In the vestibule, which, despite the late hour was busywith victims of one kind or another, his harried gazealighted on a small boy, perched on his mother's lap.He had injured his belly apparently. His shirt, whichwas too large for him, was stained with blood; his facewith tears. The mother did not look up as Locke movedthrough the throng. The child did however. He raisedhis head as if knowing that Locke was about to pass by,and smiled radiantly.

There was nobody Locke knew at Tetelman's store; andall the information he could bully from the hired hands,most of whom were drunk to the point of being unableto stand, was that their masters had gone off into thejungle the previous day. Locke chased the most soberof them and persuaded him with threats to accompanyhim back to the village as translator. He had no real ideaof how he would make his peace with the tribe. He wasonly certain that he had to argue his innocence. Afterall, he would plead, it hadn't been he who had fired thekilling shot. There had been misunderstandings, to becertain, but he had not harmed the people in any way.How could they, in all conscience, conspire to hurt him?If they should require some penance of him he was notabove acceding to their demands. Indeed, might therenot be some satisfaction in the act? He had seen somuch suffering of late. He wanted to be cleansed of it.Anything they asked, within reason, he would complywith; anything to avoid dying like the others. He'd evengive back the land.

It was a rough ride, and his morose companion com-plained often and incoherently. Locke turned a deaf ear.There was no time for loitering. Their noisy progress, thejeep engine complaining at every new acrobatic requiredof it, brought the jungle alive on every side, a repertoireof wails, whoops and screeches. It was an urgent, hungryplace, Locke thought: and for the first time since settingfoot on this sub-continent he loathed it with all his heart.There was no room here to make sense of events; the bestthat could be hoped was that one be allowed a niche tobreathe awhile between one squalid flowering and thenext.

Half an hour before nightfall, exhausted by thejourney, they came to the outskirts of the village.The place had altered not at all in the meagre dayssince he'd last been here, but the ring of huts wasclearly deserted. The doors gaped; the communal fires,always alight, were ashes. There was neither child norpig to turn an eye towards him as he moved across thecompound. When he reached the centre of the ring hestood still, looking about him for some clue as to whathad happened there. He found none, however. Fatigueirade him foolhardy. Mustering his fractured strength,he shouted into the hush:

'Where are you?'

Two brilliant red macaws, finger-winged, rose screeching from the trees on the far side of the village. Afew moments after, a figure emerged from the thicketof balsa and jacaranda. It was not one of the tribe, butDancy. He paused before stepping fully into sight; then,recognising Locke, a broad smile broke his face, and headvanced into the compound. Behind him, the foliageshook as others made their way through it. Tetelman wasthere, as were several Norwegians, led by a man calledBj0rnstr0m, whom Locke had encountered briefly at thetrading post. His face, beneath a shock of sun-bleachedhair, was like cooked lobster.

'My God,' said Tetelman, 'what are you doing here?'

'I might ask you the same question,' Locke repliedtestily.

Bj0rnstr0m waved down the raised rifles of his threecompanions and strode forward, bearing a placatorysmile.

'Mr Locke,' the Norwegian said, extending a leather-gloved hand. 'It is good we meet.'

Locke looked down at the stained glove with disgust,and Bj0rnstr0m, flashing a self-admonishing look,pulled it off. The hand beneath was pristine.

'My apologies,' he said. 'We've been working.'

'At what?' Locke asked, the acid in his stomachedging its way up into the back of his throat.

Tetelman spat. 'Indians,' he said.

'Where's the tribe?' Locke said.

Again, Tetelman: 'Bj0rnstr0m claims he's got rightsto this territory ...'

'The tribe,' Locke insisted. 'Where are they?'

The Norwegian toyed with his glove.

'Did you buy them out, or what?' Locke asked.

'Not exactly,' Bj0rnstr0m replied. His English, likehis profile, was impeccable.

'Bring him along,' Dancy suggested with someenthusiasm. 'Let him see for himself.'

Bj0rnstr0m nodded. 'Why not?' he said. 'Don't touchanything, Mr Locke. And tell your carrier to stay wherehe is.'

Dancy had already about turned, and was heading intothe thicket; now Bj0rnstr0m did the same, escortingLocke across the compound towards a corridor hackedthrough the heavy foliage. Locke could scarcely keeppace; his limbs were more reluctant with every step hetook. The ground had been heavily trodden along thistrack. A litter of leaves and orchid blossoms had beenmashed into the sodden soil.

They had dug a pit in a small clearing no more than ahundred yards from the compound. It was not deep, thispit, nor was it very large. The mingled smells of lime andpetrol cancelled out any other scent.

Tetelman, who had reached the clearing ahead ofLocke, hung back from approaching the lip of theearthworks, but Dancy was not so fastidious. He strodearound the far side of the pit and beckoned to Locke toview the contents.

The tribe were putrefying already. They lay wherethey had been thrown, in a jumble of breasts andbuttocks and faces and limbs, their bodies tinged hereand there with purple and black. Flies built helter-skelters in the air above them.

'An education,' Dancy commented.

Locke just looked on as Bj0rnstr0m moved around theother side of the pit to join Dancy.

'All of them?' Locke asked.

The Norwegian nodded. 'One fell swoop,' he said,pronouncing each word with unsettling precision.

'Blankets,' said Tetelman, naming the murderweapon.

'But so quickly ...' Locke murmured.

'It's very efficient,' said Dancy. 'And difficult toprove. Even if anybody ever asks.'

'Disease is natural,' Bj0rnstr0m observed. 'Yes? Likethe trees.'

Locke slowly shook his head, his eyes pricking.

'I hear good things of you,' Bj0rnstr0m said to him.'Perhaps we can work together.'

Locke didn't even attempt to reply. Others of theNorwegian party had laid down their rifles and werenow getting back to work, moving the few bodies stillto be pitched amongst their fellows from the forlornheap beside the pit. Locke could see a child amongst thetangle, and an old man, whom even now the burial partywere picking up. The corpse looked jointless as theyswung it over the edge of the hole. It tumbled down theshallow incline and came to rest face up, its arms flungup to either side of its head in a gesture of submission,or expulsion. It was the elder of course, whom Cherrickhad faced. His palms were still red. There was a neatbullet-hole in his temple. Disease and hopelessness hadnot been entirely efficient, apparently.

Locke watched while the next of the bodies wasthrown into the mass grave, and a third to follow that.

Bj0rnstr0m, lingering on the far side of the pit, waslighting a cigarette. He caught Locke's eye.

'So it goes,' he said.

From behind Locke, Tetelman spoke.

'We thought you wouldn't come back,' he said, per-haps attempting to excuse his alliance with Bj0rnstr0m.

'Stumpf is dead,' said Locke.

'Well, even less to divide up,' Tetelman said,approaching him and laying a hand on his shoulder.Locke didn't reply; he just stared down amongst thebodies, which were now being covered with lime, onlyslowly registering the warmth that was running downhis body from the spot where Tetelman had touchedhim. Disgusted, the man had removed his hand, andwas staring at the growing bloodstain on Locke's shirt.