Flyaway

So we got out to look at the damage. The rear wheels were sunk nearly to the axle in the fine sand and I could see it was going to be a devil of a job to get out even if there was nothing wrong with the transmission. And if the transmission had gone we could be stuck there forever. Byrne didn't seem too worried; he merely dug out two jacks from the back of the truck and laid them on the sand. 'Here's where the hard work starts,' he remarked. 'We'll need the sand ladders from up top.'

Paul and I got down the sand ladders. Byrne regarded Paul thoughtfully. 'Would you do me a favour?'

'Of course. What is it?'

'Go to the top of that rise back there and keep your eyes open. If you see anyone coming let us know fast.'

Paul looked at Konti. 'What about him?'

'I need him,' said Byrne briefly.

'Oh! All right.' Paul started off back down the track.

Byrne laughed shortly. 'Paul will keep a better look-out than any of us. He seems to value his skin more.'

'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm pretty attached to mine.'

An hour later we knew the worst, and it was bad. The differential gears are pretty near all stripped,' said Byrne. 'No wonder it sounded like my old man's coffee-grinder back' home in Bar Harbor. It never could grind coffee worth a damn.'

I regarded the jacked-up Toyota gloomily. 'What do we do? Walk?'

'There's a place called Seguedine a piece up the road -maybe ten kilometres. Not that there's much there, but maybe we could use a team of camels to haul us out.'

'And then what? The differential's busted. There wouldn't be a service station in Seguedine?'

Byrne laughed. 'Not likely. But I've got a spare differential in the back of the truck. The bastards are always stripping so I've made it a habit to keep a spare. But I'd like to get in cover before replacing it. It's going to blow a son of a bitch tonight and this damned sand gets in everywhere. Not good for differentials.'

'Well, who goes? I can't speak the language.'

Byrne grinned. 'I sent Konti on ahead half an hour ago. I was pretty sure of what I'd find.'

I looked around and, sure enough, Konti was missing. But Billson was running towards us at full tilt. 'Someone's coming!' he yelled. They'll be here in five minutes or less.'

He skidded to a halt in front of us. 'Any idea who it is?' asked Byrne calmly.

'It looked like the truck we saw in Dirkou.'

Byrne's right arm disappeared inside his gandoura and when it reappeared he was holding a fistful of gun. He worked the action and set the safety-catch, then put it away again. Paul watched him wide-eyed. 'Go and sit in the front seat, Paul,' said Byrne.

Billson scurried around the truck and I saw to my own pistol. Byrne said, 'If this is Lash we'll pretty soon find out how genuinely he wants to help. Keep your veil up and your mouth shut.' He stooped and put an oil-can upright on the ground. 'If you recognize his voice kick that over, accidental like.'

We waited, the hot desert wind driving at us and nicking grains of sand into our faces. It was as much to protect my face as to hide it when I drew up and tightened the veil in the way Byrne had shown me. Then I stood with my arm inside my gandoura hanging straight down with the pistol in my hand; it couldn't be seen and I would waste no time in drawing it from the holster.

The truck came over the rise two hundred yards away, travelling fast and trailing a long plume of dust which was blown to one side by the wind. As it approached it slowed, and then drew to a halt abreast of us. The driver was obviously not a European but the man who got out of the front passenger seat was. He was as Byrne had described him, fairly big and with dark hair. His eyes flickered towards Byrne and me, then he looked at Paul in the front seat and said, 'Are you in trouble? Perhaps I can help.'

I didn't hear what Paul answered because I took half a pace to one side and knocked over the oil-can with a metallic clatter. Byrne raised his voice. 'Yeah, you can say we're in trouble. Lousy differential's bust.'

Lash turned his head and stared at Byrne, then came to the back of the truck. 'You are American?' He filled his voice with well-simulated incredulity. 'We get around.'

'You don't look like one,' said Lash in an amused tone. He nodded at me. 'I suppose he's American, too.'

'Nope,' said Byrne. 'He's British like you.'

Lash raised his eyebrows but said nothing. I suppose Byrne had done the right thing. Lash knew I was around and there was no point in me hiding; and it would be difficult to maintain the deception unless I pretended I was deaf and dumb.

He stooped and looked under the Toyota, then said, 'Yes, I'd say you're in trouble.' He straightened. 'By the way, my name is Lash – John Lash.'