‘They’ve nothing better to do.’ Ryker lifted the clock out of the cabinet with his big hands, with great care placed it beside the alarm clock, the almost inaudible motion of its pendulum lost in the metallic chatter of the latter’s escapement. For a moment he gazed at the ornamental hands and numerals. Then he picked up the alarm clock and with an almost valedictory pat, like an officer dismissing a faithful if stupid minion, locked it away in the cupboard below. His former buoyancy returning, he gave Pereira a playful slap on the shoulder. ‘Captain, if you want any more rat-skins just give me a shout!’
Backing away, Pereira’s heel touched one of Connolly’s feet, distracting Connolly from a problem he had been puzzling over since their entry into the hut. Like a concealed clue in a detective story, he was sure that he had noticed something of significance, but was unable to identify it.
‘We won’t worry about the skins,’ Pereira said. ‘What we’ll do with your assistance, Ryker, is to hold a little parley with the chiefs, see whether they remember anything of this capsule.’
Ryker stared out at the Indians now standing directly below the veranda. Irritably he slammed down the blind. ‘For God’s sake, Pereira, they don’t. Tell the Lieutenant he isn’t interviewing people on Park Avenue or Piccadilly. If the Indians had seen anything I’d know.’
‘Perhaps.’ Pereira shrugged. ‘Still, I’m under instructions to assist Lieutenant Connolly and it won’t do any harm to ask.’
Connolly sat up. ‘Having come this far, Captain, I feel I should do two or three forays into the bush.’ To Ryker he explained: ‘They’ve recalculated the flight path of the final trajectory, there’s a chance he may have come down further along the landing zone. Here, very possibly.’
Shaking his head, Ryker slumped down on to the couch, and drove one fist angrily into the other. ‘I suppose this means they’ll be landing here at any time with thousands of bulldozers and flame-throwers. Dammit, Lieutenant, if you have to send a man to the Moon, why don’t you do it in your own back yard?’
Pereira stood up. ‘We’ll be gone in a couple of days, Ryker.’ He nodded judiciously at Connolly and moved towards the door.
As Connolly climbed to his feet Ryker called out suddenly: ‘Lieutenant. You can tell me something I’ve wondered.’ There was an unpleasant downward curve to his mouth, and his tone was belligerent and provocative. ‘Why did they really send a man to the Moon?’
Connolly paused. He had remained silent during the conversation, not wanting to antagonize Ryker. The rudeness and complete self-immersion were pathetic rather than annoying. ‘Do you mean the military and political reasons?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Ryker stood up, arms akimbo again, measuring Connolly. ‘I mean the real reasons, Lieutenant.’
Connolly gestured vaguely. For some reason formulating a satisfactory answer seemed more difficult than he had expected. ‘Well, I suppose you could say it was the natural spirit of exploration.’
Ryker snorted derisively. ‘Do you seriously believe that, Lieutenant? "The spirit of exploration!" My God! What a fantastic idea. Pereira doesn’t believe that, do you, Captain?’
Before Connolly could reply Pereira took his arm. ‘Come on, Lieutenant. This is no time for a metaphysical discussion.’ To Ryker he added: ‘It doesn’t much matter what you and I believe, Ryker. A man went to the Moon and came back. He needs our help.’
Ryker frowned ruefully. ‘Poor chap. He must be feeling pretty unhappy by now. Though anyone who gets as far as the Moon and is fool enough to come back deserves what he gets.’
There was a scuffle of feet on the veranda, and as they stepped out into the sunlight a couple of Indians darted away along the jetty, watching Connolly with undiminished interest.
Ryker remained in the doorway, staring listlessly at the clock, but as they were about to climb into the launch he came after them. Now and then glancing over his shoulder at the encroaching semi-circle of Indians, he gazed down at Connolly with sardonic contempt. ‘Lieutenant,’ he called out before they went below. ‘Has it occurred to you that if he had landed, Spender might have wanted to stay on here?’
‘I doubt it, Ryker,’ Connolly said calmly. ‘Anyway, there’s little chance that Colonel Spender is still alive. What we’re interested in finding is the capsule.’
Ryker was about to reply when a faint metallic buzz sounded from the direction of his hut. He looked around sharply, waiting for it to end, and for a moment the whole tableau, composed of the men on the launch, the gaunt outcast on the edge of the jetty and the Indians behind him, was frozen in an absurdly motionless posture. The mechanism of the old alarm clock had obviously been fully wound, and the buzz sounded for thirty seconds, finally ending with a high-pitched ping.
Pereira grinned. He glanced at his watch. ‘It keeps good time, Ryker.’ But Ryker had stalked off back to the hut, scattering the Indians before him.
