The Complete Short Stories

A Question of Re-Entry

All day they had moved steadily upstream, occasionally pausing to raise the propeller and cut away the knots of weed, and by 3 o’clock had covered some seventy-five miles. Fifty yards away, on either side of the patrol launch, the high walls of the jungle river rose over the water, the unbroken massif of the mato grosso which swept across the Amazonas from Campos Buros to the delta of the Orinoco. Despite their progress they had set off from the telegraph station at Tres Buritis at 7 o’clock that morning — the river showed no inclination to narrow or alter its volume. Sombre and unchanging, the forest followed its course, the aerial canopy shutting off the sunlight and cloaking the water along the banks with a black velvet sheen. Now and then the channel would widen into a flat expanse of what appeared to be stationary water, the slow oily swells which disturbed its surface transforming it into a sluggish mirror of the distant, enigmatic sky, the islands of rotten balsa logs refracted by the layers of haze like the drifting archipelagoes of a dream. Then the channel would narrow again and the cooling jungle darkness enveloped the launch.

Although for the first few hours Connolly had joined Captain Pereira at the rail, he had become bored with the endless green banks of the forest sliding past them, and since noon had remained in the cabin, pretending to study the trajectory maps. The time might pass more slowly there, but at least it was cooler and less depressing. The fan hummed and pivoted, and the clicking of the cutwater and the whispering plaint of the current past the gliding hull soothed the slight headache induced by the tepid beer he and Pereira had shared after lunch.

This first encounter with the jungle had disappointed Connolly. His previous experience had been confined to the Dredging Project at Lake Maracaibo, where the only forests consisted of the abandoned oil rigs built out into the water. Their rusting hulks, and the huge draglines and pontoons of the dredging teams, were fauna of a man-made species. In the Amazonian jungle he had expected to see the full variety of nature in its richest and most colourful outpouring, but instead it was nothing more than a moribund tree-level swamp, unweeded and overgrown, if anything more dead than alive, an example of bad husbandry on a continental scale. The margins of the river were rarely well defined; except where enough rotting trunks had gathered to form a firm parapet, there were no formal banks, and the shallows ran off among the undergrowth for a hundred yards, irrigating huge areas of vegetation that were already drowning in moisture.

Connolly had tried to convey his disenchantment to Pereira, who now sat under the awning on the deck, placidly smoking a cheroot, partly to repay the Captain for his polite contempt for Connolly and everything his mission implied. Like all the officers of the Native Protection Missions whom Connolly had met, first in Venezuela and now in Brazil, Pereira maintained a proprietary outlook towards the jungle and its mystique, which would not be breached by any number of fresh-faced investigators in their crisp drill uniforms. Captain Pereira had not been impressed by the UN flashes on Connolly’s shoulders with their orbital monogram, nor by the high-level request for assistance cabled to the Mission three weeks earlier from Brasilia. To Pereira, obviously, the office suites in the white towers at the capital were as far away as New York, London or Babylon.

Superficially, the Captain had been helpful enough, supervising the crew as they stowed Connolly’s monitoring equipment aboard, checking his Smith & Wesson and exchanging a pair of defective mosquito boots. As long as Connolly had wanted to, he had conversed away amiably, pointing out this and that feature of the landscape, identifying an unusual bird or lizard on an overhead bough.

But his indifference to the real object of the mission — he had given a barely perceptible nod when Connolly described it — soon became obvious. It was this neutrality which irked Connolly, implying that Pereira spent all his time ferrying UN investigators up and down the rivers after their confounded lost space capsule like so many tourists in search of some non-existent El Dorado. Above all there was the suggestion that Connolly and the hundreds of other investigators deployed around the continent were being too persistent. When all was said and, done, Pereira implied, five years had elapsed since the returning lunar spacecraft, the Goliath 7, had plummeted into the South American land mass, and to prolong the search indefinitely was simply bad form, even, perhaps, necrophilic. There was not the faintest chance of the pilot still being alive, so he should be decently forgotten, given a statue outside a railway station or airport car park and left to the pigeons.

Connolly would have been glad to explain the reasons for the indefinite duration of the search, the overwhelming moral reasons, apart from the political and technical ones. He would have liked to point out that the lost astronaut, Colonel Francis Spender, by accepting the immense risks of the flight to and from the Moon, was owed the absolute discharge of any assistance that could be given him. He would have liked to remind Pereira that the successful landing on the Moon, after some half-dozen fatal attempts — at least three of the luckless pilots were still orbiting the Moon in their dead ships — was the culmination of an age-old ambition with profound psychological implications for mankind, and that the failure to find the astronaut after his return might induce unassuageable feelings of guilt and inadequacy. (If the sea was a symbol of the unconscious, was space perhaps an image of unfettered time, and the inability to penetrate it a tragic exile to one of the limbos of eternity, a symbolic death in life?)

But Captain Pereira was not interested. Calmly inhaling the scented aroma of his cheroot, he sat imperturbably at the rail, surveying the fetid swamps that moved past them.

Shortly before noon, when they had covered some 40 miles, Connolly pointed to the remains of a bamboo landing stage elevated on high poles above the bank. A threadbare rope bridge trailed off among the mangroves, and through an embrasure in the forest they could see a small clearing where a clutter of abandoned adobe huts dissolved like refuse heaps in the sunlight.

‘Is this one of their camps?’

Pereira shook his head. ‘The Espirro tribe, closely related to the Nambikwaras. Three years ago one of them carried influenza back from the telegraph station, an epidemic broke out, turned into a form of pulmonary edema, within forty-eight hours three hundred Indians had died. The whole group disintegrated, only about fifteen of the men and their families are still alive. A great tragedy.’

They moved forward to the bridge and stood beside the tall Negro helmsman as the two other members of the crew began to shackle sections of fine wire mesh into a cage over the deck. Pereira raised his binoculars and scanned the river ahead.

‘Since the Espirros vacated the area the Nambas have begun to forage down this far. We won’t see any of them, but it’s as well to be on the safe side.’

‘Do you mean they’re hostile?’ Connolly asked.

‘Not in a conscious sense. But the various groups which comprise the Nambikwaras are permanently feuding with each other, and this far from the settlement we might easily be involved in an opportunist attack. Once we get to the settlement we’ll be all right — there’s a sort of precarious equilibrium there. But even so, have your wits about you. As you’ll see, they’re as nervous as birds.’

‘How does Ryker manage to keep out of their way? Hasn’t he been here for years?’

‘About twelve.’ Pereira sat down on the gunwale and eased his peaked cap off his forehead. ‘Ryker is something of a special case. Temperamentally he’s rather explosive — I meant to warn you to handle him carefully, he might easily whip up an incident — but he seems to have manoeuvred himself into a position of authority with the tribe. In some ways he’s become an umpire, arbitrating in their various feuds. How he does it I haven’t discovered yet; it’s quite uncharacteristic of the Indians to regard a white man in that way. However, he’s useful to us, we might eventually set up a mission here. Though that’s next to impossible — we tried it once and the Indians just moved 500 miles away.’

Connolly looked back at the derelict landing stage as it disappeared around a bend, barely distinguishable from the jungle, which was as dilapidated as this sole mournful artifact.

‘What on earth made Ryker come out here?’ He had heard something in Brasilia of this strange figure, sometime journalist and man of action, the self-proclaimed world citizen who at the age of forty-two, after a life spent venting his spleen on civilization and its gimcrack gods, had suddenly disappeared into the Amazonas and taken up residence with one of the aboriginal tribes. Most latter-day Gauguins were absconding confidence men or neurotics, but Ryker seemed to be a genuine character in his own right, the last of a race of true individualists retreating before the barbedwire fences and regimentation of 20th-century life. But his chosen paradise seemed pretty scruffy and degenerate, Connolly reflected, when one saw it at close quarters. However, as long as the man could organize the Indians into a few search parties he would serve his purpose. ‘I can’t understand why Ryker should pick the Amazon basin. The South Pacific yes, but from all I’ve heard — and you’ve confirmed just now — the Indians appear to be a pretty diseased and miserable lot, hardly the noble savage.’

Captain Pereira shrugged, looking away across the oily water, his plump sallow face mottled by the lace-like shadow of the wire netting. He belched discreetly to himself, and then adjusted his holster belt. ‘I don’t know the South Pacific, but I should guess it’s also been oversentimentalized. Ryker didn’t come here for a scenic tour. I suppose the Indians are diseased and, yes, reasonably miserable. Within fifty years they’ll probably have died out. But for the time being they do represent a certain form of untamed, natural existence, which after all made us what we are. The hazards facing them are immense, and they survive.’ He gave Connolly a sly smile. ‘But you must argue it out with Ryker.’

They lapsed into silence and sat by the rail, watching the river unfurl itself. Exhausted and collapsing, the great trees crowded the banks, the dying expiring among the living, jostling each other aside as if for a last despairing assault on the patrol boat and its passengers. For the next half an hour, until they opened their lunch packs, Connolly searched the tree-tops for the giant bifurcated parachute which should have carried the capsule to earth. Virtually impermeable to the atmosphere, it would still be visible, spreadeagled like an enormous bird over the canopy of leaves. Then, after drinking a can of Pereira’s beer, he excused himself and went down to the cabin.

The two steel cases containing the monitoring equipment had been stowed under the chart table, and he pulled them out and checked that the moisture-proof seals were still intact. The chances of making visual contact with the capsule were infinitesimal, but as long as it was intact it would continue to transmit both a sonar and radio beacon, admittedly over little more than twenty miles, but sufficient to identify its whereabouts to anyone in the immediate neighbourhood. However, the entire northern half of the South Americas had been covered by successive aerial sweeps, and it seemed unlikely that the beacons were still operating. The disappearance of the capsule argued that it had sustained at least minor damage, and by now the batteries would have been corroded by the humid air.

Recently certain of the UN Space Department agencies had begun to circulate the unofficial view that Colonel Spender had failed to select the correct attitude for re-entry and that the capsule had been vaporized on its final descent, but Connolly guessed that this was merely an attempt to pacify world opinion and prepare the way for the resumption of the space programme. Not only the Lake Maracaibo Dredging Project, but his own presence on the patrol boat, indicated that the Department still believed Colonel Spender to be alive, or at least to have survived the landing. His final re-entry orbit should have brought him down into the landing zone 500 miles to the east of Trinidad, but the last radio contact before the ionization layers around the capsule severed transmission indicated that he had under-shot his trajectory and come down somewhere on the South American land-mass along a line linking Lake Maracaibo with Brasilia.

Footsteps sounded down the companionway, and Captain Pereira lowered himself into the cabin. He tossed his hat onto the chart table and sat with his back to the fan, letting the air blow across his fading hair, carrying across to Connolly a sweet unsavoury odour of garlic and cheap pomade.

‘You’re a sensible man, Lieutenant. Anyone who stays up on deck is crazy. However,’ — he indicated Connolly’s pallid face and hands, a memento of a long winter in New York — ‘in a way it’s a pity you couldn’t have put in some sunbathing. That metropolitan pallor will be quite a curiosity to the Indians.’ He smiled agreeably, showing the yellowing teeth which made his olive complexion even darker. ‘You may well be the first white man in the literal sense that the Indians have seen.’

‘What about Ryker? Isn’t he white?’

‘Black as a berry now. Almost indistinguishable from the Indians, apart from being 7 feet tall.’ He pulled over a collection of cardboard boxes at the far end of the seat and began to rummage through them. Inside was a collection of miscellaneous oddments — balls of thread and raw cotton, lumps of wax and resin, urucu paste, tobacco and seedbeads. ‘These ought to assure them of your good intentions.’

Connolly watched as he fastened the boxes together. ‘How many search parties will they buy? Are you sure you brought enough? I have a fifty-dollar allocation for gifts.’

‘Good,’ Pereira said matter-of-factly. ‘We’ll get some more beer. Don’t worry, you can’t buy these people, Lieutenant. You have to rely on their good-will; this rubbish will put them in the right frame of mind to talk.’

Connolly smiled dourly. ‘I’m more keen on getting them off their hunkers and out into the bush. How are you going to organize the search parties?’

‘They’ve already taken place.’

‘What?’ Connolly sat forward. ‘How did that happen? But they should have waited’ — he glanced at the heavy monitoring equipment — ‘they can’t have known what—’

Pereira silenced him with a raised hand. ‘My dear Lieutenant. Relax, I was speaking figuratively. Can’t you understand, these people are nomadic, they spend all their lives continually on the move. They must have covered every square foot of this forest a hundred times in the past five years. There’s no need to send them out again. Your only hope is that they may have seen something and then persuade them to talk.’

Connolly considered this, as Pereira unwrapped another parcel. ‘All right, but I may want to do a few patrols. I can’t just sit around for three days.’

‘Naturally. Don’t worry, Lieutenant. If your astronaut came down anywhere within 500 miles of here they’ll know about it.’ He unwrapped the parcel and removed a small teak cabinet. The front panel was slotted, and lifted to reveal the face of a large ormolu table clock, its Gothic hands and numerals below a gilded belldome. Captain Pereira compared its time with his wrist-watch. ‘Good. Running perfectly, it hasn’t lost a second in forty-eight hours. This should put us in Ryker’s good books.’

Connolly shook his head. ‘Why on earth does he want a clock? I thought the man had turned his back on such things.’

Pereira packed the tooled metal face away. ‘Ah, well, whenever we escape from anything we always carry a memento of it with us. Ryker collects clocks; this is the third I’ve bought for him. God knows what he does with them.’

The launch had changed course, and was moving in a wide circle across the river, the current whispering in a tender rippling murmur across the hull. They made their way up onto the deck, where the helmsman was unshackling several sections of the wire mesh in order to give himself an uninterrupted view of the bows. The two sailors climbed through the aperture and took up their positions fore and aft, boat-hooks at the ready.

They had entered a large bow-shaped extension of the river, where the current had overflowed the bank and produced a series of low-lying mud flats. Some two or three hundred yards wide, the water seemed to be almost motionless, seeping away through the trees which defined its margins so that the exit and inlet of the river were barely perceptible. At the inner bend of the bow, on the only firm ground, a small cantonment of huts had been built on a series of wooden palisades jutting out over the water. A narrow promontory of forest reached to either side of the cantonment, but a small area behind it had been cleared to form an open campong. On its far side were a number of wattle storage huts, a few dilapidated shacks and hovels of dried palm.

The entire area seemed deserted, but as they approached, the cutwater throwing a fine plume of white spray across the glassy swells, a few Indians appeared in the shadows below the creepers trailing over the jetty, watching them stonily. Connolly had expected to see a group of tall broad-shouldered warriors with white markings notched across their arms and cheeks, but these Indians were puny and degenerate, their pinched faces lowered beneath their squat bony skulls. They seemed undernourished and depressed, eyeing the visitors with a sort of sullen watchfulness, like pariah dogs from a gutter.

Pereira was shielding his eyes from the sun, across whose inclining path they were now moving, searching the ramshackle bungalow built of woven rattan at the far end of the jetty.

‘No signs of Ryker yet. He’s probably asleep or drunk.’ He noticed Connolly’s distasteful frown. ‘Not much of a place, I’m afraid.’

As they moved towards the jetty, the wash from the launch slapping at the greasy bamboo poles and throwing a gust of foul air into their faces, Connolly looked back across the open disc of water, into which the curving wake of the launch was dissolving in a final summary of their long voyage up-river to the derelict settlement, fading into the slack brown water like a last tenuous thread linking him with the order and sanity of civilization. A strange atmosphere of emptiness hung over this inland lagoon, a fiat pall of dead air that in a curious way was as menacing as any overt signs of hostility, as if the crudity and violence of all the Amazonian jungles met here in a momentary balance which some untoward movement of his own might upset, unleashing appalling forces. Away in the distance, down-shore, the great trees leaned like corpses into the glazed air, and the haze over the water embalmed the jungle and the late afternoon in an uneasy stillness.

They bumped against the jetty, rocking lightly into the palisade of poles and dislodging a couple of water-logged outriggers lashed together. The helmsman reversed the engine, waiting for the sailors to secure the lines. None of the Indians had come forward to assist them. Connolly caught a glimpse of one old simian face regarding him with a rheumy eye, riddled teeth nervously worrying a pouch-like lower lip.

He turned to Pereira, glad that the Captain would be interceding between himself and the Indians. ‘Captain, I should have asked before, but — are these Indians cannibalistic?’

Pereira shook his head, steadying himself against a stanchion. ‘Not at all. Don’t worry about that, they’d have been extinct years ago if they were.’

‘Not even — white men?’ For some reason Connolly found himself placing a peculiarly indelicate emphasis upon the word ‘white’.

Pereira laughed, straightening his uniform jacket. ‘For God’s sake, Lieutenant, no. Are you worrying that your astronaut might have been eaten by them?’

‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’

‘I assure you, there have been no recorded cases. As a matter of interest, it’s a rare practice on this continent. Much more typical of Africa — and Europe,’ he added with sly humour. Pausing to smile at Connolly, he said quietly, ‘Don’t despise the Indians, Lieutenant. However diseased and dirty they may be, at least they are in equilibrium with their environment. And with themselves. You’ll find no Christopher Columbuses or Colonel Spenders here, but no Belsens either. Perhaps one is as much a symptom of unease as the other?’

They had begun to drift down the jetty, over-running one of the outriggers, whose bow creaked and disappeared under the stern of the launch, and Pereira shouted at the helmsman: ‘Ahead, Sancho! More ahead! Damn Ryker, where is the man?’

Churning out a niagara of boiling brown water, the launch moved forward, driving its shoulder into the bamboo supports, and the entire jetty sprung lightly under the impact. As the motor was cut and the lines finally secured, Connolly looked up at the jetty above his head.

Scowling down at him, an expression of bilious irritability on his heavy-jawed face, was a tall bare-chested man wearing a pair of frayed cotton shorts and a sleeve-less waistcoat of pleated raffia, his dark eyes almost hidden by a wide-brimmed straw hat. The heavy muscles of his exposed chest and arms were the colour of tropical teak, and the white scars on his lips and the fading traces of the heat ulcers which studded his shin bones provided the only lighter colouring. Standing there, arms akimbo with a sort of jaunty arrogance, he seemed to represent to Connolly that quality of untamed energy which he had so far found so conspicuously missing from the forest.

Completing his scrutiny of Connolly, the big man bellowed: ‘Pereira, for God’s sake, what do you think you’re doing? That’s my bloody outrigger you’ve just run down! Tell that steersman of yours to get the cataracts out of his eyes or I’ll put a bullet through his backside!’

Grinning good-humouredly, Pereira pulled himself up on to the jetty. ‘My dear Ryker, contain yourself. Remember your blood-pressure.’ He peered down at the water-logged hulk of the derelict canoe which was now ejecting itself slowly from the river. ‘Anyway, what good is a canoe to you, you’re not going anywhere.’

Grudgingly, Ryker shook Pereira’s hand. ‘That’s what you like to think, Captain. You and your confounded Mission, you want me to do all the work. Next time you may find I’ve gone a thousand miles up-river. And taken the Nambas with me.’

‘What an epic prospect, Ryker. You’ll need a Homer to celebrate it.’ Pereira turned and gestured Connolly on to the jetty. The Indians were still hanging about listlessly, like guilty intruders.

Ryker eyed Connolly’s uniform suspiciously. ‘Who’s this? Another so-called anthropologist, sniffing about for smut? I warned you last time, I will not have any more of those.’

‘No, Ryker. Can’t you recognize the uniform? Let me introduce Lieutenant Connolly, of that brotherhood of latter-day saints, by whose courtesy and generosity we live in peace together — the United Nations.’

‘What? Don’t tell me they’ve got a mandate here now? God above, I suppose he’ll bore my head off about cereal/protein ratios!’ His ironic groan revealed a concealed reserve of acid humour.

‘Relax. The Lieutenant is very charming and polite. He works for the Space Department, Reclamation Division. You know, searching for lost aircraft and the like. There’s a chance you may be able to help him.’ Pereira winked at Connolly and steered him forward. ‘Lieutenant, the Rajah Ryker.’

‘I doubt it,’ Ryker said dourly. They shook hands, the corded muscles of Ryker’s fingers like a trap. Despite his thicknecked stoop, Ryker was a good six to ten inches taller than Connolly. For a moment he held on to Connolly’s hand, a slight trace of wariness revealed below his mask of bad temper. ‘When did this plane come down?’ he asked. Connolly guessed that he was already thinking of a profitable salvage operation.

‘Some time ago,’ Pereira said mildly. He picked up the parcel containing the cabinet clock and began to stroll after Ryker towards the bungalow at the end of the jetty. A low-eaved dwelling of woven rattan, its single room was surrounded on all sides by a veranda, the overhanging roof shading it from the sunlight. Creepers trailed across from the surrounding foliage, involving it in the background of palms and fronds, so that the house seemed a momentary formalization of the jungle.

‘But the Indians might have heard something about it,’ Pereira went on. ‘Five years ago, as a matter of fact.’

Ryker snorted. ‘My God, you’ve got a hope.’ They went up the steps on to the veranda, where a slim-shouldered Indian youth, his eyes like moist marbles, was watching from the shadows. With a snap of irritation, Ryker cupped his hand around the youth’s pate and propelled him with a backward swing down the steps. Sprawling on his knees, the youth picked himself up, eyes still fixed on Connolly, then emitted what sounded like a high-pitched nasal hoot, compounded partly of fear and partly of excitement. Connolly looked back from the doorway, and noticed that several other Indians had stepped onto the pier and were watching him with the same expression of rapt curiosity.

Pereira patted Connolly’s shoulder. ‘I told you they’d be impressed. Did you see that, Ryker?’

Ryker nodded curtly, as they entered his living-room pulled off his straw hat and tossed it on to a couch under the window. The room was dingy and cheerless. Crude bamboo shelves were strung around the walls, ornamented with a few primitive carvings of ivory and bamboo. A couple of rocking chairs and a card-table were in the centre of the room, dwarfed by an immense Victorian mahogany dresser standing against the rear wall. With its castellated mirrors and ornamental pediments it looked like an altar-piece stolen from a cathedral. At first glance it appeared to be leaning to one side, but then Connolly saw that its rear legs had been carefully raised from the tilting floor with a number of small wedges. In the centre of the dresser, its multiple reflections receding to infinity in a pair of small wing mirrors, was a cheap three-dollar alarm clock, ticking away loudly. An over-and-under Winchester shotgun leaned against the wall beside it.

Gesturing Pereira and Connolly into the chairs, Ryker raised the blind over the rear window. Outside was the compound, the circle of huts around its perimeter. A few Indians squatted in the shadows, spears upright between their knees.

Connolly watched Ryker moving about in front of him, aware that the man’s earlier impatience had given away to a faint but noticeable edginess. Ryker glanced irritably through the window, apparently annoyed to see the gradual gathering of the Indians before their huts.

There was a sweetly unsavoury smell in the room, and over his shoulder Connolly saw that the card-table was loaded with a large bale of miniature animal skins, those of a vole or some other forest rodent. A half-hearted attempt had been made to trim the skins, and tags of clotted blood clung to their margins.

Ryker jerked the table with his foot. ‘Well, here you are,’ he said to Pereira. ‘Twelve dozen. They took a hell of a lot of getting, I can tell you. You’ve brought the clock?’

Pereira nodded, still holding the parcel in his lap. He gazed distastefully at the dank scruffy skins. ‘Have you got some rats in there, Ryker? These don’t look much good. Perhaps we should check through them outside..

‘Dammit, Pereira, don’t be a fool!’ Ryker snapped. ‘They’re as good as you’ll get. I had to trim half the skins myself. Let’s have a look at the clock.’

‘Wait a minute.’ The Captain’s jovial, easy-going manner had stiffened. Making the most of his temporary advantage, he reached out and touched one of the skins gingerly, shaking his head. ‘Pugh… Do you know how much I paid for this clock, Ryker? Seventy-five dollars. That’s your credit for three years. I’m not so sure. And you’re not very helpful, you know. Now about this aircraft that may have come down—’

Ryker snapped his fingers. ‘Forget it. Nothing did. The Nambas tell me everything.’ He turned to Connolly. ‘You can take it from me there’s no trace of an aircraft around here. Any rescue mission would be wasting their time.’

Pereira watched Ryker critically. ‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t an aircraft.’ He tapped Connolly’s shoulder flash. ‘It was a rocket capsule — with a man on board. A very important and valuable man. None other than the Moon pilot, Colonel Francis Spender.’

‘Well…’ Eyebrows raised in mock surprise, Ryker ambled to the window, stared out at a group of Indians who had advanced halfway across the compound. ‘My God, what next! The Moon pilot. Do they really think he’s around here? But what a place to roost.’ He leaned out of the window and bellowed at the Indians, who retreated a few paces and then held their ground. ‘Damn fools,’ he muttered, ‘this isn’t a zoo.’

Pereira handed him the parcel, watching the Indians. There were more than fifty around the compound now, squatting in their doorways, a few of the younger men honing their spears. ‘They are remarkably curious,’ he said to Ryker, who had taken the parcel over to the dresser and was unwrapping it carefully. ‘Surely they’ve seen a paleskinned man before?’

‘They’ve nothing better to do.’ Ryker lifted the clock out of the cabinet with his big hands, with great care placed it beside the alarm clock, the almost inaudible motion of its pendulum lost in the metallic chatter of the latter’s escapement. For a moment he gazed at the ornamental hands and numerals. Then he picked up the alarm clock and with an almost valedictory pat, like an officer dismissing a faithful if stupid minion, locked it away in the cupboard below. His former buoyancy returning, he gave Pereira a playful slap on the shoulder. ‘Captain, if you want any more rat-skins just give me a shout!’

Backing away, Pereira’s heel touched one of Connolly’s feet, distracting Connolly from a problem he had been puzzling over since their entry into the hut. Like a concealed clue in a detective story, he was sure that he had noticed something of significance, but was unable to identify it.

‘We won’t worry about the skins,’ Pereira said. ‘What we’ll do with your assistance, Ryker, is to hold a little parley with the chiefs, see whether they remember anything of this capsule.’

Ryker stared out at the Indians now standing directly below the veranda. Irritably he slammed down the blind. ‘For God’s sake, Pereira, they don’t. Tell the Lieutenant he isn’t interviewing people on Park Avenue or Piccadilly. If the Indians had seen anything I’d know.’

‘Perhaps.’ Pereira shrugged. ‘Still, I’m under instructions to assist Lieutenant Connolly and it won’t do any harm to ask.’

Connolly sat up. ‘Having come this far, Captain, I feel I should do two or three forays into the bush.’ To Ryker he explained: ‘They’ve recalculated the flight path of the final trajectory, there’s a chance he may have come down further along the landing zone. Here, very possibly.’

Shaking his head, Ryker slumped down on to the couch, and drove one fist angrily into the other. ‘I suppose this means they’ll be landing here at any time with thousands of bulldozers and flame-throwers. Dammit, Lieutenant, if you have to send a man to the Moon, why don’t you do it in your own back yard?’

Pereira stood up. ‘We’ll be gone in a couple of days, Ryker.’ He nodded judiciously at Connolly and moved towards the door.

As Connolly climbed to his feet Ryker called out suddenly: ‘Lieutenant. You can tell me something I’ve wondered.’ There was an unpleasant downward curve to his mouth, and his tone was belligerent and provocative. ‘Why did they really send a man to the Moon?’

Connolly paused. He had remained silent during the conversation, not wanting to antagonize Ryker. The rudeness and complete self-immersion were pathetic rather than annoying. ‘Do you mean the military and political reasons?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Ryker stood up, arms akimbo again, measuring Connolly. ‘I mean the real reasons, Lieutenant.’

Connolly gestured vaguely. For some reason formulating a satisfactory answer seemed more difficult than he had expected. ‘Well, I suppose you could say it was the natural spirit of exploration.’

Ryker snorted derisively. ‘Do you seriously believe that, Lieutenant? "The spirit of exploration!" My God! What a fantastic idea. Pereira doesn’t believe that, do you, Captain?’

Before Connolly could reply Pereira took his arm. ‘Come on, Lieutenant. This is no time for a metaphysical discussion.’ To Ryker he added: ‘It doesn’t much matter what you and I believe, Ryker. A man went to the Moon and came back. He needs our help.’

Ryker frowned ruefully. ‘Poor chap. He must be feeling pretty unhappy by now. Though anyone who gets as far as the Moon and is fool enough to come back deserves what he gets.’

There was a scuffle of feet on the veranda, and as they stepped out into the sunlight a couple of Indians darted away along the jetty, watching Connolly with undiminished interest.

Ryker remained in the doorway, staring listlessly at the clock, but as they were about to climb into the launch he came after them. Now and then glancing over his shoulder at the encroaching semi-circle of Indians, he gazed down at Connolly with sardonic contempt. ‘Lieutenant,’ he called out before they went below. ‘Has it occurred to you that if he had landed, Spender might have wanted to stay on here?’

‘I doubt it, Ryker,’ Connolly said calmly. ‘Anyway, there’s little chance that Colonel Spender is still alive. What we’re interested in finding is the capsule.’

Ryker was about to reply when a faint metallic buzz sounded from the direction of his hut. He looked around sharply, waiting for it to end, and for a moment the whole tableau, composed of the men on the launch, the gaunt outcast on the edge of the jetty and the Indians behind him, was frozen in an absurdly motionless posture. The mechanism of the old alarm clock had obviously been fully wound, and the buzz sounded for thirty seconds, finally ending with a high-pitched ping.

Pereira grinned. He glanced at his watch. ‘It keeps good time, Ryker.’ But Ryker had stalked off back to the hut, scattering the Indians before him.

Connolly watched the group dissolve, then suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘You’re right, Captain. It certainly does keep good time,’ he repeated as they entered the cabin.

Evidently tired by the encounter with Ryker, Pereira slumped down among Connolly’s equipment and unbuttoned his tunic. ‘Sorry about Ryker, but I warned you. Frankly, Lieutenant, we might as well leave now. There’s nothing here. Ryker knows that. However, he’s no fool, and he’s quite capable of faking all sorts of evidence just to get a retainer out of you. He wouldn’t mind if the bulldozers came.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ Connolly glanced briefly through the porthole. ‘Captain, has Ryker got a radio?’

‘Of course not. Why?’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Absolutely. It’s the last thing the man would have. Anyway, there’s no electrical supply here, and he has no batteries.’ He noticed Connolly’s intent expression. ‘What’s on your mind, Lieutenant?’

‘You’re his only contact? There are no other traders in the area?’

‘None. The Indians are too dangerous, and there’s nothing to trade. Why do you think Ryker has a radio?’

‘He must have. Or something very similar. Captain, just now you remarked on the fact that his old alarm clock kept good time. Does it occur to you to ask how?’

Pereira sat up slowly. ‘Lieutenant, you have a valid point.’

‘Exactly. I knew there was something odd about those two clocks when they were standing side by side. That type of alarm clock is the cheapest obtainable, notoriously inaccurate. Often they lose two or three minutes in 24 hours. But that clock was telling the right time to within ten seconds. No optical instrument would give him that degree of accuracy.’

Pereira shrugged sceptically. ‘But I haven’t been here for over four months. And even then he didn’t check the time with me.’

‘Of course not. He didn’t need to. The only possible explanation for such a degree of accuracy is that he’s getting a daily time fix, either on a radio or some long-range beacon.’

‘Wait a moment, Lieutenant.’ Pereira watched the dusk light fall across the jungle. ‘It’s a remarkable coincidence, but there must be an innocent explanation. Don’t jump straight to the conclusion that Ryker has some instrument taken from the missing Moon capsule. Other aircraft have crashed in the forest. And what would be the point? He’s not running an airline or railway system. Why should he need to know the time, the exact time, to within ten seconds?’

Connolly tapped the lid of his monitoring case, controlling his growing exasperation at Pereira’s reluctance to treat the matter seriously, at his whole permissive attitude of lazy tolerance towards Ryker, the Indians and the forest. Obviously he unconsciously resented Connolly’s sharp-eyed penetration of this private world.

‘Clocks have become his ide ftxe,’ Pereira continued. ‘Perhaps he’s developed an amazing sensitivity to its mechanism. Knowing exactly the right time could be a substitute for the civilization on which he turned his back.’ Thoughtfully, Pereira moistened the end of his cheroot. ‘But I agree that it’s strange. Perhaps a little investigation would be worthwhile after all.’

After a cool jungle night in the air-conditioned cabin, the next day Connolly began discreetly to reconnoitre the area. Pereira took ashore two bottles of whisky and a soda syphon, and was able to keep Ryker distracted while Connolly roved about the campong with his monitoring equipment. Once or twice he heard Ryker bellow jocularly at him from his window as he lolled back over the whisky. At intervals, as Ryker slept, Pereira would come out into the sun, sweating like a drowsy pig in his stained uniform, and try to drive back the Indians.

‘As long as you stay within earshot of Ryker you’re safe,’ he told Connolly. Chopped-out pathways criss-crossed the bush at all angles, a new one added whenever one of the bands returned to the campong, irrespective of those already established. This maze extended for miles around them. ‘If you get lost, don’t panic but stay where you are. Sooner or later we’ll come out and find you.’

Eventually giving up his attempt to monitor any of the signal beacons built into the lost capsule — both the sonar and radio meters remained at zero — Connolly tried to communicate with the Indians by sign language, but with the exception of one, the youth with the moist limpid eyes who had been hanging about on Ryker’s veranda, they merely stared at him stonily. This youth Pereira identified as the son of the former witch-doctor (‘Ryker’s more or less usurped his role, for some reason the old boy lost the confidence of the tribe’). While the other Indians gazed at Connolly as if seeing some invisible numinous shadow, some extra-corporeal nimbus which pervaded his body, the youth was obviously aware that Connolly possessed some special talent, perhaps not dissimilar from that which his father had once practised. However, Connolly’s attempts to talk to the youth were handicapped by the fact that he was suffering from a purulent ophthalmia, gonococchic in origin and extremely contagious, which made his eyes water continuously. Many of the Indians suffered from this complaint, threatened by permanent blindness, and Connolly had seen them treating their eyes with water in which a certain type of fragrant bark had been dissolved.

Ryker’s casual, off-hand authority over the Indians puzzled Connolly. Slumped back in his chair against the mahogany dresser, one hand touching the ormolu clock, most of the time he and Pereira indulged in a lachrymose back-chat. Then, oblivious of any danger, Ryker would amble out into the dusty campong, push his way blurrily through the Indians and drum up a party to collect fire wood for the water still, jerking them bodily to their feet as they squatted about their huts. What interested Connolly was the Indians’ reaction to this type of treatment. They seemed to be restrained, not by any belief in his strength of personality or primitive kingship, but by a grudging acceptance that for the time being at any rate, Ryker possessed the whip hand over them all. Obviously Ryker served certain useful roles for them as an intermediary with the Mission, but this alone would not explain the sources of his power. Beyond certain more or less defined limits — the perimeter of the campong — his authority was minimal.

A hint of explanation came on the second morning of their visit, when Connolly accidentally lost himself in the forest.

After breakfast Connolly sat under the awning on the deck of the patrol launch, gazing out over the brown, jelly-like surface of the river. The campong was silent. During the night the Indians had disappeared into the bush. Like lemmings they were apparently prone to these sudden irresistible urges. Occasionally the nomadic call would be strong enough to carry them 200 miles away; at other times they would set off in high spirits and then lose interest after a few miles, returning dispiritedly to the campong in small groups.

Deciding to make the most of their absence, Connolly shouldered the monitoring equipment and climbed onto the pier. A few dying fires smoked plaintively among the huts, and abandoned utensils and smashed pottery lay about in the red dust. In the distance the morning haze over the forest had lifted, and Connolly could see what appeared to be a low hill — a shallow rise no more than a hundred feet in height which rose off the flat floor of the jungle a quarter of a mile away.

On his right, among the huts, someone moved. An old man sat alone among the refuse of pottery shards and raffia baskets, cross-legged under a small make-shift awning. Barely distinguishable from the dust, his moribund figure seemed to contain the whole futility of the Amazon forest.

Still musing on Ryker’s motives for isolating himself in the jungle, Connolly made his way towards the distant rise.

Ryker’s behaviour the previous evening had been curious. Shortly after dusk, when the sunset sank into the western forest, bathing the jungle in an immense ultramarine and golden light, the day-long chatter and movement of the Indians ceased abruptly. Connolly had been glad of the silence — the endless thwacks of the rattan canes and grating of the stone mills in which they mixed the Government-issue meal had become tiresome. Pereira made several cautious visits to the edge of the campong, and each time reported that the Indians were sitting in a huge circle outside their huts, watching Ryker’s bungalow. The latter was lounging on his veranda in the moonlight, chin in hand, one boot up on the rail, morosely surveying the assembled tribe.

‘They’ve got their spears and ceremonial feathers,’ Pereira whispered. ‘For a moment I almost believed they were preparing an attack.’

After waiting half an hour, Connolly climbed up on to the pier, found the Indians squatting in their dark silent circle, Ryker glaring down at them. Only the witch-doctor’s son made any attempt to approach Connolly, sidling tentatively through the shadows, a piece of what appeared to be blue obsidian in his hand, some talisman of his father’s that had lost its potency.

Uneasily, Connolly returned to the launch. Shortly after 3 a.m. they were wakened in their bunks by a tremendous whoop, reached the deck to hear the stampede of feet through the dust, the hissing of overturned fires and cooking pots. Apparently leading the pack, Ryker, emitting a series of re-echoed ‘Harooh’s! disappeared into the bush. Within a minute the campong was empty.

‘What game is Ryker playing?’ Pereira muttered as they stood on the creaking jetty in the dusty moonlight. ‘This must be the focus of his authority over the Nambas.’ Baffled, they went back to their bunks.

Reaching the margins of the rise, Connolly strolled through a small orchard which had returned to nature, hearing in his mind the exultant roar of Ryker’s voice as it had cleaved the midnight jungle. Idly he picked a few of the barely ripe guavas and vividly coloured cajus with their astringent delicately flavoured juice. After spitting away the pith, he searched for a way out of the orchard, but within a few minutes realized that he was lost.

A continuous mound when seen from the distance, the rise was in fact a nexus of small hillocks that formed the residue of a one-time system of ox-bow lakes, and the basins between the slopes were still treacherous with deep mire. Connolly rested his equipment at the foot of a tree. Withdrawing his pistol, he fired two shots into the air in the hope of attracting Ryker and Pereira. He sat down to await his rescue, taking the opportunity to unlatch his monitors and wipe the dials.

After ten minutes no one had appeared. Feeling slightly demoralized, and frightened that the Indians might return and find him, Connolly shouldered his equipment and set off towards the north-west, in the approximate direction of the campong. The ground rose before him. Suddenly, as he turned behind a palisade of wild magnolia trees, he stepped into an open clearing on the crest of the hill.

Squatting on their heels against the tree-trunks and among the tall grass was what seemed to be the entire tribe of the Nambikwaras. They were facing him, their expressions immobile and watchful, eyes like white beads among the sheaves. Presumably they had been sitting in the clearing, only fifty yards away, when he fired his shots, and Connolly had the uncanny feeling that they had been waiting for him to make his entrance exactly at the point he had chosen.

Hesitating, Connolly tightened his grip on the radio monitor. The Indians’ faces were like burnished teak, their shoulders painted with a delicate mosaic of earth colours. Noticing the spears held among the grass, Connolly started to walk on across the clearing towards a breach in the palisade of trees.

For a dozen steps the Indians remained motionless. Then, with a chorus of yells, they leapt forward from the grass and surrounded Connolly in a jabbering pack. None of them were more than five feet tall, but their plump agile bodies buffeted him about, almost knocking him off his feet. Eventually the tumult steadied itself, and two or three of the leaders stepped from the cordon and began to scrutinize Connolly more closely, pinching and fingering him with curious positional movements of the thumb and forefinger, like connoisseurs examining some interesting taxidermic object.

Finally, with a series of high-pitched whines and grunts, the Indians moved off towards the centre of the clearing, propelling Connolly in front of them with sharp slaps on his legs and shoulders, like drovers goading on a large pig. They were all jabbering furiously to each other, some hacking at the grass with their machetes, gathering bundles of leaves in their arms.

Tripping over something in the grass, Connolly stumbled onto his knees. The catch slipped from the lid of the monitor, and as he stood up, fumbling with the heavy cabinet, the revolver slipped from his holster and was lost under his feet in the rush.

Giving way to his panic, he began to shout over the bobbing heads around him, to his surprise heard one of the Indians beside him bellow to the others. Instantly, as the refrain was taken up, the crowd stopped and re-formed its cordon around him. Gasping, Connolly steadied himself, and started to search the trampled grass for his revolver, when he realized that the Indians were now staring, not at himself, but at the exposed counters of the monitor. The six meters were swinging wildly after the stampede across the clearing, and the Indians craned forward, their machetes and spears lowered, gaping at the bobbing needles.

Then there was a roar from the edge of the clearing, and a huge wild-faced man in a straw hat, a shot-gun held like a crow-bar in his hands, stormed in among the Indians, driving them back. Dragging the monitor from his neck, Connolly felt the steadying hand of Captain Pereira take his elbow.

‘Lieutenant, Lieutenant,’ Pereira murmured reprovingly as they recovered the pistol and made their way back to the campong, the uproar behind them fading among the undergrowth, ‘we were nearly in time to say grace.’

Later that afternoon Connolly sat back in a canvas chair on the deck of the launch. About half the Indians had returned, and were wandering about the huts in a desultory manner, kicking at the fires. Ryker, his authority reasserted, had returned to his bungalow.

‘I thought you said they weren’t cannibal,’ Connolly reminded Pereira.

The Captain snapped his fingers, as if thinking about something more important. ‘No, they’re not. Stop worrying, Lieutenant, you’re not going to end up in a pot.’ When Connolly demurred he swung crisply on his heel. He had sharpened up his uniform, and wore his pistol belt and Sam Browne at their regulation position, his peaked cap jutting low over his eyes. Evidently Connolly’s close escape had confirmed some private suspicion. ‘Look, they’re not cannibal in the dietary sense of the term, as used by the Food & Agriculture Organization in its classification of aboriginal peoples. They won’t stalk and hunt human game in preference for any other. But—’ here the Captain stared fixedly at Connolly ‘- in certain circumstances, after a fertility ceremonial, for example, they will eat human flesh. Like all members of primitive communities which are small numerically, the Nambikwara never bury their dead. Instead, they eat them, as a means of conserving the loss and to perpetuate the corporeal identity of the departed. Now do you understand?’

Connolly grimaced. ‘I’m glad to know now that I was about to be perpetuated.’

Pereira looked out at the campong. ‘Actually they would never eat a white man, to avoid defiling the tribe.’ He paused. ‘At least, so I’ve always believed. It’s strange, something seems to have… Listen, Lieutenant,’ he explained, ‘I can’t quite piece it together, but I’m convinced we should stay here for a few days longer. Various elements make me suspicious, I’m sure Ryker is hiding something. That mound where you were lost is a sort of sacred tumulus, the way the Indians were looking at your instrument made me certain that they’d seen something like it before perhaps a panel with many flickering dials…?’

‘The Goliath 7?’ Connolly shook his head sceptically. He listened to the undertow of the river drumming dimly against the keel of the launch. ‘I doubt it, Captain. I’d like to believe you, but for some reason it doesn’t seem very likely.’

‘I agree. Some other explanation is preferable. But what? The Indians were squatting on that hill, waiting for someone to arrive. What else could your monitor have reminded them of?’

‘Ryker’s clock?’ Connolly suggested. ‘They may regard it as a sort of ju-ju object, like a magical toy.’

‘No,’ Pereira said categorically. ‘These Indians are highly pragmatic, they’re not impressed by useless toys. For them to be deterred from killing you means that the equipment you carried possessed some very real, down-to-earth power. Look, suppose the capsule did land here and was secretly buried by Ryker, and that in some way the clocks help him to identify its whereabouts—’ here Pereira shrugged hopefully ‘- it’s just possible.’

‘Hardly,’ Connolly said. ‘Besides, Ryker couldn’t have buried the capsule himself, and if Colonel Spender had lived through re-entry Ryker would have helped him.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Pereira said pensively. ‘It would probably strike our friend Mr Ryker as very funny for a man to travel all the way to the Moon and back just to be killed by savages. Much too good a joke to pass over.’

‘What religious beliefs do the Indians have?’ Connolly asked.

‘No religion in the formalized sense of a creed and dogma. They eat their dead so they don’t need to invent an after-life in an attempt to re-animate them. In general they subscribe to one of the so-called cargo cults. As I said, they’re very material. That’s why they’re so lazy. Some time in the future they expect a magic galleon or giant bird to arrive carrying an everlasting cornucopia of worldly goods, so they just sit about waiting for the great day. Ryker encourages them in this idea. It’s very dangerous in some Melanesian islands the tribes with cargo cults have degenerated completely. They lie around all day on the beaches, waiting for the WHO flying boat, or…’ His voice trailed off.

Connolly nodded and supplied the unspoken thought. ‘Or — a space capsule?’

Despite Pereira’s growing if muddled conviction that something associated with the missing space-craft was to be found in the area, Connolly was still sceptical. His close escape had left him feeling curiously calm and emotionless, and he looked back on his possible death with fatalistic detachment, identifying it with the total ebb and flow of life in the Amazon forests, with its myriad unremembered deaths, and with the endless vistas of dead trees leaning across the jungle paths radiating from the campong. After only two days the jungle had begun to invest his mind with its own logic, and the possibility of the space-craft landing there seemed more and more remote. The two elements belonged to different systems of natural order, and he found it increasingly difficult to visualize them overlapping. In addition there was a deeper reason for his scepticism, underlined by Ryker’s reference to the ‘real’ reasons for the space-flights. The implication was that the entire space programme was a symptom of some inner unconscious malaise afflicting mankind, and in particular the western technocracies, and that the space-craft and satellites had been launched because their flights satisfied certain buried compulsions and desires. By contrast, in the jungle, where the unconscious was manifest and exposed, there was no need for these insane projections, and the likelihood of the Amazonas playing any part in the success or failure of the space flight became, by a sort of psychological parallax, increasingly blurred and distant, the missing capsule itself a fragment of a huge disintegrating fantasy.

However, he agreed to Pereira’s request to borrow the monitors and follow Ryker and the Indians on their midnight romp through the forest.

Once again, after dusk, the same ritual silence descended over the campong, and the Indians took up their positions in the doors of their huts. Like some morose exiled princeling, Ryker sat sprawled on his veranda, one eye on the clock through the window behind him. In the moonlight the scores of moist dark eyes never wavered as they watched him.

At last, half an hour later, Ryker galvanized his great body into life, with a series of tremendous whoops raced off across the campong, leading the stampede into the bush. Away in the distance, faintly outlined by the quarter moon, the shallow hump of the tribal tumulus rose over the black canopy of the jungle. Pereira waited until the last heel beats had subsided, then climbed onto the pier and disappeared among the shadows.

Far away Connolly could hear the faint cries of Ryker’s pack as they made off through the bush, the sounds of machetes slashing at the undergrowth. An ember on the opposite side of the campong flared in the low wind, illuminating the abandoned old man, presumably the former witch doctor, whom he had seen that morning. Beside him was another slimmer figure, the limpid-eyed youth who had followed Connolly about.

A door stirred on Ryker’s veranda, providing Connolly with a distant image of the white moonlit back of the river reflected in the mirrors of the mahogany dresser. Connolly watched the door jump lightly against the latch, then walked quietly across the pier to the wooden steps.

A few empty tobacco tins lay about on the shelves around the room, and a stack of empty bottles cluttered one corner behind the door. The ormolu clock had been locked away in the mahogany dresser. After testing the doors, which had been secured with a stout padlock, Connolly noticed a dog-eared paperback book lying on the dresser beside a half-empty carton of cartridges.

On a faded red ground, the small black lettering on the cover was barely decipherable, blurred by the sweat from Ryker’s fingers. At first glance it appeared to be a set of logarithm tables. Each of the eighty or so pages was covered with column after column of finely printed numerals and tabular material.

Curious, Connolly carried the manual over to the doorway. The title page was more explicit.

His interest quickening, Connolly turned the pages. The manual fell open at the section headed: Lat .5 South, Long, 60 West. He remembered that this was the approximate position of Campos Buros. Tabulated by year, month and day, the columns of figures listed the elevations and compass bearings for sightings of the Echo III satellite, the latest of the huge aluminium spheres which had been orbiting the earth since Echo I was launched in 1959. Rough pencil lines had been drawn through all the entries up to the year 1968. At this point the markings became individual, each minuscule entry crossed off with a small blunt stroke. The pages were grey with the blurred graphite.

Guided by this careful patchwork of cross-hatching, Connolly found the latest entry: March 17, 1978. The time and sighting were .1-22 a.m.

Elevation 43 degrees WNW, Capella-Eridanus. Below it was the entry for the next day, an hour later, its orientations differing slightly.

Ruefully shaking his head in admiration of Ryker’s cleverness, Connolly looked at his watch. It was about 1.20, two minutes until the next traverse. He glanced at the sky, picking out the constellation Eridanus, from which the satellite would emerge.

So this explained Ryker’s hold over the Indians! What more impressive means had a down-and-out white man of intimidating and astonishing a tribe of primitive savages? Armed with nothing more than a set of tables and a reliable clock, he could virtually pinpoint the appearance of the satellite at the first second of its visible traverse. The Indians would naturally be awed and bewildered by this phantom charioteer of the midnight sky, steadily pursuing its cosmic round, like a beacon traversing the profoundest deeps of their own minds. Any powers which Ryker cared to invest in the satellite would seem confirmed by his ability to control the time and place of its arrival.

Connolly realized now how the old alarm clock had told the correct time — by using his tables Ryker had read the exact time off the sky each night. A more accurate clock presumably freed him from the need to spend unnecessary time waiting for the satellite’s arrival; he would now be able to set off for the tumulus only a few minutes beforehand.

Walking along the pier he began to search the sky. Away in the distance a low cry sounded into the midnight air, diffusing like a wraith over the jungle. Beside him, sitting on the bows of the launch, Connolly heard the helmsman grunt and point at the sky above the opposite bank. Following the up-raised arm, he quickly found the speeding dot of light. It was moving directly towards the tumulus. Steadily the satellite crossed the sky, winking intermittently as it passed behind lanes of high-altitude cirrus, the conscripted ship of the Nambikwaras’ cargo cult.

It was about to disappear among the stars in the south-east when a faint shuffling sound distracted Connolly. He looked down to find the moist-eyed youth, the son of the witch doctor, standing only a few feet away from him, regarding him dolefully.

‘Hello, boy,’ Connolly greeted him. He pointed at the vanishing satellite. ‘See the star?’

The youth made a barely perceptible nod. He hesitated for a moment, his running eyes glowing like drowned moons, then stepped forward and touched Connolly’s wristwatch, tapping the dial with his horny fingernail.

Puzzled, Connolly held it up for him to inspect. The youth watched the second hand sweep around the dial, an expression of rapt and ecstatic concentration on his face. Nodding vigorously, he pointed to the sky.

Connolly grinned. ‘So you understand? You’ve rumbled old man Ryker, have you?’ He nodded encouragingly to the youth, who was tapping the watch eagerly, apparently in an effort to conjure up a second satellite. Connolly began to laugh. ‘Sorry, boy.’ He slapped the manual. ‘What you really need is this pack of jokers.’

Connolly began to walk back to the bungalow, when the youth darted forward impulsively and blocked his way, thin legs spread in an aggressive stance. Then, with immense ceremony, he drew from behind his back a round painted object with a glass face that Connolly remembered he had seen him carrying before.

‘That looks interesting.’ Connolly bent down to examine the object, caught a glimpse in the thin light of a luminous instrument before the youth snatched it away.

‘Wait a minute, boy. Let’s have another look at that.’

After a pause the pantomime was repeated, but the youth was reluctant to allow Connolly more than the briefest inspection. Again Connolly saw a calibrated dial and a wavering indicator. Then the youth stepped forward and touched Connolly’s wrist.

Quickly Connolly unstrapped the metal chain. He tossed the watch to the youth, who instantly dropped the instrument, his barter achieved, and after a delighted yodel turned and darted off among the trees.

Bending down, careful not to touch the instrument with his hands, Connolly examined the dial. The metal housing around it was badly torn and scratched, as if the instrument had been prised from some control panel with a crude implement. But the glass face and the dial beneath it were still intact. Across the centre was the legend: LUNAR ALTIMETER Miles: 100 GOLIATH 7 General Electric Corporation, Schenectedy Picking up the instrument, Connolly cradled it in his hands. The pressure seals were broken, and the gyro bath floated freely on its air cushion. Like a graceful bird the indicator needle glided up and down the scale.

The pier creaked under approaching footsteps. Connolly looked up at the perspiring figure of Captain Pereira, cap in one hand, monitor dangling from the other.

‘My dear Lieutenant!’ he panted. ‘Wait till I tell you, what a farce, it’s fantastic! Do you know what Ryker’s doing? it’s so simple it seems unbelievable that no one’s thought of it before. It’s nothing short of the most magnificent practical joke!’ Gasping, he sat down on the bale of skins leaning against the gangway. ‘I’ll give you a clue: Narcissus.’

‘Echo,’ Connolly replied flatly, still staring at the instrument in his hands.

‘You spotted it? Clever boy!’ Pereira wiped his cap-band. ‘How did you guess? It wasn’t that obvious.’ He took the manual Connolly handed him. ‘What the—? Ah, I see, this makes it even more clear. Of course.’ He slapped his knee with the manual. ‘You found this in his room? I take my hat off to Ryker,’ he continued as Connolly set the altimeter down on the pier and steadied it carefully. ‘Let’s face it, it’s something of a pretty clever trick. Can you imagine it, he comes here, finds a tribe with a strong cargo cult, opens his little manual and says "Presto, the great white bird will be arriving: NOW!’

Connolly nodded, then stood up, wiping his hands on a strip of rattan. When Pereira’s laughter had subsided he pointed down to the glowing face of the altimeter at their feet. ‘Captain, something else arrived,’ he said quietly. ‘Never mind Ryker and the satellite. This cargo actually landed.’

As Pereira knelt down and inspected the altimeter, whistling sharply to himself, Connolly walked over to the edge of the pier and looked out across the great back of the silent river at the giant trees which hung over the water, like forlorn mutes at some cataclysmic funeral, their thin silver voices carried away on the dead tide.

Half an hour before they set off the next morning, Connolly waited on the deck for Captain Pereira to conclude his interrogation of Ryker. The empty campong, deserted again by the Indians, basked in the heat, a single plume of smoke curling into the sky. The old witch doctor and his son had disappeared, perhaps to try their skill with a neighbouring tribe, but the loss of his watch was unregretted by Connolly. Down below, safely stowed away among his baggage, was the altimeter, carefully sterilized and sealed. On the table in front of him, no more than two feet from the pistol in his belt, lay Ryker’s manual.

For some reason he did not want to see Ryker, despite his contempt for him, and when Pereira emerged from the bungalow he was relieved to see that he was alone. Connolly had decided that he would not return with the search parties when they came to find the capsule; Pereira would serve adequately as a guide.

‘Well?’

The Captain smiled wanly. ‘Oh, he admitted it, of course.’ He sat down on the rail, and pointed to the manual. ‘After all, he had no choice. Without that his existence here would be untenable.’

‘He admitted that Colonel Spender landed here?’

Pereira nodded. ‘Not in so many words, but effectively. The capsule is buried somewhere here — under the tumulus, I would guess. The Indians got hold of Colonel Spender, Ryker claims he could do nothing to help him.’

‘That’s a lie. He saved me in the bush when the Indians thought I had landed.’

With a shrug Pereira said: ‘Your positions were slightly different. Besides, my impression is that Spender was dying anyway, Ryker says the parachute was badly burnt. He probably accepted a fait accompli, simply decided to do nothing and hush the whole thing up, incorporating the landing into the cargo cult. Very useful too. He’d been tricking the Indians with the Echo satellite, but sooner or later they would have become impatient. After the Goliath crashed, of course, they were prepared to go on watching the Echo and waiting for the next landing forever.’ A faint smile touched his lips. ‘It goes without saying that he regards the episode as something of a macabre joke. On you and the whole civilized world.’

A door slammed on the veranda, and Ryker stepped out into the sunlight. Bare-chested and hatless, he strode towards the launch.

‘Connolly,’ he called down, ‘you’ve got my box of tricks there!’

Connolly reached forward and fingered the manual, the butt of his pistol tapping the table edge. He looked up at Ryker, at his big golden frame bathed in the morning light. Despite his still belligerent tone, a subtle change had come over Ryker. The ironic gleam in his eye had gone, and the inner core of wariness and suspicion which had warped the man and exiled him from the world was now visible. Connolly realized that, curiously, their respective roles had been reversed. He remembered Pereira reminding him that the Indians were at equilibrium with their environment, accepting its constraints and never seeking to dominate the towering arbors of the forest, in a sense of externalization of their own unconscious psyches. Ryker had upset that equilibrium, and by using the Echo satellite had brought the 20th century and its psychopathic projections into the heart of the Amazonian deep, transforming the Indians into a community of superstitious and materialistic sightseers, their whole culture oriented around the mythical god of the puppet star. It was Connolly who now accepted the jungle for what it was, seeing himself and the abortive space-flight in this fresh perspective.

Pereira gestured to the helmsman, and with a muffled roar the engine started. The launch pulled lightly against its lines.

‘Connolly!’ Ryker’s voice was shriller now, his bellicose shout overlaid by a higher note. For a moment the two men looked at each other, and in the eyes above him Connolly glimpsed the helpless isolation of Ryker, his futile attempt to identify himself with the forest.

Picking up the manual, Connolly leaned forward and tossed it through the air on to the pier. Ryker tried to catch it, then knelt down and picked it up before it slipped through the springing poles. Still kneeling, he watched as the lines were cast off and the launch surged ahead.

They moved out into the channel and plunged through the bowers of spray into the heavier swells of the open current.

As they reached a sheltering bend and the figure of Ryker faded for the last time among the creepers and sunlight, Connolly turned to Pereira. ‘Captain — what actually happened to Colonel Spender? You said the Indians wouldn’t eat a white man.’

‘They eat their gods,’ Pereira said.