Such few houses that he saw, however - mainly peasant huts or the dwellings of subsistence farmers who scratched a living from the stony soil - were strung out along the hillside far from the road without even a track wide enough for a vehicle leading to them. So the traffic must either be heading all the way south to Goiás and the next state (which seemed unlikely) or to some other place further up the valley. Yet the maps he had, admittedly imprecise, showed no sign of any large habitation before Aguacalinda... which was some distance on the other side of the pass and was in any case smaller than San Felipe itself.
If the maps were in any way correct, the valley which had been drowned by the reservoir curved around and ran almost parallel with the one he was in right up to the watershed. Between the trees to his right every now and then he could see the high wire fence enclosing the property - which seemed to confirm the geographers in their mapping.
When he was two or three miles from the gates and, the guard house, he stopped the car under a grove of trees and climbed the steep side of the valley on the opposite side of the road from the fence.
The trees were dense and for the first half hour it was tough going. Then he came out onto a stretch of rocky ground where it was easier to pick his way. And finally he stopped where the rough slope met the vertical cliffs lining the gorge.
But the guard had been right. Even from here he could see nothing of the artificial lake beyond the far side of the defile. Behind the opposite rock face the barren ground rose again and cut off his view before it dropped to the next valley. At his feet, the road and the dried up river bed snaked through the trees.
He scrambled back down the mountainside and crossed the road to examine the wire fence.
As he had expected, there were alarm wires threaded along its length - although these were surprisingly not electric, but the simple mechanical kind which actuated buzzers or bells. Every few yards there were notices saying: DANGER! THIS IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OFF! WARNING IS GIVEN TO TRESPASSERS THAT THE GROUND BEYOND THIS FENCE IS PATROLLED BY ARMED GUARDS AND BY DOGS.
He returned to the car and drove on. After another mile and a half, the fence curved away up the steepening hillside to pass around a sizable property bordering the road. There was a long, low, two-storied house with wooden balconies, a group of outbuildings, and palm trees behind a high hedge of some shrub. An estancia, would it be? A hacienda?... No, that was Spanish, surely. But anyway it was a demesne very different in style from the poor cabins scattered along the other side of the valley.
It was when he had gone about ten minutes' drive past the place, and the road was beginning to zigzag up wards, obviously on its way to the saddle across the watershed, that he realized the evidence of heavy traffic was no longer visible. The dusty spaces between the pot holes were bare of tire marks.
He turned and drove back towards the property, pulling the VW off the road a quarter of a mile short of it and running the car behind a thicket to hide it from the road.
Once again he forced his way up the hillside to the rock face and scanned the valley below through field glasses.
The estancia was clearly visible beyond a stretch of woods. Behind the dense hedges, there seemed to be quite a number of people busied about various tasks, among them a number of women in the distinctive green tweed uniforms of the D.A.M.E.S. They must be sweltering in those clothes at this temperature! Illya thought.
There were several station wagons and a few private cars parked between the house and the barns. As he watched, some large American convertible carrying three men and three girls prowled around the edge of the building and cruised down towards the gate. One of the girls got out to open the gate and then the car sped away northwards towards Getuliana in a cloud of dust. Judging from their movements, all six of the occupants appeared to be somewhat drunk.
Illya's binoculars had remained trained on the gateway, though. The powerful Zeiss lenses clearly showed up the beaten earth of the entrance - and the myriad marks of heavy wheels passing over it. The mystery of where all the traffic on the road had gone was solved: obviously all of it turned in here!
But where did the heavy trucks go when they had made the turn? There were none visible there now - and although the estancia was large enough, there was certainly no accommodation for convoys as big as the one he had seen leaving the airstrip earlier. There had still been trucks loading material from the transport planes when he had left to follow the first convoy, however; even if he had lost the first one, there should be a second coming along some time soon. Then he could find out.
He would have to find a different viewpoint, nevertheless. Various belts of trees intercepted his vision where he was now. He began working his way back down to wards the car.
When he was about halfway there, he emerged from a screen of bushes to find a poorly dressed Indian standing with his back to him on a piece of level ground, staring flint-faced across the valley at the estancia.
"Nice place?" Kuryakin said, lacking a suitable opening.
The Indian swung slowly around and stared at him impassively.
"I mean, it's a bit of a surprise, finding a big place like that out here," Illya went on. "All the others are so small, you know."
"Nice place, sure, if you have money," the Indian said bitterly.
"It belongs to rich people, then? From the city?
"Surprise, too, to all the people live here. All the people have houses and farms that are take away and put under lake," said the man - who appeared to make a practice of answering always the question before the one that had just been asked.
The agent looked suitably encouraging and said nothing.
"I had a farm - small place, but I like - over there," the Indian continued, waving an arm towards the opposite side of the valley. "Now it is take away and I am given small, poor house here with stony ground and some money. But money cannot give me back thirty years work on that farm - and my father before. Now I am not even allowed to walk past and look into water!"
"But I thought the ladies down there dressed in green had helped to iron out – or – to - to make easy all the problems with those who had to move for the dam."
"Ladies!" the man burst out. "Ladies? Our women are not allowed to behave like that in private - and certainly not in public. It is disgrace… drunken and singing and shouts and unseemly acts."
"Really? You surprise me. But this is an American -"
"Why should these foreign women be permitted to mock our customs in this way? It is disgrace."
"Understood. This is not the first time I have heard such complaints. Do all the women connected with the dam behave like that?"
But the Indian suddenly bit his lower lip, an expression of guarded watchfulness closing up his face. "I say too much," he muttered. "It is not permitted. It is forbidden to speak of these matters."
"By whom?"
"The gods will be angry and spoil our crops."
"Who says so? Who says you mustn't speak?"
"The caboclo. It is instruction."
"Caboclo?"
"The old one, the mouthpiece of the spirits. Pai Hernando told me so. Through the caboclo he speaks with the spirits."
"What name did you say?" Illya almost shouted.
"Pai Hernando. The father-of-saint at the Candomblé down there."