‘Oh Christ,’ said MacConnachie.

‘Quite,’ said Ansell, and lay his face in the dirt to rest.

Something had been achieved: looking back, MacConnachie saw that although they had travelled only two hundred yards from the river, their increased elevation had revealed the outskirts of a small fishing village to their left. There was a wooden jetty with one or two native craft lying against it, a handful of villagers in attendance, but, so far as he could see, no sign of danger. He told Ansell to keep watch. Then he settled to examine the cluster of huts. Within moments he had located the village square and, most important, the well. The kid was right. They had to have water. He set his eyes to absorb and fix a plan of the village in his mind. He trusted his eyes, as he trusted every part of his physical mechanism, not to let him down. They were the adjuncts of his instinct; he had no need to think.

After minutes of complete stillness MacConnachie looked at the sky.

‘One hour to sunset. Kid, where’s that camp?’

‘Which one?’

‘The one they were marching us to.’

‘How would I know?’

MacConnachie looked at him sharply.

‘Use your bloody brains! Think!’

‘One hour to sunset? We usually get in about eight or nine. That’s three hours from the top. Not far, the condition they’re in.

‘They’ll look for us tonight, then.’

‘They might. But with trucks and helicopters, why should they hurry?’

‘Um… look.’

MacConnachie nodded towards the village, indicating it to Ansell for the first time.

‘That’s handy.’

‘We’ve got to get higher up. We must see forward before we turn back.’

As MacConnachie levered himself upright, the gun clutched awkwardly behind him, Ansell suddenly hissed,

‘Get down! ’

MacConnachie dropped at once.

‘What?’

‘There’s someone coming!’

‘Where?’

‘Up there!’

MacConnachie wriggled quickly along to the end of the shelf, where he could lay his face against the rising ground and look up the hillside. A civilian Goon was hopping sure-footedly down towards them, turned a little sideways to his own line of march and travelling the steep slope on confident, muscular legs: a fisherman, perhaps, from the near-by village. If he kept to his present course he would land beside them. Keep coming, MacConnachie thought; just keep coming.

Ansell came up beside MacConnachie and laid his face close to the big man’s. MacConnachie muttered,

‘If he’ll stop, just long enough, he’s a dead man.’

Ansell looked at the Goon, then back to MacConnachie.

‘Why?’

The man was closing rapidly.

‘Get to the other end of the ledge! Keep hidden!’

There was no time to argue. Stiff with tension, Ansell backed as quickly as he could, never taking his eyes from MacConnachie, one foot against the bottom of the cut to guide him. He saw MacConnachie arch back, drop the gun, and push it out with his foot into the open area of the shelf. MacConnachie then flattened himself into the ground until even Ansell had difficulty in locating his exact position. Ansell did his best to emulate him.