'I'm not really hungry, thank you. It's this heat.'
'You must eat, Bruce. Try just a little,' and then she smiled. 'At least
you are more gallant after having rested. It is
'Thank you' now, instead of
'Keep quiet and stay out of the way'.' Ruefully Bruce grimaced.
'You are one of those women with a built-in recording unit; every word
remembered and used in evidence against a man later.' Then he touched her
hand. 'I'm sorry.'
'I'm sorry,' she repeated. 'I like your apologies, mon capitaine. They
are like the rest of you, completely
masculine. There is nothing about you which is not male, sometimes
almost overpoweringly so.' Impishly she watched his eyes; he knew she
was talking about the little scene on the train that Wally Hendry had
interrupted.
'Let's try this food,' he said, and then a little later, 'not bad - you
are an excellent cook.'
'This time the credit must go to Mr. Heinz- and his fifty-seven
children. But one day I shall make for you one of my tournedos all
Prince. It is my special.'
'Speciality,' Bruce corrected her automatically.
The murmur of voices within the laager was punctuated occasionally by a
burst of laughter. There was a feeling of relaxation. The canvas roof
and the wall of vehicles gave security to them all. Men lay in
dark huddles of sleep or talked quietly in small groups.
Bruce scraped the metal plate and filled his mouth with the last
of the food.
'Now I must check the defences again.'
'Oh, Bonaparte. It is always duty.' Shermaine sighed with resignation.
'I will not be long.'
'And I'll wait here for you.' Bruce picked up his rifle and helmet, and
was half-way out of the Ford when out in the jungle the drum started.
'Bruce!' whispered Shermaine and clutched his arm. The voices round them
froze into a fearful silence, and the drum beat in the night. It had a
depth and resonance that you could feel, the warm
sluggish air quivered with it. Not fixed in space but filling it,
beating monotonously, insistently, like the pulse of all creation.
'Bruce!' whispered Shermaine again; she was trembling and the fingers on
his arm dug into his flesh with the strength of terror. It steadied his
own leap of fear.
'Baby, baby,' he soothed her, taking her to his chest and holding her
there. 'It's only the sound of two pieces of wood being knocked together
by a naked savage. They can't touch us here, you know that.'
'Oh, Bruce, it's horrible - it's like bells, funeral bells.'
'That's silly talk.' Bruce held her at arm's length. 'Come with me. Help
me calm down these others, they'll be terrified. You'll have to help
me.'
And he pulled her gently across the seat out of the Ford, and with one
arm round her waist walked her into the centre of the laager.
What will counteract the stupefying influence of the drum, the hypnotic
beat of it, he asked himself. Noise, our own noise.
