‘Good,’ Pereira said matter-of-factly. ‘We’ll get some more beer. Don’t worry, you can’t buy these people, Lieutenant. You have to rely on their good-will; this rubbish will put them in the right frame of mind to talk.’
Connolly smiled dourly. ‘I’m more keen on getting them off their hunkers and out into the bush. How are you going to organize the search parties?’
‘They’ve already taken place.’
‘What?’ Connolly sat forward. ‘How did that happen? But they should have waited’ – he glanced at the heavy monitoring equipment – ‘they can’t have known what –’
Pereira silenced him with a raised hand. ‘My dear Lieutenant. Relax, I was speaking figuratively. Can’t you understand, these people are nomadic, they spend all their lives continually on the move. They must have covered every square foot of this forest a hundred times in the past five years. There’s no need to send them out again. Your only hope is that they may have seen something and then persuade them to talk.’
Connolly considered this, as Pereira unwrapped another parcel. ‘All right, but I may want to do a few patrols. I can’t just sit around for three days.’
‘Naturally. Don’t worry, Lieutenant. If your astronaut came down anywhere within 500 miles of here they’ll know about it.’ He unwrapped the parcel and removed a small teak cabinet. The front panel was slotted, and lifted to reveal the face of a large ormolu table clock, its Gothic hands and numerals below a gilded belldome. Captain Pereira compared its time with his wrist-watch. ‘Good. Running perfectly, it hasn’t lost a second in forty-eight hours. This should put us in Ryker’s good books.’
Connolly shook his head. ‘Why on earth does he want a clock? I thought the man had turned his back on such things.’
Pereira packed the tooled metal face away. ‘Ah, well, whenever we escape from anything we always carry a memento of it with us. Ryker collects clocks; this is the third I’ve bought for him. God knows what he does with them.’
The launch had changed course, and was moving in a wide circle across the river, the current whispering in a tender rippling murmur across the hull. They made their way up onto the deck, where the helmsman was unshackling several sections of the wire mesh in order to give himself an uninterrupted view of the bows. The two sailors climbed through the aperture and took up their positions fore and aft, boat-hooks at the ready.
They had entered a large bow-shaped extension of the river, where the current had overflowed the bank and produced a series of low-lying mud flats. Some two or three hundred yards wide, the water seemed to be almost motionless, seeping away through the trees which defined its margins so that the exit and inlet of the river were barely perceptible. At the inner bend of the bow, on the only firm ground, a small cantonment of huts had been built on a series of wooden palisades jutting out over the water. A narrow promontory of forest reached to either side of the cantonment, but a small area behind it had been cleared to form an open campong. On its far side were a number of wattle storage huts, a few dilapidated shacks and hovels of dried palm.
The entire area seemed deserted, but as they approached, the cutwater throwing a fine plume of white spray across the glassy swells, a few Indians appeared in the shadows below the creepers trailing over the jetty, watching them stonily. Connolly had expected to see a group of tall broad-shouldered warriors with white markings notched across their arms and cheeks, but these Indians were puny and degenerate, their pinched faces lowered beneath their squat bony skulls. They seemed undernourished and depressed, eyeing the visitors with a sort of sullen watchfulness, like pariah dogs from a gutter.
Pereira was shielding his eyes from the sun, across whose inclining path they were now moving, searching the ramshackle bungalow built of woven rattan at the far end of the jetty.
‘No signs of Ryker yet. He’s probably asleep or drunk.’ He noticed Connolly’s distasteful frown. ‘Not much of a place, I’m afraid.’
As they moved towards the jetty, the wash from the launch slapping at the greasy bamboo poles and throwing a gust of foul air into their faces, Connolly looked back across the open disc of water, into which the curving wake of the launch was dissolving in a final summary of their long voyage up-river to the derelict settlement, fading into the slack brown water like a last tenuous thread linking him with the order and sanity of civilization. A strange atmosphere of emptiness hung over this inland lagoon, a flat pall of dead air that in a curious way was as menacing as any overt signs of hostility, as if the crudity and violence of all the Amazonian jungles met here in a momentary balance which some untoward movement of his own might upset, unleashing appalling forces. Away in the distance, down-shore, the great trees leaned like corpses into the glazed air, and the haze over the water embalmed the jungle and the late afternoon in an uneasy stillness.
They bumped against the jetty, rocking lightly into the palisade of poles and dislodging a couple of water-logged outriggers lashed together. The helmsman reversed the engine, waiting for the sailors to secure the lines. None of the Indians had come forward to assist them. Connolly caught a glimpse of one old simian face regarding him with a rheumy eye, riddled teeth nervously worrying a pouch-like lower lip.
He turned to Pereira, glad that the Captain would be interceding between himself and the Indians. ‘Captain, I should have asked before, but – are these Indians cannibalistic?’
Pereira shook his head, steadying himself against a stanchion. ‘Not at all. Don’t worry about that, they’d have been extinct years ago if they were.’
‘Not even – white men?’ For some reason Connolly found himself placing a peculiarly indelicate emphasis upon the word ‘white’.
Pereira laughed, straightening his uniform jacket. ‘For God’s sake, Lieutenant, no. Are you worrying that your astronaut might have been eaten by them?’
‘I suppose it’s a possibility.’
‘I assure you, there have been no recorded cases. As a matter of interest, it’s a rare practice on this continent. Much more typical of Africa – and Europe,’ he added with sly humour. Pausing to smile at Connolly, he said quietly, ‘Don’t despise the Indians, Lieutenant. However diseased and dirty they may be, at least they are in equilibrium with their environment. And with themselves. You’ll find no Christopher Columbuses or Colonel Spenders here, but no Belsens either. Perhaps one is as much a symptom of unease as the other?’
They had begun to drift down the jetty, over-running one of the outriggers, whose bow creaked and disappeared under the stern of the launch, and Pereira shouted at the helmsman: ‘Ahead, Sancho! More ahead! Damn Ryker, where is the man?’
Churning out a niagara of boiling brown water, the launch moved forward, driving its shoulder into the bamboo supports, and the entire jetty sprung lightly under the impact. As the motor was cut and the lines finally secured, Connolly looked up at the jetty above his head.
Scowling down at him, an expression of bilious irritability on his heavy-jawed face, was a tall bare-chested man wearing a pair of frayed cotton shorts and a sleeve-less waistcoat of pleated raffia, his dark eyes almost hidden by a wide-brimmed straw hat. The heavy muscles of his exposed chest and arms were the colour of tropical teak, and the white scars on his lips and the fading traces of the heat ulcers which studded his shin bones provided the only lighter colouring. Standing there, arms akimbo with a sort of jaunty arrogance, he seemed to represent to Connolly that quality of untamed energy which he had so far found so conspicuously missing from the forest.
Completing his scrutiny of Connolly, the big man bellowed: ‘Pereira, for God’s sake, what do you think you’re doing? That’s my bloody outrigger you’ve just run down! Tell that steersman of yours to get the cataracts out of his eyes or I’ll put a bullet through his backside!’
Grinning good-humouredly, Pereira pulled himself up on to the jetty. ‘My dear Ryker, contain yourself. Remember your blood-pressure.’ He peered down at the water-logged hulk of the derelict canoe which was now ejecting itself slowly from th
e river. ‘Anyway, what good is a canoe to you, you’re not going anywhere.’
Grudgingly, Ryker shook Pereira’s hand. ‘That’s what you like to think, Captain. You and your confounded Mission, you want me to do all the work. Next time you may find I’ve gone a thousand miles up-river. And taken the Nambas with me.’
‘What an epic prospect, Ryker. You’ll need a Homer to celebrate it.’ Pereira turned and gestured Connolly on to the jetty. The Indians were still hanging about listlessly, like guilty intruders.
Ryker eyed Connolly’s uniform suspiciously. ‘Who’s this? Another so-called anthropologist, sniffing about for smut? I warned you last time, I will not have any more of those.’
‘No, Ryker. Can’t you recognize the uniform? Let me introduce
Lieutenant Connolly, of that brotherhood of latter-day saints, by whosecourtesy and generosity we live in peacetogether–theUnited Nations.’
‘What? Don’t tell me they’ve got a mandate here now? God above, I suppose he’ll bore my head off about cereal/protein ratios!’ His ironic groan revealed a concealed reserve of acid humour.
‘Relax. The Lieutenant is very charming and polite. He works for the Space Department, Reclamation Division. You know, searching for lost aircraft and the like. There’s a chance you may be able to help him.’ Pereira winked at Connolly and steered him forward. ‘Lieutenant, the Rajah Ryker.’
‘I doubt it,’ Ryker said dourly. They shook hands, the corded muscles of Ryker’s fingers like a trap. Despite his thick-necked stoop, Ryker was a good six to ten inches taller than Connolly. For a moment he held on to Connolly’s hand, a slight trace of wariness revealed below his mask of bad temper. ‘When did this plane come down?’ he asked. Connolly guessed that he was already thinking of a profitable salvage operation.
‘Some time ago,’ Pereira said mildly. He picked up the parcel containing the cabinet clock and began to stroll after Ryker towards the bungalow at the end of the jetty. A low-eaved dwelling of woven rattan, its single room was surrounded on all sides by a veranda, the overhanging roof shading it from the sunlight. Creepers trailed across from the surrounding foliage, involving it in the background of palms and fronds, so that the house seemed a momentary formalization of the jungle.
‘But the Indians might have heard something about it,’ Pereira went on. ‘Five years ago, as a matter of fact.’
Ryker snorted. ‘My God, you’ve got a hope.’ They went up the steps on to the veranda, where a slim-shouldered Indian youth, his eyes like moist marbles, was watching from the shadows. With a snap of irritation, Ryker cupped his hand around the youth’s pate and propelled him with a backward swing down the steps. Sprawling on his knees, the youth picked himself up, eyes still fixed on Connolly, then emitted what sounded like a high-pitched nasal hoot, compounded partly of fear and partly of excitement. Connolly looked back from the doorway, and noticed that several other Indians had stepped onto the pier and were watching him with the same expression of rapt curiosity.
Pereira patted Connolly’s shoulder. ‘I told you they’d be impressed. Did you see that, Ryker?’
Ryker nodded curtly, as they entered his living-room pulled off his straw hat and tossed it on to a couch under the window. The room was dingy and cheerless. Crude bamboo shelves were strung around the walls, ornamented with a few primitive carvings of ivory and bamboo. A couple of rocking chairs and a card-table were in the centre of the room, dwarfed by an immense Victorian mahogany dresser standing against the rear wall. With its castellated mirrors and ornamental pediments it looked like an altar-piece stolen from a cathedral. At first glance it appeared to be leaning to one side, but then Connolly saw that its rear legs had been carefully raised from the tilting floor with a number of small wedges. In the centre of the dresser, its multiple reflections receding to infinity in a pair of small wing mirrors, was a cheap three-dollar alarm clock, ticking away loudly. An over-and-under Winchester shotgun leaned against the wall beside it.
Gesturing Pereira and Connolly into the chairs, Ryker raised the blind over the rear window. Outside was the compound, the circle of huts around its perimeter. A few Indians squatted in the shadows, spears upright between their knees.
Connolly watched Ryker moving about in front of him, aware that the man’s earlier impatience had given away to a faint but noticeable edginess. Ryker glanced irritably through the window, apparently annoyed to see the gradual gathering of the Indians before their huts.
There was a sweetly unsavoury smell in the room, and over his shoulder Connolly saw that the card-table was loaded with a large bale of miniature animal skins, those of a vole or some other forest rodent. A half-hearted attempt had been made to trim the skins, and tags of clotted blood clung to their margins.
Ryker jerked the table with his foot. ‘Well, here you are,’ he said to Pereira. ‘Twelve dozen. They took a hell of a lot of getting, I can tell you. You’ve brought the clock?’
Pereira nodded, still holding the parcel in his lap. He gazed distastefully at the dank scruffy skins. ‘Have you got some rats in there, Ryker? These don’t look much good. Perhaps we should check through them outside . . .’
‘Dammit, Pereira, don’t be a fool!’ Ryker snapped. ‘They’re as good as you’ll get. I had to trim half the skins myself. Let’s have a look at the clock.’
‘Wait a minute.’ The Captain’s jovial, easy-going manner had stiffened. Making the most of his temporary advantage, he reached out and touched one of the skins gingerly, shaking his head. ‘Pugh . . . Do you know how much I paid for this clock, Ryker? Seventy-five dollars. That’s your credit for three years. I’m not so sure. And you’re not very helpful, you know. Now about this aircraft that may have come down –’
Ryker snapped his fingers. ‘Forget it. Nothing did. The Nambas tell me everything.’ He turned to Connolly. ‘You can take it from me there’s no trace of an aircraft around here. Any rescue mission would be wasting their time.’
Pereira watched Ryker critically. ‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t an aircraft.’ He tapped Connolly’s shoulder flash. ‘It was a rocket capsule – with a man on board. A very important and valuable man. None other than the Moon pilot, Colonel Francis Spender.’
‘Well . . .’ Eyebrows raised in mock surprise, Ryker ambled to the window, stared out at a group of Indians who had advanced halfway across the compound. ‘My God, what next! The Moon pilot. Do they
really think he’s around here? But what a place to roost.’ He leaned out of the window and bellowed at the Indians, who retreated a few paces and then held their ground. ‘Damn fools,’ he muttered, ‘this isn’t a zoo.’
Pereira handed him the parcel, watching the Indians. There were more than fifty around the compound now, squatting in their doorways, a few of the younger men honing their spears. ‘They are remarkably curious,’ he said to Ryker, who had taken the parcel over to the dresser and was unwrapping it carefully. ‘Surely they’ve seen a pale-skinned man before?’
‘They’ve nothing better to do.’ Ryker lifted the clock out of the cabinet with his big hands, with great care placed it beside the alarm clock, the almost inaudible motion of its pendulum lost in the metallic chatter of the latter’s escapement. For a moment he gazed at the ornamental hands and numerals. Then he picked up the alarm clock and with an almost valedictory pat, like an officer dismissing a faithful if stupid minion, locked it away in the cupboard below. His former buoyancy returning, he gave Pereira a playful slap on the shoulder. ‘Captain, if you want any more rat-skins just give me a shout!’
Backing away, Pereira’s heel touched one of Connolly’s feet, distracting Connolly from a problem he had been puzzling over since their entry into the hut. Like a concealed clue in a detective story, he was sure that he had noticed something of significance, but was unable to identify it.
‘We won’t worry about the skins,’ Pereira said. ‘What we’ll do with your assistance, Ryker, is to hold a little parley with the chiefs, see whether they remember anything of this capsul
e.’
Ryker stared out at the Indians now standing directly below the veranda. Irritably he slammed down the blind. ‘For God’s sake, Pereira, they don’t. Tell the Lieutenant he isn’t interviewing people on Park Avenue or Piccadilly. If the Indians had seen anything I’d know.’
‘Perhaps.’ Pereira shrugged. ‘Still, I’m under instructions to assist Lieutenant Connolly and it won’t do any harm to ask.’
Connolly sat up. ‘Having come this far, Captain, I feel I should do two or three forays into the bush.’ To Ryker he explained: ‘They’ve recalculated the flight path of the final trajectory, there’s a chance he may have come down further along the landing zone. Here, very possibly.’
Shaking his head, Ryker slumped down on to the couch, and drove one fist angrily into the other. ‘I suppose this means they’ll be landing here at any time with thousands of bulldozers and flame-throwers. Dammit, Lieutenant, if you have to send a man to the Moon, why don’t you do it in your own back yard?’
Pereira stood up. ‘We’ll be gone in a couple of days, Ryker.’ He nodded judiciously at Connolly and moved towards the door.
As Connolly climbed to his feet Ryker called out suddenly: ‘Lieutenant. You can tell me something I’ve wondered.’ There was an unpleasant downward curve to his mouth, and his tone was belligerent and provocative. ‘Why did they really send a man to the Moon?’
Connolly paused. He had remained silent during the conversation, not wanting to antagonize Ryker. The rudeness and complete self-immersion were pathetic rather than annoying. ‘Do you mean the military and political reasons?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Ryker stood up, arms akimbo again, measuring Connolly. ‘I mean the real reasons, Lieutenant.’
Connolly gestured vaguely. For some reason formulating a satisfactory answer seemed more difficult than he had expected. ‘Well, I suppose you could say it was the natural spirit of exploration.’
The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard Page 65