Their obvious lack of comprehension depressed Craig even more.
As they trudged back up the hill to their quarters, a thought struck Craig and he turned to Peter Fungabera.
"All the men here are Matabele, aren't they?"
"That is true," Peter nodded. "We keep the tribes segregated it reduces friction." "Are there any Shana detainees?" Craig insisted.
oh, yes, Peter assured him. "The camps for them are up in the eastern highlands exactly the same conditions-" At sunset the generator powering the radio was started and twenty minutes later Peter Fungabera came down to the dugout where Craig was re-reading and correcting his writing of the previous night.
"There is a message for you, Craig, relayed by Morgan Oxford at the American Embassy." Craig jumped to his feet eagerly. He had arranged for Henry Pickering's reply to be passed on to him as soon as it was received. He took the sheet of notepaper on which Peter had jotted the radio transmission, and read; "For Mellow. Stop. My personal enthusiasm for your project not shared by others. Stop. Ashe Levy unwilling to advance or guarantee. Stop. Loans Committee here requires substantial additional collateral before funding. Stop. Regrets and best wishes. Henry." Craig read the message once fast and then again very slowly.
"None of my business," Peter Fungabera murmured, "but I presume this concerns your plans for the place you call Zambezi Waters?" "That's right and it puts the kibosh on those, I'm afraid," Craig told him bitterly.
"Henry?"
"A friend, a banker perhaps I relied on him too much." "Yes," Peter Fungabera said thoughtfully, "it looks that way, doesn't it?" Even though he had missed the previous night, Craig had difficulty sleeping. His mat was iron-hard and the hellish chorus of the hyena pack in the forest echoed his sombre mood.
On the long drive back to the airstrip at Tuti Mission, he sat beside the driver and took no part in the conversation of Peter and Sally' Anne in the seat behind him.
Only now did he realize how much store he had set on buying Rholands, and he was bitterly angry with Ashe Levy who had refused his qupport and with Henry Pickering who had not tried hard' enough and his damned Loans Committee who couI& not see the ends of their own noses.
Sally-Anne insisted on stopping once again at the mission schoolhouse to renew her acquaintance with Sarah, the Matabele teacher.
This time Sarah was prepared and offered her visitors tea. In no mood for pleasantries, Craig found a seat on the low veranda wall well separated from the others, and began scheming without real optimism how he might circumvent Henry Pickering's refusal.
Sarah came to him demurely with an enamel mug of tea
07 on a carved wooden tray. As she offered it, her back was turned to Peter Fungabera.
"When the man-eating crocodile knows the hunter is searching for him, he buries himself in the mud at the bottom of the deepest pool," she spoke softly in Sindebele, "and when the leopard hunts, he hunts in darkness." Startled, Craig looked into her face. Her eyes were no longer downcast, and there was a fierce and angry glow in their dark depd-is.
"Fungabera's puppies must have been noisy," she went on just as softly, "they could not feed while you were here.
They would have been hungry. Did you hear them, Kuphela?" she asked, and this time Craig started with surprise. Sarah had used the name that Comrade Lookout had given him. How had she known that? What did she mean by Fungabera's puppies?
Before Craig could reply, Peter Fungabera looked up and saw Craig's face. He rose to his feet easily but swiftly, and crossed the veranda to Sarah's side. Immediately the black girl dropped her gaze from Craig's face, bobbed a little curtsey and retired with the empty tray.
"Do not let your disappointment depress you too much, Craig. Do come and join us." Peter placed a friendly hand on Craig's shoulder.
On the short drive from the mission station to the airstrip Sally-Anne suddenly leaned forward and touched Craig's shoulder.
"I have been thinking, Craig. This place you call Zambezi Waters can only be about half an hour's flying time from here. I found the Chizarira river on the map.
We could make a small detour and fly over it on the way home."
"No point. "Craig shook his head.
"Why not?" she asked, and he passed her the sheet of notepaper with Pickering's message.
"Oh, I am so sorry." It was genuine, Craig realized, and her concern comforted him a little.
J would like to see the area," Peter Fungabera cut in suddenly, and when Craig shook his head again, his voice hardened. "We will go there," he said with finality, and Craig shrugged his indifference.
Craig and Sally-Anne pored over her map. "The pools should be here, where this stream joins the main river course And she worked swiftly with callipers and her wind-deflection computer.
"Okay," she said. "Twenty-two minutes" flying time with this wind." While they flew, and Sally-Anne studied the terrain and compared it to her map, Craig brooded over the Matabele girl's words. "Fungabera's puppies." Somehow it sounded menacing, and her use of the name "Kuphela" troubled him even more. There was only one explanation: she was in touch with, and was probably a member of, the group of dissident guerrillas. What had she meant by the leopard and crocodile. allegory and Fungabera's puppies?
And whatever it was, just how unbiased and reliable would she be if she were a guerrilla sympathizer?