Luana Page 15

  “May I look at your books, Luana?” Isabel asked.

  “Yes. There are many I do not understand. Perhaps if we have time and you do not have to rush from here, you can tell me what some of the big words mean—”

  Isabel smiled. “Certainly I will . . . sister.” She began to dig energetically through the aging tomes. Some of the volumes were general texts on Africa. There was also an almanac, a dictionary, a few magazines, and general books. All were illustrated, some profusely. Even the dictionary. There were also a couple of children’s books, looking utterly out of place with their pale pink and blue covers. They sobered Isabel even further.

  She went through them again, more carefully. When she finished the second inspection, any hint of a smile had vanished.

  “It’s not here.” She shook her head resignedly. “Nothing, not a hint, not a clue.”

  “What’s not there?” asked Barrett politely, though he had a fairly good idea.

  “What I told you I was searching for.” She paused, then looked up and over at Luana again. “Luana—are these all the books?”

  “Why, no,” the girl replied, mildly surprised. “They were only the ones I found useful. There are more there in the back, under the old leather box.” Her tone turned spiteful. “They have few pictures, and many big words I could not learn the meaning of.”

  But Isabel was already shoving furiously at the rotting suitcase, ignoring the dry, soft plants that crumbled like stale cake in her hands. The first books that came into view clearly hadn’t received the care of the picture tomes. In consequence, they’d fallen prey to the less dramatic, less impressive, but nonetheless efficient consumers of the forest—the molds and fungi and tiny beetles.

  Some of them were so rotten they fell apart when Isabel tried to pull them out into the light. Then she gave a startled exclamation. For a bad moment Barrett was afraid she might have chanced across something larger and more toxic than scale rot.

  Quite the opposite.

  There were four of the plastic bookcases, each containing a specially treated leather notebook. The embossed covers still had a pristine newness to them. Luana had known the retardant, protective qualities of certain leaves but not those of plastic boxes. Fortunately, she hadn’t made use of these for her picture books. Or perhaps, some time in the past, she’d sorted out the books she could use and simply forgotten about the others, never bothering to check the discarded pile.

  Barrett looked at her. If she was susprised at the state of preservation of the notebooks in the boxes, she gave no sign. But then, she probably wouldn’t.

  The first three contained workbooks, crammed full of old Hardi’s scribblings and jottings and abstract formulae. It was all very technical. What little Barrett could see over Isabel’s shoulder made no sense at all. Hardly surprising Luana should look at them once and then ignore them. But they seemed to excite Isabel.

  The last book . . . the last made Isabel’s eyes glow like Chaugh’s by firelight. Carefully, she slipped the foundling free of its case and held it up for Barrett to see. She was hardly able to form the words.

  “Oh Lord—I hadn’t hoped—the workbooks I guessed would be protected, but to find this, too! It’s just like I dreamed!” She sniffled.

  Barrett grinned uncertainly, not at the discovery of the book, whatever it was, but at Isabel’s obvious pleasure. He sat down in the still upright copilot’s chair. Luana and Murin both looked on expectantly.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said finally, “when you’re happy. I haven’t seen you happy in a long time.”

  That interrupted her trend of thought, but only momentarily. She sat down on the edge of the long departed door, her legs dangling towards the ground, and began thumbing through the hand-written pages. When no further information was forthcoming, Barrett allowed himself a modicum of impatience.

  “I don’t want to shatter your nostalgic reverie, Izzy, but how about telling the rest of us what this extraordinary discovery is, hey? Pornography?”

  “What?” His flippancy missed her completely. After all, it was only a bunch of old notes. He didn’t buy that “posthumous Nobel prize” stuff.

  She didn’t look up and continued reading. “It’s Father’s old diary.”

  “Couldn’t very well be his new diary,” he muttered, but he obviously wasn’t going to get a rise out of her, not now.

  “See . . . it even has the volume number marked at the top of each page! Twelve—”

  He was incredulous. “You mean you came all the way to Africa and hauled me out here for some notebooks, and all the while you were really hoping that your old man just might have left you a diary? Faith is one thing, kid, but . . .”

  “It wasn’t just a hope,” was the defiant, confident reply. “Would you have come, despite the money, if I’d told you I really wanted to find a diary?” He hesitated. The notebooks he’d been able to understand. Prize money, valuable discoveries. But a nutty hunt for old platitudes—he didn’t know.

  “See?” she told him. “And it wasn’t just a hope. Father was very careful with his diaries. There are eleven more volumes at home, the last returning with his . . . his effects, that had been left at his house in Nairobi. This one,” and she held up the small, narrow book, “is not only numbered last in the series—it’s dated, too.”

  She returned to her quiet reading. An hour and a half later, she was on the final pages.

  “July seventeenth. These may be the last words I ever commit to paper. Insallah is holding the plane as best she can while I write this, but there is no longer any doubt that we shall go down in the morass below. It was not a slow leak, but rather one that seemed to open abruptly in the tank wall. The gauge did not drop . . . simply flipped from three-quarters full over to empty.

  “We have been flying on the small reserve tank for some time now. But despite keeping our air speed to the bare minimum, I fear we shall shortly have to commit ourselves to the mercy of the wind.

  “The child, of course, has been told nothing. Nor shall she. It is sad that I must take this unfortunate occasion to at last formally acknowledge paternity.”

  All eyes went to Luana, who was listening intently without understanding all the words.

  “I may be able to locate an open space of sufficient size to attempt a landing, although—” Isabel’s voice broke and she took a moment, to recompose herself. “Although I am not sure but that it may be a blessing simply to push the wheel all the way in and end it quickly. No. I fear the human mind is not so constructed. I have not the courage to commit suicide even on the eve of certain death.

  “I am sorry most of all for Albright. I had thought that where the new drug was concerned I had won him over to my way of thinking. It now appears otherwise, appears that he has successfully deceived me. He was determined to exploit the discovery. Now it seems he will have his poor way with it.

  “It will be said, perhaps, that I should have checked the craft more thoroughly before we departed. There was no reason to suspect, to believe that he would go this far.

  “Of course, your father was quite right.” All eyes turned to the sound of that voice.

  Albright was standing outside, the Express cradled lightly, but not lightly enough, in his arms.

  “It wasn’t the fame your father so airily dismissed, no. I could have lived without that. It was only the money.” He was apologetic. “You see, where money is concerned I’m never myself.”

  “Your humanity was never really a matter of debate, Albright,” said Barrett.

  The scientist ignored him, looked instead at Isabel. “Your father was a brilliant, terribly foolish old man, Isabel. He discovered that a certain rare, but not impossible to locate, plant could be deprived of its stamen and pollen, ground together to make a fine powder, and then mixed with several other interesting things to produce a rather powerful new addictive drug. It’s not in a class with heroin, but ranks well above such mundane stimulants as cocaine and LSD.

  “Oh, I was perfec
tly honest when I talked about carrying on his work! My interests merely were channelized along that one line. Unfortunately, I’m not the chemist your father was. With only a few scattered notes to work from, and what I could draw out of him before he left, I was able to concoct but a pale limitation of the pure product. Even so, there was an immediate demand for it. Enough to bring a tiny income, to be sure—but nothing compared to what the really refined material could demand.

  “Can you imagine a new drug, more powerful than anything but heroin, highly addictive yet not as lethal—and you the only supplier of the market?

  “And now, dear Isabel, you’ve made it possible for that dream to come true. I doubt the formula’s hidden in that diary . . . you certainly didn’t mention it. But the three workbooks . . . yes, it’ll be in there, properly identified and annotated. John was consistently methodical.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Albright!” Barrett gnawed his lower lip and tried to sound more in command than he felt.

  “Rest assured I have no intention of it, Mr. Barrett.” He took two steps backwards. “You’ve been rather a problem, and yet it turns out your persistence in this journey has been of benefit after all.

  “I can get all of you with just the two shots, I think. The automatic was being cleaned, which makes things more difficult—but not impossible. You needn’t worry, Isabel. You will not be in the line of fire.” He looked at her in a way that reminded her of the ants. “I’d prefer not to kill you just yet, anyhow. Yes, two shots from this cannon in such close quarters ought to kill at least one of you and wound the others. I can reload, then.”

  “Now, let’s talk this over, Albright,” Barrett began cautiously. He took a step towards the portal, hands out, palms up. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement. You can have your formula and—”

  Albright laughed. “Talk to stall me? What do you think this is—a movie? Where the man with the drop chatters for an hour while the hero creeps up behind him? Goodbye, Barrett—”

  Barrett threw himself to the floor, knocking Isabel inside the cabin door. Murin tried to bury himself in the metal under the control panel and Luana dove out the other side. At the same instant there was a tremendous explosion.

  Barrett blinked, slowly began to pull himself off the stunned Isabel. Hope rose every time he tried a new joint, an additional muscle, and found it working. Hands pushed against floor and metal, and his body moved. Heart, lungs, brain—the machine was still operating.

  From under the control board, Murin stared uncertainly back at him. The only blood on his partner was in his eyes.

  Carefully, they both peered around the edge of the open door. Knife in hand, Luana was already outside. Slowly she replaced it in her waist sheath, staring down at what was left of Albright.

  Barrett became aware of a shaky voice very close. “George . . . George, did he—”

  “Hush, Izzy.” He held her close, blocking her view of the outside. “It’s all right, now.”

  There was a rising bubble of conversation outside. The bearers had finally arrived.

  “I never believed in miracles,” he continued, “and I still don’t. But fortuitous coincidences just went up a couple of points.”

  Across from them, Murin was cursing nonstop, an amazing combination of Swahili and English invective, spiced with something else. Afrikaans, Barrett guessed.

  “What . . . what happened to—?” Isabel finally managed to gasp. She was shaking in his arms. The confluence was comfortable, but all he could do by way of soothing her was to stroke her hair.

  “It’s not as bad as the ants, Izzy, but . . . well, the gun blew up. He tried to shoot us and it blew up.” He shook his head. “Might have been me, just as easy. Naw, the goof probably did something earlier like stick the barrel in the ground and got some dirt in it, thank Vishnu!” He turned and had another look at the mess outside and tried to reconstruct what had happened.

  Albright had raised the gun and pulled both triggers, and the two .577 shells had gone off inside the chambers. Of the Express itself nothing was left except a few slivers of carved wooden stock scattered here and there. Later, they found an eight-centimeter-long section of barrel driven into the trunk of a tree like a railroad spike into a tie.

  From the waist up, Albright was gone. One shell from the Express, properly placed, would knock down a five-ton bull elephant. Albright may have lived inconspicuously, but his going was spectacular.

  Kobenene could only stand over the remains of his partner—his former partner, he corrected himself—and curse silently. Damn the idiot’s impatience! But if the scientist had been willing to try this, then they’d obviously found something in the plane to incriminate him. And if they’d found that, perhaps the formula the tall chemist—though he wasn’t so tall now, Kobenene reflected, fighting down a giggle—had been hoping to find was there also.

  Possibly, then, he’d only lost a partner (not a very competent one at that) and gained a formula. If only the njinga, the fool, had waited! Kobenene would have told him, when the proper time came. There was no reason to suppose the simpleton would try anything as direct as outright group murder. And so soon after finding the plane. And—he reflected self-righteously—without telling him, either!

  Served him right.

  Days ago, Kobenene had slipped quietly out of his tent while the camp was still asleep. It wasn’t hard to retrace their trail in the forest and re-locate the sikari tree they’d passed. He’d collected a cupful of the thick, brown-green sap in his drinking tin, then carefully poured it down both barrels of the big gun.

  A single morning of baking in the sun while riding on Barrett’s back would harden the centimeters of gummy liquid like cement. And then, the first time he tried to fire the gun—

  Things might have gotten embarrassing, if enough of the gun remained to reveal the hardened sap within. But Kobenene had judged the Express’s explosive power correctly. It had disintigrated rather thoroughly. He ought to be in the clear.

  Even so, after they finished burying Albright’s remains, Barrett came over and took him aside.

  “Jambo, Kobenene.”

  “Jambo njema,” the big man replied warily, trying to sound at once depressed by his master’s death and receptive to whatever Barrett had to say. “Hello to you.”

  “Kobenene, we’re understaffed, as you damn well know. So I’m willing to keep you on and pay you whatever Albright was paying you. I’ll also guarantee your back wages. Not that I’d abandon you in the middle of this anyway. But before I officially welcome you as one of the gang, I’d appreciate the answers to a few questions.”

  “Yes, bwana,” Kobenene replied deferentially.

  “And screw that ‘bwana’ stuff! My name’s Barrett.”

  “Yes, Barrett.” This white man’s false humility did not fool him!

  “Just how much did you know about Albright’s intents and ideas, hmmm? Did he put you up to that pigana ua?”

  “Bw . . . Mr. Barrett? What a strange thing to say! I tell you I am as surprised by Mr. Albright’s actions as you are.” Which was quite true. “I did not volunteer for the pigana. The men nominated me. Why suspect me of such a thing?”

  “Because Albright was only worried about bumping off me, Murin, and Luana. He didn’t express any concern about you.”

  “Why should he, Mr. Barrett? You said yourself once that bearers would go with whoever paid them.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Barrett eyed the other uncertainly. “But you’re no bearer, Kobenene. And I think you were more than a valet, though I’ve no way of proving that. Just a hunch.” Kobenene smiled innocently. “Tell me, how would you have reacted if he’d been able to kill us all? Oh, I know how you did react—since he failed,” he added sarcastically. “Naturally you were shocked, outraged, incredulous.

  “But suppose it was us you’d just buried? What then?”

  Kobe tried not to let his growing nervousness show. Damn the man’s persistence! Careful now!

  “I w
ould have been shocked and outraged and incredulous, Mr. Barrett. And would have done whatever was necessary to save my own skin.”

  Barrett grunted. “And now?”

  “I confess to having felt somewhat mixed feelings towards Mr. Albright. After all, he was, as you say, my employer. However, any lingering sense of loyalty was obviated by his onerous attempt on your persons.”

  “Bearer, huh? Valet, huh?”

  “I speak good English. What does that prove? Your swahili is as good, or better.” He could tell from Barrett’s expression that the flattering truth had struck home. “When he tried to kill you, I say, he automatically cut off any obligation on my part. But I still prefer to give the dead the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he went temporarily insane. Greed can drive men to act unstably sometimes.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Barrett embarrassed, aware that similar allegations had been whispered about him. He was not happy with the comparison. “There are a lot of greedy people in the world. All right, Kobe,” he concluded reluctantly. “You’re on the payroll.”

  “I shall try to do my best, Mr. Barrett.” He grinned broadly. “If you will recall, I always try to do my best.”

  Barrett nodded and turned away without saying anything. Kobenene watched him go. A pity. He had more in common with this man than with Albright. It would be a shame to have to kill him. It made the big man sad to think on it.

  Barrett’s mind was also active. He trusted the fat pig about as far as he could throw him. But he’d rather have him believing and thinking he’d been accepted. He’d be more off-guard if he got any ideas.

  He trusts me about as far as he can throw me, thought Kobenene, but he’d rather have me believing and thinking I’ve been accepted. He thinks I’ll be more off-guard.

  Kobenene would not repeat Albright’s error of impatience. He would bide his time ’till the proper moment—all the way back to Nairobi, if necessary. The opportunity must be foolproof and must present itself—