“Da?” said the manager, wiping his hands on a grease black rag. “Pot sa to ajut?”

“Ja,” said O'Rourke, his demeanor suddenly selfassured and a bit arrogant. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Ah . . . vorbiti germana?”

“Nu,” said the man. Behind them a woman in several layers of jackets pumped gas into the first car in a line that stretched literally out of sight. Everyone was watching the exchange by the ComTourist pump.

“Scheiss,” said O'Rourke, obviously disgusted. He turned to Kate. “Er spricht kein Deutsch.” He turned back to the manager and raised his voice. “Ah . . . de benzind . . . ah . . . Face# plinul, va rog.”

Kate knew enough Romanian to catch the “Fill 'er up, please. “

The manager looked at her, then turned back to O'Rourke.

“Chitanta? Cupon pentru benzind?”

O'Rourke at first looked blank and then nodded and pulled an American twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket. The manager took it but did not look happy. Nor did he unlock the heavy padlock on the gas pump. He held up one greaseblack finger and said, “Please . . . you . . . to stay . . . here,” and went back into the tiny station.

“Uhoh,” said Kate.

O'Rourke said nothing. He got back on the bike, gunned the engine to life, and drove off slowly. Eyes watched from the cars in line as they headed back into town. “Dumb, dumb, dumb,” O'Rourke was saying to himself.

“Aren't we going the wrong way?” asked Kate.

“Yes.” He drove back to the main boulevard, swung right at a traffic circle, and accelerated out into the truck traffic heading southwest. A road sign said RISNOV 13 KM.

“Do we want to go to Risnov?” called Kate over the roar and rattle.

No.

“Do we have enough gas to get to Sighisoara?” No.

Kate asked no more questions. In the outskirts of Brasov another highway branched northwest and O'Rourke swung onto it. A kilometer marker said FAGARA5. O'Rourke pulled over and they studiedthe map. “If we'd kept going on the Sibiu/Sighisoara road, that fat toad could have sent the police right after us,” he said. “At least now they might look south before checking north. Damn.”

“Don't blame yourself,” said Kate. “We had to get gas.”

O'Rourke shook his head angrily. “Running out of gas is a way of life in this country. Dacias have little pumps built in under the hood so people can transfer a liter or two to someone who's broken down. Everyone carries liter jars in their trunks. I was an idiot.”

“No, you weren't,” said Kate. “You were just thinking in American terms. Run low on gas, stop at a gas station. So was 1. “

O'Rourke smoothed the map on the edge of her windscreen and pointed. “I think we can get there this way. See . . . stay on Highway One here until this village . . . here, Sercaia about fifteen klicks this side of Fagaras . . . and then take this smaller road up to Highway Thirteen, then straight to Sighisoara. “

Kate studied the thin red line between the two highways. “That road would be in poorer condition than the cow path we took over the mountains.”

“Yeah . . . and less traveled. But there aren't any high passes that way. Worth a try?”

“Do we have a choice?” said Kate.

“Not really.”

“Let's go for it,” she said, hearing an echo .of Lucian in the slang. “Maybe we'll be lucky and find another gas station. “

They were not lucky. The motorcycle ran out of gas about six miles north of ~Sercaia on the mud and gravel road that was a fat red artery on the map. There had been no traffic since they had left the main highway and very few houses except for one huge collective farm, but now they could see a single home a quarter of a mile or so ahead, set back only slightly from the road behind a fence laced with dried wisteria vines. Kate got out and walked while O'Rourke pushed the heavy bike and sidecar along the road for a distance.

“To heck with it,” he said at last, rocking the bike to get it through muddy ruts. “Let's hope they have a liter jar of benzind. “

An old woman stood outside the gate and watched them approach. “Buna dimineata!” said O'Rourke.

“Buna ziua,” the old woman replied. Kate noticed that she had said “good afternoon” rather than morning. She glanced at her watch. It was almost one P.m.

“Vorbili englezd? Germana? Franceza? Maghiar? Roman?” said O'Rourke, standing casually.

The old woman continued to stare, occasionally working her toothless gums in what might have been a smile.

“No matter,” he said, smiling boyishly. “Imi puteti spune, va rog, unde este a cea mat apropiabd stagie de benzind?”

The old woman blinked at him and raised empty hands. She appeared nervous.

“Simtem doar turild,” said O'Rourke reassuringly. “Not calatorim prin Transilvania . . .” He grinned and pointed to the motorcycle down the highway. “. . . 'de benzind.”

When the woman spoke, her voice was like old metal rasping on metal. “Eqti insetat?”

O'Rourke blinked and turned to Kate. “Are you thirsty?”

Kate did not have to think about it. “Yes,” she said. She smiled at the old woman. “Da! Mullumesc foarte mult!”

They followed her through the muddy compound and into the home.

The house was small, the porch where they sat much smaller, and the old woman's daughter or granddaughter who joined them was so tiny that she made Kate feel grossly oversize. The old woman stood in the doorway speaking in her raspy, rapidfire dialect while the daughter or granddaughter ran back and forth, fluffing pillows on the narrow divan for them, waving them to their seats, then rushing in and out of the room bringing glasses, a bottle of Scotch, cups, saucers, and a carafe of coffee.

The younger woman also spoke no German, French, English, Hungarian, or Gypsy dialect, so they all tried to communicate in Romanian, which led to much embarrassment and laughter, especially after the Scotch glasses were refilled. They held more than the diminutive coffee cups.

Through pidgin Romanian they ascertained that the old woman was named Ana, the younger one Marina, that they had no benzind here, on the farm, but that Marina's husband would be home soon and would be happy to give them two liters of petrol, which should be enough to get the motorcycle to Fagaras or Sighisoara or Brasov or wherever they wanted to go. Marina poured more coffee and then more Scotch. Ana stood in the door and beamed toothlessly.

Marina asked in slow, careful Romanian whether they were staying in Bucharest, how did they like Romania, were they hungry, what were farms like in America, had they seen the tourist sights yet, and would they like some chocolate? Without waiting for an answer she jumped up and ran into the other room. The radio, which had been playing softly, came on much louder; a moment later Marina returned with small chocolate biscuits that Kate guessed had been saved for a special occasion.

O'Rourke and Kate munched the biscuits, sipped the coffee, said “Este foarte bine” to compliment the food and drink, and asked again when Marina's husband might be getting home. Would it be long?

“Nu, nu,” said Marina, smiling and nodding. “Approximativ zece minute.”

O'Rourke smiled at her and said to Kate, “Can we wait ten minutes?”

Suddenly Kate did not want to. She rose, bowing and thanking the two women. Ana stood smiling and blinking in the doorway as Kate moved toward it.

They heard the helicopter first. O'Rourke grabbed her hand and they ran out into the small yard just as the red and white machine roared in over the leafless trees and barn. When it passed, another, smaller chopper, black, looking all bubble and skids, buzzed in over the farmhouse like a furious hornet.

Kate and O'Rourke looked once at Ana and Marina standing in the doorway, fingers to their mouths, and then the two Americans ran for the road.

Police cars and military vehicles blocked the road a hundred yards away in each direction. Men in black cradled automatic weapons as they encircled the farmhouse. Even from a distance, Kate could hear radios squawking and men shouting. She and O'Rourke skidded to a halt on the gravel road, looking wildly around.