The Amazon (KM 043), page 9
part #43 of Killmaster Series
Nick turned it over in his mind. It was a possibility. Most of the modern hallucinatory drugs had natural root or herb bases. The Mexican mescal weed was but one example. If the Chinese had inadvertently gotten something like it they could have gone off into wild fantasies. Yes, it was a possibility, but he couldn’t quite buy it. The Chinese would be careful. Caution was one of their trademarks. Besides, they had sufficient rice and dried food with them; it was still on their decapitated bodies. They had no need to grub for roots. He tabled the mystery for the moment as he saw that the trail was widening.
“The Kanahari know about guns then?” he asked the girl. “No,” she said. “That was their first experience with the ‘noises like thunder,’ as they called them. They were frightened at first. They probably still are.”
“Why do we still own our heads?” Nick asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“We won’t for long,” Tarita said. “Atutu told me they are going to sacrifice us at a ceremony. The gods need to be placated. Only living sacrifices and a special ceremony will do it. They have still other ideas for me.”
“What do you mean by that?” Nick asked.
“Six young men have just been initiated as hunters,” she said. “Tonight, as a reward, they will each have me.
They were on a small rise and the trail had widened once again. Through the trees, Nick glimpsed the thatched, leafed, primitive huts of a village. The spear still prodded his back but it was time for action. He spoke softly to Tarita.
“If I can get away,” he said, “I’ll be back for you. You can count on it.”
He reached for the Luger, slowly removed it from the holster, and reached around his body, crossing his arms over his chest so that the gun pointed directly behind him. He pulled the trigger and heard the spear carrier arch backward. The others dived to the ground, pulling Tarita and Atutu with them. Nick raced off into the jungle, pegging another shot, just for good measure, at the six cripples coming up behind. He ran, crashing through the brush, knowing they’d be up and after him in an instant.
But this time when he reached a point about a hundred yards away he swung himself up on one of the lianas. Pushing himself off with his feet against a betel-nut palm, he used the liana like a trapeze artist, sailing through the air to grab onto the branches of another tree and then another. Tarzan, move over, he muttered to himself. He clambered up as high as he could into the very topmost branches of a tall strangler fig, its higher limbs hidden by garlands of thick foliage clinging to the lianas.
He hid among the leaves, clinging to the thick branches, spreading his long frame out atop a twisting one. He couldn’t see the ground from his hiding place and he was certain the headhunters couldn’t see him. He waited silently, hearing the sound of their feet padding hurriedly through the jungle as they fanned out in all directions. They were making a thorough search; he heard them crisscross back and forth.
Finally, after what seemed hours, he heard no more sounds except the jungle noises. Yet he remained motionless, taking no chances. The headhunters knew the ways of silence, too, and had the patience to outwait their game. His legs began to cramp, his arms ache as he clung to the uneven, twisting branch. Yet he remained completely motionless, certain that if they waited below they would be watching the movement of every bush and tree, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
As he clung there, his eyes widened as he saw the bright green vine on an adjoining branch begin to move, slowly sliding up and across his arm. From the little holes in its head, midway between eyes and nostrils, he immediately recognized it as a member of the pit-viper family, and deadly poisonous. Nick put his face down on his arm and steeled himself as the snake slithered over his wrist and up along his arm, then moved across his head with maddening slowness. He felt it move down his back and, knowing snakes, he fervently hoped the damned thing wouldn’t decide to coil up on the warmth it felt from his body.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the viper move from his leg onto the branch and continue its slow, slithering way down the tree. Then he was grateful once again for his decision to remain motionless. Darkness was beginning to cover the jungle and he heard the sounds below, sounds of men walking through the brush, punctuated by an occasional word. They had been there all along, silently waiting, and now they were returning to the village as night approached. Nick waited until darkness blanketed the jungle thoroughly and then climbed down from his perch. He had taken his position carefully, fixing in his mind the direction of the village.
Crawling through the blackness, he finally found himself at the edge of the trees, peering at the clearing of huts. A hint of moonlight permeated the cleared area, permitting him to see beyond the usual impenetrable blackness. His eyes focused on a long low hut, much larger than the others, where a group of women were seated outside the entrance, chanting and waving palm fronds.
“The bridal initiation hut,” he grunted to himself. The young bucks had not yet lined up to receive their reward, he saw. He began to work his way around the perimeter of the jungle in order to come up behind the leaf-thatched hut. It was as he crawled, on hands and knees, that he came upon the bundle of soft rubber objects in one of the bushes. His hand, touching the unexpected texture, drew away instantly. Then, as he peered at the bush, he pulled one forth, his breath escaping him in a sigh of exclamation. “I’ll be damned!” he said, holding up the object.
He quickly pulled out the others—four rubber masks, the kind one can buy mail order or in the five-and-ten. He put his big hand inside one and pulled it tight, saw that it was the mask of a Chinese face. He didn’t have to examine the other three. He knew they’d be all the same, and he knew now what had happened. Kolben again! He spat the name out, disgustedly. When Kolben found that the Chinese were nearby, he and his men had donned the masks and attacked the Kanahari village.
He should have realized it, Nick told himself. Even if the Chinese had gone berserk, they would not have known to attack the idols or fire the medicine man’s sacred hut. Only Kolben would have known that would set off the headhunters into a rage for revenge. Nick speculated on the masks. Kolben had probably acquired them years ago, God knows how, and immediately realized their possible value to him when he saw the Chinese arrive in Serra do Navio. Nick tossed the masks back into the brush. It was explained now, and he felt better for it. He was always disturbed when something unexplained muddied up the waters.
As he continued crawling along the perimeter of the trees he saw the tall wooden carved idols at the far end of the village. The long hut had blocked his view of them before. Now he saw the pitifully small figure tied to the base of one of the carved totems. He had reached a spot in back of the long hut, flattened out on his belly and began to crawl across the open ground toward the hut, snakelike, moving inches at a time. It was not a custom of primitive peoples to post sentries, he knew. But they did use guards, and as he reached the rear of the leafed structure he listened for any sounds from within it.
Satisfied there probably was no one but Tarita inside, he began carefully to tear off the thick, overlapping leaves that formed the wall of the hut. Finally able to push his body through the hole he had fashioned, he saw Tarita sitting on a bamboo mat. He motioned to her for silence and had just pulled his big frame into the hut when he heard the sounds of male voices outside, talking to the chanting women.
He pushed Tarita back onto the bamboo mat and in one quick stride took up a position to one side of the entrance of the hut. He had just made it when the doorway rustled and the tall figure of a young buck entered, a grin of anticipation spreading over his face as he saw the beautiful creature on the bamboo mat. The grin ended abruptly as Nick brought the Luger butt down on the back of his head.
“Not tonight, Josephine,” Nick murmured as he eased the Indian to the ground. “Scream,” he whispered to Tarita. She looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then fell back on the mat and screamed. She moaned, cried, screamed, throwing herself into it, her legs thrashing about. She was doing a good job. Finally, at a signal from Nick, she tapered off. He had dragged the first headhunter into the darkest comer of the hut and taken up his position again beside the entranceway. In moments, the second one entered. He had made two steps toward the girl when Nick brought down the gun again.
“She’s not your type, junior,” Nick muttered. Tarita had started to moan again, this time not as loudly, leaving out the high-pitched screams. She’d be a smash at the method school of acting, he commented to himself. When she ended, the third one came in at once, almost taking Nick by surprise. Nick cracked the gun down on him too.
“It never pays to be too eager,” Nick admonished the inert form. One by one, the other three joined the first trio. Nick motioned Tarita to crawl out through the hole at the rear of the hut. He cast a last glance at the unconscious pile of young Indians in the comer of the hut as he started to follow the girl out. “Another time, another girl,” he murmured sympathetically, noting that no one seemed to be listening.
Outside, they crawled to the perimeter of the jungle.
“I’m going back to get Atutu,” Nick said. “You wait here. If anything goes wrong, run for it. Get as far away as you can, and never take another job as a guide.” He was about to go when he felt the girl’s arms around his neck, her lips pressing his.
“I’ll do that,” she whispered. “And I’ll never meet anyone like you, either.”
She let him go and he ran in a crouch, cutting past the long hut, skirting another of the leaf-covered, unstable shanties. He paused at the edge of it as he heard movement, saw one of the headhunters crawl out of the hut and stand by the door, gazing into the night. Nick reached for Hugo, felt the welcome touch of the thin but strong stiletto in his hand. Had the Indian heard him? he wondered. But as he waited he saw the man peer out toward the dark little figure tied to the idol, satisfy himself that the captive was securely there, and then turn and crawl back into the hut. That had been too close. A second more and he’d have been spotted on his way to free Atutu. He raced across the ground now, seeing that there were four or five huts on the other side with a clear view of the idols. Using the stiletto, he cut the bonds and freed the little Indian. Luck had held and they raced safely to the jungle’s edge where Tarita waited for them.
“We can’t just run for it,” Nick said. “They could discover either one of you gone in two minutes from now and come after us. And I don’t have to tell you what that would mean.”
“No,” the girl answered. “They’d catch us.”
“We need a start, something to give us at least a little time,” Nick said. “Something to keep them busy.” He pressed his hand into the little man’s shoulder. “I’ve got it,” he exclaimed, fishing the little lighter out of his pocket. “We’ll fire the place,” he said. “You and Atutu take my lighter; I’ll use the matches. Light some brands, toss them onto a few huts and be sure to set a fire at the idols. I’ll do the same thing on the far side.” Nick pointed to the top of a tall tree outlined against the deep blue of the sky. “Start for that tree,” he said. “We’ll meet along the way if we keep heading for it and don’t stop.”
He watched as the girl and the little Indian crept off together. Then he ran in his half crouch, staying just at the edge of the perimeter of foliage. He was at the other side of the village, lighting bamboo sticks with the matches, when he saw the flare of flame across the clearing, saw the brand tossed at the foot of one of the wooden carvings. He tossed two bamboo brands onto the roof of the nearest hut, watched for a moment as the green leaves smoked and took time to catch. Then he turned and ran.
He was into the jungle, taking a fix on the tall treetop, when he heard the sounds of excited alarm from the village, heard the shouting voices. He kept running, crashing blindly in the blackness into trees and heavy lianas, running with his arms before his face, but running. Finally he paused and his ears picked up the sounds of other bodies crashing through the brush. Only Atutu and Tarita would be plowing along like that, he knew.
He called out, and breathed in relief as they answered. Somehow they found each other in the ink of the jungle and raced on together. They ran until dawn began to filter down and then collapsed on the ground, exhausted, gasping. Nick’s lungs burned and he knew the girl was near collapse. Atutu, he guessed, had perhaps even greater staying power than he did, but Tarita had used up more than she had. He let her fall into the sleep of exhaustion as he rested against a tree trunk.
“Me watch, big fella,” Atutu had said, and Nick nodded, letting the little man stay on guard. Using his built-in alarm clock, Nick woke himself in two hours and let Atutu lie down on the ground while he sat watch. When the little Indian awoke, they both shook the girl to wakefulness.
“Hello, beautiful.” Nick grinned at her. “Got any idea where we are?”
Tarita sat up, shook out her jet hair and traced their path in her mind.
“This is it,” she said finally. “This ought to be the area where your electronic brain is.”
CHAPTER VIII
Nick brought out a small folded map, and together they calculated that they were at the lower right-hand comer of the square. The others, Kolben and the Russians, were not too far away, Nick estimated. Tarita, poring over the map with him, her breasts bent low, continued to be as beautifully distracting, and in an oblique way Nick was grateful for the problems which had kept them so busy. Every time he paused really to look at her he felt the gentle touch of the waterfall again and flamed with desire. But now he had to force himself to concentrate on the task that lay ahead.
“We’ll work straight up the center,” he said. “Just in case the damned thing dropped right in dead center. Then we’ll cut down to the lower right-hand comer, up to the upper right and across in an X pattern. If I calculate correctly, we can spread out enough to cover a good part of the area that way.”
“Yes,” the girl agreed, her eyes looking upward, her head tilted as though she were sniffing the air. She spoke to Atutu, who answered at once.
“But first we must build a shelter,” she said. “What you would call a lean-to, off the ground.”
“What?” Nick exclaimed. “Nonsense. We’ve come all this way without one. I’m not about to waste time housebuilding while Kolben and the others are out searching for the electronic brain and maybe finding it.”
“Kolben will not be searching,” she said. “He will be busy building a shelter, too. The Russians may not, but they will wish they had.”
“Why?” Nick exploded. “What’s with the shelter bit?” Out of the comer of his eye he noted Atutu already disappearing into the jungle.
“It is going to rain, and rain hard,” Tarita said. “I can smell it. Atutu agrees with me. I know the signs, the extra heaviness, the trees turning up their leaves, the flowers smelling extra strong. I guess we have about six hours to go. We can’t waste time.”
“Hold everything,” Nick protested. “First, it’s not the rainy season. Second, what’s a rainstorm going to do besides get us wet?”
“True enough,” Tarita said. “It is not the rainy season, but even during the dry season the rain forest is subject to severe rainstorms, especially deep in the interior as we are now. My people know only that the rains come down to wash the jungle. Sometimes they believe the rains are periodic punishments of the gods so they will never forget they live in the rain forests. In my other world I learned that the moisture in the air is drawn down, attracted by the tall thick canopy of the trees, so that in a sense the rain forest brings more rain to itself. But from both worlds I have learned that the rains are tremendous, devastating. Every insect, every crawling creature, every snake, emerges to make the ground a place unfit for humans. The tribes take to hollowed-out trees or huts and stay in them until the ground has absorbed the rain and the earth is fit for man again. Without shelter, the force of the rain and the insect life it showers down with it has been known to drive men mad.”
Atutu’s appearance with a load of long bamboo sticks ended the conversation. To Nick the damned oppressive heat seemed little different from any other time, but both the little Indian and Tarita were very concerned, and that was enough for him. Following the girl’s instructions, he helped her use vines to fashion a floor of the bamboo poles, crisscrossed for strength, and then suspend the floor from the low branches of two thick banyan trees. They drew some of the thinner lianas through the ends of the crossed bamboo poles to add strength to the floor and keep it suspended. Atutu meanwhile was busy erecting a roof of widely spaced bamboo poles covered with a pattern of overlapping leaves. Over the leaves she laid more bamboo poles and tied them to the others with vines. More leaves were placed over them, affording a kind of double-strength ceiling.
When they were nearly through, Nick realized they had been at it for hours. He stepped back and viewed the shelter, suspended some six feet from the ground, open on four sides, really a floor and a roof and not much more. Incongruously, Nick thought of a treehouse he had once built as a boy, and he clambered up the tree and stepped onto the floor of the shelter. He was surprised at how sturdy and steady it felt. Tarita tossed fruit up to him and he put it in a corner. She went and got some more and tossed that to him. “It will have to last us till the rain stops,” she said.
“How long do you figure that will be?” Nick asked.
“I do not know.” The girl shrugged. “Anywhere from four hours to four days.”
“All this for four hours?” Nick exploded. Tarita smiled up at him. “In those four hours,” she said, “the jungle floor will be transformed. You’ll see.”
He was about to say more when the rain came, suddenly, fiercely, as though someone had opened a giant faucet. Nick reached down and helped Tarita up to the shelter. Atutu was alighting from one of the tree branches. The rain came down straight, with increasing strength, making an awesome sound against the thick foliage of the jungle, as though a billion tiny boiler factories were hard at work. Tarita had lain down on the floor of the shelter, and she put out a hand to Nick. He stretched out beside her.
