Cherrick's rifle shook as he kept the bridgehead.He'd done the mathematics; if it came to a head-oncollision they had little chance of survival. But evennow, with the enemy making a getaway, there wasno sign of movement amongst the Indians. Just theaccusing facts: the dead boy; the warm rifle. Cherrickchanced a look over his shoulder. Locke and Stumpfwere already within twenty yards of the jeep, and therewas still no move from the savages.

Then, as he looked back towards the compound,it seemed as though the tribe breathed together onesolid breath, and hearing that sound Cherrick feltdeath wedge itself like a fish-bone in his throat, toodeep to be plucked out by his fingers, too big to beshat. It was just waiting there, lodged in his anatomy,beyond argument or appeal. He was distracted fromits presence by a movement at the door of the hut.Quite ready to make the same mistake again, he tookfirmer hold of his rifle. The old man had re-appearedat the door. He stepped over the corpse of the boy,which was lying where it had toppled. Again, Cherrickglanced behind him. Surely they were at the jeep?But Stumpf had stumbled; Locke was even nowdragging him to his feet. Cherrick, seeing the oldman advancing towards him, took one cautious stepbackwards, followed by another. But the old man wasfearless. He walked swiftly across the compound comingto stand so close to Cherrick, his body as vulnerable asever, that the barrel of the rifle prodded his shrunkenbelly.

There was blood on both his hands, fresh enoughto run down the man's arms when he displayed thepalms for Cherrick's benefit. Had he touched the boy,Cherrick wondered, as he stepped out of the hut? If so,it had been an astonishing sleight-of-hand, for Cherrickhad seen nothing. Trick or no trick, the significance ofthe display was perfectly apparent: he was being accusedof murder. Cherrick wasn't about to be cowed, however.He stared back at the old man, matching defiance withdefiance.

But the old bastard did nothing, except show hisbloody palms, his eyes full of tears. Cherrick could feelhis anger growing again. He poked the man's flesh withhis finger.

'You don't frighten me,' he said, 'you understand?I'm not a fool.'

As he spoke he seemed to see a shifting in the oldman's features. It was a trick of the sun, of course, orof bird-shadow, but there was, beneath the corruptionof age, a hint of the child now dead at the hut door: thetiny mouth even seemed to smile. Then, as subtly as ithad appeared, the illusion faded again.

Cherrick withdrew his hand from the old man's chest,narrowing his eyes against further mirages. He thenrenewed his retreat. He had taken three steps onlywhen something broke cover to his left. He swunground, raised his rifle and fired. A piebald pig, oneof several that had been grazing around the huts, waschecked in its flight by the bullet, which struck it inthe neck. It seemed to trip over itself, and collapsedheadlong in the dust.

Cherrick swung his rifle back towards the old man.But he hadn't moved, except to open his mouth. Hispalate was making the sound of the dying pig. Achoking squeal, pitiful and ridiculous, which followedCherrick back up the path to the jeep. Locke had theengine running. 'Get in,' he said. Cherrick needed noencouragement, but flung himself into the front seat.The interior of the vehicle was filthy hot, and stank ofStumpf s bodily functions, but it was as near safety asthey'd been in the last hour.

'It was a pig,' he said, 'I shot a pig.'

'I saw,' said Locke.

That old bastard

He didn't finish. He was looking down at the twofingers with which he had prodded the elder. 'I touchedhim,' he muttered, perplexed by what he saw. Thefingertips were bloody, though the flesh he had laidhis fingers upon had been clean.

Locke ignored Cherrick's confusion and backed thejeep up to turn it around, then drove away from thehamlet, down a track that seemed to have becomechoked with foliage in the hour since they'd come upit. There was no discernible pursuit.

The tiny trading post to the south of Averio was scantof civilisation, but it sufficed. There were white faceshere, and clean water. Stumpf, whose condition haddeteriorated on the return journey, was treated byDancy, an Englishman who had the manner of adisenfranchised earl and a face like hammered steak.He claimed to have been a doctor once upon a sobertime, and though he had no evidence of his qualificationsnobody contested his right to deal with Stumpf. TheGerman was delirious, and on occasion violent, butDancy, his small hands heavy with gold rings, seemed totake a positive delight in nursing his thrashing patient.

While Stumpf raved beneath his mosquito net, Lockeand Cherrick sat in the lamp-lit gloom and drank, thentold the story of their encounter with the tribe. It wasTetelman, the owner of the trading post's stores, whohad most to say when the report was finished. He knewthe Indians well.

'I've been here years,' he said, feeding nuts to themangy monkey that scampered on his lap. 'I knowthe way these people think. They may act as thoughthey're stupid; cowards even. Take it from me, they'reneither.'

Cherrick grunted. The quicksilver monkey fixed himwith vacant eyes. 'They didn't make a move on us,'Cherrick said, 'even though they outnumbered us tento one. If that isn't cowardice, what is it?'

Tetelman settled back in his creaking chair, throwingthe animal off his lap. His face was raddled and used.Only his lips, constantly rewetted from his glass, hadany colour; he looked, thought Locke, like an old whore.'Thirty years ago,' Tetelman said, 'this whole territorywas their homeland. Nobody wanted it; they went wherethey liked, did what they liked. As far as we whites wereconcerned the jungle was filthy and disease-infected: wewanted no part of it. And, of course, in some ways wewere right. It is filthy and disease-infected; but it's alsogot reserves we now want badly: minerals, oil maybe:power.'

'We paid for that land,' said Locke, his fingers jitteryon the cracked rim of his glass. 'It's all we've got now.'

Tetelman sneered. 'Paid?' he said. The monkey chattered at his feet, apparently as amused by this claim as itsmaster. 'No. You just paid for a blind eye, so you couldtake it by force. You paid for the right to fuck up theIndians in any way you could. That's what your dollarsbought, Mr Locke. The government of this countryis counting off the months until every tribe on thesub-continent is wiped out by you or your like. It'sno use to play the outraged innocents. I've been heretoo long ..."

Cherrick spat on to the bare floor. Tetelman's speechhad heated his blood.

'And so why'd you come here, if you're so fuckingclever?' he asked the trader.

'Same reason as you,' Tetelman replied plainly,staring off into the trees beyond the plot of landbehind the store. Their silhouettes shook against thesky; wind, or night-birds.

'What reason's that?' Cherrick said, barely keepinghis hostility in check.

'Greed,' Tetelman replied mildly, still watching thetrees. Something scampered across the low wooden roof.The monkey at Tetelman's feet listened, head cocked.'I thought I could make my fortune out here, the sameway you do. I gave myself two years. Three at the most.That was the best part of two decades ago.' He frowned;whatever thoughts passed behind his eyes, they werebitter. 'The jungle eats you up and spits you out, sooneror later.'

'Not me,' said Locke.

Tetelman turned his eyes on the man. They were wet.'Oh yes,' he said politely. 'Extinction's in the air,Mr Locke. I can smell it.' Then he turned back tolooking at the window.

Whatever was on the roof now had companions.

'They won't come here, will they?' said Cherrick.'They won't follow us?'