Luana (15 page)

“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.