points one at a time on his fingers, and the Ras listened with growing
awe. Here was a warrior, indeed.
We have to bait the trap, said Gareth Swales.
He and Jake Barton squatted side by side in the shade cast by the hull
of Priscilla the Pig.
Gareth had a short length of twig in his right hand, and he had been
using it to draw out his strategy for receiving the renewed thrust by
the Italians.
'It's no good sending horsemen. It worked once, it's not going to work
again.' Jake said nothing, but frowned heavily at the complicated
designs that Gareth had traced on the sandy earth.
'We have conditioned the tank commander. The next look he gets at an
armoured car, and he's going to be after it like-'
'Like a long dog after a bitch, 'said Jake.
'Exactly,' Gareth nodded. 'I was just going to say that myself'
'You already did, 'Jake reminded him.
'We'll send out one car one is enough and hold another in reserve
here.' Gareth touched the sand map. 'If anything goes wrong with the
first car'
'Like a high-explosive shell between the buttocks?' Jake asked.
'Precisely. If that happens the second car pops in like this and keeps
them coming on.'
'The way you tell it, it sounds great.'
'Piece of cake, old son, nothing to it. Trust the celebrated Swales
genius.'
'Who takes the first car? 'Jake asked.
'Spin you for it,' Gareth suggested, and a silver Maria Theresa
appeared as if by magic in his hand.
'Heads,' said Jake.
'Oh, tough luck, old son. Heads it is.' Jake's hand was quick as a
striking mamba. It snapped closed on Gareth's wrist and held his hand
in which the silver coin was cupped.
'I say,' protested Gareth. 'Surely you don't believe that I might and
then he shrugged resignedly.
'No offence,' Jake assured him, turned Gareth's hand towards him and
examined the coin cupped in his palm.
'Lovely lady, Theresa,' murmured Gareth. 'Lovely high forehead,
very sensual mouth bet she was a real goer, what?' Jake released his
wrist, and stood up, dusting his breeches to cover his embarrassment.
'Come on, Greg. We'd better get ready,' he called across to where the
young Harari was supervising the preparations taking place on the
higher ground above where the cars were parked.
'Good luck, old son,' Gareth called after them. 'Keep your head well
down.' Jake Barton sat on the edge of Priscilla's turret with his long
legs dangling into the hatch, and he looked up at the mountains.
Only their lower slopes were visible, rising steeply into the vast
towering mass of cloud that rose sheer into the sky.
The cloud mass bulged, swelling forward and spilling with the slow
viscosity of treacle down the harsh ranges of rock. The mountains had
