immediately via SSB. There has been a nasty business at Kingazu Camp--very nasty.
Alistair Woking, DC
South Luangwa
PS. Dear chap, you know perfectly well that regulations require you to have SSB communications set up at every bush camp. It is most annoying to have to send a runner like this.
"I don't like the sound of that," said Helen Pendergast, looking over her husband's shoulder. "What do you think this 'nasty business' is?"
"Perhaps a photo tourist has suffered the amorous advances of a rhinoceros."
"That's not funny," Helen said, laughing all the same.
"It is rutting season, you know." Pendergast folded the note and shoved it in his breast pocket. "I'm very much afraid this means our shooting safari is over."
He walked over to the tent, opened a box, and began screwing together the battered pieces of an aerial antenna, which he then carried up into a musasa tree and wired to an upper branch. Climbing back down, he plugged the wire into the single side-band radio he had placed on the table, turned on the unit, adjusted the dials to the correct frequency, and sent out a call. In a moment the irritated voice of the district commissioner came back, squawking and scratchy.
"Pendergast? For God's sake, where are you?"
"Upper Makwele Stream camp."
"Blast. I was hoping you were nearer the Banta Road. Why the devil don't you keep your SSB connected? I've been trying to reach you for hours!"
"May I ask what's happened?"
"Over at Kingazu Camp. A German tourist was killed by a lion."
"What idiot allowed that to happen?"
"It wasn't like that. The lion came right into camp in broad daylight, jumped the man as he was walking back to his hut from the dining tent, and dragged him screaming into the bush."
"And then?"
"Surely you can imagine 'and then'! The wife was hysterical, the whole camp went into an uproar, they had to bring in a helicopter to airlift out the tourists. The camp staff left behind are scared shiteless. This fellow was a well-known photographer in Germany--bloody bad for business!"
"Did you track the lion?"
"We have trackers and guns, but nobody who'll go into the bush after this lion. Nobody with the experience--or the ballocks. That's why we need you, Pendergast. We need you down here to track that bugger and... well... recover the remains of the poor German before there's nothing left to bury."
"You haven't even recovered the body?"
"Nobody will go out there after the bloody thing! You know what Kingazu Camp is like, all the dense brush that's come up because of the elephant poaching. We need a damned experienced hunter. And I needn't remind you that terms of your professional hunting license require you to deal with rogue man-eaters as, and if, it becomes necessary."
"I see."
"Where'd you leave your Rover?"
"At the Fala Pans."
"Get cracking as fast as you can. Don't bother breaking camp, just grab your guns and get down here."
"It'll take a day, at least. Are you sure there isn't anyone closer who can help you?"
"Nobody. At least, nobody I'd trust."
Pendergast glanced at his wife. She smiled, winked, mimed the shooting of a pistol with one bronzed hand. "All right. We'll get moving right away."
"One other thing." The DC's voice hesitated and there was a silence over the radio, filled with hissing and crackling.
"What?"
"Probably not very important. The wife who witnessed the attack. She said..." Another pause.
"Yes?"
"She said the lion was peculiar."
"How so?"
"It had a red mane."
"You mean, a little darker than usual? That's not so uncommon."
"Not darker than usual. This lion's mane was deep red. Almost blood red."
There was a very long silence. And then the DC spoke again. "But of course it can't be the same lion. That was forty years ago in northern Botswana. I've never heard of a lion living more than twenty-five years. Have you?"
Pendergast said nothing as he switched off the radio, his silvery eyes glittering in the dying twilight of the African bush.
2
Kingazu Camp, Luangwa River
THE LAND ROVER BANGED AND LURCHED ALONG the Banta Road, a bad track in a country legendary for them. Pendergast turned the wheel violently left and right to avoid the yawning potholes, some almost half as deep as the bashed-up Rover. The windows were wide open--the air-conditioning was broken--and the interior of the car was awash in dust blown in by the occasional vehicle passing in the other direction.
They had left Makwele Stream just before dawn, making the twelve-mile trek through the bush without guides, carrying nothing but their weapons, water, a hard salami, and chapati bread. They reached