He wheeled suddenly and strode away toward the skull-topped pole, his toga flapping around his ankles and his arms outstretched like some maddened prophet of doom. He stopped suddenly, beneath the leering skull, and placed one hand on the pole as if it were a weird lance he meant to carry into battle. His other hand swept a gesture at the waiting men and his voice roared and echoed across the valley.
“My warriors — your spears!”
Liz gave a silent, hopeless cry for help. There was a swift flurry of action in front of the huts and tents, and then each man stood at attention under the burning sun with the light glinting off the razor-tips of their spears.
Rufus threw back his head and cried out: “Who is your leader?”
And the skull at the top of the pole clacked its jaws and screeched — “Rufus is your leader! Honor him — kill for him — and this land is yours! Rufus is your leader!”
Scores of voices picked up the cry and boomed it back. “Rufus is our leader!”
“What manner of men are you?” cried Rufus.
“You are invincible!” shrieked the skull. “You are invulnerable! Believe, and you will never die!”
“We will never die!” came back the chorus.
“Is your aim true?” roared Rufus. “Can you throw a ring of death around the enemy and yet let the enemy live to die a thousand deaths?”
“You will throw a ring of death,” the skull said hollowly. “Rufus, your one true leader, commands it. You will throw!”
“We will throw!” the voices thundered. “The enemy will die a thousand deaths!”
“Then throw!” screamed Rufus.
“Throw, and live forever!” ordered the skull.
Feet shuffled forward and glistening arms raised their assegais in the air. The first row threw.
Liz closed her eyes.
A dozen little breaths of wind whistled past her body — over her head, between her legs, past her cheeks, skimming her shoulders... She opened her eyes. She was still alive. Spears were embedded all around her in the dank earth. The second row went into action and the hideous blades soared through the air to miss her by inches of the breadth of one thin hair. A couple of them thudded into the crossbar behind her. She was a living target at a circus sideshow, a human pincushion waiting to be pricked, and she was dying a thousand deaths of agonized suspense.
The volley of spears whistled and screamed and soared and thudded and stopped; there was a ring of death around her.
The hated voice called out: “Enough of play! We will finish the woman with two more, and those two must be perfect. Who would have the honor?”
Liz opened one sweat-burned eye and waited for the clacking skull. Its jaw opened creakily. Attaboy, she thought. But Jesus God Almighty, a miracle for me too, please — don’t let me die don’t let me die!
“It is ordered!” shrilled the skull. “Give Rufus two good men who will not miss. Two killing spears, two men who will have eternal life!”
More spears appeared as if from nowhere and a dozen enthusiasts for eternity leapt forward. A huge man, dressed in remnants of American battledress, separated himself from the horribly exhilarated crowd and bellowed like a sergeant major. The volunteers went one by one back into the ranks until only two remained, spears ready and sleek bodies taking up the throwing stance.
“One high, one low!” screamed Rufus. “Two spears for the creature in the pit! Kill, and you will live forever!”
“Kill, and live!” the skull echoed feverishly.
The first man flexed his powerful body and drew back his arm.
And suddenly his head seemed to blow off.
The second man grunted with surprise and quietly dropped.
For a moment the only sound was the echo of the shots.
And then the skull split into a hundred tiny pieces and dribbled down the pole.
Rufus stamped his feet and screamed.
An eerie voice from nowhere echoed across the valley and rolled over the stunned, disordered ranks, and shocked into silence the one man who stood and shouted his frustration to the sky.
“Are you the leader, Rufus? Are you sure that you’re the leader?”
Rufus swung his head wildly, searching for the sound. “I am the leader! I am the leader! What is this trick? Where...?”
“What do you lead, Rufus? Are you the Chief of all Nyanga?”
Rufus stood stock-still for a moment. Then a smile crossed his face and he clutched his breast dramatically.
“I will be the Chief,” he said proudly. “I will be King, I will be President, I will be all Nyanga!”
“Good, Rufus! Nobly said!” the voice boomed approvingly. “But what about Julian and his Russian friends? And your American enemies?”
“They are nothing!” Rufus roared triumphantly. “They will die, they will all die! I have more powerful friends, and we fight together. The gods are with me!”
“The gods and the Chinese,” the voice said reverently. “Do they work together for you, Rufus? To make you the leader, Rufus?”
“They do as I tell them,” Rufus shouted arrogantly. “Even the gods speak with my voice...” His body suddenly tightened and he looked down at the shattered skull and then at the two dead men. He looked up again and his eyes darted to the living warriors. There was silence among them but they, too, stared down at the crumpled bodies and the splintered skull; and they glanced sideways at Rufus; and they sought the source of the strange sound; then they looked back at Rufus. A low mutter ran through the tattered ranks. The two little yellow men started talking together in low, excited voices.
Rufus seemed to shrink where he stood. “Who are you?” he choked. “Come out where I can see you! Are you enemy or friend? Show yourself! Men! My warriors! Into the hills and kill!”
“No!” boomed the voice. “You will all stay where you are. I am coming down. Watch the sky behind you!”
The unidirectional microphone wavered on its slim fish-pole and withdrew.
“Behind ’em? That was a sneaky one.” It was Hakim who whispered admiringly. “Here, I’ll take the mike boom. Just drop the megaphone.”
Nick swiftly disconnected the tiny wire recorder that was strapped to his wrist and pulled two pineapple-shaped objects out of his pocket. Behind him, Chief Abe Jefferson spoke urgently into a walkie-talkie. Several yards from him, on a high point looking straight down into the valley, Corporal Stonewall Temba adjusted his grip on the machine gun and rose from a prone position to a low crouch. Between two and three miles away, toward Abimako, a helicopter waited with its blades whirring up a wind in the hot air. And some miles behind the helicopter a line of military jeeps received a relayed message and increased its speed.
Nick rose amidst the rocks and gnarled trees of that hillside in the district called Duolo. He pulled back his arm and thrust it forward in a powerful pitching motion. The pineapple lobbed through the air. He drew back his arm again, ready for the second pitch, and watched the gratifying results of his throw. It was as if a bolt of summer lightning had struck down from the sky, and he could hear the low but startled cry of dozens of voices in the valley. Thank you, Madame Sophia, honey, Nick whispered fervently, watching the great fat billowing clouds swelling into the air; thank you, for giving me the address. He threw again.