stalked away.
And that ought to be that, Barrett told himself. Only it wasn’t. The supposed scientist kept nagging at him. He leaned out to yell at the third land rover in the line.
“Hey, Breeded!”
The swarthy East Indian appeared a moment later, scratching at his swirling beard. Sometimes he would serve as second in command on Barrett’s expeditions. On other occasions, depending on the discriminatory preferences of the client, Barrett would act as his. They had a healthy respect for each other’s abilities. This time it was Barrett’s show. Even so, Murin wouldn’t have considered going were it not for the same argument that had convinced Barrett—money.
Murin’s skin was burned dark brown, the product of a fiery Hindu mother and thirty-three years of living out under the naked East African sun. A short curly beard ran from ear to ear, blended there into close cropped steel wool hair. There was a gold ring in his right ear. He was on the short side, and slim. He was not picked on, however, since it was a rumored fact that his body contained neither bone nor muscle, but was composed instead of odd lengths of steel cable.
“George, my friend, we are just about ready, yes?”
“Yes,” Barrett concurred. He nodded towards the back of the caravan, where Albright and Kobenene were working at their luggage. “What do you know about those two?”
Murin looked in the indicated direction. “The Englishman, Albright, lives in a fine big house. He has good taste in women, bad taste in wine, and seems to know a good many people in the right places plus an equally large number in the wrong ones. Despite the money he is rumored to have, he lives modestly.”
“He really a chemist?”
“It appears so,” nodded Murin, “though what he chemists at, nobody knows. Whatever it is, it’s profitable.”
“And the big one—he’s no damn valet, for sure.”
“Ah, the fat tortoise! He carries himself like a chief and speaks like a man of education—when he wants to. No one knows what he does, either, except that he and the Englishman are often seen together. In public, he is a gentleman to the hilt. Some say he is a disbarred chief, but there is no proof of this.”
“And in private?”
Murin shrugged. “He likes to beat up young girls and, purely for variety, young boys. He is also rumored to have other, even less benign hobbies; but again, this cannot be confirmed. Not by me, anyhow.”
“Couple of real boy scouts,” mused Barrett. “Okay, I’ll keep an eye on them, and you keep an eye on them.”
They needed only a couple of days to cross the hundreds of kilometers between Nairobi and Mwapi. They left the land rovers there. They could have driven them further across the last stretch of veldt, but Barrett preferred to leave them with a friend in the town. He wanted to find them in one piece when he returned.
It would take ten days hard marching, fighting insects, snakes, and the occasional dyspeptic carnivore, to reach the fringes of Wanderi country.
After that, of course, things would begin to get difficult.
They reached the last village, Mwendo, without incident. The trouble a-brewing, however, was not easily seen. Albright and Kobenene had been busy among the bearers. It was but three days march from here to the first lands of the Wanderi, and their leader must be of the strongest, a man who would not falter in a crucial moment. After all, their very lives might be at stake. Not all of them bought these indirect slurs on Barrett’s competence—but enough did.
The village was an unimpressive collage of mud and straw huts, and the communal corral held few cattle. The local chief was a sickly old bird, and suspicious. Going to the west? No one goes west from here . . . unless he wants to die.
They’d barely had time to sample the man’s comforting optimism when Murin joined Barrett and Isabel. The Breeded knocked dust from his pants with the side of his wide-brimmed hat. He squinted at the
And that ought to be that, Barrett told himself. Only it wasn’t. The supposed scientist kept nagging at him. He leaned out to yell at the third land rover in the line.
“Hey, Breeded!”
The swarthy East Indian appeared a moment later, scratching at his swirling beard. Sometimes he would serve as second in command on Barrett’s expeditions. On other occasions, depending on the discriminatory preferences of the client, Barrett would act as his. They had a healthy respect for each other’s abilities. This time it was Barrett’s show. Even so, Murin wouldn’t have considered going were it not for the same argument that had convinced Barrett—money.
Murin’s skin was burned dark brown, the product of a fiery Hindu mother and thirty-three years of living out under the naked East African sun. A short curly beard ran from ear to ear, blended there into close cropped steel wool hair. There was a gold ring in his right ear. He was on the short side, and slim. He was not picked on, however, since it was a rumored fact that his body contained neither bone nor muscle, but was composed instead of odd lengths of steel cable.
“George, my friend, we are just about ready, yes?”
“Yes,” Barrett concurred. He nodded towards the back of the caravan, where Albright and Kobenene were working at their luggage. “What do you know about those two?”
Murin looked in the indicated direction. “The Englishman, Albright, lives in a fine big house. He has good taste in women, bad taste in wine, and seems to know a good many people in the right places plus an equally large number in the wrong ones. Despite the money he is rumored to have, he lives modestly.”
“He really a chemist?”
“It appears so,” nodded Murin, “though what he chemists at, nobody knows. Whatever it is, it’s profitable.”
“And the big one—he’s no damn valet, for sure.”
“Ah, the fat tortoise! He carries himself like a chief and speaks like a man of education—when he wants to. No one knows what he does, either, except that he and the Englishman are often seen together. In public, he is a gentleman to the hilt. Some say he is a disbarred chief, but there is no proof of this.”
“And in private?”
Murin shrugged. “He likes to beat up young girls and, purely for variety, young boys. He is also rumored to have other, even less benign hobbies; but again, this cannot be confirmed. Not by me, anyhow.”
“Couple of real boy scouts,” mused Barrett. “Okay, I’ll keep an eye on them, and you keep an eye on them.”
They needed only a couple of days to cross the hundreds of kilometers between Nairobi and Mwapi. They left the land rovers there. They could have driven them further across the last stretch of veldt, but Barrett preferred to leave them with a friend in the town. He wanted to find them in one piece when he returned.
It would take ten days hard marching, fighting insects, snakes, and the occasional dyspeptic carnivore, to reach the fringes of Wanderi country.
After that, of course, things would begin to get difficult.
They reached the last village, Mwendo, without incident. The trouble a-brewing, however, was not easily seen. Albright and Kobenene had been busy among the bearers. It was but three days march from here to the first lands of the Wanderi, and their leader must be of the strongest, a man who would not falter in a crucial moment. After all, their very lives might be at stake. Not all of them bought these indirect slurs on Barrett’s competence—but enough did.
The village was an unimpressive collage of mud and straw huts, and the communal corral held few cattle. The local chief was a sickly old bird, and suspicious. Going to the west? No one goes west from here . . . unless he wants to die.
They’d barely had time to sample the man’s comforting optimism when Murin joined Barrett and Isabel. The Breeded knocked dust from his pants with the side of his wide-brimmed hat. He squinted at the
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