‘I assure you, there have been no recorded cases. As a matter of interest, it’s a rare practice on this continent. Much more typical of Africa — and Europe,’ he added with sly humour. Pausing to smile at Connolly, he said quietly, ‘Don’t despise the Indians, Lieutenant. However diseased and dirty they may be, at least they are in equilibrium with their environment. And with themselves. You’ll find no Christopher Columbuses or Colonel Spenders here, but no Belsens either. Perhaps one is as much a symptom of unease as the other?’
They had begun to drift down the jetty, over-running one of the outriggers, whose bow creaked and disappeared under the stern of the launch, and Pereira shouted at the helmsman: ‘Ahead, Sancho! More ahead! Damn Ryker, where is the man?’
Churning out a niagara of boiling brown water, the launch moved forward, driving its shoulder into the bamboo supports, and the entire jetty sprung lightly under the impact. As the motor was cut and the lines finally secured, Connolly looked up at the jetty above his head.
Scowling down at him, an expression of bilious irritability on his heavy-jawed face, was a tall bare-chested man wearing a pair of frayed cotton shorts and a sleeve-less waistcoat of pleated raffia, his dark eyes almost hidden by a wide-brimmed straw hat. The heavy muscles of his exposed chest and arms were the colour of tropical teak, and the white scars on his lips and the fading traces of the heat ulcers which studded his shin bones provided the only lighter colouring. Standing there, arms akimbo with a sort of jaunty arrogance, he seemed to represent to Connolly that quality of untamed energy which he had so far found so conspicuously missing from the forest.
Completing his scrutiny of Connolly, the big man bellowed: ‘Pereira, for God’s sake, what do you think you’re doing? That’s my bloody outrigger you’ve just run down! Tell that steersman of yours to get the cataracts out of his eyes or I’ll put a bullet through his backside!’
Grinning good-humouredly, Pereira pulled himself up on to the jetty. ‘My dear Ryker, contain yourself. Remember your blood-pressure.’ He peered down at the water-logged hulk of the derelict canoe which was now ejecting itself slowly from the river. ‘Anyway, what good is a canoe to you, you’re not going anywhere.’
Grudgingly, Ryker shook Pereira’s hand. ‘That’s what you like to think, Captain. You and your confounded Mission, you want me to do all the work. Next time you may find I’ve gone a thousand miles up-river. And taken the Nambas with me.’
‘What an epic prospect, Ryker. You’ll need a Homer to celebrate it.’ Pereira turned and gestured Connolly on to the jetty. The Indians were still hanging about listlessly, like guilty intruders.
Ryker eyed Connolly’s uniform suspiciously. ‘Who’s this? Another so-called anthropologist, sniffing about for smut? I warned you last time, I will not have any more of those.’
‘No, Ryker. Can’t you recognize the uniform? Let me introduce Lieutenant Connolly, of that brotherhood of latter-day saints, by whose courtesy and generosity we live in peace together — the United Nations.’
‘What? Don’t tell me they’ve got a mandate here now? God above, I suppose he’ll bore my head off about cereal/protein ratios!’ His ironic groan revealed a concealed reserve of acid humour.
‘Relax. The Lieutenant is very charming and polite. He works for the Space Department, Reclamation Division. You know, searching for lost aircraft and the like. There’s a chance you may be able to help him.’ Pereira winked at Connolly and steered him forward. ‘Lieutenant, the Rajah Ryker.’
‘I doubt it,’ Ryker said dourly. They shook hands, the corded muscles of Ryker’s fingers like a trap. Despite his thicknecked stoop, Ryker was a good six to ten inches taller than Connolly. For a moment he held on to Connolly’s hand, a slight trace of wariness revealed below his mask of bad temper. ‘When did this plane come down?’ he asked. Connolly guessed that he was already thinking of a profitable salvage operation.
‘Some time ago,’ Pereira said mildly. He picked up the parcel containing the cabinet clock and began to stroll after Ryker towards the bungalow at the end of the jetty. A low-eaved dwelling of woven rattan, its single room was surrounded on all sides by a veranda, the overhanging roof shading it from the sunlight. Creepers trailed across from the surrounding foliage, involving it in the background of palms and fronds, so that the house seemed a momentary formalization of the jungle.
‘But the Indians might have heard something about it,’ Pereira went on. ‘Five years ago, as a matter of fact.’
