Copyright 1994(c)

                    KENT'S PLACE -- ON WHEELS
 
    "Murphy, hand me the 3/8ths socket set." 
    A tiny man, short even by Chinese standards, promptly handed
Ballard a hammer. "No, Murph! The socket set!" Ballard gestured 
towards the workbench next to the massive, brand new Peterbuilt 
semi-tractor parked in his barn. 
        The Pete was a trucker's dream, a titanic, blood-red 
machine with every imaginable accessory. The huge Cumminns diesel
engine (the largest available) was topped off by the most powerful
Allison turbocharger on the market. The cab was spacious, even 
considering the twin shift levers coming out of the center of the
floor. The seats were heavily padded leather. The dashboard panel
looked like the control station of the Starship Enterprise, a 
bewildering array of gages, digital readouts, dials, lights, 
switches, and buttons. Even the roof console was dotted with 
controls and knobs. Coiled microphone cables drooped from both 
sides of the roof console. The roomy sleeper cab just behind the
driver and passenger seats was appointed with a built-in color TV,
a refrigerator, and sunken lighting hooked to a dimmer switch. On
the rear wall was a fold-down table holding a pivoting keyboard.
There was a leather curtain that could be snapped in place to allow
privacy between the sleeper cab and the driver's cab. The ceiling
of the sleeper was mirrored. 
    The undercarriage of the big Pete was an oily, leaking tangle
of half-finished hydraulic lines, cables, and mysterious 
modifications. Parts of the turbo were scattered about on the
floor, gaskets were hanging from the tie rods, nuts and bolts were
piled in a Folger's Coffee can. The work space was littered with
a score of cigarette butts, empty soda and beer cans, and a stack
of girlie magazines, now pressed into service as oily tool holders.
    "Fer cryin' out loud, Murphy! You have the linguistic learning
capability of a mud turtle." Ballard's quiet assistant, unable to
speak English, fired off a blast of angry-sounding Chinese. He
pulled an ancient-looking meat cleaver out from 
underneath his quilted Chairman Mao jacket and looked furiously 
down at the reclined Ballard. 
    "Whoa, there, Confucius! No offense meant. Look, I'll get it
myself..." Ballard slowly rolled out from under the mighty 
Peterbuilt on his creeper cart, stood, and gingerly reached for the
socket set. The so-called `Murphy' eyed him suspiciously the whole
time, cleaver at the ready. 
    "Okay, look. THIS is a hammer. HAM-MER." 
    "MAH-HUH." 
    "No, HAM-MER." 
    "HAM-MA." 
    "Close enough. Now, this is a 3/8ths socket set. It has a 
ratcheting wrench, a variety of sockets that will fit that wrench
(Ballard held up a few, then placed them back in the case), and a
good set, like this one, has a breaker bar, T-handle, and a couple
of extensions. Okay?" 
    A sullen look from a dark Oriental face was his only answer.
    "Look, Murph, I'm doin' my best. I never claimed to be an 
English teacher. But if we hit the road in this thing, pulling the
load that I *think* we're going to be pulling, we're gonna need 
these modifications sooner or later. Now, put up your cleaver and
let's go through this again." Ballard eased the cleaver back 
towards Murphy's jacket. 
    Murphy glowered at him for a moment, then pointed to the small
grey case. "Soak-Seh?"  His finger moved as he spoke. "Soaks? 
Weench? Ton-shons? Knee-andle? Bake-birr?" 
    "You're doing fine, Murphy." Ballard beamed, "I couldn't pick
up your language that fast. We'll get this thing whipped into shape
yet." 
   "Murphy" replied by smiling widely and handing Ballard the 
hammer again. Ballard forced a smile on his face and reached in a
toolbox. He produced a bottle of scotch and took a few generous 
swigs. The Chinese poured himself a green and acrid-smelling tea
from a thermos jug and they toasted. 
   (Ballard thought to himself...okay, so I've got a driver. He's
probably smarter than I am. Former Red Chinese Air Force 
attack-bomber pilot. Knows navigation. Fluent in four languages 
[except English] and he seems to know all this electronic crap 
better than I do--and yet I don't think he could change a tire.)
    Murphy left The People's Republic after the Tiennamen Square 
massacre. He drew pictures, made gestures, and was bright enough
to con his way this far into America after ditching his Chicom 
bomber off the coast of Oregon. Ballard hoped to pass him off as
a half-mad Chinese cook from San Francisco. That suited Murphy just
fine. All he wanted to do was avoid the Chinese agents in the 
United States that were sure to be looking for him. 
    "Well," Ballard pushed a grimy cap back on his forehead, "if
we can get the new transmission and the extra drive shafts fitted
in under her, she ought to be the only semi in the world that can
do eighty miles an hour through three feet of snow. That'll come
in handy if we ever hit the Rockies." 
    Murphy nodded cheerfully, not understanding a word. 
    "And it'll give us great off-road capability, too. This thing
should behave like a cross between a mountain goat and an 
over-grown jeep. We can boom right through forests, fields, and 
swamps. She'll wade water up to forty inches deep. Murph, we can
take on any terrain that we come across," Ballard said proudly. 
    Murphy detected some note of emotion in Ballard's voice and 
applauded and whistled. He poured another green tea and downed it
in one ceremonial gulp. 
    "Ahhh, Murphy...." Ballard's voice turned wistful. "I wish I
could talk to you. We've got some fun times ahead of us, you and
me. Risky, sure, but fun. You'll be the perfect traveling partner
for me. You're on the lam, too, what with the Feds and the Chinese
Secret Service both looking for you. You'll eat anything that winds
up on your plate, you don't talk me to death, and I don't think you
even drink. That's why I decided you'd be the driver. I figure if
you can herd a bomber around, you can drive a semi." 
    Ballard reached for the bottle of Staggering Highlander again.
"We're going to be pulling...a special load. We're rigging a 
traveling bar, gambling joint, and...ahh...well...whorehouse inside
a big sixty-five-foot trailer. Part of if will be on two levels.
We'll disguise it periodically as a moving van, or maybe an auto
parts truck, or even a potato and carrot hauler." 
    "I use'ta have a bar here in Indy. It was a big-time place, 
once upon a time. Seems like a hundred years ago..." Ballard took
another pull from the bottle, letting the fire warm his memory. 
"Damnedest women you ever saw. The crowd was rowdy and half-mad,
mostly writers and similar ilk. Had a moose head that was legendary
in twenty states. Damn..." Ballard looked at the floor for a 
moment, thinking of Big Sally, Red Linda, The Upstairs, and his 
beloved auburn-haired Venus of a bartender, Miss Brassy McSpreadem.
He gave a long sigh, then drained the bottle. It was tossed 
expertly across the barn into a barrel, crashing into dozens of 
others. 
    "Enough of that crap. Never look back. Something might be 
gaining on you, right Murph?" He slapped the small Chinese man on
the back. Murphy's meat cleaver suddenly grew out of his hand and
appeared under Ballard's throat. "YEOW! Sorry, Murph! I guess you
don't like to be back-slapped, huh? Must be a cultural thing. Can
I put my hands down now?" 
    Murphy lowered the cleaver a fraction of an inch, but gave 
Ballard the worst cursing that he'd ever heard, even if it was in
Chinese. Murphy then whirled quickly, buried the cleaver two inches
deep into the wooden workbench, and grabbed a sheet of paper. He
began to sketch, which was his primary form of communication. The
small man drew an outline of the semi. Underneath it, he drew a 
cartoon-like person with large round eyes working with a set of 
sockets. Above, he drew a smaller man in the sleeper cab working
on the wiring for the fold-down keyboard. He put the pencil down, 
tapped his watch, and handed Ballard the socket set. Kent heard him
say something like, "Ting mot soun no ki! Mot ki! Otese binai ko
see quan mot!"  It meant, `Let's get back to work,' and Ballard
knew it. 
    Kent pulled his cap back down and rolled under the truck on the
creeper, the socket set balanced on his chest and muttering about
bossy Chinese people...damn foreign ones at that!

                       FIVE DAYS LATER 
    "I gotta hand it to you, Murph. I've never seen so much neat
electronic gear in one vehicle anytime in my life. You did good,
little buddy. Real good." By this time, Ballard had learned not to
congratulate the former Red Chinese by cuffing him on the shoulder,
as is the wont of many Americans, or even offering his hand to 
shake. Ballard made a small, curt, bow from the waist. Murphy 
beamed, a genuinely happy smile. He bowed in acknowledgement. 
    The semi-tractor was finished. Ballard had handled the nearly
impossible task of modifying a Peterbuilt into an eleven-hundred
horsepower, ten-wheel drive Godzilla. The power, drive trains, and
shift linkages had been his realm, and he had done well. 
    But even though the Big Pete was mechanically twenty years 
ahead of its time, Ballard believed the true magic was in the work
of his Chinese pal. No American road had ever seen a vehicle like
this. No road in any country had seen anything like this. The 
technology had existed for a long time. It was just that no one 
had ever wanted to--or had to--put it together like this before.
     Ballard pulled out the map and studied it, once again ticking
off the route for Murphy, who nodded, inscrutably. Ruby, thought
Ballard, was in for the surprise of her life.
                              -30-