'You're not dying! You've caught a bug of some sort. In a day or so, you'll be fine.'
She looked at him, and his heart sank at the fear and hopelessness he saw in her eyes.
'There's nothing you can do for me,' she said. 'Leave me. You must think of yourself, Garry. It won't be long for me. I don't know what it is, but it's as if something is creeping up inside me, killing me piecemeal. My feet are so cold, yet the rest of me burns.'
Garry felt her naked feet. They were ice cold.
'Of course I'm not leaving you. Are you thirsty?'
'No. I have no feeling in my throat.' She closed her eyes, shivering. 'You must go, Garry. If they caught you . . .'
It dawned on him then that she could be dying. With her by his side, the attempt to get through the jungle wouldn't have daunted him, but realizing he might have to do it alone sent a prickle of panic through him.
'Do you believe in God?' she asked.
'Sometimes.'
He hesitated.
'For both of us this is really the time to believe, isn't it?'
'You're going to be all right.'
'Isn't it?'
'I guess so.'
There was a sudden disturbance in the tree above them as the vultures settled again.
She caught hold of his hand.
'You really mean you are going to stay with me?'
'Yes, darling. I'm staying.'
'Thank you, Garry, you're sweet. I won't keep you long.' She looked up at the vultures who were looking down at her. 'Promise me something.'
'Anything.'
'You won't be able to bury me. You can't dig with your bare hands, darling, can you? Put me in the river, please. I don't mind the crocodiles, but the vultures . . .'
'It's not coming to that. You rest now. By tomorrow, you'll be fine.'
'Promise, Garry.'
'All right, I promise, but . . .'
She interrupted him.
'You were right when you told me not to pin everything on money. If money hadn't meant so much to me I wouldn't be here now. Garry, have you a piece of paper and a pen? I want to make my will.'
'Now, look, Gaye, you've got to stop being morbid.'
She began to cry helplessly.
'Garry . . . please . . . you don't know what an effort it is even to talk. I hurt so inside. Please let me make my will.'
He went to his rucksack and found a notebook and a biro.
'I must do it myself,' she said. 'The manager of the Swiss bank knows my handwriting. Prop me up, Garry.'
As he raised her and supported her, she caught her breath in a sobbing moan of pain. It took her a long time to write the letter, but finally it was done.
'Everything I have, Garry darling, is for you. There's over $100,000 in securities in my numbered account in Bern. Go and see Dr. Kirst. He's the director there. Tell him what has happened . . . tell him everything and especially tell him about Kahlenberg's museum. He'll know what to do and keep you clear. Give him this will and he will arrange everything for you.'
