vehicles, and then mournfully clambered down to inspect the heavily
bogged vehicle. Gareth walked out across the snowy surface of the
pan,
and stood beside him surveying the damage silently.
"Let him make one crack " Jake thought through the mists of his anger
and frustration. He felt his hands curling into big bony hammers.
"Cheroot?" Gareth offered him the case, and Jake felt his anger
deflate slightly.
"Good place to camp tonight," Gareth went on. "We'll see about hauling
her out in the morning." He clapped Jake's shoulder. "Come on,
I'll buy you a warm beer."
"I was waiting for you to say something,
anything but that and I would have swung on you. "Jake shook his
head
grinning with surprise at Gareth's perception.
"You think I didn't know that, old son?" Gareth grinned back at him.
Vicky woke in the hours immediately after midnight when human vitality
is at its lowest, and the night was utterly silent except for the
gentle sound of one of the men snoring. She recognized the sound from
the previous evening, and wondered which of them it was.
something like that could influence a girl's decision, she thought,
imagine sleeping every night of your life in a saw mill.
It was not that which had woken her, however. Perhaps it was the cold.
The temperature had plunged in that phenomenal temperature range of the
desert, and she drew her blankets tighter over her shoulder and settled
to sleep ,again when the sound came again and she shot upright into a
rigid sitting position.
It was a long-drawn rolling, rattling sound, quite unlike anything she
had ever heard before. The sound rose to a pitch which clawed her
nerves, and then ended in a series of deep gut-shaking grunts. It was
so fierce and menacing a sound that she felt the slow ice of terror
spreading through her body. She wanted to shout to the others, to wake
them, but she was afraid to draw attention to herself and she sat
frozen and wide-eyed in the next silence waiting for it to happen
again.
"It's all right, Miss Camberwell." Vicky started at the quiet voice.
"It's miles away. Nothing to worry about." And she looked round to
see the young Ethiopian, still wrapped in his blankets watching her.
"My God, Greg what on earth is it?"
"A lion, Miss Camberwell,"
Gregorius . explained, obviously surprised that she did not recognize
such a commonplace sound.
"A lion? That is a lion roaring?" She had not expected it to sound
anything like that.
"My people say that even a brave man is frightened three times by a
lion and the first time is when he hears it roar."
"I believe it,"
she whispered. "I truly do." And she picked up her blankets and went
to where Jake and Gareth slept on, undisturbed. She lay down carefully
between them, and felt a little easier that the lion had now a wider
choice, but still she did not sleep, Count Aldo Belli had retired to
his tent with the sincerest and firmest resolve that in the morning he
would press forward to the Wells of Chaldi. The General's pleas had
touched him. Nothing would check him now, he decided, as he composed
himself to sleep.
He woke in the utter dark of the dog hours to find that the
Chianti he had drunk at dinner was now exerting internal pressure.
Where a lesser man might have slipped without ceremony from his bed to
deal with this problem, the Count did things in greater style.
He lay back on his pillows and let out a single loud bellow, and
immediately there was the frantic activity in the night, and within
minutes Gino had arrived with a bull's-eye lantern, hastily dressed in
a camel-hair gown, and tousle-haired and owl-eyed with sleep. He was
followed by the Count's personal valet and his galloper, all in the
same state of freshly awoken bewilderment.
The Count stated his physical needs, and the dedicated group gathered
around his bed solicitously. Gino helped him up as though he were an
invalid, the valet held a dressing gown of quilted blue Chinese silk,
embroidered with ferocious scarlet dragons, and then knelt to place a
calf-skin slipper on each of the Count's feet, while his aide hastened
to kick the Count's personal guard awake and fall them in outside the
tent.
The Count emerged from the tent and a small procession, well armed and
lighted, filed down to the latrine which had been dug exclusively for
the Count's personal use. Gino entered first and checked the small
thatched edifice for snakes, scorpions and brigands. Only when he
emerged and declared it safe did the Count enter. His escort stood to
attention and listened respectfully to the copious outpouring taking
place within until they were interrupted by the sky shaking
earth-rattling, heart-stopping roar of a male lion.
The Count shot from the latrine, his face a startled glistening white
in the lantern light.
"Sweet and merciful Mother of God!" he cried. "What in the name of
Peter and all the saints is that?" Nobody could answer him, in fact
nobody showed any interest in the question whatever, and the Count had
to move swiftly to catch up with his armed escort which had already
