It had started when he had shown up at the departure point wearing a "Safari Til You Puke" T-shirt.
Nancy was able to overlook that. But when they reached Port Chuma, he had insisted the native bearers wear Burger Triumph T-shirts and pith helmets-and address him as B'wana King.
Ralph Thorpe, the British guide, had coaxed the Bantus into humoring King. Behind his back, they grinned and laughed. It was a big joke.
To Nancy, Thorpe had confided, "I've seen this happen before. Our Mr. King has gone 'bushy.' "
"Bushy?"
"Intoxicated by the African bush."
"But we aren't there yet."
"Let's hope it wears off by the time we do," said Thorpe.
It hadn't. It had only gotten worse. And they nearly lost their bearers when, on the first day out, they had broken out the provisions and King had insisted upon keeping the best food for the white expedition members and feeding the natives reheated Bongo Burgers, cheesefries, and flat soft drinks.
"Why are they spitting out their food?" King had complained. "Each Silly Meal is five bucks American. That's more than these guys make in a week."
"They are used to real food," Thorpe had warned. "And if they do not receive it, we shall all be fending for ourselves."
King had relented. And complained and complained.
That was when Nancy started to wonder if King was not "bushy" after all-just a few fries short of a Silly Meal.
Now they were walking single file through the bush. Ahead loomed the denseness of the rain forest, packed like green, leafy lettuce and cabled by hairfine lianas and thick creepers. They were coming to the impenetrable Kanda Tract, where even the Bantus seldom ventured.
Nancy was walking in the rear, with the native porters. She had wanted to take a lead position, but Skip King had vetoed that, saying, "Your place is at the back of the pack."
She had let it go. There was some logic to it. If anything happened to her, there was no expedition. Simple as that.
Then he had made a remark that made Nancy want to strangle him. He had been thumbing through guide books, and calling out facts he found interesting. "Hey, Nancy! Do you know that among the Tswana tribe, they have only one noun for women?"
"That is not unusual among tribal cultures."
"Their word is monad-and it means 'the one who remains behind and at home when men go to work.' You'd better hope we don't run into any Tswana, or you'll be in big trouble."
"I can handle myself, thank you," Nancy said tightly.
"Don't let it get to you. Remember, B'wana King is here to protect you."
"But who is going to protect B'wana King?" Nancy said through her clenched teeth.
Up ahead, King, flanked by the British guide, called, "Collluuumn, halt!"
The column halted. A misty haze was rising over the Kanda Tract. Sunbirds flashed through the air.
"Break out the videocams!" King called.
Nancy groaned to herself. "Oh, no. Not again."
The lead bearers unpacked the triple-wrapped videocams. Someone from the PR team lifted a light meter to the sky. Someone else took a makeup puff to Skip King's thrust-forward face.
Then King opened his eyes and said, "Where's the little lady herpes specialist?"
"Here," Nancy said in a voice that seemed to cool the surrounding by twelve degrees.
King waved her on. "C'mon up here. Let's get you into this shot."
"Coming," Nancy grumbled. She worked her way forward.
Skip King smiled broadly at the sight of her.
"Why don't you get in this shot?" he said. "I can't hog all the face time on this safari, now can I?"
"Very kind of you."
"Besides," he added as she took her place and submitted to a brief dusting of makeup powder, "we could use a little sex appeal, Nancy."
"Why don't you just call me Dr. Derringer, Mr. King?"
"Why don't you call me Skip? After all, how will it sound on TV? The expedition leader and his gal Friday not being chummy?"
"It will sound professional, Mr. King."
"Does that mean I can't chide you into unbuttoning your blouse a button or two?" King wheedled.
"Shall we just get this over with?"
"Okay, I'll wing it as usual."
Skip King cleared his throat and put the dead weight of one arm around Nancy's shoulders.
"We are standing at the edge of the fabled Kanda Tract," he began, "home of a creature not seen on this earth in a trillion years."
Nancy winced. The man had no conception of geologic time.
"Although incredible dangers await us, we have no fear. For we are corporate Americans, smart, savvy, and determined to fulfill our mission: to bring 'em back alive!"
He grinned into the camera lens like a Cadillac with an ivory grille and held the smile for twelve full seconds.
"Okay, cut! How was that?"
The PR man shot him an A-OK sign. "Super!"
"One-take King, that's me." He smiled down at Nancy and asked, "So-how was I?"
Nancy threw his arm off and stormed away.
"Must be that time of month," King muttered. And as the cameras were repacked, he turned to the expedition medic and said, "Okay. Prep me for the great adventure."
He unrolled the sleeves of his safari jacket as a native porter took off his leopard-striped bush hat. Someone wiped the makeup off his intent face.
They sprayed him down with insect repellent. The medic began affixing flesh-colored patches to his arms, neck, and cheeks.
"Antinausea wristbands," the medic announced.
"Check," said King, as they were adjusted.
"Antimalaria patch."
"Check."
"Nicotine patch."
"Roger."
"Vitamin A patch."
"Check."
"Vitamin C patch."
"Rickets and Scurvy are covered."
"Vitamin E patch."
"Just in case I get lucky." And King leered directly at Nancy. She turned her back.
The medic stepped back. "You're all set."
"Not yet. Where's the antileech shield?"
"There hasn't been a leech sighted since we got here," Nancy exploded.
"Take no chances, that's my motto."
Somebody handed him a furled black cloth rod.
And announcing to all within hearing, "Here's where we separate the men from the wusses," Skip King opened his black umbrella and walked into the Kanda Tract boldly and without fear.
"I don't believe this," Nancy muttered, falling in behind him.
The rain forest was like another world. The sky was a thing glimpsed from time to time through the cathedrallike canopy of overhanging branches and leaves. Sunlight, filtering through the green plant life, was a watery green hue. It was almost like walking through an underwater world of heavy, breathable air in which insects tweedled and cheeped and monkeys watched from branches with orbs wiser than human eyes.
Ralph Thorpe dropped back to walk beside her. He toted a big-game rifle on his muscular shoulder. His pith helmet was decorated front and sides with the big golden Burger Triumph corporate crown logo. He had scraped off the legend "Sponsored by Burger Triumph" and had made inroads on the crown itself.
"His back makes a tempting target, what?" Thorpe undertoned.
"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind," Nancy said aridly.
"If we get what we're after, it'll all be worth it. Don't you forget that."
"Keep telling me that. I need it."
Three hours later, they broke into a clearing and Skip King immediately fell down.
"Quicksand!" he screamed.
They rushed to his aid.
"It's just a hole!" the PR chief said reassuringly.
"No, it's not," Nancy said in a squeezed-dry voice.
"Of course it's a hole," King was saying as they helped him to his feet. His sharp face hung slack and his dark eyes seemed on the verge of tears. He had smashed his antileech umbrella against a tulip tree. It was ruined.