He turned his attention to the trestle table against the opposite wall. Here, in the shadow, there was a bewildering array of wires, knobs and valves which comprised the fort’s radio receiving and transmitting set. He was supposed to use this once a week to tap out a routine report to Tala Baku. But D’Aran knew from past experience that the instrument seldom worked properly because the intense heat soon dried the power out of the batteries. Sometimes it took a couple of days’ hard tapping before one was able to transmit the two words ‘All Correct’ to Baku. Then, in all probability, there would be another day of agonised listening with the headphones on before one picked up the reply ‘Signal Acknowledged’.
D’Aran sighed. He rose slowly from his bunk, rubbing his seat. He crossed to a tarnished wall mirror and inspected himself in it.
He saw a young and intelligent face which was prematurely lined at the corners of the mouth. He saw large grey eyes which had once sparkled with happiness, but which did so no longer. He saw curly black hair which needed the application of brush and comb.
“Andre,” he told himself harshly, “you’re a damned fool! In three months you’ll return to Tala Baku and you’ll be arrested. And when the whole story comes out… you’ll go to prison…”
He grimaced at his reflection. Then he added: “In the meantime you have the three months to think about it… and about her…”
D’Aran hesitated. Then he groped in his tunic breast pocket. He pulled out what had once been an entire photograph. But now it was like a carelessly assembled jig-saw puzzle. For, in a moment of jealous desperation, he had torn the picture into many pieces. And, when was calm again, he had pieced them together and pasted them to a sheet of paper. The result was not flattering to Lucinne. But her dark, tempestuous beauty could still be detected. And D’Aran’s memory supplied the rest.
He fingered the distorted portrait tenderly. His care-worn face relaxed. And he whispered: “I think you were worth it…”
Lieutenant D’Aran was still gazing at the picture when Sergeant Vogel knocked and came in.
Vogel saluted correctly but indifferently.
“Man officier,” he announced in French, which was heavily laden with Dutch vowels, “some men on horseback are approaching from the north.”
At first D’Aran regarded the bulky sergeant with distaste. He had been almost happy in his reverie.
“Well? That’s not very unusual, is it?”
The phlegmatic Vogel was unmoved.
“They are not Arabs, mon officier,” he said with heavy emphasis.
D’Aran looked at his sergeant with new interest.
“Not Arabs! Then who are they?”
“They seem to be white men, but I am not sure. They are still some distance away. I counted twelve of them.”
D’Aran picked up his kepi and fastened his tunic buttons. Then, after a brief search, he found his binoculars in his valise. He slung them over his shoulders and strode out, Vogel following.
The sunlight in the open compound was blinding. D’Aran shielded his eyes as he crossed to the north wall and mounted the few steps to the ridiculously low ramparts. Two legionnaires were on duty here. They were staring across the sand.
The legionnaires on the other ramparts were also staring north. There was an atmosphere of repressed expectancy.
D’Aran stared through the glasses, fumbling with the focus wheel. He whistled under his breath as he saw the approaching horsemen. They were no more than a mile off, and their details could easily be seen. Sergeant Vogel had been right. They were not Arabs. Their skins were white—almost startlingly so. As if they were strangers to the desert. They rode good and tough animals. The twelve of them were stretched out in a precise line. It was odd, that line. It was almost like the slow, walking approach of cavalry. It was disciplined in a way one would not expect from men who were dressed in civilian alpaca suits and rather old-fashioned pith helmets.
Vogel said: “They must have travelled a long way, mon officier. They’ve brought four pack-mules. And they have a spare horse.”
D’Aran raised his glasses very slightly and saw the mules. They were heavily laden.
He said: “Why are they out here? There’s nothing to interest civilians in this area.”
Vogel said: “I think we’ll soon know the answer. They must be intending to visit us.”
“Whether they intend to visit us or not is beside the point,” D’Aran muttered. “They are civilians and we are responsible for their safety, so I must know where they are going and if they are capable of finding their way. If they get lost in this area, I will be held responsible and…”
He broke off. He suddenly realised that his conduct in the fort was not likely to concern the Legion much in future. Already the news of his crime might be circulating through Tala Baku. Already orders might have been given for his arrest on his return. His military future was certain to be brief. All because of what he did for her…
With an effort, D’Aran subdued the thought. He dropped the binoculars in their leather case and said: “Sergeant Vogel—you’d better walk out and meet these people. Present them with my compliments and ask them into the fort.”
Vogel nodded and saluted. When he had gone, D’Aran wondered why he had given the order. On the face of it, it was a stupid one, even though it might be explained on the ground of courtesy. It was very unlikely that the travellers would attempt to ignore the only military base (and the only white habitation) within sixty miles.
Yet some instinct had compelled him to send Vogel out there. An instinct which knew no reason. Unless… unless it was that he wanted to see what the travellers would do when the sergeant approached them.
Oui! That was it! D’Aran found himself facing an unpleasant truth. He was not merely puzzled by the appearance of the twelve white men. He was also uneasy about it. He had a feeling, growing steadily stronger, that all was far from well.
From his slight elevation he watched Vogel stride through the open gates. He had a sense of the dramatic, had Vogel. He had donned a red-lined sergeant’s dress cape for the occasion. And he had substituted a braided kepi for his sun-faded cap.
D’Aran gazed after him for a while. Then, to rest his eyes, he glanced round the compound. He was surprised and mildly annoyed. Being early afternoon, the entire garrison, except those on guard duty, were supposed to be resting. But most of the legionnaires had left their bunks and had mounted the north ramparts at a respectful distance from D’Aran. All of them were improperly dressed. Some had not even bothered to put on their tunics, and their tanned bodies glittered as they lounged against the stonework.
For a moment D’Aran thought of ordering them away. But he dismissed the idea, for the men’s curiosity was understandable. And in a tiny fort such as this, the commanding officer (if he was wise) closed his eyes to many things which would be intolerable in a larger and less isolated base.
He looked again towards Vogel and the horsemen. They were less than half a mile distant and only a few yards separated them.
He saw the horsemen draw rein. He saw Vogel salute as a sudden gust of hot breeze revealed the redness within his cape.
D’Aran raised his glasses again and watched the travellers form a semi-circle round Vogel. They were talking. He could detect the head and arm movements which accompany conversation. Then, like the opening of a fan, the horsemen spread out and started again towards the fort. Vogel—a dwarfed and unimportant-looking Vogel—was walking in the centre.