ON APRIL 15, 1960 A PLANE CRASHED IN

THE UNTAMED AFRICAN JUNGLE

THE SURVIVOR—A YOUNG GIRL

Raised by fierce cats, Luana grows up

to be as savage as her jungle habitat.

And now she watches the winding

overgrown paths for hapless humans on safari . . .

Luana grew up in the mysterious African jungle—watched over and cared for by a panther, a lion and a chimp. She could hold her own tripping through the tree branches or even stalking animals. For fifteen years Luana led an idyllic life in her jungle habitat. Then suddenly she is drawn into the world of men—a world she does not understand. Heading into darkest Africa, a safari is set upon by the treacherous and deadly Wanderi tribesmen. When Luana rescues the party, she finds herself hopelessly enmeshed in the adventurer’s fortunes. She finds herself strangely drawn to Isabel Hardi, who is looking for her father—and dangerously attracted to George Barrett, who is searching for a city of gold . . .

Also by

ALAN DEAN FOSTER:

The Tar-Aiym Krang

Bloodhype

Icerigger

Available from Ballantine Books

Copyright © 1974 by Capital Productions, Inc.

All rights reserved under International and

Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

ISBN: 234-23793-5

First Printing: February, 1974

Printed in the United States of America

Cover art by Frank Frazetta

BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.

201 East 50th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

CONTENTS

Books

Title

Copyright

Dedication

LUANA

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

For Frank Frazetta

Engineer extraordinaire . . .

Chapter I

Hungry.

Uma was hungry.

Hunger was something that existed cool and separate, an entity complete and whole unto itself. There was neither need nor ability to define it. The pantheress thought with her belly and not with her brain. And the demands of that hunger were pressing ever stronger on her. There had been no game for two days now.

A glance toward the light showed a fat medallion of royal orange already sunk low in the sky. The light turned the earth to blood and made trees and flowers glow as if on fire. A dull earthworm became as brilliant as a coral snake in the sun’s glare, and gritty gray tree barks and branches shimmered carnelian.

Soon the daylight would be swallowed by the valley of the Great Rift and would drop steaming beyond the meandering waters of Lake Tanganyika.

Until then, though, would Uma hunt.

She was following a well-run trail towards the watering place near the river. Now the trail was cold, but she should find some sign near the water itself. It was a good place, and many animals came to drink in the late evening. Uma stepped and broke a twig. The sound was slight, a tiny cracking of dead wood. Nonetheless, she softly growled a pantheress curse. Such sloppy stalking would lead deservedly to slow starvation. She must take more care in the setting of paws, in the placement of weight.

Behind her, Chaugh whimpered uncertainly at his mother’s displeasure and she growled again to hush the cub. He was still clumsy, but that was due more to his inordinate size than to his cubhood, for he had already proven a promising stalker.

Once Chaugh had had sisters. Two fine, healthy shes, as startlingly big and sleek as himself. The memory was painful, and time had not yet succeeded in erasing the distant scar—only in blurring it.

Uma had been away hunting. A pair of desperate hyenas had discovered the rock-bound den. Less luck for them. Uma had returned and the spotted laughers had died with broken necks. But it was too late to save Chaugh’s sisters. Only Chaugh’s un-cubbish ferocity saved him for last, saved him at all.

Now, whenever Uma left the den on long hunting trips, she brought the cub along.

Sliver of night.

Obsidian carving.

Coal vein insides, oil-smoke solidified. Black.

Uma slipped silently through the undergrowth. The number of small bushes and reedy flowers increased. The jungle was thick here, so thick it gave the air an emerald hue, and the world was seen through glasses green. She glanced back. Chaugh was right behind her. He kept up well. Certainly his early brush with death had sharpened his instincts, made him ready and quick to learn.

Uma’s head turned and dipped back to the trail. Then she paused suddenly, nose low to the moist earth. Early evening dew only blurred the spore, without destroying it. And it was fresh. Raising her head, she sniffed, sampling the air which blew right to left across her nostrils. Yes, the scent was there, mixed with the smell of water.

Leaving the trail, she broke to the side and began to circle. Chaugh had to hurry to keep up, every branch and stick and rock seemingly located with the sole purpose to trip and block him.

Now the water-smell and other, muskier scent was strong. Head and body low, ears flat, she crept slowly, patiently to the edge of the forest. She saw a single large fern and moved into it, froze motionless behind the light green veil. Her position was ideal, with sun at her back and breeze in her face.

The watering place was just ahead. Where the river widened and slowed, a small shallow bay had formed on the near bank. To the right a small stream flowed into the bay, keeping scum and biting insects from the surface of one side. The bay itself was too shallow to let any but the smaller, harmless crocodiles sneak in unseen. Water reeds and cattails grew at its edges, but to the south the jungle was absent and a broad sandy bank gave running animals a clear path to the water.

Looking at Uma then, a man would have been hard pressed to see any change. The eyes did not move. The claws tensed only slightly on the damp ground. The ears did not flicker. Only the broad chest gave evidence of increasing tension and excitement, the silky black fur rising and falling more rapidly now.

At the edge of the watering place stood a single huge bull giraffe. The sentry head reconnoitered, taking quick nervous glances from side to side. The great neck swayed unnaturally, quivering. Clearly the big male was not well. It was taking much care before bending to the difficult task of taking a drink.

Normally Uma would not have considered the bull as legitimate prey. Once under way, the big ungulate could move faster than she, and a kick from one of those towering hind legs could shatter a big cat’s jaw. But on the other hand, the bull definitely seemed unwell, perhaps fatally ill, and if it decided to drink . . .

She forced herself not to panic charge. Instead she watched silently, finding anonymity in motionlessness. Chaugh moved up to lie silently alongside her. The cub tried to divide its attention between the swaying herbivore and its mother. He licked his lips. He’d already made kills of his own, but this strange yellow monster was something beyond his experience, well out of his killing range. So he was content merely to watch, and learn.

Once more the bull surveyed its surroundings. Impatience and anticipation vied for time in the limited space of Uma’s mind. If the wind should change now—no, not yet, not yet.

There! The pipe-metal forelegs began to spread, slowly, slowly, forming a tripodal support for the great neck. Then it dropped like a slow-motion crane and the bull began to lap at the cool fresh water.

Uma shifted a paw forward—and froze, her head jerking to the side. A young she-chimp sat there in the tree, watching, a single baby at her breast. Uma stared anxiously, desperately. One screech from the primate now and the cautious giraffe would bolt for sure.

The name of this chimpanzee was Wu. For whatever reason, she said nothing. Uma’s hunger far outweighed her curiosity.

The ebony projectile seemed to cross the short grass and then the sand without ever touching any surface. A single choking roar sent a flock of flying foxes exploding from a nearby bean tree like gray popcorn. The bull’s forelegs came up and together, too late. The great mottled neck rose, too late. The knobby head turned, too late.

Everything, too late.

Before that magnificent living tower could rise halfway up from the water a hundred kilos of black death struck it just behind the head. Four ivory scimitars sank deep into spotted flesh, and powerful leg muscles dug paired sets of claws into the spine. The great bull took two tottering steps towards a gallop before crashing like a felled redwood into the sandy shore.

Uma shifted her jaws and bit again, deeply. The second thrust was unneeded—the spine did not have to be severed; the neck could remain unbroken. The speed and suddenness of the attack had been enough, and the bull had died before it hit the ground, from shock.

Its head fell into the shallow water, and minnows commenced playing around the caverns of the skull. Panting contentedly, Uma walked down the path formed by the unmoving neck. Here was food enough for days—if she could keep it from the lions and leopards, the hyenas, the jackals and vultures and small carrion birds. And the crocodiles too, yes, for blood was already seeping from the gaping neck wounds into the pure water. But for now, at least, there was meat a-plenty. She and her cub could gorge themselves.

Other eyes had watched the seconds-long war, but Uma had nothing to fear from them. They surveyed the angular corpse intelligently and without envy. Wu had no use for the huge mass of meat.

She shifted her position on the branch and cuddled her child closer. Little Ohoh clung to the thick fur on his mother’s breast and leaned his eyes, to learn. The impressions they conveyed to his baby-mind were profound.

Uma selected a flank and began to tear leisurely at the carcass. After selecting the softest piece for Chaugh, a luxury permitted only because of the vast supply of food, she gave full attention to filling her own empty belly. Chaugh made amusing growling sounds, now half mew, half roar, as he went through preliminary motions of “killing” his own meat. Then he began to rip and tear at the fresh steak with as much enthusiasm as his mother.

Mother and cub were well into their meal when it happened.

Abruptly, a nervous buzzing filled the air. It was a totally alien, previously unencountered sound—a faint rasping at the sensitive ears of the panthers. Nervously, Uma looked up and around. There was nothing to be seen that might produce such a sound.

The odd buzzing grew louder. Uma growled at Chaugh. Despite his continuing hunger there was no thought of protest at that particular warning. He immediately left the bone he had been gnawing and shot off into the nearby jungle. Uma was nearly sated, but still reluctant to abandon her kill merely to a new sound. It grew louder, suddenly seemed to come from all around. She backed slowly off the carcass, snarling defiance.

Suddenly she saw it. It was a huge bird, the largest she had ever seen. It made strange sounds in its throat, and sun fire was coming from its beak.

And it was diving straight at her.

She whirled, and a few strides took her into the underbrush. By all reason she ought to have taken Chaugh and made for the safety of the distant den. Only a reluctance to abandon so fine a kill, especially one still untouched by scavengers, kept her by the watering place. She crouched nervously and held her ground. Nearby, Chaugh mewed puzzlement.

The bird of fire struck the distant lake once, wrapping itself in a sparkling curtain of sun-dappled water. It continued to charge towards Uma at terrific speed. At the last possible second she turned and ran, Chaugh close on her heels. In the branches above Wu clung tightly to Ohoh and made for the topmost limbs.

Then all was quiet. Somewhere a hornbill guffawed raucously. Already crickets essayed long-distance weather reports, and small furry things crunched leaves and worried for their own tiny lives. The night sounds were beginning.

They had no business going back. There was no need for such recklessness. But after so many days of hunger, Uma was not ready to go back to living on rats. She made a decision, turned, and started back the way they’d come. Chaugh followed cautiously at her heels, ready to run at the first warning growl.

The bird was there, all right. Now shaded to a rich red, sunlight washed its wings in molten copper. One of those wings was broken, bent and dangling unnaturally from the body proper. The great bird had slid all the way across the river, over the watering place, and into the first trees. Behind it the river ran somnolent as before, and the first fish of night were beginning to jump.

To Uma’s relief the bird had not touched the carcass of the bull. In fact, the monstrous flier seemed quite dead. Besides the badly broken wing, its beak no longer spouted sun fire and it was badly crushed in on itself. Now Uma’s curiosity came to the fore. She moved forward slowly, still ready to bolt into the bushes at the first hint of life. Truly, it was far larger than any bird she had ever seen.

She halted in mid-step.

The thing smelled not of the sweet soft odor of bird, but rather the powerful, heady, rarely encountered scent of man. Here indeed was time for caution!

Then there was a thump on the bird’s soaring back, and Uma looked up. Wu had landed there, swinging down from a drooping vine. She chittered curiously at the pantheress. Two days ago Uma’s sole interest in Wu would have been to regard her as a possible snack. But tonight she was stuffed on giraffe haunch and curious about everything. She ignored the chimp.

She moved closer to the head of the bird. Chaugh followed at her heels, now somewhat bored. Any danger was apparently past. His belly was fuller, and he was growing drowsy.

Wu put a hand on the skull of the bird and swung inside. A moment later Uma put both front paws on the edge of a crack in the skull and peered in. What they saw inside the head of the dead bird had no meaning for Wu or Uma.

Broken cases of books were scattered about. Flasks and beakers and other glassware, some still intact, most broken in place, spilled from soft packing containers. Other chemical research equipment lay clumped in odd piles about the cabin. The man smell was powerful and fresh in here.

Only the smell of death was stronger.

Two large man-things sat in the front of the skull, unmoving. One was a female man-thing, but only Wu guessed at that. To the left, silhouetted in the last light firing in through the broken eyes of the great bird, was a third man-thing. It sat quietly, perched on the edge of a metal ledge, and it did not seem to be dead.

Even so, Uma was puzzled. It was a man-thing, that was clear, but much smaller than the other two. Its color, like those of the two dead man-things, was different from the few man-things she had seen. It was a very light brown, though its long fur was as black as Uma’s own. Scraps of cloth-skin trailed from the small man-thing, and dark bruises showed about the body. There was little blood and what there was came from the other man-things.

From outward appearance, it was also a female.

“Coop-chi?” said Wu, and Uma snorted, startled at the sudden sound.

The man cub moved then. Its mouth went very round and it said, “Oh!” Then it performed a strange motion, putting one paw to its mouth and hissing at them.

“Shussh . . . be very quiet. Mummy and Daddy are asleep.” Then the man cub’s eyes rolled up and it fell to the floor. It made little noise, for it wasn’t much bigger than Chaugh.

A slight tensing of muscles brought Uma effortlessly into the cabin. Wu, very bold now, did not leave. Below, on the cooling sand, Chaugh waited and mewed impatiently. Uma could only sniff uncertainly at the man cub, but Wu went directly to it, prodded and tapped curiously here and there. Clearly the man cub was not dead. Both Uma and Wu knew this immediately.

Wu put a powerful arm around the cub’s waist and started to pull. That was when Uma growled warningly. She shook her great head and blinked, dazed at her own actions. Distant events were confusing themselves with present ones. Wu paused and looked up. Clear simian brown met unfathomable panther black in locked exchange. A unique, freak spark jumped between them.

The female chimpanzee had lost a second infant to a marauding black eagle. And Uma also remembered. When her other cubs had been killed she’d left that den forever, never to return. It had been better for Chaugh. Perhaps it would be better for this cub also. She growled again, but approvingly this time, and turned.

With the man cub under one arm, Wu moved into the forest. Uma paced alongside and a very curious Chaugh brought up the rear, sniffing occasionally at the strange long fur that trailed from the man cub.

At first, the man cub proved impossible. Despite Uma and Wu’s best efforts, it would only sit in one place and make strange mewing sounds and wet its face. This attitude changed slowly. When it finally began to eat the bananas and nuts and other fruits that Wu had gathered from the forest, Uma shared in the chimp’s pleasure. And then there was that first, hesitant day when it tried the meat that Uma always brought and prepared for it.

They were forced to move slowly with the new cub—Uma guarding the man cub while Wu gathered food from the jungle, Wu taking her turn on watch when hunger forced Uma and Chaugh to hunt. There was no conscious sense of partnership between the two, only an unwavering feeling of rightness, mixed with satisfaction neither could express.

Eventually the man cub was able to keep up with Wu and Ohoh in the trees, and with Uma on the ground. She grew stronger and larger. With each day, each month, Wu and Uma grew more certain than ever the cub was female. In a surprisingly short time she was able to gather her own fruits and berries, and even help Uma and Chaugh on the hunt.

One day they found a sick lion cub. It had crawled into the cover of the jungle edge from a peninsula of veldt. Possibly its mother had been killed, or its pride simply abandoned it. Neither Wu nor Uma wished to have anything to do with it. Instead it was the man cub, now called Luana, who insisted on adopting and caring for the shivering orphan. She scolded Wu and Uma for their lack of concern, a shocking process neither female had yet grown used to. But if the man cub wanted to trouble herself with the sickly kitten, neither mother would object. She was now quite capable of hunting for two.

In the natural course of time Uma grew old and less steady in herself until one day, on the hunt, she fell afoul of a stampeding water buffalo and was killed. Chaugh, grown now to enormous proportions, elected to stay with his childhood playmates.

Then came the day when circling for food brought them back to a spot that seemed somehow familiar. The great dead bird was still there, turning red now not from the fickle sun, but with rust and metal rot. Wu tried to keep her back, but there was no keeping back the distant memories that impelled Luana forward. The old chimp could only watch silently.

Luana entered the cabin half hopefully, half fearfully. She found nothing, as Wu could have told her. The books were still there, though. The precocious Luana had been able to read. Printed shapes on paper still had meaning, and the pictures helped. Despite Wu’s nervous denial, there was knowledge to be gained here.

For a long time then they lived near the watering place. But not in the dead bird itself, for at night Luana could not abide it. Besides, Chaugh pointed out gruffly, their presence so close to the watering place would frighten away good game. The panther was contemptuous of Luana’s visits to the dead bird, but held his tongue. The hunting here was excellent, and they found an abandoned den nearby in a giant’s jackstraw tumble of dead trees. If man-sister wanted to waste her time thus, he would not object.

Jukakhan, the young lion, was less tolerant. He had no memories of the strangely cold, incredibly hard bird-thing. Despite man-sister’s assurances, he could not be compelled to enter it. Old Wu, still fearful, scolded Luana continually, and then scolded her for ignoring the scolding. Ohoh, now nearly grown, watched curiously at first. Later, he found the bird-thing a delightful plaything to explore.

One day Luana showed them a thing she had made. It was long and thin, part irontree heart and part bird-thing, with tough liana mating the two. It looked a lot like the two long claws she had fashioned from the skin of the bird, only much bigger.

“What is that?” muttered Jukakhan. “Man-sister?”

“It’s called a ‘spear,’ ” she rumbled back. “I saw a picture of it in one of the books and thought I could make one, too.”

“A spear?” the lion growled, rolling its back in the clean sand. “What does it do? What is it good for?”

“It’s like a long claw, like the little ones I made before, only it’s used differently. The pictures show how.”

“Bah!” replied Jukakhan. “What good is a single claw?” He flexed, showing a great many indeed. “ ’Tis better to have several, I think.”

He rolled over onto his feet and sprang playfully. Luana quickly reversed the long claw so that the wooden end faced up and the tip of sharpened bird-skin dug into the ground. Jukakhan hit the wood chest first. It bent slightly but the heavy irontree stalk did not break. The lion’s eyes bugged and all the breath went out of him with a whoosh. He landed heavily but managed to keep his feet. On a branch high above, Ohoh and Wu nearly fell off the branch with laughter. Chaugh, who knew man-sister’s abilities a little better, merely growled knowingly.

Jukakhan coughed, snarled. The sound would have chilled the blood of a normal man, but Luana could read the lion’s eyes.

“I still keep my opinion—but I modify it, too.”

“As well you’d better,” Luana grinned. “If I’d used the other end you’d now have a hole in you large enough for a fanged one to pass through.”

“True enough,” agreed Chaugh.

“All right, brother,” Jukakhan replied playfully, cuffing the panther on the side of his head. “I have confessed my error; let me be, now.”

“Yes, let it be, you two great corpulent shouting idiots!” chittered Ohoh. He bounced back and forth on his branch above while Wu watched tolerantly. Taunting the big cats was the young chimp’s greatest pleasure at times.

“And you, chatterbox,” Jukakhan called, “mind your manners or one day I shall set sentiment aside and have you for breakfast.”

Ohoh ripped off a large brown nut and threw it. It bounced off Chaugh’s flank and the panther started.

“You and what five others, blowhard?”

Luana giggled, a high, musical tinkling like water running onto metal plates. Her brothers were pleased. It was an odd sound and one they had tried to copy, without success. Nor could they properly analyze how it affected them. Nonetheless, they were pleased.

Luana continued to grow. When her too small rags finally succumbed to the subtle onslaught of weather and dry rot, she made small bindings for parts of her body from animal skin. She still foraged in the trees with Ohoh and Wu for fruits and edible leaves, a pastime which Jukakhan and Chaugh found unbearably insulting. They could not understand how, now that she was a fine hunter, she could continue to eat weeds and roots. Luana continued to eat vegetable matter from force of habit, which was just as well for her. A diet of pure meat and fish would not have been good.

Her brothers’ protests and arguings would vanish when she took up the metal claws and went with them to the hunting places. Working together, the three of them rarely failed to bring down a fine wildebeest or impala or wart-hog. Then a good hunt would be followed by a better meal.

Nor would any other predators ever dispute their kill. Luana was a strange, threatening figure to most, and Jukakhan and Chaugh were true giants of their kind. The three roamed at will, crossing territories with impunity. Somehow Luana would convince a territory master that they meant no challenge, and so they passed where others would have been called to fight to the death. Even the Great Pride took no exception when the three crossed its section of veldt and forest, the females merely snarling irritably and keeping a closer eye on their cubs. Not a few eyed the towering Jukakhan with something quite other than animosity.

Wu had continued to age. A day came when the old chimpanzee was startled by a harmless tree-lizard. She jumped quickly for a nearby branch, but age and decaying strength betrayed her and she crashed to the forest floor far below. All mourned, but only Ohoh disappeared.

They searched for him all along the Rift Valley, through new mountains where Luana found a strange shiny thing, and among the tallest trees of the thickest jungle. Luana had begun to fear that he had, made indifferent by misery, fallen prey to some other unknown predator.

The three of them were dividing the first haunch of a fresh-killed buck antelope when Ohoh finally reappeared.

“Where have you been, big mouth?” Jukakhan rumbled. The big cat was unable to show emotion but his growl was far from threatening.

Ohoh didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he settled himself in the crotch of a tree, peeled a banana with careful deliberation, and threw the peel at Chaugh.

“Out killing elephants, oh slayers of sparrows!”

That was the time both Chaugh and Jukakhan were especially sad they could not laugh.

One day Luana and Ohoh were sitting on the broad low limb of an mzizi tree, dividing the morning’s gathering of nuts. Both big cats had been out prowling for small game and now Jukakhan returned. A single breathtaking leap and he was up in the branches with them.

Luana put her arms around the sinewy neck, squeezed hard, and licked the lion’s ear. He squirmed and snarled, “Not now, man-sister. This is important.” He looked around then.

“Where is Chaugh?”

“It had better be important, to bring brother from hunting.” She stood on the branch, cupped her hands, and let out a deep-throated roar.

Minutes later the panther appeared and joined them in the tree.

“What is it then, brother?” the panther asked irritably.

“I was over by the rocky place, at the nearer river,” he murmured. “River-rat spore is strong there and I’d hoped to catch one out of his hole . . .”

“I hope I did not break my own stalk to hear about the failures of your own,” Chaugh interrupted.

“Patience, brother,” admonished the lion. “I caught man-smell, then. It was deeper in the forest, so I went to look. And it was true. There were many men.”

“What of that?” replied Luana, cracking a thick nut with her rock. “We have seen men in the forest before, and they have seen us.”

“That is true enough,” agreed Jukakhan. “But this was different. These men carry many strange things with them I did not recognize. And there was one whose skin—whose skin was as yours once was, man-sister. As yours still hints at. I thought you would want to see. It is curious strange.”

Luana pondered. Thoughts twisted like thornbush through her mind. Long left-alone memories began to trickle back, mixing with remembered pictures in the books. These recollections rushed in on her mind like a rising tide, filling in crevices and canyons and wetting her interest.

“I would not do this, man-sister,” Ohoh put in. The chimp could be brave until confronted with the need to actually make decisions or commit himself to something.

Luana glanced down at him and cuffed him gently on the arm.

“What harm could it do? Come, let us have a look-see at this strange man.”

Chapter II

The machete described a silvery arc, and vines and creepers parted, making perhaps tiny cellulose screams. Barrett wiped his forearm across his forehead to sweep clean the beaded sweat and found time for a slight grin.

He’d once run safari for a number of inexperienced explorers from another jungle, New York. There was one good-looking young fellow who obviously saw himself as another Stanley, Sir Henry. Barrett only saw him as Stanley, Laurel.

Of course, this young trailblazer was not content to relax and let Barrett and his men do the dirty work. Oh, no. He had to participate. He had his own machete, too, clean and shiny new.

Actually, he’d done rather well with the big knife. Until in a tired, sweaty moment he’d gone to wipe the perspiration from his brow and instead made a neat five-centimeter-long gash just over his eyebrows. Moral: never wipe sweat, scratch yourself, or swat bugs with the hand holding a machete.

Barrett turned, shouted, “Njoo, njoo!” to his men. Moving through the gap he shifted his machete to the other hand. There was a faint trail present, but it was clogged with overgrowth and protruding limbs ready to take a man’s pack off his back—or an eye from his head. He moved steadily forward. It was slow, back-breaking work.

Barrett’s arms and back, however, were reinforced and strengthened by a powerful dream. No creeper, no tough liana, no stubborn green-brown vine can resist the cutting power of a knife pushed by the promise of great sums of money.

Any dream that would motivate a man like George Barrett to challenge jungle like this had to be prosaic. Because George Barrett was no saint. Certainly he didn’t have the face of a saint.

It was rather like East Africa itself, smooth except for occasional sharp peaks and one great rift—watershed here, a dark place on the map there. Oh, he wasn’t pretty, but he was neat. His height was slightly above normal, the body powerful but not bulky. There were men who looked stronger, yet few were. Barrett possessed an inner strength that was far more impressive than the size of one’s biceps. To survive the places he went, this strength was vital. Africa did not fight clean.

Part of this inner strength came from the dream. The dream had its origin and its history to the south.

For two hundred years the Empire of Monomotapa had traded gold, silver, ivory, and precious stones to the Arabs who came down the coast from Medina and Cairo and Aden and great Khartoum. Later, this lucrative trade was taken over by the Portuguese. They pleaded and demanded, begged and threatened—yet no white man ever saw the mines of the Monomotapa emperors. They did not make the mistake of other primitive peoples, but instead kept their sources of wealth well hidden.

Then, in 1834, the Rozwi Bantu, who had ruled the Empire since the end of the seventeenth century, were overthrown and destroyed by barbarian Zulu from the south. Yet when the great cities of the Empire, Zimbabwe and the others, were finally excavated and explored, no sign remained to indicate that the wealth of kings had once passed through their mysterious stone walls.

What then became of the great treasure of Zimboë, which was to the Portuguese what fabled Cibola was to the Spanish conquistadores?

The historic Bantu migrations out of the Congo had run southward, paralleling the Great Rift. The Rozwi themselves had come from the region of Lake Tanganyika. Here, and only recently, had evidence been unearthed that hinted at a small reverse migration. According to the theory, small groups of the ruling Bantu had retreated along historic routes, moving ever deeper into the jungle.

To what end? To escape the fierce Zulu, no doubt. But also, some hypothesized, to try and re-establish the Empire from a hidden jungle base. Zimboë then might better be compared to the Inca’s last fortress city of Machu Picchu, not imaginary Cibola.

Alas, the theory remained only that, and one not taken seriously by older, less romantic but more realistic anthropologists. Besides, what would a small, retreating band of one-time Empire-rulers re-establish such a city with?

George Barrett thought he knew.

That was why, after running polite, civilized safaris for dilettante scientists and for fat, ego-crazed industrialists, he would pull his shillings out of the bank in Nairobi, form an embarrassingly small expedition, and vanish for a couple of months in the virgin jungles of the Rift Valley.

Even his best friend, Murin the Breeded, would have a laugh at Barrett’s expense. He was so called because he apparently had the blood of every race of man flowing through his body. And that of other species as well, said some—though never to his face, as where matters of blood were concerned, they preferred to retain their own.

But Murin was at least sympathetic, and his scoffing was more good-natured than the other’s.

“Look, George, old chap. You’re as fine a guide as there is in East Africa. Hell, you’re the only man I know who can get along with both the Portuguese and the Zambians! Now if you’d only put a few of your shillings in the bank and keep them there instead of blowing them twice a year on these crazy hunts of yours into the back of nowhere, why, you’d be able to retire in a few years. Buy yourself a big house in Nairobi . . .”

“I don’t want a big house in Nairobi.”

“Get a decent car instead of that filthy old land rover, something befitting your abilities . . .”

“I don’t want a ‘nice car,’ and that ‘filthy old land rover’ gets me where I want to go.”

“. . . settle down with a few live-in maids . . .”

“I don’t need any live-in . . .” and Barrett would smile and grin at his friend, and they would both laugh and order Zombies from the little bar in Sandy’s, the only bar in Africa where you could get a drink mixed by a bonafide, honest-to-rattle witch doctor.

Barrett hit a vine and stumbled, shattered the daydream with a curse. The curse must have been lucky as well as potent, or the poisoned dart would have hit him in the eye instead of digging into the tree behind. He crouched and whirled at the sound of bone digging into tree. There was no need to look. He ripped the rifle off his back. From the back of the troop a man screamed.

“Form a circle, damnit! Get behind your packs!”

A second man screamed and fell, clutching at the tiny prick in his neck. Barrett threw himself behind a food container, a wooden crate wrapped in tough leather. Frantic gunshots began to answer the small, deadly darts. But half his men were down already, and they couldn’t even see the enemy. A distant shape, there. A tree limb moved where there was no limb.

Barrett squeezed off a shot and was rewarded by a crackling of leaves and twigs where something heavy crashed through them.

A shrill ululation erupted around them, an alto screech that cut off hope as securely as their retreat had been. Muzak for the party of the Mad March Hare.

“Christ . . . oh, Christ!” Barrett searched every tree, every bush for the slightest hint of movement. But there was only the horrible, high-pitched screaming. And darts.

Someone howled behind him. “Fasisi . . . we die!” One of his men bolted from behind his pack, throwing away his revolver and dashing back down the trail they’d cleared in the forest. Barrett looked desperately over his shoulder, staying low. Something whicked into the leather near his hairline.

“Stop, you idiot! Acha! You can’t . . .!”

The man gurgled distantly, the sound coming reluctantly from his throat. He staggered another few steps and crumpled face down into the dark earth. His body was feathered with darts.

The Wanderi were a half-legendary forest folk. Little was known about them except that they were implacably hostile to outsiders. Nor did they seem to make racial distinctions. Trespassers were all of one color.

Contact with the Wanderi had been attempted only once. During the Mau-Mau rebellions following the Second World War, the ruling British discovered that there were several sections of jungle where the Mau-Mau themselves feared to go. Expeditions were sent out to attempt an alliance with what was obviously a powerful potential ally. The results were consistent. Either such expeditions found nothing . . . or else they never came back.

That was the first and last attempt anyone had made to contact the Wanderi.

Barrett fought with a holster seemingly intent on frustrating his every move. Eventually he wrestled the pistol out and gave it to an unarmed bearer. He also battled the bindings on another crate until he’d loosened the big gun. Sizing up their chances he decided he’d trade them and both rifles for a hundred-meter start in the forest.

Another man slumped. Barrett swerved and fired in one motion and was rewarded by the sight of a painted figure crashing through delicate ferns from behind a tree that was surprisingly close. His men continued to fire around him. He sure hoped they were hitting something. He fired again, and another, closer figure fell earthward, his blowgun snapping under him. The devils didn’t even scream when they died.

“Goddamnit!” he bellowed in Swahili. “We come in peace!”

Either that was the signal the watchers were waiting for, or else they particularly abhorred clichés, because a second terrible howling burst from the trees. The witch-men forsook their blowguns for knives and spears and war clubs and came charging out of the trees.

Everything that followed took place without thought. There was no time allowed for such civilized luxuries. Barrett fired as fast as he could pull the trigger. Witch-men fell silently all about him, while the living continued to yell like the dead.

His own men fought as best they could. One threw himself at the feet of a charging warrior, pleading for mercy. The gesture was born of despair and doomed to failure. The Wanderi split the man’s skull with a war club. Barrett was too busy to be sick.

He backed himself towards a big Kooba tree, forsaking the crates and the circle of death they’d become. The big gun he dragged with him.

Sheer numbers of fallen comrades seemed to have no effect on the witch-men. You’d have thought those he’d slain were merely resting comfortably, for all the fear it struck into the hearts of cousins and brothers.

All right then, he’d try something a little more overwhelming.

He dropped the scope rifle and picked up the double-barreled Blands-Axite Express. He’d won it off a wealthy Englishman in a card game of monstrous proportions five years ago at the Safari Club. The Englishman had been a good executive and a lousy poker player.

They didn’t make guns like this any more. There were no ballistics experts among the witch-men, so it must have been the gun’s sheer size that held them back. The .577 Express was wasted on anything smaller than a charging rhino.

One witch-man, less cautious or more ambitious than his brothers, raised his spear and charged Barrett. What the shell did to him cannot be adequately described in human terms. Perhaps best to say simply that the howling warrior was abruptly returned to his elements. Fragments from the shell continued past and wounded two others following behind him. The Wanderi might fight as berserkers, but they were still human. The shock of the carnage produced by the Express stopped any blind charge.

Barrett stood alone, his back to the tree. A spear had grazed his right shoulder and he was bleeding slightly. He eyed the crate containing the rest of the shells for both guns. He’d never reach it, much less have time to open it.

“Well, come on!” he bawled. “What are you waiting for? Free ticket to Hell goes to the first lucky man to step forward!”

Clearly the Wanderi were having second thoughts. The steaming remnants of the one man who’d tried to take Barrett were sufficient to stem any taste for glory. They had him completely surrounded now, but the tree was thick enough so that one could get at him from behind. Barrett tried to dig himself deeper into the wood, pressing in between a pair of warped roots.

One warrior would step forward and shake his spear or club threateningly, then another. Always their gaze returned to the smear of red on the jungle floor that had once been part of their brethren. None feared a natural death; but to have one’s body shattered such . . .

On all sides spears were lowered, and blowguns started to come up slowly, slowly.

Barrett jerked the muzzle from side to side. Wherever it focused the deadly hollow tubes were lowered. He couldn’t keep this up indefinitely, though he’d sure as hell try!

He turned right to impress one warrior who seemed particularly aggressive, and a bee stung his right shoulder. Liquid fire ran down his arm, danced a farandole on his nerves. A second bit like acid.

Blowguns rose all around the circle. As he ripped the darts out, his left leg started to crumple. The Express went off, shattering two witch-men and felling a small tree. Heat waves that rose not from the earth rippled his vision. He tried to raise the empty gun but there was no strength in his arm and his shoulder felt like soft sand. Delirium spotted his mind and he started to see and hear things.

The first was an unearthly soprano snarl, half human, half beast, the likes of which he’d never heard before. Then came an illusion, of the witch-men drawing back from him and looking around nervously.

Next, deeper, thunderous growls, like the cough of a missing dynamo. Two blurred great shapes exploded from the trees and ripped into the suddenly terrified Wanderi. A lion, it looked like, and a coal-black panther, each a giant of its kind.

One swipe of a great claw. A man’s throat disappeared. Huge jaws came together, a skull powdered like plaster. And all of it feverish death dreams, impossible. The dying dreams of wish-fulfillment. No cats grew that big.

In the middle raged a third shape, taller than any of the witch-men, clad in shards of leopard skin. It had hair and eyes as black as the panther’s coat, skin the shade of the lion’s. And its shape . . . its shape . . .

There seemed to be a knife in each hand, and whenever they moved and caught the sun, a witch-man died. The impossible sight blurred further and he slid slowly down the tree, breaking loose tiny scraps of bark, crumpling at its roots.

A witch-man was standing over him. His war club rose a thousand meters into the air, paused for eons outlined by blue sky. Abruptly the point of a spear rushed towards Barrett, protruding from the man’s solar plexus. His head went back, mouth gaped wide. He fell so close that his blood dampened the hunter’s sleeve. It was warm and comforting and stained the jungle khaki a deep, dark crimson.

Barrett rolled away from the corpse and was startled that he could still do so. He blinked and stared dimly upwards. By rights he ought to be dead, but the mischievous simian eyes that stared directly down into his belonged to no angel. Barrett would have smiled, except that the muscles in that part of his face were already paralyzed by the poison. The chimp seemed to be yelling at him and it was waving a knife taken from a fallen witch-man.

Maybe he was dead after all. If God truly had made man in his own image, what more logical than heaven should belong to the ape?

He shivered. Cold and darkness rolled over him and sounds came from great distances through thick cushions. The last thing he saw was a chrome king cobra that danced and twisted comically before his eyes. A giant spinning and flashing in a vale of mountains unknown.

Blackness.

Silence and quiet and peace.

In Death We Trust.

He sneezed.

Now, that was wrong. He grinned internally. Is there pneumonia after death? He tried to raise his head and felt he was succeeding. Then why wasn’t he bumping against his coffin? Another jerk and this time he was positive his head had gone up. He could tell from the cessation of pressure at its back. That was also wrong, very wrong.

Perhaps if he tried he could open his eyes.

Interesting. The inside of his coffin was equipped with fluorescent lighting. It also possessed a spirit. The spirit had a white coat, black face, thick glasses, and spoke with a definite Oxford accent.

“Hello, Barrett,” the spirit said. “I’m Dr. Mkristo. Paul Mkristo.” The spirit’s face split in a wide grin that was most unspiritlike. “Welcome back to the world of the living. And gesundheit.”

Barrett sat up sharply. He was in a hospital bed, in a hospital room, and also most probably in a hospital. Since the concept of hospitals in heaven was even more illogical than his being not dead, he concluded he was alive. Moving the sheets aside he started to swing his legs to the right. Then he hesitated and looked questioningly at Mkristo. The doctor was checking one of those clipboards that doctors always seem to be checking.

“Hey,” Barrett muttered. His mouth felt like an old wig.

“Hey yourself,” Mkristo replied.

“Well, I mean, aren’t you going to tell me to take it easy?”

“No, you’re fine,” the doctor informed him. He looked up. “You can leave anytime you want. No, wait, that’s not quite true.” He put down the clipboard and moved to sit on the side of the bed. A pack of cigarettes came out of a coat pocket.

“Smoke?”

“No thanks,” said Barrett. “Bad for your health.”

“That’s funny, coming from a man with so little regard for his own.” Mkristo lit up, puffed contentedly.

Barrett hesitated, spoke uncertainly. “You said I was all right. Then why can’t I leave? Where the devil am I, anyway?”

“Yes, I did say you are all right, and you are. You can’t leave yet because there’s a question or two I’d like to ask you. And you’re in Kenyatta Memorial Hospital. Oh, and before you think to ask, it’s Wednesday.”

Wednesday. Let’s see . . . Saturday, Sunday . . . Wednesday. “The third, then?”

Mkristo smiled. “The fourteenth.”

Barrett swallowed at that. “You mean I’ve been unconscious for two and a half weeks?”

“Coma’s more like it,” corrected Mkristo, puffing away happily. “Can’t do this unless I’m locked in with a patient. Then they don’t bother me. Administration would kill me. Yes, that’s about right. I had no idea if you’d ever come out of it. Then a few hours ago you started burbling like a hog, and the duty nurse called me.”

“And if I hadn’t come out of it today?”

“Then you might have next week. Or next year. Or gotten your gesundheit in the next world. I wonder if you realize how much more likely the latter was? Yours is only the third case of Wanderi ‘jiji’—that’s what we’ve named their poison—that any hospital has gotten its hands on in years. The other two,” he added cheerfully, “never did wake up.”

Barrett digested this carefully. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the drawer over there. Pressed and cleaned. Probably cleaner than they’ve been since they were bought, I daresay. I also took the liberty of having your shirt as well as your shoulder sewn up.”

“Thanks,” said Barrett appreciatively. He did feel fine. Grand, in fact! Yessir, it was time to be off for a vitally needed conference, vital. He experienced only momentary dizziness when he walked to the drawer, and he had to stop and readjust himself only once, when he opened the drawer and bent over it. Then he slipped off the smooth hospital gown and started to dress.

“I didn’t know they’d developed an antidote to the Wanderi poison.”

“Now that’s one of the interesting things,” Mkristo began, looking thoughtful. “You see, we haven’t.”

Barrett paused with his shorts halfway up his legs and looked over at the doctor.

“Hold on a minute. You say you’ve got no antidote. That stuff’s supposed to be one hundred percent fatal.”

“Experience proves it,” agreed the doctor. “Nor do I think, from your state and your reactions, that you are a freak immune, either.”

“Well then, what am I doing,” asked Barrett, “calmly putting my pants on and feeling great?”

“That’s a very good question,” confessed Mkristo, suddenly staring intently at Barrett. “Suppose you tell me?” Barrett continued to dress, more slowly now, his eyes searching elsewhere.

“I . . . I can’t. I don’t remember much, and none of it very well.” He paused while slipping the T-shirt over his head, down his arms, and then continued. “I was starting to go under, and then all of a sudden like they seemed to . . . no! No, wait a minute!” he said excitedly. “I do remember! There were two big cats. A panther—black, I’m sure—and a lion, a young male.” He smiled.

“Must have been a dream, though. They were big. Much too big.”

“Of course,” agreed Mkristo quietly.

Barrett started to thread his belt through the pant’s loops. “Oh, and there was a girl, I think. Or was it an ape?” He started filling his pockets. “I honestly don’t remember well at all. One minute there’s a girl, the next a chimp, and then a giant snake, a cobra.” He paused, looked confused, and then brightened. “No, the cobra was separate, and definite.”

“Cobra?”

“Yeah . . . a giant, silver cobra, ready to strike. In a mountain valley, at twilight.”

“That’s all very, very interesting,” Mkristo said appraisingly. “Very interesting. Now let me tell you something,

“Two weeks ago you appeared at a small village near Mpala. You had two rifles strapped to your back. A poultice of roots and leaves was bound around each of your shoulders, where you’d taken the spear and the darts.”

“Yeah, I know about those darts,” Barrett grinned.

“You should. You’ve got a pair of small scars on your right shoulder that aren’t going to disappear.” Barrett pushed his shirt aside to look while Mkristo continued.

“I’d say they’re cheap at the price. The natives who found you,” and the doctor’s expression displayed an unprofessional urge to kill, “managed to lose, shred, and otherwise do away with all of the poultice working on your wounds. I could cheerfully strangle every one of them. Now we’ll never find out what it was that undoubtedly saved your life.”

“Don’t expect me to tell you,” said Barrett, buttoning a sleeve. “I don’t remember anything about any poul—” His brow wrinkled. “Mpala. They found me near Mpala? Why that’s—”

Mkristo nodded solemnly. “Quite a ways from where you and your men were reported to have entered the wild zone. Like to know how you arrived at that village?”

Barrett just stared at him. How the hell had he gotten that far, in his condition?

“It seems that a local farmer was tending his field, right at the edge of the forest. It’s quite primitive there, as you doubtlessly know. He turned around and suddenly found himself standing less than a meter from the biggest lion he’d ever seen. As you might expect, the poor chap simply froze on the spot.

“Well, this lion turned away from him and went back to the edge of the forest, just into the trees. Then he came back, dragging a limp shape in his jaws. Guess what that limp shape was, Barrett?”

“Me,” he mused wonderingly. “Then it was real. Some of it, at least.”

The doctor continued. “The lion then disappeared into the jungle. About an hour later the poor farmer pulled himself together enough to run like blazes for the village. The people found you, got in touch with the police in Mpala, and you eventually wound up here.

“By the way, you’ve got another interesting souvenir.”

“Oh?” Barrett responded, resisting the urge to feel his body for bumps and ridges.

“Feel the back of your shirt collar.”

Barrett did so. There were holes there, and lumps of loose thread. This being uninstructive, he looked questioningly at the doctor, who smiled back.

“I didn’t have them sewn up. Holes from the lion’s teeth . . . though why he didn’t put them in your neck I swear I can’t imagine.”

“Neither can I, doc.” Shrugging, he went to the door.

Mkristo jumped off the bed and looked expectantly at him. His voice was higher now, less professional, a little more human.

“Barrett, for heaven’s sake, by reason you’re a dead man! What the hell happened back there? What’s the meaning of all this nonsense about giant panthers and apes and silver cobras? And a girl? You and your case are driving half the staff here out of their minds, not to mention the Tanzanian police!”

Barrett gave him a lopsided smile. “That’s all there is to it, Mkristo. Nonsense, just nonsense.” He shrugged.

“Look, I’m alive. I learned early never to look a gift hippo in the mouth. You might get swallowed. You explain it.” He started down the hall. Mkristo paused in the doorway and looked after him.

“Where are you going?”

“To put together my business, see some friends, and then to Sandy’s—if you know where that is!”

“I know, I know!” shouted Mkristo. The distance between them was growing.

“But do me a favor as patient to physician, huh?” His voice rose to a shout. “You just left one coma . . . don’t be in such a hurry to fall into another one!”

Chapter III

Sandy’s was not an establishment frequented by tourists, American or otherwise. The place was adjudged by local guides as inhospitable to that necessary but odd species of homo sapiens. Not that the clientele which descended upon Sandy’s was especially sapient.

Sandy’s lies in the poor business district of Nairobi, south of the city, among tiny shops run by local Indians and Chinese. Specifically, Sandy’s sits squashed between a tire-parts store and the modest warehouse of a less than reputable import-export firm. No one knew exactly what Cheong-Sun imported and exported. It was deemed impolite to inquire, unless on serious business. Some opted for gold and jewelry, others favored simple woolens and other textiles. A few suggested women, but not too loudly, and never when passing in front of the building.

The bar is marked by one large sign and four small ones. They give the structure its only hint of color and habitation. The large one nailed over the single entrance says simply, Sandy’s.

This is more cryptic than descriptive because no one knows who Sandy is. No one’s ever met him. Some say he’s a retired prospector who made a fortune in diamonds in the Transvaal. He built Sandy’s out of spite when another bar in Nairobi refused to serve him, for what reason is obscure. Others claim the story is pure termite juice, that there never was a Sandy, that the story is whispered around by manager Sam Jumapili solely to bring in the curious.

Oh, the other four signs? They say “Beer” in English, Swahili, Arabic, and French.

Sandy’s interior was dominated by a long bar of solid teak mounted on mahogany and split bamboo. In front was a shoal of tiny open tables, nearly always full. In the rear Sandy’s broke into alcoves like a giant chambered nautilis. Behind those bamboo walls a great deal of merchandise legal, not so legal, and perverse exchanged hands, found buyers, was consigned to destinations distant and strange.

Officially, Government House was the principal point of commercial operations in the Republic of Kenya. In reality, it was the back end of Sandy’s.

Jumapili was happy to see him. After all, Barrett enjoyed a good reputation. He was even known to pay his bill now and then without having to be beaten up once. Such a startling aberration made him a customer to be valued.

“Meester Barrett, Meester Barrett, so good to see you again! Everyone has heard of your unfortunate journey and your miraculous recovery! I myself am overwhelmed to find you looking so fit and—”

“All right, awready! I don’t owe you that much. Got a booth?”

The fat Chinese-Kenyan slid closer along the bar.

“Not only do I have a booth for you, Meester Barrett, I have also a young lady.”

“That’s swell of you, Sam, and I appreciate the thought. But right now I’m afraid I can only afford the booth. Besides, I’m really not looking for a woman just now.”

“Ah, but Meester Barrett, that is it! She is looking for you!”

Barrett smiled, shook his head in despair. “Where did this errant flower escape from?”

“No, no, Meester Barrett, you got Sam all wrong. Honest injun, she come looking for you.”

“Come on Sam, cut it out. I just got out of the gut factory. She’s not one of your regulars?”

Jumapili shook his head . . . earnestly, it seemed to Barrett.

“Well, that’s a hopeful sign. Pretty?”

“A vision, Meester Barrett, a vision!”

“Yeah, but whose? Rich?”

Jumapili shrugged. “She seems to have money.”

“That means she’s overpaid you already,” nodded Barrett. “Married?”

“I saw no ring. Here, Barrett, why don’t you ask her yourself? She came to see you, not me.”

“Okay, Fu Manchu.” Barrett took a friendly swing at the manager, who ducked affably. Jumapili led him to a booth near the back rooms.

He pulled aside the curtain and the girl at the table looked up, startled. Dirty blond hair, blue eyes. Lips that belonged around more than the stub of a cigarette, and a more than competent if not spectacular body. Good boobs, okay hips, bad legs.

Barrett had once been told by a lady friend that he looked at a woman like a piece of meat. At this he replied that, first of all, he couldn’t see her mind and second, the most obvious thing you see when you look at a person is the person of the person, and lastly, he couldn’t think of anything more attractive or sensuous than a good steak, anyway. And if she wanted to regard him first as a piece of meat, that was okay by him.

Who’d argued that with him? Oh yeah, that had been Lily. When she made love while reciting Buddhist chants. Great kid, Lily, but a complete nut. She’d dumped him. Maybe he shouldn’t have ventured the opinion that Buddha probably pushed a sanitation cart behind the sacred cows in old India.

“Mr. George Barrett?” queried the girl. She had a nice voice, probably, but now she was trying to baby-talk him. Oh well.

“Mr. Barrett?” she repeated.

“Naw,” he replied, slipping smoothly into the other chair. He managed to kick her calf on the way in and she winced. “I’m President Kenyatta. I just like to travel this way incognito.”

She looked exasperated. “Are you or aren’t you Mr. George Barrett, the white hunter?”

“Are you buying?”

“Drinks?”

“I don’t mean cold cuts, lady.”

“Oh, I’d be happy to, if you . . .”

“Then I’m George Barrett, the white hunter. Or black hunter, or green, or yellow or pink or chartreuse. Personally, I prefer beige hunter. It’s kind of classy, and I think it’s sexier. Do you think it’s sexier?”

“I—” She glanced upwards. Jumapili was still standing by the curtain, grinning.

“Sam, one of Gunga’s Zombies.” He looked back at the girl. “And you, Mrs. . . .”

“Miss. Hard! Isabel Hardi.”

“Well, what do you drink, Miss Hardi? You do drink?” He looked at her expectantly.

“Pink Lady’s, usually.” Jumapili made a face that was unreadable. “Sometimes Screwdrivers. But I’ll have whatever you’re having!” she added quickly.

Barrett looked at her sharply, made an instant analysis. “Yeah. Okay Sam. One regular Zombie and one,” he glanced back at her, “half strength.” She looked rebellious but said nothing.

Sam bowed obsequiously and disappeared. Barrett turned to the girl and leaned back in his chair.

“You know,” he mused idly, “Gunga’s the only witch doctor bartender in Africa.” He picked at his nails—out of habit. Like everything else, they’d been scrubbed clean in the hospital. In fact, he hadn’t been this clean since he was six years old. It felt peculiar.

“Jumapili—Sam—likes to tell about the first time he asked Gunga if he could make a Zombie. Gunga said ‘sure, yes.’ Now first thing, he’d need a fresh corpse, then—”

The girl looked at him expectantly for a moment, then broke into unbabyish laughter. Barrett chuckled along with her.

“But ‘Zombie’ is a West Indian term, out of West Africa,” she finally gasped out.

“Yeah, I know, but it makes a good story. Besides,” he continued evenly, “it happens to be true.”

She stopped laughing and stared at him. “That’s a joke, isn’t it. Isn’t it?” He didn’t reply, only smiled questioningly at her.

Neither of them added anything consequential until the drinks arrived.

“To your health, Mr. Barrett.” He raised his own glass.

“Afya to you, Izzy.” He downed three straight swallows of the powerful brew. “Well, go on, drink up!”

She hesitated, then took the glass firmly in hand. Ignoring the skewered pineapple, she took a careful sip. After she finished choking and gasping, and seeing that Barrett only smiled back at her, she took another, defiantly. Much to her surprise, this one went down with no trouble.

Barrett would have been content to sit and let her buy him drinks all day, only his damnable curiosity finally got the better of him. It was not a particularly useful trait for a wilderness guide and hunter to have, but he seemed to be stuck with it. Anyhow, she was obviously uncertain as to how to begin. If he wanted information he’d have to get things rolling on his own.

“Well, Miss Hardi?”

“Please,” she replied, “I’d like you to call me Isabel.”

And darned if she didn’t bat her lashes at him. Barrett had only seen that in old movies. He was startled to see that it could happen in real life.

“All right,” he agreed, experimentally batting his own back at her, “and you can call me Mr. Barrett. Look, Izzy, what do you want with me, huh? Safari? Photos of native villages? Pictures of the quaint natives in their natural habitat? Hunt with gun or camera, rock hounding, plant collecting—what?”

By way of answer she fumbled with the insides of a fat purse. The result of this excavation was a thick paperback. She dumped it on the table. When he made no move in its direction she nudged it toward him.

“I’ve read your book, you see.”

Barrett took another slug of the corrosive elixer. It settled in his belly like boiling syrup.

“Sunuvagun! That means my audience has just doubled. I’m flattered.”

“Mr. Barrett,” she continued, refusing to be put off by his snide attitude, “your book is well written. It may never be a best seller, but there is a marvelous insight in there. A deep feeling for the people, and especially for the land, shines through the commercial chapters on flesh-pots and shopping bazaar bargains.”

“Oh, crap!” he shouted, slamming the glass down on the table. “I wrote the goddamn book to make some money, not to inspire adulation in slap-happy tourists or would-be literary critics! No, that’s unfair, and not true. I wrote it to try and make some money. So far I figure, with the time I put into it, and the effort—I’m good at sentences but lousy at paragraphs—I just about broke even.

“As for anything above that, I guess you haven’t talked to many people around here or you’d already know that I’m nuts. Screwy, loony, ready for the rock ranch. Even sensible nuts look for lost cities. Me, I’m after a lost hamlet.”

“I don’t think a magnificent delusion qualifies you for insanity, Mr. Barrett. You’re not as crazy as you’d like me to believe. Just a little misguided. But you’re not afraid of the deep jungle. That shows in your book. And you’re not afraid of the Wanderi. That shows in your book. I need all that.

“And there’s one other thing. You knew my father.”

Barrett put down his drink, looked at her differently. “Your father?” Places, names, recent history fell neatly into place and formed a picture.

“Hardi . . . Hardi . . . you’re John Hardi’s kid?”

“That’s right,” she confessed proudly. She couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice. Barrett shook his head in disbelief.

“My brilliant intuitive powers strike again—ten minutes too late to prevent my making an ass of myself. I can only repeat, John Hardi’s daughter, what do you want of me? This time I promise to listen. Cross my heart and hope to pry.” He did so.

Whammo, hand into purse again. This time it disgorged a map of central Africa. She spread it out on the table. One delicate finger descended in the wild, empty regions near Lake Tanganyika.

“You know this area?” Barrett leaned over the map, looked up at her and spoke softly for the first time.

“Izzy, nobody knows that area. The jungle grows so tough and thick there that . . . listen, if gravity were reversed, or turned on edge, you could still walk in that forest. I’ve probed at its fringes, yes, and I think I know it as well as any man who can read or write. Matter of fact, I was near that area just a few weeks go.” He smiled. “I had an accident.”

She looked excited. “Then the stories they told me were true! That’s terrific!”

“Yeah. I thought so at the time—up to a point.”

“But it is, it is! Don’t you see, George, my father’s plane went down somewhere in there over fifteen years ago. You know my father was a biochemist. It was believed at the time that he was working on some great discovery that would be of tremendous value to all mankind.”

“Sure, sure,” Barrett said placatingly. “The eternal eulogy for all scientists who disappear suddenly or mysteriously. They all go with their inspired legacy in their pocket.”

“It’s no joke, Mr. Barrett!” She huffed and angrily downed the last of her half-Zombie.

Well, he mused, the “George” didn’t last long, anyway.

“My father had all his important papers and equipment with him.”

“Of course, of course, I didn’t mean to be skeptical.” Which, of course, was exactly what he meant. He gulped down the rest of his own Zombie.

“There won’t be anything left of him now, if that’s what you’re thinking. The jungle is its own undertaker. It works slow and sloppy sometimes, but it’s efficient.”

She sat up straight—as straight as the Zombie would permit—and looked at him evenly.

“Mr. Barrett, I must find my father’s plane and try to salvage any of his work that might have survived. This is in addition,” and she looked down and away, “to any personal interest I may have in such a search.”

“Listen,” began Barrett sympathetically, “didn’t people hunt for your father when he crashed? Surely someone must have conducted a decent air search. The man was important.”

“Some tried,” she answered. “Several times. Nothing was ever found.”

Barrett looked down at his empty glass. “Well, that’s not surprising, I suppose.” He grunted. “Jungle would swallow up anything fast enough. Broken trees and bushes could cover it up. Or he might have gone down in a dirty lake, in the reeds.”

She all but threw herself across the table. “Then you’ll help me search for the plane?”

“No, I won’t help you search for the plane!” he shouted back. Now calm yourself, Georgie-Porgie, and be patient with this curvaceous cargo of ignorance.

“First of all, this hunk of jungle is the abode of a big primitive tribe called the Wanderi. But you know that from the book. The Wanderi have a charming little witch cult. This cult believes in many unusual things, one of which is that its members should have absolutely nothing to do with visitors and outsiders of any kind. The British found that out thirty years ago, the hard way.

“This belief is expressed in the form of the most antisocial behavior, Izzy. To back it up, they have ritual, prayer, and a really super dart poison that works on the nerves. It’s a fine persuader and it never fails.” He hesitated. “Well, almost never.

“Next, even assuming you could somehow make your way through their territory without encountering any of the delightful local folks, there are no superhighways, no roads, not even a goat path through that mess.” His hand swept across the map. “Not only is it jungle, much of it is mountain and swamp, swamp and mountain, alternating across the lines of longitude.

“There are big cats running around in there, Izzy, that haven’t been taught zoo politeness. They’ve been known to come to the edge of the forest and gnaw on an occasional farmer now and then. In the low lands—here—you’ll find pythons big enough to swallow you whole. The land’s full of these big fellows’ toxic little cousins . . . cobras, vipers and mambas in every color and potency imaginable.

“Frankly, I’m not sure I don’t prefer the snakes and big cats to the mosquitoes, tse-tse, and bloodsucking flies. Oh, and we mustn’t forget African warrior bees and Black Death spiders and all the other tiny treats that thrive in there.

“In short, Miss Hardi, it’s no place for you.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Barrett, surely in this day and age you’re not—”

“I didn’t say it was ‘no place for a woman,’ ” he interrupted painstakingly. “Christ, sometimes I think the twentieth century—” He sighed.

“It’s no place for you, you the human being. Poisoners and bloodsuckers and constrictors and disease make no distinctions as to sex. You might die a few seconds sooner, because you’re smaller, not because you’re female. It might surprise you to know that I’d much rather have you for company than another guy. I’d have plenty of guys with me. It’s just no place for an intelligent person.”

“But you’ve been there, or at least close to there.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, sitting back again, “but I said an intelligent person. We’ve already agreed that I’m operating with a loose bolt. Your obvious sanity is not open to debate. I’m not going.”

“Mr. Barrett,” she continued quietly, “if it is even remotely possible, my father’s work must be saved.”

“Sorry, I’m not going. How about another drink?”

“It’s for the good of all mankind.”

Barrett laughed at that one. She started to cry, then. He let her do that, speaking only to order another Zombie, and a second decapitated one for her. Eventually she tired and tried another approach.

“I’ll . . . I’ll be your friend,” she whispered, emphasizing the last word. Her hand moved under the table. He let it move for awhile, enjoying it, then said slowly, punctuating every word:

“I wouldn’t risk my neck in that green hell again for the best lay in the world.”

She sat back then and looked grim.

“If you’ll take me in there I’ll pay you $50,000 plus all expenses, and $50,000 more if we find the plane.”

Barrett spoke slowly, punctuating every word. “For $50,000, I’ll risk my neck in that green hell.” He paused. “Say, do you think you could keep on doing what you were doing a moment ago? You’re a bit unsure of yourself, but for a novice your touch is—”

The diluted Zombie arrived just in time for her to toss it in his face. He wiped it away with both hands and a sleeve, and blinked back at her. She rose calmly, tucking her blouse into the band of her skirt.

“I’m staying at the Royal East African, room 402. I’d like to leave as soon as possible. When you’ve completed arrangements with your outfitter, let me know. I’ll want to inspect the bill first. Good day.”

Jumapili appeared at the curtain just as she stalked out.

“Meester Barrett, sir!” he exclaimed, noticing the drenched condition of Barrett’s shirt, not to mention his damp face. “What happened?”

For once, Barrett was honestly contrite.

“I said an impolite thing, Sam, and the young lady gave me her drink.”

Inwardly, though, he was pleased. At least she’d shown some spirit. Some day she might find herself with a cobra a scant few meters away from her foot. That would be the time for spirit, not panic. Nor had she been afraid that her action might jeopardize Barrett’s decision. Clearly she now regarded him as a bought man.

Well, hell, she was right. He dabbed at the sticky liquid running down his front. Pity he couldn’t drink his shirt. If a man could wear his liquor, now—

The dark hulk in the booth next to his shifted his chair silently and leaned over his own drink. He was also pleased. How fortunate he’d kept a close track on the rich American lady! He let Barrett finish his drinking and leave first. Then he paid his own bill and departed quietly.

“The master’s on the porch,” the servant informed Kobenene. He followed the handsome maid around the veranda of the fine house. Albright was there, all right, seated at a desk on the back porch. He didn’t look up when the big hulk arrived. He knew his partner by his walk.

“Ah, Kobenene, sit down, sit down. I’ll be with you in just a moment. Some last work on this equation here—”

Kobenene lowered his great body into a wicker chair that bulged under him, and he smiled slightly. Equations. He knew exactly how much of a scientist Albright was. How little, rather. Perhaps the man had gone into the field because he looked the part.

Tall, thoroughly distinguished, full beard and Russian Cossack moustache. He had a deep, warm voice, eminently suitable for lecturing profoundly, and thick hairy brows that could draw together to convey a feeling of concern over matters of deepest cogitation.

Only one thing was missing. Albright had never had an original thought in his life. Oh, he was a competent enough technician, a professional in the lab. But the chances that he would ever contribute anything appreciable to the store of scientific knowledge were as improbable as African unification.

Kobenene waited a decent interval before deciding an interruption was in order. Certainly the circumstances warranted one.

“The girl has engaged a guide,” he said politely.

That halted any attempt at abstruse mathematical calculation. Albright put down the pencil and slipstick and turned.

“You’re joking, man. No one is idiot enough to try and enter that country.”

Kobenene shifted his bulk, and the chair creaked valiantly. “The man she had engaged has a reputation for being something of an idiot. In fact, it seems he’s been poking around the edges of Wanderi territory for years. There are many bets down as to exactly when he won’t come back. The fellow has more action riding on him than a day’s races at the track. Some of the bettors nearly collected a couple of weeks ago.”

“What? Oh.” Albright looked thoughtful. “You don’t mean that Barrow—no, Barrett—fellow they say survived the witch-man poison?”

Kobenene nodded. The servant girl arrived with a tray of refreshments. He gave her a friendly whack as she departed.

“What do you think?” Kobenene asked. Ordinarily he would not have bothered the chemist with such problems, but Barrett was fairly well known. He had many friends who would ask awkward questions if he were suddenly to drop out of sight in Nairobi. Worse still, those with shillings riding on him would get curious, indeed. They’d be harder to keep off than his friends. So the problem clearly called for more than a simple blow to the head.

Albright didn’t look especially worried. The detachment of the scientific mind, the big man thought. Albright had that, if not the mind of a scientist. Clearly his partner was attuned now to lines of higher thought, was considering the difficulty carefully and with precision.

“Could we buy him off?”

Kobenene considered. “I would say yes, absolutely. Except for two things. One, he’s already accepted the job. If we’d gotten to him first—” He shrugged indifferently. “A fruitless line of thought. As said, he has already agreed to the expedition.”

“You don’t mean such scum have a sense of honor?” laughed Albright.

“Honor has been rumored to rear its head now and then,” Kobenene replied, not wishing to be drawn into an argument with his partner. Mungu, how he hated the man! And despite their surface friendliness, he was quite sure Albright harbored no deep affection for him, either. Their relationship was founded on something more lasting, more binding than the frail hold of friendship—greed. They needed each other.

“The other reason?” Albright prompted.

“The other is the fact that this Barrett seems determined to break into Wanderi country. Nobody’s exactly sure why. He’s very closed mouth about it. The only one he’s ever confided in is another guide, Murin the Breeded, and no,” he said, forestalling Albright’s next question, “he wouldn’t talk either. Some say it’s for material for a book. He wrote one, you know. The best line is that he’s after some kind of buried treasure, which is even more ridiculous.

“The point to all this being that Miss Hardi is, in effect, paying him to search the very area that he’s been spending his own money to explore. From Barrett’s point of view, it’s rather an ideal situation.”

“That leaves us no choice, then,” Albright concluded. “Somehow we must manage to join this little expedition, so that when the time comes we will be in a position to abort it. I’d give a great deal for a look at Dr. Hardi’s papers, myself. But I’ve no desire to die in Wanderi country.”

“Nor I,” Kobenene agreed. The big man shuddered. “It is said by some that the Wanderi are not human.”

Albright shook his head wonderingly. “Superstitions and myths seem to hang on in primitive cultures despite superficial evidences of advancing civilization. I don’t believe in your Wanderi devils, but I have a healthy respect for their dart poisons. Rest assured that things will be resolved long before we enter their domain. Now then, who is doing the hiring of personnel for this journey?”

“This chap Murin, Barrett’s friend, seems to be going along with him on this one. I expect he’ll be the one.” Kobenene grinned. “Barrett will spend most of his preparation time spending Miss Hardi’s money in every bar in the city.”

“Um. I know this Murin by reputation, I think. Yes,” said Albright, “I’ll have no difficulty joining on. But you, my obese friend, will be a problem. Any inquiries at all into your background, and this Murin wouldn’t hire you for free. Ah, I have it! You can come along as my valet.” He grinned wolfishly.

Kobenene sipped his drink. The idea of him waiting on Albright hand and foot was so amusingly far-fetched it didn’t even upset him.

“How droll,” he muttered. “You are so sure of your own ability to be accepted?”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it,” said Albright, “no doubt of it. I have an ‘in,’ you know.”

Kobenene left him soon after. Neither was particularly fond of the other’s company. When business was finished, small talk vanished. Besides, there were affairs of commerce to be settled before they left.

The office near the airport was small but neatly furnished. Kobenene gave his name to the harried receptionist and was promptly admitted to the inner sanctum. The middle-aged woman behind the desk wore her hair in corn-rows, the latest fashion from America. Otherwise she was quite plain, looking exactly like what she was—a busy, small-time executive with too many problems and not enough time to cope with them.

All of this was true except the small-time. Also, people would see her in rather a different light if they knew her early history, which included at least half a dozen murders and police warrants in as many countries. Her personal wealth was considerable, though she chose not to flaunt it. That was one reason why she hadn’t been caught yet. Inordinate displays of unsubstantiated funds are like waving a red flag in front of any gendarme.

“Hello, Mama Wembe.”

“Kobe!” She looked up from her work. “How are you, lad?”

“Well, thanks,” he said, taking a chair. “How’s business?”

“Better than ever, better than ever! But our people in Naples and Antwerp are impatient. They can’t get enough of the stuff. Here they’re waving millions of francs and lire and other fine paper under my eyes and I can sell them only promises.”

“Albright does his best, Mama. We could branch out, but the risks—”

“I know, lad. Quite right. Our exclusive control is worth more than any momentary profits. In time, everything will come.”

“It will have to, Mama. Albright’s leaving on an expedition into Wanderi country this next week. I’ve got to go with him.”

Mama Wembe nodded. “I know about the situation with the Hardi woman. Why not just—” She made a slashing motion across her throat.

“Too messy. She’s not just another tourist. It would provoke embarrassing questions. Albright and I are agreed. The jungle is the place for that sort of thing.”

The woman sighed and rubbed at her skinny legs under the table. “You’re both right, of course. Things were much simpler when I was a girl. I suppose that means no more supplies until you return?”

Kobenene nodded. “You’ll have a new batch delivered tonight, though.”

“I suppose it’ll have to do. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Cantos, though.”

“Tell him to work on the aide at the American consulate in San Marino. I think we can make a breakthrough there.”

“I’ll do that.” She stood and reached forward, patting him gently on the cheek. “You take care of yourself now, lad, and stay away from those witch-men. Scare the hell out of you, they do!”

Kobenene dutifully kissed the harridan’s hand and departed, feeling more insecure about the trip than before. Anything that could frighten Wembe like that couldn’t be human, Albright’s slurs aside.

As for Albright, the chemist had damn well better be right about his chances of joining the explorers, or else caution would give way to action. Mama Wembe’s messy tactics would have to be employed.

Isabel was saddle-soaping her field boots, making the leather strong and supple. If Barrett’s descriptions of the country to be crossed were to be half believed, they’d crumble from her feet anyway. But no one was going to say she wasn’t prepared!

There was a chiming.

“Who is it?”

“Norman Albright. Isabel, do let me in.”

Albright? Norm—then the name made connections.

“Mr. Albright—” Isabel swung the door wide. The chemist gave a little Prussian bow and entered. “I’m surprised, I admit it! I didn’t know you were in Nairobi.”

Albright glanced appreciatively around the luxurious suite. Clearly little Isabel hadn’t been left destitute by her father’s passing.

“Yes, I’ve lived here since,” he looked determinedly downcast, “the accident. I’ve managed to make a modest living.” He looked up at her and smiled. “You’ve certainly grown, Isabel. I used to bounce you on my knee.”

A situation, he reflected as he studied her while she bent to extract a package of cigarettes from her purse, which could be attractively altered today.

“I understand,” he continued, “that you are forming an expedition to search for your father’s plane?”

“How did you know?”

He smiled again. “Word gets around. To be direct, I should like to go along.”

“Why Norman,” she exclaimed, surprised. “You’re more than welcome, naturally—but why?”

He took a deep breath. “Possibly you don’t know, Isabel, but after your father died I tried to carry on his work as best I could.” He shook his head. “It was impossible. I’m not half the chemist your father was and we both knew it. I tried desperately to persuade him before he took off on that last trip to leave his notes and workbooks with me.

“You know how old men can be sometimes, adamant in the face of all logic. He absolutely refused to let them out of his sight. He was paranoid about his work, Isabel—no disrespect intended. In many ways it was admirable. But if those workbooks could be recovered—”

“Yes, certainly,” she agreed excitedly. “Those were my thoughts exactly. You may even look at them yourself, Norman before I turn them over to the National Institute in Washington.”

That’s just what I was afraid you’d say, my dear, he mused darkly. Now there was no hope for it.

“Excellent, my dear Isabel, excellent! I understand you have already engaged an expedition guide, a gentleman by the name of—”

“Barrett,” she informed him. “George Barrett. He wrote a book that mentions the Wanderi and also father. He impressed me as being competent in the extreme, if rather crude sometimes personally.” She looked away.

“And he’s a bit mercenary, but I suppose that’s only understandable.”

“Of course, now that I am here, you could dispense with this uncouth person,” Albright began. “I have my own outfitter and—”

“No. No, I’ve given my word and a down payment to Mr. Barrett. And after all he did try to talk me out of it, I’m not going to make an ass of myself by backing out on him now.”

Well, it had been worth a try, he reflected.

“Very well. I will supply my own basics, of course. Oh, and my valet, too. His name is Kobenene. Fine fellow, very handy.”

“Kobenene,” she echoed.

“Yes.” Albright smiled. “It means fat tortoise. When do we depart?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “Mr. Barrett gave me the impression that he could be ready quite soon. Next week some time, I believe he said.”

“All right.” Albright rose. “If you should need me for anything, dear Isabel, my name is in the directory. Rest assured I’ll stay in touch.”

Though not, he thought as he eyed her with interest, as in touch as I’d like to be. They walked towards the door. Well, if things developed properly that little detail might also be handled, so to speak. He’d already come to the conclusion that sweet little Isabel need not disappear right away. Once Mr. Barrett was disposed of, there would be ample time for forced dalliance. The jungle was very discreet.

Chapter IV

They would travel by land rover to Mwanzi, on the shore of Lake Victoria. From there the railroad could carry them all the way to Mpanda. Barrett’s easy camaraderie and solid reputation made him one of the privileged few who could travel with ease between Kenya and Tanzania. From Mpanda they would have to proceed on foot, and on their own.

Barrett’s first comment on seeing Albright and Kobenene at the outfitter’s station was predictable.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Izzy, but who the hell are those two bums?”

Albright was on his way towards them and saved Isabel the need of a reply.

“Permit me to introduce myself,” began Albright, in his finest professorial manner.

“Why not?” countered Barrett. “You’re going to do it anyway.”

“Uh, yes.” Albright was only briefly caught off stride. “And my associate. My valet, Kobenene.”

“He looks it,” admitted Barrett drily. Kobenene forced himself to smile.

“And I am Doctor Norman Albright.” He extended a hand. Barrett took it warily.

“Doctor of what?”

“Chemistry, dear boy, chemistry. I was for many years the great John Hardi’s closest friend and co-worker.”

“More’s the pity for him,” muttered Barrett, so low that no one could hear. He looked at Isabel, jerked his head at the two. “What do they want?”

“Norman tried to carry on my father’s work, Mr. Barrett. But he’s been stymied by the loss of all father’s old papers and records. He hopes to have a look at them when we find the plane.”

“You’re nothing if not positive, Izzy.” Barrett studied Albright, who looked blank. “You must want a look-see at those papers awful bad, Albright. You got any idea where we’re going?”

“Naturally, dear boy. It’s all in the interests of science,” he said unctuously, “which is best served by men with inquiring, far-ranging minds.”

“Yeah,” said Barrett. “How come your inquiring mind never led you to mount your own search for these desperately valuable notes? Oh, screw it! You can come, if Miss Hardi insists. But on two conditions.”

“Which are?”

“One,” said Barrett tightly, straining to help hoist a heavy case atop the roof of a land rover, “I’m the only captain on the ship. What I say goes. If I decide halfway to Zaire it’s time for you to go home, you turn around and go home. If I say bury your head in the mud, you get dirty. Understand?”

“Perfectly, dear boy, perfectly! Whatever you say,” Albright added brightly. “And the second condition?”

Barrett paused, one hand wrapped ’round the handle of another case.

“That you stop calling me ‘dear boy.’ Otherwise I’m gonna lose my lunch.”

“Surely, surely, de . . . Mr. Barrett. All easily done. We are in accord, then. Come, Kobenene, let us see to our own equipment.” They moved down along the motorized caravan.

“Hold it, Izzy,” said Barrett, putting out an arm to stop her as she turned to go. “How well do you know this guy?”

“Really, Mr. Barrett, your insinuations and suspicions strike me as being awfully misdirected. Norman Albright is a brilliant chemist and really did work with my father for many years.” She hesitated. “Frankly, we’ve been out of touch for some time. But he knew me as a little girl. I’m delighted to find him here in Nairobi and even more delighted that he’s coming with us.” She turned and stalked away.

And that ought to be that, Barrett told himself. Only it wasn’t. The supposed scientist kept nagging at him. He leaned out to yell at the third land rover in the line.

“Hey, Breeded!”

The swarthy East Indian appeared a moment later, scratching at his swirling beard. Sometimes he would serve as second in command on Barrett’s expeditions. On other occasions, depending on the discriminatory preferences of the client, Barrett would act as his. They had a healthy respect for each other’s abilities. This time it was Barrett’s show. Even so, Murin wouldn’t have considered going were it not for the same argument that had convinced Barrett—money.

Murin’s skin was burned dark brown, the product of a fiery Hindu mother and thirty-three years of living out under the naked East African sun. A short curly beard ran from ear to ear, blended there into close cropped steel wool hair. There was a gold ring in his right ear. He was on the short side, and slim. He was not picked on, however, since it was a rumored fact that his body contained neither bone nor muscle, but was composed instead of odd lengths of steel cable.

“George, my friend, we are just about ready, yes?”

“Yes,” Barrett concurred. He nodded towards the back of the caravan, where Albright and Kobenene were working at their luggage. “What do you know about those two?”

Murin looked in the indicated direction. “The Englishman, Albright, lives in a fine big house. He has good taste in women, bad taste in wine, and seems to know a good many people in the right places plus an equally large number in the wrong ones. Despite the money he is rumored to have, he lives modestly.”

“He really a chemist?”

“It appears so,” nodded Murin, “though what he chemists at, nobody knows. Whatever it is, it’s profitable.”

“And the big one—he’s no damn valet, for sure.”

“Ah, the fat tortoise! He carries himself like a chief and speaks like a man of education—when he wants to. No one knows what he does, either, except that he and the Englishman are often seen together. In public, he is a gentleman to the hilt. Some say he is a disbarred chief, but there is no proof of this.”

“And in private?”

Murin shrugged. “He likes to beat up young girls and, purely for variety, young boys. He is also rumored to have other, even less benign hobbies; but again, this cannot be confirmed. Not by me, anyhow.”

“Couple of real boy scouts,” mused Barrett. “Okay, I’ll keep an eye on them, and you keep an eye on them.”

They needed only a couple of days to cross the hundreds of kilometers between Nairobi and Mwapi. They left the land rovers there. They could have driven them further across the last stretch of veldt, but Barrett preferred to leave them with a friend in the town. He wanted to find them in one piece when he returned.

It would take ten days hard marching, fighting insects, snakes, and the occasional dyspeptic carnivore, to reach the fringes of Wanderi country.

After that, of course, things would begin to get difficult.

They reached the last village, Mwendo, without incident. The trouble a-brewing, however, was not easily seen. Albright and Kobenene had been busy among the bearers. It was but three days march from here to the first lands of the Wanderi, and their leader must be of the strongest, a man who would not falter in a crucial moment. After all, their very lives might be at stake. Not all of them bought these indirect slurs on Barrett’s competence—but enough did.

The village was an unimpressive collage of mud and straw huts, and the communal corral held few cattle. The local chief was a sickly old bird, and suspicious. Going to the west? No one goes west from here . . . unless he wants to die.

They’d barely had time to sample the man’s comforting optimism when Murin joined Barrett and Isabel. The Breeded knocked dust from his pants with the side of his wide-brimmed hat. He squinted at the sun, then knelt.

“Trouble, friend Barrett.”

Barrett took a swig from his canteen. “Go ’way and come back with some good news. I’ve got enough trouble getting anything useful out of this old coot.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, George, but this is serious real. The men say they’re not going to go another step further.”

Barrett considered. “Do tell. What prompted this pollyanna decision?”

“Too much thinking, probably,” suggested Murin. “They’ve had a lot of time to think, these last days, about where they’re going. They all know, George, that on your last expedition only you came back alive, and that was considered a miracle.”

“Damnit, I’ve been to this country eleven times in the last five years with expeditions, and that was the first one that ever had any serious trouble. Don’t they know that, too?”

“They know it, George,” said Murin placatingly. “However, it’s the last one that didn’t come back, and that’s the one they chose to consider. There seems to be a crisis of confidence in your capabilities.”

Barrett grunted. “What are they gonna do, walk back to Nairobi? They’re sure as hell not going in my land rovers, and they won’t get paid.”

“Apparently,” continued Murin softly, “their worry outweighs the personal loss they will take. But they don’t want to desert, only to have some proof of your courage and strength. Something to restore their damaged confidence.”

“Isn’t that sweet of them. What would they like me to do? Wrestle a croc? Take on a leopard with my bare hands? Trade spit with a spitting cobra?”

“It’s rather more serious than that, I’m afraid.” Murin didn’t smile. “They want a kill-fight.”

“Pigana ua, huh?” Barrett cracked his knuckles. “Okay, if that’s what it’ll take. Who do they want me to go against?”

“It seems Kobenene has volunteered.”

“Kobenene.” Barrett nodded. “Somehow that figures. All right. Can the chief supply a couple of scorps?”

Murin nodded, then put a friendly hand on Barrett’s shoulder as the other started to rise. He eyed a puzzled Isabel, spoke in Swahili.

“George, don’t you think it might be better to pass this? I know what this woman is paying you, but really, is pigana ua worth it just for money?”

“Bite your tongue, Breeded,” Barrett snapped. “It’s worth it especially for money! Besides, I’ve got more at stake here than just shillings.”

“Your crazy theories again, friend George?”

“Yep. Anyhow, a scorpion sting isn’t fatal all that often. I like the odds.”

He stood up, handed Murin the canteen.

“Are you sure?” asked Murin. “This Kobenene has much weight on you. It’s not all fat, either.”

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Barrett said as they I started towards the center of the corral. The cattle had been shunted aside and the dry open space would serve nicely. Delighted at the prospect of some real entertainment, the villagers would be gathering already. Laying bets, too, no doubt. Gambling was a universal human instinct.

Isabel Hardi had been quiet up to now. She’d been bursting to say something ever since she grasped the import behind Murin’s words, but had kept silent in accord with Barrett’s “one captain” orders. When it became apparent that it was far from a joke, she couldn’t restrain herself any further.

“Mr. Barrett—George—this is absolutely ridiculous!”

“Of course it is,” Barrett agreed. “It’s also absolutely necessary.”

He put on his best mock serious expression, glaring down at her, and spoke in the sepulchral tones of a Karloff, “Don’t you realize, Miss Hardi, that This Is Africa?”

She seemed genuinely upset, however. “Please don’t joke with me, Mr. Barrett. From what I gather, it’s not a joking matter.”

He halted, eyed her evenly. “No, you’re right, Izzy, it’s not. Okay, we’ll call it off, pack up, and go back to Nairobi. Is that what you want?”

She looked down at the dirt.

“Well . . . is it?”

“No.” He could barely catch her whisper.

“Beg pardon. I didn’t quite catch that.”

“No.” She screamed. “No, no, no!” and turned and ran towards the lean-to where they’d stored their cases and crates and bottles of water.

“That’s a fine woman,” said Murin as they resumed their walk towards the center of the now well-populated circle.

“Yeah,” agreed Barrett. “She’s got money, she’s got looks, and she’s got guts. Fact is, she’s only short one thing I can see.”

“Oh?”

“Common sense,” Barrett supplied.

They entered the circle and the locals made a passage for them. Kobenene was on the other side of the open space, waiting, waiting.

“Well fine,” admitted Murin, from slightly behind him. “That makes you two a perfect match.” Barrett had a reply ready but no time for it. He was sizing up his opponent.

Stripped to the waist, Kobenene’s bulk was even more impressive. And the Breeded was correct about the absence of fat. The man’s belly protruded comically, true, but it swept out and back in a single smooth curve, not in layers and rolls.

Barrett undid buttons, broke snaps and stripped off his own shirt. This was no place to be caught or cramped by a taut seam in the wrong place.

Two young boys finished pounding on a pair of wooden stakes and left the circle. Barrett slowly settled down on his stomach, his eyes never leaving Kobenene’s. He put out his right arm, settling the elbow firmly into the dirt. The big man did likewise. The old chief approached and tied their arms to respective stakes. Obviously enjoying the attention, he took his own good time about it.

Two small circlets of long thorns were brought out. One was placed next to each stake. Then the two boys reappeared, breathless, carrying two small baskets. The chief mumbled a few words, then another few, and another. It sounded like he could go on all day. Both Barrett and Kobenene admonished him to get on with it. It was damn hot in the sun, and neither Barrett nor the fat man was interested in oratory just now.

Carefully removing the top from the two baskets, the old chief dumped the contents of each into the pair of thorn circles.

The black scorpions the boys had rounded up were big ones. Momentarily dazed, they nonetheless began an angry search for a way out. The inward pointing intersecting thorns kept them pinned in their miniature arenas. With big double pincers and centimeter-long, tail-mounted hypodermics, they prodded and jabbed at the confining thorns. Neither was in a very good mood. It was safe to say that they would react to any fleshy intrusion of their territory with appropriately venomous speed. The chief backed away, stood.

“Enda!” he shouted. “Go!”

Kobenene threw all his weight into a first irresistible surge. Caught a split second late, Barrett’s hand went down, down, until the back of the palm hovered barely centimeters above that lethal curved sting. The scorpion moved into the shadow, danced and picked futilely at the barrier of thorn. The barb waved and swung like a Saracen’s scimitar.

The hand was forced down another centimeter, then stopped.

Slowly, infinitely slowly, Barrett forced Kobenene’s arm back up, up until they were perpendicular to the ground once again. They continued to stare into each other’s eyes.

An outsider observing them would have thought both men were relaxing in the morning sun. Their arms barely moved. Oh, a centimeter here, a centimeter there. Their expressions didn’t change. Neither gave outward sign that he was putting all of his strength and concentration into every second of the contest.

The sun sank lower in the sky following a brief ritual bath of cool water the two boys gave each man. Their arms did not waver while the refreshing liquid was carefully applied to their heads and backs. Occasionally some of the watching locals left to perform daily tasks and household jobs, only to return later. The bearers had lunch, sat and watched. So did Isabel, Murin, and Albright.

“How long can they keep it up?” she whispered, not knowing why she was whispering.

“Depends on the men,” the Breeded replied. “And how evenly matched they are, and how great their reserves, and their determination. I once watched a pigana ua go on for two days. The loser got stung and died. He made one fatal mistake.”

“What?” asked Isabel anxiously, fascinated by the spectacle despite herself.

Murin took out a cigarette, lit it casually. “He fell asleep.”

Nothing happened for an hour.

Two. Three.

Then, almost imperceptibly, Kobenene’s forearm began to dip, bending like a metal bar in a shaping press. It was a slow, gradual dip. Very slow. Not like earlier, when he’d caught Barrett off guard and unready. Both bodies wore a beaded coat of sweet, glistening. The sun flashed off Barrett’s back and the fat man’s forehead. A couple of the watchers murmured.

Slowly the hand continued to drop. Five minutes passed. Ten.

It was a few centimeters lower still. And in another five minutes, still lower. It dropped to within a thumb’s length of the scorpion on the other side. The ugly little arachnid seemed to dance impatiently in its cage of thorns, the deadly tail bobbing and weaving in the growing shadow.

Kobenene stopped it there, gritting his teeth and putting all his huge bulk into it. Other than tightening his slight grimace a little, Barrett showed no sign of the effort he was expending. He couldn’t press the big man any further, but neither would he allow the other another centimeter’s breathing room.

They lay like that, deadlocked. If Kobenene could raise his arm to the vertical again, now, he would gain a tremendous psychological advantage.

He could. But Barret allowed him no respite, keeping an unrelenting pressure on, refusing to let the other man back up.

“Tosha, tosha!” Kobenene blurted suddenly. His arm was vibrating with the strain like a too-taut rope. “Enough!”

Slowly, carefully, Barrett released his grip, drawing his hand free and then pulling back. The chief darted forward quickly and cut the ropes binding the two men to the ground. Kobenene said nothing, only rose, rubbing his wrists, and walked away. There was no excitement among the dispersing locals, no cheering among the bearers.

Murin tossed his partner a towel and Barrett began to rub the perspiration from his slick torso. He was completely exhausted.

“Sunuvabitch was one strong character, Mur. He almost got me there at the start.”

“Why did you let him up?” asked Isabel. Barrett hadn’t seen her approach, now looked down at her in surprise. He mopped at the back of his neck.

“We settled what we had to settle. There was nothing to be gained by killing the man.”

She didn’t seem convinced. “He wouldn’t have let you up.”

“How do you know, Miss Hardi?” asked Murin.

“Well, because he . . . he—”

“Because he’s a native,” finished Barrett. “An African. A black man, maybe.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“I know,” Barrett sighed, “I know.” He took a long draught of water from a canteen, dumped the rest of it over his head. The village might be poor but the central well, thank god, was located far enough away from the huts to stay uncontaminated. The water here was good. At least they’d be able to fill up before starting the long trek into the jungle. The water trickled cool, cool down his spine.

“But it’s what you thought, deep down. No, don’t bother to deny it. It wouldn’t matter. You’re not responsible for what you think.”

No one so much as mentioned the incident when the troop got underway the following morn. This tacit avoidance in itself shocked Isabel. It wasn’t the way people were supposed to react following a fight to the death. For all the effect it seemed to have had, the men might as well have been playing cards. This was untrue, of course, but nothing was to be gained by seeming to think otherwise.

The bearers too, said nothing, but their attitudes had changed radically. Neither Albright nor Kobenene bothered to talk dissension to them anymore. That was now an unprofitable avenue of approach to their own special problem.

Some of the bearers were still frightened, yes. But to their way of thinking, yesterday’s demonstration had established Barrett’s competency to lead beyond any reproach.

The village sat on the border between the high veldt and the mountainous jungles of the Rift Valley. Not that there were thousands of kilometers of empty territory stretching away in all directions. Pavement had come to Africa with a vengeance born of overlong neglect. But the roads stuck to easy right-of-way, for the most part.

One could go a kilometer from the certain road carrying daily, heavy traffic, and never find civilization or that road again without professional help and elaborate survival gear.

The semi-rain forest they were entering now was utterly unroaded, unsurveyed, and unexplored. In a land where elephants still blocked traffic and an occasional lion prowled the streets of major cities, it was hardly surprising.

The jungle itself was enough of a factor to discourage exploration. What was there to see a hundred meters on, except another hundred meters of jungle? The deadly Wanderi were only an added factor. Civilization would come to this end of the Earth too, some day, but right now the followers of Nyerere had enough trouble trying to civilize themselves.

In the lead, Barrett studied the jungle as it approached. It always seemed that way to him, as though he were standing still, watching, while the great trees marched towards him. Isabel jogged a few steps, came up alongside him.

“Is it always this hot here?”

Barrett smiled at her while watching the trees.

“Hot, here? Izzy, in a little while we’re going to start to go downhill. And then up, and then down, and then up, and after a while you’re going to find yourself wishing, praying, to be back here in the nice cool sunshine. I take it you haven’t been in real jungle before?”

“No. I’ve only flown over it.”

He chuckled. “You must understand when you look into it that nothing’s what it seems to be. The most beautiful plants are parasites. Twigs are insects. The biggest bugs are harmless and beautiful, while the tiny ones do the real killing. Every branch, every tree root can have scales and fangs and can murder. What seems to be solid ground is mud, and what looks like mud is razor sharp lava that can cut right through the toughest boots.”

“Do you hate it so much, then?” she asked as the trees started to close over them.

“Hate it? I can’t hate the jungle any more than a sailor can hate a storm, I suppose, or a pilot an adverse wind. He thought a moment.

“ ‘. . . where highest woods impenetrable, to star or sunlight, spread their umbrage broad.’ Milton. Paradise Lost.”

“Why, Mr. Barrett, you hypocrite, you! I’d never take you for the poetic type.”

“Don’t think you’re going to take me at all,” he quipped. “And I’m not. I read it on a travel folder.”

“But you remembered it.” Her look of admiration was disgusting.

“Have it your way, then. I’m poetic. Say, did you ever hear this one? ‘There was a young lady from Gaul, who—”

“Please, Mr. Barrett, leave me with Milton.” He grinned, and she smiled back. They were in among the first trees now.

“You know,” said Barrett idly, “a forest has its own profile, just like a high-rise apartment. The lower story runs from zero to about twenty meters. From there to forty they call it the Canopy. Any tree that rises above that is classed as an Emergent. And in addition to those there’s the forest floor, which is a separate system in itself.

“Each level has its own quota of plant and animal life, all different from those above or below. Like going up the side of a mountain range, only in miniature.”

He took out his machete, though he didn’t really need it yet. The lianas and creepers were not yet thick enough to make the going really difficult. But in another hour or so the expedition would resemble a long line of flies marching single file through an unending ollapodrida of spider webs.

When they stumbled into the first natural clearing, Barrett didn’t think twice about continuing, even though it was a good three hours to sunset

“We’ll make camp here.” Isabel fulfilled his expectations by asking the inevitable question.

“Mr. Barrett? We seem to have a good deal of light left. Shouldn’t we make all the distance we can?”

Barrett sighed and stood, let the bearer continue to unpack the tent.

“Izzy, how’s your balance?”

“My . . . sense of balance, you mean?” She looked puzzled. “What has that got to do with . . .?”

“Well, we could press on,” he interrupted. “But I’d have to be assured that your balance is real good. See, here,” and he waved an arm to encompass the clearing, “we’ve got a nice natural little clearing, rare enough in this kind of forest. But if you think you can sleep on a tree limb without falling off why, I’m willing to continue.” She looked unsatisfied, but there was nothing he could do about that.

“Relax. If there’s still anything left of your father’s plane, another couple of hours or days isn’t going to make any difference. It’s been there for fifteen years, right? Slow down, Izzy. Nobody runs through this jungle.

“And while you’re at it, you might take some of those clothes off. You’ll feel better and sweat less.”

She looked at him sarcastically. “Dear me, I thought one would get terribly sunburnt if he did that.”

“Eighty percent of the time you’ll only see the sun indirectly, or at an angle. Or haven’t you noticed that the vegetation hereabouts is, shall we say, somewhat dense? Anyhow, I wasn’t referring to your top shirt. You can get some ugly cuts from a few of these creepers, and the thinner trees you tend to ignore often have nasty thorns. I was referring to certain undergarments.”

“You’d enjoy that. That’d give you a cheap thrill, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh Christ,” groaned Barrett. “Listen, lady, do what you want, okay? I made a simple suggestion. Now, you can run around naked or put on a fur stole for all I care. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to share my sleeping hours with the bugs. So excuse me while I get this tent up, huh?”

Unhappy without knowing quite why, Isabel walked away. That he had the nerve to make such a suggestion . . .!

She winced. Also the good sense. The damn straps felt like they were cutting her into bite-sized chunks and the sooner she got it off, the better.

Chapter V

You knew the sun had set even if you couldn’t see it. The trees turned orange and brown and mauve, and dark places began to swell like black bubbles in the underbrush. Tiny kerosene lamps sent screen-smattered patterns of light out of the tents, and the single fire in the center of the camp popped and cracked, an aural mirage of some imagined war.

In nearby trees four pairs of eyes observed the camp. Half of them picked up the firelight and threw it back, stronger than ever.

“I’m certain the one who leads is the same we saved from the evil one’s poison,” whispered Luana.

Chaugh grumbled irritably. “Foolishness to follow them thus. More foolishness they should return. We should let them die, this time.”

“Why Chaugh,” she murmured, reaching out to the next branch to rumple the fur behind the huge panther’s head, “I do believe you’re jealous of the male.”

Chaugh jerked his head away and rested jaws of black iron on crossed forepaws. The panther was moody tonight.

“That is a man-term. I do not understand.”

“I’m not entirely sure I do either,” Luana admitted, sadly. “It’s hard enough to learn language from books and old tapes, especially when there are more than one and the tape machine gives out.”

“Tape machine?” It was Jukakhan from another tree. The lion’s eyes glowed nightfire.

“The word-box,” she reminded him.

For his part, Ohoh did not share the big cats’ pessimism. He was intensely curious about anything manlike or having to do with man. Their utter unpredictability was an endearing trait.

Luana felt no overwhelming urge for a closer look at the camp or the majority of its sleeping inhabitants. But there was a European woman with them, and that was a sufficient novelty to require a closer look.

“Me too, me too,” chittered Ohoh when he saw her intent. He fairly shook the branch loose in his enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry, Ohoh. Not this time. You stay here.”

Ignoring the chimp’s pleadings, she dropped the six meters from the branch and landed silently on the jungle floor. Night beetles scrambled out from under her feet, their nocturnal warfare temporarily broken.

A few completely quiet steps brought her to the back of the studied tent. There was a small window there that threw light out into the forest. Cautiously, she raised her head to a corner of the screen and peered in.

Isabel Hardi stood in the middle of the tent, facing away from the window. Not too surprisingly, she was working at her hair. Vanity was not involved. She was combing out leaves and small insects, not curls. It was awkward work with the tiny hand mirror, but here even that was a luxury.

Luana observed the process with interest. The brush, she saw, acted like a multitude of tiny fingers. She thought back, trying to match the process with some of the pictures in the books. She fingered her own hair, a straight black nightshade cascade that fell unbroken to her waist.

Isabel stopped and put down the brush. She took up a small box and began to apply what looked like white mud to her face. Stranger and stranger. Finishing this, she removed her clothes. This was a natural thing, but there were certain others that were not, and were not included in the books. Luana found the entire process fascinating and wondered at the purpose of so much covering.

Even more fascinating, after removing the unbearably heavy-looking clothing, the woman proceeded to put on an entirely different garment before crawling into a cot.

In truth, she thought, civilization held many concepts that seemed to run counter to reason.

Isabel had dimmed, but not turned out the light. So Luana could still clearly see the dark black-brown shape which crawled out from under the cot. It was fat and roughly round and the size of a man’s spread hand. She did not know the English, but another book showed it plainly. Buibuieusi—the black death spider.

It was harmless unless irritated. Patiently, it began to climb up the sheets which fell off the side of the cot, hunting for warmth. It might share the bed all night and depart harmlessly in the morning.

On the other hand, if the woman should roll over suddenly in her sleep, or wake up and see it—Luana sensed that she would not react with reason to the situation.

The buibuieusi seemed determined to find an awkward spot. It continued to follow a path leading to the back of Isabel’s neck. Luana considered and reached a decision instantly.

She carefully edged around to the front of the tent, eyed the camp. There was a single watch, on the far side of the fire. His posture betrayed sleep. Slipping inside, she approached the bed. Cautiously, she dipped the end of her long jet hair into the spider’s path. It crept onto the hair-covered palm and settled comfortably into the warmth. She ran a finger along the short fur on its thorax and it relaxed completely. A last look before she left the tent showed Isabel fast asleep.

In the trees, she released the spider in a pile of dead leaves. It crawled into the decaying depths, quite unaware it had been cause for concern to any but small bugs. Luana studied the tiny monster and reflected on the vagaries of shape. Was a spider conscious of its ugliness? She was being profound.

Albright widened the gap in his tent flap and stepped outside quietly. He hefted the rifle in his right hand and moved on tip-toe across the camp. What he’d just seen was utterly unreal. A quick test revealed he was neither dreaming, hallucinating, or blind. Either ghosts did exist, or else—

He tried to follow the girl into the trees and badly overestimated his tracking ability. A few steps into the bush found him hopelessly lost.

Something moved, there, to the left! He stumbled in turning. A snarl and two cold red eyes appeared. Flickering over startlingly white teeth, the rest of his shape blending into the night, Chaugh’s sudden appearance seemed to Albright a cross between the Cheshire cat and Satan. He fired reflexively, without thinking.

Something hit him between the shoulders, hard, and he fell. Rolling over, he found himself staring down the throat of Jukakhan. Death lay in those eyes more than fang or tooth.

Noise and commotion came from the direction of the camp. Barrett was there first, his own rifle in hand. He raised it to the lion’s head. A shadow form dropped from nowhere and knocked the gun from his grasp. Light from the distant campfire danced in almond eyes. Barrett stared back, hypnotized.

The figure shook its head once, then turned and uttered a startling alto-soprano growl, part opera singer, part panther. Jukakhan snarled once and vanished into the dark. The figure turned back to Barrett. Recollection and still gripping sleep combined to daze him. His eyes dropped to the scanty halter covering the girl’s breasts.

In between, dangling from a short chain, lay a tiny coil of sterling. It was dark with age and tarnish. The pendant took the form of a striking cobra.

Black wash memory took on color and line. Silver cobra in a mountain valley . . . of course! Murin, Isabel, and Kobenene clustered behind him. Their silence helped him find his voice.

“You’re not a miracle, then. No, you’re not a dream. The miracle is still open to consideration. Sometimes I thought if you turned out to be real I’d be disappointed.” He almost chuckled. “I’m not.”

“I’m pleased.” What a strange voice! It rippled little-girlish in the high places, broke into thunder in the low. Barrett took a deep breath, blinked the last sleep from his eyes. He was wide awake, now.

“The dream talks, this time. You didn’t the other. What’s your name, dream?”

“I had another calling, once,” the magnificent girl said. “Now I prefer Luana.”

“All right, Luana. What happened here?” He glanced over at Albright. Kobenene was working on the prone figure. “What happened to him?”

Luana looked at him coldly. “He tried to shoot Chaugh. Jukakhan intervened. Quite rightly so. It was a foolish thing for the man,” and she jerked her head contemptuously in Albright’s direction, “to try. The fool panicked. But then, you are all fools, for coming here, so I suppose he is in good company.”

“You don’t mean,” began Isabel, “that you’re mad at him for defending himself, when he was being viciously attacked by—”

Luana shook her head pityingly.

“Perhaps it would have been a kindness to let the little visitor have his way with you tonight.”

Barrett’s mind, meanwhile was working overtime. If anyone knew this country it seemed credible that this delicious figment of a drunken satyr’s imagination did. She might even have some idea about—

“Luana—I wonder. Maybe you could help us.” She looked at him and her change was shockingly abrupt. She seemed not only no longer contemptuous and aloof, but positively contrite. Barrett heard a strange sound and didn’t immediately connect it with her.

Holy smoke, she was purring! It was weird, and beautiful.

“What is your name?”

“Huh?” She was looking at him, more directly than any civilized stranger would. “Barrett.” he found himself answering stupidly. “George Barrett.”

“George Barrett, I will try and help you. You must listen closely.”

He put his head forward and she leaned to whisper in his ear. Everyone heard anyway.

“Go home.”

She spun abruptly and was gone, swallowed up by the dark and sheltering trees. Her perfume lingered in the air. Barrett took two steps after her and came up against a seemingly impenetrable wall of brush.

“Luana . . . Luana!” he yelled. Normal night noise only replied. Song of cicada and cricket and white-faced monkey. Behind him, Murin was mumbling in a crazy-quilt of languages.

“It’s like a fairy tale,” Isabel breathed.

“Yeah.” Barrett was thoughtful, quiet. “I thought I dreamt about her once. If you’d seen the rest of that dream, your fairy princess image of her would go right out the window. No, she’s real enough.” He looked back into the forest. “I wonder what your friend Albright was shooting at? I think I can guess.

“By the way,” he said to Kobenene, who was holding his master’s head up and fanning it with a broad leaf, “how is he?”

“Just coming out of it, Barrett. He only fainted.”

Albright blinked several seconds later and found Barrett and the others leaning to stare at him.

“Guess I passed out.” He sat up by himself, still not really seeing them.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Barrett soothed. He didn’t like Albright one bit. Still, without knowing for sure the whole of it, he wouldn’t have wished that confrontation with the lion on his worst enemy. It would scare the coolest man alive mindless.

“It’s all right. Anyone would have reacted the same with that monster centimeters from his nose. Me too. Probably the best thing you could have done.” He tried to make the next question sound casual.

“What were you shooting at?”

“There was something moving in the forest. It . . . it looked at me.” Kobenene helped the shaken scientist to his feet. “It snarled at me and I thought it was going to charge.”

“It snarled. Was it another big cat? A panther, maybe?”

“Each tooth looked like an Afgan dirk!” Albright replied. “I didn’t get the chance to check its pedigree. Kobe, give me a hand back to the tent, will you?”

“Yes, Mr. Albright.”

Barrett put out a restraining hand. “Just one thing more, Albright.” The other stopped.

“Yes?”

“What were you doing in the jungle at this time of night . . . with a rifle?”

Albright hesitated, but not too long. Necessity lent speed to his wit.

“I heard something prowling around at the back of my tent and thought I’d better investigate.”

Barrett acknowledged this explanation, and Albright sighed inwardly. It would not be helpful if the guide thought he’d gone hunting for this odd girl.

“You’re going to hear a lot of sounds like that. Loose branches, the wind, harmless animals. It didn’t,” he said distastefully, “wake up the watch. I’d prefer you didn’t go gunning for every new sound you hear. You might shoot yourself. It’s been known to happen.”

“You’re right, of course,” agreed Albright.

“And now,” Barrett continued, “it’s time for my first order of the new day.” He looked around, noticed that the bearers were crowded around also. “Everybody go back to bed.”

“But those big cats,” Albright protested. “They might still be around. Surely we should mount a stronger guard . . .”

“Don’t worry, Norman. They’ll stay away from the fire. And,” he added, looking into the jungle, “somehow I don’t think they’ll cause us any trouble unless we go asking for it.”

The sound of drums rose with the sun. They were distant, very distant, to the north.

Murin rubbed at his eyes as he joined Barrett. “Wanderi, partner.” Barrett felt, or imagined he felt, a sharp twinge in his left shoulder.

“Probably. Can’t be certain.”

“Well,” said the Breeded, “at least they’re not getting any closer. That means we’re not walking into them.”

“They’re not getting any quieter, either, partner. Don’t try to cheer me up. That means they’re moving parallel to us. It means they know we’re here.”

“Not necessarily,” Murin countered. “They might not be interested in this part of the forest. Probably only hunting. And if you say ‘hunting what,’ George, I’ll pop you one.”

Barrett grinned with a humor he didn’t feel.

“Okay, you’re right, we’ll jump to no conclusions. But pass the word to the boys to try keeping the lid on any unrestrained hilarity, huh? Tell ’em to lose quietly for a change.”

They stopped for an early lunch. There was a small river in front of them and further upstream, a moderate waterfall. Even aerial maps of this area were spotty and incomplete, but if Barrett was right, there should be a major river nearby. They’d have to cross it eventually. And the country ahead should get rugged even sooner.

Barrett sat down and did some careful thinking. They were moving in country well to the south of his previous, ill-fated expedition. The distant drums (maybe they weren’t Wanderi, after all) continued to stay well to the north. Maybe they really had passed to the south of the witch-men’s influence. The boundary could be defined only by fatalities. Barrett hoped he was right.

Isabel, meanwhile, sat boredly in her tent. They had a long day ahead yet. The life of the camp is repetitive make-work. And the jungle can become incredibly dull to all but a select few. Isabel was neither botanist, entymologist, nor Barrett.

She took a towel and wiped the back of her neck. The white cloth came away brown. That was the last straw!

Scrounging through her personal pack, she managed to unearth a bar of soap . . . another luxury. Barrett complained about every excess gram. Well, the hell with him.

The jungle air, damn it, was like green gravy. Sooner or later you got coated with filth and grime that seemed to materialize out of thin air. The time had come to counterattack, or else she’d go crazy. Taking the towel, she slipped quietly out of camp.

Some bearers had cut a narrow path to the river’s edge. She followed it to the water and turned upstream. Just enough of a beach ran parallel to the water so that she didn’t have to battle vines and thorn bushes all the way. She paused only once, to watch a painted box turtle make its lumbering way from the water’s edge to a hole in the soft bank.

The waterfall, which fell a scant few meters into the river, had dug a hole in the soft sand of the bank and river bottom. So when she stepped in, the water came up to her shoulders. It was warm, though not as cloying as the slow moving river. The fresh water cascading over her tired skin held the pleasure of something wicked.

High above, perched on a knot of a stalwart banyan, Luana watched as Isabel made pushing motions at herself with the waxen white rock.

“What do you think of the she?” she asked.

Jukakhan leaned over and gave Isabel a moment’s attention.

“Weak, like most man-things. You could break her in small pieces.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Luana diffidently. “Do you think she’s more attractive than me?”

“Most man-things are ugly,” came Ohoh’s strident tone. “Even, yea, even the cat is more graceful. Barely.”

“Say that again, tree-toad, and I’ll—”

“You’ll what, ill-tempered one?” The chimpanzee hefted a heavy jungle nut. “Chase me through the tree-tops? Come, then.”

The lion rose to his feet and bared his teeth at the dangling chimp.

“Peace, you two,” said Luana warningly. Primate and lion subsided, Ohoh refusing to let the big cat have the last word.

“Tell the big mouth to watch himself, then.”

“Be polite, brother,” Luana admonished him.

Agh—another man-term. But Ohoh settled down on his own branch and said nothing more.

“See how her hair catches and turns back the sun,” she mused. “Even more so than yours, Chaugh.”

The panther did not deign to reply. To his way of thinking, he could kill the other female with one blow. That made up for any imagined deficiencies in the color of his coat. He continued licking himself.

“Tell me,” she continued easily, “do you think a human male would find her attractive?”

“You ask impossible questions, sister,” Chaugh murmured. “I have no standards for judging the attractiveness of man-things. Only,” he smiled with his eyes, “their taste. Nor does such a thing interest me.”

She leaned over and ran her hands along the big cat’s flank.

“But you find me attractive, Chaugh.”

“That is different,” he grumbled. “You are not a man-thing.”

“Then what am I?” Chaugh twisted uneasily out of her grasp.

“Too much talk,” he growled. He leaped from the branch and disappeared with a crash into the growth below.

Isabel looked sharply to her right. Something in the bushes? It was hard to tell with the sound of running water ringing in her ears. It wasn’t repeated and she shrugged it off. Probably some little lizard, or rodent, or something. She turned.

The river had no visible current here and lay as a cold mirror between its banks. Huge lily pads covered much of it. Fragrant blossoms half a meter across sprang from the center of the green floats, filling the air with overpowering loveliness. How beautiful this place was! If only they could travel by river, out of the clutching, stinking green caves. She put the soap on a dry rock, turned, and kicked out towards the center of the stream.

She swims fairly well, mused Luana. The thought was interrupted as she detected movement on the far bank. Ohoh saw it a moment later and began jumping up and down on his branch and pointing.

“Yes, I see it too,” she said.

On the far side, resting beneath overhanging reeds and ferns, was a dead log that wasn’t. It began to move sideways, then forward, drifting almost imperceptibly towards the center of the river. Isabel had reached the first of the lily pads. She was leaning in to smell one of the huge blossoms. Obviously she did not see it, which was not surprising.

While they’re difficult enough to detect from above, a crocodile moving towards one at water level is for all practical purposes invisible.

Luana jumped to a different branch, then to another, hanging over the water. She yelled and waved.

“Hey! Hey! Behind you!”

Isabel heard a faint noise, turned, and spotted the exotic gesticulating figure immediately. It was Luana, that strange girl. She waved back politely.

“Hello there! Hi!”

Luana waved more vigorously, shouted more urgently. Isabel waved happily in return and splashed the water. The little idiot thought Luana was playing!

The croc continued its slow, inexorable advance. Luana had seen it happen often before. There would be a sudden thrashing in the water and then quiet. Eventually the reptile would reappear with a bloated, drowned Isabel in its jaws. Luana dropped to the ground and took a step forward, stopped.

Jukakhan blocked her way.

“Move, brother.”

“Let the female man-thing die, sister. It is not worth the chance of—”

There was no time for discussion. She feinted right, then left, and vaulted over the startled lion before it could rise to intercept her. It followed, but she was already in the water, swimming furiously towards Isabel.

If only the fool would swim to meet her! But Isabel simply watched Luana’s approach with pleasure and some surprise. The girl certainly seemed in an inordinate hurry!

“Slow down, Luana!” she shouted as the other came close. “There’s no hurry. The river’ll still—”

Luana dove abruptly. Well, that was odd! What sort of strange game was the girl playing?

Treading water, Isabel peered down. The water itself was clear, but shadows from the broad water lilies hid much of what went on below. She looked around sharply left, right. Where had the girl gone? She turned.

The river exploded.

Both screaming and swimming for the near shore were reflex actions. The last thing Isabel saw as she looked back over her shoulder was a toothy green torpedo rising out of the water. Luana was astride its back, her right arm high and the single blade catching the light.

The river monster had been surprised by the unfamiliar biting thing that had come up beneath it. Now the thing was stuck to its back and continued to bite. The bite itself was small, but repeated itself over and over. The monster spun, great jaws snapping air. It was unable to reach the small biter.

The armored tail, which could easily break a leopard’s spine, thrashed impotently at the neutral lilies. Finding its strength ebbing, the monster began to spin desperately in the water, fighting to dislodge the tormentor on its back.

From the far bank other logs began to move towards the source of the disturbance, hoping to lay claim to loose pieces. On the other shore, Ohoh saw them and shrieked incessantly. Again and again a slim steel arm rose and fell. The water began to turn a dark red, and the lilies were stained.

A last failing twist, and the great meat eater lay limp in the water. Luana was drawing in long, deep breaths. She heard Ohoh’s distant screeching and struck out for the safe shore.

Five big crocs were close behind her. They pulled up meters short. One or two considered giving chase. But the other shape moved strongly through the water, and there was ample meat already waiting. They began to tear furiously at the carcass of their dead cousin.

Luana staggered out of the water. Isabel was nowhere in sight. Probably ran all the way back to camp. She noticed the girl had taken her clothes and smiled despite her exhaustion. Crazy man-thing! For herself, she was never in danger of being bitten, but the monster had nearly drowned her.

A few agonizingly painful tugs hauled her to a fork in one of the trees. She collapsed gratefully. Ohoh was beside her in a second, with Jukakhan a leap behind. The chimp made a cursory inspection of the motionless form. Jukakhan had only to sniff once to be satisfied. Man-sister was unharmed. She would sleep for awhile. He curled up beside her.

Eventually, a party from the camp arrived. A breathless Isabel was in the forefront. There was no need to point to the area of danger. The family of armored leviathans was still making plenty of noise, thrashing about on the far side of the river. Isabel looked from the watery hell to Barrett, then to Murin.

“Well, do something, can’t you?”

Barrett watched the crocs at table. He’d never cared much for the big reptiles. They had no personalities, and terrible table manners.

“Like what, Izzy?” He gestured with his rifle towards the confused tumbling. “If she’s in there with them now, there’s nothing left but a faint suggestion. And if she got away—God, I hope she got away—she’ll let us know when she’s good and ready.” He turned to go. She grabbed his arm.

“But can’t you do something? She saved my life!”

“Well, damnit, for that, she saved mine too!” he roared, suddenly angry. “If she’s still out there I’d rather not see what’s left. If it’s revenge you want, crocodiles have no sense of retribution. But here, help yourself.” He tossed her the gun. She caught it and stared down at the smooth barrel blankly.

Barrett, Murin and the others started back to camp. Isabel looked out to the still active reptilian convocation. She raised the gun, then lowered it slowly and began to cry. She sniffed and bawled all the way back to camp.

She felt better in the morning. By then she’d more than half convinced herself that Luana had escaped, somehow. It was nicer—and better for her peace of mind—to think of the girl as still in the trees somewhere with her cats than in the belly of some— She forced that thought resolutely out of focus again. She had other things to concentrate on. Like struggling up these hills.

Despite the change in altitude, the character of the forest changed but slightly. There were fewer of the towering trees that Barrett had labeled emergents, more thick bushes and scrub growth. They came to the small canyon just after midday.

It was small because it was not even a hundred meters high, and the stream that ran through it was barely a rivulet. That made it no less impassable. The walls were almost sheer on both sides and ran for kilometers in both directions. It might as well have been a thousand meters deep. They could not climb down.

“Well,” said Albright with hopeful finality, “that’s that. There’s no way we can get down this wall. Even if we could, somehow, there’s certainly no way we could get up the other side. We’ll have to turn back.”

“You’re a fountain of joy, aren’t you, Albright,” commented Murin. Isabel looked from the chemist to Barrett.

“Is that true, Mr. Barrett? Will we?”

“Well now,” he replied, surveying the far side, “that all depends, Izzy.”

“Depends? On what?”

“On how afraid of heights you are, and how good my arm is. Mur!”

Albright and Kobenene watched curiously. The latter had checked all their cases by now, discreetly, and had seen nothing like the climbing equipment they would need for such a descent and ascent. No crampons, no pitons or rock hammers, nothing.

One of the leather-covered boxes yielded a single thick coil of glistening nylon cord. It was followed by a short, stubby metal bar. Murin fooled with the bar and one end opened like an iron flower. Three sharp barbed prongs clicked, locked into place.

Barrett shifted the coil to rest loosely on his left arm. He walked to the edge of the gorge and planted himself firmly, left foot forward. He began to whirl the grappling hook over his head, letting out line slowly, moving it in wider and wider arcs. It made basso whooshing sounds in the air.

Faster, faster, then—throw!

The hook clunked against the far side just below the bank and dropped. Barrett hauled it up, carefully recoiling the line. Murin walked over.

“Want me to try, George?”

“Naw, not yet, partner. I can make it. Just didn’t get my arm up on the release.”

The helicoptering noise was repeated. The triple hook spun through the air, was released, and fell on the far side, well clear of the edge. Barrett tugged, yanked. It seemed set. He and Murin wrapped the near end a dozen times around the trunk of the biggest tree near the edge, about three meters off the ground. The cord now ran on a slant from the tree to the distant bank.

“Ready?” asked Murin. “I’ll get the basket.”

“Just a sec,” cautioned George. “Might as well make sure, hey?”

He wrapped both hands tightly around the smooth nylon and put one foot into nothingness. Isabel gasped. The other foot went over and he hung free. He jerked once on the cord, twice.

And disappeared.

Isabel screamed and everyone rushed forward. Murin was first to the edge, but felt less panic than the others. Except Albright and Kobenene, of course, who’s emotions were of a radically different character.

Barrett hadn’t fallen far. He was wrapped around the rope like a snake only a meter below the lip of the canyon. A couple of quick pulls brought him up. He smiled.

“What are you all staring at? That’s why I did it. The hook wasn’t fixed properly on the other side,” he concluded in mild understatement.

The line was brought up again and a third time the hook whistled over Barrett’s head. He heaved up and out and the prongs soared across to drop in the brush on the other side.

This time all the hanging and jerking Barrett could manage, and then he and Murin together, didn’t even bring any fresh slack into the cord. It seemed securely set.

Murin picked up the basket, a sling composed of nylon cord with a tiny leather seat and a snap shackle on top.

“You mean that’s all there is to it?” queried Albright in disbelief.

“That’s all, Herr professor.”

The basket looked less than flimsy. Barrett stepped into the contraption, slipping his legs through the two holes on either side of the small seat.

“See you on the other side,” he grinned. He relaxed, let his weight pull the cord taut as he snapped the shackle onto it. A thinner cord ran from the seat to a coil in Murin’s hands. He took a deep breath and lifted his feet off the ground.

The incline was gentle. Nevertheless, he seemed to shoot across the chasm.

His landing was awkward. He crashed into the bushes on the far side, but he was unhurt.

“Nothing to it!” he yelled, climbing out of the basket. “Izzy, care to try it next?”

Murin pulled on the thin cord and dragged the basket back towards them. She considered. Noticing her hesitation, Albright ventured a hopeful opinion.

“Really, dear Isabel, I think this risk is quite unwarranted and dangerous! Surely we can go around. It may take a few weeks, but—”

“Norman,” she said evenly, “I appreciate your concern for my safety. Honestly I do. But you know we haven’t got weeks to ‘circle around.’ We have to cross here. Mr. Barrett just did it and I’m sure I can manage at least as well,” She stepped into the basket. Murin made sure the straps were all in place.

“Now, don’t look down,” he whispered to her, giving her a reassuring pat. “When you’re ready to go, just lift your feet. George will catch you on the other side.”

“All . . . all right.” She clutched the top of the sling below the shackle and closed her eyes. “I’m ready.” She lifted her feet.

There was a sensation for several seconds of flying through the air, like diving from a high springboard or platform. She slammed into a pair of arms, a hard body. The impact wasn’t much, but the shock was overwhelming. She gasped and found herself staring into Barrett’s smiling face.

“You did right well, Izzy! You all right?”

“I think so,” she replied. She stepped out of the cords and looked back. Yes, she’d really crossed over. Then she grinned slightly.

“It was kind of fun, actually.”

Albright, wishing to squelch any doubts as to his willingness to listen to Barrett, went next. The chemist managed the short but breathtaking trip with admirable scientific detachment.

Rather surprisingly, it was Kobenene who gave them the most trouble. The big man, it was revealed, was utterly terrified of heights. Albright had to swear up and down at him before he’d finally consent to climb into the basket. Once safely across, Barrett had to practically pry the man’s hands free of the sling rope.

After that things moved briskly. Crates and cartons and other supplies zipped across. The rest of the bearers followed, one after another. For those who’d worked with Barrett before, the journey was routine.

Murin was the last. He unwrapped the line from around the thick tree and coiled it snugly around his waist. Barrett and several of the bearers stood ready on the other end. The wiry second in command moved to the side of the canyon. Putting his legs over the side, he sat on the edge. Then, giving them the okay, he pushed off and flew across the chasm.

Isabel and Albright gasped and ran to the edge—to see Murin waving reassuringly up at them. He’d made a smooth arc across the gap and let his powerful legs take the impact of hitting the far side, rather like a broad rappel.

“Juhu, up, up!” ordered Barrett. He and the bearers pulled. A few seconds later Murin was standing with them on the side of the canyon, uncoiling the line from his waist.

After the troop had moved off the canyon returned to former silence, broken only by the light sound of the stream running over rocks below. Then, on the far side, small shapes appeared.

“What now, sister?” asked Ohoh, hanging onto a bush and surveying the drop. Luana pointed upstream.

“There is a broken place there where we can cross. A morning’s run. We can catch up to them easily on the other side. Let’s go.”

She started in that direction and paused abruptly, aware that only Jukakhan was following. She turned.

“So?”

For once Chaugh and Ohoh found themselves in agreement.

“So much trouble and time, so much effort and care, for a few strange man-things,” the panther mumbled. “Why?” He moved restlessly to the edge of the jungle and waited. Ohoh followed, hopped into a tree.

“What do you mean, ‘why?’ ” Luana eyed the cat sharply. “They need our help, for one thing. You saw what nearly happened to the she.”

“Such fools deserve to die.”

“Why, Chaugh!” The panther was often moody, but rarely so bitter. It would have been small consolation if she’d known that he was unaware of the reasons behind his own discontent. He growled.

“You must choose, sister. Jungle law or man law.”

“I must not,” she countered. “I can go by either or both when they don’t conflict.”

“That is true,” put in Jukakhan.

Chaugh snarled. “You keep out of this, slayer of mice.”

“What was that?” The huge lion took an incredulous step forward.

“You heard me, brother. Killer of rats. Destroyer of snails. Slayer of . . .”

It was already too much for Jukakhan. The lion took another step forward and leaped. Chaugh rose to meet him, and the two cats went head over heels into the brush.

“Chaugh! Jukakhan! Stop this insanity! Do you understand me, stop it!”

She followed quickly, trying to get between them as they tumbled over and over through the undergrowth. It was impossible, like trying to separate a hurricane from its eye.

Something wet and slimy hit her on the back of the neck. She reached back and her hand came away with a mass of sticky pulp. Just above and behind, Ohoh danced and chattered on a high branch.

“Hah, sister, how do you like my arguments, hmmm?” He threw another of the overripe fruits and she just managed to dodge it. There were plenty of the fruit trees around. But there was also a goodly supply of the sweetish, rotting fruit lying on the ground.

As the two cats spun through the brush, a tornado of black and brown, she and Ohoh exchanged pot shots. Luana could throw harder and with more accuracy than the chimp. However, Ohoh made a small target and was incredibly agile besides. Before long both were liberally dosed with sticky green syrup and tiny seeds.

Luana feinted and the chimp darted behind the trunk of one of the trees. She dashed quickly underneath. Ohoh leaned out, looking for her. When he saw nothing, he leaned further, trying cautiously to see around the bole of the next tree. As he did so, a not so rotten fruit hit him square behind one ear and knocked him clean off the branch. He got up slowly from the fall, holding his head with both hands.

“Oooo,” he moaned. “Ohoh is killed. Ohoh is dead!”

“Ohoh is covered with rotten fruit!” laughed Luana, rushing past him.

Now to do something about those two obstreperous brothers of hers! A vine, another, and she was on a limb just above them. She measured the drop and distance carefully, then stepped off the branch. The biggest fruit she could find she held high over her head, a fat green specimen nearly as large as a pumpkin.

As she landed on Chaugh’s back she brought the fruit down with both hands and hit Jukakhan right between the eyes. Sap and pulp and seeds flew in all directions. The lion roared in surprise and backed free, shaking its head and blinking. Then he lay down and began to rub at the sticky mess with his paws.

Chaugh pranced and darted and threw himself every which way in the bushes. Luana clamped her thighs tight to the panther’s muscular sides and buried her hands in his neck, refusing to let go. River monster hadn’t been able to break that grip. Neither could Chaugh. He finally ran out of steam and sank exhausted to the ground, crunching leaves and twigs with his belly.

She leaned over and whispered in one pointed ear, flicking it with a finger.

“Had enough?”

Panting heavily, Chaugh turned and stared back at her. He closed his eyes, reopened them.

“Enough. Very well, I shall go with you. But I still think you are a fool, sister.”

“Now that,” she admitted, leaning lower and licking his ear, “was never in question.”

The panther twisted its head back and lapped at her cheek with a broad red rasp of a tongue.

Chapter VI

Barrett’s guess about the big river was off in time but not substance. It was slow moving, but deep and wide. It also housed an unhealthily large population of hungry crocs. While there were plenty of sturdy trees about, their slingbridge was not long enough. Barrett couldn’t have thrown it halfway across anyway, and the torpid current stayed in the center of the stream. They couldn’t drift a line across.

Barrett scratched his neck and examined the scene unhappily. He’d been expecting this, but that made the reality no less pleasant.

“We’ll have to build a raft,” he finally confessed. “I don’t like the delay it’ll cost us, but there’s no other way. At least decent wood is plentiful.”

“Surely,” said Albright, “you don’t expect us to cross this barrier on anything so fragile as a temporary, unpowered craft?” He indicated a large crocodile swimming lazily past. It must have been a good five meters long.

“I sure as hell don’t intend to swim it, Albright.” Barrett started to walk away—he had work to do—but the chemist wasn’t finished.

“Mr. Barrett, I must protest. Seriously protest!”

Murin and Isabel looked over. Barrett turned and put hands on hips, eyed the scientist squarely.

“Well now, you just go ahead and protest, Albright,” he invited the other. “I tell you what. I’m a reasonable man. I certainly don’t want to force anyone into something against his will.”

“It’s not myself I’m thinking of, you understand. It’s Miss Hardi.”

“Oh, I never doubted that for a moment, Norman.” He looked thoughtful. “Tell you what. If you want to turn around now and go back, I’ll give you enough food and ammunition and basics to get you safely back to Nairobi. How’s that? I’ll even send a couple of the fellas back with you to help you cross the gorge.”

Frustrated, Albright turned and made one last plea to Isabel.

“My dear, I think we’ve done all that can reasonably be expected of us, and more. To chance a crossing like this, well, I just don’t like to think of what might happen to you.”

She smiled back at him. “That’s sweet of you, Norman. I appreciate your concern, I really do. But I feel more certain now than ever that Mr. Barrett and Mr. Murin would not let me attempt anything they felt unsafe for themselves.”

“Oh no?” said Albright, laughing too loudly. “That’s priceless! Didn’t you know that he’d been in this country just a few weeks before you hired him. That everyone in his party was killed except him?”

Isabel turned, stared at Barrett in disbelief. He didn’t turn away. There was no reason to.

“That’s right, Izzy. I thought you knew.”

“No,” she said softly. “That’s one piece of information no one volunteered when I asked about you.”

There was an awkward silence. Neither moved. But when he spoke he looked at her evenly.

“This is your ball game, Izzy. If you want to turn back, we’ll go back.”

She chewed her lower lip, stared back at him. Albright and Kobenene watched anxiously. When she finally spoke it was not to demand or curse, but to question.

“Do . . . do you think it’s going to get dangerous?”

Barrett blinked, stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then he began to chuckle. The chuckle turned into a belly laugh, the laugh into a roar. Soon he was holding his sides. He had to sit down to keep from falling there.

“What’s so funny, Mr. Barrett sir!” she demanded. “Just what’s so funny?”

“ ‘Going to get dangerous,’ oh boy! Whee-oooo!” He coughed, wiped at his eyes. “Listen, Izzy, what do you think it’s been since we left Mpanda? Any day since then, any minute, we might have encountered the wrong bug, the wrong snake, the wrong quadruped—worse, the wrong men, and somebody could have gotten hurt. Or gotten dead. We’ve been damn lucky so far, and I hope like hell it holds. But ‘get dangerous’? My God, we haven’t been out of danger since we left the land rovers!”

Still laughing, he walked away to help unbind their set of axes. Murin ambled over to her, smiling.

“He thinks very highly of you, Miss Hardi. Do we continue on?”

“What?” She finally noticed him. She looked over at Albright, considered what he’d said. He was watching her.

“We go on, Murin.” She patted his shoulder. The Breeded smiled; the chemist cursed, but no one heard him.

It took most of the day to build the raft. Several trees had to be felled, sectioned, and roughly trimmed. Then suitable vines had to be found and cut while the logs were being moved to the water’s edge. Each log had to be tied tightly at top and bottom, and then five cross-logs bound to these across the top. It was unbeautiful and utilitarian and slippery. But it floated.

It had plenty of room and four long, tough limbs for poling. The first shipment was piled on, stacked neatly in the center. Barrett, Isabel, Albright, and two of the bearers would take it across on this first trip. Albright refused to handle a pole, so Barrett and the two bearers had to do all the work. The others gave the raft a healthy shove, and then they were out in the river.

“It’s magnificent,” breathed Isabel softly. She’d forgotten, at least temporarily, her last river experience. She turned and observed that Barrett was watching the water worriedly.

“You’re not really worried about the crocodiles, are you? I don’t know much about them, but I wouldn’t imagine they’d try to come up onto the raft.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” he replied, and she was startled at the tightness in his voice. “That’s what I’m worried about.” He pointed downstream.

A colony of nostrils, ears, and eyes floated nearby, much too near for Barrett’s liking. Then nostrils and ears and eyes rose in concert, framing a colossal mouth. It opened to reveal a dark cavern not quite as big as Carlsbad. The monstrous yawn concluded, it slowly closed and sank back into the water.

The colony moved closer, effortlessly. Small brown islands became visible behind deceptively comical faces.

“Hippo,” noted Barrett unnecessarily.

Nothing happened until they were two-thirds of the way across the river. And to Isabel’s eyes, nothing happened even then. But Barrett had lived with wildlife long enough to, if not converse with them, at least to recognize signs, interpret gestures, evaluate movement.

One hippo had been drifting parallel to them for the last twenty meters, edging closer and closer all the while. He might only be curious. You couldn’t tell what a river horse thought, or even if a river horse thought. Sure, he was only curious, mildly interested in this strange flat intruder of its realm.

On the other hand, if this were the rutting season . . .

Barrett quietly pulled his pole from the water and laid it gently on the raft. He spoke to the two men still poling, advising them to move easily and without sudden flurries. They didn’t have to be told. They’d spotted the convoying hippo also.

“Something the matter, Mr. Barrett?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said soothingly. Keeping his eyes on the hippo, he reached for the top case and brought out the Express. Cradling it under an arm, he sat down on a crate full of canned food. The men doing the poling glanced over their shoulders now and then. The raft continued to move smoothly across the water, but a little faster now. An occasional glance at the crocodilian shoreline ahead inspired their muscles if not their confidence.

There was no warning. No flashing sign of animosity, no bellow of anger, no indications of murderous intent. The hippo simply turned and charged, enormous jaws agape, for the flimsy raft. It would find out when the logs went to separate pieces that this was no intruding male hippo. That would do its passengers no good. The crocodiles would not respect remorse.

The Express thundered once, twice. Down hippo. At the booming the sky grew freckled with frightened birds. Every croc on the shore dashed into the river. They too were scared. Soon they would discover the gigantic corpse and then the quiet water would boil to the carnage of a reptilian witchs’ sabbath.

Provided Barrett’s shots had struck home. He didn’t bother to reload. A second chance wouldn’t come. He simply watched the wood under his feet, waiting, waiting. If the shots had gone true, he’d continue to wait. If they’d missed, or only wounded, then his feet would rise rapidly towards his face.

The raft continued on its way unmolested. Isabel moaned and pointed. A bleeding, ruined carcass, the hippo had come up on the other side of the raft. Then the crocs found it. Isabel stood it well. She didn’t throw up until they’d made the farther shore. At least the dead hippo had one benign effect: it had cleared the beach of any lingering reptiles.

“Funny, isn’t it?” murmured Barrett, holding her. She was softer and fitted his arms better than the Express. “How it’s not the big cats or great apes or obvious carnivores who’re the really dangerous ones, but the supposedly harmless vegetarians.” He felt odd motion, looked down at her in surprise.

“Hey Izzy, you’re shivering.”

She jerked away, wrapping both arms tightly across her chest.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.” She paused, looked back almost shyly. “It’s been hard for me, you know. Father never took me with him on his trips here. I always lived with relatives or friends. The only wild country I’ve seen until now is Central Park. And because of Dad’s reputation, everyone always expected me to know all about jungles and rain forests and such.”

He climbed back on the raft and she spoke nervously.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Not to Central Park. I’ve got to go back to the other side.” He patted the Express. “This is the only thing we’ve got that’ll stop a hippo. I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble.” He was squinting at the shining water.

“Shots seemed to have scared ’em away. But hippos are completely unpredictable.” He smiled comfortingly. “Don’t worry, Izzy, I’ll be back.”

He required two more trips to transfer the rest of the expedition and their considerable supplies. Then Murin, Barrett, and the entire complement of bearers got together and dragged the soggy craft up on shore. They’d need it for the return trip.

In contrast to the nervous river crossing, the peaceful camp was an island of tranquillity. The clearing was perfect, high enough to provide good runoff in case of a sudden shower, practically devoid of big ants and other crawling intruders.

Nearby was even a fresh-water spring, bubbling merrily out of a crack between two small boulders. While their stored water was perfectly acceptable, it always lacked something in the taste department. So did boiled river water.

Albright attempted to establish some claim to usefulness by making a “chemical analysis” of the spring’s content—just in case. For once, Barrett smiled instead of heckling him. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for the scientist. So far the man had been utterly useless and was obviously feeling the strains of inadequacy. If fooling around with a few samples of undeniably pure spring water made him happy, well, it was harmless enough. And it would keep him out of everyone else’s hair.

Barrett was cleaning out the Express in the last caressing light of late evening when Isabel strolled over. The girl seemed to have something on her mind.

“Can I talk to you, George?”

Barrett tapped the small can and put some cleaning oil on a crumpled piece of cloth. He put the cloth on the end of a metal rod and rammed it down the barrel.

“I can’t stop you,” he replied. When nothing was forthcoming, he paused and looked up from his work.

“Well?”

“In private.”

“Private? Well, well . . . if you’d like to step into my personal office, here.” He indicated the tent, which was anything but a confidential hideaway.

She stamped her foot. The woman was full of odd habits, he reflected.

“Can’t you be serious for once?”

He hoped he looked understanding, because he was going to try and make her the same. Carefully he stood the rifle stock first against a sturdy case, then put both hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.

“I know you think I’m, well, flip at the strangest times, Izzy. But if you get serious all the time about this country you find yourself getting nervous all the time, and then worried all the time, and then frightened. This isn’t a good place to be always nervous and frightened. It causes serious accidents.

“So you’ll pardon me if I don’t get serious. The boys are through with the household work. Let’s go to the spring.”

His arm went around her waist as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It rested there with the comforting weight of an old blanket as they started down the short path cut through the brush.

She stared up at him curiously, mulling over his little speech in her mind.

“You? Frightened? I can’t imagine you frightened, certainly not of this country.”

His laughter was more eloquent than talk.

“This ‘country’ has nearly killed me three times now. Fear is worse, you know, because it’s so pointless. It overrides everything else and then you can’t think. Fright is much milder, and combined with nervousness it can make an awkward moment into a fatal one. But it’s safer. Yes, I’ve been frightened. It’s a healthier out.”

“I’m still not sure I believe you,” she said, stepping over a cut vine. “You seem a part of the land.”

“Barrett, the landmark?” he smiled. Then he turned thoughtful. “No, no. We’re polite enemies at best, I think. Now, that girl,” and he looked into the quiet forest, “wherever the hell she came from, she is a part of the land. Wish I knew how she controlled those cats. Either one of ’em would bring a small fortune from a major zoo. And what one of the game hunters would pay—but I couldn’t do it.”

“I didn’t think you were that much of a conservationist,” she murmured.

“Conservationist, hell!” Then, more quietly, “I’m for animal management, of course. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. So you can go ahead and weed out a few elephants here, a couple of big cats there. That way everybody’s happy, and guys like me stay in business. But not those two cats. Not those two.”

“And why not those two?” she countered curiously. “Because of her?”

“Partly,” he confessed. “And also because I think they saved my life, once.”

Conversation lapsed until they reached the spring. The ground nearby was dry and covered with thick, short grass. It was an ideal spot not because of the spring, not because of the grass, but because in this kind of country you rarely found water without finding mosquitoes. But they weren’t here, and both Barrett and Isabel were grateful.

He sat down and smiled encouragingly. This kind of talking things out, mental catharsis, was new to him.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about—in private?”

She eased down next to him. Looking at the ground, she drew transient swirls and squares in the compliant grass.

“George . . . do you think we’ll ever find my father’s plane? Goddamn it, be honest this time—please.”

He considered, watching her. “The chances are very, very slight. Come on, you knew that before we left Nairobi.”

She gave a little sigh. “I knew it in my mind, not in my heart. No, please don’t be snide. I know it sounds trite. What I’m trying to say is that I spent so many years building up the idea of finding the plane, you know, ‘the lost papers of John Hardi with their astounding revelations, unearthed at great peril in the deepest jungles of dark Africa!’ He was a great man, though.” Barrett said nothing, and she continued.

“I saw myself accepting a posthumous Nobel prize for him, all sorts of awards and things. What I really wanted to do was partake of his greatness, his reputation, since it was obvious I’d never have any of my own. Bask in the glory of a dead man.”

“I don’t buy that,” Barrett said softly. “You can’t convince me this is just an ego trip for you.”

“Oh, I suppose there’s a certain amount of real love involved. I did love him . . . those few times I saw him. But I’ll never ever be sure it was him I loved, not the John Hardi everyone else raved about and praised. Maybe I’m trying to find more on this search than just papers. Sometimes I wish I were a psychiatrist, so I could analyze myself and get it all straightened out.”

“It sounds to me like you’ve got it pretty straight right now, Izzy.” She looked up at him and smiled back.

“Anyhow, the only Africa I’d ever seen was the Africa of travelogues and National Geographic television shows. This,” and she gestured at the close green walls, “wasn’t what I expected.”

“You’ve grown up a little, anyway. That’s worth coming this far.”

They sat quietly for a while, each talked out. Or maybe afraid of what they might say. Barrett found she’d edged closer to him.

“I didn’t want anyone to overhear. For your sake, not mine. And I know now how important it is to keep the other’s confidence up. But tell me honestly now, George, if you think there’s so little chance of finding my father’s plane, why have you been so insistent about keeping on? There’ve been lots of times you could have ordered a turn back, and with good reasons. And you were almost killed here once, I now find out. Why? I can’t believe it’s for fifty thousand dollars. You’re not the type, you’re just not!”

“I could quarrel with your evaluation and make it sound honest,” he answered, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. “But I don’t think it would fool you. You’re right, of course, there’s more to it than that.”

He went on, between kisses, to explain his ideas about the lost treasure of the Monomotapan Empire.

“Now,” she said, her voice coming a little lower and a little faster, “I’ll ask you one more time to be honest. Do you ever think you’ll find your treasure?”

It was his turn to sigh and grin crookedly.

“No, not really. But at the risk of sounding profound, every man’s got to have something, real or imaginary, to give direction to his life. Some guys find it in a bottle, the poor saps. Others in drugs. Or in money, or women, or fame—and I never really understood that one.

“Me and a few others are lucky. We’ve got dreams, dreams that rest on just enough reality to give ’em spice. They’re harmless and uncorrupting and private, and it’s one thing they can’t take away from you.”

“Then there’d be no joy for you in finding the treasure,” she said, lying back in the grass. “All your pleasure’s in the anticipation and the hunt.”

“If I ever found it,” he replied, forming a shadow over her, “I’d be deliriously happy, insanely satisfied, and obscenely fulfilled. Screw the anticipation!”

“You know,” she added gently, looking up at him and running delicate fingers along his cheek, “some men and women think they’ve got their reasons for living all planned out, carefully mapped, logically plotted, and then they find that none of it means anything. They’ve been living a lie and waiting for something worthwhile to jump out at them and say ‘here I am!’ ”

“Do tell,” he whispered, bending low.

Chapter VII

High above, Luana squatted silently in the fork of a tree and watched without moving. The big cats were not with her. They’d made a kill earlier and had stuffed themselves thoroughly. Both slept soundly in secluded bushes. Chaugh said that he’d had enough of human-watching for a while. There was nothing new to be learned from these few.

If he were here now, Luana mused, the panther might think differently.

Ohoh was there, however. He sat quietly on the end of the branch, peering down.

“What did they say?” the chimp whispered.

“I’m not sure, Ohoh.” Luana shook her head, swallowed. “It’s difficult with only a few books to help. They spoke a great deal, yet much of it seems to mean nothing. So very much talk.”

“Well,” put in the chimp with certainty, “they’ve stopped talking now. At least, I think they have.”

Luana stared downward intently. “No, that’s not normal man-speech. At least, it’s not English man-speech, or French man-speech, or local man-speech. But there is another kind of man-speech I think I know. I’ve heard it before, Ohoh, and so have you. Several times, when we crept to the edges of the forest and studied the small man nests.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I remember,” agreed Ohoh excitedly. “But these are not local men-things, and their speech is the same.”

“It may be,” she continued, “that there is a certain speech common to all.”

“That surely seems strange.” The chimp scratched his head. “They seem to be calling my name a lot.”

Luana didn’t reply. It was near quiet for many long moments in the forest. Ohoh spoke finally, solemnly. “They’ve stopped.”

“Yes,” Luana half whispered. “They’ve stopped.”

Suddenly the chimp leaned forward, began chittering excitedly.

“Oh there, there, look there!”

“Yes, I see it, too.” She didn’t move. The chimp swung over and stared at her.

“Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Hmmm?” It was a dream of the wide-awake she had to wake herself from. “Yes. I suppose I’d best,” and her mouth formed a half sneer, half smile. “They’re certainly not going to.”

She began to move quietly down through the tree.

“So you see what I mean about . . .” began Isabel, and then she stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Oh!”

“What’s the—” began Barrett. He turned and scrambled to his feet.

“Damnit, Luana, what’s the big idea of sneaking up on us like that?” He hesitated, plunged ahead. “And how long have you been watching us?”

“Interesting,” she said calmly, her gaze lowering. “Your skin is much paler there.”

“Don’t try and change the subject,” continued Barrett, trying to be furious and outraged instead of hysterical. He told himself he was upset for Isabel’s sake.

Why should he be upset for Isabel’s sake? She wasn’t. Still, he told himself grimly, this wild girl had to learn that there were certain proprieties that had to be observed. There was such a thing as common courtesy. And wasn’t he getting awfully philosophical about a thoroughly absurd situation?

“Luana,” he said, looking at her in what he hoped was a brotherly manner, “to do what you were doing is not in itself a bad thing. But to do so on the sly, without asking permission, that is a very bad thing. Do you understand?”

They stood staring at each other for a long moment. When she finally spoke it was without humor.

“Yes, George Barrett, I understand.” Her hand moved like lightning to her belt. The knife was out and striking down before he could so much as lift a hand. Isabel screamed. The blade missed her shoulder by barely a dozen centimeters.

It didn’t miss the snake at all.

Luana walked casually past a gaping Barrett and over to Isabel. Putting her foot on the snake’s body just behind the pierced skull, she grabbed the handle of the knife and gave a sharp twist. There was a tiny cracking sound. She pulled the knife out and wiped it clean on her flimsy bottom garment, watching Isabel.

“I am sorry,” she said, looking down at the badly frightened girl, “to have bothered you.” She walked to the edge of the dense undergrowth and looked back at Barrett.

“Next time I’ll ask permission. For anything.”

“Luana, I’m sorry. We didn’t know. I thought—”

“Save your breath, George,” Isabel advised him. She sat up straight and began slipping into her clothes. It was nearly pitch black now. “She’s gone.”

Barrett knew she was, too, but he continued to yell hopeful apologies into the forest. The trees supplied no reply. Night sounds were all that answered, and tree frogs mocked him. Ignoring his own nakedness, he walked around Isabel and picked up the snake by its shattered neck.

He looked it levelly in its dead eyes, and the tail still touched the ground. It was as long as he was, and the body as thick around as his arm. It was beautiful, full of azure and turquoise and baby blue diamonds with ivory borders. Everything about it was beautiful, except the ruined head.

“It’s very pretty,” said Isabel, echoing his thoughts. “What is it?”

Barrett let the limp form drop like a coil of rubber tubing, not noticing the unnatural tightness in her voice.

“Gaboon viper—big one, too. Real nasty fella. We’ve got antivenom . . . always pack some. But no hospital facilities. It could have been bad.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Then she screamed at the top of her voice, continued to scream despite Barrett’s shaking and yelling. He hit her squarely on the jaw, just hard enough.

She came to her senses in his arms and started to cry. He held her tight.

“George . . . if you want to turn back, right now, I’m ready.”

He pulled away slightly and looked down at her.

“No you’re not, Izzy, and neither am I. You’re not going to let one little deadly poisonous, lethal, murderous snake scare you off, are you?” She giggled in spite of herself, sniffling on the last tears.

“N . . . no. Why should I let a little thing like that bother me?” She mopped at her eyes and cheeks.

“Atta girl.” He gestured towards the spring. “Wash your face and we’ll go back to camp. If anybody asks, you screamed because you thought you saw a tree root, only it turned out to be just another snake.”

She giggled again, freely this time. “You’re impossible! Someone once told me that Africa was the home of the fiercest animals, the fastest rivers, and the foolishest lovers. Now all I have to check out are the animals and rivers.”

“There’s no such word as ‘foolishest,’ ” he told her.

“That’s okay. You’re no l—” The fist hovering suddenly over her nose aborted the comment, but there was a smile behind it.

Luana watched the campfire in the center of the little circle of tents for a long time. She thought, and imagined, and considered. Then she made a decision and spoke it to the air. Only Ohoh was there to hear.

“I am going to give him the shiny thing.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” queried Ohoh.

The vehemence in her reply startled the chimp.

“I don’t know if it’s wise or not, Ohoh, but I’m going to give it to him anyway!” She swung out of the tree before the shocked primate could protest.

Barrett shared a tent with Murin, but she did not want the small man awake. So it was with a special caution that she crept into camp and entered his tent. Both men were fast asleep.

She tapped Barrett on the cheek, then a second time. He rolled over sharply then and she put her hand over his mouth to stifle any outcry. He nodded understanding. Rising quietly, he threw on pants and shirt and followed her out.

At Luana’s wish they avoided the watch and moved just out of the camp. In the dim light from the distant campfire, she looked to Barrett’s sleep-filled mind like a figure out of another age, another time.

“I don’t know why you came back, Luana,” he whispered, “but I’m glad that you did.” She took a step closer. “I want to thank you for what you did today. Not that what I said was wrong, but the way I said it could have been improved. Civilization leads people to make rapid, sometimes wrong assumptions. I made one.

“That was the second time you saved my life . . . yes, I remember. What did you want to see me about?”

To his surprise, she looked embarrassed. That couldn’t be, of course. He was misinterpreting again.

“I have something I would like to give you, George Barrett . . . if you’d like it. It’s a pretty thing I found in the place where no one goes.”

“No one? You mean there’s something in this godforsaken gumbo that even the Wanderi are afraid of? Never mind. That’s very sweet of you, Luana.”

Of course he’d take the thing. Might even be something worthwhile, like a boar’s tusk. There was no point in offending the girl. Besides, it was a sweet gesture. More likely some crude figure of an animal or person she’d carved out of wood. Or maybe a pretty rock she found, or a ripe fruit.

“I’ll certainly treasure whatever you’d like to give me, Luana. I’m only sorry I’ve nothing to give in return. Tomorrow, maybe.”

She said nothing and reached into a tiny pouch that hung from her belt. Like everything else she wore, it was clearly the product of her own handiwork. She drew out something long and thin. A string, no, a necklace of some sort. Beads, or—

It was fortunate Barrett was a young man with a strong heart. He had as steady a rifle hand as any man east of the Congo, but it shook slightly as he took the chain from her grasp.

It was a necklace, all right, made of thick, heavy links. Judging by the weight, the links were solid gold. They could be gilded lead, but that was as unlikely as gold. The links ended in a single round pendant, which swayed and rattled at the end of a short, last link. He made a circle of thumb and forefinger and they just did fit around the pendant.

The pendant frame was also link gold. A single stone snuggled in the center of it. The stone was slightly bigger around than an American silver dollar, nearly as deep as it was wide, and had only five simple facets.

Trembling inwardly, he held it up to the distant light of the campfire. The light danced through it, transfigured, serviceable illumination turned to dazzling color that would shame the finest stained glass.

The reverse side had rougher edges and another five simple facets. Where the stone was chipped and not smooth, he found the final convincer. Quartz would also scratch glass, and a variety of it had a similar lemon hue. But no hunk of citrine had that unmistakable milky adamantine luster.

The chain was so much window dressing. The stone, the stone was a near-flawless yellow diamond. He had a pretty good idea of just what the stone would be worth on the open market. It would have to be recut, of course. That was no reflection on the fashioner of the necklace. The jewelers of Amsterdam had far better equipment than their fellow craftsmen of ancient Zimbabwe. The extra faceting would raise the value of the stone, not lower it.

Let’s see—four or maybe five hundred thousand. That would be enough to—

He remembered he was not alone.

“Does it please you?” asked Luana.

Barrett took a deep breath, slipped it into a pocket as casually as possible.

“It’s very attractive, Luana. Thank you.” Then someone made him furious by speaking with his voice, and without his permission. “It’s worth a great deal of money, Luana. You could live very well anywhere in the world for the rest of your life with what it would bring.”

From anyone else her reply would have sounded snobbish. From her it was perfectly natural.

“I’m not interested in the rest of the world. Not for now, anyway. You like it? Then I’m glad. It is yours.”

“Thank you, again, Luana.” He had his own voice back. “The place where you found it, where no one goes . . . are there more shiny things?”

“I did not see any,” she replied, thinking. “But I did not look for any more. I was swimming in the stream by the cliff, and saw it shining on the bottom.”

“Stream by a cliff?” echoed Barrett excitedly.

“Yes. You know the place, too?”

Barrett smiled. “Not yet. Could you,” he hardly dared ask the question, “could you take us there?” She looked uncertain.

“It is a long way and very hard.”

“We’ll struggle through somehow,” he pressed. “Can you take us?”

“If you want to go, George Barrett, I will take you.”

“Beautiful,” he told her, “terrific.” Of course, there wouldn’t be anything there. No telling where this amazing hunk of glass had come from. But, by God, it was something real! Not theory, not imagining, as solid a piece of dream as anyone could hope for, and he sure as hell was going to check it out.

“You are pleased,” she said.

“Yeah, Luana, I’m really pleased. Pleased no end.”

“Good,” and before he knew what was happening her arms were around his neck. “Then you must make love to me.” She started kissing him enthusiastically, if awkwardly.

“Wait a minute—Luana—” He backed up and tried to push her away. But those soft-looking arms were anything but.

“What is wrong, friend George? Is there something wrong with me?”

“No, Luana, it’s not that.” He ducked and weaved but couldn’t shake her loose. “Ouch!” He put a hand to his left ear. It came away daubed with red. Now he began to get angry.

“First of all, goddamnit, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing! I’m not one of your bloody cats! Second, I can’t make love to you.” He finally jerked free.

“Why not?” Her tone showed honest puzzlement.

“For one thing I’m not in the mood.” His hand went to his ear again. “Also, you’re just a bit too aggressive for my taste, and—”

“It’s because of her, isn’t it? It’s because of her!”

“Luana,” he began pleadingly, “Luana, believe me when I . . . Luana!”

She’d dashed past him into the camp. Oh mother, he thought, and pounded after her.

There was a scream from inside Isabel’s tent. Then yelling and confusion. Men tumbled out of their tents, some terrified, some trying to run and buckle their shorts at the same time, others with machetes in their hands and frantic eyes hunting unknown enemies. Barrett went straight to Isabel’s tent and yanked aside the door flap.

Her cot was overturned and the two of them were locked together on the floor, chicks-in-blankets.

Under normal circumstances, Luana would have beaten the other girl to a pulp in a few minutes. But Isabel, resisting with the strength of the utterly terrified, somehow managed to keep Luana at bay.

“Luana!” he shouted, coming quickly up behind them, “that’s not nice!” He grabbed her under the arms and hauled her bodily off Isabel.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I’m no damned speechmaker, and . . .”

Everything was suddenly upside down. It was followed by blackness and a suffocating heaviness. He flailed about wildly at the unknown smotherer, then relaxed. Murin’s voice was close, and reassuring.

“We’ll have you out in a minute, George. Take it easy.”

The clinging weight was gone and light once more filled the tent, reinforced by lantern fire. Two of the bearers continued to rearrange things.

Isabel sat to one side, unmindful of her state of attractive undress. She had both hands at her mouth and was panting heavily. Barrett rose slowly, painfully, and arched his back. There was a thumping bruise on the back of his neck.

“I’m a little disoriented,” he admitted, sitting down next to Isabel and putting an arm around her. “Did you see what happened?”

Her hands dropped to her lap and she looked uneasy.

“She threw you into the tent pole. Pretty hard. You went right into it and the whole tent came down on us. Are you . . .?”

“Fine, I’m fine. But what about you? She looked like she was trying to kill you.”

Isabel smiled faintly, shook her head. “No, not kill me, I think. Just trying to mess me up. But she was so mad she couldn’t see straight. George,” she asked earnestly, “what made her so mad?”

“Nothing at all. We’ll go into it some other time. You sure you’re okay?”

She rubbed at herself. “Couple of scratches, that’s all. It was a helluva way to wake up, though.”

Barrett grunted, suddenly looked around the restored tent.

“Mur, where is she?”

“Waiting outside,” the Breeded replied, somewhat surprisingly. He grinned. “I think she wants to make sure you’re not hurt. What’s between you two, anyway?”

“Why is everyone harping on that all of a sudden?” he said irritably. “Nothing, damnit!” He looked back at Isabel. “Wouldn’t help if you hid inside. You feel up to seeing her again?”

She smiled. “Sure.” Then she rubbed at the low neck of the filmy nightgown. As she did so, something small and shiny glinted there. Barrett blinked, nearly fell. She noticed his stare.

“Something wrong?” Then she grinned. “Nothing there you haven’t seen before.” She didn’t move when his hand dipped, raised the tiny chip of metal. It consisted of three coils of silver, a tip of a tail, and a hooded head. It was a charm, in the shape of a striking cobra.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked breathlessly. “How long have you had it?”

“Hey, slow down!” His interest startled her. “It’s only a little charm.” She fingered the object gently. “No, it’s more than that. I’ve had it since I was a baby. Put it on every night before I go to bed. My father gave it to me. Why? It’s not even real silver, George. George?”

He stood and left the tent. She hurried to follow.

Murin had sent the bearers back to their own tents, the excitement over. But Kobenene and Albright were there, a safe distance from Luana. Arms folded, she stood facing away from the tent, towards the campfire.

“See here, Barrett,” Albright began as the guide appeared, “what’s been going . . .”

“Shut up, Einstein.” Barrett put a hand on the scientist’s chest and shoved him out of the way. Kobenene jerked slightly, but that was all.

He put a hand on Luana’s shoulder and spun her around. She was so startled she didn’t resist. His hand went straight between her breasts, into the flimsy halter. When she stood you couldn’t see the small chain. It was dark with grime and exposure. So was the silver cobra.

“George Barrett,” she began, more in surprise than anger, “what—”

“Isabel!”

She walked over, eyeing Luana uneasily. He merely indicated the charm and said nothing, watching her. It was enough.

“Oh my God!” she gasped, taking a step back. He nodded knowingly.

“I might’ve guessed. Luana,” he said, turning back to her and gesturing at the silently watching Isabel, “say hello to an old friend. Your sister, I think.”

“Barrett,” sputtered Albright into the silence that followed, “you’re being preposterous!”

“Preposterous it is, Albright, but not me. Or maybe she’s not your sister, Isabel. Maybe she’s your cousin, hmmm, or just a good friend of the family?”

Luana was the most confused of any.

“Sister?”

Isabel looked at her but could say nothing. She tried several times, failed, and finally nodded violently. Luana sat down on the dark earth, slowly. She was thoroughly mixed up.

“And now,” said Barrett, walking over and gently taking Isabel’s hands from her face, “maybe you’d better tell me just what the hell’s going on, huh? I thought there was no one on that plane but your old man.”

“Isabel,” began Albright anxiously, “I think you should—”

“You keep out of this, bright boy,” Barrett warned.

Albright started to say something else, then turned abruptly and stomped back towards his tent. Kobenene trailed.

“My mother died when I was very small,” Isabel said softly. Then her voice got stronger. “Father never remarried, not formally. He’d been working a long time in Indonesia. He met this woman in Brunei, in Borneo. She claimed to be a princess of some sort. Others said she was just a very high-paid prostitute. Whatever her ancestry, she definitely had a—well—a reputation.

“Our family was very straight Especially my mother’s. Father’s parents weren’t exactly screaming liberals, either.” She smiled ruefully. “He put them in a very difficult position.

“Father was world famous and respected in his profession, and as a man. But in Peoria he’d made himself a pariah. Fortunately he wasn’t the party-going type, so he saved a lot of Illinois matrons a lot of embarrassment. From what I was told, you couldn’t imagine two more different people than my father and this woman. I’ve seen pictures of her. She . . . she was many things my natural mother wasn’t. Extraordinarily beautiful, for one thing. Exotic as hell.

“They never married, though they lived together openly. That sort of thing is a lot more acceptable now, but it wasn’t then. And for a man my father’s age to do so, with a woman half his, an Oriental, a non-Christian, well—” She shrugged.

“There’s more,” prompted Barrett.

“Anyhow, when he came to Africa to do his work, she came with him.” Isabel looked over at the silently listening Luana.

“They had a child—a girl. Both she and the woman were with him when they disappeared. It was naturally assumed they’d all been killed. Especially when they couldn’t even find the plane. My father’s parents and my mother’s were still alive at the time and they,” she paused bitterly, “they wanted to protect his memory, and hers. So whenever Father was mentioned, his . . . his concubine and their child were never discussed. It took me years to find out about it myself.” She sounded anxious.

“I would have told you, George, but there didn’t seem any need to!”

“Take it easy, Izzy. It’s all right.” Barrett tried to soothe her. “It wouldn’t have made any difference.” He looked over at Luana. “She is your sister, then.”

Isabel spoke slow and deliberate. “Her name is Lu-Ling Honeysuckle Hardi.” Luana gave a gasp, rose to her feet. Her eyes were wide. “Luana was a baby name, I guess.”

“It’s true! I remember . . . I remember another little girl.” Her brow twisted and when she spoke again it was a shout. “Bella! You’re Bella!”

“Yes.” Isabel took a couple of steps forward, her arms outstretched awkwardly. “Dear Lu-Ling . . .” Luana stepped back uncertainly.

“Lu-Ling is a dead name for a dead person. I am Luana, only.” She smiled sadly. “I cannot fight with you then, it seems. That does not mean I must love you, though.”

Isabel’s face lit up suddenly. “The plane!” she shouted. “Can you find my father’s . . . our father’s plane?” She was quivering with anticipation.

The great bird, old Uma had called it. And Wu, too.

“Is that all you have come all this way for? Yes, I can take you to it. It lies four days march from here and the journey is very, very hard.” She looked meaningfully over at Barrett. “It is not too far from a place where no one goes.”

Isabel looked puzzled. “What does she mean, George? ‘A place where no one goes’?”

“Probably nothing, Izzy. But you should be happy. Happy, hell, you should kiss your lucky you-know-what! Looks like you’re going to find your father’s papers after all. If there are any to find.”

“Yes, oh, yes! Dear Luana, I don’t know how to thank—” She started forward. Luana turned and ran. Vanished into the jungle. Isabel stopped, the words waiting to flood from her lips. Barrett put an arm around her, squeezed gently. They stared at the silent barrier of green, garbed in color of night and touched lightly here and there by the curious campfire light.

“She hates me, George. Why?”

Barrett considered. “She doesn’t really hate you, Izzy. It’s something else, and I don’t think she even knows what. Not yet, anyway.” He patted her lightly. “Come on, let’s put the rest of your tent back together.”

From another nearby tent Albright watched them disappear into Isabel’s. He slammed the flap closed—a more futile gesture would be difficult to imagine—and slumped worriedly onto his cot. The khaki-and-green roof was singularly uninstructive.

Kobenene lay across from him, watching his partner.

“Well, that pretty well tears it, doesn’t it?”

“Be quiet, you fat idiot!” the scientist growled. “I heard.” He was slamming his right fist into the opposite palm over and over. After indulging in a few minutes of this minor masochism he rolled over to stare at the big man.

“You know what will happen if they find that plane?”

“Not if,” corrected Kobenene. “When.”

“All right then, when, when—” Albright was tense and irritable. He had reason to be. Of all the insane developments!

“We might get lucky,” Kobenene theorized. “Are you sure Hardi knew about your exploiting the drug?”

“Knew about it?” Albright said in disbelief. “He was going to go to the police when he returned. The jerk! He could have been rich. I know his family was well off. You don’t think he went galavanting around the world with his bunsen burners and crazy experiments on the proceeds from his work, do you? But he could have been really wealthy! A midas!”

“With you the key-keeper of the vault, ummm?”

“I would have earned my share, sure, why not?” Albright said righteously. “He was so much better at refining the final product than I.”

“Why Albright, such unaccustomed modesty is nothing short of overwhelming. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Modest, hell,” the chemist grumbled. “I see no shame in confessing inferiority to a genius. A stupid one, but a genius nonetheless. And that’s not the contradiction it seems. It’s sad such a great mind had to be so, well, confused.”

“Are you so sure,” Kobenene continued, shifting his weight on the groaning cot, “that Hardi would have left any evidence that could incriminate you?”

Albright chuckled harshly. “You didn’t know Hardi. I told you, the man was a genius. If he fell over a cliff he’d take the time to note the color and approximate age of the passing strata. He’d have made complete and thorough notes before he splattered.

“We’ve got one hope—no, two, maybe. One is that this jungle sister is talking off the top of her head. Her mind might be filling in gruesome details with more pleasant pictures. It’s likely the plane came down in bloody pieces, and she’s taking us to see a few of the pieces. That wouldn’t be dangerous.”

“And the other?” Kobenene asked.

“That if the old bugger managed to commit something lethal to posterity before he expired, it’s been lost or dismembered by the jungle.”

“And if neither of these fortuitous possibilities happens to have occurred?”

“Well then,” continued Albright determinedly, “we’ll just have to do a little dismembering of our own.

“Otherwise you’re going to find yourself in the uncomfortable, not to mention unhealthy, position of a drug dealer with no drug to deal. Certain people would find that upsetting. That venomous old hag you ship through, for one. Of course, you could always find some other chemist to manufacture it.”

“Sadly,” said Kobenene with a lazy smile, “you’ve taken the unfriendly position of refusing to commit the formula to paper. To me the raw materials are so much powder and vegetable. How about jotting it down now, in case things get depressing?”

“Fat chance, fat man,” Albright sneered. He reached up and turned out the lantern. “I’m not ready to become expendable. Besides, I’d hate to break a beautiful friendship.” Sheets rustled as he rolled over.

Kobenene lay awake on his cot, thinking. It was too near dawn for him to sleep, anyway.

As Albright had mentioned, Isabel Hardi would be no problem. He grinned in the dark. Far from it. On some things he and Albright readily agreed. Murin he could handle, and the bearers would swing to whoever would pay them. Trouble, then, came back as it always did, to Barrett.

He glanced over at the snoring Albright. The chemist would opt in a crucial moment for something direct and unsubtle. That was hardly surprising. It was his neck on the block. He’d probably manage to have surprise on his side, but classroom manner wouldn’t help him against a desperate Barrett.

Kobenene considered, then slipped quietly out of his bunk. There was no need to disturb his partner. No, it wouldn’t be a bad idea at all to take a little action on his own.

Chapter VIII

In the following days, Barrett saw more unexplored territory than he ever wanted to. It was at his legs, in his nose and ears, crawling through his hair. Only the magnificent, the impossible diamond necklace in his pocket kept him going. Just patting his pocket and feeling the hard, unyielding shape there kept him going.

The country degenerated into the worst sort of topography. Volcanic hills rose like knife blades, clad in permanent coats of perpendicular jungle. They would pause and rest near the top . . . near it, because the crest was too narrow and sharp to sit on . . . before plunging exhaustedly into steaming lowlands again. Thank God the mountains weren’t too high! The descents required more care and caution than the ascents.

In one broad valley the usual lazy stream had turned the soft silt into mud and roofed it over with a muck-filled lake. The morning they spent crossing that swamp was one of the worst Barrett had experienced in his twenty years in Africa. They could have continued on in daylight, but everyone was so worn out when they reached the other side that they had to quit and waste a whole afternoon.

Creepers and vines and hanging flowers had grown low over the scummy water. These had to be cut so they could pass. The gook came up to their waists in places. It must have been divine providence that kept anyone from stumbling into a clinging bottom hollow or quicksand.

Now, you know better than that, Barrett! Providence had nothing to do with it. It was Luana, moving gracefully and with maddening ease through the trees overhead, who steered them past the difficult places and danger spots. How the big cats had gotten through Barrett would never know, but they were waiting for them when they finally reached the dry shore.

About the mosquitoes and flies and ten-centimeter-long water bugs that took out hunks of living flesh, of course, she could do nothing.

Now and then they would encounter a small hillock of solid earth rising above the water, and then everyone enjoyed a blissful few minutes of rest. Once they’d been approaching such a haven when she suddenly called for everyone to freeze. They stood, wet and damp and thoroughly miserable.

Luana tossed a dead branch at the dry land, then another. The first hinted at nothing. But when the second crashed into the dead leaves and fronds carpeting the dirt, it drove out a black pipe that shot away into low bushes. Barrett had caught his breath. A black mamba, all of three meters long. As deadly, or worse, than the cobra.

Unlike its hooded relative, however, the mamba was far from passive. It would have gone for the first person stepping out of the water.

Barrett hated snakes with an unreasoning passion. Well, not entirely unreasoned. He’d seen too many natives killed by the reptiles, their bodies contorted and nerves paralyzed. But he didn’t hate the tse-tse fly, which had slain thousands of times as many people as all the snakes in Africa. He didn’t hate the rogue lion he’d killed, which had terrorized several villages in the Serengeti. Not even considering what it had done to his right arm and ribs. The government had given him a damn good bounty on that one, he recalled.

But snakes—every man has his own private terror. The sheer will power required for him to hold up that dead viper Luana had killed—

That brought back more pleasant memories. He was smiling when he pulled himself out of the last of the ooze. It clung to his bare legs, reluctant to let go. He sat down on the dry bank and unwrapped the towel he’d tied around his neck. Cleaning the shoes would take hours. At least he’d been able to save his pants. His legs were easier to clean than the khaki would have been.

Gradually the rest of the party hauled itself out of the brown muck. Luana swung over on a creeper onto the damp bank, dropped lightly to the ground. It was a considerable drop. Barrett wondered why she didn’t shatter a knee from such a plunge, or at least twist an ankle. She must have thighs like steel—

That led him to precisely the kind of thoughts he’d been trying to avoid.

He got to his feet, swatting at the mud trailing from his shorts.

“Any more low places like this, Luana? God, what an unhealthy spot!” The cats, he noticed, had vanished.

“No. It is still difficult, but not so hilly or damp. The plane itself is near where a big river broadens into a kind of lake.” She tried to sound encouraging. “It is not that much further, friend George.”

“Yeah.” He kicked at the moldy loam. “We’re gonna have to stop here for the rest of the day. Everybody’s too tired to go on. We’d just be asking for a broken leg or something.” He turned and surveyed the mephitic swamp distastefully.

“Is there a place close by where we can camp, one further in than this? I’d like to get as far away from this water and the bugs as possible.”

They found a small clearing further in and higher up. Time to boil water for cooking and washing again, but at least they didn’t have to rely on swamp juice for drinking purposes. He didn’t care to imagine what it would taste like, sterilized or not.

“This’ll do, I guess,” he agreed, turning a circle and eyeing the dry brush. “It’ll have to be opened up a little, but it’s worlds above the shore.” He took off his rifle and leaned it against a tree. The machete flashed dully when he pulled it from its case on his right leg.

“I’ll get started here. How about you go back and get the others? Tell ’em we’ve found a dry spot and they’ll come running.”

“All right, friend George.” She didn’t smile.

Barrett wondered what was going through her mind as he watched her lithe form disappear back through the brush. What’s wrong with you, man, he thought as he started hacking at the reluctant growth? So the girl’s been living in the bush and is maybe a little crazy besides being a knockout and she plays a little rough, but she wants you. Just what the hell is wrong, huh?

If Isabel found out? Oh, brother! Why the hell should you care if she finds out? It’s a matter of record that you’re no saint, fella. That prompted a review of the previous thought.

Why should you care what Isabel Hardi thought? All right, maybe it wasn’t logical, maybe it didn’t make sense. That didn’t change the fact that he did care.

He slashed viciously at a short, thick palm. It parted like celery and sprayed green sap all over his hand. There was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Sure, you liked Izzy. Liked her a lot. But that wasn’t the only reason. C’mon, tough guy, admit it. This is your own head. It’s private in here.

Aha! So that’s it. You are maybe just a teensy bit afraid of that girl, aren’t you? Aren’t you?

He raised the machete again and took aim on an innocuous fern.

Something hit his upper arm with the force of a hammer.

He tumbled backwards, the machete falling nearby. As a heavy weight went around his hips he looked to his left, nearly froze with horror. A flat, ugly spade head stared unblinkingly back at him, its jaws clamped tightly into his bicep. A python. A reticulate, Vishnu help him!

A coil went around his leg, and he made a desperate lunge for the machete—came up centimeters short. He took in a deep breath and yelled for help at the top of his lungs. It might be the only chance he’d get. He yelled again and concentrated on two things: trying to press himself into the ground and reaching the machete. It lay temptingly, tauntingly, just beyond his straining fingers.

The python weighed over a hundred kilos, and it wasn’t going away. Only one thing had saved his life. The first powerful coil had gone around his hips. It was contracting now, squeezing with inexorable power, a single great, solid muscle. It hurt like hell, but that was all. His arm was bleeding slightly from under those jaws, and his leg began to throb near the second coil from the interruption of circulation.

But if the snake slipped upwards on his body, away from the protective girdle of his pelvis, it would sit over his belly and rib cage. No constrictor was strong enough to actually crush him to death. Instead, the powerful coils would tighten until he couldn’t breathe. He’d choke to death, slowly.

He struck at the flat head with his free hand. Might as well pound on a rock. There were upwards of a hundred teeth in that spring steel maw, every one of them curved and pointing backwards, to force prey back and in. It was a head equipped not for letting go, but for swallowing. He tried to roll over without rising, couldn’t.

He could have done so and reached the machete, but if he did the coil would surely have slipped upwards and gained deadly purchase. There was no certainty he’d be able to kill it before passing out from lack of air. But, goddamnit, he’d have to try something!

He’d almost resolved to try rolling when he noticed a tall figure standing in the brush, watching him.

“Luana!” he yelled. “The rifle . . . use the rifle!”

She didn’t move, didn’t react. Just stood, watching him. Barrett felt the coil begin to slip higher, towards his belt-line.

“Luana, for God’s sake!” he pleaded. He shoved with both hands at the coil, trying to force it down, keep it from rising. It was like trying to stop a runaway ’dozer.

“Help me!”

She hesitated a moment longer, then came to a decision. A few steps brought her to his side. The gun lay against the tree trunk, ignored. Placing her hand on the back of the reptile’s head, she began to stroke and pet it.

Barrett was too surprised to object. She was cooing to it, whispering to the monster. He didn’t dare move or say anything.

The powerful coil relaxed. There was a lessening of pressure on his arm. Trying to breathe as regularly and evenly as possible, he stared as the python slowly released its grip, having to slide forward and stretch its jaws wide to pull free the teeth.

Slipping backwards and down, it slithered off into the forest.

The minute the last scale left him, Barrett rolled violently to his left, came up with the rifle and aimed it all in one smooth motion. Luana was there to knock the barrel sideways. He looked at her furiously for a few seconds, glaring into those deep black eyes. Then he relaxed.

“You’re right, of course—it’s gone.” He tried to read behind that exquisite mask. “Why did you wait, Luana? Why?”

“Wait?” she said. “I didn’t wait. What are you talking about?”

“You stood there—you stood there watching while that thing was trying to press the life out of me!”

She didn’t seem to hear him, backed away a few unsteady steps.

“Wait? I didn’t . . . wait.” She whirled and dashed into the trees.

“Luana! Luana!” There was no point in chasing after her. She’d be back when she was ready.

The rest of the expedition arrived eventually. Isabel noticed his bleeding arm and ran to him, her face showing fear and concern.

“George—what was it?”

He kept his right hand clamped over the wound. It wasn’t bleeding too badly, now.

“Nothing, Izzy.” He forced what he hoped was a disarming grin. “Great white hunter cut himself on thorn tree like great idiot. That’s all. Nothing serious.”

She left him to help with the unpacking. He didn’t remember when she’d started doing that.

Murin recognized the source of the wound instantly. The punctures were unmistakable. That’s why he had the Breeded do the bandaging, over Isabel’s protests. Neither man spoke about it. Murin looked at his friend, and George looked back. Murin tilted his head—so. Barrett nodded—so.

And that was enough.

Barrett had trouble getting to sleep that night. Not from his arm, which still throbbed painfully. And not from the actual brush with slow death. He’d ridden that road before and knew how to handle the fatal chuckholes, the cracks in the pavement.

No, it was Luana who kept him awake, as surely as the snake had nearly put him to sleep. He thought about the way she’d watched from the brush. Damn it, she had hesitated! But why? If it had been a mamba at him instead of a python he’d be spared all this confusion.

No, her attitude towards him had changed perceptibly. He shrugged it off without further examination. The shock of finding out who she was had been too much for the poor kid. She was still adjusting, that’s all. Sure! As long as she continued to guide them towards the plane . . . and elsewhere. Elsewhere . . . now that was a beautiful place, dripping diamond necklaces and, oddly, traveler’s checks, all nicely countersigned by the devil himself. He smiled in his sleep.

George Barrett had a mind as crisp as a jungle map, full of straight, fine roads and pathways. Of course, it was bracketed by lots of dense spots—

The antelope was still downwind of them. Luana moved quietly through the trees as Chaugh and Jukakhan circled to get behind it. It cropped lazily at the grass, its spiraled, curving horns bobbing above the high weeds.

She shifted the knife in her right hand, trying not to breathe, to move without motion, without form. Almost above it now. Easy there, easy. Wait for the head to go down—NOW!

She dropped like a rock, the knife made an arc . . . and missed! The startled buck could have hurt her . . . not with those show horns, but with its sharp hooves. Instead, it bolted in the opposite direction while Ohoh chittered madly in the branches above.

It ran right into Jukakhan.

The two cats ignored the fresh meat and watched her jog over to the kill. Chaugh could not indicate disbelief, but she sensed it anyway.

“You missed, sister. I cannot remember when last you missed a straight kill. It was fortunate this was a longhorn and not one of the heavy ones. We might not have reached you in time.”

She growled irritably. “Be quiet and eat.” Her own knife sawed at the carcass. “It will not happen again. Have you never missed an easy kill?”

“Certainly, sister,” the panther admitted freely.

“I misjudged the distance, that’s all. Well, what are you staring at? Do you want me to have Ohoh gather some nice, soft berries for you?”

Chaugh turned his head and bit deeply into the fresh, warm haunch. But he felt unwell on this and looking across the unmoving flank, saw his concern mirrored in Jukakhan’s eyes.

Luana tossed and turned restlessly on the bed of moss and spatulate waxy leaves. She’d found a soft place between the roots of a great tree. Sleeping on the jungle floor would have been dangerous, perhaps fatal, for most people. But with Ohoh in the branches above her to give alarm at the slightest threat, and Chaugh and Jukakhan on either side, she was safer than she’d have been in the finest hotel suite in Nairobi.

Moonlight turned elephant ears to silver plate, and painted the earth with sterling. Jukakhan padded over and licked her lightly on the shoulder.

“You move without sleep, sister. What is wrong?”

She rolled over and swatted at the great cat uneasily.

“Nothing, you ugly yellow hulk. What makes you think something is wrong?”

“Your actions for one,” he replied, licking his smarting nose where her light blow had connected. “And your tone.”

“For once I agree,” came Chaugh’s low snarl. “It is not just tonight, nor the kill you missed. You have been like this for several days.”

“Been like what? Look, why don’t you mind your own business?”

Chaugh was not to be denied. “It’s the man-thing you call Barrett, isn’t it?”

“Goddamnit!” she growled, imitating Barrett’s curse. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” She closed her hands around a small rock and threw it in the panther’s direction. There was a dull thump and quick snarl as it hit his side.

“As you wish then, sister,” the panther said with dignity. “Come, brother.” The two big cats padded silently off into the dark. Luana rolled over miserably and stared at the kaleidoscope of the sky.

“Maybe,” came an uncertain small voice from that direction, “you should listen to them a little?”

“Are you defending them, Ohoh?”

“It is true that cats are not very smart,” said the chimp, “but now and then they say something worth listening to.”

“Well, you go listen to them, then,” she snapped. “I’m not in the mood for listening.”

“No, sister, you surely are not.” The chimp-shape vanished, reappeared in another tree in the direction taken by the cats. He started to follow—paused—stopped.

True, he was cleverer, smarter, braver than any cat. Certainly more so than those two great fools Chaugh and Jukakhan! But that very thoughtfulness made him less independent, too. He turned and stayed there, watching the now distant form of Luana lying at the foot of the big tree, staring upwards into the moon.

The next day dawned made to order, designed for convenience and pleasure. There were high, thick clouds devoid of compromising rain, yet solid enough to cut the sun. For the first time in a week Barrett woke up without sweating.

Luana was waiting for him when he finally left the tent. She followed him as he went to the wash basin and watched with interest as he submerged his face. Even the boiled, lukewarm swamp water was a welcome cleanser.

He rubbed vigorously at his face and neck as he spoke. “You say it’s less than a day’s journey from here?”

“Yes,” she answered quietly, “but the jungle is thick all the way.”

“That’s nothing new.” He finished his face, dried his hands.

“But not too thick,” she amended. “You should make it before the sun falls.”

“Good.” He turned. “Mur! Murin!” The Breeded was at his side in a minute.

“George?”

“Luana says the plane’s not quite a day’s march from here. We’ll take light bedrolls and enough food and water for two days. It’s near a river—that right, Luana?” She nodded. “So if we get stuck, there’ll be no water trouble. Take half the men.”

“Okay, partner. Anything else?”

“That should do it. This is a good spot and we’re well set in. The rest can stay here and keep up the camp. We’ll only move if we decide we’ll need more than a day at the site.” He grinned. “Let ’em throw dice to see who stays and who works.”

Murin chuckled. “Okay, George. And no side bets, or that skinny one, Palia, will have the others carrying his load all the way back to Mpanda.”

They made better progress than Barrett expected. It was heavily overgrown, all right, but slightly downhill and dry. Certainly nothing as bad as the swamps.

It was near noon when Luana dropped down next to George. She walked alongside without speaking for a while, then spoke without turning. There was nothing in her voice or manner to hint at the bombshell she dropped.

“We must turn back.”

“Back?” Barrett stumbled, regained his balance. He managed to smile. This was a joke, or something. Don’t panic, boy. “Why?”

“Wanderi,” she said, in the same way she might tell him her foot hurt, or that there was a caterpillar on his shoulder.

You can now panic, boy. He looked around wildly.

“I don’t see anything.” There was more hope than sense in that comment.

“They’re trying to surround us completely,” she continued. “At first there were only two of them. I thought it might be only a hunting party. Then, a few minutes ago, a great many of them arrived without warning or sign. We had best turn back.”

“All right.” Something surged up at the back of his mind and he looked at her sharply. “Luana, you wouldn’t be making this—” She turned to him and didn’t smile.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

He turned and shouted. “Mur, tell the boys we’re turning back!”

From the rear of the procession his partner looked at him quizzically, but started to give the necessary order. Isabel was alongside in a second.

“George—Luana—what’s the matter?”

“Wanderi,” muttered Barrett, trying to look six ways at once. “They may only be upset because we’re first moving into their territory. If we turn back, there’s a chance they’ll leave us alone.”

It seemed that way at first. They’d gone a hundred meters and more back along their track. Then the witch-men were on them from all sides. Barrett barely squeezed off three shots before something hard and sharp hit him from behind. He went down like a rock.

Isabel grabbed up the gun and fired it point blank into the face of the witch-man with the club. The heavy caliber shell destroyed his expression. Also his face. Then someone tackled her from behind and the gun fell from her hands.

Seeing Barrett down and the overwhelming number of their opponents, Murin the Breeded reached several conclusions simultaneously. No blowguns, no poison had been used this time. No spear had gone for his partner, despite the momentary destruction his rifle had wrought. That left only one possibility, quite more terrifying than spear or poison.

The witch-men wanted them alive.

He raised his own gun, aimed at the unconscious Isabel, and pulled the trigger. The blunt edge of a spear cracked his forearm and the shot went wild. A second later, so did his thoughts.

Luana was practically encircled by the cautious Wanderi. An impressive number of them lay scattered around her, dead or dying. She had a knife in each hand, but it was her inhuman growling as much as those tiny blades that kept them at bay.

The circle began to close, slowly, inexorably. Snarling especially violently she whirled, reversed both knives to hold them by the blade, and threw them. A running leap took her over and through the momentary gap vacated by the two fallen warriors. She sprang for the lowest branch of a huge kobo tree, caught, it and started to swing up.

The war club hit her at the base of the temple.

Dazed, her swaying form hung from the branch for long moments before dropping into the brush below.

When Barrett regained consciousness, the first thing he saw was the jungle floor passing beneath him. He rode trussed at ankle and wrist, suspended face downward from a pole carried by a pair of warriors. The bouncing, jostling movement made it difficult for him to clear his head. It was a long while before he was able to lift his gaze to see the figure on the pole behind his. Isabel.

“Izzy, are you okay? Oh, geezus, stop bawling, will you? These people might . . .”

“Let her cry.”

He tried to turn to the sound of the interruption, found it impossible in his current bonds. By bending his neck nearly all the way back, he found he could just see ahead. The position was peculiar, the form familiar. Luana was bound to the pole in front of him, securely fastened to the wood with vine ropes.

“They got you, too, huh? Where were those two kittens who’re always hanging around?”

Luana’s reply was self-apologetic, her tone contrite.

“I chased them away. I was mad and unfair. I’m sorry now. It was the wrong thing to do.”

“That’s great; that’s dandy! Your hindsight’ll be a real help!” He was sorry now, too, and mad. He wanted to yell at her some more, but all he could think of was the necklace. He twisted in his ropes. The lump was still in his pocket. Right now he’d trade it for a single, small grenade, U.S. Army, anti-personnel. So close! He’d come so close, and now—

No one knew much about the Wanderi and less was known about the witch-cults. Maybe Luana—

“Have you got any idea what they’ll do with us?”

“These evil ones are clever,” replied the girl easily. “They’ll have some reason for taking us alive.” And then, incongruously, she laughed.

“I’m sure they’ll have something special for me. I’ve caused them trouble before. They’ll want to make the passing of a Msitu pepo, a forest spirit, as memorable as possible.”

The drums started up then. Barrett couldn’t tell if they were the same they’d heard on an earlier, safer day.

“Getting near the village,” he announced unnecessarily. “Please, Izzy, quit crying, will you?”

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed to blubber. “I don’t want to die! I’m not a brave person, George. Don’t let them hurt me.”

Something knotted and tightened in his throat, nastier than any python.

“It’s my fault, Izzy. I should have shot us both when I had the chance.”

The village lay on level ground with little clear space around it. Trees overhung the cane and vine stockade on all sides. It was impossible to tell how big it was, because so many of the huts were set back under the trees, and there were even small trees and bushes growing inside the stockade. It was not a weak village, though, judging by the number of villagers crowding around.

The huts were made from palm, cane, and dry straw, with mud walls. They were little different from any other backward native village Barrett had seen in this part of Africa, though these were the first he’d evaluated upside down.

There were a few peculiarities that marked it uniquely Wanderi. For one thing, each hut boasted several poles in front of the entrance. Sitting on top of each pole, usually brightly painted and carved, was a human skull. Most bore intricate, neatly etched-in designs, especially the tops and jawbones. Some native peoples did fine work in wood, others crafted in ivory. The Wanderi might cling to archaic arts, but at least their handicrafts were consistent with their reputation.

Then there was the throne they were hauled before. The chief sat there. He was flanked by several, if not all, of his wives, and a pair of doctors not registered with the A.M.A. One stood on either side of the royal person.

Their bodies were magnificently painted, mostly stripes in shades of yellow and ochre and adobe red. All three men wore headdresses of monkey fur and the plumage of exotic birds. Their loincloths and shoulder skins were leopard, hyena, and wild dog, topped with chains of bone and wood beads.

In addition, the witch doctors had their own special accouterments. Rattles, witch sticks, tiny bark packets of powders and herbs and dried bugs. One wore a headdress based on the skull of a small crocodile. The other sported a leopard head chapeau to support the bird feathers and monkey fur.

They were released from the poles and forced to stand, hands and feet still bound tightly. Clearly their captors were going to give them no chance to kill themselves and thus spoil whatever party they’d planned.

The witch doctors pranced and hopped all around them. One shook a red powder in Barrett’s face that made him sneeze violently. They grimaced and made faces like out-of-work actors, but it wasn’t a bit funny.

The chief raised what was clearly a ceremonial club of some kind. That was the signal for the whole population to begin jumping up and down, howling with what seemed to Barrett like a perfect combination of joy and hate.

Abruptly, they were being taken outside the village, running with their captors. If anyone slowed, a spearhead prodded him or her to keep up the pace. Barrett could hear Isabel moaning and screaming behind him. She was crying again.

They didn’t go far into the jungle, though it felt like kilometers to Barrett. He didn’t know where they’d been taken nor why, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t for exercise. Good health wasn’t on the minds of their tormentors. He glanced around. It seemed like the entire population of the village had followed them.

They’d stopped at the edge of a tiny hill. A slope of some forty-five degrees ran ten or eleven meters downward before the ground leveled off again. At the bottom of the slope was a large jumble of dead trees and rotting palms. Unimpressed at first, his gaze wandered idly before shooting back to widen at the pile of decaying vegetation.

The surfaces of the prone trunks were in slow but constant motion. It was almost as if the punky wood wore a coat of ripply fur, like fox or sable.

Something happened to him then that hadn’t happened since he was a small boy. Not that last time the Wanderi had attacked and wiped out his party and nearly him. Not the day he’d gone for a bucket of water and been surprised by a spitting cobra and the doctors had told him he might lose his sight. Not even when the first shot from the Express had misfired at that charging bull elephant and he was sure he’d never get off the second.

He broke out in a cold sweat.

It was a weird, extraordinary condition. The sweat was pouring down his cheeks and arms and dripping down the back of his collar, yet he was shivering. He willed himself to look away and found he couldn’t. The sight below held his eyes with all the fascination of the gas chamber. Held them to the pile of dead unfeeling trees blanketed with a rippling, malevolent carpet.

It was a single organism, dozens of kilometers long. It was all mouth and no brain and most assuredly, no heart.

An army ant bivouac.

The clump of dead wood, of rotting trees and lifeless vegetation, was an army ant bivouac. Here a single hoard, which shamed all the Attilas and Hitlers of history in every way but size, had stopped. They formed living walls, chambers and rooms within the wood built with their living bodies, to store eggs and nurture more hell.

Foraging expeditions charged out in all directions to scour the earth clean of life and drag it back to the communal maw. They were small danger to a healthy man. Any child could step over the broadest of their powerful jaws, could outrun the swiftest of their soldiers, could crush beneath his foot the strongest of their workers, and then dart aside to kill yet another and another. Any child could do that . . . any free and unbound child.

The witch-men set up their screaming and gibbering again. One of the bearers was clubbed forward. The man twisted and screamed. The two witch doctors approached, bent him down. It took four other warriors to hold the bound man steady while the witch doctors bent his legs back and tied his ankles to his shoulders, wrists to knees.

They wouldn’t tie his ankles to his neck, Barrett reflected with cold detachment. That would be easier, neater. But that way the man might be able to choke himself. This was Jara, a good companion and solid worker, who earned his pay and never complained. Barrett forced himself to watch. If he were lucky, extremely lucky, the horror might fade with repetition.

They pushed and rolled him a few meters to the edge of the slope. As the two witch doctors gesticulated and pranced and mouthed at his pitiful, jerking body, the four warriors cut off his clothes. There was a horrible pause. Then the four shoved together.

Screaming unceasingly and shatteringly loud, Jara tumbled over and over down the slope and crashed into the wood. The carpet seemed to hesitate, then burst into a flurry of movement. His previous screams were expressions of mild surprise compared to the sounds his throat produced now. The ants had discovered a gigantic supply of fresh meat at the very doorstep of their castle.

Twisting desperately, Jara tried to wriggle away. But his tight bondage made it impossible for him to roll uphill. The tree trunks blocked any escape in the other directions. He only bled a little at each bite . . . but there were thousands of bites. Soon his twitching dark form was completely covered by the all-consuming blanket.

He continued to scream for at least five minutes, the screams growing progressively less loud. In thirty minutes there was nothing left to scream with, in an hour nothing but bones. Then even the skeleton began to fall apart as the linking ligaments were sectioned and devoured.

A second bearer was brought forward, bound, taunted, and rolled down the slope. He didn’t scream half as long, much to the evident disappointment of the villagers. He’d stopped screaming, Barrett noted academically, when the ants reached his eyes. Lucky devil. Heart failure, maybe, or just plain shock.

Trying to be as clinical as possible, he shifted his position and managed to locate most of his companions. They weren’t in single file any more, but all grouped around the slope. Isabel, fortunately, had long since fainted. Luana appeared to be watching the carnage with interest. Either that, or she’d fainted with her eyes open. No, her head moved, denying any such physiological oddity. She was quite conscious. Albright, somewhat surprisingly, looked to be praying. He was shaking very violently. Kobenene merely wept softly, to himself.

The last bearer was gone, and now Barrett felt hands working at his own bonds. He wondered if army ants could get indigestion. He hoped so. There was a fine shrieking inside him. So far he’d managed to keep it bottled up. Try to show courage, that was the best thing.

That wasn’t what he wanted to do, though. What he wanted to do was scream his guts out. But some primitive, antagonistic tribes would show a bit of mercy to a man of real courage. Maybe they’d stumble down the slope and pull him out before fatal damage was done. Say, with only his legs eaten away.

It was a straw, and a thin, bent straw at that, but it was the only barrier between him and insanity. His hands were pulled back and he felt them bending his legs towards his head. They were working at his ankles.

Suddenly there was a loud Wanderi voice. He understood little because of the alien dialect. Then he felt hands under his shoulders, lifting him to his feet. The shock of it was too much and he stumbled along in their grasp, a complete blank.

It wasn’t until they were nearly back to the village that he thought to ask Luana what had happened.

“I am not sure. I do not know for certain, but I can guess. Look around you.”

Barrett did so, but his mind was still adjusting to the fact that his inventory of flesh was complete.

“Well?”

“What do you see?”

The sun had long since set. It was a wonder to Barrett how the men who were directing him could see where they were going in the dense underbrush.

“Not much,” he replied. “It’s practically night.”

“That’s it,” Luana agreed. “I think that’s why they stopped. It cannot be much fun for them if they can’t see you or the ants.”

There were many torches burning when they reentered the village. Barrett saw several burning brands mounted on the chiefs throne. In front of the tier several witch-men were working on something unseen. The lack of discovery didn’t bother Barrett overmuch. He’d seen enough for one day.

One by one they were untied, then unceremoniously shoved into an empty, surprisingly clean hut. A single torch burning outside the open portal threw plenty of light into the hut. There was also a low fire in a stone pit burning in the center of the floor.

The six survivors backed as far into the hut as they could. Barrett struggled to crawl on skinned knees to where Isabel lay, crumpled in a dirty heap against the wall. The shock of being thrown into the hut had brought her out of her daze. Apparently she was all cried out.

“Isabel,” he asked, as gently as possible, “how are you holding up?” It sounded inane, but he didn’t know how else to put it.

Her reply was surprisingly steady and just plain surprising.

“As well as can be expected for anyone who’s going to provide a bug’s breakfast.”

Her tone was flip, but he could see her body shaking even in the bad light.

“I wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “if this is how the people who used to operate the concentration camps got used to it? Isn’t there some kind of limit to how much horror the human mind can observe before it snaps? I thought I’d passed mine a dozen times already.”

“Izzy,” he began softly. “When they take you and push you in you must try not to scream. Most primitive peoples admire courage. They might save you. Especially . . . you. They might—”

He wasn’t as steel-nerved as he thought. He choked on the words. But she knew what he’d said unspoken.

“Save me for a fate worse than death? I hope you’re right, George. With every gram of my being I hope that you’re right. I’ll take that fate worse than death. Because I’ll scream, George. I know it’s weak of me, but I’ll scream right away.”

He looked away. There was nothing else he could say.

“I’ll try, George, if it comes to that,” she said tightly. “I’ll go crazy, but I’ll try. But George—oh, God!”

“You’ve got to, Izzy,” he whispered, as strongly as he could. “If you can hold off for even a few minutes, give them time to think of you as someone strong, worth keeping alive, they may—”

He looked up and stopped. In the dim light he hadn’t noticed when she’d turned away from him. She wasn’t looking at him now. Her body was jerking—once, twice. He could hear her heave, long, wracking gasps. The feeling of helplessness was the worst part of it. He didn’t know what he could have done anyway, but the feeling—

It occurred to him that she must have seen something else, to suddenly turn and heave like that. He thought back. She’d been looking at him . . . no, past him, over his shoulder. He turned on his side and for the first time noticed the walls of the hut they were in.

The ceiling was made from polished hardwoods and rose to a high peak. Ceremonial masks and other conjuring articles lined the sections where the roof ended and the walls began. It was the wall decorations that dug into his interest with crooked, hooked fangs, and hung on.

The straw matting was lined with neatly trimmed, beautifully preserved human skins. Male and female, adults and children. Most of them were dark, but a few were obviously East Indian and a couple, yes, Caucasian.

First they’d been split neatly up the back of the legs, arms, and spine. Then peeled off, opened, and cured to preserve them against rot and shrinkage from heat. Thank God the heads were missing. Outside on poles.

But he’d noticed far more skulls than skins. Unless there were a large number of medicine huts like this, which he doubted, this treatment was reserved only for very special captives. Normally the skin and everything else was destined for the ants. The skulls could be recovered from that chamber of horrors with long sticks.

He found himself studying, with clinical detachment, the skill involved. Each skin was perfect, without nicks or tears. There was one of a tall man, there, that looked like it could jump right off the wall. Was his self-control really this good, or was he retreating into a kind of wide-awake shock?

Isabel rolled back towards him, still choking and coughing slightly. She struggled to a sitting position.

Unbidden, the image of what their bodies, thus treated, would look like leapt into his mind. No doubt the procedure was carried out while the victim was still alive.

Self-control or not, it was good he had room on his own side to throw up.

Chapter IX

The biggest surprise was that they managed to sleep at all that night. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Fear, applied to its subject without letup over a decent interval, can be a powerful depressant. Being terrified for ten hours without a break took all the reserves out of them. They slept.

Something jabbed Barrett in the ribs, hard. It was a spear. The blunt end, unfortunately.

They half hopped and were half carried outside the hut. Albright had to be dragged this time. Barrett’s suggestions about showing courage fell on deaf ears. Their escort prodded and shoved them towards the throne.

A wooden frame in the shape of a square had been set up in front of the dais. As soon as they had appeared, the assembled villagers set up a howling and stamping of impressive proportions, pointing and gesturing, throwing their hands in the air, and generally matching the performance of the previous afternoon.

They were pushed, and in Albright’s case dragged, to five stout poles set in the ground near the frame. As he was edged forward another piece of twine was passed around his wrists. A warrior slammed him urgently against one of the poles, and he felt the added cord binding him to the wood.

The chief appeared with his entourage, spectacular and terrifying in their barbaric finery. He took his seat. A word to the witch doctors and then the ceremonial club was raised high overhead. Intoning some rapid-fire mumbo jumbo, he passed the club to the four points of the compass, then lowered it. The crowd noise dropped to an expectant murmur, and the villagers pressed closer on all sides.

Now it was time for the witch doctors to go into their routine, dancing around the wooden frame. They were apparently blessing, sanctifying the structure—and several ominous clay bowls filled with unseen instruments.

Several husky warriors came over and selected the first victim. Luana. She didn’t so much as sniffle, but she fought them every centimeter of the way. She let herself droop and they had to lift her up. When two of them lifted her under the arms and raised her off the ground, she suddenly jerked up both bound legs. The double kick caught one of the warriors in the side with enough force to crack ribs.

Using a rock-hard fist, one of the warriors began clubbing her on the side of the head until she slumped in their arms. She was still conscious, but barely.

Barrett’s mouth went wide, but nothing came out. What could he say or shout? What words could possibly boost the courage of a person in a situation like this? Better to leave one to his own thoughts and not intrude the outside world.

She was fighting them again, but in slow motion. Her gestures were soft as butter. They dumped her back first onto the frame. Her wrists were separated and tied to the top two corners of the square. Then her ankles were released and secured to the bottom bar.

Several warriors grasped the top bar and shoved. The square frame rose to a vertical position and was lifted high. The top pole, projecting out past where Luana’s wrists were fastened, was eased down into two thick, forked logs. She hung there, the frame swaying slightly on its supports.

The witch doctors resumed their praying and prancing, this time restricting their attentions to the bound girl hanging in the frame. They sprinkled multi-colored powders and shreds of plants on her. Once, she managed to spit on one of them. The crowd found it amusing.

Fully cognizant of events to come, the witch doctor held his temper easily. It would take a great deal more than a little spit to make him kill her in a flash of anger. And a knife blow would spoil the superb skin.

Crocodile-head moved to one of the painted clay bowls and selected a device from the contents. It was a bone knife, some fifteen centimeters long and as wide as Barrett’s palm. There was no way of telling what kind of skeleton the blade had been fashioned from. Barrett could guess.

Holding the ceremonial blade high over his head, the witch doctor began to dance around Luana. He thrust and jabbed and poked with it, coming closer and closer but never quite making contact.

All at once the village was quiet. Graveside silent. After all the preceding hellish screaming and yelling, the subsequent peacefulness was twice as horrible.

The witch doctor, moving as though every step was prescribed by ritual, moved behind her. His doppelgänger stood in front and put both hands firmly on her shoulders, holding the frame steady, still. Crocodile-head raised the knife and brought it slowly down towards the back of Luana’s neck.

Isabel, forgetting her promise to herself, forgetting the warnings from George, screamed . . .

Ohoh had been stuffing himself with ripe bananas, falling behind the expedition while filling his belly with fruit. By the time he’d hurried on to catch up and spotted the witch-men circling through the trees, it had been too late to cry a warning.

Helplessly, he’d seen the Wanderi surround the little party, attack, and capture all of them. Even sister beloved.

How do you feel now, Ohoh? Comfortable? Sleepy, with your belly stuffed and your sister in the hands of the evil man-things?

If it would have made a difference, he would have battered out what few brains he had against the trunk of the mbogo tree. He did have enough of them to realize that the gesture would be no help to Luana.

That’s when he started back, fairly flying through the trees, making tremendous, desperate leaps from bole to branch without caring that a misjudgment might plunge him twenty or thirty meters to the hard forest floor below. Startled rainbows exploded from the foliage where his sudden passage surprised local fowl. Smaller monkeys and wide-eyed lemurs dashed into higher branches when the brown shape hurried through their homes.

He finally found Chaugh lolling comfortably beside a water hole, half asleep. Ohoh fell the last five meters and landed square on the dozing panther’s back. Chaugh shot several meters straight into the air and Ohoh was thrown free.

The panther swung angrily to search for his unseen assailant. When he discovered that it was only the mischievous chimp, he started towards him angrily. Childhood brother or no childhood brother, he’d cuff the intolerable ape halfway to the veldt.

Ohoh ignored the panther’s threatening approach. This astonishing behavior alone was enough to tell Chaugh that something important was up. The chimp hopped up and down, chattering frantically and making twelve contradictory gestures at the same time. Chaugh paused and waited patiently. Finally Ohoh slowed down enough for the big cat to absorb the basics of his performance.

“We must hurry,” he muttered finally, and started off in the direction Ohoh had come. “The evil man-things may act, and—”

Three violent tugs on his tail interrupted his progress. He whirled, snarling.

“Now what is the matter with you, offspring of toads!”

While both began to argue noisily, Jukakhan, aroused by all the commotion, rose from his sleeping place and ambled into the little clearing. In their excitement, both the panther and Ohoh had forgotten the easy-going giant. Ohoh now had to repeat the entire story for the lion’s benefit. He also had to repeat the tail pulling, for Jukakhan was equally impatient to be off.

“You cannot, you cannot!” the chimp insisted. “Do you mush-heads not understand? There are hundreds of the man-things! We would all die, and sister, too!”

“Destruction to them!” roared Jukakhan, clearing the forest of warm-blooded life for half a kilometer in all directions.

“Yes, yes, most certainly, of course,” Ohoh stuttered. “But they have poisons, like the legless folk. Can you chew out your own insides, flat-face? We must have help. It must be done quickly, so that they will not have time to ready their poisons.”

“I like this delay not,” the lion growled. “And every second we tarry, sister may die.”

“The evil man-things have ceremonial stalkings, too,” the chimp reminded them. “One carefully prepared friend is worth more than a dozen who rush in unthinking.”

The great lion scratched at his mane, coughed. “You think too much, ugly little brother.” The broad face twisted with unaccustomed thought. “Yet . . . yet I see there is truth in what you say.”

Chaugh spoke hurriedly. “What would you have us do?”

Ohoh explained, repeating several times to make sure the cats understood.

“It will not work,” said Jukakhan finally. He was adamant. “They will not come.”

“Not for you, nor surely for I,” Ohoh agreed. “But they all know of man-sister and most have dealt with her. For her—”

Chaugh nodded sagely. “It may be possible. I will take the tree places and the high rocks.” He turned to Jukakhan. “You, brother, must go quick to the green edge, where the four legs thrive.”

“And I and the brethren will take the treetops,” Ohoh concluded. He swung himself up into the nearest tree. “Go then, brothers, and pass over no one!”

The strange triumvirate split.

Chaugh sought out the many hiding places of the tree hunters, the many soft bowers, well-worn branchings, the hill caves and oft-used burrows and hollow dead trunks, and bade them come.

Draught scratched lazily at a favorite stump and rolled his eyes.

“I am too tired and hungry today.”

Ple-um the Spotted and swift Tassalay both had mates who were with cub.

Chaugh listened to all, and countered.

“Man-sister needs you.”

Draught and Ple-um and swift Tassalay came.

Jukakhan went to the broad, flat places and spoke to the brothers. Eventually he came even unto Shavarham, Lord of the Great Pride, who sat in the sun and pawed uncertainly at the dry earth and grass. He was nearly as big as Jukakhan and his hesitant voice even deeper.

“This is not a thing ere done afore.”

Jukakhan replied, “Man-sister needs you.”

Shavarham roused the Pride.

Ohoh darted and passed among the tree folk and for once there was purpose and direction among them instead of scrapping and argument.

“Man-sister needs you!”

The witch doctor’s blade touched the back of the perfect neck, through the flowing black hair . . . and stopped.

A single snarl, bell-like and menacing, echoed through the village. Somewhere a titan was clearing its throat. The witch-men looked around nervously. If it had been quiet before, now all was silent as the Styx.

From his raised throne of skulls and bone, the Wanderi chief glanced uneasily from side to side. Even Isabel was startled out of her screaming.

“What was . . . that?” she whispered. “They’ve stopped.”

“It sounded like several big cats, growling in unison,” Barrett muttered, trying to see over the high cane stockade. “Funny—what do you hear?”

Emptiness of deep space, null music of the harmonious void.

“Nothing,” she answered.

“Right. Not a bird, not a monkey—nothing!”

There was a second snarl from the unseen feline choir. The witch doctor lowered his arm and began to back slowly towards the imagined safety of the throne. The crowd of villagers looked unsurely from one to another. Their solid, painted ranks began to flow and stir.

The second call, though, was answered.

From inside the village.

Luana threw back her head and let out a full-throated scream any she-leopard would have been proud of. Even Barrett, who’d half been expecting something of the sort, jerked in his bonds. It was answered.

From the opposite side of the village, this time.

Another rolling, booming reply, from the north, and two more from the village south, near the main gate, and a whole basso and tenor barrage from the eastern jungle. In minutes the village was surrounded by moanings and roars and thunderous snarls, like Heaven with the army of Satan at its gates.

The chief suddenly stood and raised his club, shouting orders. It was an impressive, brave gesture, and had its calculated effect. The still nervous tribesmen relaxed slightly, settling in their places. The witch doctor raised the white blade and moved forward again.

He never reached her.

Through the main gate to the south, through the cane wall on the north, over the low western stockade, and through the very huts themselves on the east, the feline host poured upon them. Lion and leopard, cheetah and panther swarmed into the enclosure.

Some of the Wanderi were so thoroughly paralyzed by the unnatural assault that they remained frozen in place. They died early. Others ran shrieking for the imagined protection of their huts, only to be run down and torn to pieces by two or three of the great cats.

A few warriors with presence of mind dashed desperately for their spears and blowguns and shields—only to find them gone. Ohoh and the rest of the tree folk had come scrambling in over the rooftops and gathered such weapons up. Now they stood on the rooftops or in the overhanging branches, shaking precious spears and war clubs and knives at the frantic men below while jeering excitedly at the continuing carnage.

It was a spectacle worthy of ancient Rome, only the scenario was reversed. The lions had allied themselves with the martyrs and turned on the audience.

Barrett felt a sudden slight breeze at his back and his hands fell free. Another, lower down, and he was stumbling forward on weak ankles. Turning, he saw an impossibly big male lion take a casual swipe at Albright’s bonds, then another, and the scientist too was freed. Another centimeter closer, Barrett reflected, and the big cat could just as easily have removed his hands instead of the rope. He tried to rub some circulation back into his wrists, fighting the pins and needles.

Chaugh didn’t even bother with the elaborate, thick knots binding Luana. He simply gripped the wood just back of each binding place in his powerful jaws and bit down. The poles snapped like matchsticks.

“Come,” she ordered, having to shout to be heard over the hellish cacophony. “We’ll go back to camp for the rest of your supplies. Then we can go on to the plane.”

“Again?” said Isabel wonderingly. “I hate to give up—so close after so long! But hadn’t we better run like hell back the way we came?”

Barrett glanced back over his shoulder as they jogged out of the village. No Wanderi tried to stop them. At least two hundred big cats were loose in the compound. He moved closer to Isabel.

“I think Luana means to say that the Wanderi—what’s left of them—will not be in shape to chase anyone for quite a while.”

“Then it appears,” Albright put in, puffing with the unaccustomed exertion, “that thanks to dear Luana we may reach the plane after all!” The chemist saw no point in arguing for a retreat. That had been tried before and failed. Harping on that line, especially now, could only provoke suspicion.

“No thanks to me,” she replied, “but all to these two.” She indicated Chaugh and Jukakhan. They’d left the destruction to others and joined them. “And to Ohoh.”

She looked momentarily puzzled and searched the ground around them. Then her gaze rose. She saw her three animals in the trees now, moving away from the village. Luana doubled over in laughter. Barrett, Isabel, Albright, Kobenene, and Murin had to halt also. When they finally located what she was looking at, even the scientist couldn’t supress a chuckle.

Ohoh swung in the tree above them, carrying a Wanderi war club and dripping crushed feathers from the once lovely headdress of the Wanderi chief.

Behind them, the army of cats, without Chaugh and Jukakhan to give purpose and direction and meaning to their work, began to revert to their natural state. They squabbled and scrapped among themselves. Soon, in groups and twos and singly, they began to split and leave the village.

Unsurprisingly their retreat went uncontested.

Chapter X

They reformed themselves the next day for another try at the plane. Barrett’s toughest task, after calming the frantic bearers who’d remained in camp, was deciding what to leave behind and what to throw away.

It was doubly painful for someone used to figuring budgets to the penny, but there was nothing to be done about it. Half their men were gone. If anything, now was the time to travel light and not burden themselves with luxuries and unnecessary material.

He’d made the formality of asking Isabel whether she wanted anything particular saved. Barrett needn’t have worried. She couldn’t have cared less if they’d dumped everything. So Barrett was able to proceed with the redistribution of the load with a clear conscience. Only his own sense of thrift was outraged.

More importantly, seven of their nine rifles had been lost. The superstitious Wanderi had destroyed them that first, terrible night. Despite Luana’s assurances that the witch-men would give them no trouble, he would have felt better with the rifles back. Only he and Murin had brought spare guns. Murin’s telescopic .470 automatic would have to serve for general use, and he still had the Express.

While those two ought to stand them in good stead against assorted bellicose fauna, they’d be of little use if the Wanderi ever pulled themselves together again. Not, he reflected wryly, that the loose weapons had been any good in staving off that first assault.

They took everything that could be easily carried and destroyed the rest. Even Isabel was fitted with a small pack. Barrett was damned if he’d let the witch-men amble out and help themselves to the big tents, for example. And there was no point in trying to bury or otherwise hide them. They might not be returning by the same route. If Barrett had his way, they’d circle far to the south on the march back. Splitting the troop in half again to have the luxury of a permanent base camp was, of course, out of the question now.

The hike to the plane was uneventful, but Barrett still got little sleep the one night they camped. The brush with disaster had been too close. He found himself spinning in his bedroll at every sound, every falling twig, every clicking insect. He hadn’t done that in many years.

His nervousness continued despite Luana’s presence and the sure knowledge that she’d detect anything dangerous long before he would, continued despite Ohoh’s aerial reconnaissance and the two big cats flanking them on either side.

After all they’d been through, Barrett thought that the actual finding of the wreck would prove anticlimatic. Instead he found himself feeling a little thrill when they topped the slight rise before the river and first saw the rusting hulk.

Vines and creepers had found the broken right wing and battered tail a firm anchorage. Birds had made the hollow places under the wings and tail look almost natural with small bowers and nests. Mice lodged in the fuselage, and from a hole in the base of the tail an old mongoose regarded their approach with curious stare and the smile of a Chinese philosopher.

Barrett barely had time to shout a warning about snakes and rusty old slivers of metal before Isabel had sped past him towards the wreck. He followed hurriedly and helped her up into the slanted cabin. In the excitement, no one noticed Albright and Kobenene’s lack of same.

Those two put their own packs aside, while the bearers stacked packs and cases and began trying to arrange a much reduced camp.

Barrett followed her into the plane, with Murin close on his heels. The inside, as expected, was a shambles. Remnants of stains on the floor and control board had been mercifully obscured by rust and time.

The pilot’s seat was twisted half out of the floor, the bolts holding it to the metal broken or bent. Luana pulled herself in and watched them curiously. She’d been here many times.

She pointed out her neatly stacked collection of books in the back of the cabin, behind the rear seats. They’d been wrapped in big leaves to help retard rot and were suspended by thin wires drawn from the plane’s ruined engine to minimize their accessibility to insects.

“May I look at your books, Luana?” Isabel asked.

“Yes. There are many I do not understand. Perhaps if we have time and you do not have to rush from here, you can tell me what some of the big words mean—”

Isabel smiled. “Certainly I will . . . sister.” She began to dig energetically through the aging tomes. Some of the volumes were general texts on Africa. There was also an almanac, a dictionary, a few magazines, and general books. All were illustrated, some profusely. Even the dictionary. There were also a couple of children’s books, looking utterly out of place with their pale pink and blue covers. They sobered Isabel even further.

She went through them again, more carefully. When she finished the second inspection, any hint of a smile had vanished.

“It’s not here.” She shook her head resignedly. “Nothing, not a hint, not a clue.”

“What’s not there?” asked Barrett politely, though he had a fairly good idea.

“What I told you I was searching for.” She paused, then looked up and over at Luana again. “Luana—are these all the books?”

“Why, no,” the girl replied, mildly surprised. “They were only the ones I found useful. There are more there in the back, under the old leather box.” Her tone turned spiteful. “They have few pictures, and many big words I could not learn the meaning of.”

But Isabel was already shoving furiously at the rotting suitcase, ignoring the dry, soft plants that crumbled like stale cake in her hands. The first books that came into view clearly hadn’t received the care of the picture tomes. In consequence, they’d fallen prey to the less dramatic, less impressive, but nonetheless efficient consumers of the forest—the molds and fungi and tiny beetles.

Some of them were so rotten they fell apart when Isabel tried to pull them out into the light. Then she gave a startled exclamation. For a bad moment Barrett was afraid she might have chanced across something larger and more toxic than scale rot.

Quite the opposite.

There were four of the plastic bookcases, each containing a specially treated leather notebook. The embossed covers still had a pristine newness to them. Luana had known the retardant, protective qualities of certain leaves but not those of plastic boxes. Fortunately, she hadn’t made use of these for her picture books. Or perhaps, some time in the past, she’d sorted out the books she could use and simply forgotten about the others, never bothering to check the discarded pile.

Barrett looked at her. If she was susprised at the state of preservation of the notebooks in the boxes, she gave no sign. But then, she probably wouldn’t.

The first three contained workbooks, crammed full of old Hardi’s scribblings and jottings and abstract formulae. It was all very technical. What little Barrett could see over Isabel’s shoulder made no sense at all. Hardly surprising Luana should look at them once and then ignore them. But they seemed to excite Isabel.

The last book . . . the last made Isabel’s eyes glow like Chaugh’s by firelight. Carefully, she slipped the foundling free of its case and held it up for Barrett to see. She was hardly able to form the words.

“Oh Lord—I hadn’t hoped—the workbooks I guessed would be protected, but to find this, too! It’s just like I dreamed!” She sniffled.

Barrett grinned uncertainly, not at the discovery of the book, whatever it was, but at Isabel’s obvious pleasure. He sat down in the still upright copilot’s chair. Luana and Murin both looked on expectantly.

“You’re beautiful,” he said finally, “when you’re happy. I haven’t seen you happy in a long time.”

That interrupted her trend of thought, but only momentarily. She sat down on the edge of the long departed door, her legs dangling towards the ground, and began thumbing through the hand-written pages. When no further information was forthcoming, Barrett allowed himself a modicum of impatience.

“I don’t want to shatter your nostalgic reverie, Izzy, but how about telling the rest of us what this extraordinary discovery is, hey? Pornography?”

“What?” His flippancy missed her completely. After all, it was only a bunch of old notes. He didn’t buy that “posthumous Nobel prize” stuff.

She didn’t look up and continued reading. “It’s Father’s old diary.”

“Couldn’t very well be his new diary,” he muttered, but he obviously wasn’t going to get a rise out of her, not now.

“See . . . it even has the volume number marked at the top of each page! Twelve—”

He was incredulous. “You mean you came all the way to Africa and hauled me out here for some notebooks, and all the while you were really hoping that your old man just might have left you a diary? Faith is one thing, kid, but . . .”

“It wasn’t just a hope,” was the defiant, confident reply. “Would you have come, despite the money, if I’d told you I really wanted to find a diary?” He hesitated. The notebooks he’d been able to understand. Prize money, valuable discoveries. But a nutty hunt for old platitudes—he didn’t know.

“See?” she told him. “And it wasn’t just a hope. Father was very careful with his diaries. There are eleven more volumes at home, the last returning with his . . . his effects, that had been left at his house in Nairobi. This one,” and she held up the small, narrow book, “is not only numbered last in the series—it’s dated, too.”

She returned to her quiet reading. An hour and a half later, she was on the final pages.

“July seventeenth. These may be the last words I ever commit to paper. Insallah is holding the plane as best she can while I write this, but there is no longer any doubt that we shall go down in the morass below. It was not a slow leak, but rather one that seemed to open abruptly in the tank wall. The gauge did not drop . . . simply flipped from three-quarters full over to empty.

“We have been flying on the small reserve tank for some time now. But despite keeping our air speed to the bare minimum, I fear we shall shortly have to commit ourselves to the mercy of the wind.

“The child, of course, has been told nothing. Nor shall she. It is sad that I must take this unfortunate occasion to at last formally acknowledge paternity.”

All eyes went to Luana, who was listening intently without understanding all the words.

“I may be able to locate an open space of sufficient size to attempt a landing, although—” Isabel’s voice broke and she took a moment, to recompose herself. “Although I am not sure but that it may be a blessing simply to push the wheel all the way in and end it quickly. No. I fear the human mind is not so constructed. I have not the courage to commit suicide even on the eve of certain death.

“I am sorry most of all for Albright. I had thought that where the new drug was concerned I had won him over to my way of thinking. It now appears otherwise, appears that he has successfully deceived me. He was determined to exploit the discovery. Now it seems he will have his poor way with it.

“It will be said, perhaps, that I should have checked the craft more thoroughly before we departed. There was no reason to suspect, to believe that he would go this far.

“Of course, your father was quite right.” All eyes turned to the sound of that voice.

Albright was standing outside, the Express cradled lightly, but not lightly enough, in his arms.

“It wasn’t the fame your father so airily dismissed, no. I could have lived without that. It was only the money.” He was apologetic. “You see, where money is concerned I’m never myself.”

“Your humanity was never really a matter of debate, Albright,” said Barrett.

The scientist ignored him, looked instead at Isabel. “Your father was a brilliant, terribly foolish old man, Isabel. He discovered that a certain rare, but not impossible to locate, plant could be deprived of its stamen and pollen, ground together to make a fine powder, and then mixed with several other interesting things to produce a rather powerful new addictive drug. It’s not in a class with heroin, but ranks well above such mundane stimulants as cocaine and LSD.

“Oh, I was perfectly honest when I talked about carrying on his work! My interests merely were channelized along that one line. Unfortunately, I’m not the chemist your father was. With only a few scattered notes to work from, and what I could draw out of him before he left, I was able to concoct but a pale limitation of the pure product. Even so, there was an immediate demand for it. Enough to bring a tiny income, to be sure—but nothing compared to what the really refined material could demand.

“Can you imagine a new drug, more powerful than anything but heroin, highly addictive yet not as lethal—and you the only supplier of the market?

“And now, dear Isabel, you’ve made it possible for that dream to come true. I doubt the formula’s hidden in that diary . . . you certainly didn’t mention it. But the three workbooks . . . yes, it’ll be in there, properly identified and annotated. John was consistently methodical.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Albright!” Barrett gnawed his lower lip and tried to sound more in command than he felt.

“Rest assured I have no intention of it, Mr. Barrett.” He took two steps backwards. “You’ve been rather a problem, and yet it turns out your persistence in this journey has been of benefit after all.

“I can get all of you with just the two shots, I think. The automatic was being cleaned, which makes things more difficult—but not impossible. You needn’t worry, Isabel. You will not be in the line of fire.” He looked at her in a way that reminded her of the ants. “I’d prefer not to kill you just yet, anyhow. Yes, two shots from this cannon in such close quarters ought to kill at least one of you and wound the others. I can reload, then.”

“Now, let’s talk this over, Albright,” Barrett began cautiously. He took a step towards the portal, hands out, palms up. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement. You can have your formula and—”

Albright laughed. “Talk to stall me? What do you think this is—a movie? Where the man with the drop chatters for an hour while the hero creeps up behind him? Goodbye, Barrett—”

Barrett threw himself to the floor, knocking Isabel inside the cabin door. Murin tried to bury himself in the metal under the control panel and Luana dove out the other side. At the same instant there was a tremendous explosion.

Barrett blinked, slowly began to pull himself off the stunned Isabel. Hope rose every time he tried a new joint, an additional muscle, and found it working. Hands pushed against floor and metal, and his body moved. Heart, lungs, brain—the machine was still operating.

From under the control board, Murin stared uncertainly back at him. The only blood on his partner was in his eyes.

Carefully, they both peered around the edge of the open door. Knife in hand, Luana was already outside. Slowly she replaced it in her waist sheath, staring down at what was left of Albright.

Barrett became aware of a shaky voice very close. “George . . . George, did he—”

“Hush, Izzy.” He held her close, blocking her view of the outside. “It’s all right, now.”

There was a rising bubble of conversation outside. The bearers had finally arrived.

“I never believed in miracles,” he continued, “and I still don’t. But fortuitous coincidences just went up a couple of points.”

Across from them, Murin was cursing nonstop, an amazing combination of Swahili and English invective, spiced with something else. Afrikaans, Barrett guessed.

“What . . . what happened to—?” Isabel finally managed to gasp. She was shaking in his arms. The confluence was comfortable, but all he could do by way of soothing her was to stroke her hair.

“It’s not as bad as the ants, Izzy, but . . . well, the gun blew up. He tried to shoot us and it blew up.” He shook his head. “Might have been me, just as easy. Naw, the goof probably did something earlier like stick the barrel in the ground and got some dirt in it, thank Vishnu!” He turned and had another look at the mess outside and tried to reconstruct what had happened.

Albright had raised the gun and pulled both triggers, and the two .577 shells had gone off inside the chambers. Of the Express itself nothing was left except a few slivers of carved wooden stock scattered here and there. Later, they found an eight-centimeter-long section of barrel driven into the trunk of a tree like a railroad spike into a tie.

From the waist up, Albright was gone. One shell from the Express, properly placed, would knock down a five-ton bull elephant. Albright may have lived inconspicuously, but his going was spectacular.

Kobenene could only stand over the remains of his partner—his former partner, he corrected himself—and curse silently. Damn the idiot’s impatience! But if the scientist had been willing to try this, then they’d obviously found something in the plane to incriminate him. And if they’d found that, perhaps the formula the tall chemist—though he wasn’t so tall now, Kobenene reflected, fighting down a giggle—had been hoping to find was there also.

Possibly, then, he’d only lost a partner (not a very competent one at that) and gained a formula. If only the njinga, the fool, had waited! Kobenene would have told him, when the proper time came. There was no reason to suppose the simpleton would try anything as direct as outright group murder. And so soon after finding the plane. And—he reflected self-righteously—without telling him, either!

Served him right.

Days ago, Kobenene had slipped quietly out of his tent while the camp was still asleep. It wasn’t hard to retrace their trail in the forest and re-locate the sikari tree they’d passed. He’d collected a cupful of the thick, brown-green sap in his drinking tin, then carefully poured it down both barrels of the big gun.

A single morning of baking in the sun while riding on Barrett’s back would harden the centimeters of gummy liquid like cement. And then, the first time he tried to fire the gun—

Things might have gotten embarrassing, if enough of the gun remained to reveal the hardened sap within. But Kobenene had judged the Express’s explosive power correctly. It had disintigrated rather thoroughly. He ought to be in the clear.

Even so, after they finished burying Albright’s remains, Barrett came over and took him aside.

“Jambo, Kobenene.”

“Jambo njema,” the big man replied warily, trying to sound at once depressed by his master’s death and receptive to whatever Barrett had to say. “Hello to you.”

“Kobenene, we’re understaffed, as you damn well know. So I’m willing to keep you on and pay you whatever Albright was paying you. I’ll also guarantee your back wages. Not that I’d abandon you in the middle of this anyway. But before I officially welcome you as one of the gang, I’d appreciate the answers to a few questions.”

“Yes, bwana,” Kobenene replied deferentially.

“And screw that ‘bwana’ stuff! My name’s Barrett.”

“Yes, Barrett.” This white man’s false humility did not fool him!

“Just how much did you know about Albright’s intents and ideas, hmmm? Did he put you up to that pigana ua?”

“Bw . . . Mr. Barrett? What a strange thing to say! I tell you I am as surprised by Mr. Albright’s actions as you are.” Which was quite true. “I did not volunteer for the pigana. The men nominated me. Why suspect me of such a thing?”

“Because Albright was only worried about bumping off me, Murin, and Luana. He didn’t express any concern about you.”

“Why should he, Mr. Barrett? You said yourself once that bearers would go with whoever paid them.”

“Yeah, sure.” Barrett eyed the other uncertainly. “But you’re no bearer, Kobenene. And I think you were more than a valet, though I’ve no way of proving that. Just a hunch.” Kobenene smiled innocently. “Tell me, how would you have reacted if he’d been able to kill us all? Oh, I know how you did react—since he failed,” he added sarcastically. “Naturally you were shocked, outraged, incredulous.

“But suppose it was us you’d just buried? What then?”

Kobe tried not to let his growing nervousness show. Damn the man’s persistence! Careful now!

“I would have been shocked and outraged and incredulous, Mr. Barrett. And would have done whatever was necessary to save my own skin.”

Barrett grunted. “And now?”

“I confess to having felt somewhat mixed feelings towards Mr. Albright. After all, he was, as you say, my employer. However, any lingering sense of loyalty was obviated by his onerous attempt on your persons.”

“Bearer, huh? Valet, huh?”

“I speak good English. What does that prove? Your swahili is as good, or better.” He could tell from Barrett’s expression that the flattering truth had struck home. “When he tried to kill you, I say, he automatically cut off any obligation on my part. But I still prefer to give the dead the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he went temporarily insane. Greed can drive men to act unstably sometimes.”

“Yeah,” agreed Barrett embarrassed, aware that similar allegations had been whispered about him. He was not happy with the comparison. “There are a lot of greedy people in the world. All right, Kobe,” he concluded reluctantly. “You’re on the payroll.”

“I shall try to do my best, Mr. Barrett.” He grinned broadly. “If you will recall, I always try to do my best.”

Barrett nodded and turned away without saying anything. Kobenene watched him go. A pity. He had more in common with this man than with Albright. It would be a shame to have to kill him. It made the big man sad to think on it.

Barrett’s mind was also active. He trusted the fat pig about as far as he could throw him. But he’d rather have him believing and thinking he’d been accepted. He’d be more off-guard if he got any ideas.

He trusts me about as far as he can throw me, thought Kobenene, but he’d rather have me believing and thinking I’ve been accepted. He thinks I’ll be more off-guard.

Kobenene would not repeat Albright’s error of impatience. He would bide his time ’till the proper moment—all the way back to Nairobi, if necessary. The opportunity must be foolproof and must present itself—

Chapter XI

He’d worried about Isabel all night, but the following morning she was alert and ready to leave. Apparently she’d fully recovered from the double trauma of finding the plane and losing Albright.

Either that or she was hiding it well.

“You’re positive there’s nothing more you want to do here?” he asked her, smiling reassuringly. “I don’t think you’ll be coming back this way, soon. Not if I have anything to do with it, anyway.”

“I think we’ve done everything, George.” She hitched her light pack higher on her shoulders. “I . . . I’d have liked to bury them, but—”

Luana heard, could not keep down the hazy memories. She wasn’t being blunt, only honest.

“The jungle buried them. It’s better that way. I am not sure—it was so long ago—but I think, and hope, that Chaugh’s mother did it.”

Isabel’s face twisted and she looked at her sister oddly. For the first time she clearly saw the tremendous gulf that separated them.

“That . . . that’s nauseating!”

“Would you prefer me to say they had been taken by the hyena and jackal and carrion birds? Or buried, as is your strange custom, to be food for worms and grubs and dung beetles?”

Isabel was not mollified. “I suppose that in a similar situation you’d . . . eat me.”

Luana was equally defiant. “And why not? Flesh is flesh, meat is meat.”

“Okay, girls,” Barrett interposed himself hurriedly. “You’ve each made your point. I think we’d better get started.”

“Yes, George,” Isabel agreed. “But why the hurry? If, as Luana insists, we’ve nothing to fear from the Wanderi any more, there’s no need to run back to Mpanda.”

“We’re not going back to Mpanda—or Nairobi—yet.”

“What are you talking about?”

He met her gaze. “Listen, Isabel! You’ve had your dream come true. Now, by God, I’ve a chance, a real chance, to take a crack at mine!” He was a little surprised at the vehemence of his assertion. He turned to Luana.

“You still willing to take us to the place where you found the necklace?”

“Necklace? What necklace?” asked Murin.

Barrett dug into his pocket. “This necklace—”

He pulled out the incredible bauble and tossed it to his partner with calculated casualness. Murin missed it and it landed in the dirt at his feet. He stared, then fell to his knees and scooped it up. His lower jaw hung loose.

“Don’t pay any attention to it, Mur. It’s just another figment of crazy ole George Barrett’s fevered imagination. You know, too-long-in-the-sun-Barrett? Too many safaris with fat old bankers from Berlin and Zurich, too much booze, too many bro . . . phoney old history books. Just a figment I wasted five years and eleven trips into this stinking jungle to find.

“It’s only a necklace. Not,” he added, “that it isn’t enough both to prove my theory and pay for someone else to do the looking. But I’d like one look, just one look, for myself, at the place where Luana found it, hey?”

“Ah, yes,” agreed Murin breathlessly. “Sacre bleu! Gott in himmel!” He held it up to the light and inspected it with a professional eye. Isabel walked over next to him and stared through it at the sun.

“It’s . . . it’s not a diamond, is it?”

“Why Isabel!” said Barrett in mock surprise. “Don’t tell me there exists in your innocent, if luscious, little form a slight desire for the filthy lucre also?”

She strode deliberately up to him. “I’ve found out what happened to my father. And how, and why.” She pointed over at the leather hamper that housed, along with other effects, four plastic slipcases and their long-preserved contents.

“I’ve salvaged what I can of his work and his reputation. That’s enough for me. Besides,” and she slipped her hand determinedly in his, “you wouldn’t want the company of a woman who was as mercenary as you, would you? But everyone dreams of being rich, George. It’s one of the few little boy-and-girl dreams we can share all the way to the end. So if this is so important to you, I’ll have to have a look too, I guess.” She smiled.

He kissed her then, gently, a tender, fluid blending of lips and tongue that conveyed everything without heavy pressing or shifting.

The bearers crowded around, too. Barrett let the necklace pass from hand to hand. One of them had worked in the mines in South Africa before deciding dignity was more important than a DeBeers paycheck. He confirmed Barrett’s estimate of the stone’s worth.

A share in the relic and anything else they might find was promised to every man. It would be a cooperative venture all around. Kobenene found it sickening. His estimate of Barrett went down several notches. For a professional hunter he sure lacked the killer instinct. No wonder he’d let Kobenene’s hand up during the pigana.

Handshakes and congratulations passed around the little circle. No, it was no longer a standard safari. The diamond, the escape from the witch-men, had transformed it. Barrett didn’t mind being just the man who led, instead of the leader.

Kobenene claimed to be able to translate a few of the words inscribed in the gold links. It made Barrett respect the big man even more—and convinced him to watch the other even closer. Everyone spoke Swahili these days, but the ancient Bantu dialects were something else again.

They left the plane behind them, a funeral gift to the forest, to return to the birds and small lizards and one wizened mongoose, and struck off to the south. Hills greeted them again, rising sharply to true mountains. But their route continued to stay level, in the deepening valleys, and the undergrowth was not as bad as it might have been. And they encountered no swamps, thank God! It could have been much worse.

Also, for the first time they encountered an occasional cooling breeze, flowing down from the soaring peaks. The intermittent refreshing zephyr did more for their spirits than anything else.

The place Luana led them to, after days of steady marching, was not bursting with gold and gems. But at least it was comfortable.

“I hope,” said Barrett, craning his neck and staring upwards, “you don’t expect us to go up that, Luana. I won’t . . . not even for two necklaces!”

They’d emerged from the cloying forest at a bend in a small river. A beach of sand and gravel crunched under their feet. It was flat and clean, except for a few thorn bushes that could be easily cleared away. It would make an absolutely ideal location for a camp.

It might also be the ideal sunning place for the local reptilian population. But a quick inspection revealed this section of stream to be devoid of the carnivorous monsters. Sweeping towards them from the left, the river curved around the sandy peninsula and disappeared southward.

Across the water, again slightly to their left, a sheer rock wall rose hundreds of meters straight into a sky of gunmetal blue. Only distant, overhanging greenery marked the top of the awesome escarpment.

Directly across from them the wall was heavily striated, and pockmarked like rotting cheese. Barrett was no geologist, but he recognized the difference here from the usual volcanic basalts and lavas that dominated the Rift valley. Somehow, a few vines and flowers made a living in tiny holes in the rock.

The cliff curved sharply in front of them to slam up against equally dense forest on the other side of the stream. Directly in front of this bend the river broadened slightly to form a fairly deep, still pool before narrowing again and regaining its mantle of ivory foam.

It was a gorgeous spot, all right. Continually cleansed by the fast-flowing stream, the pool was clear and fairly free of choking algae and water scum.

It would take a while to get set up. And while Barrett and everyone else were trembling with impatience, there was nothing to be gained by hurrying except cramps.

“Do you come here often?” he asked Luana.

“No. Only the once. I was crossing the river here and saw the shiny thing on the bottom.”

“And the Wanderi never come here?”

“No one comes here. It is a forbidden place. I do not know why.”

When it became known that Luana had found the necklace lying in the silt at the bottom of the pool, everyone, including the bearers who didn’t know how to swim, wanted to go diving. Barrett tried his best to calm them, showing a patience he didn’t feel. It didn’t matter who found what, they would all share.

The men grumbled. But there was nothing to prevent even non-swimmers from exploring the shallows. Barrett didn’t try to discourage this activity. The men had to have some outlet for their own dreams—he ought to know—or nothing would get done in camp at all.

The next morning he stripped to his shorts and slipped slowly into the pool. Luana, Kobenene, and Isabel followed. Murin wanted to look also, but Barrett preferred to have him on shore with their single remaining rifle. Just in case they’d missed an isolated floating log that was really something else.

The water was delightfully cool and clear. Below, the few thick green water plants danced in the current like shreds of old Christmas ribbon. The bottom was a continuation of the little beach they’d camped on. Mostly sand and gravel, with very little mud. Despite the current, Barrett found that rather surprising.

In drier times the stream probably ran much shallower here. And fast enough to scour the bottom clean of such lighter sediments. There were slow, dull fish the color of antimony, and fat fresh-water shrimp who would provide welcome change to the sparse camp menu.

And rocks. Plenty of rocks. All of them good, honest stone—without a semi-precious one among them. Not even an agate or chalcedony.

There were no diamond necklaces. Not even a ring.

Nothing.

Barrett used floats the second day. The pond was not terribly wide, or the current very strong, but he had them made anyway. It gave the men something to do.

Made from hollow gourds and inflated flsh-bellies, the floats were anchored to the bottom with heavy rocks. They would let the divers rest on the surface and save strength for diving, not treading water. It also saved their breath, which was needed for increased complaining as their lack of success continued.

The third day found Barrett ready to quit. The fourth day Luana found the cave.

They stood on the beach, Luana slick and panting, while everyone crowded around. She pointed towards the rock wall where it dropped into the deepest part of the pool.

“It’s only this far,” and she stretched her hands about a meter apart, “below the water-top. It lies in the shade, and water plants grow in and all around it. I found it only by chance.”

“Not surprising,” Barrett noted, “if it’s as well concealed as you say. Hell, we were all looking down, not sideways! How big is it?”

Luana tried to show with her hands, failed, and picked up a stick. She drew a rough oval outline in the soft gravel.

“Only about a meter high and not much wider,” he mused, studying the crude sketch. “Not very promising. How deep does it go?”

Further than her arm would reach. Beyond that she could not tell. Or see. It was very dark.

Barrett considered carefully. He was no fool. What he wanted to try would be dangerous enough even with proper precautions. Now, that necklace didn’t fall from any passing plane, nor did the river look particularly navigable. Oh, it might be passable. In higher water, it would run slower. Or the party that lost the necklace might have just been crossing the river, on their way to God knew where.

But there was that slight, nagging chance that the necklace had been washed out of the small cave. Because according to Luana, there was a slight but definite current pouring out of it. Maybe, just maybe, there was a broken chest or case or something full of this necklace’s cousins and aunts and uncles.

They still had two all-weather flashlights. All-weather didn’t include submersion, but they should last long enough underwater for his needs. They were at least as waterproof as he was. There was also the unbreakable nylon line. He’d tie a loop to his waist, time himself—he could hold his breath for at least a minute and a half, maybe more—take the flash and swim inwards for sixty seconds. Then he would turn and kick his way out.

If he pushed off the bottom and walls of the cave he could probably go faster, farther . . . but the bottom might be sharp, or too deep. Better just to swim, hard and fast and straight. Then a tug on the line would bring him out much faster than he would go in. Murin and Kobenene and the two girls would be waiting on the other end. Their pulling would more than make up for the thirty second difference.

It had damn well better make up for the thirty second difference!

Of course, if he were real lucky, and the roof of the cave rose— Let’s see, one jerk to indicate he’d found air enough to breathe, two jerks to bring him out—fast.

It was already too late to try. The next morning, the entire camp rose with the sun. Isabel was the first in the water—to scrub herself.

“Okay.” He examined their faces as he held onto a little chink in the rock wall. He was hovering just over the cave entrance. The cord had been snugged tight round his waist, the knots double-checked.

“This is going to be very short and simple. Remember, one tug and everybody can relax. Two tugs and you all pull hard. Don’t worry about hurting me.

“Mur, let’s check watches.” Sixty seconds on his partner’s turned out to be the same as sixty seconds on his own. He smiled, gave them all a last look. “Three or four or five tugs, and you can give your regards to my bookie.” It was a safe joke. Crocs didn’t care much for holes, and they hadn’t seen one in four days.

He switched on the light. “Back shortly—don’t go ’way.” One hyperventilation, a deep breath, hold it—he slipped under the surface.

The water plants were a barrier in shape only and offered no resistance to his probing, pushing hand. They were too soft to foul the line, another worry out of the way.

He kicked hard, wishing unreasonably for a pair of good, broad, Cousteauian fins. And why not a whole scuba outfit, while you’re at it, funny boy?

The pale light showed nothing above but uncaring, inanimate gray. Thirty seconds gone already. It felt like he’d hardly gone any distance at all. Worse, the passage seemed to be narrowing slightly. He’d have to be careful, especially about the bottom. It was starting to caress his rib cage. Watch it, or he’d have no room in which to turn around.

They’d have a helluva time trying to pull him out backwards.

Forty-five seconds.

The bottom continued to rise. And once when he kicked sharply downwards he stubbed his toe on a projection in the floor. The superficiality of the hurt didn’t alleviate the pain. He couldn’t even curse. This didn’t look promising at all.

Fifty seconds. Fifty-five.

Still the stone floor rose. He’d seen nothing to indicate this was any more than a tiny hole in the cliff. But if that were the case, he thought angrily, then where was this damn current coming from?

Of course, the underground conduit could run clear to the Congo.

Sixty seconds gone. Sixty-five.

He should already have turned back. Already his lungs were straining. His stomach bumped on the bottom, bumped again.

Seventy seconds.

Was that cool air on the back of his neck?

Carefully, he put both palms on the bottom and gently pushed. The flashlight scraped noisily. His head broke water. His body demanding air, he still lifted slowly. The roof could contact his skull any second. He wanted that meeting to be peaceful. Slow, slow.

Then his entire upper torso was out of the water and he was wolfing down long, delicious draughts of fresh air. There was a slight breeze in his face, too. The water continued to run down, over, and past him. Sitting in the small stream was chilling, but he hardly noticed.

He brought the light out of the water and shook off as much moisture as he could. Then he shined it around and up. From behind him the roof sloped gradually upwards. It rose rapidly before leveling off to a ceiling well above his height.

Stalagtites made fairy shapes in the dim light. Calcite curtains threw the beam back at him tinged with yellow-orange. Stalagmites lifted patiently from the floor, building skyward on the accumulation of centuries of lime-bearing water.

Here and there stalgmite and stalgtite engaged in cautious mating to form a wasp-waisted column. There were fluted draperies, gravity-defying helicites, and clusters of virgin white aragonite with crystals longer and thinner than the finest sewing needle. They would shatter at a heavy breath.

Something tugged insistently at his belt-line. He turned the light on his arm to check the watch and realized he’d done nothing but stare at the exquisite cavern for some time. He jerked on the cord once, sharply. Leaving the light on the bank—there was no need in getting it any damper—he turned in the darkness and slid back under water. He had plenty of time. He’d fastened the line firmly to a stalagmite—an easy guide.

“Nothing to it,” he gasped as he emerged on the other side. “The hole opens into a good-sized cave. I couldn’t tell right off how deep it runs into the mountain, but it’s pretty, and the air is fresh.” His answer to Murin’s unspoken question was more subdued. “I’m afraid it doesn’t have any value to anyone except a manufacturer of plaster, though.

“Still, it is mighty pretty. It’s sure as hell worth a look. And there might be something interesting at the back of it . . . a box, maybe.”

“With the luck we’ve had, it’s probably be full of bus tokens,” said Murin dejectedly.

“Don’t give up so quickly,” Barrett admonished him. The words bespoke a confidence he didn’t feel. “Swim takes a little over a minute. I didn’t see any side passages, so there’s no chance of getting lost.

“Just make sure you hold onto the line and don’t bump your head, and no one should have any trouble. Anyone who doesn’t want to go?”

Resounding silence.

“Okay. Mur, come with me. The rest of you wait here. We’re going to get the other light, and some food, and a few other things. Izzy, I’m gonna borrow your father’s watertight book cases. Don’t worry, the books won’t fall apart in a few hours. We’ll need ’em to put the food in—unless you’d like to eat watery sandwiches.”

There was no point in mentioning as he kicked away from the wall that he’d also like to bring the rifle. But he saw no way of packing it under without the chance of ruining it. And he didn’t want to take a chance with their last gun. Not that there’d likely be anything to use it on—cave crickets, maybe?

Still, old habits . . .

He left a bearer named Entebbe in charge of the camp.

The little group continued to tread water outside the cave mouth until Barrett and Murin returned.

“I’ll go first,” he instructed, watching them. When I’m through I’ll give the line a jerk. One person at a time. Izzy, you follow me, and Luana, you next. Mur, you and Kobenene bring the rest of the supplies.”

With a definite destination at the end of a finite distance, the swim through the darkness seemed much shorter this time. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if, despite his denials of side passages, he hadn’t somehow wandered into a different cave. Then he broke water and switched on the second flash; A quick survey of the sandy shore revealed the first flashlight and the end of the line still securely wrapped around its pygmy pillar.

Climbing out of the water, he turned on the second flash, pointing it upwards to illuminate more of the cave. His own light he aimed down into the pool. It would tell the others they were approaching the end. A sharp jerk on the cord and a minute later Isabel had joined him. She climbed out onto the rocky floor and shook herself. Outside her shorts and clinging blouse her skin was seal-slick.

He enjoyed that vision while Luana and the others came through. While Murin took his light and Isabel hefted the other, the newcomers enjoyed their first glimpse of the cave as Barrett carefully recoiled the precious line and clipped it onto his belt. Then he turned and did some surveying himself.

The stream ran towards them, falling in gentle drops before vanishing into the wall leading to the outside. The cave ceiling rose proportionately. In higher water the swim from outside would have been much more difficult, perhaps even impossible. No telling how far the water in the cave backed up in the rainy season.

The floor of the cave was dangerously uneven, layered with sharp calcite crystals and brown spars of crumbly selenite. But near the stream the water level dropped to reveal a slight, narrow beach. Barely centimeters wide, it ran out under the water, pure soft gypsum sand.

Walking alternately in and out of the water, but always staying off the cavern floor proper, they moved upstream. Barrett’s hoped-for widening didn’t materialize, nor did his imaginary jewel-box. The cave remained resolutely the same size.

Ten, fifteen minutes of trudging through the dark, and he finally called a halt.

Murin voiced the prevailing opinion. “Very pretty, George, as you said. But that’s all.”

Barrett had spent the last quarter hour searching for a sign, a hint that Murin was wrong. Instead, he only found he agreed with him.

“Kill your light, Mur.” Barrett clicked his own off. “And don’t drop it. I don’t know how long the batteries will last . . . might as well conserve ’em while we can. We can go back in the dark—just follow the stream, then the cord—but we can’t go forward.” Murin’s light went out.

Isabel moved closer to Barrett in the ensuing blackness. He put his arm around her.

“Please don’t sneer at me, George,” she whispered. “But I’ve always been afraid of the dark.”

“Imagination’s always worse than actual fact,” he agreed. “It’d be worse still if you were, say, a writer.” He turned towards her. “I can hardly see you at all.” She giggled and the cuttingly sharp sound echoed down the corridor. A hand reached out, touched his nose.

“Like a country drive-in movie.” There was a pause. “George?”

“Yeah?”

“I shouldn’t be able to see you at all.”

He would have hit himself, only he was too excited. When he jumped up she was able to see the motion clearly enough to draw her hand back.

“And I shouldn’t be able to see you at all!” He looked around, saw nothing closer than Isabel. But even that— “There’s light coming in here from somewhere.”

Five minutes, walking. They turned a sharp corner where a pile of debris had fallen from the ceiling. Gradually the mysterious light had grown stronger, until they could actually see each other in the dimness.

Suddenly, the light was so strong they could do without the flashlights all together.

The stream ended at the base of a tiny cascade pouring over a rock abutment. A cascade of a different kind also plunged from the rock wall’s upper edge. A Niagra of hazy light. The wall, praise Vishnu, was only three or four meters high. Enough to obstruct their passage, but by no means impassable. The soft limestone was broken and chipped in many places. It was no stairway, but even Izzy ought to be able to make it.

Barrett went first, carefully, hand over hand. Once a thin ledge crumbled under his weight and he had to scramble for a foothold. Otherwise it was an easy climb. On top the light was nearly as bright as day. Securing the nylon cord to an outcropping, he dumped the rest of the coil over the side.

Isabel and the others watched as he disappeared from view. Minutes passed. He finally ventured a call.

“George!” She caught her breath. The shout echoed back down the tunnel, clarion call to thousands of discorporeal Georges who could never reply.

From above the voice of the one real George drifted down to them.

“Well—I’ll be an Arabian sandman.”

His face appeared, looking down at them. He was flushed and excited.

“Come on up, Izzy, the rest of you.” His voice was hushed, reverent. “It makes Zimbabwe look like a comfort station!”

Minutes later they all stood atop the midget cliff near the small cascade, gazing in dumbfoundment at the scene spread before them.

The stream continued to flow towards them on their right, unchanged, but the cave widened immediately. Ahead, it opened into a titanic circular cavern, well over a kilometer long and wide. The roof of the cavern was a near-perfect dome, soaring a good three hundred meters above the floor.

At an unknown age past, the center of the domed ceiling had collapsed, forming a great circular gap in the roof. The resultant effect was something like a round skylight. A rising sun poured in through the cavity and illuminated the entire interior.

A fringe of green from vines and trees growing over the edge softed the opening. On its right side was a deep crack, from which a spectacular narrow waterfall fell clear and pure into a wide pool.

All of which was incidental. They barely noticed it. Colossal structures of gray stone lined the walls of the cavern, each set atop another, crawling up the sloping walls. In a few places the multistoried buildings nearly reached the roof. At the far end of the cave, dark holes showed between the constructs, indicating the presence of yet other, more distant caverns.

They followed the stream into the dead city. Stumbling occasionally, not because the ground was especially rugged, but because their eyes and minds were concentrated elsewhere.

A low wall ran towards and joined the nearest building. They sat on it and rested.

“Look how neat the joining is,” Isabel commented, lifting up one of the wall stones. “Everything’s been fitted together without cement or plaster or anything.”

“Can’t be more than two or three hundred years old,” mused Barrett, staring. “Can’t be. There’s plenty of light, in the center at least, yet nothing’s overgrown. Can’t be.”

Isabel tried to put the heavy stone back. At the last instant it slipped out of her hands and fell with a crunch to the rocky floor. Barrett spared it an idle glance. His brow wrinkled suddenly and his expression changed to one of puzzlement.

Kneeling, he lifted the stone and put it on the wall next to him. The others watched him curiously.

The stone had cracked on the bottom. A chip of gray about the size of a quarter and a centimeter or so thick was missing from its base. Where the chip had broken off, the stone showed dull yellow.

Trying to stay calm and failing miserably, Barrett pulled his skinning knife from its sheath. At least he didn’t cut himself. He pried under the cracks that radiated from the missing section. Another, much larger piece of gray lifted up and peeled off like chocolate coating. More yellow showed.

Rising, he heaved the stone high overhead with both hands and slammed it into the rocks nearby. When the limestone dust had settled, only half the stone showed gray. The other half of the cracked surface gleamed a dull, reddish, unmistakably metallic yellow.

Barrett regripped the knife, pried and dug at a second stone on top of the wall. Gray flakes peeled off reluctantly at first, then more readily after the first penetration was made. He held it up for everyone to see. Behind him, Isabel whispered, “My God!” Kobenene muttered low Swahili.

Murin was already working on another stone.

A half hour later there was a small gap in the wall. Nine building stones, ranging in size and shape from a human fist to one huge chunk as big as a briefcase, lay in the dust, stripped of much of their gray coating.

“About a hundred fifty kilos,” estimated Barrett, in the kind of idle reverential tone generals use when talking about defense appropriations. “On the current market, today’s prices, anywhere from four to six hundred thousand American dollars.”

He turned to re-examine the wall. It continued on for many meters before meeting the first building. Slanting slightly back towards the receding cavern wall, that structure rose four or five stories. Another, smaller building set on top of it rose another three stories ceilingward.

Dozens of similar structures, of varying size and shape, lined the insides of the cavern.

All were made of the same dull, unspectacular, slate-gray stone.

Barrett was laughing. Isabel gave him a worried look.

“Don’t worry, luv, I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Hell!” He threw his arms around her and began dancing in a circle. “I am spec-tac-u-lar! What do you want for a wedding present? Paris? Rome?”

“I’ve been there,” she replied, a little dazed. “Still, they wouldn’t be bad places to go on a—George Barrett, is that a proposal?”

He grinned. “Good Lord, and a decent one, at that.” He laughed again. “Go there?” A sweeping gesture with his free hand encompassed the whole cavern. “I didn’t mean go there. I’ll buy ’em for you!”

She hesitated, then shook her head slowly. A careful glance around the cavern produced a sly, uncertain smile.

“Oh . . . no, George . . . it couldn’t be! It’s just the wall, George.”

“Want to bet? Kobe, Mur, Luana . . . let’s start scratching!”

They chipped away at stones near the entrances to buildings, at broad flat stones marking window lintels, at thick doorway stones and thin chink-hole stones and stones used to form open stoves and chimnies and washing boards.

And every stone they chipped, cut, cracked or bruised sloughed off its plain gray exterior to reveal hidden glory beneath.

The city . . . its walls, its chimnies, its cooking places and meeting rooms . . . was solid gold.

“Pure accident,” said Barrett quietly, later. “Pure accident. If you hadn’t dropped that one rock, Izzy . . . What a last-ditch defense! Even if a scavanging or raiding party managed to find the little cave entrance, or looked down through the roof, all they’d see would be a bunch of old gray stone houses.”

The strangest things, as they say, occur to people at the oddest moments. Barrett stood and said with sure knowledge, “There ought to be more . . . other things.”

That started Murin laughing so hard he couldn’t stop for three full minutes.

“No, partner, I haven’t gone mad.” He kicked at the wall, loosed a couple more stones. “There’s enough wealth in this wall alone to finance a small army. And that’s what we’re going to need, eventually, to hold this place. But this stuff is damn heavy. We can’t pack more than a couple hundred kilos, on top of the supplies we’ve got to carry.

“Then we’ll have to file some sort of mining claim, make arrangements with the government for shares. Even so, we’ll need hired guns as well as government protection. When word gets out—and it will, somehow. It always does. Also, the Wanderi won’t stay cowed forever, and that wasn’t the only tribe of witch-men in this hunk of country. So I’d like to take out as much as we can this first time. There are better ways.”

“You mean like the necklace?” said Isabel.

“That’s it. It just doesn’t stand to reason there’d be only one piece of jewelry in a city of gold.”

“They might have thought like you,” suggested Murin, “and taken the lighter things with them when they had to abandon this refuge, too.”

“You’re a big help,” grinned Barrett. “Let’s look, anyhow.”

They went through four, then five of the big buildings. The sun was now directly overhead and drenched the interior of the cavern with pale lemon mist.

Barrett called a break to eat. They sat on the small stone wall that circled the pool beneath the waterfall. A spout from a never-ending spigot, that silver-crystal cascade plunged unbroken from the ceiling. Outside, such a thin fall would have been torn and broken to damp tatters by a modest breeze.

But in here, without a breath of wind to stir it, it gave the impression of being almost a solid bar of quicksilver.

Barrett sat on the rock, half in, half out of the moving sun. After their slightly chilly swim and feverish exploration of the first part of the city, the warm sunlight felt lovely.

Isabel dangled her feet in the water. As the sun dipped slightly lower it struck the edge of the pool, throwing back glittering stars and rainbows. The stone wall continued down into the pool itself. No doubt the city builders had lined the pool to prevent leakage. An idle chip with a small rock revealed what had become a commonplace fact: this wall, too, was fashioned from gold.

Big deal.

Barrett turned away from the pool. Ricocheting off the surface, the brilliant sunbeams hurt his eyes.

“What will you do with your share, Izzy?”

She looked meaningfully at him. “Other things aside, I’m going to found an institute in Nairobi, dedicated to the eradication of tropical diseases. It was one of father’s great dreams. After that, well—” she smiled. “I’m sure you’ll help me think of something worthwhile.”

“I may manage to come up with something,” he grinned back.

Turning away and still smiling, she leaned over the low wall and dipped her head close to the water. Both hands went low to cup a double handful of pool. She had to squint. The reflected light was almost blinding.

She paused with the water halfway to her mouth. It trickled away, escaping ’round unguarding fingers.

The scintillating, striking reflections came not from the surface of the pool . . . but from below. She turned her hand over and the rest of the water fell in small drops to the surface.

“George . . .” Her voice rose. “George!”

“Izzy?” Everyone had turned to stare at her.

She pointed. “The bottom of the pool. When you lean right up close to the surface, and squint, the sun doesn’t bounce right up at you.”

Barrett dipped his own head close to the water, trying to screen out the constant ripples from the cascade. The lights that danced back at him were multicolored and no longer seemed to spring from a shifting, constantly changing source. When he moved slightly, the same colors remained.

It was time to go swimming again.

The pool was deeper than it looked. A dull drumming in his ears came from the waterfall. True, its volume was not that impressive. Even so, it could break the back of anyone who carelessly swam underneath the drop.

He dove from the bottom, and saw what he and Isabel had seen distorted by distance and light. His right hand dug deeply into the uneven floor. It penetrated at sharp, awkward angles, but it penetrated. He scooped.

They were crowding around anxiously when he reappeared, spitting water. A couple of short kicks brought him back to the wall. He threw his armload of bottom onto the stones That’s when Kobenene decided it was time for a dip, too.

Geologically speaking, the bottom of the pool would be classed as a breccia of unrelated but intriguing composition. Certainly the chains of gold and silver and hammered platinum were. These were interspersed with odd variants. Safe to say they would have impressed any petrologist. Or banker. Or archaeologist.

Or any human being over the age of five.

There were small necklaces and bracelets, and pendants and ear loops. Each was in a class by itself.

Barrett spotted the knife, pulled it out of the wet, clinging mass. The long blade was still sharp, its edge only slightly chipped. It was a deep, pigeon-blood red. When he held it to the light, over his face, a pink haze of translucence flushed his visage. The handle was engraved gold studded with small, fine diamonds. The blade . . .

“Solid ruby, I think,” he finally managed to whisper.

There were several other interesting trinkets in the armload. One was a war club made of ironwood set with precious stones, mostly beryls and aquamarines. The strong wood itself was flaking and worm-eaten, but the gold wires wrapping the top still held the striking stone firmly in place.

This gem was twice the size of Barrett’s fist, slightly pointed at the hitting end. When he held the club in the light, the deep blue sapphire flashed a ghostly starfish pattern from its smooth surface. He made no comment. What could anyone say, in the face of such wealth?

It wasn’t wealth. It was beyond mortal comprehension. Isabel had slipped five, no, six bracelets on her left arm. When she shook the arm they clicked hollowly against each other. They were blue also, beautifully if simply faceted. She slipped one off, handed it to Barrett.

He inspected it curiously. Yes, nice work, all six probably of a set. He looked inside to see what kind of material the stones had been set into. But the inside of the bracelet, too, was lightly faceted blue. Then he brought it close to see where the seams had been cleverely joined. There were no seams, clever or otherwise.

The bracelet was one solid piece. No doubt the others were, also. Very interesting. He tossed it back to Isabel.

The bracelets had been cut from a single, gigantic blue diamond. Idly, he wondered what the craftsmen who’d fashioned them had done with the center that had been cut out to form the solid bracelets. It probably rested somewhere in the bottom of the pool, too. Cut to form a doorstop, no doubt.

He made only one more dive. Between that and what Kobenene brought up, everyone was too emotionally exhausted to search further.

It was clear that the bottom of the pool was covered to an interminate depth with the wealth of the greatest empire Africa had ever known. There were spearpoints, also of cut ruby, and more war clubs, and necklaces and earrings and nosepieces beyond imagining.

Barrett’s personal favorite of the booty was a pair of ceremonial sandals, tied together with gold wire. They’d have done Cinderella proud. Oh, they were a bit large for his feet, but otherwise they suited him just dandy, oh yes.

The three-centimeter thick soles, like the bracelets, were solid blue diamond. And why not, he reflected hysterically. After all, what would wear better or last longer than a pair of solid diamond shoes?

The toe-straps that he slipped his feet into were beaten, alloyed gold, cleverly set into notches cut in the diamond.

Barrett noticed Luana staring at him.

“All this is what is called ‘money,’ I suppose?” she asked.

“Yes, Luana.” Barrett spoke as one would to a child. “This is a form of money. Money means many things to many people, though. For me, it means no more taking orders from fat used-car moguls out to prove their macho by shattering an impala with an elephant gun. It means being able to do exactly as I please for the first time in my life. It means not having to worry where my next meal is coming from. It means . . . being free.”

She smiled back at him and he couldn’t escape the feeling that she was laughing at him.

“I can understand that, George Barrett . . . but I already have all those things. Still, I cannot argue how you chose to find yours. I am glad to see you so happy.”

“That’s the greatest understatement since the Rhodesian Prime Minister called Salisbury a segregated city,” Barrett replied, heedless of the fact that she couldn’t understand. He turned to Murin.

“Dump the food. We’ll use the boxes to haul some of this stuff back to camp. When the guys back there get a look at this they’ll forget about eating, too.”

They set about loading the plastic book cases, their few burlap sacks, and even the tiny pockets in their underwear with the ancient jewelry. They went about this task with a single-mindedness of purpose that was as admirable as it was misdirected. It caused them to miss other interesting sights.

For example, Barrett would have greatly admired the silver and sapphire war club that knocked him silly.

Chapter XII

They sat, bound with wire of solid gold, in one of the great stone buildings. From the sound of it, they were still somewhere near the waterfall pool. The jewels, their flashlights and sacks and Barrett’s skinning knife, everything but their clothes, had been taken from them, except the harmless rope.

Outside, the degenerate inheritors of empire, the in-bred guardians of imperial memory, beat ominous time on drums inlaid with platinum and ivory and sard.

One thing was certain: these were no associates of the Wanderi. Or of any known tribe. Their bearing was regal, their speech archaic. There weren’t many of these warriors, surely not enough to populate all the golden fortress. With the one rifle and an element of surprise, Barrett and the others might have been able to escape.

But they had no rifle, and the surprise belonged to the other side. They’d been lying in wait for the proper moment, and had found it with the would-be billionaires sorting their discovery. Probably they’d been waiting ever since Isabel’s shout away back at the base of the first, small cascade.

The way they’d been surprised was almost as painful to Barrett as the lump at the back of his skull. It throbbed for attention and he tried not to wince, shifted closer to the little fire in the center of the room. It was cold in the cavern at night. They all crowded around the tiny, cheerful blaze. It was the only moving thing in the room that was.

“Can’t even talk to ’em,” he grumbled in frustration.

“Nor can I,” Luana admitted. “Their speech is one I have never encountered before.”

Barret glanced over at Kobenene. The big man was staring morosely into the flames.

“What about you, fat tortoise? You’re supposed to be the resident expert on dead languages.”

He muttered a reply. If he’d been the only one of the group able to communicate with their captors—ah well, another lost dream.

“Their speech is old, old Bantu dialect. I can understand a word here, a word there, and that’s all. I could understand more, I think, if they would only talk slowly and repeat things. Of course, in order to do that, I would have to know how to tell them to do so, and since they will not—”

“Okay, okay, I get the point.” Isabel hunched closer to him, and this time she tried to cheer him.

“What do you suppose they have in mind for us, darling?”

“Well, they seem a cut above the Wanderi. Something of unique historical importance, I’m sure.” His tone was dry. “Everybody be sure and take notes. Pity none of us are anthropologists. I expect their ceremony will be much more interesting than the last we almost went through.” He leaned forward, tried to peer out one of the small windows.

“I think maybe it’s getting light out. That usually seems like a starting time.” He paused, his gaze attracted by motion in their circle. “Hey, Kobe, what are you—”

Barrett didn’t need to finish the query. The big man’s movements became self-explanatory.

He’d shifted around until his back was to the fire. The gold bindings would take powerful wire trimmers to cut them, but—

No one in the little group knew how Kobenene stood the pain without crying out. Maybe he had enough extra fat on them to partly protect him. Also, greed is an amazingly powerful force. He held his hands there, over the flames, while sweat streamed down his puffy cheeks and the skin of his wrists began to blacken.

The gold wire began to bend, then to flow. A couple of drops of molten yellow formed in the middle of the wire, dripped into the fire, hissing. Kobene jerked violently, jerked again. Powerful arms flew upwards as the weakened metal parted.

“Nice going, Kobe!” Barrett congratulated him excitedly. They might get out of this yet. The big man was working at his leg bindings, soon loosened them. Barrett shifted around until his back was to the other. “Now do mine.”

When nothing happened, he looked over his shoulder in confusion. Kobenene was standing by the small window on the south side of the building, rubbing his charred wrists and staring cautiously out.

“Hey!” Barrett shouted. It was an eloquent hey.

“Don’t worry.” Kobenene turned a smiling face back to them. The smile cracked slightly as he rubbed at the severe burn he’d incurred. “I’ll see to it that you’re all buried in coffins of solid gold.”

He was gone, squeezed through the window before Barrett’s second “Hey.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have trusted the fat sonuvabitch!” Isabel looked ready to cry. Barrett nudged her, shook his head violently. “No! Maybe we can . . .”

Murin already had his wrists over the fire. Long minutes passed while he stoically endured the tiny, terrible flames. Then his hands were free. He went to his ankles and started working frantically at the knots.

“Relax, Mur,” advised Barrett softly. Murin looked up, sighed.

Three men crowded in the doorway. Two were old, but the grips on their spears were firm. Barrett sensed others crowding around these first three. Sure enough, a group of women entered and helped Murin remove the rest of his bindings. Barrett, Isabel, and Luana were likewise freed.

One of the old men, who’d been looking uncertainly around their dim prison, abruptly began shouting excitedly in the dead dialect. There was no need for translation. They’d finally discovered that Kobenene was missing. There was considerable commotion in the crowd outside. Straining, Barrett thought he saw three shapes move off in the direction of the stream. He hoped they’d catch the bugger, but not kill him.

Barrett reserved that right to himself.

They were marched ceremoniously across the cavern floor. A crowd of women and a few children trailed. The women sort of cackled softly, but the men were determinedly silent. There was no howling and screaming. It was eerie. Again, Barrett was struck by the difference between their current captors and the Wanderi. There was a more civilized ruthlessness in operation here.

The procession halted. Across from them, a metal gate formed of criss-crossing bars of alloyed gold was set into the naked rock of the cavern wall. A second, solid door of wood now formed a bridge across a narrow, but deep dry moat filled with sharpened stakes.

The warriors formed two lines and took up positions along the two chains leading into the cliff wall. Others brought torches forward. Away from the early morning sunlight, this side of the cave was still dark. But not that dark, Barrett reflected. The torchbearers lined up two deep, forming a ring of fire around the metal gate. They weren’t there just for supplementary illumination, nor did he think their purpose was purely ceremonial.

There didn’t seem to be a formally arrayed chief or witch doctor, though the old man who came forward could have passed for either. He had the dignity, if not the finery. At a signal from the patriarch, the two lines of men began to haul on the chains. Slowly, ponderously, the heavy golden gate was raised, disappearing into a slot cut in the roof of the tunnel it barred.

Maybe they were just going to lock them up in a safer place. Sure, that was it! That explained the lack of ceremony and screaming, of the festival atmosphere. Apparently they were worried by Kobenene’s escape and didn’t want to take any more chances.

A spearpoint prodded him. They walked forward across the wooden bridge.

At least it wasn’t the cruel joke that was one possibility, he mused in relief as they reached the other side. The razor-sharp stakes set in the bottom of the narrow moat were not used for executions. The bridge had held. They stood there, watching, as the oldster gave another sign.

The metal gate dropped slowly in front of them, and the wooden bridge started to come up. Barrett saw the Bantu inheritors watching him, until the rising wood shut out their faces. Eventually it shut tight and they found themselves standing in near total darkness.

Barret stretched out a hand. “Isabel?” He heard a short gasp, moved towards it.

“Here, George.” He turned slightly left, took another step, and bumped against her. He drew her close, remembering her fear of the dark.

“Luana, Mur . . .?” Murin answered, and . . . silence. He tried again. “Luana!”

“Quiet!” Her voice came from somewhere slightly ahead, deeper in the cave, and it was tense. Then the short hairs rose at the back of his neck, at what she told them next.

They were not alone in the cave.

“Can’t you smell it?” Luana whispered.

Barrett took deep whiffs, feeling at once silly and terrified. He reckoned himself a brave man, braver than most. But the girl’s soft admonition, coupled with the stygian darkness—well, it was almost too much.

There was nothing—no, that? A faint, heavy, musty odor. And it was getting stronger.

“What is it, Luana?” The reply was taut, controlled.

“Cat-smell . . . and yet,” she sounded confused, “it is not. I cannot recognize—” Sudden quiet, then, “Make no fast movements, or sounds!”

They waited, in silence as enveloping and all-consuming as the dark. Barrett strained his eyes, saw nothing; strained his ears, and heard—was that a faint hint of heavy breathing?

The reason for the circle of torches became obvious.

Kobenene kicked a last time and burst out of the cave into clean, honest daylight. He swam for the camp and beach.

“Kwa nje!” he shouted. “Watch out!”

The men on shore heard him. There were ready hands to help him from the water. Someone threw him a towel and he began drying himself. Everyone of the excited bearers had two questions.

Kobenene had no time for curiosity. He reached excitedly for the rifle, trying to tell them everything at once.

“Barrett, Murin, and the two women have been captured! A strange tribe of evil ones, who live inside the mountain! Only I managed to escape. The whites are all dead! We will be, too, if we do not start back immediately!” He grabbed.

Entebbe kept a firm grip on the weapon and backed away. Now, Entebbe was no genius, but he was no man’s fool, either. This fat servant of the dead would-be murderer said too many things too quickly. Boss George had left him in charge. That charge was embodied in the rifle. He wasn’t about to surrender it so easily.

“Didn’t you hear me, you country bumpkin? We’ve got to get out of here! Now!”

“Maybe we do and maybe we don’t,” the bearer replied, eying the other warily. “If so, we go when I say so, not you.”

Kobenene was astonished, then furious. “I’ll break your goddamn neck, you ignorant—”

Entebbe took two quick steps backwards and lowered the muzzle of the .470. It pointed right at the other’s most prominent target. The startled Kobenene stopped in his tracks. His hand went reflexively for the machete that wasn’t there. The same thought occurred to Entebbe. He tossed the fat man his clothes. After a second thought, he let him have the big knife, too. Let him try something if he wanted to. Kobenene had kept to himself the whole journey. It was obvious he thought himself better than them. No one in the group would grieve if Entebbe felt compelled to shoot him. There was a click as he slipped a round into the chamber.

Kobenene seemed to sense the other’s thoughts. Then he looked back towards the mountain, looked again.

“All right, see for yourselves!”

Keeping one eye on Kobenene, Entebbe turned with the others to look at the rock.

One man emerged from the sheer wall, brandishing a spear. Two others followed, swimming awkwardly. They gesticulated at the camp in a definitely unfriendly manner.

Entebbe set the rifle to shoulder, making sure he was out of Kobenene’s leaping range, and squeezed off a shot. He was no marksman, but he wasn’t shooting to kill anyway.

The shot exploded on the wall, sending stone shards flying. The shell whined into the distance. Taking one look at where the invisible spear had struck, the leader of the pursuing trio turned and ducked back under the surface. His two companions were well ahead of him.

Kobenene had taken a hopeful step forward. But Entebbe rapidly swiveled around to face him once more.

“What’s the matter with you?” the fat man pleaded. “Don’t you see I’m telling the truth?”

“How come you are still alive?” asked Entebbe.

Kobenene was about fed up with this dumb hick. “I told you, I escaped. Barely, just before they came for us.” He held up his scarred palms. “No one else had the courage to burn themselves free.”

Ah, the fat fool’s ego had betrayed him! These men had all been present at the pigam ua. Anything this great hulk could do, Boss George could do also.

“Well?”

Entebbe looked around at his fellow workers. They were all watching him, waiting for instructions. Though he was no more than the least of them, Boss George had left him in charge. They would proceed on his word. It was an unaccustomed position, and he hesitated.

If this fat fellow’s story were true, they could sit here for weeks, for months even, waiting for dead men to rejoin them. Next time Kobenene’s strange pursuers might return in force, and a single shot not be enough to frighten them away. Nor would the single gun help if another tribe of Wanderi came upon them, or even the regrouped members of the first.

But if George Barrett were still alive—

Entebbe didn’t care much about the others. The silly American woman made his nervous and the other female frightened him more than he would admit. Murin he did not know. But for a white man Barrett was fair and just. He paid on time and didn’t put on airs, and called them by first names, and, wonder of wonders, demanded not to be called bwana.

And in giving Entebbe command and the rifle, he’d signed another, deeper contract.

“We stay,” he said finally, surprised at the firmness in his voice.

Kobenene was too angry and frustrated to argue. He looked around at the circle of watchers and said tightly, “What about the rest of you? Are you all going to stay with this madman and get slaughtered by savages?”

A few of them wouldn’t meet his eyes, but no one said anything, either.

He started going rapidly through the hampers and cases. Once he came across the carefully stacked workbooks of John Hardi. He ignored them. He didn’t need the pittance they could promise, anymore.

“You don’t mind, do you, if I take some food? And water? And maybe a spare machete?” Entebbe shook his head.

It would be dangerous to try the return journey alone. But if by some miracle Barrett and the others escaped, he would get back before them. There was a trail of slashed vines and bushes all the way back to Mpanda.

At the big river he’d take the raft, then set it free. Any survivors trailing him would have to chance the crocodiles, or take the time to build a new one. Yes, he’d have a sizable start. And he could move faster going alone.

He glared back at the assembled bearers, who stood watching him silently.

“All right, you fools, you back-country cretins! Don’t say I didn’t try to save you. Dogs, monkeys! I gave you a chance. Now it’s off my conscience!”

Feeling full of righteous indignation at their stupidity, and surging excitement at the power and wealth soon to be his, he shouldered the makeshift backpack and struck off the way they’d come.

A few hundred meters out of camp, Chaugh broke his back.

It was definitely breathing Barrett heard. Slow and heavy, like an old steam engine. It didn’t come from any of the four humans, he was sure. Isabel started in his arms and he had to fight to choke off his own shout at the unexpected, abrupt movement. He whispered softly to her.

“Remember . . . no noise.”

She nodded, even though Barrett couldn’t see it.

A pair of tiny glowing coals, pits of fathomless red-orange, appeared in the blackness. Hot lava circles they were, fresh from the depths of the Earth . . . prime gems let by their own inner light. Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, he saw that there was some little light in the cave, peeking in around the edges of the wooden door.

But not enough light to show him the shape of the coal-possessor.

They flickered once. Another pair appeared alongside the first, and to the left, another. Soon there were a dozen pair of the enigmatic, fiery pinpoints floating opposite them.

There was a weird, quavering growl . . . it was answered by a familiar high snarl, not from the distant eyes (for surely that’s what they were . . . devil-eyes) but from close in front of them. Another growl, a deep-throated alien cough the likes of which the experienced Barrett had never heard. It was utterly new and alien.

Another snarl from Luana was answered by several husky growls and coughs.

Barrett tried to keep his voice as low as possible.

“Can you understand these . . . cats?”

Her reply floated back to him from a point in the pit only meters away. It was uncertain.

“They are cats . . . and yet they are not. Their minds are . . . slow. Not like Chaugh or Jukakhan. But I think—” She stopped, and he heard her make a rapid series of low growls and mewing sounds. They were answered.

“Move to the right side of the cave—right as facing in. Press close to the wall—and stay.”

Barrett and Isabel complied, nearly stumbling over Murin in the process.

“What is it? What are you going to do?” Damn this darkness! He couldn’t see a thing.

Luana was suddenly next to him, close, warm. “They were curious about me, so I told them things. And more besides, things that would not otherwise have occurred to them.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Barrett. “You even smell like them, a little.”

That was one of the things that had bothered them since their first meeting, and he hadn’t been able to pin it down until now, in the closeness of the cave. Her odor varied between that of a young girl and, say, Chaugh’s.

“They wish desperately to leave here,” she continued. “They have lived locked in this long cave as long as the oldest among them can remember. When the wooden door-bridge is raised and shuts out the light, they know food has been thrown in. But they are afraid of the fire. I have told them some things and explained others. They’d not the brains to think of them.”

Luana pressed herself tightly to him more tightly than was necessary, he thought.

“Stay very close to the wall. They can see a little, even in this, but not well.”

Barrett turned away from her and looked past Isabel, deeper into the cave. The red points seemed to have moved far into the distance. Luana snarled then, so close and loud that his hands clenched tight around Isabel. How he wished he had the Express now, despite Luana’s assurance!

The glowing eyes blurred suddenly, swept past him. His nostrils were overwhelmed by the concentrated smell of cat that wasn’t quite. Five or six of the things struck the metal gate high and together.

Abruptly the cave was filled with light as the metal bars and wooden door were smashed flat, like cardboard. They formed a neat bridge across the spike-strewn dry moat.

Barrett blinked in the sudden brilliance and tried to focus his tearing eyes. He looked up towards the roof of the cave portal where it was somewhat darker. The golden portcullus had been torn from its sockets. The holding chains dangled broken links from holes in the ceiling.

He lowered his gaze. The last giant shapes streaming past in front of him were a tawny yellow, but with impossible, incredible black zebra stripes. They flashed by, lightning quick. His sight began to return and he looked outside. Screams begin to fill the air of the cavern.

Having concluded a particularly odious task, the Bantu lords were already dispersed throughout the cavern when the creatures swarmed among them. Stunned and utterly entranced, the three explorers and Luana hurried across the makeshift bridge.

There were a dozen adults, plus a few cubs. One young cub sat on the side of the moat and watched Barrett, then turned to licking a paw. The children of most species are like all children: playful and cute. This one was undoubtedly playful, but characteristics marked it as anything but cute.

The tiny ball of striped fur yawned. In the process, it exposed a pair of long canines projecting down from the roof of the mouth. They were as large as those of a full grown lion. It had practically no forehead and a peculiarly flattened skull topped with tiny, dog-like ears. As it yawned, its lower jaw dropped to form nearly a straight line, almost touching its throat.

Horrible, unfeline yowling filled the cavern, reverberated from distant walls. The pent-up cat-things were turning on their hereditary tormentors from ages past.

They were older than the city, older than the Great Empire and how they’d survived he didn’t know. A terrifying, heartrending apparition from man’s desperate times past.

“George, George, come now! Stare later, yes?” Murin was pulling frantically at his arm and Barrett was aware he’d been watching and not moving. He blinked, gathered himself. Then he in turn had to half drag, half carry a stunned Isabel.

Luana stayed close to them. Whenever one of the cat-things strayed too close, too forgetfully, she would growl warningly at it and it would dash aside in search of other prey. They ran for the stream.

A loud rumbling filled the air, louder even than the screams and roaring behind. Dust and a few pebbles fell in front of them, not from being kicked up by their running, but falling from the roof.

It came again, louder. Behind them human shrieks and animal bellows continued unabated. So now did the rumbling. A stalactite plunged like a monster spear to the ground just to their left, shattering into limestone fragments and chips.

“It’s all the noise!” he yelled above the continual groaning of stone on stone. “No wonder their ceremony was subdued! No wonder they kept those things penned up in their own cave.” Another huge section of roof crashed to the ground nearby, the concussion so close nearly spilling Barrett off his feet. Somehow he stayed upright, kept Isabel from falling too.

“Sympathetic vibration!” he shouted again as they reached the water.

At some time in the recent past the roof of the cavern had collapsed. Now, coupled with decades of pounding from the small waterfall, the sudden uncontained cacophony proved too much for the weakened dome.

Cracks appeared overhead, but well behind them now. One titanic chunk of rock fell from the lip of the opening, crashed to the cavern floor in a shower of flying rock and dust. Another tumbled in seemingly slow motion, shattered half a multi-storied storehouse.

They’d reached the small cascade. Barrett uncoiled the nylon line and hurriedly secured it to a rocky outcropping. Murin went down first, then waited and caught Isabel as she fell the last meter. Barrett gave Luana a gentle shove, but she resisted, shaking her head. It hardly being the time for idle discussion, Barrett turned and let himself down, rappelling easily over the short drop. The cord followed a moment later and he recoiled it carefully.

Luana appeared over the edge and started to climb down. Then she pushed off and dropped the remaining three meters to the stone floor.

Barrett followed as she led the way back down the tunnel. They held hands in the dark. His mind went back to his final sight from the top of the cascade.

A single warrior had been running towards him. Not in pursuit this time, but like them, seeking escape. A huge yellow form caught him from behind. The man screaming. Great, monstrous jaws opening, distorting wide. Upper jaw descending and the two fifteen centimeter-long canines, each thicker and longer and sharper than Barrett’s lost skinning knife, biting, penetrating clear through the man’s shoulder beneath the clavicle and above the ribs, and coming out his back.

As the final remnant of their world crashed about them, the last sabertooths continued their ultimate, redemptive orgy of revenge.

Barrett brought up the rear of the stumbling, soaked party. He was beginning to wonder if even Luana’s magnificent senses were equal to the task of finding their way through the black tunnel. Of course, they had the stream to guide them, but there were twists and turns and they were running. Somehow, though, she knew to tell them when the stream curved left, bent right, or took another slight but ankle-straining drop.

Tremendous rumblings and stentorian pseudo-explosions sounded constantly behind them.

Before he knew it the water came up to his knees, then his waist. The exit was just ahead. There was no time to fix a guide rope . . . they would each have to feel their way to the outside.

“Go, Isabel, and watch your head!” If one of them knocked themselves out part-way through the submerged tunnel, with others crowding close behind . . .

Then he was out in the bright daylight, drinking in the sun and taking long, deep breaths. The silence and peace outside the mountain was almost painful. There was nothing to indicate the cataclysm, the horror, that doubtlessly continued unabated inside.

Isabel, Murin, and Luana were waiting for him. As soon as he appeared, they turned and swam for the beach. Suddenly the water turned gray, then gray-brown around him. He turned. Pulverized rock and dust were exploding out of the tunnel like an underwater avalanche, staining the clear water.

The others continued towards the camp, but Barrett waited. Dust and powder were washed away by the current. When it had cleared, settled enough to see, he went under the surface a last time.

A broad incline of solid stone stretched towards the floor of the pool from the top of the former cave entrance. The entrance itself sparkled . . . not with diamonds, but from shards of glittering calcite and pieces of lost dream.

Barrett surfaced and followed the others. Not only the bearers greeted them joyfully. A four-legged bolt of black lightning, followed close by one of beige-brown, rushed from the bushes and bowled Luana over. She rolled around and around with Chaugh and Jukakhan, an inseparable pile of fur and flesh. The cats purred and meowed like big kittens, bright points of pink showing as they licked her all over.

In the branches overhead a squat, familiar simian shape chittered hysterically and beat at the leaves, turning crazy sommersaults and leaping back and forth between two trees.

Entebbe came up to Barrett and handed him the rifle. He was smiling, but his tone was solemn.

“The fat one said you’d all been killed, Boss George. I could not believe him when he said he escaped from a place where you remained.”

Barrett put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “You did right, Entebbe, you did very right.” His eyes went around the circle, touching on every man there. “You all did right.” Then he exchanged handshakes and hugs all around.

His eyes turned to the jungle and his voice was low and hard.

“When I catch up with that putrid turtle—”

Luana disengaged herself enough from the affectionate grasp of the two cats to speak.

“You will catch up with him sooner than you think, George Barrett.” She smiled humorlessly. “Chaugh saw to that.”

She reached around and scratched the back of the panther’s neck. The burning eyes closed with pure pleasure.

Barrett grunted, half-disappointed, half-pleased. That added up to resignation. He turned to the rock wall. It returned no hint of what had taken place behind.

“At least I’ve had the rare satisfaction of having a dream come true—even if it wasn’t in the cards that I get to keep it.” He sighed, sat down on a case.

“Beg your pardon,” Isabel interposed smoothly, slipping sinuously onto his lap. “You can keep me all you want.”

He kissed her deeply this time, while the bearers made ribald comments and jostled each other.

“And . . . and,” she continued, breathing the way she had on first emerging into fresh air, “if you’ll get out of this indecent pose and put your pants on, I think you’ll find you still have a piece of it left.”

Barrett looked blank, then shook his head.

“Idiot! The necklace!”

He got up hurriedly and checked his pants. Sure enough, the priceless necklace was still there.

“And that’s not all,” she added, staring at him low, “you dummy! You’ve had it so long you’ve gotten used to it! Don’t you think your tootsies would turn heads in the Easter Parade?”

“What?” Barrett’s gaze went to his feet.

He was still wearing the diamond sandals.

“Well, god damn!” He slipped one of them off. The sun of Africa rewarded him with a hand full of rainbows.

“Beautiful.” He held it close. “Water pure, flawless. Cut into individual stones—necklaces, pins, and,” he grinned, “one wedding ring. There must be a few thousand carats in each. Too bad the guy who wore these wasn’t a size twelve.” Isabel kissed him again. When he could breathe once more—

“Everybody gets paid! Even us! Even . . .” he pulled away from her slightly, searching over her shoulder. “Luana. Luana?” His eyes hunted in green.

Murin turned. So did Entebbe and the other bearers. Barrett cupped his hands to mouth and yelled into the forest.

“LUANA!”

From her distant vantage point in a high, moss-filled kobo tree, Luana rubbed Ohoh’s fuzzy pate and watched George Barrett and the others call.

They would try to take her back with them. To the cities, to the crowded, choking places. Isabel would try to claim her guardian rights as sister, detailing the wonders of civilization, the miracles and unimaginable delights that awaited her.

She pulled a ripe fruit from the tree, bit deeply into it. The semi-sweet pulp and juice flowed over her lips, stained her chin. She wiped the residue away with the back of a forearm and spit out a few small pits.

Miracles and delights? There were more here than she’d ever be able to see. And as for sisterly rights and family love, well—was ever a girl blessed with three such fine brothers as she?

She looked down and snarled. Jukakhan and Chaugh growled back up at her, waiting. She dropped to the ground and swung herself astride the lion’s back. Her hands dug into is mane.

“To the Blue Window,” she called.

Flanks heaving to take in air, the steel muscles under her arms contracted.

A second passed. Two macaws teased a green tree snake.

They were the only movement left in that section of the great forest—

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

LUANA

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII