I timed him for a while and then leaped over the hood of the jeep, without touching it, as he turned away from it. He heard me and whirled, but I crashed down on him. Before he could cry out or trigger the gun, he was dead with my knife in his throat.

While I was waiting to launch myself, my penis had risen up, and as the man’s blood spurted out, I spurted over him.

For a moment, I crouched, trying to recover my breath and also to listen for sounds within the camper. The orgasm had taken such violent possession of me, it had made me drop my knife and writhe as if I had been electrically shocked.

The aberration was getting more dangerous. How could I kill more than one person in a fight if the first kill made me momentarily helpless?

The submachine gun was of a make unknown to me. It was very compact, and the slender muzzle could eject nothing larger than .22 caliber, if that. It was probably custom-made for Caliban, and probably shot explosive bullets. I took the gun, felt it, inspected it as best I could in the dark, found out how to operate it, and then approached the camper. The antenna was still rotating.

I placed my ear against the metal of the camper but could hear nothing. Its walls were well insulated.

I left the camper and explored the other truck. It was locked, but the keys were on the body of the black.

I unlocked it and went into the supply camper, and came out with several grenades. I pulled the pin on one and tossed it as far away as I could. I had decided I wanted to get the other man out as swiftly as possible, and I was not going to worry about the Kenyans. I hoped that the man in the camper would run out to see what the noise was. He could stay within and warn Caliban, of course, since I was sure he was in radio contact with him.

Immediately after the explosion, the camper door flew open and a big figure shot through. It landed on the ground crouching, a submachine gun in its hands. It called, “Hey, Ali! What’s going on? Man, where you at?”

He may have sensed me. He whirled around. I chopped his neck as he was halfway around, and he kept on spinning but his knees were buckling and his body folding. I had not struck him with full force, however, because I wanted a prisoner. He was very strong; his neck was pyloned with muscles. He must have been partially stunned, but his fighting reflexes brought him back up and at me. I caught his wrist and turned it. His scream cut the night. Far off, a leopard coughed, but it may have been a coincidence, not a reply.

He dropped to his knees, his trunk bent backwards, teeth white in the darkness. I brought my knee up against his chin, not too hard. He fell back on the ground.

Afterwards, I noticed that I had a slight erection. Evidently my penis knew when I intended to kill and when I did not.

The man was the Negro I had thought was American. He was as tall as I and perhaps fifty pounds heavier.

His shoulders were broad; his waist, narrow. His haircut was “natural,” and he had a thick moustache and goatee. His skin was so light and his features so Caucasian, I suspected he was one-quarter white.

Tchaka Wilfred was born in Cleveland, Ohio. He had been a professional football player until he had been caught after holding up a bank to finance a militant black organization. He escaped from prison and joined another organization in Harlem. There he had run afoul of Doctor Caliban, who had taken Wilfred prisoner but had not turned him over to the police. Instead, he had sent Wilfred to the private sanatorium, where Caliban rehabilitated his criminals. By surgery.

This confirmed what the two old men had said.

I had little time for talk, but this information intrigued me. I have an M.D. and though my only practice has been among the Bandili, I read a certain amount of medical journals every year.

“What kind of surgery?” I asked.

“I don’t know, honky,” Wilfred said sullenly. “A cat under ether isn’t too observant, you know.”

“Obviously, he didn’t tell you anything about his illegal tamperings with your brain. Didn’t you ask him what he did?”

“Man, I asked till I was blue in the face, if you can imagine that!” Wilfred said. “Old Doc said it was a trade secret, and he wasn’t about to let it out. Unscrupulous men might get hold of it and do great evil!

Especially the Communists! Doc’s really uptight on the Reds the last couple of years. He thinks they’re out to take over and just about got it sewed up!”

That did not sound like a man who served the Nine. Loyalty to the Nine comes first, and the servant will get along no matter what the government. However, they do not care what a man’s political beliefs are, as long as he obeys the Nine.

Wilfred laughed and said, “I thought maybe the bronze cat performed a prefrontal lobotomy, but I’m no zombie. And those old honkies, Rivers and Simmons, they say no. They think the Big Bwana Honky maybe installed a micro-miniature circuit board—one running off the electricity of my nerves—inside my head. Man, that’s spooky! But ...”

“Caliban threw me weaponless against that hungry lion,” I said. “That doesn’t sound like a man of irreproachable virtue to me.”

“If the doc says you’re evil, you’re no fucking good! A-1 rotten. Essence of putridity. Evil as Lucifer after the Fall. Evil as the soul of an Alabaman Ku Kluxer!”

“Do you know who I am?”

Wilfred grinned, though the grin was nervous.

“Yeah. Doc told me. And I said, ‘I hear you, Doc, but you just hung up my sense of credibility.’ Doc didn’t answer. He seldom does. And he could care less if I believe or not. Doc don’t lie. Only honky I ever saw who don’t. But I still didn’t believe. He had to be putting me on. Then we came to Africa and caught that lion and let him loose at you, and there you were, big as life, and bigger. I saw you break that big cat’s neck! But I still couldn’t believe that, and I couldn’t believe that you were really you. But I guess you really are. Man, you’re something else!”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I wonder why he hired you? For your muscle?”

He rubbed his wrist and winced.

“Yeah, partly for my muscle. But I’m an electronic technician and a damn good one, honky.”

“But Doc is still, as you put it, a honky?”

“He’s the only honky I wouldn’t dare call honky to his face. That bronze cat was what Nietzsche was dreaming of before he flipped. A genuine Sooperdooperman! Sure a shame he isn’t black!”

He was leaning with his back against the rear of the truck. I said, “I can see you’re thinking about rushing me again. Here.”

I held out my right hand.

He said, “What do you want?”

“Take it,” I said. “Do whatever you want with it.”

Instead, he advanced swiftly and tried to thrust his knuckles into my solar plexus. I seized the hand and squeezed on it. He screamed and fell to his knees.

“Do I make myself clear?” I said.

He moaned while he held the injured fist with the other hand. He said, “You’re still a big donkeypricked dirty stinking honky.”

I admired his spirit but deplored his lack of intelligence in this situation. Obviously, he could gain nothing by antagonizing me.

And there was no use trying to tell him that I was outside his conflict of white and black any more than there had been in telling Zabu. I was probably the only white in the world entirely free of prejudice towards men because of their color. Even if I could have convinced him of my attitude, I would not have bothered. What did I care what he thought?

“You will show me everything I want to see,” I said. “Otherwise, I kill you.”

We went inside the camper. It was crammed with equipment and instruments, most of it electronic.

At the touch of a button, these sank away, and the top of the camper rose and split and folded to two sides. A pedestal with a bazooka-like tube rose up from the floor, and then the tube telescoped outwards.