Peter. “But then, you’re all whizzes, cameras and fancy clothes and
aromatic pipes notwithstanding.”
Alex laughed.
“Got me there, chap.” Peter removed his pipe and shook his head.
“Dreadful habit.”
“Not at all,” said McAuliff. “I like the smell, I really do.
I’d smoke one myself but my tongue burns. Then stings.”
“There are preventive measures, but it’s a dull subject…. What’s
fascinating is this jungle laboratory we’re in. Have you decided on
crew assignments?”
“Vaguely,” answered Alex. “Doesn’t make an awful lot of difference. Who
do you want?”
“One of those brothers for me,” said Ruth. “They seem to know exactly
where they are. I’d be lost in half an hour! …
Of course, that’s selfish; my work is least important.”
“We still don’t want to lose you, do we, Peter?” McAuliff leaned
forward.
“Not as long as she behaves.”
“Take your pick,” said Alex. “Marcus or Justice?”
“What marvelously dotty names!” cried Ruth. “I choose Justice.” She
looked at her husband. “Always justice.”
“Yes, of course, my dear.”
“All right,” agreed McAuliff. “Then Marcus’ll be with me. One of them
has to. And Alison asked for Lawrence, if you don’t mind, Peter.”
“Not at all, chap. Sorry his friend … what was his name?
Floyd? Yes, Floyd. Sorry he jumped ship, as it were. Did you ever
find out what happened to him?”
“No,” replied Alex. “He just disappeared. Unreliable guy.
Something of a thief, too, according to Lawrence.”
“Pity … He seemed rather intelligent.”
“That’s condescending, darling. Worse than brass.” Ruth Jensen picked
up a tiny stone and chucked it into the narrow river offshoot.
“Then just pick out a stout fellow who’ll promise to lead me back to
camp for meals and sleep.”
“Fine. I’ll do that. We’ll work four-hour field sessions, staying in
touch by radio. I don’t want anyone going beyond a sonic mile from camp
for the first few days.”
“Beyond! ” Ruth looked at McAuliff, her voice having risen an octave.
“Dear Alex, if I stumble more than twenty feet into that maze of
overgrowth, commit me!”
“Rubbish,” countered her husband, “when you start cracking rocks, you
lose time and distance…. Speaking of which, Alex, old boy, I presume
there’ll be a fairly steady flow of visitors. To observe our progress;
that sort of thing.”
“Why?” McAuliff was now aware that both husband and wife were sending
out abstract, perhaps unconscious, signals. Peter less than Ruth. He
was subtler, surer of himself than she was. But not completely sure.
“We’ll bring out field reports every ten days or so. Rotate days off
that way.
That’ll be good enough.”
“Well, we’re not exactly at the end of nowhere; although I grant you, it
looks like it. I should think the moneymen would want to check up on
what they’re paying for.”
Peter Jensen had just made a mistake, and McAuliff was suddenly alarmed.
“What moneymen?”
Ruth Jensen had picked up another stone, about to throw it into the
brackish river. Arm poised, she froze for a second before hurling it.
The moment was not lost on any of them.
Peter tried to minimize it.
“Oh … some Royal Society titans or perhaps a few of these buggers
from the Ministry. I know the R.S. boys, and God knows the Jamaicans
have been less than cordial. I just thought. . . Oh, well, perhaps
I’m off-center.”
“Perhaps,” said Alex quietly, “you’re ahead of me. Onsite inspectors
aren’t unusual. I was thinking about the convenience. Or lack of it.
It took us nearly a day to get here. Of course, we had the truck and
the equipment…. Still it seems like a lot of trouble.”
“Not really.” Peter Jensen tapped his pipe on his boots.
“I’ve been checking the maps, looking about from the river clearing. The
grasslands are nearer than we think. Less than a couple of miles, I’d
say. Light planes or helicopters could easily land.”
“That’s a good point. I hadn’t thought of it.” McAuliff leaned forward
once again to engage Peter, but Peter did not look at him now. “I mean
if we needed … equipment or supplies, we could get them much quicker
than I’d anticipated. Thanks, Peter.”
“Oh, don’t thank him.” Ruth spoke with a nervous giggle.
“Don’t cater to him.” She looked briefly at her husband; McAuliff wished
he could have seen her eyes. “Peter just wants to convince himself he’s
a hop-skip from a pub.”
“Rubbish. Just idle conversation, old girl . . .”
“I think he’s bored with us, Ruth,” said Alex, laughing softly, almost
intimately. “I think he wants to see new faces.”
“As long as it’s not new bodies, my dear, the tolerance is possible,”
retorted Ruth Jensen with throated caricature.
The three of them laughed out loud.
McAuliff knew the humor was forced. Mistakes had been made, and the
Jensens were afraid.
Peter was looking for new faces … or a new face. A face he believed
Alex expected.
Who was it?
Was it possible … remotely possible that the Jensens were not what
they seemed?
There was the sound of whistling from a path in the north bush. Charles
Whitehall emerged into the clearing, his safari uniform pressed and
clean, in counterpoint to the rumpled clothes of Marcus Hedrik, the
older brother of the two Cock Pit runners. Marcus remained a respectful
distance behind Whitehall, his passive black face inscrutable.
McAuliff rose from the ground and spoke to the Jensens.
“It’s Charley. There’s a hill community several miles west of the
river; he was going to try to hire a couple of hands.”
Ruth and Peter took their cue, because they very much wanted to. “Well,
we’ve still got some equipment sorting to do,” said the husband, rising
quickly.
“Indeed we do! Help me up, luv.”
The Jensens waved to Charles Whitehall and rapidly started for their
tent.
McAuliff met Whitehall at the midpoint of the clearing.
The black scholar dismissed Marcus Hedrik, instructing him to issue
preparation orders to the rest of the crew about the evening patrols.
Alex was fascinated to watch and listen to Charley-mon speaking to the
runner. He fell easily into the hill country patois-Aamn near
indecipherable to McAuliff-and used his hands and eyes in gestures and
looks that were absolutely compatible with the obtuse speech.
“You do that very well,” said Alex as the runner trudged out of hearing.
“I should. It’s what you hired me for. I am the best there is.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you, Charley. You take
compliments so gracefully.”
“You did not hire me for my graces. They are a bonus you don’t
deserve.” Whitehall allowed himself a slight smile.
“You enjoy calling me ‘Charley,’ McAuliff?” he
“Do you object?”
“Not really. Because I understand. It is a defense mechanism; you
Americans are rife with them. ‘Charley’ is an idiomatic leveler,
peculiarly indigenous to the sixties and seventies. The Vietcong became
“Charley, so too the Cambodians and the Laotians; even your man on the
American street. It makes you feel superior. Strange that the name
should be Charley, is it not?”
“It happens to be your name.”
“Yes, of course, but I think that is almost beside the point.” The black
scholar looked away briefly, then back at Alex. “The name Charles is
Germanic in origin, actually. Its root meaning is ‘full grown’ or
possibly-here scholars differ-‘great size.” Is it not interesting that
you Americans take just such a name and reverse its connotation?”
McAuliff exhaled audibly and spoke wearily. “I accept the lesson for
the day and all its subtle anticolonialism. 1 gather you’d prefer I
call you Charles, or Whitehall, or perhaps ‘Great Black Leader.”
“Not for a moment. Charley is perfectly fine. Even amusing. And,
after all, it is better than Rufus.”
“Then what the hell is this all about?”
Whitehall smiled-again, only slightly-and lowered his voice. “Until ten
seconds ago, Marcus Hedrik’s brother has been standing behind the
lean-to on our left. He was trying to listen to us. He is gone now.”
Alex whipped his head around. Beyond the large tarpaulin lean-to,
erected to cover some camp furniture against a forest shower, Justice
Hedrik could be seen walking slowly toward two other crewmen across the
clearing. Justice was younger than his brother Marcus, perhaps in his
late twenties, and stockily muscular.
“Are you sure? I mean, that he was listening to us?”
“He was carving a piece of ceiba wood. There is too much to do to waste
time carving artifacts. He was listening.
Until I looked over at him.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Yes. Do. But do not give it undue emphasis. Runners are splendid
fellows when they are taking in tourist groups; the tips are generous. I
suspect neither brother is too pleased to be with us. Our trip is
professional-worse, academically professional. There is not much in it
for them. So there will be some hostility.”
McAuliff started to speak, then hesitated. He was bewildered. “I … I
may have missed something. What’s that got to do with his listening?”