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Authors: George Alec Effinger
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autopilot the whole way. How much actual flying are you guys do-ing?"
The co-pilot didn't like that. "Go back and sit down," he said, "or I'll take you back and cuff you to the bench." "I don't mean any trouble," I said. "Nobody's told us a thing. Don't we have a right to know where we're going?" The co-pilot turned his back on me. "Look," he said, "you and the old guy murdered some poor son of a bitch. You ain't got any rights anymore."
"Terrific," I muttered. I went back to the bench. Papa looked at me, and I just shook my head. He was dishev-eled and streaked with grime, and he'd lost his tarboosh when al-Bishah bashed him in the back of the head. He'd regained a lot of his composure during the flight, how-ever, and he seemed to be pretty much his old self again. I had the feeling that soon we'd both need all our wits about us.
Fifteen minutes later, I felt the chopper slowing down. I looked out through the port and saw that we'd stopped moving forward, hovering now over reddish-brown sand dunes that stretched to the horizon in all di-rections. There was a long buzzing note, and then a green light went on over the hatch. Papa touched my arm and I turned to him, but I couldn't tell him what was going on.
The co-pilot unbuckled himself and eased out of his seat in the cockpit. He stepped carefully through the cargo area to our bench. "We're here," he said.
"What do you mean, 'we're here'? Nothing down there but sand. Not so much as a tree or a bush." The co-pilot wasn't concerned. "Look, all I know is we're supposed to turn you over to the Bayt Tahiti here." "What's the Bayt Tabiti?"
The co-pilot gave me a sly grin. "Tribe of Badawi," he said. "The other tribes call 'em the leopards of the des-ert." Yeah, you right, I thought. "What are these Bayt Tabiti going to do with us?"
"Well, don't expect 'em to greet you like long-lost brothers. My advice is, try to get on their good side real fast." I didn't like any of this, but what could I do about it? "So you're just going to set this chopper down and kick us out into the desert?"
The co-pilot shook his head. "Naw," he said, "we ain't gonna set it down. Chopper ain't got desert sand filters." He pulled up on a release lever and slid the hatch aside.
I looked down at the ground. "We're twenty feet in the air!" I cried.
"Not for long," said the co-pilot. He raised his foot and shoved me out. I fell to the warm sand, trying to roll as I hit. I was fortunate that I didn't break my legs. The chopper was kicking up a heavy wind, which blew the stinging sand into my face. I could barely breathe. I thought about using my keffiya the way it was meant to be used, to protect my nose and mouth from the artificial sandstorm. Before I could adjust it, I saw the co-pilot push Friedlander Bey from the hatch opening. I did my best to break Papa's fall, and he wasn't too badly hurt, either.
"This is murder!" I shouted up at the chopper. "We can't survive out here!"
The co-pilot spread his hands. "The Bayt Tahiti are coming. Here, this'll last you till they get here." He tossed out a pair of large canteens. Then, his duty to us at an end, he slammed the hatch shut. A moment later, the jet chopper swung up and around and headed back the way it had come.
Papa and I were alone and lost in the middle of the Arabian Desert. I picked up both canteens and shook them. They gurgled reassuringly. I wondered how many days of life they held. Then I went to Friedlander Bey. He sat in the hot morning sunlight and rubbed his shoulder. "I can walk, my nephew," he said, anticipating my con-cern.
"Guess we'll have to, O Shaykh," I said. I didn't have the faintest idea what to do next. I didn't know where we were or in which direction to start traveling.
"Let us first pray to Allah for guidance," he said. I didn't see any reason not to. Papa decided that this was definitely an emergency, so we didn't have to use our precious water to cleanse ourselves before worship. In such a situation, it's permissible to use
The co-pilot didn't like that. "Go back and sit down," he said, "or I'll take you back and cuff you to the bench." "I don't mean any trouble," I said. "Nobody's told us a thing. Don't we have a right to know where we're going?" The co-pilot turned his back on me. "Look," he said, "you and the old guy murdered some poor son of a bitch. You ain't got any rights anymore."
"Terrific," I muttered. I went back to the bench. Papa looked at me, and I just shook my head. He was dishev-eled and streaked with grime, and he'd lost his tarboosh when al-Bishah bashed him in the back of the head. He'd regained a lot of his composure during the flight, how-ever, and he seemed to be pretty much his old self again. I had the feeling that soon we'd both need all our wits about us.
Fifteen minutes later, I felt the chopper slowing down. I looked out through the port and saw that we'd stopped moving forward, hovering now over reddish-brown sand dunes that stretched to the horizon in all di-rections. There was a long buzzing note, and then a green light went on over the hatch. Papa touched my arm and I turned to him, but I couldn't tell him what was going on.
The co-pilot unbuckled himself and eased out of his seat in the cockpit. He stepped carefully through the cargo area to our bench. "We're here," he said.
"What do you mean, 'we're here'? Nothing down there but sand. Not so much as a tree or a bush." The co-pilot wasn't concerned. "Look, all I know is we're supposed to turn you over to the Bayt Tahiti here." "What's the Bayt Tabiti?"
The co-pilot gave me a sly grin. "Tribe of Badawi," he said. "The other tribes call 'em the leopards of the des-ert." Yeah, you right, I thought. "What are these Bayt Tabiti going to do with us?"
"Well, don't expect 'em to greet you like long-lost brothers. My advice is, try to get on their good side real fast." I didn't like any of this, but what could I do about it? "So you're just going to set this chopper down and kick us out into the desert?"
The co-pilot shook his head. "Naw," he said, "we ain't gonna set it down. Chopper ain't got desert sand filters." He pulled up on a release lever and slid the hatch aside.
I looked down at the ground. "We're twenty feet in the air!" I cried.
"Not for long," said the co-pilot. He raised his foot and shoved me out. I fell to the warm sand, trying to roll as I hit. I was fortunate that I didn't break my legs. The chopper was kicking up a heavy wind, which blew the stinging sand into my face. I could barely breathe. I thought about using my keffiya the way it was meant to be used, to protect my nose and mouth from the artificial sandstorm. Before I could adjust it, I saw the co-pilot push Friedlander Bey from the hatch opening. I did my best to break Papa's fall, and he wasn't too badly hurt, either.
"This is murder!" I shouted up at the chopper. "We can't survive out here!"
The co-pilot spread his hands. "The Bayt Tahiti are coming. Here, this'll last you till they get here." He tossed out a pair of large canteens. Then, his duty to us at an end, he slammed the hatch shut. A moment later, the jet chopper swung up and around and headed back the way it had come.
Papa and I were alone and lost in the middle of the Arabian Desert. I picked up both canteens and shook them. They gurgled reassuringly. I wondered how many days of life they held. Then I went to Friedlander Bey. He sat in the hot morning sunlight and rubbed his shoulder. "I can walk, my nephew," he said, anticipating my con-cern.
"Guess we'll have to, O Shaykh," I said. I didn't have the faintest idea what to do next. I didn't know where we were or in which direction to start traveling.
"Let us first pray to Allah for guidance," he said. I didn't see any reason not to. Papa decided that this was definitely an emergency, so we didn't have to use our precious water to cleanse ourselves before worship. In such a situation, it's permissible to use
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