The waiter stared at him, perturbed. “Is something wrong with our bar, Captain?”
Da Silva looked about the familiar, empty room and then sighed.
“It’s gotten too well known,” he said enigmatically, and marched out.
13
Anton Sverdlik slipped his pack from his shoulder, dropped it on the ground, and sat on it, rubbing his shoulders from force of habit where the straps had bitten in. In the open glade in which the two men found themselves, the huge trees seemed to lean back, trailing vines, exposing a blue patch of sky; the chatter and whisper of the jungle were all about them, but in the small open space it faded to form a background fitting into the peaceful mood of the forest. The huge hunter wiped sweat from his forehead and glanced up at the red-haired man standing beside him.
“Sit down. Rest awhile. We’re only a few hours from the airstrip at the most. How do you feel?”
“Pretty good.” The freckled-faced man lowered himself gingerly to the ground and then relaxed, grinning. “You did a pretty good job on me. I still can’t thank you enough.”
Anton shook his head. “I should thank you. You provided a very welcome break in the monotony of jungle living. Although, actually, it’s a monotony I enjoy. And had hoped to continue to enjoy...” He put the thought aside, looking up. “Also, of course, I’m going to miss our conversations, and the chess games.”
The red-haired man hunched forward, frowning at his companion.
“Why do you stay here? A man of your background — scientific, I know. I saw some of your books. If it’s money, I’m sure you could find something—”
Anton laughed. “Money? No, my friend, it is not money. Actually, I suppose, my account in the Suisse Banque at Zurich would surprise many people. But really, what is money? Only something to buy what you want, and then later to discover that you didn’t really get what you bought, after all.” His face had fallen somber during his small speech; he shrugged his shoulders, shaking off the mood, staring around at the thick trees about them.
“Why do I stay here? Because I like it. I like the people here, and I like the solitude. About that bridge, you know — it threatened the solitude. Can you picture it? In a short while Santa Isabel a small village, and shortly a teeming trading center, and then in a while?” He threw his hands apart to demonstrate the immensity of the booming, bustling Santa Isabel. “Ah, me! So it goes. And its destruction, you know — the bridge, I mean — only to be rebuilt again, I’m sure. And from here, where? Amazonas? And then?”
He looked at the silent man waiting on his words.
“Why do I stay here? Because I prefer it to the life I led and count it worth trying to save. I don’t like the life I left. I don’t like the cutthroat competition necessary in today’s world to maintain a standard that values nothing in the first place. I don’t like hate, and I don’t like greed—”
His companion interrupted him amusedly. “Wait a minute! It really isn’t all that bad.”
“No?” Anton considered him curiously. “And why were you shot, then? It certainly wasn’t part of the deal. The answer, of course, is simply greed.”
“But not everyone in the world gets shot—”
“No,” Anton agreed. “Quite a few of them do the shooting.”
“But you’re an educated man, raised with certain standards of comfort. Yet you live up here in the wilderness without any of the decencies of life—”
“You mean I have to go behind a tree to relieve myself?” The tall, blond hunter grinned sarcastically. “My friend — my young friend, if you’ll forgive me — there are many comforts more important in life than indoor toilets. We live primitively in Santa Isabel, yes. But we live decently, in the true meaning of the word.” He sighed. “I had hoped we might continue to live decently—”
His words were drowned out; a faint humming in the air grew in volume. Suddenly it was above their heads; a small plane flashed past, low, but too swiftly to distinguish its markings. Its roar of power shook the small glade and then instantly faded as the thick foliage of the jungle muffled its sound.
The red-haired man came to his feet, turning to his companion in excitement. “It’s them! Those telegrams did get sent!” His voice became impatient. “Let’s go!”
“They’ll wait for you,” Anton said expressionlessly. He came to his feet, retrieved his pack, and slipped into it. He picked up his rifle, sighed once again, and led the way back into the thick of the jungle, thinking.
So Carlos had actually sent the telegrams. Well, well...
At that moment Carlos Renaldo Ribeiro was in the process of shoving his canoe reluctantly away from the rickety dock that provided access to the world, via the Rio Paraná, for the small vila of Queimadura. The little brown girl — no longer quite as little or as girlish, but no less delectable for that — had indeed still been at the small botequim and even now was watching his departure with sad, troubled eyes.
Had Carlos been less a man of honor it is doubtful if he would have left only three days after arrival, for his reception had been all that his dreams had hoped. However, a man’s word was his bond! There were telegrams to be sent!
With a deep sigh for his own integrity, Carlos set his paddle in the water, sending the light canoe shooting out into the wide Paraná, heading for Pôrto Itapurá...
Beneath the tilted wings of the banking aircraft the jagged remains of the bridge abutments passed in review, first starkly white against the brown earth of the chasm and then, as the plane dropped lower and slid toward a landing, a shadowed gray against the deeper green of the surrounding forest. Da Silva, his hands clamped tightly on the seat before him and his jaw clenched, wondered — not for the first time — which he hated most: the takeoff or the landing of airplanes. He tossed in normal cruising to be fair and cast a malevolent vote for each. The patch of airstrip rose to meet the extended wheels of the plane; they bounced heavily on landing, settled once again, and then swayed across the rutted field to come to a halt at the far end. The Air Force pilot revved the engines for several seconds and then cut them; he removed his goggles and turned, grinning at his passengers with the pleasure of accomplishment. After the three hours of continuous noise within the plane, the silence was deafening.
Da Silva led the way gratefully to the ground and waited until his companions had descended with their gear; the pilot remained aboard, staring curiously at this party of three who were silly enough to trade the security of his craft for the dangers evident beyond that wall of green. The sun was already high in the brassy sky, squeezing the dampness from the earth, choking the air with humid heat.
Da Silva glanced about and then selected the shade thrown by one wing as being the most comfortable for a conference. He squatted down, wiping sweat from his forehead, waiting until the others had settled beside him. He swallowed to clear his ears. Suddenly the chattering and piping sounds from the jungle burst in on him; he smiled, feeling more normal, and turned to the other two.
“This shouldn’t take too long. I hope it doesn’t. I’d like to be back in Rio tonight.” His smile disappeared. “It’s a pity we couldn’t go through all this on the plane, but the noise—”
“And the fact that you’re not at your best on a plane,” Wilson said.
“That, too. Anyway, if I have this thing figured right, we’re looking for an indication of some sort of mining activity. Some sort of surface mining, actually, because I’m sure no large equipment for boring was ever brought up here. So whatever digging was done must have been done on a hand scale.”