The question, spoken almost in a whisper, beggedfor a reply in the negative. Try as he might Cherrickcouldn't dislodge the sights of the previous day. It wasn'tthe boy's corpse that so haunted him; that he could soonlearn to forget. But the elder - with his shifting, sunlitface - and the palms raised as if to display some stigmata,he was not so forgettable.

'Don't fret,' Tetelman said, with a trace of conde-scension. 'Sometimes one or two of them will drift inhere with a parrot to sell, or a few pots, but I've neverseen them come here in any numbers. They don't likeit. This is civilisation as far as they're concerned, andit intimidates them. Besides, they wouldn't harm myguests. They need me.'

'Need you?' said Locke; who could need this wreckof a man?

'They use our medicines. Dancy supplies them. Andblankets, once in a while. As I said, they're not sostupid.'

Next door, Stumpf had begun to howl. Dancy's con-soling voice could be heard, attempting to talk down thepanic. He was plainly failing.

'Your friend's gone bad,' said Tetelman.

'No friend,' Cherrick replied.

'It rots,' Tetelman murmured, half to himself.

'What does?'

The soul.' The word was utterly out of place fromTetelman's whisky-glossed lips. 'It's like fruit, you see.It rots.'

Somehow Stumpf s cries gave force to the observation.It was not the voice of a wholesome creature; there wasputrescence in it.

More to direct his attention away from the German'sdin than out of any real interest, Cherrick said: 'Whatdo they give you for the medicine and the blankets?Women?'

The possibility clearly entertained Tetelman; helaughed, his gold teeth gleaming. 'I've no use forwomen,' he said. 'I've had the syph for too many years.'He clicked his fingers and the monkey clambered backup on to his lap. 'The soul,' he said, 'isn't the only thingthat rots.'

'Well, what do you get from them then?' Locke said.'For your supplies?'

'Artifacts,' Tetelman replied. 'Bowls, jugs, mats. TheAmericans buy them off me, and sell them again inManhattan. Everybody wants something made by anextinct tribe these days. Memento mori.'

'Extinct?' said Locke. The word had a seductive ring;it sounded like life to him.

'Oh certainly,' said Tetelman. 'They're as good asgone. If you don't wipe them out, they'll do itthemselves.'

'Suicide?' Locke said.

'In their fashion. They just lose heart. I've seen ithappen half a dozen times. A tribe loses its land, andits appetite for life goes with it. They stop taking careof themselves. The women don't get pregnant any more;the young men take to drink, the old men just starvethemselves to death. In a year or two it's like they neverexisted.'

Locke swallowed the rest of his drink, silently salutingthe fatal wisdom of these people. They knew when todie, which was more than could be said for some he'dmet. The thought of their death-wish absolved him ofany last vestiges of guilt. What was the gun in his hand,except an instrument of evolution?

On the fourth day after their arrival at the post, Stumpf sfever abated, much to Dancy's disappointment. Theworst of it's over,' he announced. 'Give him two moredays' rest and you can get back to your labours.'

'What are your plans?' Tetelrnan wanted to know.

Locke was watching the rain from the verandah.Sheets of water pouring from clouds so low theybrushed the tree-tops. Then, just as suddenly as ithad arrived, the downpour was gone, as though a taphad been turned off. Sun broke through; the jungle,new-washed, was steaming and sprouting and thrivingagain.

'I don't know what we'll do,' said Locke. 'Maybe getourselves some help and go back in there.'

'There are ways,' Tetelman said.

Cherrick, sitting beside the door to get the benefitof what little breeze was available, picked up the glassthat had scarcely been out of his hand in recent days,and filled it up again. 'No more guns,' he said. Hehadn't touched his rifle since they'd arrived at thepost; in fact he kept from contact with anything buta bottle and his bed. His skin seemed to crawl andcreep perpetually.

'No need for guns,' Tetelman murmured. Thestatement hung on the air like an unfulfilled promise.

'Get rid of them without guns?' said Locke. 'If youmean waiting for them to die out naturally, I'm not thatpatient.'

'No,' said Tetelman, 'we can be swifter than that.'

'How?'

Tetelman gave the man a lazy look. 'They're mylivelihood,' he said, 'or part of it. You're asking me tohelp you make myself bankrupt.'

He not only looks like an old whore, Locke thought,he thinks like one. 'What's it worth? Your wisdom?' heasked.

'A cut of whatever you find on your land,' Tetelmanreplied.

Locke nodded. 'What have we got to lose? Cherrick?You agree to cut him in?' Cherrick's consent was ashrug. 'All right,' Locke said, 'talk.'

'They need medicines,' Tetelman explained, 'becausethey're so susceptible to our diseases. A decent plaguecan wipe them out practically overnight.'

Locke thought about this, not looking at Tetelman.'One fell swoop,' Tetelman continued. 'They've gotpractically no defences against certain bacteria. Neverhad to build up any resistance. The clap. Smallpox.Even measles.'

'How?' said Locke.

Another silence. Down the steps of the verandah,where civilization finished, the jungle was swelling tomeet the sun. In the liquid heat plants blossomed androtted and blossomed again.

'I asked how,' Locke said.

'Blankets,' Tetelman replied, 'dead men's blankets.'

A little before the dawn of the night after Stumpf srecovery, Cherrick woke suddenly, startled from hisrest by bad dreams. Outside it was pitch-dark; neithermoon nor stars relieved the depth of the night. But hisbody-clock, which his life as a mercenary had trained toimpressive accuracy, told him that first light was not faroff, and he had no wish to lay his head down again andsleep. Not with the old man waiting to be dreamt. Itwasn't just the raised palms, the blood glistening, thatso distressed Cherrick. It was the words he'd dreamtcoming from the old man's toothless mouth which hadbrought on the cold sweat that now encased his body.

What were the words? He couldn't recall themnow, but wanted to; wanted the sentiments draggedinto wakefulness, where they could be dissected anddismissed as ridiculous. They wouldn't come though.He lay on his wretched cot, the dark wrapping him uptoo tightly for him to move, and suddenly the bloodyhands were there, in front of him, suspended in thepitch. There was no face, no sky, no tribe. Just thehands.

'Dreaming,' Cherrick told himself, but he knewbetter.

And now, the voice. He was getting his wish; herewere the words he had dreamt spoken. Few of themmade sense. Cherrick lay like a newborn baby, listeningto its parents talk but unable to make any significanceof their exchanges. He was ignorant, wasn't he? Hetasted the sourness of his stupidity for the firsttime since childhood. The voice made him fearful ofambiguities he had ridden roughshod over, of whispershis shouting life had rendered inaudible. He fumbledfor comprehension, and was not entirely frustrated. Theman was speaking of the world, and of exile from theworld; of being broken always by what one seeks topossess. Cherrick struggled, wishing he could stop thevoice and ask for explanation. But it was already fading,ushered away by the wild address of parrots in the trees,raucous and gaudy voices erupting suddenly on everyside. Through the mesh of Cherrick's mosquito net hecould see the sky flaring through the branches.

He sat up. Hands and voice had gone; and withthem all but an irritating murmur of what he hadalmost understood. He had thrown off in sleep his singlesheet; now he looked down at his body with distaste. Hisback and buttocks, and the underside of his thighs, feltsore. Too much sweating on coarse sheets, he thought.Not for the first time in recent days he remembered asmall house in Bristol which he had once known as home.