steel cable. Ken examined it, then nodded his satisfaction.
'What the hell's that for?' Fennel demanded, regarding the drum.
'It's a winch,' Ken explained. 'We're going over some very sticky roads and we could easily get bogged down. When there's heavy rain, the roads over the Drakensberg can be hell. This winch will drag us out without us breaking our backs.' He found a small yacht anchor lying on the floor of the Land Rover. 'See this? We get stuck, and all we have to do is to slam this anchor into a tree root and winch ourselves out.'
'The roads going to be that bad?'
'Brother! You have no idea. We have quite a trip ahead of us.
Fennel scowled.
'Those other two have it the easy way . . . flying in, huh?'
'I don't know so much about that. If one of the fans falls off, they land in the jungle and that will be that. I'd rather drive than fly in this country.'
'Boss . . .' Joe, still smiling, but uncomfortable in Fennel's presence, pulled off a tarpaulin that covered a long trestle table standing away from the Land Rover. 'You want to check this stuff?'
The two men moved over to the equipment laid out. There were four jerrycans for water, another five for gas, four sleeping bags, four powerful electric torches with spare batteries, two six foot steel perforated strips for getting out of mud, a collapsible tent, two wooden cases and a large carton.
'With luck, I reckon we'll take five days in and four days out to do the job,' Ken said, patting the two wooden cases. 'We have enough canned food to last us that time.' He tapped the carton. 'That's booze: four Scotch, two gin and twenty-four quarts of beer. I have a Springfield, a 12 bore and a .22. There's plenty of game where we are going. You like guinea-fowl? Impala? Ever tried a saddle of Impala done over a slow fire and served with Chilli sauce?' He grinned and rolled his eyes. 'It's marvellous!'
'How about medical supplies?' Fennel asked.
'In the Land Rover . . . complete medical chest. I took a safari first-aid course a while ago. I can handle anything from a snake bite to a broken leg.'
'Looks like you've taken care of it all.' Fennel lit a cigarette and let smoke drift down his nostrils. 'Then all we have to take is our own personal kit?'
'That's it . . . we travel light . . . just a change.'
'I've got my tool bag.' Fennel rested his fat back against the Land Rover. 'It's heavy, but I can't do without it.'
'Well, so long as you can haul it.'
Fennel cocked his head on one side.
'We drive, don't we?'
'We might have to walk some of the way. Even with this winch the road up to Kahlenberg's place could sink us and if it does, we walk.'
'How about taking the nigger along?'
'Look, friend, drop that.' Ken's face had hardened. 'We don't talk about niggers here. We talk about natives. Bantus or nonEuropeans but not niggers.'
'Who the hell cares?'
'I do, and if we're going to get along, you will care too.' Fennel hesitated then shrugged.
'Okay, okay, so what? What's wrong with taking the native, the Bantu, the non-European bastard along with us to carry the goddamn bag?'
Ken regarded him, his dislike plain.
'No. He could talk his head off when he gets back. I've a friend of mine who's joining us at our camp at Mainville. He worked with me when I was on a game reserve. He's coming with us. He is a Kikuyu and a marvellous tracker. Without him, we would never get there. He's out at Kahlenberg's estate now finding a way through the guards and let me tell you there are around three hundred Zulus guarding the estate, but I'll bet when we meet at Mainville, he'll have found a way through them, but he doesn't carry anyone's stuff but his own. Just get that into your skull.'
Fennel squinted at him through his cigarette smoke.
'What is he . . . black?'
'He is a Kikuyu . . . that makes him coloured.'
'A friend?'
'One of my best friends.' Ken stared hard at Fennel. 'If that's so difficult for you to believe let me tell you the Bantus out here are damn good friends when you get to know them and damn good people.'
