'That reinforces my argument for an adjournment, my lord.'
'You will be prepared to amplify your claim under oath, Mr Shelborne? Much may hinge on the legality of this deed of cession.'
I could sense the keyed-up restraint of Shelborne's replies. He seemed to have neither personal capital or backing. Why had he hung on to the concession for so long? To me there seemed something hidden behind his cautious replies about Caldwell. There was his hesitation, his studied choice of words, his lack of deference, almost, in speaking of the famous dead prospector. I tried to picture the parting of the two tough prospectors at Strandloper's Water, one returning to the coast and the other going forward to try to penetrate the pitiless wastes. Shelborne hadn't been bluffing when he spoke of the famous deserts he had conquered. I didn't see him staying behind while Caldwell went on to break open the Namib. Something did not add up about Shelborne. Men try desperate things for diamonds and I found myself wondering whether Caldwell's disappearance — itself a legend within the legend — could be laid at Shelborne's door.
The court adjourned and the Judge had scarcely gone when Shardelow beckoned impatiently for the deed of cession. 'Christ! I thought I was dealing with some broken-down old prospector trying to bum a ride on the Mazy Zed; instead I'm faced with… with… that!' He gestured after the tall figure, disappearing behind the Judge.
Rhennin himself was silent. He always was when the going was tough. During the war he had been personal Intelligence assistant to the Obeibefehlshaber der Marine, the German Naval High Command, and he was an immensely cool and capable man. Forty-eight years of age, he was seven years older than I, and though he hadn't a grey hair, his heavy-lidded eyes were heavier now that he was worried. Shorter than myself, he was in splendid physical trim; my own out-of-doors job kept me in pretty good shape, but I knew that I would have to be in top form for the task of surveying the Sperrgebiet. I had been on the fringe of the Namib myself and I knew Shelborne had not exaggerated when he called it a terrible wilderness.
I strolled out into the early winter sunshine. A glorious, incongruous burst of roses flanked the pavement, which had specially high kerbs to keep back the sand. The sea fog was rolling back to the sea, whence it commuted every day, and the air was fresh. I dodged a Lambretta which came buzzing along the street — private cars are prohibited among the 2500 whites and 5000 non-whites in Oranjemund for reasons of security. Only Land-Rovers and the trucks used by the mining company for transporting workers are allowed. The town is as much of a freak as the diamond fields which surround it: when the great diamond strikes were made in the late 1920s and 1930s, the diamond company, Consolidated Diamond Mines, established a small settlement of prefabs in the desert, all supplies except water had to be brought from a railhead 175 miles to the north by mule wagon. There is a small harbour, Port Nolloth, sixty miles south, but the Orange River floods cut it off from Oranjemund for months. The river, the biggest in Africa south of the Tropic of Capricorn, forms a vast muddy estuary, the mouth stopped up by innumerable sandbars. Since World War II, however, Oranjemund has been transformed by the bridging of the river: as our plane from Cape Town circled low over it the previous afternoon, Oranjemund was branded green on the dun flank of the desert. There was a still greener patch to the north of the town — a hydroponics farm, where all the town's vegetables are grown with an economy and cunning which rivals the compactness of a space rocket's commissariat. In fact, as I strolled about the town, the place reminded me of a cafe capsuled in space; only here, instead of space, there was desert. The red-roofed cottages seemed unreal in their snug suburban-looking security among lawns and shrubs on a spot where once men died in their frantic search for diamonds. Today, a fifth of a ton of gems is brought up yearly from beneath forty feet of desert sand, and it is sold for eighteen million pounds.
I was glad to get back to the realities of the courtroom. When the Judge had taken his seat Shardelow rose: 'Touching the validity of the German document, my lord…' There was a stir on the far side of the court, near where the girl sat. A big, pleasant, red-faced man, conspicuous in white bush-jacket, white shorts and pipeclayed shoes, was beckoning urgently to the court orderly. The orderly rose uncertainly. The Judge held up his hand to silence Shardelow.
'Watch this!' Rhennin whispered.
The big man seemed unaware of the ominous silence and the eyes turned upon him. He gave the orderly a note, who handed it to the Judge.
'What is your locus standi?' he snapped.
The newcomer looked nonplussed. 'I beg your pardon, my lord?'
'Who are you and what do you want? I will not have the proceedings of my court interrupted in this way…'
The white-clad man was very sure of himself. 'I am Colonel Duvenhage. I am in charge of security at Oranjemund.'
'I see. And that, you think, gives you the privilege of breaking into these proceedings?'
'It might.'
Mr Justice de Villiers was more icy still. 'Do I take it that you suspect someone in this court of smuggling diamonds?'
'Not as yet, my lord.'
'What do you mean?'
Duvenhage looked across at Shelborne. 'I wish to ask this gentleman a few questions. I want to know how he comes to be inside the security zone without having passed through any of the security checkpoints. I want to know where he comes from. I would like to search him.'
The Judge said tersely, 'You may put your questions through the court. You can search him at your leisure.'
Duvenhage smiled. 'A formality, my lord, to which you and your party were also subjected, you will remember, when you landed: X-rays. Frisking has been out of date for quite a while at Oranjemund.'
The Judge turned to Shelborne. 'Answer the questions.' Shardelow grinned to himself. Duvenhage had done more to discredit Shelborne in the fudge's eyes than half an hour of hostile cross-examination could have done.
One could see what was going on in his legal mind: if Shelborne were inside the security zone illegally, it would be easy to imply that there was also something shady about his prospecting concession.
Shelborne said, 'I came from the sea. In a twenty-ton cutter.'
'Nonsense,' snapped Duvenhage. 'The mouth of the river is not navigable. Everything is behind the barbed wire. There are police posts everywhere…'
'My cutter is anchored in Anvil Creek. I saw a road nearby and thumbed a lift in a lorry. I got off at this courtroom.'
Duvenhage paled under his tan. 'My God…!'
'This is a court of law, Colonel Duvenhage. Restrain your language.'
'Anvil Creek!' he exclaimed. 'I don't know any Anvil Creek
Shelborne smiled. 'Perhaps not, Colonel. It's probably got a new name since Caldwell and I discovered it.'
Duvenhage wiped the sweat off his hands with a handkerchief. He appealed to the fudge. 'My lord, it is simply not possible for any boat to negotiate the breakers and sandbars at the mouth and get right through to Oranjemund's doorstep, so to speak. No boat could survive…'
'Apparently it has been done, Colonel Duvenhage. Earlier this court heard that Mr Shelborne was a master mariner — in sail. It appears that he has not understated his qualifications.'
'But it cannot be done…'
The Judge cut him short. 'You also asked where Mr Shelborne came from. I trust we are in for no more surprises.'
'I sailed from Mercury Island.'
'Mercury!' exclaimed Duvenhage. 'Why, that's over 200 miles up the coast from here… in a twenty-ton cutter? Where is your crew…?'
'I have no crew. I sail single-handed.'
The Judge said: 'Mr Shelborne, to sum up: you sailed 200 miles or more from Mercury Island to the mouth of the Orange River, entered it by a feat of seamanship which leaves some doubts in Colonel Duvenhage's mind about the impregnability of his security arrangements, and your cutter is now lying at anchor close to the town in a creek which you found many years ago?'