“And your mother? Does she feel the same way?”
“Oh, she’s in love with it. She wouldn’t know what to do if you put her down in a civilized country.”
“She writes all the time?”
“All the time. Every day. Mostly about out-of-the-way places. We’re about to go down to Fort Charlet. Do you know it?”
He seemed reasonably sure that Port would not know Fort Charlet. “No, I don’t,” said Port. “But I know where it is. How’re you going to get there? There’s no service of any kind, is there?”
“Oh, we’ll get there. The Touareg will be just Mother’s meat. I have a great collection of maps, military and otherwise, which I study carefully each morning before we set out. Then I simply follow them. We have a car,” he added, seeing Port’s look of bewilderment. “An ancient Mercedes. Powerful old thing.”
“Ah, yes, I saw it outside,” murmured Port.
“Yes,” said the young man smugly. “We always get there.”
“Your mother must be a very interesting woman,” said Port.
The young man was enthusiastic. “Absolutely amazing. You must meet her tomorrow.”
“I should like very much to.”
“I’ve packed her off to bed, but she won’t sleep until I get in. We always have communicating rooms, of course, so that unfortunately she knows just when I go to bed. Isn’t married life wonderful?”
Port glanced at him quickly, a little shocked at the crudity of his remark, but he was laughing in an open and unaware fashion.
“Yes, you’ll enjoy talking with her. Unluckily we have an itinerary which we try to follow exactly. We’re leaving tomorrow noon. When are you pulling out of this bellhole?”
“Oh, we’ve been planning to get the train tomorrow for Bousif, but we’re not in any hurry. So we may wait until Thursday. The only way to travel, at least for us, is to go when you feel like going and stay where you feel like staying.”
“I quite agree. But surely you don’t feel like staying here?”
“Oh God, no!” laughed Port. “We hate it. But there are three of us, and we just haven’t all managed to get up the necessary energy at one time.”
“Three of you? I see.” The young man appeared to be considering this unexpected news. “I see.” He rose and reached in his pocket, pulling out a card which he handed to Port. “I might give you this. My name is Lyle. Well, cheer-o, and I hope you work up the initiative. May see you in the morning.” He spun around as if in embarrassment, and walked stiffly out of the room.
Port slipped the card into his pocket. The barman was asleep, his head on the bar. Deciding to have a last drink, he went over and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The man raised his head with a groan.
VIII
“Where have you been?” said Kit. She was sitting up in bed reading, having dragged the little lamp to the very edge of the night-table. Port moved the table against the bed and pushed the lamp back to a safe distance from the edge. “Guzzling down in the bar. I have a feeling we’re going to be invited to drive to Boussif.”
Kit looked up, delighted. She hated trains. “Oh, no! Really? How marvelous!”
“But wait’ll you hear by whom!”
“Oh God! Not those monsters!”
“They haven’t said anything. I just have a feeling they will.”
“Oh well, that’s absolutely out, of course.”
Port went into his room. “I wouldn’t worry about it either way. Nobody’s said anything. I got a long story from the son. He’s a mental case.”
“You know I’ll worry about it. You know how I hate train rides. And you come in calmly and say we may have an invitation to go in a car! You might at least have waited till morning and let me have a decent night’s sleep before having to make up my mind which of the two tortures I want.”
“Why don’t you begin your worrying once we’ve been asked?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” she cried, jumping out of bed. She stood in the doorway, watching him undress. “Good night,” she said suddenly, and shut the door.
Things came about somewhat as Port had imagined they would. In the morning, as he was standing in the window wondering at the first clouds he had seen since mid-Atlantic, a knock came at the door; it was Eric Lyle, his face suffused and puffy from having just awakened.
“Good morning. I say, do forgive me if I’ve awakened you, but I’ve something rather important to talk about. May I come in?” He glanced about the room in a strangely surreptitious manner, his pale eyes darting swiftly from object to object. Port had the uncomfortable feeling that he should have put things away and closed all his luggage before letting him in.
“Have you had tea?” said Lyle.
“Yes, only it was coffee.”
“Aha!” He edged nearer to a valise, toyed with the straps. “You have some nice labels on your bags.” He lifted the leather tag with Port’s name and address on it. “Now I see your name. Mr. Porter Moresby.” He crossed the room. “You must forgive me if I snoop. Luggage always fascinates me. May I sit down? Now, look, Mr. Moresby. That is you, isn’t it? I’ve been talking at some length with Mother and she agrees with me that it would be much pleasanter for you and Mrs. Moresby—I suppose that’s the lady you were with last night—” he paused.
“Yes,” said Port.
“—if you both came along with us to Boussif. It’s only five hours by car, and the train ride takes ages; something like eleven hours, if I remember. And eleven hours of utter hell. Since the war the trains are completely impossible, you know. We think—”
Port interrupted him. “No, no. We couldn’t put you out to that extent. No, no.”
“Yes, yes,” said Lyle archly.
“Besides, we’re three, you know.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Lyle in a vague voice. “Your friend couldn’t come along on the train, I suppose?”
“I don’t think he’d be very happy with the arrangement. Anyway, we couldn’t very well go off and leave him.”
“I see. That’s a shame. We can scarcely take him along, with all the luggage there’d be, you know.” He rose, looked at Port with his head on one side like a bird listening for a worm, and said: “Come along with us; do. You can manage it, I know.” He went to the door, opened it, and leaned through toward Port, standing on tiptoe. “I’ll tell you what. You come by and let me know in an hour. Fifty-three. And I do hope your decision is favorable.” Smiling, and letting his gaze wander once more around the room, he shut the door.
Kit literally had not slept at all during the night; at daybreak she had dozed off, but her sleep was troubled. She was not in a receptive mood when Port rapped loudly on the communicating door and opened it immediately afterward. Straightway she sat up, holding the sheet high around her neck with her hand, and staring wildly. She relaxed and fell back.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got to talk to you.”
“I’m so sleepy.”
“We have the invitation to drive to Boussif.”
Again she bobbed up, this time rubbing her eyes. He sat on the bed and kissed her shoulder absently. She drew back and looked at him. “From the monsters? Have you accepted?”
He wanted to say “Yes,” because that would have avoided a long discussion; the matter would have been settled for her as well as for him.
“Not yet.”
“Oh, you’ll have to refuse.”
“Why? It’ll be much more comfortable. And quicker. And certainly safer.”
“Are you trying to terrify me so I won’t budge out of the hotel?” She looked toward the window. “Why is it so dark out still? What time is it?”
“It’s cloudy today for some strange reason.”
She was silent; the haunted look came into her eyes.
“They won’t take Tunner,” said Port.
“Are you stark, raving mad?” she cried. “I wouldn’t dream of going without him. Not for a second!”
“Why not?” said Port, nettled. “He could get there all right on the train. I don’t know why we should lose a good ride just because he happens to be along. We don’t have to stick with him every damned minute, do we?”