"Nkima," Tarzan said. "He's gotten himself into trouble. As usual."
Nkima flung himself from a tree, landed on the ape-man's shoulder, shook his arms loosely, began howling belligerently at the monkey pursuing him. The pursuer, upon seeing Tarzan and Jean, halted at the end of a swaying branch and began to chatter viciously upon discovering his quarry had found sanctuary.
After a moment of ferocious cussing, the pursuing monkey turned, leapt away, and was lost in the foliage.
Hanson returned with the map as Nkima jabbered into Tarzan's ear and leapt about on his shoulder. Hanson said, "What have we here?"
"Nkima," Tarzan said. "He tells me that the other monkey was terribly afraid of him, which explains why he ran away. He didn't want to hurt the monkey."
Jean laughed. "He's terribly cute."
"There's not an ounce of truth in him," Tarzan said, stroking Nkima's head. "It is fortunate for the other animals he is not as large as he talks. As tough as he thinks he is ... We were discussing your map."
Hanson squatted on the ground, unfolded the map for Tarzan to see. Tarzan studied it for a moment. He said, "It's not a very good map. I know portions of this area well." Tarzan put his finger on the map. "There is a mountain here. An extinct volcano. I have never been to it, but I have seen it in the distance." Tarzan touched the map again. "The forest depicted here, it is very dense. Almost impenetrable."
"That makes it all the more likely that the city might be there," Jean said. "Sort of tucked away in a pocket of intense foliage."
Tarzan studied Hanson for a long moment. "I wonder if you know what you are getting into. Even if there is not a city, there are certainly wild animals, wilder men. The forest itself, the terrain, can kill you. Neither of you seems well enough prepared."
"I've been to Africa before," Hanson said. "We've just had hard luck, is all."
Tarzan pointed. "You go north, you will have more of it."
Hanson folded up the map. He was very calm and polite, but Tarzan could tell that he was angry. "You're probably correct. But we're moving ahead. We can't disappoint our friends."
Then, abruptly, Hanson went soft. "But you could do me a favor. I've no right to ask. Not after what you've done. And I've no way to pay you. But you could take Jean back to civilization."
"Dad! Don't treat me like a girl. I'm a grown woman."
"You're my daughter."
"That may be, but I'm grown too, and I'll make my own decisions. I'm going. No matter what you say, or Tarzan says. I'm going."
Hanson sighed. He knew it was useless to pursue the matter. Once Jean set her mind to something, she was going to achieve it, come the proverbial hell or high water. As Professor Oliver had said, she had a head like a bull, if the bull's head were made of steel.
"I will go with you," Tarzan said.
"I can't pay," Hanson said.
"I do not hire myself out for money," Tarzan said. "Do not insult me."
"Sorry," Hanson said. "But why the change of heart?"
"I suppose I have been among men too much," Tarzan said. "I am developing a sentimental streak for the stupid and the ill prepared."
Hanson and Jean checked Tarzan's face to see if there was humor there. There didn't seem to be.
"You go north without a guide, you will die," Tarzan said. "You do not strike me as a man intent upon doing something to harm the animals here. You seem to be honestly interested in research. I am not. But I am interested, as I said through fault of association, in decent human beings."
"I suppose," Hanson said, "that is some kind of compliment. To be stupid, but decent."
Chapter 6
HUNT AND SMALL fought mosquitoes while they finished lunch. Hunt's pale, white skin was sunburned on the neck and forearms, and the mosquito bites were driving him crazy. Small, a Negro, was not so burned, but the mosquitoes seemed to love him. He had long gotten past making jokes about how sweet the dark meat was. After a while, mosquito bites ceased to be funny.
Hunt, finishing up his food-hardtack and canned meat-rose from his camp stool with the excuse he needed to leave camp to relieve himself. He went into the tent, got his .45 automatic and strapped it on, walked past the bearers who were sitting in a circle eating. They eyed him coldly. The way they looked at him made his stomach sour. It wasn't that they hated him, it was just they didn't respect him. Not that he blamed them.
Hunt went out into the bush. When he felt he was far enough away from camp, he leaned on a tree and cried. Not big savage boo-hoos, but hot, wet tears he had been holding back for days.
He was lost as the proverbial goose. He and Small had proved to be little better than a Laurel and Hardy expedition, even if neither of them resembled the comedians. Hunt decided if he were any more lost, he might turn up at the University of Texas, where this whole mess had begun. He had not wanted to go into the jungle anyway. It was hot. He had wanted to be near Jean, and then he had discovered Professor Hanson wanted to split the expedition up, as he was uncertain if the valley containing the lost city could easily be reached from both sides. He thought it might be better if one small group made it and made scientific studies, than if one large group did not make it. Hunt had volunteered to lead the second group, and Hanson had eagerly agreed.
Hunt realized now that Hanson's confidence in him had been vastly overrated, for he was definitely not going to make it. He had just about decided they should turn back, but he didn't know how to turn back. The map had turned into nonsense. Nothing fit out here. It wasn't like there were road signs and such. And Small, he read the map well enough, but he couldn't follow it. Neither of them had any business in the jungle, and he realized now that Jean had been right about him all the time. He was an idiot. And he had been right about Small. He was an idiot, too. They were both idiots. And they were lost.
Hunt wiped his eyes, found the trail, and was about to start back to camp when he saw three men with rifles walking toward him. They started when they saw him, same as he did when he saw them.
One of them, a big black man with a face that looked as if it had been chewed real good and spat out, said, "This is supposed to be the jungle, not Grand Central Station ... Who are you?" "Who are you?" Hunt asked.
Wilson studied Hunt. He was an average-sized man, in his middle twenties. Very blond. Very smooth-faced. And quite sunburned.
"Our safari has run off," Wilson said. "Couple of the askaris convinced our bunch to rob us. We've gone after them."
"To shoot them?" Hunt asked. The whole prospect excited and terrified him.
"Not if we don't have to," Wilson said. "We just want our stuff back. We're hunters."
"I don't hunt animals," Hunt said. "Unless for food, and we have plenty of food."
"We?" Gromvitch said.
Hunt studied Gromvitch. He wished suddenly he hadn't said anything. Gromvitch was a small, weasel-faced man, and the mention of food seemed to excite him. Of course, that could just be because he was hungry. Then again, these men, they didn't exactly look like great checker companions. And the fat one, Hunt didn't like that one at all. He wasn't as tough or confident-looking as the big black man with the chewed-looking face, but there was something about him that made Hunt's skin crawl.
Then Hunt thought: come on, man. You're being judgmental. If there was one thing you learned in Sunday school, it was that you shouldn't judge others. That you couldn't tell a book by its cover. These men are lost, probably hungry, and that accounts for their savage appearance.
"My companion, Elbert Small," Hunt finally answered. "Our ten bearers."
"You have askaris?" Wilson asked. "Guides?"
"They sort of ran off," Hunt said.
"Sort of ran off?" Wilson asked.