Then, the cameraman came back holding his nose in one hand and the camera in the other.
"What's wrong?" Nancy hissed.
"It dumped a load. Christ. It stinks!"
"That was inevitable. It's been feeding for six hours straight. "
The stagnant air made the smell worse. The others walked around the steaming lump of matter. But Nancy, wearing a filter mask, crept up to it and using a twig, poked a sample loose and into a glass jar, which she quickly capped. There was a blank label on which she inscribed the date and the words Specimen #1.
For the better part of the day, they kept moving. The Bantus took turns spelling Thorpe. At one point, the beast let out a blood-chilling roar and they thought it was about to turn ugly.
A miasmic cloud enveloped those in the rear and it was Skip King who figured it first. "The damn thing farted!"
After that, no one was willing to walk directly in the creature's tramped-down wake.
By evening, it did something they should have expected but didn't.
It stopped, looked around as if casing the area, and dropped its belly to the grass. The tail curled close to its body and the head settled flat on the grass.
"Oh my God, it's dead!" King wailed.
"Don't jump to conclusions! Who wants to investigate?"
"I'll take the trick," Thorpe said, motioning for two Bantus to follow him.
Together, they crept up on the creature. He walked around to the head, his body language indicating he was ready to shoot or run if the creature made a sudden move, and probably both.
Thorpe crept back.
"It's asleep," he reported.
"What do we do now?" King complained. "He's going to throw us all off schedule."
"You're right."
"I am?"
"Yes. We can't let him sleep away the night."
"Right."
"It was your idea," Nancy said. "Go wake him."
Skip King had his mouth open. He shut it. His eyes closed. "I am not in my element here," he muttered to no one in particular and went off to sit in the shade of a tulip tree and talk to himself in a low angry voice.
"Good," said Nancy. "This is the perfect opportunity for me to do something important."
Thorpe asked, "What?"
"I'm going to be the first zoologist to sex a dinosaur."
Nancy approached the reptile. They shone a light all over its tail, under the curve of his hind legs and generally poked around.
She came back with a disappointed look on her face.
"No luck?"
"Whatever he or she's got, it's well hidden."
"At least you didn't wake the brute."
It was while the Apatosaur slumbered that the Land Rovers were heard.
"Now who could that be?" Thorpe muttered aloud, peering into the hot twilight.
"Government men, maybe," Nancy ventured.
"Could be. Why don't I take a look?"
Taking two Bantus, Thorpe went toward the sound. The three were lost to sight in a matter of moments.
The first shot was not loud. But the ones that followed were. They cracked in the distance like firecrackers.
Then there was silence. The Apatosaur slumbered on.
Thorpe turned up twenty minutes later. Only one of the Bantus was with him and he clutched a wounded right shoulder.
"What happened?"
"Bandits. "
"Bandits?"
"Blokes in camouflage outfits driving Land Rovers."
"Not government men?"
"Government men wear khaki, not fatigues. These lads had green berets. Very French. There's nothing French about the Gondwanaland Army. They did for poor Tyrone, though. He's dead."
Nancy bandaged the other native as she asked questions.
"Poachers?"
"Poachers don't wear matching berets. These lads dressed all of a type. Can't rightly make it out, actually. "
"What do you think they want?"
"There's a lot of famine west of these parts. Fresh meat can fetch a pretty farthing on the black market."
Nancy looked up. Thorpe was staring at the slumbering dinosaur, his leathery features grim.
"You can't mean Jack?" she said. "He's the last of his kind. Worth more alive than butchered!"
Thorpe shrugged. "Out here meat is meat. I fancy even a few of these Bantus may be willing to try human flesh if things got desperate enough for them. I'm not sure I'd pass it up if the situation was sufficently sticky."
Grimly, Nancy finished what she was doing. She stood up.
"Will they be back?"
"Hard to tell. But we're sitting ducks as long as Old Jack is disposed to count sheep."
Nancy Derringer made a hard face. "I want a rifle."
"You ever handle a big-game rifle before?"
"No, but you're going to teach me. If those bastards so much as show their faces, I'm going to put them all to sleep!"
"You know," Skip King said slowly, "I think Africa's gone to your head."
"Better than it going to my gonads, like some people I know."
Remo was staring at the sprawling fieldstone structure that occupied a corner lot on a busy residential street.
It was not as big as he had expected. There were only two stories. Or was it three? It was hard to tell from the outside. Rows of dormer windows had been built into the sloping roof, turning attic space into a possible third floor.
At first glance, it did look like a castle. Also, like a Gothic church. Parts of it reminded Remo of a Swiss chalet, although it actually had Tudor features.
"It's hideous," Remo croaked.
"It is magnificent," said Chiun gliding across the street to the low wrought-iron gate.
"Oh no," Remo groaned. "He loves it."
"I thought he might," said Smith, relief in his voice. "I had better give him the key."
"Not so fast," Remo said. "What is this thing?"
"Why, Chiun's castle."
"Castle, my foot. It looks like a freaking church on steroids. You expect me to live there?"
"If you do not like it, Remo, I will be glad to make other arrangements for you. There are several condominium apartments available in the neighborhood."
Chiun floated through the gate and up a short flight of steps to the double doors. Oval windows decorated each door. Like a small child, he pressed his button nose to the glass and peered within.
The Master of Sinanju turned, his face rapturous.
"It is everything I have ever wanted," Chiun cried. Remo mounted the steps two at a time and started throwing cold water on Chiun's enthusiasm.
"I don't know, Little Father."
"What do you mean, Remo?"
"I don't think this is worthy of a Master of Sinanju."
"Remo, please," Smith pleaded.
"Where's the moat?" Remo said quickly.
Chiun looked around, as if seeing the grounds for the first time. The building was set back from the sidewalk. It was landscaped with sculpted shubbery, and mock-gaslight electric lamps studded the grounds. Tasteful flowers were in bloom. There were paved walkways and a small blacktop parking lot.
But no moat.
"We can't live in a castle without a moat," Remo said. "What will the Queen Mother say if she comes to visit?"
"A moat can be built," Chiun said.
"A dry moat is feasible," Smith said hastily.
"And it's next to a school," Remo added.
"What is wrong with that?" Chiun asked.
"The noise is going to be murder."
The Master of Sinanju looked west, where the sandstone school loomed over his domain.
"The play of happy children will bring joy to our days," he said. "And it will be good for the child who is about to be born. He will have many to play with."
"Chiun, it's a high school."
"This is fitting. The one who is about to be born deserves only the best, highest schools in the land. Emperor Smith, you have chosen well."
Remo groaned.
"Why don't we go in?" Smith said, unlocking the door.
Inside, there were many doors off a central corridor and stairs leading upward.