It was fear.
Beyond that he couldn’t place it; but he was certain in his own mind that it was fear, a creeping fear which stole through the hearts and minds even of these over-excited men and women, through the war-paint and the fumes of the native drink which was partly responsible for this dreadful frenzied charade, through the legacy of a million ancestors’ beliefs.
If only he could get at what was causing that unexpected undercurrent of fear, and then exploit it, he could perhaps begin to hope again.
At the end of the human avenue was the platform of the headman’s hut. Wiley was sitting there with the headman again, both flanked as before by the tall, impressive bodies of the personal guard. Then, as the ranks parted, Shaw caught sight of something else, something that made him stop dead and catch his breath.
Before the hut a shallow pit, grave-shaped, had been dug in the earth still soft from the recent rains and beside it, naked except for a few pathetic strips of torn clothing, lay Gillian Ross. Shaw’s horrified thoughts flew back to the scene he’d watched back in London at the club in Camden Town.
The guards pushed him forward until he was standing close by that yawning grave, his feet practically touching the girl’s flesh. Looking down, he saw the tear-stained face appealing to him mutely.
He looked away, feeling suddenly weak at the knees, even though he’d known all along that they must both die now and that their ending wouldn’t be easy.
He met Wiley’s grin. The big African said, “Well, Commander. As you may have gathered, the time has nearly come.” He stood up, looked triumphantly over the crowds of villagers, then, commandingly, he clapped his hands together and the men closed in about Shaw again, forced him to turn around. Then he saw the girl being lifted, carried past him on the shoulders of the Africans to the far side of the clearing. He watched, feeling a thrill of revulsion; then he was pushed along between the howling ranks again and when he came closer he saw the pale white gleam of naked flesh in the light of the fires, the girl being tied to a thick post set in the ground. She was trembling all over, her face was ashy grey, but no sound came from her — no cry, no tears now. It was, Shaw thought, as if she was in a state of shock and was almost unaware of what was happening to her. If so, that was the best way now. He saw her glance flicker round to him, and he saw that her eyes were dull, hopeless.
He looked round as Wiley strode across from the headman’s verandah. Wiley was certainly a maniac with an all-embracing power-lust. He asked in a cracking voice, “How is this going to benefit you, Wiley? What good will it do — to make a martyr of the girl?”
Wiley shrugged. “Indirectly, a lot of good! She will be no martyr… but her death will have a most impressing effect on the African mind. It will be a symbol — the liquidation of the white man and the white woman, the partners in white procreation, you see.” He laughed insultingly, then clapped his hands again and gave an order. The guards pulled at Shaw’s arms and led him towards another thick post set in the ground close to the girl’s. Grouped around it were several large cans of petrol.
Wiley said, “I have arranged a method of communication with the naval station, which I admit is mere eye-wash, as you would say.” He paused, looking hard at Shaw, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You, my dear Commander, will be the torch, the human torch that will tell Julian Hartog to make his transmission, at the moment when Bluebolt is in the right position in the sky. Strictly speaking, this will be entirely unnecessary, for it will in fact be Hartog who will signal me on the small radio which I have in the truck — so that I shall know when to light the petrol!” He grinned. “You may call it a charade if you like… but it is a very important one because, again, it will work wonders on the African mind. Soon after I have made you bum, do you see, the missile will leave the satellite — and this, it seems to me, will appear a very obvious link and as such a sure sign to my people, a sign of my own power.” He laughed again, then added, “After that, the girl will die.”
As the guards took hold of him to tie him to the post, Shaw felt once more that curious emanation of fear. It was very real, and it was rising round him, evidenced by the darting eyes, the quick, nervy movements, the short, sharp breathing, and the fumbling fingers.
Shaw believed that he might yet be able to exploit it. He had been in many a tough spot before now and he never quite gave up hope. He didn’t give up hope this time.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Shaw thought, If only the rains would start again! They must come soon, and once they did the whole of this place would be drenched.
That, perhaps, could be what they were afraid of — and yet, there wouldn’t be anything particularly to fear in the return of the rains. It might make it impossible to light the human torch, and that would give a chance, but it would hardly negate the whole operation… or would it, if the torch-signal failed and by the same token make Hartog pause, and wonder, and lose his nerve?
Meanwhile Wiley seemed to be keyed-up and nervy himself now, looking up at the sky. Shaw heard him muttering to himself about the dawn… the lightening sky, possibly, would bring the radio signal from Hartog, the signal for Wiley to put the match to the human torch and perhaps he too was anxious about the rains, though at the moment the dark sky seemed clear enough of cloud.
A loop of rope had been put over the bonds on Shaw’s wrists and the end of it had been dropped over the top of the post. After this a wooden platform with a hole in its centre had been fitted over the head of the post and on this platform some cans of petrol had been placed. Once they were securely in position Wiley had approached with a thin steel rod, sharply pointed at one end. Placing this rod against each can in turn, he tapped with a heavy piece of stone until the point just penetrated. From each of the cans a needle-thin but steady jet came out, flooding over the platform, soaking into its wood, and then dripping down over the edge as the platform itself became saturated.
Shaw could feel the petrol falling on his head and shoulders now. Slight but steady, soaking into his thin clothing, saturating the post, dripping down his legs into the earth around him. Soon there was quite a steady trickle down his neck and the air filled with the fumes, the suffocating stench of the spirit which was now starting to run down towards the girl as well. It only needed a spark, just a stray spark from the blazing, fires, and he would become a brand, the human torch which Wiley wanted. As the petrol soaked into him, Shaw forced his mind away from his own predicament and looked across towards Gillian. Vainly she heaved against the ropes that held her to the heavy post, her abdomen rising and falling as she moved her hips.
All the while the chanting was kept up, the dancers gyrated feverishly in the red glow, the hellish glow from the ring of fires. But minutes later Shaw noticed that the glow was lessening, dimming down. It appeared that the fires were not being replenished; dawn, therefore, must soon be coming over the eastern hills.
Very soon he began to notice something else. Wiley kept speaking to the old headman, the both men seemed decidedly ill at ease as that eastern sky began to lighten and a greenish, rose-shot band of light appeared over the Naka range to pierce the night’s blackness. This unease was spreading to the dancers too, Shaw was certain of that, the fear manifesting itself more and more clearly; their minds appeared not wholly on what they were doing. Soon there were a few flecks of cloud and then, above the other hills to the west, the gathering line of black, the storm clouds which must surely herald the return of the rains.