"Oh," Jean said.
"He comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes I do not see him for months. This time, he has left because he does not approve of my association with strangers. Jad-bal-ja is something of a snob."
"Probably the result of royal blood," Jean said. Then: "I don't know that I've thanked you properly. Without you, and Jad-bal-ja... Am I saying that right?"
"Close enough," Tarzan said.
"Without you and him ... well, I might be an ape's mate."
Tarzan grinned. "More likely a slave. You'd be gathering grubs for the tribe to eat."
"Slaves?"
"They are more manlike than apelike. They have many of man's bad
habits. Slavery, for example."
"I don't think I'd like gathering and eating grubs," Jean said.
"They are actually quite tasty," said Tarzan. "Filled with protein. But you would not have eaten them anyway. They would have made you give them to the king, and they would have given you leaves. You can live on leaves, some are quite succulent, but you cannot live well. The great apes, they do not understand humans. They sometimes take slaves of humans, and the humans do not last long. They do not understand what is expected of them, they are fed poorly, and if they do not die in a short time from lack of nutrition, one of the apes will become angry and kill them."
"I suppose I should thank you double," Jean said. "Not at all. I have to ask, though. Where are you going? Why are you in this part of the jungle?"
"It's like Dad told you. He's trying to prove the existence of what we now know exists. The man-apes."
"We are going away from them, not to them."
"That's true. But only because Dad is supposed to meet other members of his expedition soon, coming from the other side of Africa, moving to meet us at the place where he believes an ancient city to be. We hope to come back this way, get photos of the great apes-or man-apes. Whatever they might be."
"I know of no city," Tarzan said.
Hanson, chewing on a piece of dried meat, came over and squatted down beside them. Tarzan said, "Jean was just telling me of your plans."
"And what do you think?" Hanson asked.
"I think if you take back proof of the great apes, photographs, that hunters will come in and kill them," Tarzan said. "That is what I think. I would not want that: I would not want to be any part of that."
"We're a scientific expedition," Hanson said.
"It makes no difference," Tarzan said.
Hanson was quiet for a moment. He said: "Jean told you about this lost city? Legends refer to it as Ur. If it exists, it would be a wonderful find."
"I've heard of Ur," Tarzan said, "as a legend. But again, I know of no such city in that part of the jungle."
"I have a colleague, back at the university," Hanson said. "Professor Barrett. During the war he was a navigator on a heavy bomber that flew across this terrain several times. Twice he saw ruins of what appeared to be an ancient city. Later, when he got back to the States, got his degree in archaeology, eventually a doctorate, he could not get the city out of his mind. He began to research the area, found out there were legends of a lost city in that part of Africa. Ur. Supposedly a city of gold. Of course, in the legends, they are always cities of gold, aren't they?"
"There are legends of lost cities all over Africa," Tarzan said. "Some of them are true."
Tarzan was thinking of Opar when he spoke. Of the land of Onthar and the twin cities of Cathne and Athne- one a city of gold, the other of ivory. The Lost Roman Empire he had discovered. This, and others, but he didn't let his face show his thinking.
"All the more reason to explore thi s one," Hanson said. "My colleague, Professor Barrett, he's too old now to come, but I was his student, and I want to discover the city not only out of my own curiosity, but because I want to validate his life's work. The great apes, that is my own personal passion. I have another expedition coming at the city from the other side. We hope to meet in the middle. It seems like a sure way of at least one of our group reaching the ruins."
"Not with Hunt leading it," Jean said.
"Hunt is a good boy," Hanson said.
"That may be," she said, "but he can't read a subway map, let alone one of the jungle."
"Small is with him," Hanson said.
"Small can read a map," Jean said, "but he doesn't know north from south."
Hanson looked at Tarzan. "Hunt is my professorial assistant back at the University of Texas. Small is a talented student. Both ate good boys. Hunt is a bit infatuated with Jean, I think."
"A bit?" Jean said.
"And she with him."
"Oh, for goodness' sake, Dad. I find Hunt about as interesting as calculus- and you know what kind of grades I made in calculus."
"They've known each other a long time," Hanson said, "and they have this love/hate thing going. Another few months, I think the hate will come out of it. Now that they're both grown, packed with hormones."
"Dad, you're embarrassing me."
"Sorry," Hanson said, but he didn't look like he meant it.
"How will you profit by this expedition?" asked Tar/an. "Do you expect to find gold in the city?"
Hanson smiled. "This may sound hokey to you, but the purpose of this expedition is just what I said. Purely scientific. We'll be poorer when we return to Texas than when we left- poorer in financial resources, but richer in scientific knowledge and experience."
Tarzan was not sympathetic toward people who came from other continents to kill the animals he loved, nor was he sympathetic to those who would plunder the riches of Africa. The Hansons did not seem to fall into either category.
Tarzan said, "You said you had a map?"
"Yes. My old professor, Dr. Barrett, made it years ago, from memory. It could be off a bit, but he believes it's generally correct."
"In Africa," Tarzan said, "a general mistake can make a big difference."
"I'll get the map," Hanson said, and went away.
Suddenly, in the trees there was a loud screaming of monkeys. Jean and Tarzan looked up, and presently a little monkey leapt into sight, fairly flying through the trees, pursued by a larger, very angry monkey.
"Nkima," Tarzan said. "He's gotten himself into trouble. As usual."
Nkima flung himself from a tree, landed on the ape-man's shoulder, shook his arms loosely, began howling belligerently at the monkey pursuing him. The pursuer, upon seeing Tarzan and Jean, halted at the end of a swaying branch and began to chatter viciously upon discovering his quarry had found sanctuary.
After a moment of ferocious cussing, the pursuing monkey turned, leapt away, and was lost in the foliage.
Hanson returned with the map as Nkima jabbered into Tarzan's ear and leapt about on his shoulder. Hanson said, "What have we here?"
"Nkima," Tarzan said. "He tells me that the other monkey was terribly afraid of him, which explains why he ran away. He didn't want to hurt the monkey."
Jean laughed. "He's terribly cute."
"There's not an ounce of truth in him," Tarzan said, stroking Nkima's head. "It is fortunate for the other animals he is not as large as he talks. As tough as he thinks he is ... We were discussing your map."
Hanson squatted on the ground, unfolded the map for Tarzan to see. Tarzan studied it for a moment. He said, "It's not a very good map. I know portions of this area well." Tarzan put his finger on the map. "There is a mountain here. An extinct volcano. I have never been to it,
but I have seen it in the distance." Tarzan touched the map again. "The forest depicted here, it is very dense. Almost impenetrable."
"That makes it all the more likely that the city might be there," Jean said. "Sort of tucked away in a pocket of intense foliage."
Tarzan studied Hanson for a long moment. "I wonder if you know what you are getting into. Even if there is not a city, there are certainly wild animals, wilder men. The forest itself, the terrain, can kill you. Neither of you seems well enough prepared."
"I've been to Africa
before," Hanson said. "We've just had hard luck, is all."
Tarzan pointed. "You go north, you will have more of it."
Hanson folded up the map. He was very calm and polite, but Tarzan could tell that he was angry. "You're probably correct. But we're moving ahead. We can't disappoint our friends."
Then, abruptly, Hanson went soft. "But you could do me a favor. I've no right to ask. Not after what you've done. And I've no way to pay you. But you could take Jean back to civilization."
"Dad! Don't treat me like a girl. I'm a grown woman."
"You're my daughter."
"That may be, but I'm grown too, and I'll make my own decisions. I'm going. No matter what you say, or Tarzan says. I'm going."
Hanson sighed. He knew it was useless to pursue the matter. Once Jean set her mind to something, she was going to achieve it, come the proverbial hell or high water. As Professor Oliver had said, she had a head like a bull, if the bull's head were made of steel.
"I will go with you," Tarzan said.
"I can't pay," Hanson said.
"I do not hire myself out for money," Tarzan said. "Do not insult me."
"Sorry," Hanson said. "But why the change of heart?"
"I suppose I have been among men too much," Tarzan said. "I am developing a sentimental streak for the stupid and the ill prepared."
Hanson and Jean checked Tarzan's face to see if there was humor there. There didn't seem to be.
"You go north without a guide, you will die," Tarzan said. "You do not strike me as a man intent upon doing something to harm the animals here. You seem to be honestly interested in research. I am not. But I am interested, as I said through fault of association, in decent human beings."
"I suppose," Hanson said, "that is some kind of compliment. To be stupid, but decent."
HUNT AND SMALL fought mosquitoes while they finished lunch. Hunt's pale, white skin was sunburned on the neck and forearms, and the mosquito bites were driving him crazy. Small, a Negro, was not so burned, but the mosquitoes seemed to love him. He had long gotten past making jokes about how sweet the dark meat was. After a while, mosquito bites ceased to be funny.
Hunt, finishing up his food-hardtack and canned meat-rose from his camp stool with the excuse he needed to leave camp to relieve himself. He went into the tent, got his .45 automatic and strapped it on, walked past the bearers who were sitting in a circle eating. They eyed him coldly. The way they looked at him made his stomach sour. It wasn't that they hated him, it was just they didn't respect him. Not that he blamed them.
Hunt went out into the bush. When he felt he was far enough away from camp, he leaned on a tree and cried. Not big savage boo-hoos, but hot, wet tears he had been holding back for days.
He was lost as the proverbial goose. He and Small had proved to be little better than a Laurel and Hardy expedition, even if neither of them resembled the comedians. Hunt decided if he were any more lost, he might turn up at the University of Texas, where this whole mess had begun. He had not wanted to go into the jungle anyway. It was hot. He had wanted to be near Jean, and then he had discovered Professor Hanson wanted to split the expedition up, as he was uncertain if the valley containing the lost city could easily be reached from both sides. He thought it might be better if one small group made it and made scientific studies, than if one large group did not make it. Hunt had volunteered to lead the second group, and Hanson had eagerly agreed.
Hunt realized now that Hanson's confidence in him had been vastly overrated, for he was definitely not going to make it. He had just about decided they should turn back, but he didn't know how to turn back. The map had turned into nonsense. Nothing fit out here. It wasn't like there were road signs and such. And Small, he read the map well enough, but he couldn't follow it. Neither of them had any business in the jungle, and he realized now that Jean had been right about him all the time. He was an idiot. And he had been right about Small. He was an idiot, too. They were both idiots. And they were lost.
Hunt wiped his eyes, found the trail, and was about to start back to camp when he saw three men with rifles walking toward him. They started when they saw him, same as he did when he saw them. One of them, a big black man with a face that looked as if it had been chewed real good and spat out, said, "This is supposed to be the jungle, not Grand Central Station ... Who are you?" "Who are you?" Hunt asked.
Wilson studied Hunt. He was an average-sized man, in his middle twenties. Very blond. Very smooth-faced. And quite sunburned.
"Our safari has run off," Wilson said. "Couple of the askaris convinced our bunch to rob us. We've gone after them."
"To shoot them?" Hunt asked. The whole prospect excited and terrified him.
"Not if we don't have to," Wilson said. "We just want our stuff back. We're hunters."
"I don't hunt animals," Hunt said. "Unless for food, and we have plenty of food."
"We?" Gromvitch said.
Hunt studied Gromvitch. He wished suddenly he hadn't said anything. Gromvitch was a small, weasel-faced man, and the mention of food seemed to excite him. Of course, that could just be because he was hungry . Then again, these men, they didn't exactly look like great checker companions. And the fat one, Hunt didn't like that one at all. He wasn't as tough or confident-looking as the big black man with the chewed-looking face, but there was something about him that made Hunt's skin crawl.
Then Hunt thought: come on, man. You're being judgmental. If there was one thing you learned in Sunday school, it was that you shouldn't judge others. That you couldn't tell a book by its cover. These men are lost, probably hungry, and that accounts for their savage appearance.
"My companion, Elbert Small," Hunt finally answered. "Our ten bearers."
"You have askaris?" Wilson asked. "Guides?"
"They sort of ran off," Hunt said.
"Sort of ran off?" Wilson asked.
"They didn't like the way we were running things, so they sort of ran off."
Wilson thought about that a moment, concluded this man was most likely a fool. He was lost, but wouldn't admit it. The young man's
bearers could lead him out of the jungle if they so chose, but perhaps they were having the time of their lives, following this idiot about. In the end, when supplies got low, they would desert, taking what was left, or they would lead the boy into their village and insist they be paid handsomely for bringing him to civilization. Wilson had seen that sort of thing before, back when he hunted big game. Back before the Foreign Legion.
"If you're not a hunting expedition," Cannon said, "then what are you?"
"A scientific expedition," Hunt said. "We're supposed to meet up with some comrades." He started to admit to being lost, but held back.
"Whatcha doing out here away from your safari?" asked Cannon.
"Heeding the call of nature," Hunt said.
"We're hungry," Wilson said. "We've been without food, for the most part of a day, and we figure we don't bring down some game soon, we're gonna be hungrier. I'd rather not wait to bring it down, if you can spare a little food."
Hunt wasn't sure he could spare anything. He wasn't sure how to get out of the jungle, how far the coast was. The desert. Civilization. He might as well have been blindfolded and parachuted into the jungle, confused as he was. But he said, "Come into camp and eat."
Small was sitting on his camp stool, leaning over the camp table, turning the map this way and that. All right now, he thought. The top of the map is north, the bottom south. But where am I on the map, and if I knew, would I know if I was facing the bottom of the map, or the top? Or the sides? Can you go through the center of a map?
He broke out his Boy Scout Handbook. He reread the part about the sun setting in the west, rising in the east, being overhead about midday. But it didn't say anything about the sun falling down behind the jungle when it grew late, or that you could proceed on what you thought was a straight line, only to find yourself back at the spot where you started a day or two later. The Handbook didn't mention that. Tha
t was a kind of secret it kept to itself. The part about going in circles.
So far, they had managed to do just that, at least a half-dozen times. Small couldn't decide if they were near their destination, closer to where they started, right in the middle, spinning around, or if they were in the midst of a nightmare.
What he did know was this: they had plenty of food and water and ammunition, but the askaris had deserted with a couple of their packs, leaving only the bearers, who had so little English at their command, Small wasn't sure how to communicate with them properly. He could manage to get them moving, but they merely followed him and Hunt blindly about.
Small put the Handbook away, folded up the map. He fiddled with some of the hardtack and canned meat, but found he wasn't very hungry. He got out a deck of cards. He was pretty good at solitaire. He liked that. It was one . of the few things he did in life that resulted in him winning. At least occasionally. And, as far as Small was concerned, all things considered, occasionally was good enough.
Small had just laid out a row of cards on the table, when he turned his head to the sound of Hunt returning. He saw the three men with him, and at first he thought it was Hanson and his party, then his hopes were immediately dashed when he realized it was not. He stood up slowly from the camp stool, studying the three men as they approached with Hunt. They didn't look like the friendly sort.
"I found these folks in the jungle," Hunt said.
"You don't say?" Small said. "Well, small world."
"Yeah, ain't it?" said the fat one. Hunt told Small what they had told him, about their bearers running off. Wilson studied their camp and said, "Seems to me you boys are a little lost."
"Bewildered," Hunt said.
"Lost," Small said. "You fellas wouldn't happen to know this part of the country?"
Wilson leaned over and helped himself to what was left of the hardtack. He dipped a piece of it into an open can of potted meat. He ate it hungrily. "How about we get some grub from you, boys?"
"Well, yeah," Hunt said. "I guess so."
Hunt went into the tent and came out with a pack. He opened it, passed out provisions. Wilson took Hunt's camp stool, sat at the camp table eating. Gromvitch and Cannon squatted nearby, scooping in the meat tins with their fingers, smacking.