"The big concern is the map," I said, "and whether you can read the hieroglyphics. Can you?"
"Oh yes. In my time on the mountainside, I had many hours to continue my studies. And I took along textbooks from anthropologists and sociologists, who have recorded the hieroglyphics of all the ancient tribes in Central and South America. I knew them by heart when I was actively teaching, but I could have forgotten them in thirty years, as I forgot the trail to the cave. Fortunately, I loved my work as a professor of anthropology, so I kept up. However…"
We all sucked in breath, anticipating another round of bad news. We got it.
"The critical area of the map is far too faint to be seen, even by the best of eyes. The map shows a trail leading from an ancient encampment over there…" he raised a long arm and pointed off to the west — "to a point near the mouths of seven valleys." He pointed to the northeast. "But that section concerning the hollows and the cave itself are so faded that — I'm sorry, but it's hopeless."
Bad news — in spades. He could read the map, but seeing it hadn't lifted the veil that covered his memory, hadn't triggered any sharp or even faint details of the route to the cave entrance. And a vital part of the map was too faded to be read.
"What I don't understand," I said, "is how Ancio — or Don Carlos — was able to use this map to find the cave entrance."
"It was easy for him," Pico said. "As Chief Botussin said, he was coached by the old man who entrusted the map to him. And there's another thing. This fading is a recent thing, brought on by Ancio's careless handling of the map. Then, again, the man had all the time in the world to find that cave, while our time, you must admit, is sorely limited."
There was a deep silence in the twin circles in the hot sun and the square of the Ninca village. Old Pico looked from face to face, then returned to a study of the map. More minutes passed. My watch read out at 12:36. Less than eight hours to go. If we had the answer this very minute, I calculated, it would take us two hours to get to the cave entrance, depending on which hollow it was in. That would give us six hours to make what had been calculated as a four-hour climb. We had, then, two hours to spare, two hours in which to learn the mystery of the map.
It was obvious to all of us that we wouldn't be able to make out that damned map in two hours, two days, or even two years. Perhaps even two lifetimes. Fat old Botussin began to shift nervously on the stool his buttocks had swallowed up on the ground. He was anxious to end this fruitless confab and set up his defenses against Don Carlos Italla's elite corps. We could expect them just minutes after the 8:30 signal was given. I knew the old chief was considering moving the Indian village back to the ancient site shown on the map. That would give the Nincas more time, but we all knew that the elite corps would soon find that location. In a matter of days, perhaps even hours.
By tomorrow at this time, there would be no more Ninca Indians in the country of Nicarxa. And, unless another miracle occurred, no more Nick Carter. After my killing of Col. Ramon Vasco, I could count on the fact that my name was high on the list of kills, probably higher than the names of the Nincas.
Pico stirred on the ground, held the map up toward the sun to look at it from a new angle. We waited for Botussin to call an end to the meeting, to start preparing his final defenses. The chief opened his mouth to speak, but Pico held up his enormous hand for silence. He had a new thought. Good news or bad news?
"High above my plateau," he said, more to himself than to the rest of us, "there is a certain herb I found that I boiled into a clear liquid. I coated the print on some of my books, print that was growing faint. Or perhaps it was only my eyes going faint. In any event, the print grew darker, more distinct. I could read it more easily."
He paused again and we were all up on our toes, waiting for him to go on. Even old Botussin was leaning forward so far that I expected to hear the invisible legs of his stool snap like matchsticks. He wouldn't have much of a fall, his overflowing buttocks were almost touching the ground as it was. Behind me, Elicia had sucked in her breath and was holding it. I wondered if her brown skin would turn blue if the old hermit didn't continue talking soon.
"Of course," Pico went on, "the liquid used on my books might destroy this old parchment altogether, or it may not work at all. In my opinion, it is worth a try."
It was good news, or potentially good news.
"How long will it take?" I asked, still clock-conscious.
Pico shrugged. "Miracles must not be shackled to the schedules of man," he said. "It will take however long it takes. I will return when the task is done. If it is successful, I will return to help find the entrance to the cave. If it is not, I will return to help defend against the elite corps."
He got up and started off alone. I knew that the elite corps was already taking up positions in the region, in anticipation of Don Carlos Italla's flare signal. I also knew that the guerillas guarding the mouths of the seven hollows would still be out searching for those who had killed so many of their number.
"Some of us will go with you, Pico," I said, stopping the hermit. "Your journey is perhaps the most important ever taken in this country. We can't have you ambushed and killed on the trail."
"I will accept an escort to a certain point," Pico said, grinning again to show that he wasn't ready yet to let others know of his hidden plateau. "But you must remain here, Senor Carter."
"Oh, no you…"
"That is a condition," Pico said curtly. "If you are to lead the climb up the chimney, if we find the cave, you will need all the strength you possess. You have pushed yourself too much already. If you don't stay and rest, I will not even try to clarify the mysteries of this old map."
A part of me accepted what he said; that part of me wanted to rest, to let the tensions and the fatigue drain away. Another part, the part that has made me the top Killmaster for AXE, wanted to continue to push, to be in on the action, all the action. The first part won.
I watched from the edge of the square as the giant hermit went down the trail. He was flanked by Antonio and Purano. Behind them went two dozen warriors, spears in hand. I kept my weapons just in case the guerillas from the hollows found their way into the Ninca camp.
Chief Botussin arose from his stool and I was surprised to find that it hadn't been damaged, that the legs hadn't been punched into the ground.
"You sleep," he said, pointing to the council hut. "My servants will clear out the flies and put shades over the windows and door to provide quiet dark for your slumber. Don't expect the hermit for at least two hours. Sleep well."
Some order that. If it took Pico two hours to return with the solution, that left only six hours. The climb up the chimney would take four hours, at least, but there was a two-hour journey to the seven hollows. We had no slack time at all. With such troubled thoughts, I lay on the pallet in the darkened council hut to try to sleep. Elicia, I presumed, had gone off to stay with the tribal women until Pico's return. I hadn't seen her when I had turned back from watching Pico, Antonio, Purano and the warriors disappear down the trail.
I lay there and felt the hopelessness, the desolation, of our plight settle down over my mind. It was hopeless, and I knew it. That parchment was two hundred years old and the ink used to make those symbols had no relationship whatever to the inks used in Pico's books. The herbs he found above the plateau wouldn't have the same effect on the parchment that it had on the books. But I was willing to go along because the experiment spelled hope for these people. If they were to die in a matter of hours — days at the most — let them retain hope as long as possible. The death of hope has always signalled the death of the cause. But hope, I was convinced, was all that we had to go on now.