The Sunbird
Born In Zambia and educated at Michaelhouse and Rhodes University, Wilbur Smith has lived all his life in Africa and his commitment to that continent is deep.
A full-time writer since 1964, he also finds time to travel out of Africa and enjoy his other interests - such as numismatics, wildlife photography and big game fishing. He and his wife make an annual safari into the dwindling wildernesses of Central Africa, and at other seasons he fishes by boat in the Indian Ocean for tuna and other game fish.
Wilbur Smith lives with his wife in Cape Town on the slopes of Table Mountain.
Also by
Wilbur Smith in Pan Books
When the Lion Feeds
The Dark of the Sun
The Sound of Thunder
Shout at the Devil
Gold Mine
The Diamond Hunters
Eagle in the Sky
Cry Wolf
A Sparrow Falls
Hungry as the Sea
First published 1972 by William Heinemann Ltd
This edition published 1974 by Pan Books Ltd,
Cavaye Place, London SW10 9PG, in association with
William Heinemann Ltd
13th printing
© Wilbur A. Smith
Printed in Great Britain by
Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Wilbur Smith
The Sunbird
Pan Books in association with William Heinemann
It cut across the darkened projection room and exploded silently against the screen - and I did not recognize it. I had waited fifteen years for it, and when it came I did not recognize it. The image was swirled and vague, and it made no sense to me for I had expected a photograph of some small object; a skull perhaps, or pottery, or an artefact, a piece of gold work, beads - certainly not this surrealistic pattern of grey and white and black.
Louren’s voice, tight with excitement, gave me the clue I needed. ‘Taken at thirty-six thou at six forty-seven on the fourth of Sept,’ that was eight days ago, ‘exposed in a 35 mm Leica.’
An aerial photograph then. My eyes and brain adjusted, and almost instantly I felt the first tickle of my own excitement begin as Louren went on in the same crisp tone.
‘I’ve got a charter company running an aerial survey over all my concession areas. The idea is to pick the strike and run of geographical formations. This photograph is only one of a couple of hundred thousand of the area - the navigator did not even know what he was photographing. However, the people in analysis spotted it, and passed it on to me.’
His face turned towards me, pale and solemn in the glare of the projector.
‘You can see it, can’t you, Ben? Just off centre. Top right quarter.’
I opened my mouth to reply, but my voice caught in my throat and I had to turn the sound I made into a cough. With surprise I found I was trembling, and my guts seethed with an amalgam of hope and dread.
‘It’s classic! Acropolis, double enclosure and the “phallic towers”.’ He was exaggerating, they were faint outlines, indistinct and in places disappearing, but the general shape and configuration was right.
‘North, I blurted. ’Where is north?‘
‘Top of picture - she’s right. Ben. Facing north. Could the towers be sun-orientated?’
I did not speak again. The reaction was coming swiftly now. Nothing in my life had been this easy, therefore this was suspect and I searched for the flaws.
‘Stratification,’ I said. ‘Probably limestone in contact with the country granite. Throwing surface patterns.’
‘Oh bull!’ Louren cut in, the excitement still bubbling in his voice. He jumped up and strode to the screen, picked up an ebony pointer from the lectern and used it to spot the cell-like stippling around the outline of what he was pleased to presume was the main enclosure. ‘You tell me where you’ve ever seen geological patterns like
