“I am so sorry,” Liz said, patting the older woman’s arm. “You see, in America we don’t treat our women that way.”
There was a startled silence while Mrs. McNair considered what to do next. She pushed Liz’s hand away and said bluntly, “If you women don’t show your husbands such respect, maybe it’s time you learned.”
Liz laughed. “Perhaps our men prefer twentieth-century wives. Maybe they like us the way we are.” Then, ashamed of herself for having punctured so plain a woman, she added, “I’m sorry, Mrs. McNair, but the custom seems strange to John and me.”
“Oh!” the little woman cried. “Then your husband did speak to you about it?”
“But of course! We had a jolly laugh.”
“The Cap’m wondered, that’s all.”
“Wondered? About what?”
“The Cap’m said Mr. Millstor was afraid to reproach you.”
“Afraid?” Liz chuckled. “Oh, my dear! American husbands and wives aren’t afraid of each other. We discuss everything.”
“You do?” the Australian woman asked.
“Certainly we do. And John thinks the custom just as silly as I do. But thank you all the same, Mrs. McNair. You can be sure we never intended to embarrass the Cap’m.”
She returned to her cabin and in the darkness laughingly described bedraggled little Mrs. McNair. “She’s half frightened out of her wits by that man of hers!” She went to John’s bed and kissed him several times, whispering, “This trip will do me a world of good. It’ll make me appreciate you, dearest John. Won’t it?”
Millstor faced dinner the next night with some trepidation. He had not been able to make Liz promise to retire before the cigars. In fact, he half foresaw what actually took place. The pause came, the captain said, “Well, my dear …” and Mrs. McNair rose to go. She extended her hand to Liz, who smiled sweetly at the captain and asked, “Is it true that waterspouts can damage a ship?”
Patiently McNair showed his wife to the door. Then, carefully closing it, he stood at the head of the table and said in a towering voice, “Mrs. Millstor, I asked you to leave the wardroom. My wife asked you, and if your husband is not scared to death of you, he asked you too. Now as captain of this ship I’m ordering you to get out! Join the ladies and leave this room to your betters!” With violent gestures he slammed the door open and stood there majestically while Liz Millstor rose, smiled at Mr. Morrison and said, “Of course, Captain.” Delicately, as she had been taught years ago, she left the room, her head straight and high.
When she had left, McNair said bluntly, “Dammit all, John. I’m sorry. I apologize. But a ship’s a ship.”
Millstor was too astounded to reply. He stumbled to his feet and muttered something about seeing Liz. A great paw reached out and forced him back into his seat. “Don’t be a damned fool!” McNair roared. Then, cutting Millstor off from the door, he said slowly, “Mr. Morrison, I checked those figures about diesels. You were right.”
“Aye,” the Scotsman said. “I knew it at the time.”
Twenty minutes later the two women returned. Mrs. Millstor was slightly flushed and very lovely. She smiled at Captain McNair and said, “The coffee was delicious. You should compliment the steward.”
“I shall,” McNair said, holding her chair.
When the last strains of the accordion died away—much to John Millstor’s regret—he and Liz made their way to their cramped cabin. He anticipated a frightful scene but his wife merely laughed. “It was like something out of East Lynne,” she said. “And oh, John! That poor whipped little woman. Do you know what she told me? Her name is Citronella! Her mother lived way out in the Australian Never-Never and saw the name in a book. Mrs. McNair actually laughed and said she guessed it was the only beautiful thing her mother had ever known.” Liz pressed her ears close to her head and laughed nervously. “It’s medieval!” she shuddered and kissed John thankfully. He drew back from what he feared was to be a heart-to-heart talk, the upshot of which would be instructions to punch Alex McNair in the nose. Instead, Liz surprised him by turning out the light and sighing, “Those poor Australian wives! Can you imagine people living like that? In the twentieth century?”
During the next days Liz changed completely. No more arguments in the wardroom, no more pressure on her husband. She became the happy, delectable woman John had always cherished. They stood in the prow for hours watching the flying fish whip the ocean with the iridescent, unbelievable tails. “It’s very peaceful,” Liz said approvingly.
In such relaxed contentment they neared the New Hebrides and McNair produced a nest of charts. “We’ve two days to spare,” he said. “As I remember you in Guadalcanal, John, you loved to hike. How’d you like to see the Big Nambas country?”
“That would be something!” Millstor cried.
“We could get up there in a day, spend the night, and come back.”
“What are the Big Nambas?” Liz interjected.
“The last real savages in the Pacific,” McNair explained.
“I’d enjoy seeing them,” Liz said promptly.
McNair laughed. “Too dangerous. No woman could climb …”
“Tell him, John,” Liz interrupted. “Tell him I can out-climb you any day in the week.”
“She can, too,” John agreed.
“It’s very rough terrain,” McNair said. “Do you really think your wife ought to risk it?”
“She’s game to go anywhere,” Millstor said.
“If you approve, all right,” McNair said reluctantly.
When the Roviana hove to off Malekula, Liz was aghast at the forbidding quality of the land. “Look at that jungle!” she whispered, afraid that McNair might hear her surprise. “John! It creeps right down into the water!” She shivered apprehensively as she saw the twisting parasites drooping from each tree. Then she pulled on her heavy socks, saddle shoes, old skirt and thick panties. “If I have to come down sliding,” she joked, “I want it to be the panties and not me.” She wore a man’s shirt, John’s, and a red bandanna, also his, twisted tightly about her ears.
“You look well prepared,” Mrs. McNair said acidly.
“I do wish you were coming along,” Liz lied.
“If you get back alive, maybe I’ll go next time.” She returned to her job of handing the food baskets down into the pinnace.
When they got ashore, the steward, who had made the trip before, led the way to the trail that immediately started upward. In a few moments everyone in the party was drenched in heavy perspiration which was not to stop flowing for two days.
They had gone only a short distance inland when they came upon one of those cruel jungle sights that give the islands their macabre quality. “Look at this!” Liz cried.
McNair flicked the moisture from his thick beard and said, “It’s a strangler fig.”
“How sickening!” Liz gulped, stepping back to stare at a massive tree. But her husband did not look upward at the revolting spectacle, for he saw something more arresting. When Liz moved backward she bumped against the huge rough hand of Alec McNair as it pointed toward the jungle tragedy. Neither she nor McNair pulled away, and for a long moment the Australian’s hand pressed against her bosom.
“You’ve got to expect unpleasant sights in the jungle,” McNair said.
Above them towered a giant kauri pine, one of the finest trees in the world, rich in sap and cabinet wood. Long ago it had been attacked by a single thin strand of parasitic fig. For a generation the kauri had been unaware of its doom, and then one day the fig was established, with a thousand aerial roots drifting down to the jungle floor. Slowly and with diabolical intention the once innocuous fig began to grow laterally, like molten lava spreading over a mountain. In ghastly sheets of bark it enclosed the kauri. Limb after limb of the giant tree was strangled off. Next the trunk itself was attacked and with malignant power the parasite enclosed the huge tree in a garment of steel, an inescapable vise which methodically killed all life within its grasp.
 
; Now the kauri was dead. It still stood, held up by the parasitic growth that had usurped its life. But the once-great monarch was rotting in the jungle heat, while the strangler fig, with no roots of its own attached to the soil, flourished.
“How awful!” Liz whispered, still standing close to McNair.
Her husband was confused and agitated but felt that he must say something. “It must have taken years,” he observed.
“When they start,” McNair said, “they never stop. Look.” He pointed to another kauri from which dangled an innocent and lovely parasite. “That’s how it begins.”
By the time they reached the Big Nambas country John and the steward had fallen behind. They could hear McNair thrashing ahead to join Liz, who had already gained the plateau. Her provocative laugh came teasing back along the trail: “You’re winded, Captain.”
McNair breathed heavily and grunted, “I’ll admit I was wrong. About women climbing, I mean.”
Then John heard his wife scream, and he raced furiously ahead for the last twenty yards. He broke into the clearing just in time to see a chilling sight. From the jungle six brutally ugly savages had emerged with Winchester rifles, and across from them Liz Millstor had retreated to the protection of Alec McNair’s brawny arms, where she huddled in real fright.
“By Jove, I’m glad you arrived!” the Australian shouted. “Here! Watch your wife!” Like a sack of potatoes he passed her along while he hitched up his pants and went boldly across to the savages, knocked down their rifles and asked, “You fellow savvy talk-talk?”
A monstrously ugly man dropped his rifle barrel into the dust and said grudgingly, “Me savvy good too much.”
But at this moment the savage noticed Liz for the first time and made a rush for her. Millstor, confused by all that had happened, stood aghast, unable to bring either his mind or his body into action. His wife watched the horrifying creature bear down upon her and she would have fainted had not Alec McNair suddenly reached out and grabbed the Nambas warrior by the neck.
At this the startled savage broke into a riotous grin and, ignoring Liz completely, grabbed John Millstor affectionately by the arm. “You American!” he shouted with delight. He pushed aside McNair’s restraining hand and punched John in the ribs. “All Americans, he sitarong too much,” he said approvingly. He patted John on the face and said, “You fellow ologeta come long me.”
He led the visitors across the plateau and back into the jungle, his five companions forming a naked bodyguard. They wore absolutely nothing except a ridiculous leather belt eight inches wide. Around the edges of their massive cummerbunds were stuck those things a man normally carries in his pockets: a pipe, a knife, a stick for picking wax out of the ear, and a bit of cloth for wiping the face. John noticed that Liz tried not to look at the nakedness of the men. Laughing nervously she said, “They seemed to like you, John. Please be gentle with them.”
Millstor looked closely at his wife to see if she were goading him about his indecision when the wild man seemed to be attacking, but she smiled frankly and appeared totally sincere.
The natives led their guests to a village where many old men sat sullenly on their haunches. A few women stared inquisitively at Liz and then disappeared giggling into huts while their men cursed them. Jungle children with great pot bellies peered at the strangers, who finally stopped before the chieftain, an old man who suddenly launched into a furious diatribe. Finally he stopped and the interpreter said, “Cheep, he want you talk-talk where he stop Mazinga Rule?”
“Mazinga Rule?” Millstor repeated uncomprehendingly.
“Marching Rule,” McNair explained. “Like in the Solomons. The Nambas think America is leading a world revolution to Marxian Rule. Humor them.”
“Why he no come, Mazinga Rule?” the interpreter shouted.
“Mazinga Rule he no come long time,” McNair assured the native. “Suppose this fella pikaniny belong you stop old fellow too much, maybe Mazinga Rule he come.”
The chief studied this answer for some time. He had been promised that one day the Americans would return with Mazinga Rule and all the Frenchmen would be killed. Then great cargoes of things—meat, refrigerators, axes, ice-cream stands—would arrive at Malekula for the Big Nambas. He rose sadly and went to Millstor, studying the American’s eyes. He spoke rapidly and the interpreter said, “Cheep, he say Americans they good too much. He wait.” John sighed with relief, and the interpreter added, “But, Cheep, he say you better come long Nambas soon. How soon?”
“Kid ’em along,” McNair ordered.
“America, he come!” John said forcefully.
The chief broke into a broad grin and made several thrusts with his rifle, indicating how he would kill the French. McNair laughed and soon the entire gathering was chortling with delight at the prospect of unlimited murder, underwritten by the Americans.
The interpreter started to lead the visitors to a shack when the chief cried something, whereupon dozens of sag-breasted women streamed from the huts and surrounded Liz. Tenderly they touched her hair, her lips. One lifted her dress and studied the thick panties. There were cries of delight as the women smelled her handkerchief and tasted the lipstick which had rubbed off on her fingers. One very old woman gently pushed a forefinger into the white woman’s breast. “Ahhhh!” the others cried approvingly. Then the chief screamed at the women and they disappeared.
The interpreter said proudly, “Long war I work Americans.” He made believe he was driving a car. “Ford truck!” he explained with great satisfaction.
In the shack Liz showed no indication to challenge John for his confusion when the native charged. She whispered, so as not to offend the two Australian men, “Isn’t it impressive? How everyone out here remembers and loves the Americans?”
“They also remember Santa Claus,” John whispered back.
“John!” she laughed. “I mean it seems we command the respect of all the world.”
McNair interrupted. “Don’t let that Mazinga Rule fool you. Nor the Ford truck. Three years ago they ate a man in this village.”
When night fell the natives gathered about the hut and beat huge scooped-out wooden logs that reverberated with maddening power. In the shadows women chanted. By the fire young men danced. Once Liz sang an old song, “Drifting and Dreaming.” The natives cheered and McNair did some tricks with matches. Then the fires burned out and the travelers crawled into mosquito nets and shivered in cool breezes that wandered across the clearing.
Before they went to sleep McNair said, “You Americans have a fund of friendship out here. How astonished they’re going to be when they discover it’s Russia and not you blokes that’s leading the revolution!”
“Damn!” the steward said. “Isn’t that thunder?”
“It’s a drum,” Liz replied.
“It is thunder,” McNair muttered. “A storm.”
And before they got to sleep a slow, heavy rain fell upon the hut. At the doorway a lonely figure huddled, mumbling, “Me fella drive Ford truck. When you fella come back long Mazinga Rule, you bring plenty Ford trucks?”
The hike back to the Roviana became a nightmare for John Millstor. First a drenching equatorial rain flooded the trail and made impossible any attempts to keep dry, but at one swollen stream a haunting thing took place. John and the steward had forged well ahead to report on any difficulties and had forded a stream that came well up to their middles.
“Does it get better down there?” John shouted to the steward.
“No water in the path,” the man replied.
“I’ll double back and help my wife,” he cried. He turned toward the turbulent stream in time to see big Alec McNair sweep Liz into his arms and plunge into the muddy torrent. Neither the Australian nor Liz could see Millstor, and instinctively he drew back behind a tree. He had the strange sensation of living in a dream, for when McNair swung Liz into the air, the man’s big hands had purposely reached under her skirt and grabbed the bare legs in a passionate grip. And Liz, after a
moment’s shock, had deliberately placed her own hand on his. In this manner they forded the stream, and when McNair thrust her competently upon the shore, he caught one hand and pulled her back for a violent kiss. She did not protest. Instead she edged up on her wet toes the better to press her face into the tangled beard. And while John Millstor stood helpless, paralyzed by bewilderment, McNair passed his hand once more under her dress while she threw her arms with abandonment about his neck.
The spell was broken by the steward who came thrashing back along the trail shouting, “All clear ahead.”
Millstor moved into the trail, stricken with indecision, but his next action came automatically. “Look at the tree!” he cried.
The four travelers stopped in the rain-soaked jungle and looked up at the kauri whose fate had concerned them the day before. The night storm had destroyed the jungle monarch at last. Some rampaging gust had snapped the decayed trunk. But miraculously the strangler fig, once the parasite, now lived a life of its own and in an affectionate embrace of steel kept the broken kauri erect as if it were still a living tree.
“Score one for the fig!” cried the steward.
“The tree was dead anyway,” McNair grunted.
The travelers now moved along the trail in a group and came to the last formidable stream. The steward plunged into the angry water and cried with satisfaction, “No trouble here.” He thrashed on to the other side.
There was a moment’s hesitation and John mumbled, “I’d better carry you, Liz.” He lifted his slim wife in his arms and felt his hand burn as it touched her leg. With a big stride he launched into the flood, but soon felt McNair’s big hand supporting him.
“Better take it easy, John,” the Australian warned, and in this way they forded the stream.
Then, once more aboard the Roviana, John Millstor began the lonely and confused battle with his conscience. He was appalled by his indecision. He was willing to have it out with McNair, even in a knockdown brawl. He correctly guessed that he was in much better condition than the paunchy captain, but deep within him there was no conviction, no motive power to keep his fists going once outraged vanity had started them. He simply did not know what he was expected to do. Was this merely another of Liz’s modern attempts to keep marriage going? And how did McNair assess his adventure with the excited American woman?