the alleyway under surveillance.
A double file of Wakarnba tribesmen filled the alleyway, living chains along one of which passed the cordite charges; along the other the nine-inch shells.
The Africans worked with the stoical indifference of draught animals, turning to grip the ly cylindro-conical ug shells, hugging a hundred and twenty pounds' weight of steel and explosive to their chests while they moved it on to the next man in the chain.
The cordite charges, each wrapped in thick paper, were not so weighty and moved more swiftly along their line.
Each man bobbed and swung as he handled his load, so it seemed that the two ranks were sets in a complicated dance pattern.
From this mass of moving humanity rose clouds of warm body odour,
that filled the alleyway and defeated the efforts of the air-conditioning fans.
Sebastian felt sweat trickling down his chest and back under the leather cloak, he felt also the tug of weight within the folds of the cloak each time he swung to receive a fresh cordite charge from his neighbour.
He stood just outside the door of the handling room, and each time he passed a charge through, he looked into the interior of the magazine where another gang was at work, ac king the charges into the shelves that lined the bulkheads, and easing the nine-inch shells into their steel racks.
Here there was another armed guard.
The work had been in progress since early that morning, with a half-hour's break at noon, so the German guards had relaxed their vigilance. They were restless in anticipation of relief. The one in the magazine was a fat middle-aged man who at intervals during the day had broken the monotony by releasing sudden ear-splitting posterior discharges of gas.
With each salvo he had clapped the nearest African porter on the back and shouted happily.
'Have a bite at that one!' or, 'Cheer up it doesn't smell.' But at last he also was deflated. He slouched across the handling room,
and leaned against the angle of the door to address his colleague in the alleyway.
'It's hot as hell, and smells like a zoo. These savages stink.'
'You've been doing your share.'
'I'll be glad when it's finished.'
'It's cooler in the magazine with the fans running you are all right.' Jesus, I'd like to sit down for a few minutes.'
'Better not,
Lieutenant Kyller is on the prowl.' This exchange was taking place within a few feet of Sebastian. He followed the German conversation with more ease now that he had been able' to exercise his rusty vocabulary, but he kept his head down in a renewed burst of energy. He was worried. In a short while the day's shift would end and the
African porters would be herded on deck and into the launches to be transported to their camp on one of the islands. None of the native labour force were allowed to spend the night aboard Blucher.
He had waited since noon for an opportunity to enter the magazine and place the time charge. But he had been frustrated by the activities of the two German guards. It must be nearly seven o'clock in the evening now. It would have to be soon, very soon. He glanced once more into the magazine, and he caught the eye of Walaka,
Mohammed's cousin. Walaka stood by the cordite shelves, supervising the packing, and now he shrugged at Sebastian in eloquent helplessness.
Suddenly there was a thud of a heavy object being dropped to the deck, and a commotion of shouts in the alleyway behind Sebastian. He glanced round quickly. One of the bearers had fainted in the heat and fallen with a shell in his arms, the shell had rolled and knocked down another man. Now there was a milling confusion clogging the alleyway.
The two guards moved forward, forcing their way into the press of black bodies, shouting hoarsely and clubbing with the rifle butts. It was the opportunity for which Sebastian had waited.
He stepped over the threshold of the magazine, and went to Walaka beside the cordite shelves.
'Send one of your men to take my place,' he whispered, and reaching up into the folds of his cloak he brought out the cigar box.
With his back towards the door of the magazine, using the cloak as a screen to hide his movements, he slipped the catch of the box and opened the lid.
His hands trembled with haste and nervous agitation as he fumbled with the winder of the travelling-clock. It clicked, and he saw the second hand begin its endless circuit of the dial. Even over the shouts and scuffling in the alleyway, the muted ticking of its mechanism seemed offensively loud to Sebastian. Hastily he shut the lid and glanced guiltily over his shoulder at the doorway. Walaka stood there, and his face was sickly grey with the tension of imminent discovery, but he nodded to Sebastian, a signal t that the guards were still occupied without.
Reaching up to the nearest shelf, Sebastian wedged the cigar box between two of the paper-wrapped cylinders of cordite. Then he packed others over it, covering it AN completely.
He stood back and found with surprise that he was panting, his breathing whistling in his throat. He could feel the little drops of sweat prickling on his shaven head. In the white electric light they shone like glass beads on his velvety, black-stained skin.
'is it done?'Walaka croaked beside him.
'It is done,' Sebastian croaked back at him, and suddenly he was overcome with a driving compulsion to be out of this steel room, out of this box-packed room with the ingredients of violent death and destruction; out of the stifling press of bodies that had surrounded him all day. A dreadful thought seized his imagination, suppose the artificer had erred in his assembly of the time charge, suppose that even now the battery was heating the wires of the detonator and bringing them to explosion point. He felt panic as he looked wildly at the tons of cordite and shell around him.
He w anted to run, to fight his way out and up into the open air.
He made the first move, and then froze.
The commotion in the alleyway had subsided miraculously, and now only one voice was raised. It came from just outside the doorway,
using the curt inflection of authority.
Sebastian had heard that voice repeatedly during that long day,
and he had come to dread it. It heralded danger.
'Get them back to work immediately,' snapped Lieutenant Kyller as he stepped over the threshold into the magazine. He drew a gold watch from the pocket of his tunic and read the time. 'It is five minutes after seven.
There is still almost half an hour before you knock off.' He tucked the watch away, and swept the magazine with a gaze that missed no detail. He was a tall young man, immaculate in his tropical whites.
Behind him the two guards were hurriedly straightening their dishevelled uniforms and trying to look efficient and intelligent.
'Yes, sir,' they said in unison.
For a moment Kyller's eyes rested on Sebastian. It was probably because Sebastian was the finest physical specimen among the bearers,
he stood taller than the rest of them as tall as Kyller himself. But
Sebastian felt his interest was deeper. He felt that Kyller was searching beneath the stain on his skin, that he was naked of disguise beneath those eyes. He felt that Kyller would remember him, had marked him down in his memory.
'That shelf.' Kyller turned away from Sebastian and crossed the magazine. He went directly to the shelf on which Sebastian had placed his time charge, and he patted the cordite cylinders that Sebastian had handled. They were slightly awry. 'Have it repacked immediately,'
said Kyller.
'Right away, sir,' said the fat guard.
Again Kyller's eyes rested on Sebastian. It seemed that he was about to speak, then he changed his mind. He stooped through the doorway and disappeared.
Sebastian stood stony still, appalled by the order that Kyller had given. The fat guard grimaced sulkily.
'Christ, that one is a busy bastard.' And he glared at the shelf.'
He crossed to the cordite shelf 'There's nothing wrong it and fiddled ineffectually. After a moment he asked the guard at the door, 'Has
Kyller gone yet?'
'Yes. He's gone down the companionway into the sick,
bay.
'Good' grunted the fat one. 'I'm damned if I'm going to waste half an hour repacking this whole batch.' He hunched his shoulders, and screwed up his face with effort. There was a bagpipe squeal, and the guard relaxed and grinned.
'That one was for Lieutenant Kyller God bless him!' darkness was falling, and with it the temperature dropped a few degrees into the high eighties and created an illusion that the faint evening breeze was chilly. Sebastian hugged his cloak around his body, and shuffled along in the slow column of native labourers that dribbled over the side of the German battle cruiser into the waiting launches.
He was exhausted both in body and in mind from the strain of the
