Count flattened himself to the floor of the dugout deafened,
dazed and paralysed with terror, until the commander of tanks stood
over him and asked solicitously, 'Was the game to your liking, my
Colonel?' Even after Gino returned and Helped the Count to his feet,
dusted him down and helped him into the back seat of the Rolls,
the threats and insults still poured from the Count's choked throat in
a high-pitched stream.
'You are a degenerate and a coward. You are guilty of dereliction of
duty, of gross irresponsibility. You allowed them to escape, sir and
you placed me in deadly peril-' They eased the Count down on the
cushions of the Rolls, but as the car pulled away he jumped up to hurl
a parting salvo at the Captain of tanks.
'You are an irresponsible degenerate, sir! - a coward and a
Bolshevik and I shall personally command your firing squad-' His voice
faded into the distance as the Rolls drew away up the ridge in the
direction of the camp, but the Count's good arm was still waving and
gesticulating as they crossed the skyline.
The elephant followed them far out across the desert, long after the
pursuing tank squadron had been left behind and abandoned the chase.
The old bull lost ground steadily over the last mile or so,
until at last he also gave up and stood swaying with exhaustion but
still shaking out his ears and throwing up his trunk in that
truculent,
almost human gesture of challenge and defiance.
Gareth saluted him with respect as they drew away and left him,
like a tall black monolith, out on the dry pale plains. Then he lit
two cheroots, crouching down into the turret out of the wind, and
passed one down to Jake in the driver's compartment.
'A good day's work, (old son. We pronged two of the godless ones,
and we have put the others in the right frame of mind.'
'How's that again? 'Jake puffed gratefully at the cheroot.
'Next time those tank men lay eyes on us, they'll not stop to count
consequences, but they'll be after us like a pack of long dogs after a
bitch.'
'And that's a good thing? 'Jake removed the cheroot from his mouth to
ask incredulously.
'That's a good thing' Gareth assured him.
'Well, you could have fooled me.' He drove on for a few more minutes
in silence towards the mountains, then shook his head bemusedly.
Tranged? What the hell kind of word is that?'
'Just thought of it this minute,' Gareth said. 'Expressive, what?' -'
The Count lay face down upon his cot; he wore only a pair of silk
shorts, of a pale and delicate blue, embroidered with his family coat
of arms.
His body was smooth and pale and plump, with that sleek well-fed sheen
which takes a great deal of money, food and drink to nourish. On the
pale skin his body hair was dark and curly and crisp as newly picked
lettuce leaves. It grew in a light cloud across his shoulders,
and then descended his back to disappear at last like a wisp of smoke
