Keith was forced to admit to himself that this was true. No one had thought of letting the animals have the contaminated tank water,
There was an excited chorus from the legionnaires.
“…How far are the foothills?”
“…Thirty miles.”
“…The horses could carry two men each!”
“…And be there in a few hours!”
“…Before there was time to be thirsty.”
Keith stood on the end of his cot. He bawled for silence as the tumult died away.
“You’re forgetting two things besides the lieutenant’s orders,” he said. “First, those foothills are only slopes of sand. There may be no water there for the men who arrive. Second, you’ve got to dig special protective ditches against the nuclear explosion. If you don’t, you die just the same. Four weak and thirsty men wouldn’t have the strength for that kind of work!”
For a few seconds they considered in silence.
Rhuttal broke it. He shouted: “Let’s take a chance. Anything’s better than all staying in this trap!”
Another rumble of agreement.
One legionnaire produced a dirty writing pad. He tore the paper into small identical squares, ready for the draw. On four of the squares he scrawled a cross. He was folding them as he said to Keith: “Are you in with us?”
Keith shook his head.
“I’m not running out. Every man who joins that draw is yellow! Yes, yellow! I think D’Aran would be glad to be rid of them!”
There was a sudden, ugly silence.
But Keith was not aware of it. He knew only that he, Keith Tragarth, the man who ran away, was calling a garrison of legionnaires yellow! Fantastic! Yet, truly, he was not afraid. And they were…
The black American shambled up to Keith. He was a big man, with the face and shoulders of a pugilist.
He said: “Ah don’t let no one call me yellow, bud. Mebbe you’d like to take then words right back.”
Keith stepped down from the cot, his fists bunching. The last thing he wanted at the moment was a brawl, but he wasn’t going to run away from one…
There it was again!
He wasn’t going to run away!
Yes, he, Keith Tragarth, was a changed man! He was a man!
A couple of legionnaires stepped between them. One of them said: “We ought to settle this another way. We can settle it in front of D’Aran… tell him to his face just what we’re doing. Perhaps he’ll agree with us.”
Keith nodded.
“We’ll see D’Aran,” he said.
His fountain pen was smashed.
D’Aran had found it crushed on the floor of his room. Perhaps either he or Gallast had stood on it during that first fight a week ago. But it was a pity. It had been a good pen. His family had saved to buy it for him when he won his scholarship to St. Maixent…
Now he would have to write his report on that typewriter. The machine with four missing keys.
D’Aran lifted it from the floor, put it on his desk. He regarded it without confidence.
Fortunately, three of the absent keys were numerals. They need not be used. The other was the letter ‘G’, which would result in tiresome delays over the name ‘Gallast’. The initial letter would have to be written in pencil afterwards. He must remember to leave space for it.
Before sitting down, D’Aran told himself: “You’re a fool to bother about writing a report. However well you protect it, it will probably be destroyed in the explosion. No one will ever read it.”
Then he muttered an answering argument: “But it may survive. I could roll it tightly and push it into the breech of a Lebel… In any case, it’s my duty to leave a report. If I don’t, there’s no possibility of the High Command ever knowing what has happened. And I owe it to my men. They will die tomorrow; some are dead already, but their names deserve to live in the story of France… And the world ought to know why the Arab populations were not warned…”
He inserted a sheet of thick, rough paper in the ancient machine. He tapped slowly, wearily. Heavily, too, for the ribbon was almost as old as the typewriter.
There were slight disturbances, but they did not distract him.
Daak was again on his bunk, each intake of his breath producing a penetrating rasp. His hands were folded symbolically over his heart. He stared vaguely at the ceiling, where a few sandflies were buzzing round the lamp. He was too afraid to express his fear.
Gallast was on the floor, near the radio table, legs and arms bound. But for the moment there was little need for such precautions. He was still unconscious after the kick on his skull. He had been thus for more than seven hours. Perhaps he would never wake up. In which case he would be lucky. Only one other member of his party lived. He was similarly bound and in the corridor.
D’Aran worked on. The first sheet was headed Zone Zero: Fort Ney Operational Report.
The words did not come easily to him. It was an effort to concentrate. He wanted to think about other things.
About those fifty thousand francs…
What had happened when the safe was opened?
Had he been condemned immediately? Or had they—poor fools—decided to await his return before reaching a decision?
And Lucinne.
What was she doing now? It was nearly nine-thirty. Perhaps, at this very moment, she would be in that restaurant on the edge of Tala Baku. With some other officer. Perhaps with that colonel. Bien! He was welcome to her. Slut!
He was glad to hear the clatter of boots in the corridor. Then the firm knock on the door. So the garrison wanted to speak with him. He had expected it. No doubt some of them wanted to quit their post. That would be worse than useless. It would look bad, cowardly. He would try to stop it, if he could…
“Entre!”
Four legionnaires came in. One was Tragarth. The others included the black American and Rhuttal, the Latvian. The fourth man was a German.
D’Aran suddenly recalled a clause in the French Army Manual of Discipline. It stated very clearly that legionnaires had a right to speak to an officer at any reasonable time. But not in groups. Only individually. This was a clear contravention of that clause. But it did not matter.
Nothing mattered—except finishing that damned report and keeping one’s nerve.
The four men stood to attention. That was good. It showed that some fragments of discipline still remained. The others clustered outside the open door.
“Repos!” D’Aran said quietly. They stood at ease. Keith spoke.
“Man officier, some of the—”
But Rhuttal interrupted. Rhuttal would not miss such an opportunity for making an oration.
To give due credit, he outlined the situation fairly, laying particular stress on the possibility of using the two horses. But, because D’Aran was a far more intelligent man than Rhuttal, he had comprehended all the points long before the exposition was concluded. That gave him time to think, while the Latvian’s voice rose and fell.
But there was one man in that room who never ceased to listen.
It was Daak.
The weak, the ailing Professor Daak, who desperately wanted to live. It was he who spoke immediately after the Latvian.
He said: “What the man says about the horses is true. They are not so susceptible to stomach toxins as men. And the salt in the water will not do them any immediate harm:—though later it will drive them mad.”
They regarded him with surprise.
D’Aran said: “Thank you for your assurance, professor, but I can deal with these matters myself. Whether any men leave this fort or not, one thing is certain—you will stay here.”