stayed where he was. 'I ain't going to apologise to you, Keith. Frankly, I'd've liked to see you banged in jail a few months. But I didn't expect him to pinch your plane.'
'Don't cry too hard. You'll wet your pistol.'
'You don't have to believe me.'
'I don't even have to waste time deciding whether I believe you or not. Now stand aside.'
'I didn't expect him to ground you,' he said doggedly.
I just stared. But perhaps, in a way, I did believe him. Being in jail is one thing: you can get out of jail. Losing your plane is having the whole sky pulled from under your feet.
'All right,' I said. 'So I believe you. Now will you-?'
Til buy you the first bottle. I owe you that for slugging Miranda. I been wanting to do that myself a long time.'
'So why didn't you?'
Tm a colonel – remember? His superior officer. I ain't used to being a superior. You can't slug hardly anybody.'
We seemed to be walking out together. So – why not? Unless I was going to practise high dives into a whisky bottle in my own room, Ned was still better company than anybody I'd meet at the bar.
We got into a lift. On the way up, he said: 'You'll get the insurance on your plane, won't you?'
I looked at him. 'D'you want to bet? Confiscation'll come under "riots, strikes, and civil disturbances" and on the standard policy you aren't insured against them. Anyway, I'd have to prove confiscation – and I can't see you helping me on that. I'm just grounded for safety reasons, and an insurance company isn't going to pay onthat. Not after I swore to keep the plane up to standard.'
He frowned. 'Yeh. You really have got trouble.'
We got out at the top floor and walked down a normal hotel corridor and round a corner. I was just about to ask where the hell we were going, when he stopped outside an unnumbered door and started turning keys in a couple of locks that were a lot more serious than any an hotel normally uses.
It was a wide, cool room looking – surprisingly – inland. At first sight it seemed to be just another millionaire suite: lined with low expensive-looking Scandinavian cupboards and cabinets, thick green wall-to-wall carpeting, modern copper lampshades, ice-cold air-conditioning. Then you saw the touches that were Ned's: a heavy old green baize card tablewith a ring of tall leather chairs, the three telephones, the easel with a map board, the Braun T1000VHP receiver on the window-sill.
That was why the room faced inland, of course: most of the air messages would be coming from inland.
Ned walked over to the receiver, switched it on, and tuned it delicately. All he got was a faint crackle and hum. He picked up a red telephone, got an immediate answer, and said:'Coronel Rafter at the Americana. I'll be here most the day.'
He put the phone down and waved at a cabinet. 'Start the round. I'll have a beer.'
The cabinet turned out to be a wood-covered refrigerator filled to withstand a long siege if you didn't happen to care about food. There were bottles of everything I could think of including several of Australian Swan beer. How Ned managed to get that hauled in across 9,000 miles… but perhaps being a superior officer has its compensations.
I poured his beer and gave myself a Scotch stiff enough to stand up without the glass. When I turned round Ned had dumped his gun and harness on the table and stripped off his flying suit, leaving him in just a pair of striped underpants. He took the beer, said 'Cheers,' and went out through the side door. I heard a shower start.
I took a long gulp of whisky just to set the tone for the afternoon, and wandered over to the receiver. It was a neat square job, a little smaller than a portable typewriter stood on end, well styled without being fussy: you could read the wavelength exactly. I read it.
Then I looked at the telephones: red, green, white. I wondered what the green one was for, then wondered about picking up the red one and telling the squadron to scramble and dive itself into the sea. In the end I just took another mouthful of whisky and walked over and picked up Ned's revolver.
It was a Smith amp; Wesson Magnum.357. A squat, heavy gun as used by the Chicago police because it's supposed to drill clear through a car engine from end to end. Also as carried by most pilots in Korea in case we met the whole Chinese Army standing end to end. By putting both hands on the gripand holding very tight, you might actually have hit the Chinese Army. About hitting a car engine you'd better ask the Chicago police.
I put it back in the holster.
The receiver crackled and said faintly:'Ensayo. Uno, dos, tres, cuatro. 'Another voice said: 'Okay. Cinco, cinco.'
Ned stuck his head out of the bathroom, dripping water. 'What was that?'
'The squadron's gone on strike for a forty-whore week.'
'Whatwas it, sport?'
'Just testing.'
He ducked back and I walked over to the map on the easel. It was standard ICAO one-millionth-scale air map, but with a number of neat pen markings noting the airfields. There was the civil airport, the local base, and another military field up in a rather pointless position on the north coast. I knew about them. But I hadn't known about another base marked about sixty miles to the west, just before the real hills started. It was logical, though: most of the rebel troubles would come in those hills, and you could use a forward airstrip up there both for bringing in supplies and parking a flight of Vampires just a few minutes away from action.
Most of the rest of the markings I guessed were small-plane strips on the big plantations. Not long enough for regular military use, but nice to know about in case you wanted to crash-land.
Ned came in wrapped in a crisp white towelling bath-robe that seemed oddly fancy with his great hairy hands and feet sticking out of it. He gave me a sharp look, but didn't tell me to get away from the map. I got away anyhow, sat down at the card table, and began a count-down on my pipe.
'This is one of the best ops rooms I've ever seen,' I remarked.
'Just a weekend joint.' He nodded at the ceiling. 'The General's got the pent-house.'
That was logical, too, when you thought about it. It's easier to seal off the top of a big hotel against assassins than it would be a house. And it solves all the servant problems for you, too.
'What about General Castillo?'
He chuckled. 'He lives in a tent, poor bug-bitten bastard. Leading the noble army in the field.'
'And why isn't the noble Air Force in tents, too? Your forward base not secure enough? Or are you having supply problems?'
He smiled, but with his mouth firmly shut. He might be ready to talk about the Army; he wasn't going to spill any of the Air Force's secrets.
I took my pipe for a short walk to get it a bit of air it hadn't breathed three times already. At the end of it, I found myself by the refrigerator, so I filled up my glass again. Ned shook his head at a second beer. I walked back to the table and struck the third match.
'Feel like any food?' Ned asked.
'No, thanks.'
'I could get up some sandwiches.'
'If you want to eat them yourself.'
After a moment he asked: 'Like to suck a piece of ice?'
'No.'
'You're going to get loaded fast.'
'That's right. I got grounded today – remember?'
He nodded slowly. The red telephone buzzed.
He was there in a couple of strides. He listened for a while, then said: 'Scramble the forward section. Tell 'em not to go above ten and tell the army to put down smokewhen they see the planes -not before.' He put down the phone. 'Damn army's always putting down smoke markers the moment they run into anything. Rebels know what it means by now, so they scarper before we can get there.'