"Great," said Moon, and dozed off.

He awoke sometime later, aware that Osa was rearranging his foot, which seemed to have fallen off the sofa.

"Uncomfortable," he heard her say. "There's the bed right over there. Not three yards away. Men are so stubborn. Why not sleep on the bed?" And then some muttering in Dutch, or German, or Tagalog, and Moon was asleep again.

Someone was shaking him. Moon came out of his sleep slowly this time, partly involved in a dream in which Gene Halsey and he were in a bar involved in some sort of disagreement with a military policeman and partly aware that Lum Lee was pushing on his shoulder.

"What?" Moon said.

"Sorry," Mr. Lee said. "Very sorry. But now we must do some business."

"Business," Moon said. Halsey, bar, and MP were gone now. He swung his legs around, sat up, and rubbed his face, trying to stifle a yawn. Osa was standing there watching him. Beside her two men were standing. One was their host, Mr. Tung, the cab owner. The other was George Rice.

Moon became wide awake. "Well!" he said. "Mr. Rice. Welcome to Puerto Princesa."

"Happy to be here," Rice said, grinning his bright blue-eyed grin. "Comparatively speaking, of course."

Rice was still in the striped prison garb, now wet and smeared with mud. A dark brown bruise began near the center of his forehead and ended in his right eyebrow. Below that, a small bandage had been taped over the cheekbone.

"You all right?" Moon asked.

"Fine," Rice said. "Relatively speaking. Getting to the moat wasn't as easy as it sounded."

"Do you know how to reach your pal Gregory? His telephone-"

Mr. Lee interrupted. "Excuse me, please. We have covered all this. Mr. Gregory is not in the picture. We must agree on another solution."

"I don't know of any," Moon said. "Not a clue." "Mr. Lee thinks we can sail across," Osa said. "Sail across? Across the Sulu Sea?" "The South China Sea," Mr. Lee said, Moon didn't want to think about that. Across the South China Sea lay Vietnam. And Cambodia. And Pol Pot's terrible teenage warriors beating people to death. He'd think about that later. Not for a minute or two. Now he had a headache and his stomach felt queasy.

"How did you get here?" he asked Rice.

Rice produced a self-deprecatory expression and nodded toward Mr. Tung. "I got a little confused out there. Got turned around. This gentleman had sent out some of his friends looking for me, and they found me."

Mr. Tung was smiling. "He had gotten down almost to the beach. My boys found him and then we sent a boat."

Mr. Lee wanted to stick to the point. "I think it would take perhaps three days. No more than four."

"To where?" Moon asked.

"To the mouth of the Mekong and then up to Ricky's repair hangars."

"Sailing on what?"

"The Glory of the Sea," the Sea," Mr. Lee said. "A twomaster. A schooner." Mr. Lee said. "A twomaster. A schooner."

"A sailboat?" Moon's headache was right there behind his forehead, just over the eyes, pounding away. Surely they didn't intend to try to cross the Pacific Ocean in a sailboat. And this still was the Pacific, wasn't it? No matter what they called it.

"Two masts," Mr. Lee said. "But also diesel power."

"Oh," Moon said.

"Yes," Mr. Tung said. "It is docked here now to get the diesel running better."

"It won't work? It's broken down?"

"Oh, yes. It works," Mr. Tung said. "But not so very good. Not so very fast." He made a slow putt-putt-putting putt-putt-putting sound with his lips. sound with his lips.

In his drinking days Moon had become an authority on headaches. He was thinking that if he had a double shot of bourbon with two aspirins dissolved in it, his headache would go away. But he would never, ever drink again.

Mr. Lee was staring at him, waiting.

"When will this Glory of the Sea Glory of the Sea have its diesel fixed? Do you know?" have its diesel fixed? Do you know?"

Mr. Lee looked at Mr. Tung. Mr. Tung shrugged. "In Puerto Princesa things sometimes go slowly," he said. "Once we had a man here who fixed such things very well. But he moved his shop over to Leyte, where there is more business."

Moon looked at Osa. She must have told them he was a mechanic, told them about what he did in the army, about J.D's pickup engine awaiting his return in Durance, Colorado. Cold, clean, safe, restful Durance, Colorado.

"I believe you were a mechanic in your military career," Mr. Lee said. "Somewhat like your brother, but working on the engines of tanks and big vehicles."

Moon nodded. But not really like his brother. Moon was the grease monkey. Ricky was the boss. "But this will be a marine diesel. Probably much bigger. Much different." Which was probably baloney. A diesel was a diesel, much alike and all knuckle-busters to work on.

"Do you think you could make it run well again?" Mr. Lee asked.

"I don't know what's wrong with it."

"Captain Teele will be able to tell you," Mr. Lee said. "He is waiting upstairs."

Upstairs, for the first time in quite a while, Moon found himself the second largest man in the room. Forced to guess, Moon would have named Teele a Samoan pro football lineman. Certainly not the captain of a schooner named Glory of the Sea. the Sea. He was dressed in a well-worn pinstriped business suit that had probably fit him well enough when he'd bought it but now bulged where he had added muscle. His hair was long and streaked with gray, and his dark face was marred by scarring and weathered by too many years of strong sun and salty winds. He was dressed in a well-worn pinstriped business suit that had probably fit him well enough when he'd bought it but now bulged where he had added muscle. His hair was long and streaked with gray, and his dark face was marred by scarring and weathered by too many years of strong sun and salty winds.

He bowed to Osa and smiled. To Moon and George Rice he offered a large square hand and said something in a language that was new to Moon. By the sound of it, the statement seemed to end with a question.

"He wishes you well," Mr. Lee said, "and he asks if you can fix his engine so it will run better."

"Tell him I need to know what is wrong with it," Moon said. And thereby began one of those three-sided translated conversations that left Captain Teele looking doubtful and Moon wondering if Teele had even the vaguest notion of what caused ignition inside a diesel engine.

"Tell him I have to go see it," Moon said.

"Ah," Mr. Lee said. "Then I think you believe you can fix this problem?"

"Who knows?" Moon said. But as a matter of fact, Moon did think he could fix it. From the captain's admittedly hazy descriptions, it had the sound of a fuel-injection problem. In the glossary of things that can go wrong with engines that depend on pressure-induced heat to ignite vapors, those were the problems Moon preferred.

"We will go to the ship then," Mr. Lee said. "But we will wait awhile first. We will give the police time to go to bed."

Osa, Rice, and Moon waited in the room under the floor. Captain Teele and Lum Lee had bowed them out with smiles and good wishes, and they had climbed back down the stairway, with Mr. Tung lighting their way with a carbide lamp. He left it behind for them.

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 I think it's because think it's because I 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. 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 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 pa.s.sengers 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. A.M. When he blinked, it became 1:08. 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 pa.s.sed under the bow of a barge that smelled of turpentine and dead fish. Then the white shape of the Glory Glory of of the Sea the Sea was just ahead. 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 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. 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," "Alors," Mr. Suhuannaphum said. "Kaput." 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. A.M. and Mr. Suhuannaphum was looking at him anxiously, awaiting instructions. 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, h.e.l.l," Moon said. "Nothing to stop us now, I guess. Here we go to meet the boogeymen."

And with that, Moon Mathias leaned over the rail and became thoroughly sick.

SAIGON, South Vietnam, April 26 (Havas)- Some of the many signs of panic and desperation in South Vietnam: Saigon drugstores are sold out of sleeping pills and other medications useful for suicides.

An American economic aid worker is offered $10,000 to marry the pregnant wife of a Vietnamese co-worker so she can qualify for escape.

Deserting ARVN paratroopers seize a transport plane, force the pa.s.sengers off and fly away.

IT WAS EMBARRa.s.sING. He remembered that part of it clearly enough. But much of the rest was either hazy or mixed with the confusing dreams that high fever provokes.

He recalled sitting on the deck after the heaving of his stomach finally wrenched to a stop. He recalled trembling with a chill, and the voice of Mr. Tung saying something in his oddly accented English about this seasickness, this mal de mer as Mr. Tung called it, being unusually premature, and laughing at his joke. And then he remembered the angry voice of Mr. Lee, speaking in a language that might have been Tagalog or Chinese or almost anything but English.

They took him belowdecks then, Captain Teele helping him down a narrow ladder. He'd sprawled on a bunk. And there was Osa van Winjgaarden leaning over him, asking what he thought was the matter, asking about pain, about what might be causing this, and he'd said something like it must have been something he'd eaten, and she had said, "I hope so."

She'd stood over him, he remembered that clearly, frowning at him, holding the back of her hand against his forehead, taking his wrist and checking his pulse, looking worried.

"You are practicing medicine without a license," Moon had said. The fever was back, and Osa's hand felt cold on his skin. "If I have to throw up anymore, I'll call my lawyer and have him file a malpractice-"

But he didn't finish. Didn't feel like trying to be funny. Felt, in fact, like closing his eyes and leaving all this behind. And so he had.