The Martian Pendant (13 page)

“Oh, Danny, you can’t imagine the size of that horrible beast! Next time I’ll bring a rifle. Maybe by then the cutting equipment will be ready, so that armed men can accompany me.”

Later, over strong coffee, she was the center of attention as she gave her account to a small group. Asking, “How could such a huge crocodile have gained entry through those small ports?” She then answered her own question, adding, “There has to be a larger entry on the other side. Otherwise, no diet of cave-fish and shrimp could ever satisfy the nutritional needs of a crocodile small enough to enter as I did, to grow so huge."

After a short silence, Dan, who was sitting next to her, made an observation. “Because the openings are round, I doubt they’re entry ports, and they’re not right for ventilators. But if they served as doors, either the people on the craft were tiny and could walk through upright, or they were another type of being, not walking, maybe slithering.”

“Oh, stop the joking, Danny,” she said. “I know they were people just like us. The stairs tell us that. Those ports really are for ventilation, you see.

Dan thought a moment. “If that were the case, why are the ports at the bottom of the ship rather than high up?”

She said, “Maybe they were concerned about gases that were heavier than air, or that the ventilation system worked by gravity. Remember, there are probably at least a couple of decks.” Then she exclaimed impatiently, “You just have to trust me. You read my story. Isn’t everything generally right so far?”

Max, shaking his head slowly during their exchange, then said sarcastically, “There was nothing in it about the giant crocodile. How do you explain that?”

Diana regarded him with some surprise. “All that came later. They certainly wouldn’t have brought such a creature with them, and if they had, the ship would be littered with evidence of their remains. More than likely it is a huge Nile crocodile, a descendant of that Pleistocene monster that preyed on the primitive hominids of the time, Crocodylus anthropophagus.”

After a night of broken sleep, punctuated by recurrent dreams of those shining blood- red eyes, she resolved to not go into the ship alone again, even with a rifle, as long as she was not certain about that crocodile still being alive. She needed a rest. Two straight days in that dank hulk, plus the encounter with the huge reptile, would have been too much for anyone, especially since the construction of the cutting device still hadn’t progressed. That meant the job would fall to her again, alone in the ship, possibly with a w
iser crocodile to contend with. By that time she was certain that 220 volts could not kill a monster of that size. Looking back on that scene, she recalled its twitching while the current was on.
Probably due to tetanic contractions from the 60-cycle current
, she thought. She couldn’t stop thinking of that reptile in there, waiting.

When she told Max and Ballard at breakfast of her decision to take a break, they pleaded with her. It was the geologist who brought up the need to re-enter the hulk soon to allay fears, but Diana just shook her head.

Max said, “I heard you’re a crack shot, and with a hunting rifle, you’ll make short work of anything in there, even that big croc.”

Groaning a little, she protested, “But my hunting has only been with my father, shooting small game for the table, using only birdshot or a .22.”

Dan offered, “Let me take you out on the plain and we’ll practice on those pesky hyenas.”

Diana looked at him dubiously. “Danny, I don’t have a taste for a hunt of that type, killing just for target practice.”

Max interjected excitedly, “It’s a great idea! They’re becoming bolder each night. They have to be reminded of us, I’m afraid, with an occasional bullet.”

Diana nodded at that suggestion. “True, one was sniffing around my tent during the night, making sleep more a problem than it already was. But I’m not using a BAR; almost sixteen pounds is far too heavy for me.”

They all laughed, partially in relief. No telling how long it would be until the cutting device would be ready. Everyone was worried about the prospect of having to face the crocodile themselves.

TWELVE

A Maasai Youth

It was decided that Diana would rest the next day, and then with Dan and Chet Crowley, the ranking Pinkerton, head out onto the plain for some rifle practice. Knocking off a couple of the pesky and dangerous hyenas would restore her confidence in the type of shooting she might have to do on her return to the ship. Big game shooting was something she had never done, or even wanted to do, before. But it would be essential, inside that hulk, that every bullet found its mark. Ricochets could be deadly.

As the three of them sat out in front of the tents in the early evening after her day of leisure, Dan said, “Your experience with pheasant and rabbit hunting over the years with your father must mean your aim has to be good.”

She replied, “That was one of the criteria for being nominated for ‘Miss London Outdoors’ in 1939, when I was in my teens. Along with other outdoor skills such as fishing, there were sports in which I won awards at school, swimming and running.”

Dan said, “What about beauty? With all your abilities, plus your looks, you probably won hands down.”

“No, indeed,” Diana replied, “One of the sponsors of the contest was a local industrialist, and his daughter took top honors.”

Chet, the Pinkerton man, laughed and exclaimed, “That’s business fer ya. But you just had ta come in second.”

“Well, yes,” she said, “I was runner-up, and it was enjoyable,” she continued, “And while all of us were athletic, I won hands down in the shooting. My father had taught me to use the smallest caliber possible for the target, in order to minimize the anticipatory flinching that can be a problem with high-powered weapons. He insisted I use a 410 gauge Remington for birds and a .22 for rabbits. I couldn’t have had a better teacher. He could drop a rabbit at fifty yards with a shot through the eye almost every time. We bagged so much game on those outings, the cook would barely speak to us for a day or two after our return.”

“I’ll bet you still ate well after those trips,” Dan said, “But what about all that lead shot?”

“Well, I didn’t contract lead poisoning,” Diana replied, “if that’s what you’re getting at, but we did have to chew very carefully.”

The next morning they set out early. The sun was still behind the eastern hills, the dew not yet glistening in the early light. As they gathered for breakfast at the chuck
wagon, the cook complained about the hour. Dan sat down next to Diana, giving her a peck on the cheek. Because of the Spam and reconstituted powdered eggs, he, like the cook, was grumpy.

“This food reminds me too much of the Army,” he grumbled. “During the war for a time I was stationed in Northern California, outside Petaluma, which in those days was the chicken and egg capital of the world. They even called it ‘Chickaluma’ because of that, but we never saw even a single fresh egg.”

Chet, sitting down across the table, said, “Naturally. They’d move all the eggs ta a processin’ center, dry ’em and ship ’em out ta all the bases, including where the eggs came from. Another example of the sayin’, ‘There’s the right way, the wrong way, and then there’s the Army way,’ wasn’t that it?”

“You chaps and the military,” she offered. “When I was at University in London, there were three thousand men, almost all returning veterans, in my class. Of course, I was a returning vet also. All they ever spoke to me about was the tinned bully beef and powdered eggs. That must have really motivated them, because they were all business then. I was one of only three women in that entire year, and I can fry eggs to perfection.”

Chet asked, “Are ya sayin’ Diana, that not one of all those fellers asked ya out?”

“You’re indeed right, Chet,” she said, smiling
broadly.

He looked dumbfounded at that, adding, “That cain’t be London, can it?”

Dan laughed, and said, “Not the London I know.”

By that time, the cook, Grey, had gotten more in the spirit of the hunt, and set down a huge box of food
on the table. Diana was surprised at its size and contents, some of them gourmet items.

Happily, she smiled at him and said, “This is much more than we could hope for on our little adventure. What were you thinking?”

Grey's tone was ironic when he replied, “I was one of those returning Tommies, a little while at university, and I never saw you among the few women there, but I wish I had.”

After breakfast, with their big Army surplus scout car loaded with provisions, sleeping bags and weapons, all three piled in and drove off onto the plain just as the sun was rising.

Diana remarked, “Remember, chaps, our aim is target practice, not big game. I would never hunt for trophies. Everything father and I bagged was food for the table.”

“Ah hear ya,” Chet said, “But at the same time we have ta thin out that pack of hyenas. Ya’ll cain’t even leave yer tent at night without a rifle and a light because of ’em.”

Dan added, “I’m with you there, Crowley. We’ve got to put more fear into them, or it won’t just be our garbage they come after.”

They had jounced along slowly about five miles into the grassy plain; the sun was high and hot. In the distance, the shimmering heat waves distorted the surroundings so that, even with field glasses, it was difficult to distinguish the occasional small groups of cattle from large rocks. Neither moved in the heat. Soon the sun was almost directly overhead; no shade existed on the nearly treeless savannah. Around noon they stopped for lunch, enjoying Grey’s hearty sandwiches and coffee.

Later, as they relaxed in the vehicle, Diana observed, “Look at those vultures wheeling to the south. Do you think that indicates a kill, or are they just riding the thermals, awaiting a potential feast?”

Dan, who had been half-asleep in the back, said, “They’re surveying the plain, I think, for potential victims of the heat or those injured by predators.”

She replied, “In my experience, at least with the buzzards over the fields at home, they ride the thermals that give them a lift while they await the scent of carrion rising on the same air currents. They rarely land near fresh kill. I’ve timed them; it may take as long as four days for the smell of a decomposing rabbit to attract them. Despite their keen eyesight, it’s their noses, if you can call them that, which count.”

“Well, whatever it is, they seem ta be zeroin’ in on somethin’ out there.” It was Chet with the glasses. “We better check that out. Maybe it’ll lead us ta the hyenas.”

Just then a single rifle shot rang out ahead of them. Diana asked rhetorically, “Do the Maasai use rifles for hunting? I thought they preferred spears, even for lions.”

Dan started the engine, saying, “Get the rifles ready. No telling what we’ll find there.”

The scene they came upon seemed nothing to be concerned about. Near a large solitary boulder were two grazing cattle, and signs of a recent campfire.

“Well, no carrion here,” Diana said.  “But even if there were, the vultures wouldn’t land with us about.”

“Yeah,” Dan replied, “Such fierce-looking birds. It’s amazing how timid they are.”

Diana laughed at that. “Birds survive mainly because of their caution. With their light hollow bones, any real fighting can lead to a broken wing, their very means of survival.”

“That gives another meanin’ ta the word ‘chicken,’ ah think,” the Texan drawled, chuckling.

At that he pulled back the bolt of his BAR, flipping off the safety, Diana instinctively sending a cartridge into the chamber of her Winchester at the same time.

“Hey, wait,” Dan exclaimed, “It’s just a couple of cows.”

Diana whispered, “Shush, Danny, I heard a groan from behind that big rock.”

Chet nodded, “That’s ma take too.”

Suddenly, the sharp snap of passing bullets split the heated air, making holes in the windshield in two places, followed by the reports of rifle fire. The three hunters, who were now the hunted, hit the dusty ground simultaneously.

The big Texan remarked, “The fire is comin’ from behind that pile of rocks, a couple hundred yards on the other side of that boulder. We’ll be safe if we keep behind it. You two crawl over there while ah circle around in the grass ta get behind ’em.”

“Careful, Chet,” Diana called, “There must be close to a half dozen of them, whoever they are!”

“They’ll be no match for my big automatic rifle,” he answered, “As long as you two keep shooting in their direction frequently enough to make ’em keep their heads down.”

As the Pinkerton man struggled through the grass, with his vest of ammunition and his heavy Browning, Diana and Dan, keeping the shelter of the boulder between them and their assailants, ran the fifty yards needed to put them into position.

Dan was concerned for her safety, and said, “Di, stay back behind this rock, and I’ll keep up a steady fire, leading them to think that all three of us are here.”

As he took his position and began firing at the rockpile a hundred and fifty yards away, she circled the half-buried boulder, hearing that groan again, closer, and just around the corner. Keeping her head down, she literally slithered toward the sound. Dan’s firing at times blotted out all else, but now she could hear heavy breathing almost next to her. Exposed to their attackers, she dared not raise her head for a look, and so kept going a little further.

After another three feet, she parted the grass, and much to her surprise, found herself face-to-face with a young Maasai. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw her white face. He put down the spear he had been holding with its sharp point not a foot from her nose. Seeing his look of relief, she couldn’t help notice just how young he was.

She recalled reading about the Maasai, and how, when a boy was fifteen, after ceremonies that included circumcision, he was sent to live in a communal circle of huts with males of the same age. They matured in that environment for a number of years, before returning home to marry. Years before, the original ordeal for a boy of that age had been to kill a lion, using only his spear. Those who were successful returned heroes; but that tradition had been outlawed for some time. The question, then, was why he was out there alone. Was it for such a hunt? He had been given a couple of cows to keep for their milk and blood. That remained an important diet item for those semi-nomadic people, and such animals were their standard of wealth. Since he depended on them for his food, losing the cows could be tragic, which could be the reason he had been trying to defend them when he was wounded.

She handed him her canteen, rewarded by a grateful but painful smile. As he gulped the water thirstily, she looked for a bullet wound. Pinned down in the grass as they were, it was difficult for her to see much. His long cloak, mostly red, was sticky with blood and caked with dirt.

“Danny,” she called, “they’ve shot a Maasai boy, apparently in trying to steal his cows. Our approach kept them from closing in on him. He’s bleeding and nearly in shock from blood loss. I’ll need your help to drag him to safety!”

Dan’s reply, in-between two more shots, was, “Hold on, Crowley ought to be in position soon. When he does start firing, we’ll have our opportunity.”

She lay there, eyeball-to-eyeball with the boy, for what seemed like an hour. All the while, he bravely smiled at her. She couldn’t raise her head enough to find where he was bleeding, or to see if pressure or a tourniquet would help.

From the other side of the rock, Dan called, “My ammo is low. Can you toss some over here?”

Diana replied, “I’ll try. But this bandolier weighs a ton. I’ll push it to the corner with my feet so you can reach it. Chet should be in position by now.”

Just then a shot hit the boulder over her head, sending a shower of rock fragments in all directions, the bullet singing as it ricocheted away. 
Whew,
she thought,
that was too close. Come on, Chet!

Dan had just retrieved Diana’s bandolier when the staccato sound of the BAR on full automatic was heard. In three bursts he emptied a whole 20-round clip, and in the brief quiet during his insertion of a new one, they could hear a frantic mixture of speech and screaming behind the rock
pile. Another short burst brought silence. Standing up, the big Texan motioned them to advance.

“Danny,” she called, “Get Chet over here to help us with this boy. He’s more important than those other men, whoever they are.”

She got up, and for the first time found the bullet wound, just below his collarbone; firm pressure on it stemmed the slow flow of dark blood. Lucky, she thought, the bullet hadn’t hit the artery, or he’d be gone by now. She was also able to get a better look at his face.

“Hello,” she said, smiling, after trying a few halting words in Swahili. “Do you speak English?”

His lips formed some words, but they were hard to hear and mostly unintelligible. As she leaned closer, she could make out two words.

Standing up, she called out, “The boy indicates that our assailants are Mau Mau. What in the world are terrorists from Kenya doing here?”

The Pinkerton man joined them, carrying a British Lee-Enfield bolt-action army rifle along with his own weapon. “There were five of ’em, armed with these. They made the mistake of all huddlin’ together. I spose we should bury ’em ta keep the hyenas and vultures away.”

Opening the first-aid kit,
she dusted antibiotic powder on the boy’s wound and covered it with Vaseline gauze, then followed with a bandage. Looking up, she said, “There’s no time for that, Chet. We’ve got to get him to medical attention speedily, or either infection or internal bleeding will kill him.”