I banged my pipe out on the brake drum and went to bed.
I didn't know what woke me, except that I wasn't much asleep anyway and tuned to catch the first sound as the start of the north wind. I just found myself sitting up among the engine and cockpit covers in the rear fuselage and listening.
Nothing.
So I went through the usual charade of pretending I was going to get back to sleep without getting up to make sure there was nothing. After a bit of that, I crawled over to one of the old gun windows.
Two men, walking up the runway in the starlight towards me.
A couple of old crop-spraying friends come to tell me Clara had recurved north and I could cease my lonely vigil? Like Hell. I woke up with a jolt. As the two rounded the end of the wing, they both pulled out knives.
For a moment I thought about sealing myself up tight in the Mitchell. I could probably have done it: an aeroplane is a fairly solid affair. All I needed to do was jam the floor hatch tight… Then I knew I'd got to go down there.
Oh yes? And with what? – against two knives.
No use looking around; it was as dark as the inside of a coffin in here. I wonderedif I'd left any tools lying around -but I knew I hadn't. And somebody would have pinched them anyway.
Then I remembered the tail 'gun', the piece of painted broomstick stuck through the rear-gunner's window. I crawled quickly and, I hoped, quietly back there.
It jammed for a second, then slid free; it was only held in by insulation tape. About three feet long and smooth in my hands, which suddenly seemed damp.
I poked a cautious eyebrow up into the transparent aiming blister above. They were standing a few yards off, staring at the side of the aeroplane. I froze, thinking they'd heard me. But they seemed to be discussing something. Finally one of them got out a piece of paper, looked carefully around, and struck a match to read it by. The other leant in over his shoulder.
Two sharp Spanish faces, one with a small black moustache. Open-necked white shirts. I couldn't see any more. The match died. They looked back at the aeroplane, discussed a little more – then moved forward, under the wing.
I crawled for the hatch. It was open, for ventilation and wind noise. I eased down, hoping the little collapsible step wouldn't creak. But it was too rusty and jammed-up for that. Me and my broomstick arrived on the tarmac a few feet behind the wing without being spotted.
One of them was bending down beside the starboard wheel, the other out by the nose. I took three long careful steps and, as I reached the wing, ran.
The man by the nose saw me and yelled. The odier jerked up and around, his hands and knife coming up in front of his chest. I swung the stick like a baseball bat.
It crashed through his hands and thumped on his chest; he bounced back against die engine. But he still had the knife.
I lunged with the stick, like a bayonet. He said the Spanish for 'Oof and folded forwards – and the knife clinked on the tarmac.
But now the second man was coming around the propeller. I stooped, grabbed the knife, and waggled it fiercely, to show him I was in the same business by now. He stopped.
'Avanze, amigo,'I suggested. I wanted him under die wing with me. If he knew about knife-fighting, he knew about it in the open and the light. I didn't know any more than you pick up from American films about teenage Ufein the rich suburbs. But under the wing was my world. I'd worked here, had an instinctive feel of heights, distances, obstructions.
Slowly, he hunched into the knife-fighting crouch, the blade weaving hypnotically in front ofhim. He knew, all right.
I shortened my left-hand grip on the stick for a quicker swing and copied his crouch.
'You may have plane tickets,' I said conversationally, 'but they won't be any use tomorrow. All flights'll be cancelled. There's a hurricane coming -un huracán-so you'll be stuck here. Just wailing in the final departure lounge, for the police. It'll be like picking money out of the gutter. Apúrese, amigo.'
Heapúresed, all right – a fast sliding step and a wriggling thrust with the knife. I caught it on the stick and tried to twitch the knife out of his hand; no luck. I lunged myself and he stepped back and banged into a propeller blade and swore, but when I lunged again he'd slipped away.
He circled towards the wingtip, rotating me so that my back was to the first friend, still gasping and grunting down by the wheel – but due to wake up and join the party at any moment.
All right: if his pal had decided he should play a part, let him play a part. I stepped aside and back, dropped the stick and grabbed the man up by shoving a forearm under his chin and lifting. Then I banged the haft of the knife against his ribs. I thought I heard both of diem gasp.
'You understand, ' I said to the one with the knife, 'that if this fight is to go on I must first kill your friend. Esjusto, no?'
'Como usted quiera.'Asyou like. But perhaps not quitenonchalantenough to be convincing. The man on my arm squirmed nervously.
I said:'Como usted quiera,'and swung the knife wide so it glinted in the starlight.
The other man said: 'No! '
I waited. Car headlights swept across the airstrip. Two cars.
I yipped:'Policía!'although I didn't think it was.
The man with the knife looked – at the cars, at me, at the trees on the edge of the runway. Suddenly he chose the trees.
I let the man on my arm drop and he dropped, saying something both unmistakable and unforgivable about his partner's mother as he went down.
I warned him not to hurry off, then stepped out to meet the cars. As they pulled up, I recognised them: Whitmore's station-wagon, J.B. 's Avanti. The gang was all here – right down to Miss Jiminez.
Whitmore stepped out, saw the knife in my hand, and said: 'We're friends. You don't need that, fella.'
'Not mine. Belongs to a couple of gents who came calling.' And nodded at the man under the wing. 'The other's heading for the hills.'
That stiffened them. Then Miss Jiminez plunged a hand into her vast crocodile bag and came up with a silver-plated automatic. 'Where are they? They killed my brother.' The pistol swung in a rather too comprehensive sweep.
'Not with knives, they didn't,' I said mildly.
Whitmore and Luiz walked up under the wing and came out half-carrying the man over to the cars' headlights.
'What are you all doing here?' I asked. I'd finally had time to look at my watch, and it was just past one in the morning.
J.B. said: 'We got some news. It can wait, though.'
In the pool of light from the headlights Miss Jiminez was pointing the gun at the trio of Whitmore, Luiz, and the man.
Whitmore said testily: 'Put that damn thing away.'
Reluctantly, she decided it wasn't really necessary and tucked it back in her bag. 'But he must talk. We mustmake him to talk.'
In the light, the man looked about fortyish, medium high, medium fat, and much more than medium frightened.
Whitmore said: 'You heard the lady. Start talking.'
The man shrugged and muttered: 'No unnerstan'.'
Whitmore clamped a vast hand on his shoulder and shook him like a jammed door. Miss Jiminez said: 'We must make him to talk now. Some torture.' She looked around for inspiration.
I said: 'Why don't I start up an engine and you feed his arm into the propeller? By the time you reach his elbow he'll probably be talking a blue streak.'
J.B. said: 'Are youserious?'
Ishrugged. 'As much as anybody here. What do we want him to talk about? Where he comes from? – we know where he comes from. Who sent him? – we know who sent him. What for? – we know. Ask him about the weather in Santo Bartolomeo and throw him away.' Whitmore let go and stood back. 'You could have a point there, fella.'
Miss Jiminez stared: 'You mean – to let him go free?'