"It's not far," the trainer said. He led them out of the forest toward a green bank that sloped into the lake. Mist covered most of the lake today, and clouds blew rapidly overhead. Several small islands thrust up a few hundred yards offshore, all capped with scrubby growth. Vines hung into the blue water on all sides, giving the islands the appearance of hairy men submerged up to their necks.
"Nobody's going to land a plane until the fog is clear," Shellabarger said. "Who knows when that will be?" The land west of the slope was lightly forested and the shore was mostly open, pebbly and grassy inclines where the waters lapped with soft slurping sounds. Promontories of rock jutted into the lake.
Ray seemed more concerned with what the trainer was going to show them. "We've got fish, we have Billie to show us the ropes," he said. "If Anthony responds as well as Peter here, we could all survive for a couple of weeks."
He clapped Peter on the shoulder. Peter concentrated on walking. His muscles hurt abominably and he was starting to sweat and they had only gone a few hundred yards. "Funny what just a little bit of poison can do to you," he said, though it didn't feel funny at all. The dream haunted him. Some of the visions had seemed to come from outside—images and words and ideas he could not remember having encountered before. If Billie was right, El Grande itself—Kahu Hidi—had spoken to him, and he wasn't ready to accept that. "Billie deserved it, not me," he murmured.
"What, getting ant-bit?" Shellabarger asked, scowling dubiously.
"No," Peter said. "Not what I meant." He looked sheepishly between Ray and the trainer. "How much farther?"
"Not far," Shellabarger said.
The lakeshore flattened out. Low brush crept up to the margin of the lake's deep blue water; behind the brush, tumbled boulders and sandy patches vied with copses of tall, shaft-like trees to define a field of about a hundred acres.
They heard growls and querying chirps, followed by low bass rumbles. Shellabarger stopped and held up his hand.
"Scavengers," he said. "Let's go slow."
They climbed a low bluff overlooking the field and the edge of the lake. Ray reached out to Peter and gave him a hand to the top. In the southeastern corner of the field, half hidden by clumps of ferns and two trees, sprawled the body of a large animal—a dinosaur, Peter saw. It had been thoroughly chewed over. Five animals like nightmare seals were still hard at work—brown and gray, long-jawed, with bulky cylindrical bodies and heavy flippers. Their stomachs and hindquarters were still wet and shiny. They jerked at the thorax and hip of the big animal, tearing off sections of scaly hide and stringy brownish flesh.
The air smelled of death. Ray covered his nose and mouth. The wind blew the smell right past them and it was fierce. Clouds of flies buzzed over the carcass and its five tormentors.
"They look like pliosaurs," Ray said.
"They do indeed," Shellabarger said. "But they're probably some of Professor Challenger's lake-devils, aquatic therapsids more closely related to the wolf-jaws and dog-lizards. They've lucked upon a large free meal. I doubt that they crawl this far inland very often. They're clumsier than seals out of water."
Two of the lake-devils tugged mightily on a forelimb and jerked the beast's head halfway off the ground. Peter sucked in his breath. The dead animal was a venator—very much like Dagger.
Ray swallowed and rubbed his jaw. "What killed it—disease?"
"No," Shellabarger said. "Something stronger and swifter. I took a look at the carcass yesterday before these scavengers moved in. Just some small avisaurs and birds pecking on it then. Shooed them away with a branch. It's a male. Judging from the wounds on the head and shoulders, and claw marks along the ribs and legs, he got into a fight with a death eagle and lost." Shellabarger reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, brown-stained yellow tooth, freshly broken at the base. "The death eagle took a few minor losses." He passed the tooth to Peter, who inspected its bloody length and handed it to Ray.
"There may not be more than two or three venators left on the plateau," Shellabarger said. "This one may have been the last—though judging from the tracks along the beach, I suspect his mate is nearby."
He took them down to the sandy lakefront and showed them sets of tracks—the three-toed marks of the venator and the bigger marks of the death eagle stalking him, three front tarsals digging deep enough in the sand to show the dew claw marks in the rear. He gestured west and said, "A second set of venator tracks joins the first about a hundred yards west. The death eagle stops and waits here—it doesn't want to tangle with two venators. The male venator comes back—he smells the death eagle and instinct tells him to protect the nest. The death eagle weighs in. Judging from the blood around the battle scene, it took a few injuries besides losing a tooth. It hates the venators with a real passion."
"Out with the old," Ray said softly, lifting the tooth.
"Extinction's an old story," Shellabarger said. "It's not always our fault. Humans only caught a few venators, and didn't ever go for a death eagle, except for crazy Lowell Thomas—and he died trying. The death eagles are larger, faster, more efficient— and meaner." He glanced at Ray and Peter. "We were lucky."
The trainer got a distant look in his eye. "Dagger shouldn't have been put up for show. He should have stayed here with the last of his kind. It wasn't his fault. It was my fault. I deserve everything he wanted to do to me."
He drew up his shoulders and hitched his pants, then tightened his belt. "This one will be bones by tomorrow. Anybody want to look for the nest?"
"The venator's nest?" Ray asked.
"Yeah," Shellabarger said.
"Why?"
"Pay our respects, I suppose," Shellabarger said.
Neither Peter nor Ray answered. Peter had had just about enough adventure. He wanted to go back to the camp in the forest and lie down beside his father and sleep.
"Peter's pooped," Ray said awkwardly, not at all enthusiastic about getting close to another large carnivore.
"Yeah," Shellabarger said. "Maybe tomorrow."
When they returned, Anthony was sitting up and eating. Wetherford and OBie had broiled more fish for supper. Billie had headed northeast to find better fishing and had collected several bundles of yuca, which OBie was baking whole in the embers of the first fire.
Peter sat beside his father. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Weak as a kitten. And you?"
"Okay," Peter said. He grinned at his father and Anthony shook his head.
"Ants," he said wryly.
"Ants," Peter responded. He bad been thinking the same thing: It wasn't the big beasts that got us.
They lay down beside each other and closed their eyes. It was time for a nap, even though it was barely past noon. Anthony slung his arm across his son's ribs and drew him close.
"I'm glad we're both here," he murmured. "Alive, I mean."
Chapter Sixteen
They slept through that day and into the next morning. The smell of more fish cooking woke Peter. He sat up and examined his wrist and ankle. The swelling had gone down considerably. He checked his father's bite and found it much improved. Anthony cracked open one eye and groaned. "I'm stiff all over," he said, sitting up on one elbow. "What time is it?"
"It's morning," Ray said, bringing them a tin cup from Wetherford's pack. It contained a hot, savory liquid. "Billie found a tasty herb. Says it will do us good. Pep us up."
Peter took a sip from the cup. He made a face at the bitterness. Anthony drank as well, but wondered out loud what else Billie's herbs might do. "They eat and drink a lot of things down here that I'd be careful with."
As they were eating, Wetherford and OBie came back from the lake. OBie had made a long stick into a fishing pole and hammered a safety pin from the first-aid kit into a passable hook. "Used some of those big crickets for bait," he said, and proudly lifted a creel of three fat fish. "Don't know what they are, but they taste good."
"Vince is out in the bush again," Ray said. "With Billie this time. Billie s
ays he wants to see the Challenger."
"All I want to see is that flying boat," OBie said. "We've been through hell and not a single foot of film to show for it."
Anthony lifted his battered Leica and shook it. It rattled inside. The lens was cracked and the case had sprung, ruining a roll of film, but he had kept it with him through everything.
"It's almost pleasant here," Wetherford said. "Like a scouting trip. I trust the ant bites are improving?"
Anthony showed them his hand. "Peter seems fit."
"I'm much better," Peter said. "Ray—"
He stopped. They all heard the drone of airplane engines at the same time.
"Twin engine," Anthony said. "Big plane. Where is it flying from?"
"From the coast, or maybe Uruyen," Wetherford said. "More likely, it's taking off from a stretch of the Paragua or Orinoco— refueling at Puerto Ordaz."
Anthony agreed. "PBY has a long cruising range." They walked to the edge of the forest and kept their eyes on the overcast skies. Breaks in the clouds showed pale blue.
"I'd be happier if Vince didn't keep wandering off," OBie said. "We should stick together. Hate to get on board the plane and then be trapped for a week because of weather!"
Anthony stood. "I'd like to see the lake," he said.
"Let's all go," OBie said. "Not much reason to come back here."
"There it is!" Wetherford pointed east. The PBY dropped in low and slow, barely a hundred feet above the forest. The smoke from the remaining fire formed a slanted column in the wind, clear enough to be seen for miles beneath the broken cloud deck, and the pilot of the PBY saw it. The wings waggled as the plane flew over them, and Peter grinned like a fool as the roar of the engines and the wash of the props hit them. There were stars on the fuselage and under the wings; it was from the United States. The trees jostled and the slant of smoke from their fire twisted into vortices. Anthony clutched his son's arm and they danced. Anthony almost fell over and nearly took Peter with him.
"Using our smoke for a windsock!" OBie exulted. "I know who they are! I know who they are!"
Wetherford patted his pocket for nonexistent cigarettes. " Shall I fetch Vince and Billie?"
"No—we all stick together. They'll come back when they hear the plane."
They hurried through the scrub toward the lake. Peter helped his father and Ray helped OBie.
"Ain't we a sorry sight!" OBie said, grinning.
The PBY banked and turned north, then made a half circle and came into the wind. They reached the shore of the lake. Peter looked west to see if he could spot Billie and Shellabarger. They were still out of sight.
The wing pontoons unfolded and the plane skimmed the waters as delicately as a goose, then dropped its hull into the lake. For a moment, it vanished behind an island, just as spray rooster-tailed behind it, then emerged into view, wings heeled over slightly as it turned toward the smoke and the shore. They waved wildly. The PBY was about a mile away. Peter saw a man poke through a hatch in the right fuselage blister and wave back, but couldn't see who it was.
They squatted by the shore and waited as the plane approached as near as it dared—about thirty yards from the shore. Peter could hardly take his eyes off the big gray airplane, its wide thick wing mounted high over the fuselage on a graceful central support.
The PBY cut its engines and dropped an anchor. The man who had poked his head up was now clearly recognizable. "OBie!" he shouted.
"Monte, you bastard!" OBie yelled back. "What took you so damned long!"
Ernest Schoedsack waved wildly and grinned. "Everybody in good spirits? Did you get the film?"
"Lost it all! Ray threw the camera at a dinosaur!"
"Well, Ray, damn it all to hell," Schoedsack chastised.
"I'll go back and find it," Ray said.
"No such thing!" Schoedsack yelled.
Another head poked through the hatch in the Plexiglas. "At this rate, we'll never get that monkey picture made!" Merian Cooper called. "There's going to be hell to pay! You'd better climb aboard and let's vamoose!"
"It's the Army and Betancourt," Schoedsack said. "They're fighting again, madder'n hornets and not much smarter."
"You expect us to swim?" OBie yelled, hopping along with one arm on Ray's shoulder.
"Break out that raft!" Cooper ordered. A limp yellow life raft poked through the side door and two men in fatigues quickly inflated it with a compressed gas canister.
"Is this everybody?" Schoedsack asked.
"Vince Shellabarger and an Indian named Billie aren't with us yet," Peter said.
Wetherford swore under his breath. "I'll go get them."
"Stay here!" OBie insisted. "They can't miss seeing the plane. Vince can take care of himself, especially with Billie along."
The flying boat bobbed lazily in the rippling blue water. Peter was sure now that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
The raft rounded out nicely and finally popped into shape. The two men in fatigues broke out oars and climbed in. They
were about to push away when Cooper leaned through the door. "Hey, let me go with you! I want to set foot on the plateau one more time."
"All right," one of the men said, and shrugged. "It's a nine man raft." Cooper raised his leg, holding on to the upper rim of the hatch, and crawled out. They handed him a paddle.
The three had rowed ten yards from the flying boat when a chorus of roars and shrieks came over the western promontory. A rifle shot cracked, making Anthony jerk and drop. Peter's reactions were well-honed now, too, and he dropped beside his father without a thought.
Wetherford ducked as well, hitting the ground on all fours and lying flat. Anthony looked at him from the same level. Wetherford seemed immensely pleased with himself.
"I'm not a bit afraid!" he said brightly to Anthony. "I'm a brave man after all!"
"Good for you," Anthony said.
"What in hell has Vince got himself into now?" OBie asked, hopping on his good leg. He picked up his fishing stick and used it as a cane. Ray had run to the top of the promontory, and Peter followed not far behind.
They looked across the low, lightly forested southern shore of Lake Akuena. Clouds of morpho butterflies scattered from the bushes and trees like blue smoke. Anthony and Wetherford j oined them but OBie stayed behind, waiting for the raft to come ashore. Peter did not catch what Cooper and OBie were saying to each other; he was intent on the trees and scrub, and on two objects bobbing beyond a copse of slender light green trees just south of the shore. One object was white: Peter recognized the spray of a death eagle's neck feathers. The other was dark: a venator's head!
"What do we do, lads?" Wetherford asked. He looked at Anthony, Ray, and Peter.
"They need help," Peter said.
"Righto," Wetherford said. "Here's my chance, at least."
Wetherford ran ahead of them, then thought better of so much extra valor and slowed a bit. Ray caught up with him.
"Are you up to this, Father?" Peter whispered to Anthony as they tried to keep up with the pair.
Anthony snorted. "Are you?" he said, his face flushed with exertion and something else—pride, determination, and sheer curiosity—but also a flashing emptiness that took Peter by surprise, and both saddened him and made him proud.
That look summed up Anthony perfectly and his son felt an inner twinge. Peter was concerned about Vince and Billie, but if they hadn't been out there somewhere, possibly in danger, he would have preferred to wait for the raft.
Anthony would have gone anyway.
They climbed down from the promontory and followed the shore for a hundred yards, until they saw the trainer's boot prints and Billie's sandal prints leave the sandy margin and point into the grass.
Peter stayed close to his father, realizing—convinced—for the first time in his life that to be different from Anthony was not to be inferior. He was as brave as his father; he was as willing to risk his neck to help friends.
But Peter had a stro
nger sense than his father of who he was and where he belonged; he was not a feather that would blow with the breeze directly into any fire.
They helped each other over a thick grassy hummock. The copse lay ahead. They heard another rifle shot, an aquiline shriek, the avalanche-like pounding of heavy feet. The trees swayed as half seen monsters pushed against them from the other side.
The men picked their steps with care now, skirting the tall slender trees. They were thirty yards from the animals and not even Anthony was going to rush into this scene willy-nilly.
"Do you see them?" Ray asked Peter.
"No," Peter said, and then he caught sight of Billie's head of smooth black hair. The Indian was running out of the path of a huge venator. This was the female, Peter reasoned—taller and bulkier than a male, a close match in sheer muscle power and lethal weapons for the death eagle, which was still half hidden behind the trees.
The female was paying no attention to Billie. Neither animal seemed concerned with the humans, even as another shot was fired. Billie had no rifle.
"That's Shellabarger," Anthony said. "But where is he?"
Billie ran toward them, short powerful legs fairly flying him over the grass and ferns. The death eagle raced from behind the tall trees toward him and Billie dove into a thick patch of ferns. The huge avisaur turned at the last moment, lifted its gorget and gaping beak, and spread its forearms like outstretched wings.
The venator leaped forward, making the ground tremble, and snapped at the death eagle's side, scraping its hide with her teeth and snatching a mouthful of feathers, but gaining little real satisfaction. The venator shook her head, sending feathers flying. The animals circled, heads level with their outstretched tails, the venator's long tail lean and stiff, moving only a little side to side, the death eagle's broad tail half as long and dressed with a fan of thick black and green feathers. The death eagle jerked its tail up, then dropped it, and the feathers made a sound like scrub brushes as they spread wide.
Billie crawled from the ferns, leaped to his feet, and ran.