Текст книги "Cry Wolf"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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Jake dropped down into the cab and crawled back to open the rear double

doors of the car, knocking open the locking handles as he called over

his shoulder.

"Keep your hatch battened and don't, for chrissakes, show your head."

"I'll help you," Vicky stated boldly.

"The hell you will," snapped Jake, tearing his eyes off her magnificent

chest. "You'll stay where you are and keep the engine running." The

doors flew open and Jake tumbled headfirst out on to the sandy earth.

Spitting grit from his mouth, he crawled swiftly to the carcass of the

white horse. Close up, the hide was shaggy and flea-bitten, dappled

with faint patches of chestnut. On this pale background the bullet

holes were like dark red mouths where already the metallic blue flies

clustered delightedly.

The stallion lay heavily across Sara's lower body, pinning her face

down to the earth.

The naked boy child had been hit by one of the hooves as the horse

fell. The side of the tiny bald skull had been crushed, a deep

indentation above the temple into which a baseball would have fitted

neatly. There was no chance that he still lived and Jake transferred

his attention to the girl.

"Sara," he called, and she lifted herself on her elbows, looking back

at him from huge terrified dark eyes. Her face was smeared with dust,

the skin shaved from one cheek where she had slid against the ground,

exposing the pale pink meat from which lymph leaked in clear liquid

beads.

"Are you hit? "Jake reached her.

"I don't know," she whispered huskily, and he saw that the satin of her

breeches was soaked with dark blood. He placed both feet against the

carcass of the horse and tried to roll it off her legs, but the dead

weight of the animal was enormous. He would have to stand, taking his

chances with the guns.

Jake came to his feet and felt the cold fingers of fear brush lightly

along his spine as he turned his back to the nearest Italian trenches

and stooped to the horse.

Crouching with his weight balanced evenly on the balls of both feet, he

took the tail and the lower hind leg of the animal; lifting and turning

with all his strength, he began to roll the carcass off Sara's legs and

pelvis. She cried out in pain, such a sharp high-pitched shriek that

he had to stop.

She was praying incoherently in Amharic, weeping slow fat tears of

agony that cut tunnels through the pale dust on her cheeks.

Jake panted, "Once more I'm sorry," and he braced himself. At that

moment Vicky yelled from the car.

"Jake, they are coming! Hurry, oh God, please hurry!" Jake swung

around and ran to the car, peering over the high engine compartment.

With a long plume of pale dust boiling out from behind it, a large open

vehicle crowded with armed men was dropping swiftly down towards them

from the ridge.

"My God," grunted Jake, screwing up his eyes against the low blinding

rays of the morning sun. "It can't be!" But even at that range in the

dust and bad light, there was no mistaking the gracious and dignified

lines of a Rolls-Royce.

Jake was seized by a feeling of unreality that amid all this horror

appear something of such beauty.

"Hurry, Jake." Vicky's voice spurred him on, and he ran back to the

dead horse, seized its hind legs and began wrestling it on to its back

with the girl's agonized cries as an accompaniment.

Grunting and straining, Jake lifted the horse by main strength until it

was balanced critically along its spine with the legs pointed loosely

at the morning sky, and now he could hear the approaching engine-beat

of the Rolls and the faint but excited voices of its occupants. He

denied the temptation to look around again and, instead, let the

carcass flop heavily over on to its other flank, freeing the frail body

of the child-woman beneath it.

Still panting with his efforts, Jake dropped on one knee beside her.

She was hit in the upper leg, he saw at once, the entry wound was six

inches above the knee, and when he felt swiftly for a bone-break, there

was another quick flood of dark crimson blood that poured warmly over

his fingers and drenched the slick satin of her breeches afresh. Jake

found the exit wound in the inside of her thigh, but knew by feel and

instinct that it had missed the bone. Still, she was losing blood

heavily and he inserted a forefinger into the tear in her breeches and

ripped the cloth cleanly to the ankle; he pulled it up exposing her

long slim leg to the crutch. The wound was deep and blue in the darkly

lustrous flesh, and Jake tore the flapping trouser-leg free and wound a

turn of it around the thigh above the wound.

Using both arms and the strength of his shoulders he drew the crude

tourniquet so tight that the flow of blood was instantly stemmed and he

tied the ends of the bandage with two swift turns, and then looked up

just as the RollsRoyce skidded to a violent halt across the front of

the armoured car.

There seemed to be a state of utter confusion amongst the occupants of

the Rolls, and again Jake felt a sense of unreality. In the front

seat, the driver gripped the steering wheel in one hand and a rifle in

the other with white knuckles and fingers that shook like those of a

man in fever.

His ashen face was shining with the sweat either of some terrible fever

or some equally terrible terror. On the seat beside him crouched a

small wiry figure with a rifle slung over one shoulder and with a brown

wizened monkey face partly obscured by a square black Leica camera with

an enormous bellows lens. In the back seat of the Rolls was a large

powerfully built man, with a granite face and the level controlled

manner of a man of action. A dangerous man, Jake recognized instantly,

and he saw that he was a major.

He held a rifle in one hand and with the other was trying to help to

his feet a smaller, more handsome man in a splendid uniform of

elegantly tailored black gabardine adorned with silver badges and

insignia.

On this officer's head, a brimless black helmet with a silver skull and

crossbones rode at a jaunty angle, like a pirate in a Christmas

pantomime, but the face below it was fixed in the same pale emotion as

that of the driver. It became clear to Jake that the last thing this

gallant wanted was to be helped to his feet. He was curled up in the

corner of the seat in such a way as to offer the smallest possible

target, and he slapped petulantly at the Major's helping hand.

Protesting shrilly and brandishing an expensively plated and engraved

pistol, it was clear that his presence in the Rolls was by no means

voluntary.

Jake stooped over the body of the girl and slipped one arm under her

shoulders and the other beneath her knees, careful not to inflict

further hurt. Jake stood up with her in his arms while she clung to

him like a child.

This action caused the big stern-faced Major to turn all his attention

on Jake, to level his rifle at him and call a peremptory order in

Italian. It was clearly an order to stand where he was, and, looking

into the muzzle of the rifle and into the pale expressionless eyes,

Jake knew that the man would shoot without hesitation if he were not

immediately obeyed. There was a deadliness, a quiet aura of menace

about him that chilled Jake as he stood with the slim warm body in his

arms, and he collected his senses and his words.

"I am American,"he said firmly. "American doctor. "There was no

recognition in the Major's expression, but he turned his head and

glanced at the officer who stirred receptively, half-rose in his seat,

then thought better of it. He sank back again, speaking carefully

around the bulk of his Major.

"You are my prisoner," he cried, his voice unsteady, but his English

clear and unaccented. "I place you in protective custody." "You are

contravening the Geneva Convention." Jake tried to make his tone

indignant, as he sidled towards the invitingly open rear doors of the

car.

"I must inspect your credentials." The officer was recovering rapidly

from his recent indisposition. Fresh colour flooded the classically

handsome face, new interest flashed in the dark gazelle eyes, and the

smooth baritone voice gained strength and a fine ringing timbre.

% Colonel Count Aldo Belli, command you to account to me." His gaze

switched to the huge steel body of the car.

"This is an armoured vehicle of war. You fly false colours, sir." As

the Count spoke, he realized for the first time that neither the big

curly-headed American nor the big oldfashioned vehicle which towered

over them was armed. He could clearly see the empty gun-mounting in

the turret and his courage came flooding back. Now at last he leaped

to his feet, throwing out his chest, one hand on his hip, the other

aiming the pistol at Jake.

"You are my prisoner" he declaimed once more, then from the corner of

his mouth he growled at the front seat, "Gino, quickly. A shot of me

capturing the American."

"At once, Excellency. "Gino was focusing the camera.

"I protest," shouted Jake, and sidled another few paces towards the

inviting rear doors of the car.

"Stay where you are," snapped the Count and glanced at Gino. "All

right? "he asked.

"get the American to move a little to the right," Gino replied, still

peering into the view-finder.

"A little to the right!" commanded the Count in English, gesturing

with the pistol, and Jake obeyed, for it brought him closer to his

goal, but he was still shouting his protests.

"In the name of humanity and the International Red Cross-"

"I

shall radio Geneva today," the Count shouted back, "to enquire of your

credentials."

"Smile a little, Excellency," said Gino.

The Count burst into a radiant smile and half-turned towards the

camera.

"Then I shall have you shod' he he promised, still smiling.

"If you let this girl die," yelled Jake, "it will be the act of a

barbarian." The smile vanished instantly and the Count scowled darkly.

"And your actions, sir, are those of a spy. Enough talk surrender

yourself" He lifted the pistol threateningly and aimed at the centre of

Jake's chest. Jake felt a chill of despair, as he saw the big Major

reinforce the order by sliding the safety catch of his rifle to the

fire" position and pointing it at Jake's belly.

At this critical moment, the driver's hatch of the armoured car flew

open with a clang -that startled them all and Vicky Camberwell rose to

view, her blonde hair awry and her cheeks burning with anger.

"I am an accredited member of the American Press Association," she

yelled as loudly as any of them. "And I assure you that this outrage

will be reported to the world in every detail. I warn you that-" There

was much more in this vein, and Vicky's anger was such that she could

not remain still, she jumped up and down and flung her arms about in

wild gesticulations for the moment completely oblivious of the fact

that she was bared to the waist.

Her audience in the Rolls was under no such illusion.

Every man of them was a member of a nation whose favourite pastime was

the adoration and pursuit of beautiful women, and every one of them

considered himself to be the national champion.

As Vicky's bounty wobbled and swung and bounced with agitation, the

four Italians gaped half in disbelief and half in delight. The raised

weapons sank and were forgotten. The Major attempted to rise to his

feet in a gesture of chivalry, but was thrust firmly backwards by the

Count. The driver's foot slipped off the clutch and the Rolls bucked

violently and the engine stalled. Gino uttered an oath of approval,

raised the camera, found the film was expended, swore again and opened

the camera without taking his eyes off Vicky, dropped it from clumsy

hands, and abandoned it, grinning beatifically at this blonde vision.

The Count began to raise his helmet, remembered he was now a warrior

and with his other hand threw out a Fascist salute, found he was still

gripping the pistol and did not have enough hands, so he held his

helmet and the pistol to his chest with one hand.

"Madam," he said, dark eyes flashing, his voice taking on a romantic

ring. "My dear lady-" At that moment, the Major tried again to rise

and the Count shoved him back into the seat once more while Vicky

continued her tirade with no diminution in fervour.

Jake was completely forgotten by the Italians. He took four running

steps and dived through the rear doors into the steel cab of the car.

He rolled over and dropped Sara into the space for the ammunition bins

behind the driver's seat, and in a continuation of the same movement he

kicked the doors closed and turned the locking handle.

"Drive!" he shouted at Vicky, although only her backside was visible

as she stood on the driver's seat. "Come on!" and hauled her

downwards so that she sat with a thud on the hard leather seat, still

shouting abuse at the enemy. "Drive!" Jake shouted louder still. "Get

us out of here!" The shocked dismay of the four Italians, as Vicky

disappeared abruptly from view like an inverted jack-in-abox, lasted

for many seconds and held them paralysed by disappointment.

Then the armoured car's engine roared and it bounded forward, straight

at them; swinging broadside at the last moment, it hit the Rolls only a

glancing blow, crumpling the front mudguard and shattering the glass

headlamp, before it tore off in its own dust storm towards the broken

ground beyond the wells.

Castelani was the first to act; he leaped to the ground and raced to

reach the crank handle, shouting at the driver to start the engine. It

fired at the first kick and the Major sprang on to the running board.

"Chase them," he shouted in the driver's ear, brandishing his rifle,

and once again the driver sprang the clutch and the Rolls leapt forward

with such violence that the Count was tumbled backwards onto the soft

leather seat, his helmet sliding forward over his eyes, his polished

boots kicking to the skies and his trigger finger tightening

involuntarily. The Beretta fired with a vicious crack and the bullet

flew an inch past Gino's ear, so that he fell to the floorboards on top

of his camera, and whimpered with fright.

"Faster!" shouted the Major in the driver's ear. "Head them off,

force them to turn!" and his voice was louder and more authoritative.

He wanted a clean shot at the few vulnerable points in the car's armour

the driver's visor or the open gun-mounting.

"Stop!" screeched the Count. "I'll have you shot for this." Side by

side, the two vehicles pitched and lurched together like a team in

harness, not ten feet separating them.

Within the armoured car, Vicky's vision through the visor was limited

to a narrow arc ahead, and she concentrated on that as she shouted,

"Where are they?" Jake picked himself out of the corner where he and

Sara had been thrown, and crawled towards the command turret.

In the Rolls alongside, Castelani braced himself and raised the rifle.

Even at that close range, five of his shots struck the thick steel hull

with ringing sledgehammer blows and went whining away across the desert

spaces. Only one bullet entered the narrow breech of the gun-mounting.

Trapped within the hull, it ricocheted amongst the three of them like

an angry living thing, splattering them with stinging slivers of lead,

and bringing death within inches before it ploughed into the back of

the driver's seat.

Jake popped his head out of the turret and discovered the Rolls running

hard beside them, the burly Major frantically reloading his empty

rifle, and the other passengers bouncing around helplessly.

"Driver!" shouted Jake. "Hard right!" and felt a quick flush of

pride and affection as Vicky responded instantly. She swung the great

armoured hull so suddenly that the other driver had no time to respond,

the two vehicles came together with a shower of bright white sparks and

a thunderous grinding crash.

"Save us, Mother of God!" shrieked the Count. "We are killed." The

Rolls reeled under the impact, shearing off and losing ground, her

paintwork deeply scatted and her whole side dented and torn. Castelani

had leaped nimbly into the back seat at the last possible moment,

avoiding having his legs crushed by the collision, and now he had

reloaded the rifle.

Closer," he shouted at the driver. "Give me another shot at her!" But

the Count had at last recovered his balance and pushed his helmet on to

the back of his head.

"Stop, you fool." His voice was clear and urgent. "You'll kill us

all," and the driver braked with patent relief, smiling for the first

time that day.

"Keep going, you idiot," said Castelani sternly, and placed the muzzle

of the rifle to the driver's ear hole His smile switched off, and his

foot fell heavily on the pedal again.

Stop!" said the Count, as he dragged himself up again, adjusted his

helmet with one hand and placed the muzzle of the Beretta pistol in the

driver's vacant ear hole "I, your Colonel, command you."

"Keep going," growled Castelani. And the driver closed his eyes

tightly, not daring to move his head, and roared straight at the

ramparts of red earth that guarded the wadi.

In the moment before the Rolls ploughed headlong into a wall of

sunbaked earth, the driver's dilemma was resolved for him. Gregorius,

for lack of another ally, had appealed to his grandfather's warrior

instincts, and despite the vast quantities of tej that he had drunk,

that ancient had responded nobly, gathering his bodyguard about him and

outstripping them in the race down the wadi. Only Gregorius himself

kept pace with the tall, gangling figure as he ran down to the plain.

The two of them came out side by side, and found the Rolls and the

white-painted armoured car bearing down on them at point-blank range in

a storm of dust. It was a sight to daunt the bravest heart, and

Gregorius dived for the shelter of the red earth ramparts. But the Ras

had killed his lion, and did not flinch.

He flung up the trusty old Martini Henry rifle. The explosion of black

powder sounded like a cannon shot, a vast cloud of blue smoke blossomed

and a long red flame shot from the barrel.

The windscreen of the Rolls exploded in a silver burst of flying glass

splinters, one of which nicked the Count's chin.

"Holy Mary, I'm killed," cried the Count, and the driver needed nothing

further to tip his allegiance. He swung the Rolls into a tight,

roaring U-turn and not all of Castelani's threats could deter him. It

was enough. He could take no more. He was going home.

"My God," breathed Jake, as he watched the battered Rolls swinging

tightly away, and then gathering speed as it accelerated back towards

the ridge, the arms and weapons of its occupants still waving wildly,

and their voices raised in loud hysterical argument that faded with

distance.

The Ras's cannon boomed again, speeding them on their way, and Vicky

slowed the car as they came up to him. Jake reached down and helped

the ancient gentleman aboard.

His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled like an abandoned brewery, but

his wizened old face was crinkled into a wicked grin of satisfaction.

"How do you do?" he asked, with evident relish.

"Not bad, sir, "Jake assured him. "Not bad at all." little before

noon, the formation of armoured cars parked in the open grassland

twenty miles beyond the wells. A halt had been called here to allow

the straggling mass of refugees that had escaped the slaughter at

Chaldi to come up with them, and this was the first opportunity that

Vicky had to work on Sara's leg. It had stiffened in the last hour,

and the blood had clotted into a thick dark scab. Though Sara made no

protest, she had paled to a muddy colour and was sweating in tiny beads

across her forehead and upper lip as Vicky cleaned the wound and poured

half a bottle of peroxide into it. Vicky sought to distract her as she

worked by bringing up the subject of the dead they had left scattered

about the water, holes under the Italian guns.

Sara shrugged philosophically. "Hundreds die every day of sickness and

hunger and from the fighting in the hills.

They die without purpose or reason. These others have died for a

purpose. They have died to tell the world about us–" and she broke

off and gasped as the disinfectant boiled in the wound.

"I am sorry," said Vicky quickly.

"it is nothing, "she said, and they were quiet for a while, then Sara

asked, "You will write it, won't you, Miss Camberwell?"

"Sure," Vicky nodded grimly. "I'll write it good. Where can I find a

telegraph office?"

"There is one at Sardi," Sara told her. "At the railway office."

"What I write will burn out their lines for them, "promised Vicky, and

began to bind up the leg with a linen bandage from the medicine chest.

"We'll have to get these breeches off you." Vicky inspected the

bloodstained and tattered velvet dubiously. "They are so tight, it's a

wonder you haven't given yourself gangrene."

"They must be worn so," Sara explained. "It was decreed by my

great-grandfather, Ras Abullahi."

"Good Lord." Vicky was intrigued. What on earth for?"

"The ladies in those days were very naughty," Sara explained primly.

"And my great-grandfather was a good man. He thought to make the

breeches difficult to remove." Vicky laughed delightedly.

"Do you think it helps? "she demanded, still laughing.

"Oh no, Sara shook her head seriously. "It makes it very hard." She

spoke with the air of an expert, and then thought for a moment. They

come down quickly enough it's when you want to get them up again in a

hurry that can be very difficult."

"Well, the only way we are going to get you out of these now is to cut

you loose." Vicky was still smiling, as she took a large pair of

scissors from the medicine chest and Sara shrugged again with

resignation.

"They were very pretty before Jake tore them now it does not matter."

And she showed no emotion as Vicky snipped carefully along the seam and

peeled them off her.

"Now you must rest." Vicky wrapped her naked lower body in a woollen

sham ma and helped her settle comfortably on one of the thin coir

mattresses spread on the floor of the car.

"Stay with me," Sara asked shyly, as Vicky picked up her portable

typewriter and would have climbed out of the rear doors.

"I must begin my despatch."

"You can work here. I will be very quiet."

"Promise?"

"I promise," and Vicky opened the case and placed the typewriter in her

lap, sitting cross-legged. She wound a sheet of fresh paper into the

machine, and thought for a moment. Then her fingers flew at the keys.

Almost instantly, the anger and outrage returned to her and was

transferred smoothly into words and hammered out on the thin sheet of

yellow paper. Vicky's cheeks flamed with colour and she tossed her

head occasionally to keep the tendrils of fine blonde hair out of her

eyes.

Sara watched her, keeping very still and silent until Vicky paused to

wind a fresh sheet into the typewriter, then she broke the silence.

"I have been thinking, Miss Camberwell,"she said.

"You have?" Vicky did not look up.

"I think it should be Jake."

"Jake?" Vicky glanced at her, baffled by this sudden shift in

thought.

"Yes," Sara nodded with finality. "We will take Jake as your first

lover." She made it sound like a group project.

"Oh, we will will we?" The idea had already entered Vicky's head and

was almost firmly rooted, but she baulked instantly at Sara's bold

statement.

"He is so strong. Yes!" Sara went on. "I think we will definitely

take Jake," and with that statement she dashed as low as they had ever

been the chances of Jake Barton.

Vicky snorted derisively, and flew at the typewriter once again. She

was a lady who liked to make her own decisions.

The river of moving men and animals flowed wedge shaped across the

sparsely grassed and rolling landscape beneath the mountains. Over it

all hung a fine mist of dust, like sea fret on a windy day, and the

sunlight caught and flashed from the burnished surfaces of the bronze

war shields and the lifted lance-tips. Closer came the mass of riders

until the bright spots of the silk shammas of the officers and noblemen

showed clearly through the loom of the dust cloud.

Standing on the turret of Priscilla the Pig, Jake shaded the lens of

his binoculars with his helmet and tried to see beyond the dust clouds,

searching anxiously for any pursuit by the Italians. He felt

goose-flesh march up his arms and tickle the thick hair at the nape of

his neck as he imagined this sprawling rabble caught in a crossfire of

modern machine guns, and he fretted for the arrival of their own

weapons which were lost somewhere amongst that ragged army.

He felt a touch on his shoulder and turned quickly to find Lij Mikhael

beside him.

"Thank you, Mr. Barton,"said the Prince quietly, and Jake shrugged and

turned back to his scrutiny of the distant plains.

"It was not the correct thing but I thank you all the same." How is

she?"

"I have just left her with Miss Camberwell. She is resting and I think

she will be well." They were silent a while longer, before Jake spoke

again.

"I'm worried, Prince. We are wide open. If the Italians chase now it

will be bloody murder. Where are the guns?

We must have the guns." Lij Mikhael pointed out on to the left rear

flank of the approaching host.

"There," and Jake noticed for the first time the ungainly shapes of the

pack camels, almost obscured by dust and distances, but standing taller

than the shaggy little Harari ponies that surrounded them, and

lumbering stolidly onwards towards where the cars waited. "They will

be here in half an hour." Jake nodded with relief. He began planning

how he would arm the cars immediately, so that they could be deployed

to counter another Italian attack but the Prince interrupted his

thoughts.

"Mr. Barton, how long have you known Major Swales?" Jake lowered the

glasses and grinned.

"Sometimes I think too long," and regretted it, as he noticed the

Prince's immediate anxiety.

"No. I didn't mean that. It was a bad joke. I haven't known him

long."

"We checked his record very carefully before " he hesitated.

"Before tricking him into taking on this commission," Jake suggested,

and the Prince smiled faintly and nodded.

"Precisely," he agreed. "All the evidence suggests that he is an

unscrupulous man, but a skilled soldier with a proven record of

achievement in training raw recruits. He is an expert weapons

instructor, with a full knowledge of the mechanism and exploitation of

modern weapons." The Prince paused.

"Just don't get into a card game with him."

"I will take your advice, Mr. Barton." The Prince smiled fleetingly,

and then was serious again. "Miss Camberwell called him a coward. That

is not so. He was acting under my direct orders, as a soldier

should."

"Point taken," grinned Jake. "But then I'm not a soldier, only a

grease monkey." But the Prince brushed the disclaimer aside.

"He is probably a better man than he thinks he is," said Jake, and the

Prince nodded.

"His combat record in France is impressive. The Military Cross and

three times mentioned in despatches."

"Yeah, you have me convinced," murmured Jake. "Is that what you

wanted?"

"No," admitted the Prince reluctantly. "I had hoped that you might

convince me," and they both laughed.

"And did you check my record also? "Jake asked.

"No," admitted the Prince. "The first time I ever heard of you was in

Dares Salaam. You and your strange machines were a bonus a surprise

packet." The Prince paused again, and then spoke so softly that Jake

barely caught the words, "and perhaps the best end of the bargain.

"Then he lifted his chin and looked steadily into Jake's eyes."

The anger is still with you," he said. "

"I can see how strong it is." With surprise, Jake realized that the

Prince was correct.

The anger was in him. No longer the leaping flames that had kindled at

the first shock of the atrocity. Those had burned down into a thick

glowing bed in the pit of his guts, but the memory of men and women

caught by the guns and the mortars would sustain that glow for a long

time ahead.

"I think now you are committed to us," the Lij went on softly, and Jake

was amazed at the man's perception. He had not yet recognized that

commitment himself; for the first time since he had landed in Africa,

he was motivated by something outside himself. He knew that he would

stay now, and that he would fight with the Lij and these people as long

as they needed him. In an intuitive flash he realized that if these

simple people were enslaved, then all of mankind including Jake Barton

were themselves deprived of a measure of freedom. A line, almost

forgotten, imperfectly learned long ago and not then understood

surfaced in his memory.

"No man is an island," – " he said, and the Lij nodded and continued

the quotation.

"entire of itself. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am

involved in mankind"." The Lifs dark eyes glowed. "Yes, Mr. Barton,

John Donne. I think that in you I have been lucky. You are fire, and

Gareth Swales is ice. It will work for me. Already there is a bond

between you."

"A bond?" and Jake laughed, a brief harsh bark of laughter, but then

stopped and thought about the Prince's words. The man had even greater

perception than Jake had at first realized. He had a knack of turning

over unrecognized truths.

"Yes. A bond," said the Lij. "Fire and ice. You will see." They

were silent for a while, standing high on the steel turret of the car,

bare-headed in the sun, each man thinking his own thoughts.

Then the Lij roused himself and turned to point into the west.

"There is the heart of Ethiopia,"he said. "The mountains." They both

lifted their heads to the soaring peaks, and the great flat-topped

Ambas that characterized the Ethiopian highlands.

Each table land was divided from the next by sheer walls of riven rock,

blue with distance and remote as the clouds into which they seemed to

rise, and by the deep dark gorges that looked to split the earth like

the axe-stroke of a giant, plunging thousands upon thousands of feet to

the swiftly raging torrents in their depths.

"The mountains protect us. For a hundred miles on each side no enemy

may pass. "The Prince swept his arms wide to encompass the curving

blue wall of rock that faded both north and south into the smoky

distances where they merged with the paler bright blue of the sky.