“How do we get there?”
“The headman has a motorboat … he can do it.”
We went to see the headman, and he said he was sorry. He had a motorboat but only three tins of gas, the real old Standard Oil tins, and he wasn't going to use it up for nonsense.
“When does the next boat stop here?” I asked.
“Oh, maybe in two weeks.”
“We want to go. We've been away a long time. We'll pay double.”
“What good is money? It can't replace the gas.”
Mike rubbed his red face and smiled. “Look, you want an autographed picture of Pinza, of South Pacific? Well, my buddy here, he's a member of the Screen Writers Guild. So is Dore Schary for whom Pinza works at Metro. You get the picture?”
“So?”
“You get us to that ship. And we send you a personal picture, signed by Pinza, saying: To my friend, headman of Monox Four, with love and admiration, Ezio Pinza,—or however he signs it.”
“Well?”
“And with the tin cans you can fix the roof. It's not neat to eat off a wet table.”
That did it. We got to the steamer just as she was getting ready to pull out and we waved to the headman and his daughter and promised to send her a year's supply of the Book of The Month Club.
We stood at the rail, the hot wind drying us off, and as the motorboat went spanking off across the sea, Mike shook his head.
“I think I'm resigning from the romantics club. too. Nothing was right on that island. I've made a dozen South Sea pictures, and I know the real McCoy. That wasn't it.”
I left Mike at the rail, still talking, and went below to figure out on the map how far we were from home. There was a long bit of equator still to go, but I was happy to remember that a Straight line is the shortest distance….
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