I smiled to cover my spooky feelings; at this time of night with this half-demented black man talking of dark things, I felt myself falling under his spell.
‘Go on, Timothy.’ I tried to say it lightly, but my voice croaked a little.
‘My grandfather came to me, and he touched my shoulder and he said. “Go with the blessed one, to the Hills of Blood and there I will make the mysteries known to you and open up the secret places.”’
I felt my skin prickle. Timothy had said ‘The Hills of Blood’, and nobody had told him that name.
‘The Hills of Blood,’ I repeated.
That is the name he used,‘ Timothy agreed. ’I can only believe he meant your City of the Moon.‘
I was silent; reasonable man at war with primitive superstitious man within me.
‘You want to come with me tomorrow, Timothy?’ I asked.
‘I will go with you,’ Timothy agreed. ‘And perhaps I will be able to show you something for which you search - then again I may not be able to.’
There was certainly nothing to lose. Timothy was obviously sincere, he was still tense and nervously aware.
‘I have already invited you to join me, Timothy, and I was very disappointed when you refused. Of course you may come with me - we can certainly see if the sight of the ruins stirs something in your memory.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. What time will you leave?’
I glanced at my watch.
‘Good Lord, it’s four o’clock already. We will leave at six.’
‘Then I must hurry home and pack.’ Timothy replaced his glass on my cabinet, then he turned to me. ‘There is a small snag, Doctor. My travel papers have expired and we will have to cross an international border into Botswana.’
‘Oh, damn it,’ I muttered, deeply disappointed. ‘You will have to get them renewed and come up with me on the next trip.’
‘As you wish, Doctor,’ he agreed readily. ‘Of course, it will take two or three weeks - and by then the whole thing might have faded from my memory.’
‘Yes.’ I nodded, but I felt a prick of temptation. I am usually a law-abiding person, but now as I thought about it I saw that no harm could come from what I intended. The chance that Timothy might lead me to the burial grounds of the ancients was worth any risk.
‘Would you like to take a chance, Timothy?’ I asked. Formalities concerned with the coming and going of Sturvesant aircraft had been reduced to a minimum. There were daily arrivals and departures, and a phone call to the airport authorities was all that was necessary before departure. The Sturvesant name carried such weight, that there was never a head count on arrival or departure. At the City of the Moon Louren had arranged special status with the Botswana Government, and we were virtually free from bothersome red tape.
I could have Timothy in and out within three days with nobody the wiser and no damage done. Roger van Deventer would accept my word that Louren had sanctioned the flight. I could see no problems.
‘Very well, Doctor, if you think it’s safe.’ Timothy agreed to my proposal.
‘Be at the Sturvesant hangar before six.’ I sat down to scribble a note. ‘If you are questioned at the airport gate, which I doubt, show them this. It’s a note authorizing you to deliver goods to the Sturvesant hangar. Park your car behind the flight office, and wait for me in the office.’
Quickly we made our arrangements, and when I stood at the window of my bedroom and watched Timothy’s old blue Chevy pull out of the Institute car park I felt a mixture of elation and apprehension. Idly I wondered what the penalty was for aiding illegal exit and entry, then dismissed the thought and went to make myself some coffee.
Timothy’s Chevy was in one of the parking bays when Roger van Deventer and I drove up in the Mercedes. We went through into the hangar. The big sliding doors were open and the ground crew was readying the Dakota for the flight, and through the glass doors of the flight office
‘I’ll get the clearance, Roger,’ I suggested smoothly. ‘You go and start the engines.’
‘Okay, Doctor.’ He handed me the flight dossier. We had done this before, and I had banked on the same procedure. Roger climbed up through the door of the fuselage, while I went quickly into the office.
‘Hello, Timothy.’ I looked at him and felt a twinge of concern. He was huddled into his blue windcheater, and there were lines of pain cut into his forehead and the corners of his nostrils. His skin was grey and his lips pale purplish blue. ‘Are you all right?’
‘My arm is a little painful, Doctor.’ He opened the front of his jacket. The arm was in a sling, freshly bandaged. ‘But it will be all right. I’ve had it attended to.’
‘Do you feel up to this trip?’
‘I’ll be all right, Doctor.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘All right, then.’ I sat down at the desk and picked up the phone. It was answered at the first ring.
‘Airport police!’
‘This is Dr Kazin - from Sturvesant, Africa.’
‘Oh, good morning, Doctor. How are you this morning?’
‘Fine, thank you. I want to clear a flight to Botswana on ZA-CEE.’
