The Martian Pendant (14 page)

Dan said, “What are we waiting for?”

Together, the two men gently lifted the softly moaning boy into the back of the scout car. As he put the vehicle in gear, Chet remarked, “This ain’t goin’ ta help the hyena problem at camp much.”

Dan agreed, pointing a finger at him. “They’ll be occupied here for only a couple of nights. But you’ll just have to post more guards after that, Crowley.”

Their arrival at camp caused a stir when the Maasai was brought in. Those men had often seemed so threatening. Diana convinced Max that emergency medical attention was essential, requiring that she fly the boy to Dar immediately. After the plane was gassed up and the boy was gently lifted into the rear seat and strapped in, she took off without delay. His lanky body was a poor fit in the seat, but it couldn’t be helped. Unlike some L-5’s, their Stinson had not been modified to accommodate a stretcher.

It was late afternoon, and Diana was worried. Since it would be dark by the time they arrived at Dar, she had to count on the runway being adequately lighted. She knew the route in daylight would be easy over the now-familiar terrain, but she worried about finding her way after dark. She would use the radio at sunset to notify them of the need for lights and an ambulance.  After seeing her off, the two security men sat down outside, cleaning their weapons. Then Chet expressed his concern for Diana's safety.

Dan, who felt the same way, said, “You know, Crowley, she’s an excellent pilot. I’ve flown with her. I wouldn’t worry about her in that plane.”

Chet responded after scanning the sky, “It’s not her flyin’ ah’m thinkin’ about. It’s that crocodile in the spaceship. Miss Howard didn’t get any practice firin’ her rifle today. She’s probably a good shot, but ah worry about a missed shot ricochetin’ off those bulkheads. They can be more dangerous than a clean slug, when distorted by impact.”

Dan reflected on that. “Yeah, I know. I was a tanker in the war. I’ve seen fragments bounce around inside a Sherman, tearing huge holes when they finally hit a man.” 

The Texan eyed Dan closely, saying, “Ah’ve noticed that ya hanker fer her, so listen, here’s mah idea. While she’s away in the plane, let’s us two take care of that varmint.”

Dan perked up at that, inquiring, “What’s your plan? Until they enlarge those ports, we can’t go in there after it ourselves, you know.”

“Yer really a city boy, ain’t ya, Stuart?” Crowley remarked. “We’ll just lure it ta come out ta us. When ah was a young buck, we’d hunt ’gators in the bayous on the Gulf Coast. They’d hole up in caves in the banks, but could be enticed out with bait.”

Dan became excited, shouting, “Let’s get on it! We’ll need a big chunk of beef or pork, won’t we? We’ll just lie in wait, and when it sticks its head out, no more croc.”

“Not so fast, Stuart,” Chet said, “We’ll also have ta throw in some chum, like in fishin’, ta get it down ta the openin’ first, and then one of us will have ta be nearby, and wide-awake when it comes out after the meat. Y’know, it could leave the ship on the other side somewhere, and come around ta our side.”

Dan enthused, “We’ll nail it then, for sure.”

“Hold yer horses, young fella,” the Pinkerton again cautioned, “Ah said ya have ta stay wide-awake. Ah saw ya after lunch today. Even after a cup of java, ya seemed ta be driftin’ off ta sleep. Those monsters can move fast when they’re after prey, and if yer dozin’, the bait won’t be beef or pork, it’ll be ol’ Dan Stuart.”

“Then just give me my rifle and a pot of strong coffee,” Dan replied, “and my stakeout post will be on top of the ship, well out of reach of those jaws.”

*    *    *

When Diana radioed the control tower at the airfield, they turned on the lights to make the landing easy for her and the wounded Maasai slumped in the passenger seat. The boy, under her close supervision, was carefully lifted out and taken to the waiting ambulance. The medics were somewhat upset that their charge was a native, but grudgingly followed her instructions to drive him to the Royal Victoria Hospital in the center of town. On arrival, there was the same reaction. It seems that natives, or Kaffirs, as the whites and Arabs called them, were to be treated at the hospital on the outskirts of town that was set aside for them.

Diana looked at the boy, now barely conscious, his pulse thready, his skin cool and a sickly grayish-yellow. “I’m afraid,” she said to the admitting clerk, “that he won’t last long enough to get there. My organization will guarantee the cost of his care if it comes to that.”

The surgeon on call had the beard and turban of a Sikh; he took one look at the Maasai and his wound, and called to the nurse, “Type and cross-match him for three pints of whole blood. Start a pint of plasma immediately, and notify the surgery suite that we’re on our way. Luckily, that pressure dressing seems to have staunched the flow of blood from the wound and probably sealed his chest cavity from sucking air, or he’d never have survived all this.”

“But, sir,” the nurse protested, “he should be at the native facility, you know that!”

Hearing that, rage transformed the Sikh’s face. “Nurse, I command you to do what I say. This human life depends on immediate treatment, not a seven-mile trip to another hospital. If you won’t help, stand aside, and I’ll do your work for you, with the help of this lady!”

Diana stepped forward then, volunteering, “Just tell me what to do, I’m sure I can start an I.V.”

Hearing that, the nurse said, “Of course, Mr. Sethi, just as you say.” Quickly going to the cabinet behind her for the supplies needed, she became a model of efficiency, drawing blood from the boy’s slim arm and starting the plasma intravenously. She then went to the phone as instructed. “Operating suite? This is Emergency. We have a serious gunshot wound for you. It’s in the right subclavicular region. He’s lost a good deal of blood, but we should have him out of shock by the time you can set up for Mr. Sethi. It will be an exploration, debridement and repair.”

As the doors to surgery closed behind the gurney carrying the wounded patient, Diana sat down to wait. She was dog-tired, but she knew her job wouldn’t be finished until she could be sure the boy’s aftercare would be paid for. The late hour kept her from calling the only source she knew locally for help, the Ministry of Mines and Oil Exploration. She dreaded having to contact that sinister character, whatever his name was. As she fell into a fitful sleep there in the chair, she resolved to call him in the morning.

A couple of hours later, she was awakened by the nurse gently shaking her. Sleepily, she asked, “How did it go with the Maasai boy?”

The nurse smiled at her, replying, “He’ll be fine, thanks to your flying him here, and Mr. Sethi’s skill. He was able to repair the subclavian vein, and patch the wall of the artery next to it, bulging as it was like a balloon ready to burst. He may have some weakness in his arm, as there was some contusion of the brachial plexus of nerves.”

In her sleep-deprived condition, and after having been in the U.S. for a couple of years, Diana asked herself,
Mister Sethi?
  Then she recalled that surgeons proudly answered to that title in the British Empire, instead of to “Doctor.”

“Miss,” the nurse went on, “there still is the problem of the cost for the care received, you know.”

Now fully awake, Diana said, “You will recall that I gave you my guarantee when we first came in. Since then, I’m reminded by the title ‘Mister,’ that the National Health Scheme will handle it all. British, you know.” The nurse looked at her for a moment, and then said, “I wouldn’t know about that, but the Administration Office is open now, and I’m sure they would be happy to discuss it with you.”

After freshening up, Diana visited the Finance Secretary. It appeared that while the National Health Scheme would ultimately cover him, the fact that he had not been treated at the designated facility had created a mountain of red tape.

“In time, I’m sure,” the Secretary reassured her, “they will pay. But that could be months from now, and our budget is such that immediate payment is required. Since you pledged that you would be responsible, I’m afraid we must hold you to that, sorry.”

“Well, I haven’t more than a few pounds on me,” Diana observed, “but perhaps I could get an advance from the Ministry of Mines. They have collected a substantial bond from our organization, and perhaps some of that can be utilized.”

“That office is just down the street. I’ll ring them up for you,” the woman across the desk volunteered.

After a short interval, a voice announced, “Office of the Ministry.” The Secretary explained the situation, and then turned to Diana, saying, “The Minister is away, but his assistant is coming to the telephone.”

“Hello, First Assistant Minister Rodney Kindred here.” It was a friendly voice, and sounded like Cambridgeshire, bringing a sigh of relief from Diana.

She began by introducing herself, and then informed him of the problem with the Maasai boy. “You’re just down the street, I understand,” she continued. “I think you should see him. He appears to have been on a lion hunt, all by himself, except for two cows, and armed with just a spear and a knife. His weapons are special, the most artistically decorated I’ve seen. I know our expedition’s involvement is the only reason Mines and Oil might be interested in a gunshot wound, but the men who shot him and then ambushed us may have been part of a group that poses a threat to our expedition.”

He immediately replied, “I’ll be right there, it won’t take five minutes.” Then he hung up.

Kindred, a tall, sunburned man, arrived just after Diana had asked about visiting hours. He nodded to her, bowing slightly as he offered his hand. Crisply, he said, “Rodney Kindred, at your service. I’d like to see your interesting Maasai straightaway, if you don’t mind.”

As they proceeded down the hall, Diana offered, “I’m indeed glad you came. We seem to have rather a problem, not only with the hospital costs but also with the mystery about the Maasai, and the attack. The culprits, I’m told, were Kikuyu, and armed with British Army Enfields, not what native hunters use out on the plain.”

He stopped, frowning at that information, and then exclaimed, “By Jove!” Then he looked down at her warmly, remarking, “You sound very Cambridge. I’m from East Anglia to the west. I’m happy to be in a position to help any Americans such as those of your organization. During the war, I had the pleasure of working with Yank flyers who came over to help in the fight. I’ll never forget them, for their kindnesses and sacrifice. Their Airbase at Framlingham took over most of my family’s farm, but their efforts helped spell the difference against the Nazis. When the war was over and they left, it didn’t seem the same. So I came here, originally to continue farming, but when I got to know the natives and their way of life, I decided they needed enlightened governance more than I needed a farm. So here I am.”

As they reached the surgical ward, she said, “That’s an interesting story. I spent some time at Framlingham myself during the war.” Then she added, “I hope the Maasai boy can tell us something. Are you familiar with their tongue? We may have to get an interpreter otherwise.”

“Yes,” he said, “I do speak their language, originally Maa, but more and more becoming mixed with Swahili these days.”

He opened the door for her, and they entered the spacious ward. Rows of beds lined one wall, with the boy placed at the far end. When he saw Diana, his face lit up with a wide smile, showing perfect white teeth set against his chestnut skin. She was amazed at how he had improved from his near-moribund condition when last she saw him. She gestured toward Kindred, in a form of introduction.

Leaning over the boy, he said a few words that were unintelligible to her, but which brought back that wonderful smile. “I gave him our best wishes for a quick recovery,” he said, “and now I’ll ask him about his family and how he happened to be alone on the plain.”

They talked earnestly for several minutes, but seeing the boy tire, the nursing sister intervened, asking them to come back after her patient had a chance to rest. Diana squeezed the boy’s left arm, smiled and then waved. The Englishman said a few words, and they departed.

“I told him we’d visit him later,” he said to her. “Now over luncheon and tea, or, if you prefer, coffee, we should talk.”

Waiting to be served, he looked thoughtfully at her for a minute, and then said, “He won’t tell me anything about his tribe, or the reason for his being out there on the plain alone. It appears that he has been away from his people for some time. He knows lion hunting is illegal now, but won’t deny that was his purpose. I think he knew who his assailants were, but whether it was some kind of intertribal conflict, or just a chance encounter, he wouldn’t divulge. He wouldn’t even tell me his name. Usually, talking to a native, one can figure out what is going on by the evasiveness and the omissions, but this boy is a blank. He may be totally naïve, or very well trained. I have no idea. But I agree with you, he must be special somehow.”

Diana was ravenous, and showed it when the food arrived. In between bites of chicken curry, she told him about the five Mau-Mau that Crowley had killed in the ambush. Kindred gave that some thought, and said, “I don’t think they were engaging in terrorism here in Tanganyika. They’re on the run in Kenya, as you probably know, and the movement for independence here is peaceful. I think they have either turned highwaymen or mercenaries.”

“The question is, which?” she rejoined. “I don’t think they would attack a lone boy, just for two cows. That may mean they were kidnappers intending to hold him for ransom.”