RAGE

 Wilbur Smith

  

 Tara Courtney had not worn white since her wedding day. Green was her

 favourite colour, for it best set off her thick chestnut hair.

 However, the white dress she wore today made her feel like a bride

 again, tremulous and a little afraid but with a sense of joy and deep

 commitment. She had a touch of ivory lace at the cuffs and the high

 neckline, and had brushed her hair until it crackled with ruby lights in

 the bright Cape sunshine. Excitement had rouged her cheeks and although

 she had carried four children, her waist was slim as a virgin's. So the

 wide sash of funereal black that she wore over one shoulder was all the

 more incongruous: youth and beauty decked in the trappings of mourning.

 Despite her emotional turmoil, she stood with her hands clasped in front

 of her and her head bowed, silent and still.

 She was only one of almost fifty women, all dressed in white, all draped

 with the black sashes, all in the same attitude of mourning, who stood

 at carefully spaced intervals along the pavement opposite the main

 entrance of the parliament buildings of the Union of South Africa.

 Nearly all of the women were young matrons from Tara's own set, wealthy,

 privileged and bored by the undemanding tenor of their lives. Many of

 them had joined the protest for the excitement of defying established

 authority and outraging their peers. Some were seeking to regain the

 attentions of their husbands which after the first decade or so of

 marriage were jaded by familiarity and fixed more on business or golf

 and other extra marital activity. There was, however, a hard nucleus to

 the movement consisting mostly of the older women, but including a few

 of the younger ones like Tara and Molly Broadhurst. These were moved

 only by revulsion at injustice.

 Tara had tried to express her feelings at the press conference that

 morning when a woman reporter from the Cape Argus had demanded of her,

 'Why are you doing this, Mrs Courtney?" and she had replied, 'Because I

 don't like bullies, and I don't like cheats." For her that attitude was

 partially vindicated now.

 'Here comes the big bad volf,' the woman who stood five paces on Tara's

 right said softly. 'Brace up, girls!" Molly Broadhurst was one of the

 founders of the Black-Sash, a small determined woman in her early

 thirties whom Tara greatly admired and strove to emulate.

 A black Chevrolet with government licence plates had drawn up at the

 corner of Parliament Square and four men climbed out on to the pavement.

 One was a police photographer and he went to work immediately, moving

 quickly down the line of white-clad, blackdraped women with his

 Hasselblad camera, photographing each of them. He was followed by two

 of the others brandishing notebooks.

 Though they were dressed in dark, ill-cut business suits, their clumpy

 black shoes were regulation police issue and their actions were brusque

 and businesslike as they passed down the ranks demanding and noting the

 names and addresses of each of the protesters. Tara, who was fast

 becoming something of an expert, guessed that they probably ranked as

 sergeants in the special branch, but the fourth man she knew by name and

 by sight, as did most of the others.

 He was dressed in a light grey summer suit with brown brogues, a plain

 maroon tie and a grey fedora hat. Though of average height and

 unremarkable features, his mouth was wide and friendly, his smile easy

 as he lifted his hat to Molly.

 'Good morning, Mrs Broadhurst. You are early. The procession won't

 arrive for another hour yet." 'Are you going to arrest us all again

 today, Inspector9' Molly demanded tartly.

 'Perish the thought." The inspector raised an eyebrow. 'It's a free

 country, you know." 'You could have fooled me." 'Naughty Mrs

 Broadhurst!" He shook his head. 'You are trying to provoke me." His

 English was excellent, with only a faint trace of an Afrikaans accent.

 'No, Inspector. We are protesting the blatant gerrymandering of this

 perverse government, the erosion of the rule of law, and the abrogation

 of the basic human rights of the majority of our fellow South Africans

 merely on the grounds of the colour of their skins." 'I think, Mrs

 Broadhurst, you are repeating yourself. You told me all this last time

 we met." The inspector chuckled. 'Next you'll actually be demanding

 that I arrest you again. Let's not spoil this grand occasion--' 'The

 opening of this parliament, dedicated as it is to injustice and

 oppression, is a cause for lament not celebration." The inspector tipped

 the brim of his hat, but beneath his flippant attitude was a real

 respect and perhaps even a little admiration.

 'Carry on, Mrs Broadhurst,' he murmured. 'I'm sure we'll meet again

 soon,' and he sauntered on until he came opposite Tara.

 'Good morning to you, Mrs Courtney." He paused, and this time his

 admiration was unconcealed. 'What does your illustrious husband think

 of your treasonable behaviour?" 'Is it treason to oppose the excesses of

 the National Party and its legislation based on race and colour,

 Inspector?" His gaze dropped for a moment to her bosom, large and yet

 finely shaped beneath the white lace, and then returned to her face.

 'You are much too pretty for this nonsense,' he said. 'Leave it to the

 grey-headed old prunes. Go home where you belong and look after your

 babies." 'Your masculine arrogance is insufferable, Inspector." She

 flushed with anger, unaware that it heightened the looks he had just

 complimented.

 'I wish all traitoresses looked the way you do. It would make my job a

 great deal more congenial. Thank you, Mrs Courtney." He smiled

 infuriatingly and moved on.

 'Don't let him rattle you, my dear,' Molly called softly. 'He's an

 expert at it. We are protesting passively. Remember Mahatma Gandhi?

 With an effort Tara controlled her anger, and reassumed the attitude of

 the penitent. On the pavement behind her the crowds of spectators began

 to gather. The rank of white-clad women became the object of curiosity

 and amusement, of some approbation and a great deal of hostility.

 'Goddamn commies,' a middle-aged man growled at Tara. 'You want to hand

 the country over to a bunch of savages. You should be locked up, the

 whole lot of you? He was well dressed, and his speech cultivated. He

 even wore the small brass tin hat insignia in his lapel to signify that

 he had served with the volunteer forces during the war against fascism.

 His attitude was a reminder of just how much tacit support the ruling

 National party enjoyed even amongst the English-speaking white

 community.

 Tara bit her lip and forced herself to remain silent, head bowed, even

 when the outburst earned a ragged ironical cheer from some of the

 coloured people in the growing crowd.

 It was getting hot now, the sunshine had a flat Mediterranean

 brilliance, and though the mattress of cloud was building up above the

 great flat-topped bastion of Table Mountain, heralding the rise of the

 south-easter, the wind had not yet reached the city that crouched below

 it. By now the crowd was dense and noisy, and Tara was jostled, she

 suspected deliberately. She kept her composure and concentrated on the

 building across the road from where she stood.

 Designed by Sir Herbert Baker, that paragon of Imperial architects, it

 was massive and mposing, red brick colonnaded in shimmering white - far

 from Tara's own modern taste, which inclined to uncluttered space and

 lines, to glass and light Scandinavian pine furnishing. The building

 seemed to epitomize all that was inflexible and out-dated from the past,

 all that Tara wanted to see torn down and discarded.

 Her thoughts were broken by the rising hum of expectation from the crowd

 around her.

 'Here they come,' Molly called, and the crowd surged and swayed and

 broke into cheers. There was the clatter of hooves on the hardmetalled

 roadway and the mounted police escort trotted up the avenue, pennants

 fluttering gaily at the tips of their lances, expert horsemen on matched

 chargers whose hides gleamed like burnished metal in the sunlight.

 The open coaches rumbled along behind them. In the first of these rode

 the governor-general and the prime minister. There he was, Daniel

 Malan, champion of the' Afrikaners, with his forbidding almost froglike

 features, a man whose only consideration and declared intent was to keep

 his Volk supreme in Africa for a thousand years, and no price was for

 him too high.

 Tara stared at him with palpable hatred, for he embodied all that she

 found repellent in the government which now held sway over the land and

 the peoples which she loved so dearly. As the coach swept past where

 she stood, their eyes met for a fleeting moment and she tried to convey

 the strength of her feelings, but he glanced at her without a flicker of

 acknowledgement, not even a shadow of annoyance, in his brooding gaze.

 He had looked at her and had not seen her, and now her anger was tinged

 with despair.

 'What must be done to make these people even listen?" she wondered, but

 now the dignitaries had dismounted from the carriages and were standing

 to attention during the playing of the national anthems. And though Tara

 did not know it then, it was the last time 'The King' would be played at

 the opening of a South African Parliament.

 The band ended with a fagfare of trumpets and the cabinet ministers

 followed the governor-general and the prime minister through the massive

 front entrance doors. They were followed in turn by the opposition

 front-benchers. This was the moment Tara had been dreading, for her own

 close family now formed part of the procession. Next behind the leader

 of the opposition came Tara's own father with her stepmother on his arm.

 They made the most striking couple in the long procession, her father

 tall and dignified as a patriarchal lion, while on his arm Centaine de

 Thiry CourtneyMalcomess was slim and graceful in a yellow silk dress

 that was perfect for the occasion, a jaunty brimless hat on her small

 neat head with a veil over one eye; she seemed not a year older than

 Tara herself, though everybody knew she had been named Centaine because

 she had been born on the first day of the twentieth century.

 Tara thought she had escaped unnoticed, for none of them had known she

 intended joining the protest, but at the top of the broad staircase the

 procession was held up for a moment and before she entered the doorway

 Centaine turned deliberately and looked back.

 From her vantage point she could see over the heads of the escort and

 the other dignitaries in the procession, and from across the road she

 caught Tara's eye and held it for a moment. Although her expression did

 not alter, the strength of her disapproval was even at that range like a

 slap in Tara's face. For Centaine the honour, dignity and good name of

 the family were of paramount importance. She had warned Tara repeatedly

 about making a public spectacle of herself and flouting Centaine was a

 perilous business, for she was not only Tara's stepmother but her

 mother-in-law as well, and the doyenne of the Courtney family and

 fortune.

 Halfway up the staircase behind her Shasa Courtney saw the direction and

 force of his mother's gaze, and turning quickly to follow it saw Tara,

 his wife, in the rank of black-sashed protesters.

 When she had told him that morning at breakfast that she would not be

 joining him at the opening ceremony, Shasa had barely looked up from the

 financial pages of the morning newspaper.

 Suit yourself, my dear. It will be a bit of a bore,' he had murmured.

 'But I would like another cup of coffee, when you have a moment." Now

 when he recognized her, he smiled slightly and shook his head in mock

 despair, as though she were a child discovered in some naughty prank,

 and then he turned away as the procession moved forward once again.

 He was almost impossibly handsome, and the black eye-patch gave him a

 debonair piratical look that most women found intriguing and

 challenging. Together they were renowned as the handsomest young couple

 in Cape Town society. Yet it was strange how the passage of a few short

 years had caused the flames of their love to sink into a puddle of grey

 ash.

 'Suit yourself, my dear,' he had said, as he did so often these days.

 The last back-benchers in the procession disappeared into the House, the

 mounted escort and empty carriages trotted away and the crowds began to

 break up. The demonstration was over.

 'Are you coming, Tara?" Molly called, but Tara shook her head.

 'Have to meet Shasa,' she said. 'See you on Friday afternoon." Tara

 slipped the wide black sash off over her head, folded it and placed it

 in her handbag as she threaded her way through the dispersing crowd. She

 crossed the road.

 She saw no irony in now presenting her parliamentary pass to the doorman

 at the visitors' entrance and entering the institution against whose

 actions she had been so vigorously protesting. She climbed the side

 staircase and looked into the visitors' gallery. It was packed with

 wives and important guests, and she looked over their heads down into

 the panelled chamber below to the rows of sombre-suited members on their

 green leather-covered benches, all involved in the impressive ritual of

 parliament. However, she knew that the speeches would be trivial,

 platitudinous and boring to the point of pain, and she had been standing

 in the street since early morning. She needed to visit the ladies room

 as a matter of extreme urgency.

 She smiled at the usher and withdrew surreptitiously, then turned and

 hurried away down the wide panelled corridor. When she had finished in

 the ladies room, she headed for her father's office, which she used as

 her own.

 As she turned the corner she almost collided with a man coming in the

 opposite direction. She checked only just in time, and saw that he was

 a tall black man dressed in the uniform of a parliamentary servant.

 She would have passed on with a nod and a smile, when it occurred to her

 that a servant should not have been in this section of the building

 during the time when the House was in session, for the offices of the

 prime minister and the leader of the opposition were at the end of the

 corridor. Then again, although the servant carried a mop and pail,

 there was something about him that was neither menial nor servile and

 she looked sharply at his face.

 She felt an electric tingle of recognition. It had been many years, but

 she could never forget that face - the features of an Egyptian pharaoh,

 noble and fierce, the dark eyes alive with intelligence. He was still

 one of the finest-looking men she had ever seen, and she remembered his

 voice, deep and thrilling so that the memory of it made her shiver

 slightly. She even remembered his words: 'There is a generation, whose

 teeth are as swords ... to devour the poor from the earth." It was this

 man who had given her the first glimmer of understanding as to what it

 was like to be born black in South Africa. Her true commitment dated

 from that distant meeting. This man had changed her life with a few

 words.

 She stopped, blocking his path, and tried to find some way to convey her

 feelings to him, but her throat had closed and she found she was

 trembling from the shock. The instant he knew he had been recognized,

 he changed, like a leopard coming on guard as it becomes aware of the

 hunters. Tara sensed she was in danger, for a sense of African cruelty

 invested him, but she was unafraid.

 'I am a friend,' she said softly, and stood aside to let him pass.

 Our cause is the same." He did not move for a moment, but stared at her.

 She knew that Then he passed around the corner him, and her heart

 throat.

 he would never forget her again, his scrutiny seemed to set her skin on

 fire, and then he nodded.

 'I know you,' he acknowledged, and once again his voice made her shiver,

 deep and melodious, filled with the rhythm and cadence of Africa. 'We

 will meet again." on and without a backward glance disappeared of the

 panelled corridor. She stood staring after was pounding, her breath

 burned the back of her 'Moses Gama,' she whispered his name aloud.

 'Messiah and warrior of Africa --' then she paused and shook her head.

 'What are you doing here, in this of all places?" The possibilities

 intrigued and stirred her, for now she knew with a deep instinct that

 the crusade was afoot, and she longed to be part of it. She wanted to do

 more than merely stand on a street corner with a black sash draped over

 her shoulder. She knew Moses Gama had only to crook his finger and she

 would follow him, she and ten million others.

 'We will meet again,' he had promised, and she believed him.

 Light with joy she went on down the passageway. She had her own key to

 her father's office and as she fitted it to the lock, her eyes were on a

 level with the brass plate: COLONEL BLAINE MALCOMESS DEPUTY LEADER OF

 THE OPPOSITION With surprise she found that the lock was already opened,

 and she pushed the door wide and went in.

 Centaine Courtney-Malcomess turned from the window beyond the desk to

 confront her. 'I have been waiting for you, young lady." Centaine's

 French accent was an affectation that annoyed Tara. She has been back

 to France just once in thirty-five years, she thought, and lifted her

 chin defiantly.

 'Don't toss your head at me, Tara chbrie,' Centaine went on.

 'When you act like a child, you must expect to be treated as a child."

 'No, Mater, you are wrong. I do not expect you to treat me as a child,

 not now or ever. I am a married woman of thirty-three years of age, the

 mother of four children and the mistress of my own establishment."

 Centaine sighed. 'All right,' she nodded. 'My concern made me

 illmannered, and I apologize. Let's not make this discussion any more

 difficult for each other than it already is." 'I was not aware that we

 needed to discuss anything." 'Sit down, Tara,' Centaine ordered, and

 Tara obeyed instinctively ,! !

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 and then was annoyed with herself for doing so. Centaine took her

 father's chair behind the desk, and Tara resented that also - it was

 Daddy's chair and this woman had no right to it.

 'You have just told me that you are a wife with four children,' Centaine

 spoke quietly. 'Would you not agree that you have a duty--' 'My

 children are well cared for,' Tara flared at her. 'You cannot accuse me

 of that." 'And what about your husband and your marriage9." 'What about

 Shasa?" Tara was immediately defensive.

 'You tell me,' Centaine invited.

 'It's none of your business." 'Oh, but it is,' Centaine contradicted

 her. 'I have devoted my entire life to Shasa. I plan for him to be one

 of the leaders of this nation." She paused and a dreamy glaze covered

 her eyes for a moment, and she seemed to squint slightly.

 Tara had noticed that expression before, whenever Centaine was in deep

 thought, and now she wanted to break in upon it as brutally as she

 could. 'That's impossible and you know it." Centaine's eyes snapped

 back into focus and she glared at Tara.

 'Nothing is impossible - not for me, not for us." 'Oh yes it is,' Tara

 gloated. 'You know as well as I do that the Nationalists have

 gerrymandered the electorate, that they have even loaded the Senate with

 their own appointees. They are in power for ever. Never again will

 anyone who is not one of them, an Afrikaner Nationalist, ever be this

 country's leader, not until the revolution and when that is over, the

 leader will be a black man,' Tara broke off and thought for an instant

 of Moses Gama.

 'You are naYve,' Centaine snapped. 'You do not understand these things.

 Your talk of revolution is childish and irresponsible." 'Have it your

 own way, Mater. But deep down you know it's so.

 Your darling Shasa will never fulfill your dream. Even he is beginning

 to sense the futility of being in opposition for ever. He is losing

 interest in the impossible. I wouldn't be surprised if he decides not

 to contest the next election, gives up the political aspirations that

 you have foisted on him and simply goes off to make himself another

 trillion pounds." 'No,' Centaine shook her head. 'He won't give up. He

 is a fighter like I am." 'He'll never be even a cabinet minister, let

 alone prime minister,' Tara stated flatly.

 'If you believe that, then you are no wife for my son,' Centaine said.

 Wou said it,' Tara said softly. 'You said it, not me." Oh, Tara, my

 dear, i am sorry." Centaine reached across the desk but it was too broad

 for her to touch Tara's hand. 'Forgive me. I lost my temper. All this

 is so desperately important to me. I feel it so deeply, but I did not

 mean to antagonize you. I want only to help you - I am so worried about

 you and Shasa. I want to help, Tara.

 Won't you let me help you?" 'I don't see that we need help,' Tara lied

 sweetly. 'Shasa and I are perfectly happy. We have four lovely

 children--' Centaine made an impatient gesture. 'Tara, you and I

 haven't always seen eye to eye. But I am your friend, I truly am. I

 want the best for you and Shasa and the little ones. Won't you let me

 help you?" 'How, Mater? By giving us money - you have already given us

 ten or twenty million - or is it thirty million pounds? I lose track

 sometimes." 'Won't you let me share my experience with you? Won't you

 listen to my advice?" 'Yes, Mater, I'll listen. I don't promise to take

 it, but I'll listen to it." 'Firstly, Tara dear, you must give up these

 crazy left-wing activities. You bring the whole family into disrepute.

 You make a spectacle of yourself, and therefore of us, by dressing up

 and standing on street corners.  Apart from that, it is positively

 dangerous. The Suppression of Communism Act is now law. You could be

 declared a communist, and placed under a banning order. Just consider

 that, you would become a non-person, deprived of all human rights and

 dignity. Then there is Shasa's political career. What you do reflects

 on him." 'Mater, I promised to listen,' Tara said stonily. 'But now I

 withdraw that promise. I know what I am doing." She stood up and moved

 to the door where she paused and looked back. 'Did you ever think,

 Centaine Courtney-Malcomess, that my mother died of a broken heart, and

 it was your blatant adultery with my father that broke it for her? Yet

 you can sit there smugly and advise me how to conduct my life, so as not

 to disgrace you and your precious son." She went out and closed the

 heavy teak door softly behind her.

 Shasa Courtney lolled on the opposition front bench with his hands

 pushed deeply into his pockets, his legs thrust out and crossed-at the

 ankles, and listened intently to the minister of police outlining the

 legislation which he intended bringing before the House during the

 current session.

 The minister of police was the youngest member of the cabinet, a man of

 approximately the same age as Shasa, which was extraordinary. The

 Afrikaner revered age and mistrusted the inexperience and impetuosity of

 youth. The average age of the other members of the Nationalist cabinet

 could not be less than sixty-five years, Shasa reflected, and yet here

 was Manfred De La Rey standing before them, a mere stripling of less

 than forty years, setting out the general contents of the Criminal Law

 Amendment Bill which he would be proposing and shepherding through its

 various stages.

 'He is asking for the right to declare a state of emergency which will

 put the police above the law, without appeal to the courts,' Blaine

 Malcomess grunted beside him, and Shasa nodded without looking at his

 father-in-law. Instead he was watching the man across the floor.

 Manfred De La Rey was speaking in Afrikaans, as he usually did.

 His English was heavily accented and laboured, and he spoke it

 unwillingly, making only the barest gesture towards the bilingualism of

 the House. On the other hand, when speaking in his mother tongue, he

 was eloquent and persuasive, his oratorial attitudes and devices were so

 skilled as to seem entirely natural and more than once he raised a

 chuckle of exasperated admiration from the opposition benches and a

 chorus of 'Haar, boot!" from his own party.

 'The fellow has a damned cheek." Blaine Malcomess shook his head. 'He is

 asking for the right to suspend the rule of law and impose a police

 state at the whim of the ruling party. We'll have to fight that tooth

 and nail." 'My word!" Shasa agreed mildly, but he found himself envying

 the other man, and yet mysteriously drawn to him. It was strange how

 their two destinies seemed to be inexorably linked.

 He had first met Manfred De La Rey twenty years ago, and for no apparent

 reason the two of them had flown at each other on the spot like young

 game cocks ,and fought a bloody bout of fisticuffs. Shasa grimaced at

 the way it had ended, the drubbing he had received still rankled even

 after all that time. Since then their paths had crossed and recrossed.

 In 1936 they had both been on the national team that went to Adolf

 Hitler's Olympic Games in Berlin, but it had been Manfred De La Rey in

 the boxing ring who collected the only gold medal the team had won,

 while Shasa returned empty-handed. They had hotly and acrimoniously

 contested the same seat in the 1948 elections that had seen the National

 Party come sweeping to power, and again it was Manfred De La Rey who had

 won the seat and taken his place in parliament, while Shasa had to wait

 for a by-election in a safe United Party constituency to secure his own

 place on the opposition benches from which to confront his rival once

 again. Now Manfred was a minister, a position that Shasa coveted with

 all his heart, and with his undoubted brilliance and oratorical skills

 together with growing political acumen and a solid power base within the

 party, Manfred De La Rey's future must be unbounded.

 Envy, admiration and furious antagonism - that was what Shasa Courthey

 felt as he listened to the man across the floor from him, and he studied

 him intently.

 Manfred De La Rey still had a boxer's physique, wide shoulders and

 powerful neck, but he was thickening around the waist and his jawline

 was beginning to blur with flesh. He wasn't keeping himself in shape

 and hard muscle was turning flabby. Shasa glanced down at his own lean

 hips and greyhound belly with self-satisfaction and then concentrated

 again on his adversary.

 Manfred De La Rey's nose was twisted and there was a gleaming white scar

 through one of his dark eyebrows, injuries he had received in the boxing

 ring. However, his eyes were a strange pale colour, like yellow topaz,

 implacable as the eyes of a cat and yet with the fire of' his fine

 intellect in their depths. Like all the Nationalist cabinet ministers,

 with the exception of the prime minister himself, he was a highly

 educated and brilliant man, devout and dedicated, totally convinced of

 the divine right of his party and his Volk.

 'They truly believe they are God's instruments on earth. That's what

 makes them so damned dangerous." Shasa smiled grimly as Manfred finished

 speaking and sat down to the roar of approval from his own side of the

 House. They were waving order papers, and the prime minister leaned

 across to pat Manfred's shoulder, while a dozen congratulatory notes

 were passed to him from the back benches.

 Shasa used this distraction to murmur an excuse to his father-inlaw.

 'You won't need me for the rest of the day, but if you do, you'll know

 where to find me." Then he stood up, bowed to the Speaker and, as

 unobtrusively as possible, headed for the exit. However, Shasa was six

 foot one inch tall and with the black patch over one eye and his dark

 waving hair and good looks, he drew more than a few speculative glances

 from the younger women in the visitors' gallery, and a hostile appraisal

 from the government benches.

 Manfred De La Rey glanced up from the note he was reading as Shasa

 passed, and the look they exchanged was intent but enigmatic.

 Then Shasa was out of the chamber and he shrugged off his jacket and

 slung it over his shoulder, as he acknowledged the salute of the doorman

 and went out into the sunshine.

 Shasa did not keep an office in the parliament building, for the

 seven-storied Centaine House, the headquarters of the Courthey Mining

 and Finance Co. Ltd was just two minutes' walk across the !

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 i llil iji gardens. As he strode along under the oaks he mentally

 changed hats, doffing his political topper for the businessman's

 Homburg.

 Shasa kept his life in separate compartments, and he had trained himself

 to concentrate on each in its turn, without ever allowing his energy to

 dissipate by spreading it too thinly.

 By the time he crossed the road in front of St George's cathedral and

 went into the revolving glass front door of Centaine House, he was

 thinking of finance and mining, juggling figures and choices, weighing

 factual reports against his own instincts, and enjoying the game of

 money as hugely as he had the rituals and confrontations on the floor of

 the houses of parliament.

 The two pretty girls at the reception desk in the entrance lobby with

 its marbled floors and columns burst into radiant smiles.

 'Good afternoon, Mr Courtney,' they chorused, and he devastated them

 with his smile as he crossed to the lifts. His reaction to them was

 instinctive; he liked pretty females around him, although he would never

 touch one of his own people. Somehow that would have been incestuous,

 and unsporting for they would not have been able to refuse him, too much

 like shooting a sitting bird. Still the two young females at the desk

 sighed and rolled their eyes as the lift doors closed on him.

 Janet, his secretary, had heard the lift and was waiting as the doors

 opened. She was more Shasa's type - mature and poised, groomed and

 efficient, and though she made little attempt to conceal her adoration,

 Shasa's self-imposed rules prevailed here also.

 'What have we got, Janet."?" he demanded, and as she followed him across

 the ante-chamber to his own office, she read off his appointments for

 the rest of the afternoon.

 He went first to the ticker-tape in the corner and ran the closing

 prices through his fingers. Anglos had dropped two shillings, it was

 almost time to buy again.

 'Ring Allen and put him off. I'm not ready for him yet,' he told Janet

 and went to his desk. 'Give me fifteen minutes and then get David

 Abrahams on the phone." As she left the room Shasa settled to the pile

 of telex sheets and urgent messages that she had left on his blotter. He

 worked swiftly through them, undistracted by the magnificent view of

 Table Mountain through the window on the opposite wall, and when one of

 the phones rang he was ready for David.

 'Hello, Davie, what's happening in Jo'burg?" It was a rhetorical

 question, he knew what was happening and what he was going to do about

 it. The daily reports and estimates were amongst the pile on his desk,

 but he listened carefully to David's rsum& David was group

 managingldirector. He had been with Shasa since varsity days and he was

 a close to Shasa as no other person, with the exception of Centaine, had

 come.

 Although the H'am diamond mine near Windhoek in the north was still the

 fountainhead of the company's prosperity, and had been for the

 thirty-two years since Centaine Courtney had discovered it, under

 Shasa's direction the company had expanded and diversified until he had

 been forced to move the executive headquarters from Windhoek to

 Johannesburg. Johannesburg was the commercial centre of the country and

 the move was inevitable, but Johannesburg was also a bleak, heartless

 and unattractive city. Centaine CourtneyMalcomess refused to leave the

 beautiful Cape of Good Hope to live there, so the company's financial

 and administrative headquarters remained in Cape Town. It was a clumsy

 and costly duplication, but.

 Centaine always got her way. Moreover, it was convenient for Shasa to

 be so close to parliament and as he loved the Cape as much as she did,

 he did not try to change her mind.

 Shasa and David spoke for ten minutes before Shasa said, 'Right, we

 can't decide on this on the phone. I'll come up to you." 'When?"

 'Tomorrow afternoon. Sean has a rugby match at ten in the morning. I

 can't miss it. I promised him." David was silent a moment as he

 considered the relative importance of a schoolboy's sporting achievement

 against the possible investment of something over ten million pounds in

 the development of the company's options on the new Orange Free State

 goldfields.

 'Give me a ring before you take off,' David agreed with resignation.

 'I'll meet you at the airfield myself." Shasa hung up and checked his

 wristwatch. He wanted to get back to Weltevreden in time to spend an

 hour with the children before their bath and dinner. He could finish

 his work after his own dinner.

 He began to pack the remaining papers on his desk into his black

 crocodile-skin Herm6s briefcase, when Janet tapped on the interleading

 door and came into his office.

 'I'm sorry, sir. This has just been delivered by hand. A parliamentary

 messenger, and he said it was very urgent." Shasa took the heavy-quality

 envelope from her. It was the type of expensive stationery reserved for

 use by members of the cabinet and the flap was embossed with the coat of

 arms of the Union, the quartered shield and rampant antelopes supporting

 it with the motto in the ribbon beneath Ex Unitate Vires - Strength

 through Unity.

 'Thank you, Janet." He broke the flap with his thumb and took out a

 single sheet of notepaper. It was headed: 'Office of the Minister of

 Police', and the message was handwritten in Afrikaans.

 Dear Mr Courtney, Knowing of your interest in hunting, an important

 personage has asked me to invite you to a springbok hunt on his ranch

 over the coming weekend. There is an airstrip on the property and the

 coordinates are as follows: 28ø32'S 26ø16'E.

 I can assure you of good sport and interesting company. Please let me

 know if you are able to attend.

 Sincerely, Manfred De La Rey.

 Shasa grinned and whistled softly through his teeth as he went to the

 large-scale map on the wall and checked the coordinates. The note

 amounted to a summons, and he could guess at the identity of the

 important personage. He saw that the ranch was in the Orange Free State

 just south of the goldfields at Welkom, and it would mean only a minor

 detour off his return course from Johannesburg to reach it.

 'I wonder what they are up to now,' he mused, and he felt a prickle of

 anticipation. It was the kind of mystery he thoroughly enjoyed, and he

 scribbled a reply on a sheet of his personal notepaper.

 Thank you for your kind invitation to hunt with you this weekend.

 Please convey my acceptance to our host and I look forward to the

 hunting.

 As he sealed the envelope he muttered, 'In fact, you'd have to nail both

 my feet to the ground to keep me away." In his green Jaguar SS sports

 car, Shasa drove through the massive white-painted gateway of

 Weltevreden. The pediment had been designed and executed in 1790 ty

 Anton Anreith, the Dutch East India Company's architect and sculptor,

 and such an exquisite work of art was a fitting entrance to the estate.

 Since Centaine had handed the estate over to him and gone to live with

 Blaine Malcomess on the far side of the Constantia Berg mountains, Shasa

 had lavished the same love and care upon Weltevreden as she had before.

 The name translated from the Dutch as 'Well Satisfied' and that was how

 Shasa felt as he slowed the Jaguar to a walking-pace, so as not to blow

 dust over the vineyards that flanked the road.

 The harvest was in full swing, and the headscarves of the women working

 down the rows of shoulder-high vines were bright spots of colour that

 vied with the leaves of red and gold. They straightened up to smile and

 wave as Shasa passed, and the men, doubled under the overflowing baskets

 of red grapes, grinned at him also.

 Young Sean was on one of the wagons in the centre of the field, walking

 the draught horses slowly, keeping pace with the harvest.

 The wagon was piled high with ripe grapes that glowed like rubies where

 the powdery bloom had been rubbed from their skin.

 When he saw his father, Sean tossed the reins to the driver who had been

 tactfully supervising him, and leapt over the side of the wagon ad raced

 down the rows of vines to intercept the green Jaguar. He was only eleven

 years old, but big for his age. He had inherited his mother's clear

 shining skin and Shasa's looks, and although his limbs were sturdy, he

 ran like an antelope, springy and quick on his feet. Watching him Shasa

 felt that his heart might burst with pride.

 Sean flung open the passenger door of the Jag and tumbled into the seat,

 where he abruptly recovered his dignity.

 'Good evening, Papa,' he said, and Shasa put an arm around his shoulders

 and hugged him.

 Hello, sport. How did it go today?" ' They drove down past the winery

 and the stables and Shasa parked in the converted barn where he kept his

 collection of a dozen vintage cars. The Jaguar had been a gift from

 Centaine and he favoured it even over the 1928 Phantom I Rolls Royce

 with Hooper coachwork beside which he parked it.

 The other children had witnessed his arrival from the nursery windows

 and came pelting down across the lawns to meet him.

 Michael, the youngest boy was leading, with Garrick, his middle son, a

 good five lengths back. Less than a year separated each of the boys.

 Michael was the dreamer of the family, a fey child who at nine years of

 age could lose himself for hours in Treasure Island or spend an

 afternoon with his box of water-colours, lost to all else in the world.

 Shasa embraced him as affectionately as he had his eldest, and then

 Garrick came up, wheezing with asthma, pale-faced and skinny, with wispy

 hair that stuck up in spikes.

 'Good afternoon, Papa,' he stuttered. He really was an ugly little

 brat, Shasa thought, and where the hell did he get them from, the asthma

 and the stutter?

 'Hello, Garrick." Shasa never called him 'son' or 'my boy' or 'sport' as

 he did the other two. It was always simply 'Garrick' and he patted the

 top of his head lightly. It never occurred to him to embrace the child,

 the little beggar still peed his bed and he was ten years old.

 Shasa turned with relief to meet his daughter.

 'Come on, my angel, come to your daddy!" And she flew into his arms and

 shrieked with rapture as he swung her high, then wrapped both arms

 around his neck and showered warm wet kisses on his face.

 'What does my angel want to do now.9' Shasa asked, without lowering her

 to earth.

 'I wanna wide,' Isabella declared, and she was already wearing her new

 jodhpurs.

 'Then wide we shall,' Shasa agreed. Whenever Tara accused him of

 encouraging her lisp, he protested, 'She's only a baby." 'She's a

 calculating little vixen who knows exactly how to twist you around her

 little finger - and you let her do it." Now he swung her up on to his

 shoulders, and she sat astride his neck and took a handful of his hair

 to steady herself while she bounced up and down chanting, 'I love my

 daddy." 'Come on, everybody,' Shasa ordered. 'We are going for a wide

 before dinner." Sean was too big and grown up to hold hands, but he kept

 jealously close to Shasa's right side; Michael was on his left clinging

 unashamedly to Shasa's hand, while Garrick trailed five paces behind

 looking up adoringly at his father.

 'I came first in arithmetic today, Daddy,' Garrick said softly, but in

 all the shouting and laughter Shasa didn't hear him.

 The grooms had the horses saddled up already, for the evening ride was a

 family ritual. In the saddle room Shasa slipped off his city shoes and

 changed them for old well-polished riding boots, before he lifted

 Isabella on to the back of her plump little piebald Shetland. Then he

 went up into the saddle of his own stallion and took Isabella's lead

 rein from the groom.

 'Company, forward - walk, march, trot!" He gave the cavalry command and

 pumped his hand over his head, a gesture which always reduced Isabella

 to squeals of delight, and they clattered out of the stableyard.

 They made t. he familiar circuit of the estate, stopping to talk with

 any of the coloured boss-boys they met, and exchanging shouted greetings

 with the gangs of labourers trudging home from the vineyards.

 Sean discussed the harvest with his father in adult terms, sitting

 straight and important in the saddle, until Isabella, feeling left out,

 intervened and immediately Shasa leaned over to listen deferentially to

 what she had to tell him.

 The boys ended the ride as always with a mad gallop across the polo

 fields and up the hill to the stables. Seam riding like a centaur, was

 far ahead of the rest of them, Michael was too gentle to use the whip

 and Garrick bounced awkwardly in the saddle. Despite Shasa's drilling,

 his seat was atrocious with toes and elbows sticking out at odd angles.

 ii . .

 i:!

 'He rides like a sack of potatoes,' Shasa thought with irritation,

 following them at the sedate pace set by Isabella's portly Shetland on

 the lead rein. Shasa was an international polo player, and he took his

 middle son's maladroit seat as a personal affront.

 Tara was in the kitchens overseeing the last-minute details for dinner,

 when they came trooping in. She looked up and greeted Shasa casually.

 'Good day?" She was wearing those appalling trousers in faded blue denim

 which Shasa detested. He liked feminine women.

 'Not bad,' he answered, trying to divest himself of Isabella who was

 still wrapped around his neck. He dislodged her and handed her over to

 Nanny.

 'We are twelve for dinner." Tara turned her attention back to the Malay

 chef who was standing by dutifully. 'Twelve?" Shasa asked sharply.

 'I invited the Broadhursts at the last moment." 'Oh God,' Shasa groaned.

 'I wanted some stimulating conversation at the table for a change, not

 just horses and shooting and business." 'Last time she came to dinner

 your and Molly's stimulating conversation broke the party up before nine

 o'clock." Shasa glanced at his wristwatch. 'I'd better think about

 dressing." 'Daddy, will you feed me?" Isabella called from the

 children's dining-room beyond the kitchen.

 'You are a big girl, angel,' he answered. 'You must learn to feed

 yourself." 'I can feed myself- I just like it better when you do it.

 Please, Daddy, pretty please a trillion times." 'A trillion?" Shasa

 asked. 'I am bid one trillion - any advance on a trillion?" but he went

 to her summons.

 You spoil her,' Tara said. 'She's becoming impossible." 'I know,' said

 Shasa. 'You keep telling me." Shasa shaved quickly while his coloured

 valet laid out his dinnerjacket in the dressing-room and put the

 platinum and sapphire studs into his dress shirt. Despite Tara's

 vehement protests he always insisted on black tie for dinner.

 'It's so stuffy and old-fashioned and snobby." 'It's civilized,' he

 contradicted her.

 When he was dressed, he crossed the wide corridor strewn with oriental

 carpets, the walls hung with a gallery of Thomas Baines water-colours,

 tapped on Tara's door and went in to her invitation.

 Tara had moved into this suite while she was carrying Isabella, and had

 stayed here. Last year she had redecorated it, removing the

 !"

 i11/ ?

 velvet drapes and George II and Louis XIV furniture, the Qm silk carpets

 and the magnificent oils by De Jong and Naud, strippin the flocked

 wallpaper and sanding the golden patina off the yellov wood floor until

 it looked like plain deal.

 Now the walls were stark white with only a single enormot painting

 facing the bed; it was a monstrosity of geometrical shape in primary

 colours in the style of Mir6, but executed by an ur known art student at

 the Cape Town University Art School an of no value. To Shasa's mind

 paintings should be pleasing dec orations but at the same time good

 long-term investments. Thi thing was neither.

 The furniture Tara had chosen for her boudoir was made of an gular

 stainless steel and glass, and there was very little of it. The be was

 almost flat on the bare boards of the floor. 'It's Swedish decor,' she

 had explained.

 Send it back to Sweden,' he had advised her.

 Now he perched on one of the steel chairs and lit a cigarette. Sh4

 frowned at him in the mirror.

 'Forgive me." He stood up and went to flick the cigarette out o the

 window. 'I'll be working late after dinner,' he turned back to her 'and

 I wanted to warn you before I forget that I'm flying up to Jo'burg

 tomorrow afternoon and I'll be away for a few days, mayb five or six."

 'Fine." She pursed her lips as she applied her lipstick, a pale mauve

 shade that he disliked intensely.

 'One other thing, Tara. Lord Littleton's bank is preparing to

 underwrite the share issue for our possible new development on the

 Orange Free State goldfields. I would take it as a personal favour it

 you and Molly could refrain from waving your black sashes in his face

 and from regaling him with merry tales of white injustice and bloody

 black revolution." 'I can't speak for Molly, but I promise to be good."

 'Why don't you wear your diamonds tonight?" he changed the subject.

 'They look so good on you." She hadn't worn the suite of yellow diamonds

 from the H'am Mine since she had joined the Sash movement. They made her

 feel like Marie Antoinette.

 'Not tonight,' she said. 'They are a little garish, it's really just a

 family dinner party." She dusted her nose with the puff and looked at

 him in the mirror.

 'Why don't you go down, dear. Your precious Lord Littleton will be

 arriving at any moment." 'I just want to tuck Bella up first." He came

 to stand behind her.

 They stared at each other in the mirror, seriously.

 'What happened to us, Tara?" he asked softly.

 'I don't know what you mean, dear,' she replied, but she looked down and

 adjusted the front of her dress carefully.

 'I'll see you downstairs,' he said. 'Don't be too long, and do make a

 fuss of Littleton. He's important, and he likes the girlies." After he

 had closed the door Tara stared at it for a moment, then she repeated

 his question aloud. 'What happened to us, Shasa? It's quite simple

 really. I just grew up and lost patience with the trivialities with

 which you fill your life." On the way down she looked in on the

 children. Isabella was asleep with teddy on top of her face. Tara

 saved her daughter from suffocation and went to the boys' rooms. Only

 Michael was still awake.

 He was reading.

 'Lights out!" she ordered.

 'Oh, Mater, just to the end of the chapter." 'Out!" 'Just this page."

 'Out, I said!" And she kissed him lovingly.

 At the head of the staircase she drew a deep breath like a diver on the

 high board, smiled brightly and went down into the blue drawingroom

 where the first guests were already sipping sherry.

 Lord Littleton was much better value than she had expected - tall,

 silver-haired and benign.

 'Do you shoot?" she asked at the first opportunity.

 'Can't stand the sight of blood, me dear." 'Do you ride?" 'Horses?" he

 snorted. 'Stupid bloody animals." 'I think you and I are going to be

 good friends,' she said.

 There were many rooms in Weltevreden that Tara disliked; the dining-room

 she actively hated with all those heads of long-dead animals that Shasa

 had massacred staring down from the walls with glass eyes. Tonight she

 took a chance and seated Molly on the other side of Littleton and within

 minutes Molly had him hooting with delighted laughter.

 When they left the men with the port and Hauptmanns and went through to

 the ladies room, Molly pulled Tara aside, bubbling over with excitement.

 'I've been dying to get you alone all ex/ening,' she whispered.

 'You'll never guess who is in the Cape at this very moment." 'Tell me."

 'The secretary of the African National Congress - that's who.

 Moses Gama, that's who." Tara went very still and pale and stared at

 her.

 'He's coming to our home to talk to a small group of us, Tara. I

 invited him, and he especially asked for you to be present. I didn't

 know you knew him." 'l met him only once --' she corrected herself,

 'twice." 'Can you come?" Molly insisted. 'It'll be best if Shasa does

 not know about it, you understand." 'WhenT 'Saturday evening, eight

 o'clock." 'Shasa will be away and I'll be there,' Tara said. 'I

 wouldn't miss it for the world." Sean Courthey was the stalwart of the

 Western Province Preparatory School first fifteen, or Wet Pups, as the

 school was known. Quick and strong he ran in four tries against the

 Rondebosch juniors and converted them himself, while his father and two

 younger brothers stood on the touchline and yelled encouragement.

 After the final whistle blew Shasa lingered just long enough to

 congratulate his son, with an effort restraining himself from hugging

 the sweaty grinning youngster with grass stains on his white shorts and

 a graze on one knee. A display like that in front of Sean's peers would

 have mortified him horribly. Instead they shook hands.

 'Well played, sport. I'm proud of you,' he said. 'Sorry about this

 weekend, but I'll make it up to you." And although the expression of

 regret was sincere, Shasa felt a buoyancy of his spirits as he drove out

 to the airfield at Y0ungsfield. Dicky, his erk, had the aircraft out of

 the hangar and ready for him on the hardstand.

 Shasa climbed out of the Jaguar and stood with his hands in his pockets

 and the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, staring at the sleek

 machine with rapture.

 It was a DH 98 Mosquito fighter bomber. Shasa had bought it at one of

 the RAF disposal sales at Biggin Hill and had it completely stripped and

 overhauled by D Havilland trained riggers. He had even had them re-glue

 the sandwich construction of the wooden bodywork with the new Araldite

 wonder glue. The original Rodux adhesives had proves unreliable under

 tropical conditions. Stripped of all armaments and military fittings,

 the Mosquito's already formidable performance had been considerably

 enhanced. Not even Courtney Mining could afford one of the new civilian

 jet-engined aircraft, but this was the next best thing.

 The beautiful machine crouched on the hardstand like a falcon at hate,

 the twin Rolls Royce Merlin engines ready to roar into life and hurtle

 her into the blue. Blue was her colour, sky blue and silver; she shone

 in the bright Cape sunlight and on her fuselage where once the RAF

 roundel had been was now emblazoned the Courtney Company logo, a

 stylized silver diamond, its facets entwined with the Company's

 initials.

 'How is the port number two magneto?" Shasa demanded of Dicky as he

 sauntered across in his oily overalls. The little man bridled.

 'Ticking over like a sewing machine,' he answered. He loved the machine

 even more than Shasa did, and any imperfection, no matter how minor,

 wounded him deeply. When Shasa reported one, he took it very badly. He

 helped Shasa load his briefcase, overnight bag and guncase into the bomb

 bay which had been converted into a luggage compartment.

 'All tanks are full,' he said, and stood aside looking superior as Shasa

 insisted on checking them visually, and then made a fuss of his

 walk-around inspection.

 'She'll do,' Shasa agreed at last and could not resist stroking the

 wing, as though it were the limb of a lovely woman.

 Shasa switched to oxygen at eleven thousand feet and levelled out at

 Angels twenty, grinning into his oxygen mask at the old airforce slang.

 He tuned her for cruise, carefully watching the exhaust gas temperatures

 and engine revs and then settled back to enjoy it.

 Enjoy was too mild a term for it. Flying was an exultation of spirit

 and a fever in his blood. The immense lion-tawny continent drifted by

 beneath him, washed by a million suns and burned by the ..... hot. her.

 b-.see.nted- K-a-rooMnds ira-aeicvi'e-hide.-riven-a&-wrinkid and scarred

 with donga and canyon and dried riverbed. Only up here, high above it,

 did Shasa truly realize how much he was a part of it, how deep was his

 love for it. Yet it was a hard land and cruel, and it bred hard men,

 black and white, and he knew that he was one of them. There is no place

 for weaklings here, he thought, only the strong can flourish.

 Perhaps it was the pure oxygen he breathed, enhanced by the ecstasy of

 flight, but his mind seemed clearer up here. Issues that had been

 obscure became lucid, uncertainties resolved, and the hours sped away as

 swiftly as the lovely machine streaked across the blue so that when he

 landed at Johannesburg's civilian airport, he knew with certainty what

 had to be done. David Abrahams was waiting for him, lanky and skinny as

 ever, but he was balding a little and he had taken to wearing

 gold-rimmed spectacles which gave him a perpetually startled expression.

 Shasa jumped down off the wing of the Mosquito and they embraced

 happily. They were closer than brothers. Then David patted the

 aircraft's wing.

 'When do I get to fly her again?" he asked wistfully. David had got a

 DFC in the western desert and a bar to it in Italy. He had been

 credited with nine kills and ended the war as a wing commander, while

 Shasa had been a mere squadron leader when he had lost hi eye in

 Abyssinia and been invalided home.

 'She's too good for you,' Shasa told him and slung his luggag( into the

 back seat of David's Cadillac.

 As David drove out through the airfield gates they exchanger family

 news. David was married to Mathilda Janine, Tara Courtney': younger

 sister, so David and Shasa were brothers-in-law.  Shas boasted about

 Sean and Isabella without mentioning his other twt sons and then they

 went on to the real objects of their meeting.

 These, in order of importance, were, first, the decision whether o not

 to exercise the option on the new Silver River mining'prospect ir the

 Orange Free State. Then there was the trouble with the company's

 chemical factory on the Natal coast. A local pressure group was kicking

 up a rumpus about poisoning the sea bed and reefs in the area where the

 factory was discharging effluent into the sea. And finally, there was

 David's crazy fixation, from which Shasa was finding it difficult to

 dislodge him, that they should spend some.

 thing over a quarter of a million pounds on one of those new elephant

 ine electric calculators.

 'The Yanks did all the calculations for the atomic bomb with one of

 them,' David argued. 'And they call them computers, not calculators,'

 he corrected Shasa.

 'Come on, Davie, what are we going to blow up?" Shasa protested.

 'I'm not designing an A-bomb." 'Anglo-American have one. It's the wave

 of the future, Shasa.

 We'd better be on it." 'It's a quarter-million-pound wave, old son,'

 Shasa pointed out.

 'Just when we need every penny for Silver River." 'If we'd had one of

 these computers to analyse the geological drilling reports from Silver

 River, we'd have already saved ourselves almost the entire cost of the

 thing, and we'd be a lot more certain of our final decision than we are

 how." 'How can a machine be better than a human brain?" 'Just come and

 have a_look at it,' David pleaded. 'The university has just installed

 an IBM 701. I have arranged a demonstration r you this afternoon."

 'Okay, Davie,' Shasa capitulated. 'I'll look, but that doesn't mean I'm

 buying." The IBM supervisor in the basement of the engineering faculty

 building was no more than twenty-six years of age.

 'They're all kids,' David explained. 'It's a young people's science."

 The supervisor shook hands with Shasa, and then removed her horn-rimmed

 spectacles. Suddenly Shasa's interest in electronic computers

 burgeoned. Her eyes were clear bright green and her hair was the colour

 of wild honey made from mimosa blossom. She wore a green sweater of

 tight-fitting angora wool, and a tartan skirt which left her smooth

 tanned calves bare. It was immediately obvious that she was an expert,

 and she answered all Shasa's questions without hesitation in a

 tantalizing southern drawl.

 'Marylee has a master's in electrical engineering from MIT,' David

 murmured, and Shasa's initial attraction was spiced with respect.

 'It's so damned big,' he protested. 'It fills the entire basement. The

 ruddy thing is the size of a four-bedroomed house." 'Cooling,' Marylee

 explained. 'The heat build-up is enormous.

 'Most of the bulk is oil cooling baffles." 'What are you processing at

 the moment?" 'Professor Dart's archaeological material from the

 Sterkfontein caves. We are correlating about two hundred thousand

 observations of his against over a million from the sites in East

 Africa." 'How long will that take you?" 'We started the run twenty

 minutes ago, we'll finish it before we shut down at five o'clock."

 'That's in fifteen minutes,' Shasa chuckled. 'You're having me on!" 'I

 wouldn't mind,' she murmured speculatively, and when she smiled her

 mouth was wide and moist and kissable.

 'You say you shut down at five?" he asked. 'When do you start up

 again?" 'Eight tomorrow morning." 'And the machine stands idle

 overnight?" Marylee glanced down the length of the basement. David was

 at the other end watching the print-out and the hum of the computer

 covered their voices.

 'That's right. It will stand idle all tonight. Just like me." Clearly

 she was a lady who knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. She

 looked at him directly, challengingly.

 'We can't have that,' Shasa shook his head seriously. 'One thing my

 mummy taught me was 'Waste not, want not'. I know a place called the

 Stardust. The band is far beyond belief. I will wager a pound to a

 weekend in Paris that I can dance you until you plead for mercy." 'It's

 a bet,' she agreed as seriously. 'But do you cheat?" 'Of course,' he

 answered. David was coming back and Shasa went on smoothly and

 professionally. 'What about running costs?" 'All in, including

 insurance and depreciation, a little under four thousand pounds a

 month,' she told him with a matching businesslike expression.

 As they said goodbye and shook hands, she slipped a card into Shasa's

 palm. 'My address,' she murmured.

 'Eight o'clock?" he asked.

 'I'll be there,' she agreed.

 In the Cadillac, Shasa lit a cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring

 that exploded silently against the windscreen.

 'Okay, Davie, contact the dean of engineering first thing tomorrow.

 Offer to hire that monster all its down time from five o'clock in the

 evening until eight the next morning, and weekends also.

 Offer him four thousand a month and point out that he'll get the use of

 it for free. We'll be paying all his costs." David turned to him with a

 startled expression and almost drove up on to the pavement, then

 corrected with a wild swing of the wheel.

 'Why didn't I think of that?" he wondered when he had the Cadillac under

 control.

 'You have to get up earlier,' Shasa grinned and then went on, 'Once we

 know how much time we will need on the thing, we'll sublet the surplus

 time to a couple of other non-competitor companies who must be thinking

 about buying a computer themselves. That way we'll get our own usage

 free, and when IBM have improved the design and made the damned thing

 smaller, then we will buy our own." 'Son of a gun." David shook his head

 in awe. 'Son of a gun." Then with sudden inspiration, Tll get young

 Marylee on our payroll --' 'No,' said Shasa sharply. 'Get someone else."

 David glanced at him again and his excitement faded. He knew his

 brother-in-law too well.

 'You won't be taking up Matty's invitation to dinner this evening, will

 you?" he asked morosely.

 'Not this evening,' Shasa agreed. 'Give her my love and apologies."

 'Just be careful. It's a small own and you are a marked man,' David

 warned as he dropped Shasa off at the Carlton Hotel where the company

 kept a permanent suite. 'Do you think you will be fit for work

 tomorrow?" 'Eight o'clock,' Shasa told him. 'Sharp!" By mutual

 agreement the dance competition at the Stardust was declared a draw, and

 Shasa and Marylee got back to his Carlton suite a little after midnight.

 Her body was young and smooth and hard and just before she drifted off

 to sleep with her thick honey-coloured hair spread on his bare chest,

 she whispered drowsily, 'Well, I guess that's about the only thing my

 IBM 701 can't do for me." Shasa was in the Courtney mining offices

 fifteen minutes before David the next morning. He liked to keep

 everybody on their toes.

 Their offices occupied the entire third floor of the Standard Bank

 building in Commissioner Street. Although Shasa owned a prime piece of

 real estate on the corner of Diagonal Street opposite the stock exchange

 and within yelling distance of Anglo American Corporation's head office,

 he hadn't yet got around to building on it; any spare money in the

 company always seemed to be earmarked for mining options or extensions

 or other income-producing enterprises.

 The young blood on the Courtney executive board was judicially leavened

 with a few grey heads. Doctor Twenty-man-Jones was still there, in an

 old-fashioned black alpaca jacket and string tie, hiding his affection

 for Shasa behind a mournful expression. He had run the very first

 prospect on the H'am diamond mine for Centaine back in the early

 twenties and was one of the three most experienced and gifted mining

 consultants in southern Africa, which meant the world.

 David's father Abraham Abrahams was still head of the legal section,

 perched up beside his son, bright and chirpy as a little silver sparrow.

 His files were piled high on the table in front of him, but he seldom

 had to refer to them. With half a dozen other newcomers whom Centaine

 and Shasa between them had hand-picked, it was a balanced and functional

 team.

 'Let's talk about the Courtney chemical plant at Chaka's Bay first."

 Shasa brought the meeting to order. 'How much meat is there in the beef

 against us, Abe?" 'We are running hot sulphuric acid into the sea at a

 rate of between eleven and sixteen tons per day at a concentration of

 one in ten thousand,' Abe Abrahams told him matter-of-factly. 'I've had

 an independent marine biologist do a report on it for us." He tapped the

 document. 'It isn't good. We have altered the pH for five miles along

 the coastline:' 'You haven't circulated this report?" Shasa asked

 sharply.

 'What do you think?" Abe shook his head.

 'All right, David. What will it cost us to modify the manufficturing

 procedure on the fertilizer division to dispose of the acid waste some

 other way?" 'There are two possible modifications,' David told him. 'The

 simplest and cheapest is trucking the effluent in tankers, but then we

 have to find another dumping ground. The ideal solution is recycling

 the acid." 'Costs?" 'One hundred thousand pounds per annum for the

 tankers - one shot of almost three times that for the other way." 'A

 year's profits down the drain,' Shasa said. 'That's not acceptable.

 ii!i iiii 'il Who is this Pearson woman that is heading up the protest?

 Can we reason with her?" Abe shook his head. 'We have tried.

 She is holding the whole committee together. Without her they would

 crumble." 'What is her position?" 'Her husband owns the local bakery."

 'Buy it,' said Shasa. 'If he won't sell, let him know discreetly that

 we will open another bakery in competition and subsidize its product.

 I want this Pearson woman far away and long ago. Any questions?" He

 looked down the table. Everybody was busy making notes, nobody looked

 at him and he wanted to ask them reasonably, 'All right, gentlemen, are

 you prepared to spend three hundred thousand pounds to give a good home

 to the oysters and the sea urchins of Chaka's Bay?" 'No questions!" he

 nodded instead. 'All right, let's take on the big one now. Silver

 River." They all shifted in their seats, and there was simultaneous and

 nervous exhalation of breath.

 'Gentlemen, we have all read and studied Dr Twenty-man-Jones's

 geological report based on his drilling on the property. It is a superb

 piece of work, and I don't have to tell you that it's the best opinion

 you'll get on Harley Street. Now I want to hear from each of you your

 own opinions as departmental heads. Can we start with you, Rupert?"

 Rupert Horn was the junior member of the executive team. As treasurer

 and chief accountant he filled in the financial background.

 'If we let the option lapse, we shall be writing off the two point three

 million that we have spent on exploration over the last eighteen months.

 If we take up the option it will mean an initial payment of four million

 on signature." 'We can cover that from the rainy-day account,' Shasa

 intervened.

 'We are holding four point three million in the provisional fund,'

 Rupert Horn agreed. 'We have it invested in Escom 7% Stock at present,

 but once we utilize that fund we will be in an extremely exposed

 position." One after the other, in ascending order of seniority, Shasa's

 managers gave their views as seen from their own departments, and David

 put it all together at the end.

 'So it seems that we have twenty-six days remaining on the option, and

 four million to pay if we take it up. That is going to leave us

 bare'hummed, and facing development costs of three million pounds for

 the main shaft alone, plus another five million for plant, interest and

 running costs to see us into the production phase, four years from now

 in 1956." He stopped and they all watched intently while Shasa selected

 a cigarette and tapped it lightly on the lid of his gold case.

 Shasa's expression was deadly serious. He knew better than any of them

 that the decision could destroy the company or take it up onto a new

 high plateau, and nobody could make that decision for him.

 He was up on the lonely pinnacle of command.

 'We know there is gold down there,' he spoke at last. 'A thick rich

 reef of it. If we reach it, it will go on producing for the next fifty

 years. However, gold is standing at thirty-five dollars an ounce. The

 Americans have pegged it, they have threatened to keep the price there

 for all time. Thirty-five dollars an ounce - and it will cost us

 between twenty and twenty-five an ounce to go down that deep and bring

 it to the surface. A slim margin, gentlemen, much too slim." He lit the

 cigarette, and they all sighed and relaxed, at the same time

 disappointed and relieved. It would have been glorious to make the

 charge, but disastrous to have failed. Now they would never know. But

 Shasa hadn't finished. He blew a spinning smoke-ring down the length of

 the table, and went on.

 'However, I don't think the Americans are going to be able to keep the

 lid on the gold price much longer. Their hatred of gold is emotional,

 not based on economic reality. I know, deep down in my guts, that the

 day is not far off when we will see gold at sixty dollars and one day,

 sooner than any of us think, it will be a hundred and fifty dollars -

 perhaps even two hundred!" They stirred with disbelief, and

 Twenty-man-Jones looked as though he might break down and weep in the

 face of such wild optimism, but Shasa ignored him and turned to Abe

 Abrahams.

 'Abe, at noon on the eighteenth of next month, twelve hours before the

 option expires, you will hand over a cheque for four million to the

 owners of Silver River farms, and take possession of the property in the

 name of a company to be formed." Shasa turned to David.

 'At the same time we will simultaneously open subscription lists on the

 Johannesburg and London stock exchanges for ten million œ1 shares in the

 Silver River gold-mining property. You and Doctor Twenty-man-Jones will

 start today drawing up the prospectus.

 Courtney Mining will register the property in the name of the new

 company in return for the balance of five million shares transferred

 into our name. We will also be responsible for the management and

 development." Quickly, succinctly, Shasa laid out the structure,

 financing and management of the. new company, and more than once these

 wily seasoned campaigners glanced up from their notepads in blatant

 admiration of some deft and unusual touch he added to the scheme.

 'Is there anything I have left out?" Shasa asked at the end, and when

 they shook their heads, he grinned. David was reminded strongly of the

 movie he and Matty had taken the children to see the previous Saturday

 afternoon, The Sea Hawk, though the eye-patch made Shasa look even more

 piratical than Errol Flynn had done in the title role.

 'The founder of our company, Madame Centaine de Thiry

 Courtney-Malcomess, has never approved of the consumption of alcohol in

 the boardroom. However --' Still grinning, Shasa nodded at David, who

 went to open the main doors of the boardroom and a secretary wheeled in

 a trolley on which the rows of glasses clinked and the green bottles of

 Dam Perignon swished in their silver icebuckets. 'Old customs give way

 to new,' Shasa said, and drew the first cork with a discreet pop.

 Shasa throttled back the Rolls Royce engines and the Mosquito sank down

 through the ribbons of scattered cirrus cloud, and the endless golden

 plains of the high African shield came up to meet her. Off to the west

 Shasa could just make out the clustered buildings of the mining town of

 Welkom, centre of the Orange Free State goldfields.

 Founded only a few years previously, when the vast Anglo American

 Corporation began opening up these fields, it was already a model town

 of over a hundred thousand persons. ---Shasa-ttipT, ed hs-xygcrc mask.

 and lc .:t-dagle or} his kesa-s he leaned forward on his straps and

 peered ahead through the windshield ahead of the Mosquito's blue nose.

 He picked out the tiny steel tower of the drilling rig almost lost in

 the immensity of the dusty plain, and using it as a landmark traced the

 gossamer thread of fences that enclosed the Silver River farms eleven

 thousand acres, most of it bare and undeveloped. It wa, amazing that

 the geologists of the big mining houses had overlooked this little

 pocket, but then nobody could have reasonably expected the gold reef to

 spur off like that - that is, nobody but TwentymanJones and Shasa

 Courtney.

 Yet the reef was as far beneath the earth as the Mosquito nox circled

 above it. It seemed impossible that any human endeavom would be able to

 burrow down that deep, but already Shasa coulc see in his imagination

 the tall headgear of the Silver River mair towering two hundred feet

 above the bleak plain, with its shaf stabbing down a mile and more into

 the underground river of precious metal.

 'And the Yanks can't hold out for ever - they will have to let golc go

 free,' he told himselfi He stood the Mosquito on one wing and on the

 instrument panel the gyro compass revolved smoothly. Shasa lifted the

 wing and she was precisely on her new heading of 125ø.

 'Fifteen minutes, with these winds,' he grunted, as he marked the

 large-scale map on his knee, and the fine exaltation of spirit stayed

 with him for the remainder of the flight until he saw the dark

 pencilline of smoke rising into the still air dead ahead. They had put

 up a smoke beacon to guide him in.

 There was a Dakota parked in front of the lonely galvanized ironclad

 hangar at the end of the strip. The big aircraft had airforce markings.

 The runway was of rolled yellow clay, hard and smooth and the Mosquito

 settled to it with barely a jolt. It had taken endless practice to

 develop that sort of distance judgement after he had lost the eye.

 Shasa slid back the canopy and taxied towards the hangar. There was a

 green Ford pick-up near the mast of the windsock, and a lone figure

 dressed in khaki shorts aqd shirt stood beside the smoke pot, fists

 clenched on his hips, watching Shasa taxi up and cut the engines.

 Then as Shasa jumped down, he stepped forward and offered his right

 hand, but his expression, solemn and reserved, was at odds with the

 welcoming gesture.

 'Good afternoon, Minister." Shasa was as unsmiling and their grip was

 hard but brief. Then as Shasa looked deeply into Manfred De La Rey's

 pale eyes, he had a strange feeling of djd vu, of having stared into

 those same eyes in desperate circumstances before. He had to shake his

 head slightly to be rid of it.

 'I am glad for both our sakes that you were able to come. Can I help

 you with your bags?" Manfred De La Rey asked.

 'Don't worry. I can manage." Shasa went back to tie down and secure the

 Mosquito and fetch his luggage from the bomb bay, while Manfred doused

 the smoke pot.

 'You brought your own rifle,' Manfred remarked. 'What is it?" 'Seven

 men Remington magnum." Shasa swung the luggage into the back of the

 truck and stepped up into the passenger door of the Ford.

 'Perfect for this type of shooting,' Manfred approved as he started the

 truck. 'Long shots over flat ground." He swung on to the track and they

 drove for a few minutes in silence.

 'The prime minister could not come,' he said. 'He intended to be here,

 but he sent a letter for you. It confirms that I speak with his

 authority." 'I'll accept that." Shasa kept a straight face.

 'The minister of finance is here, and the minister of agriculture is our

 host - this is his farm. One of the biggest in the Free State."

 'I am impressed." 'Yes,' Manfred nodded. 'I think you will be." He

 stared hard at Shasa. 'Is it not strange how you and I seem doomed

 always to confront each other?" 'It had crossed my mind,' Shasa

 admitted.

 'Do you think there is some reason for it - something of which we are

 unaware?" Manfred insisted, and Shasa shrugged.

 'I shouldn't think so - coincidence only." The reply seemed to

 disappoint Manfred.

 'Has your mother never spoken about me?" Shasa looked startled. 'My

 mother! Good Lord, I don't think so.

 She may have mentioned you casually - why do you ask?" Manfred seemed

 not to have heard, he looked ahead. 'There is the homestead,' he said,

 with a finality that closed the subject.

 The track breasted the rim of a shallow valley and the homesteac nestled

 below them. Here the water must be near the surface for th pasturage

 was lush and green and the skeletal steel towers of a dozer windmills

 were scattered down the valley. A plantation of eucalyptu trees

 surrounded the homestead, and beyond it stood substantia outbuildings,

 all freshly painted and in good repair. Twenty or mar.

 brand new tractors were lined up before one of the long garages, am

 there were flocks of fat sheep on the pastures. The plain beyond th,

 homestead reaching almost to the horizon was already ploughed thousands

 of acres of chocolate loam ready for sowing with maiz seed. This was the

 heart land of Afrikanerdom, this was where th support of the National

 Party was solid and unwavering, and i was the reason why under the

 Nationalists the electoral areas ha, been re-demarcated to swing the

 centres of power away from th urban concentrations of population to

 favour these rural constitt encies. That was why the Nationalists would

 stay in power for eve: and Shasa grimaced sourly. Immediately Manfred

 glanced at bin but Shasa offered no explanation and they drove down to

 the horn stead and parked in the farm yard.

 There were a dozen men sitting at the long yellow-wood kitche table,

 smoking and drinking co(fee and chatting while the wome hovered in

 attendance. The men rose to welcome Shasa and he wel down the table

 shaking hands with each of them and exchangir polite, if not effusive

 greetings.

 Shasa knew every one of them. He had faced all of them across tl floor

 of the house and had lashed most of them with his tongue, or in return

 had been attacked and vilified by each of them, but no they made room

 for him at the table and the hostess poured strol black coffee for him

 and placed a dish of sweet cakes and bar baked rusks in front of him.

 They all treated him with that inna courtesy and hospitality that is the

 hallmark of the Afrikaner.

 Though they were dressed in rough hunting clothing and pretended to be

 bluff and simple farmers, they were in reality a group of shrewd and

 adroit politicians, amongst the richest and most powerful men in the

 land.

 Shasa spoke their language perfectly, understood the most heavily veiled

 references and laughed at their private jokes, but he was not one of

 them. He was the rooinek, the traditional enemy, and subtly they had

 closed their ranks against him.

 When he had drunk his coffee his host, the minister of agriculture, told

 him, 'I will show you to your room. You will want to change and unpack

 your rifle. We will hunt as soon as it is cooler." A little after four

 o'clock, they set out in a procession of pick-up trucks, the elder more

 important men riding in the cabs while the others stood in the open

 backs of the trucks. The cavalcade climbed out of the valley, skirted

 the ploughed lands and then sped out across the plains towards a line of

 low hills on the horizon.

 They saw game now, small herds of springbok far out on the plain like a

 fine dusting of cinnamon powder on the pale earth, but the trucks raced

 on, slowing only as they reached the foot of the rocky hills. The lead

 truck stopped for a moment and two of the hunters jumped down and

 scrambled into a shallow donga.

 'Good luck! Shoot straight,' they called to them as they passed and a

 few hundred yards farther the convoy stopped again to let another pair

 take up their positions.

 Within half an hour all of the huntsmen had been hidden in an irregular

 extended line below the ragged range of hills. Manfred De La Rey and

 Shasa had been placed together in a cluster of broken grey rock, and

 they squatted down to wait with their rifles across their laps, staring

 out across the flats that were speckled with darker scrub.

 The trucks, driven by the teenage sons of their host, headed out in a

 wide circle until they were merely specks against the pale glare of the

 horizon, each marked by the ostrich feather of dust it drew behind it.

 Then they turned back towards the hills, travelling more slowly, not

 much above walking pace, as they began to move the scattered herds of

 antelope ahead of them.

 Shasa and Manfred had almost an hour to wait for the driven game to come

 within rifle shot, and they chatted in a desultory, seemingly aimless

 manner, at first touching only lightly on politics, but rather

 discussing their host, the minister of agriculture, and the other

 guests. Then quite subtly Manfred changed the direction of their talk

 and remarked on how little real difference existed between the policies

 and aspirations of the governing National Party and Shasa's own

 opposition United Party.

 'If you examine it carefully, our differences are only those of style

 and degree. We both want to keep South Africa safe for the white man

 and for European civilization. We both know that for all of us

 apartheid is a matter of life and death. Without it we will all drown

 in the black sea. Since the death of Smuts, your party has moved

 sharply towards our own thinking, and the leftists and liberals have

 begun to split away from you." Shasa was noncommittal, but the point was

 apt and painful. There were deep cracks appearing in his own party, and

 every day it became more apparent that they would never again form the

 government of this land. However, he was intrigued to know where

 Manfred De La Rey was leading. He had learned never to underestimate

 this adversary, and he sensed that he was being artfully prepared for

 the true purpose of this invitation. It was quite obvious that their

 host had manoeuvred to place them together, and that every other member

 of the party was privy to the business afoot. Shasa spoke little,

 conceding nothing, and waited with rising anticipation for the lurking

 beast to reveal its shape.

 'You know that we have entrenched the language and culture of the

 English-speaking South Africans. There will never be any attempt to

 erode those rights - we look upon all English speakers of good will who

 consider themselves South Africans first as our brothers.

 Our destinies are linked with chains of steel --' Manfred broke off, and

 lifted his binoculars to his eyes. 'They are moving in closer now,' he

 murmured. 'We had better get ready." He lowered the binoculars and

 smiled carefully at Shasa. 'I have heard that you shoot well. I look

 forward to a demonstration." Shasa was disappointed. He had wanted to

 know where the carefully rehearsed recital had been heading, but now he

 hid his impatience behind that easy smile of his and opened the breech

 of the rifle across his lap.

 'You are right in one thing Minister,' he said. 'We are linked together

 with chains of steel. Let us hope the weight of them doesn't draw us

 all under." He saw a strange flash in those topaz yellow eyes, of anger

 or triumph, he was not certain, and it lasted only an instant.

 'I will fire only on a line from dead ahead towards the right,' Manfred

 said. 'You only in an arc to the left. Agreed?" 'Agreed,' Shasa

 nodded, although he felt a prickle of irritation at being out-manoeuvred

 so soon and so easily. Manfred had carefully placed himself to cover

 the right flank, the natural side for a righthanded marksman to swing.

 'You will need the advantage,' Shasa thought grimly and asked aloud. 'I

 hear you also are a fine shot. What about a small wager on the bag?" 'I

 do not gamble,' Maned replied easily. 'That is a device of the devil,

 but I will count the bag with interest,' and Shasa was reminded of just

 how puritanical was the extreme Calvinism that Manfred De La Rey

 practised.

 Carefully Shasa loaded his rifle. He had hand-loaded his own cartridges

 for he never trusted mass-produced factory ammunition. The shiny brass

 cases were filled with a charge of Norma powder that would drive the

 Nosier Partition bullet at well over three thousand feet a second. The

 special construction of the bullet would ensure that it mushroomed

 perfectly on impact.

 He worked the bolt and then raised the weapon to his shoulder and used

 the telescopic sight to scan the plain. The pick-up trucks were less

 than a mile away, gently weaving back and forth, to prevent the herds

 breaking back, keeping them moving slowly down towards the line of hills

 and the hunters hidden below them. Shasa blinked his eye rapidly to

 clear his vision, and he could make out each individual animal in the

 herds of antelope trotting ahead of the vehicles.

 They were light as smoke, and they rippled like cloud shadow across the

 plain. Trotting daintily with heads held high and with their horns

 shaped like perfect miniature lyres, they were graceful and

 indescribably lovely.

 Without stereoscopic vision, Shasa had difficulty in judging distance,

 but he had developed the knack of defining relative size and added to

 this a kind of sixth sense that enabled him to pilot an aircraft, strike

 a polo ball, or shoot as well as any fully sighted person.

 The nearest of the approaching antelope were almost at extreme range,

 when there was a crackle of rifle fire from farther down the line and

 immediately the herds exploded into silent airy flight. Each tiny

 creature danoed and bounced on long legs no thicker than a man's thumb.

 Seeming no longer bounded by the dictates of gravity, every fluid leap

 blurring against the matching background of parched earth, they tumbled

 and shot into the mirage-quivering air in the spectacular display of

 aerobatics that gave them their name, and down each of their backs a

 frosty mane came erect and shone with their alarm.

 It was more difficult than trying to bring down a rocketing grouse with

 a spreading pattern of shot, impossible to hold the darting ethereal

 shapes in the cross-hairs of the lens, fruitless to aim directly at the

 swift creatures - necessary rather to aim at the empty space where they

 would be a micro second later when the supersonic bullet reached them.

 With some men shooting well is skill learned with much practice and

 concentration. With Shasa it was a talent that he had been born with.

 As he turned his upper body, the long barrel pointed exactly where he

 was looking and the cross hairs of the telescopic sight moved smoothly

 in the centre of his vision and settled on the nimble body of a racing

 antelope as it went bounding high in the air. Shasa was not conscious

 of squeezing the trigger, the rifle seemed to fire of its own accord and

 the recoil drove into his shoulder at precisely the correct instant.

 The ram died in the air, turned over by the bullet so his snowy belly

 flashed in the sunlight, somersaulting to the impetus of the tiny metal

 capsule as it lanced his heart, and he fell and rolled horned head over

 dainty hooves as he hit the earth and lay still.

 Shasa worked the bolt and picked up another running creature and the

 rifle fired again and the sharp stink of burned powder prickled his

 nostrils. He kept shooting until the barrel was hot enough to raise

 blisters and his eardrums ached to the crackle of shot.

 Then the last of the herds were gone past them and over the hills behind

 them, and the gunfire died away. Shasa unloaded the cartridges that

 remained in his rifle and looked at Manfred De La Rey.

 'Eight,' Manfred said, 'and two wounded." It was amazing how those tiny

 creatures could carry away a misplaced bullet. They would have to

 follow them up. It was unthinkable to allow a wounded animal to suffer

 unnecessarily.

 'Eight is a good score,' Shasa told him. 'You can be pleased with your

 shooting." 'And you?" Manfred asked. 'How many?" 'Twelve,' Shasa

 answered expressionlessly.

 'How many wounded?" Manfred hid his chagrin well enough.

 'Oh." Shasa smiled at last. 'I don't wound animals - I shoot where I

 aim." That was enough. He did not have to rub in salt.

 Shasa left him and walked out to the nearest carcass. The springbok lay

 on its side and in death the deep fold of skin along its back had opened

 and from it the snowy plume started erect. Shasa went down on one knee

 and stroked the lovely plume. From the glands in the fold of skin had

 exuded reddish-brown musk, and Shasa parted the long plume and rubbed

 the secretion with his forefinger, then raised it to his face and

 inhaled the honey-scented aroma. It smelled more like a flower than an

 animal. Then the hunter's melancholy came upon him, and he mourned the

 beautiful little creature he had killed.

 'Thank you for dying for me,' he whispered the ancient Bushman prayer

 that Centaine had taught him so long ago, and yet the sadness was

 pleasure, and deep inside him the atavistic urge of the hunter was for

 the moment replete.

 In the cool of the evening the men gathered around the pits of glowing

 embers in front of the homestead. The braaivleis, or meat bake, was a

 ritual that followed the hunt; the men did the cooking while the women

 were relegated to the preparation of salads and pudding at the long

 trestle tables on the stoep. The game had been marinated or larded or

 made into spiced sausage, and the livers, kidneys and tripes were

 treated to jealously guarded recipes before they were laid upon the

 coals in the grilling pit, while the self-appointed chefs kept the heat

 of the fires from becoming oppressive with liberal draughts of mampoer,

 the pungent peach brandy.

 A scratch band of coloured farm labourers belted out traditional country

 airs on banjo and concertina and some of the guests danced on the wide

 front stoep. A few of the younger women were very interesting, and

 Shasa eyed them thoughtfully. They were tanned and glowing with health

 and an Unsophisticated sensuality that was made all the more appealing

 by the fact of their Calvinist upbringing. Their untouchability and

 probable virginity made them even more attractive to Shasa who enjoyed

 the chase as much as the kill.

 However, there was too much at stake here to risk giving the slightest

 offence. He avoided the shy but calculating glances that some of them

 cast in his direction, and avoided just as scrupulously the savage peach

 brandy and filled his glass with ginger ale. He knew he would need all

 his wits before the night was ended.

 When their appetites, sharpened on the hunting veld, had been blunted by

 the steaming platters piled with grilled venison, and the leftovers had

 been carried away delightedly to the servants' quarters, Shasa found

 himself sitting at the end of the long stoep farthest from the band.

 Manfred De La Rey was sitting opposite him, and the two other ministers

 of the government sprawled contentedly in their deep lounging chairs

 flanking him. Despite their relaxed attitudes, they watched him warily

 from the corners of their eyes.

 'The main business is about to begin,' Shasa decided, and almost

 immediately Manfred stirred.

 'I was telling Meneer Courtney that in many ways we are very close,'

 Manfred started quietly, and his colleagues nodded sagely.

 'We all want to protect this land and preserve all that is fine and

 worthwhile in it." 'God has chosen us as guardians - it is our duty to

 protect all its peoples, and make certain that the identity of each

 group and each separate culture is kept intact, and apart from the

 others." It was the party line, this notion of divine selection, and

 Shasa had heard it all a hurldred times before; so although he nodded

 and made small noncommittal sounds, he was becoming restless.

 'There is still much to be done,' Manfred told him. 'After the next

 election we will have great labours ahead of us, we are the masons

 building a social edifice that will stand for a thousand years. A model

 society in which each group will have its place, and will not intrude

 upon the space of others, a broad and stable pyramid forming a unique

 society." They were all silent then for a while, contemplating the

 beauty of the vision, and though Shasa kept his expression neutral,

 still he smiled inwardly at the apt metaphor of a pyramid.

 There was no doubt in any of their minds as to which group was divinely

 ordained to occupy the pinnacle.

 'And yet there are enemies."?" the minister of agriculture cued Manfred.

 'There are enemies, within and without. They will become more

 vociferous and dangerous as the work goes ahead. The closer we come to

 success, the more avid they become to prevent us achieving it." 'Already

 they are gathering." 'Yes,' Manfred agreed. 'And even old and

 traditional friends are warning and threatening us. America, who should

 know better, racked by her own racial problems, the unnatural

 aspirations of the negroes they brought as slaves from Africa. Even

 Britain with her Mau Mau troubles in Kenya and the disintegration of her

 Indian Empire wishes to dictate to us and divert us from the course we

 know is right." 'They believe us to be weak and vulnerable." 'They

 already hint at an arms embargo, denying us the weapons to defend

 ourselves against the dark enemy that is gathering in the shadows."

 'They are right,' Manfred cut in brusquely. 'We are weak and militarily

 disorganized. We are at the mercy of their threats --' 'We have to

 change this,' the finance minister spoke harshly. 'We must make

 ourselves strong." 'At the next budget the defence allocation will be

 fifty million pounds, while by the end of the decade it will be a

 billion." 'We must put ourselves above their threats of sanction and

 boycott and embargo." 'Strength through Unity, Ex Unitate Vires,' said

 Manfred De La Rey. 'And yet by tradition and preference, the Afrikaner

 people have been farmers and country folk. Because of the

 discrimination which was practised against us for a hundred years and

 more, we have been excluded from the marketplace of commerce and

 industry and we have not learned the skills which come so readily to our

 English-speaking countrymen." Manfred paused, glanced at the other two,

 as if for approval, and then went on. 'What this country needs

 desperately is the wealth to make our vision come true. It is a massive

 undertaking for which we lack the skills. We need a special type of

 man." They were all looking keenly at Shasa now. 'We need a man with

 the vigour of youth but the experience of age, a man with proven genius

 for finance and organization. We can find no member of our own party

 with those attributes." Shasa stared at them. What they were suggesting

 was outrageous.

 He had grown up in the shadow of Jan Christian Smuts and had a natural

 and unshakable allegiance to the party that Smuts, that great and good

 man, had founded. He opened his mouth to answer angrily, but Manfred De

 La Rey raised his hand to stop him.

 'Hear me out,' he said. 'The person chosen for this patriotic work

 would be immediately given a senior cabinet appointment which the prime

 minister would create specifically for him. He would become minister of

 mines and industry." Shasa closed his mouth slowly. How carefully they

 must have studied him, and how accurately they had analysed him and

 arrived at his price. The very foundations of his political beliefs and

 principles were shaken, and the walls cracked through. They had led him

 up into a high place and shown him the prize that was his for the

 taking.

 At twenty thousand feet Shasa levelled the Mosquito and trimmed for

 cruise. He increased the flow of oxygen into his mask to sharpen his

 brain. He had four hours' flying time to Youngsfield, four hours to

 think it all out carefully, and he tried to divorce himself from the

 passions and emotions which still swept him along and attempt instead to

 reach his decision logically - but the excitement intruded upon his

 meditations. The prospect of wielding vast powers, building up an

 arsenal that would make his country supreme in Africa and a force in the

 world was awe-inspiring. That was power. The thought of it all made

 him slightly light-headed, for it was all there at last, everything he

 had ever dreamed of. He had only to reach out his hand and seize the

 moment. Yet what would be the cost in honour and pride - how would he

 explain to men who trusted him?

 Then abruptly he thought of Blaine Malcomess, his mentor and adviser,

 the man who had stood in the place of his own father all these years.

 What would he think of this dreadful betrayal that Shasa was

 contemplating?

 'I can do more good by joining them, Blaine,' he whispered into his

 mask. 'I can help change and moderate them from within more effectively

 than in opposition, for now I will have the power --' bul he knew he was

 prevaricating, and all else was dross.

 It all came down to that one thing in the end, the power - and he knew

 that although Blaine Malcomess would never condone what he would see as

 treachery, there was one person who would understand and give him

 support and encouragement. For after all it was Centaine

 Courtney-Malcomess who had so carefully schooled her son in the

 acquisition and use of wealth and power.

 'It could all come true, Mater. It could still happen, not exactly as

 we planned it, but it could still happen all the same." Then a thought

 struck him, and a shadow passed across the bright light of his triumph.

 He glanced down at the red folder that Manfred De La Rey, minister of

 police, had given him at the airstrip, just as he was about to climb up

 into the Mosquito, and which now lay on the copilot's seat beside him.

 'There is only one problem we will have to deal with, if you accept our

 offer,' Manfred had said as he handed it over, 'and it is a serious

 problem. This is it." .The folder contained a police special branch

 security report, and the name on the cover was:

 TARA ISABELLA COURTNEY the MALCOMESS

 Tara Courtney made her round of the children's wing, calling in at each

 of the bedrooms. Nanny was just tucking Isabella under her pink satin

 eiderdown, and the child let out a cry of delight when she saw Tara.

 'Mummy, Mummy, teddy bbs been naughty. I'm going to make him sleep on

 the shelf with my other dolls." Tara sat on her daughter's bed and

 hugged her while they discussed teddy's misdemeanours. Isabella was

 pink and warm and smelled of soap. Her hair was silky against Tara's

 cheek and it took an effort for Tara to kiss her and stand up.

 'Time to go to sleep, Bella baby." The moment the lights went out

 Isabella let out such a shriek that Tara was stricken with alarm.

 'What is it, baby?" She snapped on the lights again and rushed back to

 the bed.

 'I've forgiven teddy. He can sleep with me after all." The teddy-bear

 was ceremoniously reinstated in Isabella's favour

 !!Z

 and she took him in a loving half-nelson and stuck her other thumb in

 her mouth.

 'When is my Daddy coming home?" she demanded drowsily around the thumb,

 but her eyes were closed and she was asleep before Tara reached the

 door.

 Sean was sitting on Garrick's chest in the middle of the bedroom floor,

 tweaking the hair at his brother's temples with sadistic finesse.

 Tara separated them.

 'Sean, you get back to your own room this instant, do you hear me?

 I have warned you a thousand times about bullying your brothers. Your

 father is going to hear all about this when he gets home." Garrick

 snuffled up his tears and came wheezing to his elder brother's defence.

 'We were only playing, Mater. He wasn't bullying me." But she could

 hear that he was on the verge of another asthma attack. She wavered.

 She really should not go out, not with an attack threatening, but

 tonight was so important.

 Tll prepare his inhaler and tell Nanny to look in on him every hour

 until I get back,' she compromised.

 Michael was reading, and barely looked up to receive her kiss.

 'Lights out at nine o'clock. Promise me, darling." She tried never to

 let it show, but he was always her favourite.

 'I promise, Mater,' he murmured and under cover of the eiderdown

 carefully crossed his fingers.

 On the way down the stairs she glanced at her wristwatch. It was five

 minutes before eight. She was going to be late, and she stifled her

 maternal feelings of guilt and fled out to her old Packard.

 Shasa detested the Packard, taking its blotched sun-faded paintwork and

 its shabby stained upholstery as an affront to the family dignity. He

 had given her a new Aston Martin on her last birthday, but she left it

 in the garage.  The Packard suited her Spartan image: of herself as a

 caring liberal, and it blew a streamer of dirty smoke as she accelerated

 down the long driveway, taking a perverse pleasure in sending a pall of

 fine dust over Shasa's meticulously groomed vineyards. It was strange

 how even after all these years she felt herself a stranger at

 Weltevreden, and alien amongst its treasures and stuffy old-fashioned

 furnishings. If she lived here another fifty years it would never be

 her home, it was Centaine Courtney-Malcomess' home, the other woman's

 touch and memory lingered in every room that Shasa would never allow her

 to redecorate.

 She escaped through the great ostentatious Anreith gateway into the real

 world of suffering and injustice, where the oppressed masses wept and

 struggled and cried out for succour and where she felt useful and

 relevant, where in the company of other pilgrims she could march forward

 to meet a future full of challenge and change.

 The Broadbursts' home was in the middle-class suburb of Pinelands, a

 modern ranch-type home with a flat roof and large picture windows, with

 ordinary functional mass-produced furniture and nylon wall-to-wall

 carpets. There were dog hairs on the chairs, well thumbed intellectual

 books piled in odd corners or left open on the dining-room table,

 children's toys abandoned in the passageways, and cheap reproductions of

 Picasso and Modigliani hanging askew on the walls marked with grubby

 little fingerprints. Tara felt comfortable and welcome here, mercifully

 released from the fastidious splendour of Weltevreden.

 Molly Broadhurst rushed out to meet her as she parked the Packard.

 She was dressed in a marvellously flamboyant caftan.

 'You're late!" She kissed Tara heartily and dragged her through the

 disorder of the lounge to the music room at the rear.

 The music room was an afterthought stuck on to the end of the house

 without any aesthetic considerations and was filled now with Molly's

 guests who had been invited to hear Moses Gama. Tara's spirits soared

 as she looked around her, they were all vibrant creative people, all of

 them spirited and articulate, filled with the excitement of living and a

 fine sense of justice and outrage and rebellion.

 This was the type of gathering that Weltevreden would never see.

 Firstly, black people were included, students from the black University

 of Fort Hare and the fledgling University of the Western Cape, teachers

 and lawyers and even a black doctor, all of them political activists

 who, although denied a voice or a vote in the white parliament, were

 beginning to cry out with a passion that must be heard.

 There was the editor of the black magazine Drum and the local

 correspondent of the Sowetant named after that sprawling black township.

 Just to mingle socially with blacks made her feel breathlessly daring.

 The whites in the room were no less extraordinary. Some of them had

 been members of the Communist Party of South Africa before that

 organization had been disbanded a few years previously. There was a man

 called Harris who she had met before at Molly's house.

 He had fought with the Irgun in Israel against the British and the

 Arabs, a tall fierce man who inspired a delicious fear in Tara. Molly

 hinted that he was an expert in guerrilla warfare and sabotage, and

 certainly he was always travelling secretly around the country or

 slipping across the border into neighbouring states on mysterious

 business. ú Talking earnestly to Molly's husband was another lawyer

 from Johannesburg, Brain Fischer, who specialized in defending black

 clients charged under the myriad laws that were designed to muzzle and

 disarm them and restrict their movements. Molly said that Brain was

 reorganizing the old Communist Party into underground cells, and Tara

 fantasized that she might one day be invited to join one of these cells.

 In the same group was Marcus Archer, another ex-communist and an

 industrial psychologist from the Witwatersrand. He was responsible for

 the training of thousands of black workers for the goldmining industry,

 and Molly said that he had helped to organize the black mineworkers'

 union. Molly had also whispered that he was a homosexual, and she had

 used an odd term for it that Tara had never heard before. 'He's gay,

 gay as a lark." And because it was totally unacceptable to polite

 society, Tara found it fascinating.

 'Oh God, Molly,' Tara whispered. 'This is so exciting. These are all

 real people, they make me feel as though I am truly living at last."

 'There he is." Molly smiled at this outburst and dragged Tara with her

 through the press of bodies.

 Moses Gama leaned against the far wall faced by a half circle of

 admirers, yet standing head and shoulders above them, and Molly pushed

 her way into the front row.

 Tara found herself staring up at Moses Gama, and she thought that even

 in this brilliant company he stood out like a black panther in a pack of

 mangy alley cats. Though his head seemed carved from a block of black

 onyx, and his handsome Nilotic features were impassive, yet there was a

 force within him that seemed to fill all the room. It was like standing

 on the high slopes of a dark Vesuvius, knowing that at any instant it

 could boil over into cataclysmic eruption.

 Moses Gama turned his head and looked at Tara. He did not smile, but a

 shadowy thing moved in the depths of his dark gaze.

 'Mrs Courtney - I asked Molly to invite you." 'Please don't call me

 that. My name is Tara." 'We must talk later, Tara. Will you stay?" She

 could not answer, she was too overcome at being singled out, but she

 nodded dumbly.

 'If you are ready, Moses, we can begin,' Molly suggested, and taking him

 out of the group led him to the raised dais on which the piano stood.

 'People! People! Your attention, please!" Molly clapped her hands, and

 the animated chatter died away. Everybody turned towards the dais.

 'Moses Gama is one of the most talented and revered of the new

 generation of young black African leaders. He has been a member of the

 African National Congress since before the war, and a prime mover in the

 formation of the African Mineworkers' Union.

 Although the black trade unions are not officially recognized by the

 government of the day, yet the secret union of mineworkers is one of the

 most representative and powerful of all black associations, with more

 than a hundred thousand paid-up members. In 1950 Moses Gama was elected

 Secretary of the ANC, and he has worked tirelessly, selflessly and

 highly effectively in making the heart cry of our black citizens heard,

 even though they are denied a voice in their own destiny. For a short

 while Moses Gama was an appointed member of the government's Natives'

 Representative Council, that infamous attempt to appease black political

 aspirations, but it was he who resigned with the now celebrated remark,

 'I have been speaking into a toy telephone, with nobody listening at the

 other end." There was a btirst of laughter and applause from the room,

 and then Molly turned to Moses Gama.

 'I know that you have nothing to tell us that will comfort and soothe us

 - but, Moses Gama, in this room there are many hearts that beat with

 yours and are prepared to bleed with yours." Tara applauded until the

 palms of her hands were numb, and then leaned forward to listen eagerly

 as Moses Gama moved to the front of the dais.

 He was dressed in a neat blue suit and a dark blue tie with a white

 shirt. Strangely, he was the most formally dressed man in a room full

 of baggy woollen sweaters and old tweed sports coats with leather

 patches on the elbows and gravy stains on the lapels. His suit was

 severely cut, draped elegantly from wide athletic shoulders, but he

 imparted to it a panache that made it seem that he wore the leopardskin

 cloak of royalty and the blue heron feathers in his close-cropped mat of

 hair. His voice was deep and thrilling.

 'My friends, there is one single ideal to which I cling with all my

 heart, and which I will defend with my very life, and that is that every

 African has a primary, inherent and inalienable right to the Africa

 which is his continent and his only motherland,' Moses Gama began, and

 Tara listened, enchanted, as he detailed how that inherent right had

 been denied the black man for three hundred years, and how in these last

 few years since the Nationalist government had come to power, those

 denials were becoming formally entrenched in a monumental edifice of

 laws and ordinances and proclamations which was the policy of apartheid

 in practice.

  

 'We have all heard it said that the whole concept of apartheid is so

 grotesque, so obviously lunatic, that it can never work. But I warn

 you, my friends, that the men who have conceived this crazy scheme are

 so fanatical, so obdurate, so convinced of their divine guidance, that

 they will force it to work. Already they have created a vast army of

 petty civil servants to administer this madness, and they have behind

 them the full resources of a land rich in gold and minerals. I warn you

 that they will not hesitate to squander that wealth in building up this

 ideological Frankenstein of theirs. There is no price in material

 wealth and human suffering that is too high for them to contemplate."

 Moses Gama paused and looked down upon them, and it seemed to Tara that

 he personally felt every last agony of his people, and was filled with

 suffering beyond that which mortal men could bear.

 'Unless they are opposed, my friends, they will create of this lovely

 land a desolation and an abomination; a land devoid of compassion, of

 justice, a land materially and spiritually bankrupt." Moses Gama spread

 his arms. 'These men call those of us who defy them traitors. Well, my

 friends, I call any man who does not oppose them a traitor - a traitor

 to Africa." He was silent then, glaring this accusation at them, and

 they were struck dumb for a moment, before they began to cheer him. Only

 Tara remained still in the uproar, staring up at him, she had no voice,

 and she was shivering as though there was malaria in her blood.

 Moses' head sank until his chin was on his chest, and they thought he

 had finished. Then he raised that magnificent head again and spread his

 arms.

 'Oppose them? How do we oppose them? I reply to you - we oppose them

 with all our strength and all our resolve and with all our hearts.

 If no price is too high for them to pay, then no price is too high for

 us. I tell you, my friends, there is nothing --' He paused for emphasis

 '--nothing I would not do to further the struggle. I am prepared both

 to die and to kill for it." The room was silent in the face of such

 deadly resolve. For those of them who were practitioners of elegant,

 socialist dialectic, the effete intellectuals, such a declaration was

 menacing and disquieting, it had the sound of breaking bones in it and

 the stench of freshspilled blood.

 'We are ready to make a beginning, my friends, and already 'our plans

 are far advanced. Starting in a few months' time we will conduct a

 nationwide campaign of defiance against these monstrous apartheid laws.

 We will burn th passes which we are ordered by act of parliament to

 carry, the hated dompas which is akin to the star that the Jews were

 forced to wear, the document that marks us as racial inferiors. We will

 make a bonfire of them and the smoke of their burning will sting and

 offend the nostrils of the civilized world.

 We will sit in the whites-only restaurants and cinemas, we will ride in

 the whites-only coaches of the railways, and swim from the whites, only

 beaches. We will cry out to the fascist police, Come! Arrest us.

 And in our thousands we will overflow the white man's jails and block

 his law courts with our multitudes until the whole giant apparatus of

 apartheM breaks down under the strain." Tara lingered afterwards as he

 had asked her to, and when Molly had seen most of her guests leave, she

 came and took Tara's arm. 'Will you risk my spaghetti Bolognaise, Tara

 dear? As you know, I'm the worst cook in Africa, but you are a brave

 girl." Only a half dozen of the guests had been invited to remain for a

 late dinner and they sat out on the patio.

 The mosquitoes whined around their heads and every once in a while a

 shift of the wind brought a sulphurous whiff from the sewerage works

 across the Black River. It did not seem to spoil their appetites and

 they tucked into Molly's notorious spaghetti Bolognaise and washed it

 down with tumblers of cheap red wine. Tara found it a relief from the

 elaborate meals that were served at Weltevreden, accompanied always by

 the quasi-religious ceremony of tasting wines that cost a working man's

 monthly wage for the bottle. Here food and wine were merely fuel to

 power the mind and tongue, not for gloating over.

 Tara sat beside Moses Gama. Although his appetite was hearty, he hardly

 touched the tumbler of wine. His table manners were African. He ate

 noisily with an open mouth, but strangely this did not offend Tara in

 the least. Somehow it confirmed his differentness, marked him as a man

 of his own people.

 At first Moses gave most of his attention to the other guests, replying

 to the questions and comments that were called down the table to him.

 Then gradually he concentrated on Tara, at first, including her in his

 general conversation, and at last, when he had finished eating, turning

 in his chair to face her fully and lowering his voice to exclude the

 others.

 'I know your family,' he told ler. 'Know them well, Mrs Centaine

 Courtney and more especially your husband, Shasa Courtney." Tara was

 startled. 'I have never heard them speak of you." 'Why would they do

 so? In their eyes I was never important. They would have forgotten me

 long ago." 'Where did you know them and when?" 'Twenty years ago. Your

 husband was still a child. I was a bossboy, a supervisor on the H'am

 diamond mine in South West Africa." 'The H'am,' Tara nodded. 'Yes, the

 fountainhead of the Courtney fortune." 'Shasa Courtney was sent by his

 mother to learn the workings of the mine. He and I were together for a

 few weeks, working side by side--' Moses broke off and smiled. 'We got

 along well, as well as a black man and a little white baas ever could, I

 suppose. We talked a great deal, and he gave me a book. Macaulay's

 History of England. I still have it. I recall how some of the things I

 said puzzled and disturbed him. He told me once, "Moses, that is

 politics. Blacks don't take part in politics. That's white men's

 business."' Moses chuckled at the memory, but Tara frowned.

 'I can hear him say it,' she agreed. 'He hasn't changed much in twenty

 years,' and Moses stopped laughing.

 'Your husband has become a powerful man. He has great wealth and

 influence." Tara shrugged. 'What good is power and wealth unless it is

 used with wisdom and compassion." 'You have compassion, Tara,' he said

 softly. 'Even if I did not know of the work that you do for my people,

 I would sense it in you." Tara lowered her eyes from his smouldering

 regard.

 'Wisdom." His voice sank even lower. 'I think you have that also.

 It was wise not to speak of our last meeting in front of others." Tara's

 head came up and she stared at him. In the evening's excitement she had

 almost forgotten their encounter in the forbidden corridors of

 parliament.

 'Why?" she whispered. 'Why were you there?" 'One day I may tell you,'

 he replied. 'When we have become friends." 'We are friends,' she said,

 and he nodded.

 'Yes, I think we are friends, but friendships have to be tried and

 proven. Now, tell me about your work, Tara." 'It's so very little that

 I am able to do ' and she told him about the clinic and the feeding

 scheme for the children and the old people, unconscious of her own

 enthusiasm and animation until he smiled again.

 'I was right, you do have compassion, Tara, enormous compassion. I would

 like to see this work. Is it possible?" 'Oh, would you come - that

 would be marvelous!" Molly brought him out to the clinic the following

 afternoon.

 The clinic was on the southern edge of the black township of Nyanga -

 the name meant 'dawn' in the Xhosa language, but was hardly apt. Like

 most black townships it comprised row upon row of identical brick

 cottages with asbestos sheet roofs separated by dusty lanes; although

 aesthetically ugly and uninspiring, the accommodation was adequate and

 offered reticulated water, mains sewerage and electricity.

 However, beyond the township proper, in the bushy dune country of the

 Cape Flats, had sprung up a shanty town that housed the overflow of

 black migrants from the impoverished rural areas, and Tara's clinic

 found its main clientele amongst these wretches.

 Proudly Tara led Moses and Molly around the small building.

 'Being the weekend, none of our volunteer doctors are here today,' she

 explained and Moses stopped to chat with the black nurses and with some

 of the motKers waiting patiently with their small children in the yard.

 Afterwards she made coffee for all three of them in her tiny office and

 when Moses asked how the clinic was financed, Tara told him vaguely.

 'Oh, we get a grant from the local provincial government--' but Molly

 Blackhurst cut in.

 'Don't let her fool you - most of the running costs come out of her own

 pocket." 'I cheat my husband on the housekeeping,' Tara laughed,

 dismissing it lightly.

 'Would it be possible for us to drive around the squatter slums?

 I'd like to see them." Moses looked at Molly, but she bit her lip and

 glanced at her wristwatch.

 'Oh, damn, I have to get back,' and Tara intervened quickly.

 'Don't worry, Molly. I can drive Moses around. You get on back and I

 will drop him off at your house later this evening." In the old Packard

 ,they bumped over the sandy tracks amongst the overgrown dunes, where

 the Port Jackson willow had been cleared to make way for hutments of

 rusty corrugated iron and cardboard and tattered plastic sheeting. Now

 and then they stopped and walked amongst the shanties. The south-easter

 was roaring in off the bay, filling the air with a mist of dust. They

 leaned against it as they walked.

 The people knew Tara and smiled and called greetings to her as she

 passed, and the children ran to meet her and danced around her begging

 for the cheap boiled sweets she kept in her pocket.

 'Where do they get water?" Moses asked, and she showed him how the older

 children had banded old oil drums with discarded car tyres.

 They filled the drums at a communal water tap at the boundary of the

 official township a mile away, and rolled the drums back to their

 hovels.

 'They cut the Port Jackson willow for fuel,' Tara told him. 'but in

 winter the children are always full of colds and flu and pneumonia.

 You don't have to ask about about sewerage--' she sniffed at the thick

 odour of the shallow toilet pits, screened with strips of old burlap.

 It was half dark when Tara parked the Packard at the back door of the

 clinic and switched off the engine. They sat quietly for a few minutes.

 'What we have seen is no worse than a hundred other shanty towns, places

 where I have lived most of my life,' Moses said. 'I am sorry." 'Why do

 you apologize?" Moses asked.

 'I don't know, I just feel guilty." She knew how inadequate it sounded

 and she opened the door of the Packard.

 'There are some papers I must get from my office. I won't be a minute,

 and then I will drive you back to Molly's house." The clinic was

 deserted. The two nurses had locked up and gone home an hour before.

 Tara let herself in with her own key and went through the single

 consulting room to her own office. She glanced at herself in the mirror

 above the washstand in the corner as she washed her hands. She was

 flushed and her eyes sparkled. She was so accustomed to the squalor of

 the squatter camps that it had not depressed her as it once had; instead

 she felt tingling alive and strangely elated.

 She stuffed the folder of correspondence and bills into her leather

 sling bag and locked the drawer of her desk, made sure the plug of the

 electric kettle was pulled out of the wall-socket and that the windows

 were closed, then switched off the lights and hurried out into the

 consulting room. She stopped with surprise. Moses Gama had followed

 her into the building and was sitting on the white draped examination

 bed against the far wall.

 'Oh,' she recovered. 'Sorry I took so long--' He shook his head, then

 stood up and crossed the tiled floor. He stopped, facing her. She felt

 awkward and uncertain as he studied her face solemnly.

 'You are a remarkable woman,' he said in a deep quiet voice that she had

 not heard him use before. 'I have never met another white woman like

 you." She could think of no reply, and he went on softly, 'You are rich

 and privileged. You are gifted with everything that your life can offer

 you, and yet you come here. To this poverty and misery." He reached out

 and touched her arm. His palm and the inside of his fingers were a pale

 rose colour, contrasting vividly with the back of his hand and his dark

 muscular forearm, and his skin felt cool.

 She wondered if it were really so, or if her own skin was hot.

 She felt hot, she felt a furnace glow deep within her. She looked down

 at his hand on her smooth pale arm. She had never been touched by a

 black man before, not deliberately, not lingeringly like this.

 She let the strap of the sling bag slide off her shoulder and it fell to

 the tiled floor with a thud. She had been holding her own hands clasped

 in front of her hips in an instinctively defensive gesture but now she

 let them fall to her sides, and almost without conscious volition arched

 her back and pushed her lower body towards him.

 At the same time she raised her head and looked squarely into his eyes.

 Her lips parted and her breathing quickened. She saw it reflected in

 his own eyes and she said, 'Yes." He stroked her arm, up from the elbow

 to the shoulder, and she shuddered and closed her eyes. He touched her

 left breast and she did not pull away. His hand closed around her, she

 felt it fill his grip, and her flesh hardened, her nipple swelled and

 thrust out into his palm and he squeezed her. The feeling was so

 intense it was almost painful and she gasped as it rippled down her

 spine spreading like wavelets when a stone is thrown into a quiet pool.

 Her arousal was so abrupt that she was unprepared. She had never

 considered herself a sensual person. Shasa was the only man she had

 ever known and it took all his skill and patience to quicken her body,

 but now at a touch her bones well soft with desire and her loins melted

 like wax in the flame and she could not breathe, so strong was her need

 of this man.

 'The door,' she blurted. 'Lock the door." Then she saw that he had

 already barred the door, and she was grateful for it, for she felt that

 she could not have brooked the delay.

 He picked her up quickly and carried her to the bed. The sheet that

 covered it was spotless and so crisply starched that it crackled softly

 under her weight.

 He was so huge that he terrified her, and though she had borne four

 children, she felt as though she was being split asunder as his

 blackness filled her, and then the terror passed to be replaced by a

 strange sense of sanctity. She was the sacrificial lamb, with this act

 she was redeeming all the sins of her own race, all the trespasses that

 they had committed against his ]people down the centuries; she was

 wiping away the guilt that had been her stigmata since as far back as

 she could remember.

 When at the end he lay heavy upon her with his breathing roaring in her

 ears and the last wild convulsions racking hisgreat black muscles, she

 clung to him with a joyous gratitude. For he had, at one and the same

 time, set her free from guilt and made her his slave for ever.

 Subdued by the sadness of after love, and by the certain knowledge that

 her world was for ever altered, Tara was silent on the drive back to

 Molly's home. She parked a block before she reached it, and keeping the

 engine running she turned to examine his face in the reflection of the

 street lights.

 'When will I see you again?" she asked the question that countless women

 in her position had asked before her. Do you wish to see me again?"

 'More than anything else in my life." She did not at that moment even

 ttiink of her children. He was the only thing in her existence.

 'It will be dangerous." 'I know." 'The penalties if we are discovered -

 disgrace, ostracism, imprisonment. Your life would be destroyed." 'My

 life was a sham,' she said softly. 'Its destruction would be no great

 loss." He studied her features carefully, searching for insincerity. At

 last he was satisfied.

 'I will send for you, when it is safe." 'I will come immediately,

 whenever you call." 'I must leave you now. Take me back." She parked at

 the side of Molly's house, in the shadow where they could not be

 observed from the road.

 'Now the subterfuge and dissembling begins,' she thought calmly.

 'I was right. It will never be the same again." He made no attempt to

 embrace her, it was not the African way.

 He stared at her, the whites of his eyes gleaming like ivory in the half

 dark.

 'You realize that when you choose me you choose the struggle?" he asked.

 'Yes, I know that." 'You have become a warrior and you and your wants,

 even your life, are of no consequence. If you have to die for the

 struggle, I will not lift my hand to save you." She nodded. 'Yes, I

 know that." The nobility of the concept filled her chest and made it

 difficult for her to breathe so her voice was laboured as she whispered,

 'Greater love hath no man - I will make any sacrifice you ask of me."

 Moses went to the guest bedroom which Molly had allocated to him, and as

 he washed his face in the basin Marcus Archer slipped into the room

 without knocking, closed the door and leaned against it, watching Moses

 in the mirror.

 'Well?" he asked at last, as though he was reluctant to hear the answer.

 'Just as we planned it." Moses dried his face on a clean towel.

 'I hate the silly little bitch,' Marcus said softly.

 'We agreed it was necessary." Moses selected a fresh shirt from the

 valise on his bed.

 'I know we agreed,' Marcus said. 'It was my suggestion, if you

 remember, but-I do not have to like her for it." 'She is an instrument.

 It is folly to let your personal feelings intrude." Marcus Archer

 nodded. In the end he hoped he could act like a true revolutionary, one

 of the steely hard men which the struggle needed, but his feelings for

 this man, Moses Gama, were stronger than all his political convictions.

 He knew that it was completely one-sided. Over the years Moses Gama had

 used him as cynically and as calculatingly as he now planned to use the

 Courtney woman. His vast sexual appeal was to Moses Gama merely another

 weapon in his arsenal, another means of manipulating people. He could

 use it on men or women, young or old, no matter how attractive or

 unappealing, and Marcus admired him for the ability, and at the same

 time was devastated by it.

 'We leave for the Witwatersrand tomorrow,' he said, as he pushed himself

 away from the door, for the moment controlling his jealousy.

 'I have made the arrangements." 'So soon?" Moses asked.

 'I have made the arrangements. We will travel by car." It was one of

 the problems which dogged their work. It was difficult for a black man

 to travel about the huge sub-continent, liable as he was at any time to

 demands to show his dompas and to interrogation when the authority

 realized that he was far from the domicile shown on the pass without

 apparent reason, or that the pass had not been stamped by an employer.

 Moses' association with Marcus and the nominal employment he provided

 with the Chamber of Mines gave him valuable cover when it was necessary

 to travel, but they always needed couriers. That was one of the

 functions that Tara Courtney would perform. In addition she was by

 birth and by marriage highly placed, and the information she could

 provide would be of the greatest value in the planning.

 Later, after she had proved herself, there would be other, more

 dangerous work.

 In the end, Shasa Courtney realized, it was his mother's advice which

 would tip the fine balance and decide whether he accepted or rejected

 the offer that had been made to him during the springbok hunt on the

 open plains of the Orange Free State.

 Shasa would have been the first to despise any other man of his age who

 was still firmly enmeshed in the maternal apron strings, but he never

 considered that this applied to him. The fact that Centaine

 Courtney-Malcomess was his mother was merely incidental. What

 influenced him was that she was the shrewdest financial and political

 brain he had access to; she was also his business partner and his only

 true confidante. To make such an important decision without consulting

 her never even occurred to him.

 He waited a week after his return to Cape Town to let his own feelings

 distil out, and for an opportunity to have Centaine alone, for he was in

 no doubt as to what his stepfather's reaction would be to the proposal.

 Blaine Malcomess was the opposition representative on the parliamentary

 sub-committee examining the proposed establishment of an oil-from-coal

 project, part of the government's long-term plan to reduce the country's

 reliance on imported crude oil. The committee was going to take

 evidence on site, and for once Centaine was not accompanying her

 husband. That was the opportunity Shasa needed.

 It was less than half an hour's drive from Weltevreden, across the

 Constantia Nek pass and down the other side of the mountains to the

 Atlantic seaboard where the home that Centaine had made for Blaine stood

 on five hundred acres of wild protea-covered mountainside that dropped

 steeply down to rocky headlands and white beaches. The original house,

 Rhodes Hill, had been built during Queen Victoria's reign by one of the

 old mining magnates from the Rand, but Centaine had stripped the

 interior and refurbished it completely.

 She was waiting for Shasa on the verandah when he parked the Jaguar, and

 ran up the steps to embrace her.

 'You're getting too thin,' she scolded him fondly. She had guessed from

 his telephone call that he wanted a serious discussion, and they had

 their own traditions. Centaine was dressed in an open-neck cotton

 blouse and slacks with comfortable hiking boots, and without discussing

 it she took his arm and they set out along the path that skirted her

 rose gardens and climbed the untended hillside.

 The last part of the ascent was steep and the path rough, but Centaine

 took it without pause and came out on the summit ahead of him.

 Her breathing was hardly altered, and within a minute had returned to

 normal. 'She keeps herself in wonderful condition, Heaven alone knows

 what she spends on health cures and potions, and she exercises like a

 professional athlete,' Shasa thought as he grinned down at her proudly.

 He placed an arm around her small firm waist.

 'Isn't it beautiful.*' Centaine leaned lightly against him and looked

 out over the cold green Benguela current, as it swirled, decked in lacy

 foam, around Africa's heel, which like a medieval knight was spurred and

 armoured with black rock. 'This is one of my favourite places."

 'Whoever would have guessed it,' Shasa murmured, and led her to the flat

 lichen-covered rock that was her seat.

 She perched up on it, hugging her knees and he sprawled on the bed of

 moss below her. They were both silent for a few moments, and Shasa

 wondered how often they had sat like this at this special place of hers,

 and how many heavy decisions they had taken here.

 'Do you remember Manfred De La Rey?" he asked suddenly, but he was

 unprepared for her reaction. She started and looked down at him, colour

 draining from her cheeks, with an expression he could not fathom.

 'Is something wrong, Mater?" He began to rise, but she gestured at him

 to remain seated.

 'Why do you ask about him?" she demanded, but he did not reply directly.

 'Isn't it strange how our paths seem to cross with his family? Ever

 since his father rescued us, when I was an infant and we were castaways

 living with the Bushmen in the Kalahari." 'We needn't go over all that

 again,' Centaine stopped him, and her tone was brusque. Shasa realized

 he had been tactless. Manfred's father had robbed the H'am Mine of

 almost a million pounds' worth of diamonds, an act of vengeance for

 fancied wrongs that he had convinced himself Centaine had inflicted on

 him. For that crime he had served almost fifteen years of a life

 sentence for robbery, and had been pardoned only when the Nationalist

 government had come to power in 1948. At the same time the Nationalists

 had pardoned many other Afrikaners serving sentences for treason and

 sabotage and arched robbery, convicted by the Smuts' government when

 they had attempted to disrupt the country's war effort against Nazi

 Germany. However, the stolen diamonds had never been recovered, and

 their loss had almost destroyed the fortune that Centaine Courtney had

 built up with so much labour, sacrifice and heartache.

 'Why do you mention Manfred De La Rey?" she repeated her question.

 'I had an invitation from him to a meeting. A clandestine meeting - all

 very cloak and dagger." 'Did you go?" He nodded slowly. 'We met at a

 farm in the Free State, and there were two other cabinet ministers

 present." 'Did you speak to Manfred alone?" she asked, and the tone of

 the question, the fact that she used his Christian name, caught Shasa's

 attention. Then he remembered the unexpected question that Manfred De

 La Rey had put to him.

 'Has your mother ever spoken about me?" he had asked, and faced by

 Centaine's present reaction to his name, the question took on a new

 significance.

 'Yes, Mater, I spoke to him alone." 'Did he mention me?" Centaine

 demanded, and Shasa gave a little chuckle of puzzlement.

 'He asked the same question - whether you ever spoke about him.

 Why are the two of you so interested in each other?" Centaine's

 expression turned bleak, and he saw her close her mind to him. It was a

 mystery he would not solve by pursuing it openly, he would have to stalk

 it.

 'They made me a proposition." And he saw her interest reawaken.

 'Manfred? A proposition? Tell me." 'They want me to cross the floor."

 She nodded slowly, showing little surprise and not immediately rejecting

 the idea. He knew that if Blaine were here it would have been

 different. Blaine's sense of honour, his rigid principles, would have

 left no room for manoeuvre. Blaine was a Smuts man, heart and blood,

 and even though the old field-marshal had died of a broken heart soon

 after the Nationalists unseated him and took over the reins of power,

 still Blaine was for ever true to the old man's memory.

 'I can guess why they want you,' Centaine said slowly. 'They need a top

 financial brain, an organizer and a businessman. It's the one thing

 they lack in their cabinet." He nodded. She had seen it instantly, and

 his enormous respect for her was confirmed yet again.

 'What price are they willing to pay?" she demanded.

 'A cabinet appointment - minister of mines and industry." He saw her

 eyes go out of focus, and cross in a myopic stare as she gazed out to

 sea. He knew what that expression meant. Centaine was calculating,

 juggling with the future, and he waited latiently until her eyes snapped

 back into focus.

 'Can you see any reason for refusing?" she asked.

 'How about my political principles?" 'How do they differ from theirs?"

 'I am not an Afrikaner." 'That might be to your advantage. You will be

 their token Englishman. That will give you a special status. You will

 have a freer rein.

 They will be more reluctant to fire you than if you were one of their

 own." 'I don't agree with their native policy, this apartheid thing of

 theirs, it's just financially unsound." 'Good Lord, Shasa. You don't

 believe in equal political rights for blacks, do you? Not even Jannie

 Smuts wanted that. You don't want another Chaka ruling us, black judges

 and a black police force working for a black dictator?" She shuddered.

 'We'd get pretty short shrift from them." 'No, Mater, of course not. But

 this apartheid thing is merely a device for grabbing the whole pie. We

 have to give them a slice of it, we can't hog it all. That's a certain

 recipe for eventual bloody revolution." 'Very well, chbri. If you are

 in the cabinet, you can see to it that they get a fair crack of the

 whip." He looked dubious, and made a side-show of selecting a cigarette

 from his gold case and lighting it.

 'You have a special talent, Shasa,' Centaine went on persuasively.

 'It's your duty to use it for the good of all." Still he hesitated, he

 wanted her to declare herself fully. He had to know if she wanted this

 as much as he did.

 'We can be honest with each other, chbri.  This is what we have worked

 towards since you were a child. Take this job and do it well, after

 that who knows what else may follow." They were both silent then, they

 knew what they hoped would follow. They could not help themselves, it

 was their nature always to strive towards the highest pinnacle.

 'What about Blaine?" Shasa said at last. 'How will he take it? I don't

 look forward to telling him." 'I'll do that,' she promised. 'But you

 will have to tell Tara." 'Tara,' he sighed. 'Now that will be a

 problem." They were silent again, until Centaine asked, 'How will you do

 it?

 If you cross the floor it will expose you to a blaze of hostile

 publicity." So it was agreed without further words, only the means

 remained to be discussed.

 'At the next general election I will simply campaign in different

 colours,' Shasa said. 'They will give me a safe seat." 'So we have a

 little time to arrange the details then." They discussed them for

 another hour, planning with all the meticulous attention that had made

 them such a formidably successful team over the years, until Shasa

 looked up at her.

 'Thank you,' he said simply. 'What would I ever do without you!

 You are tougher and cleverer than any man I know." 'Get away with you,'

 she smiled. 'You know how I hate praise." They both laughed at that

 absurdity.

 'I'll walk you down, Mater." But she shook her head.

 'I've still got some thinking to do. Leave me here." She watched him go

 down the hill and her love and pride was so intense as to almost

 suffocate her.

 'He is everything I ever wanted in a son, and he has fulfilled all my

 expectations, a thousand times over. Thank you, my son, thank you for

 the joy you have always given me." Then abruptly the words 'my son'

 triggered another reaction, and her mind darted back to the earlier part

 of their conversation.

 'Do you remember Manfred De La ReyT Shasa had asked her, but he could

 never know what the answer to that must be.

 'Can a woman ever forget the child she bears?" she whispered the reply

 aloud, but her words were lost on the wind and on the sound of the green

 surf breaking on the rocky shore below the hill.

 Every pew of the church was filled. The women's bonnets were colourful

 as a field of wild Namaqua daisies in the springtime, while the men's

 suits were sombre and severe. All their faces were upturned towards the

 magnificent carved pulpit of polished black stinkwood in which stood the

 most reverend Tromp Bierman, moderator of the Dutch Reformed Church of

 South Africa.

 Manfred De La Rey considered once again how much Uncle Tromp had aged in

 the years since the war. He had never fully recovered from the

 pneumonia he had contracted in the concentration camp at Koffiefontein,

 where that English-lover Jannie Smuts had incarcerated him with hundreds

 of other patriotic Afrikaners for the duration of the English war with

 Germany.

 Uncle Tromp's beard was snow white now, even more spectacular than the

 curly black bush it once had been. The hair on his head, also white,

 had been close cropped to conceal its sparsity and it glittered like

 powdered glass on the high-domed pate, but his eyes were full of fire as

 he glowered at his congregation, and his voice that had earned him the

 sobriquet 'The Trumpet of God' had lost none of its power and rolled

 like a cannonade against the high-arched ceiling of the nave.

 Uncle Tromp could still pack the pews, and Manfred nodded soberly but

 proudly as the thunderous outpouring burst over his head. He was not

 really listening to the words, merely enjoying the sense of continuity

 that filled him, the world was a safe good place when Uncle Tromp was in

 his pulpit. Then a man could trust in the God of the Volk which he

 evoked with so much certainty, and believe in the divine intervention

 which directed his life.

 Manfred De La Rey sat in the ant pew at the right side of the nave

 nearest the aisle. It was the most prestigious position in the

 congregation, and rightly so for Manfred was the most powerful and

 important man in the church. The pew was reserved for him and his

 family, and their names were gold-leafed on the hymn books that lay

 beside each seat.

 Heidi, his wife, was a magnificent woman, tall and strong, her bare

 forearms below the puff sleeves were smooth and firm, her bosom large

 and shapely, her neck long and her thick golden hair plaited into ropes

 that were twisted up under the wide-brimmed black hat. Manfred had met

 her in Berlin when he had been the gold medallist light heavyweight

 boxer at the Olympic Games in 1936, and Adolf Hitler himself had

 attended their wedding. They had been separated during the war years,

 but afterwards Manfred had brought her out to Africa with their son,

 little Lothar.

 Lothar was almost twelve years old now, a fine strong boy, blond as his

 mother, and upright as his father. He sat very straight in the family

 pew, his hair neatly slicked down with Brylcreem and the stiff white

 collar biting into his neck. Like his father, he would be an athlete,

 but he had chosen the game of rugby at which to excel. His three

 younger sisters, blond and pretty in a fresh-faced healthy way, sat

 beyond him, their faces framed by the hoods of their traditional

 voortrekker bonnets and full-length skirts reaching to their ankles.

 Manfred liked them to wear national dress on Sundays.

 Uncle Tromp ended with a salvo that thrilled his flock with the threat

 of hell-fire, and they rose to sing the final hymn. Sharing the hymn

 book with Heidi, Manfred examined her handsome Germanic features. She

 was a wife to be proud of, a good housekeeper and mother, a fine

 companion whom he could trust and confide in, and a glittering ornament

 to his political career. A woman like this could stand beside any man,

 even the prime minister of a powerful and prosperous nation. He let

 himself dwell on that secret thought. Yet everything was possible, he

 was a young man, the youngest by far in the cabinet, and he had never

 made a political mistake. Even his wartime activities gave him credit

 and prestige with his peers, although few people outside the inner

 circle knew of the full role he had played in the militant anti-British

 pro-Nazi secret army of the Ossewa Brandwag.

 Already they were whispering that he was the coming man, and it was

 evident in the huge respect that was shown him as the service ended and

 the congregation left the church. Manfred stood, with Heidi beside him,

 on the lawns outside the church while one after another important and

 influential men came up to deliver social invitations, to ask a favour,

 to congratulate him on his speech intro ducing the new Criminal Law

 Amendment Bill in the House, or simply to pay their respects. It was

 almost twenty minutes before he was able to leave the church grounds.

 The family walked home. It was only two blocks under the green oaks

 that lined the streets of Stellenbosch, the small university town which

 was the citadel of Afrikaner intellectualism and culture. The three

 girls walked ahead, Lothar followed them and Manfred with Heidi on his

 arm brought up the rear, stopping every few paces to acknowledge a

 greeting or exchange a few words with a neighbour or a friend or one of

 Manfred's constituents.

 Manfred had purchased the house when they had arrived back from Germany

 after the war. Although it stood in a small garden, almost facing on to

 the street, it was a large house with spacious high-ceilinged rooms that

 suited the family well. Manfred had never seen any reason to change it,

 and he felt comfortable with Heidi's formal Teutonic furnishings. Now

 Heidi and the girls rushed through to help the servants in the kitchen,

 and Manfred went around the side of the house to the garage. He never

 used his official chauffeurdriven limousine at weekends, and he brought

 out his personal Chevrolet sedan and drove to fetch his father for the

 family Sunday luncheon.

 The old man seldom attended church, especially when the Reverend Tromp

 Bierman was preaching. Lothar De La Rey lived alone on the smallholding

 that Manfred had bought for him on the outskirts of the town at the foot

 of the Helshoogte Pass. He was out in the peach orchard pottering with

 his beehives and Manfred paused by the gate to watch him with a mixture

 of pity and deep affection.

 Lothar De La Rey had once been tall and straight as the grandson who now

 bore his name, but the arthritis he had contracted during ú the years in

 Pretoria Central Prison had bowed and twisted his body and turned his

 single remaining hand to a grotesque claw. His left arm was amputated

 above the elbow, too high to fit an artificial limb. He had lost it

 during the robbery that led to his imprisonment.

 He was dressed in dirty blue dungarees, with a stained brown hat on his

 head, the brim drooped over his eyes. One sleeve of the dungaree was

 pinned back.

 Manfred opened the gate and went down into the peach orchard where the

 old man was stooping over one of the wooden hives.

 'Good morning, Pa,' Manfred said softly. 'You aren't ready yet." His

 father straightened up and stared at him vaguely, and then started with

 surprise.

 'Manie! Is it Sunday again already?" 'Come along, Pa. Let's get you

 tidied up. Heidi is cooking a roast of pork - you know how you love

 pork." He took the old man's hand, and led him unprotestingly up to the

 cottage.

 'It's a mess, Pa." Manfred looked around the tiny bedroom with distaste.

 The bed had obviously been slept in repeatedly without being remade,

 soiled clothing was strewn on the floor and used plates and mugs stood

 on the bedside table. 'What happened to the new maid Heidi found for

 you.9' 'I didn't like her, cheeky brown devil,' Lothar muttered.

 'Stealing the sugar, drinking my brandy. I fired her." Manfred went to

 the cupboard and found a clean white shirt. He helped the old man

 undress.

 'When did you last bath, PaT he asked gently.

 'Hey?" Lotlar peered at him.

 'It doesn't matter." Manfred buttoned his father's shirt. 'Heidi will

 find another maid for you. You must try and keep her longer than a week

 this time." It wasn't the old man's fault, Manfred reminded himself. It

 was the prison that had affected his mind. He had been a proud free

 man, a soldier and a huntsman, a creature of the wild Kalahari Desert.

 You cannot cage a wild animal. Heidi had wanted to have the old man to

 live with them, and Manfred felt guilty that he had refused. It would

 have meant buying a larger home, but that was the least of it. Manfred

 could not afford to have Lothar dressed like a coloured labourer

 wandering vaguely around the house, coming into his study uninvited when

 he had important visitors with him, slobbering his food and making inane

 statements at the dinner table when he was entertaining. No, it was

 better for all of them, the old man especially, that he lived apart.

 Heidi would find another maid to take care of him, but he felt corrosive

 guilt as he took Lothar's arm and led him out to the Chevrolet.

 He drove slowly, almost at a walking pace, steeling himself to do what

 he had been unable to do during the years since Lothar had been pardoned

 and freed from prison at Manfred's instigation.

 'Do you remember how it was in the old days, Pa? When we fished

 together at Walvis Bay?" he asked, and the old man's eyes shone. The

 distant past was more real to him than the present, and he reminisced

 happily, without hesitation recalling incidents and the names of people

 and places from long ago.

 'Tell me about my mother, Pa,' Manfred invited at last, and he hated

 himself for leading the old man into such a carefully prepared trap.

 'Your mother was a beautiful woman,' Lothar nodded happily, repeating

 what he had told Manfred so many times since childhood.

 'She had hair the colour of the desert dunes, with the early sun shining

 on them. A fine woman of noble German birth." 'Pa,' Manfred said soly.

 'You aren't telling me the truth, are you'?" He spoke as though to a

 naughty child. 'The woman you call my mother, the woman who was your

 wife, died years before I was born. I have a copy of the death

 certificate signed by the English doctor in the concentration camp. She

 died of diphtheria, the white sore throat." He could not look at his

 father as he said it, but stared ahead through the windscreen, until he

 heard a soft choking sound beside him and with alarm turned quickly.

 Lothar was weeping, tears slid down his withered old cheeks.

 Tm sorry, Pa." Manfred pillled the Chevrolet off the road and switched

 off the engine. 'I shouldn't have said that." He pulled the white

 handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his father.

 Lothar wiped his face slowly, but his hand was steady, and his wandering

 mind seemed to have been concentrated by the shock.

 'How long have you known that she was your real mother?" he asked, and

 his voice was firm and sure. Manfred's soul quailed, he had hoped to

 hear his father deny it.

 'She came to see me when first I stood for parliament. She blackmailed

 me, for her other son's sake. I had him in my power.

 She threatened to expose the fact that I was her bastard son and destroy

 my candidacy if I acted against her other son. She dared me to ask you

 if it was not true, but I could not bring myself to do it." 'It's true,'

 Lothar nodded. 'I'm sorry, my son. I lied to you only to protect you."

 'I know." Manfred reached across and took the bony hand as the old man

 went on.

 'When I found her in the desert, she was so young and helpless and

 beautiful. I was young and lonely - it was just the two of us, and her

 infant, alone together in the desert. We fell in love." 'You don't have

 to explain,' Manfred told him, but Lothar seemed not to hear him.

 'One night two wild Bushmen came into our camp. I thought they were

 marauders, come to steal our horses and oxen. I followed them, and

 caught up with them at dawn. I shot them down before I was within range

 of their poison arrows. It was the way we dealt with those dangerous

 little yellow animals in those days." 'Yes, Pa, I know." Manfred had

 read the history of his people's conflict with and extermination of the

 Bushmen tribes.

 'I did not know it then, but she had lived with these same two little

 Bushmen before I found her. They had helped her survive the desert and

 tended her when she gave birth to her first child. She had come to love

 them, she even called them "old grandfather" and "old grandmother"." He

 shook his head wonderingly, still unable to comprehend this relationship

 of a white woman with savages. 'I did not know it, and I shot them

 without realizing what they meant to her. Her love for me changed to

 bitter hatred. I know now that her love could not have been very deep,

 perhaps it was only loneliness and gratitude and not love at all. After

 that she hated me, and the hatred extended to my child that she was

 carrying in her womb. To you, Manie. She made me take you away the

 moment you were born. She hated us both so deeply that she wanted never

 to set eyes on you. I cared for you after that." 'You were my father

 and my mother." Manfred bowed his head, ashamed and angry that he had

 forced the old man to relive those tragically cruel events. 'What you

 have told me explains so much that I could never understand." 'da."

 Lothar wiped fresh tears away with the white handkerchief.

 'She hated me, but you see I still loved her. No matter how cruelly she

 treated me, I was obsessed with her. That was the reason why I

 committed the folly of the robbery. It was a madness and it cost me

 this arm/ He held up the empty sleeve. 'And my freedom. She is a hard

 woman. A woman without mercy. She will not hesitate to destroy

 anything or anybody who stands in her way. She is your mother, but be

 careful of her, Manie. Her hatred is a terrible thing." The old man

 reached across and seized his son's arm, shaking it in his agitation.

 'You must have nothing to do with her, Manie. She will destroy you as

 she has destroyed me. Promise me you will never have anything to do

 with her or her family." 'I'm sorry, Pa,' Manfred shook his head. 'I am

 already tied to her through her son,' he hesitated to give voice to the

 next words, 'to my brother, to my half-brother, Shasa Courtney. It

 seems, Papa, that our bloodlines and our destinies are so closely

 tangled together that we can never be free of each other." 'Oh, my son,

 my son,' Lothar De La Rey lamented. 'Be careful please be careful."

 Manfred reached for the ignition key to start the engine, but paused

 before he touched it.

 'Tell me, Pa. How do you feel for this woman now - for my mother?"

 Lothar was silent for a moment before he answered. 'I hate her almost

 as much as I still love her." 'It is strange that we can love and hate

 at the same time." Manfred ..... shook, his__head_ slightly-

 with-vender.--",-hate- her- for- w'oat - she -has done to you. I hate

 her for all the things she stands for, and yet her blood calls to mine.

 At the end, when all else is put aside, Centaine Courtney is my mother

 and Shasa Courtney is my brother. Love or hatred - which will prevail,

 Papa?" 'I wish I could tell you, my son,' Lothar whispered miserably. 'I

 can only repeat what I have already told you. Be careful of them,

 Manie. Mother and son, they are dangerous adversaries." For almost

 twenty years Marcus Archer had owned the old farmhouse at Rivonia. He

 had purchased the five-acre smallholding before the area became

 fashionable. Now the fairways and greens of the Johannesburg Country

 Club, the most exclusive private club on the Witwatersrand, backed right

 up against Marcus' boundary. The trustees of the Country Club had

 offered him fifteen times his original purchase price, over œ100,000,

 but Marcus steadfastly refused to sell.

 On all the other large plots that comprised the Rivonia Estate, the

 prosperous new owners - entrepreneurs and stockbrokers and successful

 doctors - had built large pretentious homes, most of them in the low

 sprawling ranch house style which was the rage, or with pink clay tile

 roofs, imaginative copies of Mexican haciendas or Mediterranean villas,

 and they had surrounded the main buildings with paddocks and stables,

 with tennis courts and swimming-pools and wide lawns that the winter

 highveld frosts burned the colour of cured tobacco leaves.

 Marcus Archer had re-thatched the roof of the old farmhouse, whitewashed

 the walls, and planted frangipani and bougainvillaea and other flowering

 shrubs and let the grounds grow wild and unkempt, so that even from its

 own boundary fence the house was completely screened.

 Although the area was now very much a bastion of the wealthy white

 elite, the Country Club employed a large staff of waiters and kitchen

 helpers and groundsmen and golf caddies, so black faces were not

 remarkable, as they might have been on the streets of some of the other

 wealthy white suburbs. Marcus's friends and political allies could come

 and go without arousing unwelcome interest. So Puck's Hill, as Marcus

 had recently renamed his farmhouse, gradually became the rallying ground

 for some of the most active of the African Nationalist movements, the

 leaders of black consciousness and their white compatriots, the remnants

 of the defunct Communist Party.

 It was only natural, therefore, that Puck's Hill was chosen as the

 headquarters for the final planning and coordination of the black

 disobedience campaign that was about to begin. However, it was not a

 unified group that came together under Marcus Archer's roof, for

 although their stated final objective was the same, their separate

 visions of the future differed widely.

 Firstly, there was the old guard of the African National Congress headed

 by Dr Xuma. They were the conservatives, committed to plodding

 negotiation with white civil servants within the unyieldin established

 system.

 'You people have been doing that since 1912 when the ANC was formed,'

 Nelson Mandela glared at him. 'It is time to move on to confrontation,

 to force our will upon the Boers." Nelson Mandela was a young lawyer,

 practising on the Witwatersrand in partnership with another activist

 named Oliver Tambo.

 Together they were making a strong challenge for the leadership of the

 young Turks in the Congress hierarchy.

 'It is time for us to move on to direct action." Nelson Mandela leaned

 forward in his chair and looked down the long kitchen table.

 The kitchen was the largest room in Puck's Hill, and all their meetings

 were held in it. 'We have drawn up a programme of boycott and strike

 and civil disobedience." Mandela was speaking in English, and Moses Gama

 sitting near the end of the table watched him impassively, but all the

 time his mind was racing ahead of the speaker, assessing and evaluating.

 He as much as any of them present was aware of the undertones in the

 room. There was not a single black man present who did not cherish,

 somewhere in his soul, the dream of one day JeadJng aJJ te others, of

 one day being hailed as the paramount chief of all southern Africa.

 Yet the fact that Mandela spoke in English pointed up the single most

 poignant fact that they had to face: they were all different.

 Mandela was a Tembu, Xuma was a Zulu, Moses Gama himself was an Ovambo,

 and there were half a dozen other tribes represented in the room.

 'It would be a hundred times easier if we blacks were all one people,'

 Moses thought, and then despite himself he glanced uneasily at the

 Zulus, sitting together as a group across the table. They were the

 majority, not only in this room, but in the country as a whole.

 What if they somehow formed an alliance with the whites? - It was a

 disquieting thought, but he put it firmly aside. The Zulus were the

 proudest, most independent of the warrior tribes. Before the white man

 came, they had conquered all their neighbouring peoples and held them

 subjugated. The Zulu King Chaka had called them his dogs. Because of

 their multitudes and their warrior tradition, it was almost certain that

 the first black president of South Africa would be a Zulu, or someone

 with very close ties to the Zulu nation. Ties of marriage - not for the

 first time, Moses thought about that possibility with narrowed eyes, it

 was time he married anyway. He was almost forty-five years of age. A

 Zulu maiden of royal blood? He stored the idea for future

 consideration, and concentrated once again on what Nelson Mandela was

 saying.

 The man had charisma and a presence, and he was articulate and

 persuasive, a rival - a very dangerous rival. Moses recognized that

 fact as he had often before. They were all rivals. However, the Youth

 League of the ANC was Nelson Mandela's power base, the hotheads, young

 men burning for action, and even now Mandela was proposing caution,

 tempering his call for action with reservations.

 'There must be no gratuitous violence,' he was saying. 'No damage to

 private property, no danger to human life--' and although Moses Gama

 nodded wisely, he wondered how much appeal that would have with the rank

 and file of the Youth League. Would they not prefer the offer of a

 bloody and glorious victory? That was something else to be considered.

 'We must show our people the way, we must demonstrate that we are all

 one in this enterprise,' Mandela was saying now, and Moses Gama smiled

 inwardly. The total membership of the ANC was seven thousand, while his

 secret union of mineworkers numbered almost ten times that figure. It

 would be as well to remind Mandela and the rest of them of his

 overwhelming support amongst the best paid and most strategically placed

 of all the black population. Moses turned slightly and looked at the

 man who sat beside him, and felt an untoward pang of affection. Hendrick

 Tabaka had been beside him like this for twenty years.

 Swart Hendrick was a big man, as tall as Moses but wider across the

 shoulder, and heavier around the middle, with thick muscled limbs. His

 head was round and bald as a cannonball and laced with scars from

 ancient fights and battles. His front teeth were missing, and Moses

 remembered how the white man who had done that to him had died.

 He was Moses' half-brother, son of the same father, a chief of the

 Ovambo, but of a different mother. He was the one man in all the world

 whom Moses trusted, a trust not lightly given but earned over all of

 those twenty years. He was the only black man in this room who was not

 a rival, but was instead both comrade and loyal servant.

 Swart Hendrick nodded at him unsmilingly and Moses realized that Nelson

 Mandela had finished speaking and that they were all watching him,

 waiting for him to reply. He rose slowly to his feet, aware of the

 impression he was making, and he could see the respect in their

 expressions. Even his enemies in the room could not entirely conceal

 the awe which he inspired.

 'Comrades,' he began. 'My brothers. I have listened to what my good

 brother Nelson Mandela has said and I agree with every word of it.

 There are just a few points which I feel I must add--' and he spoke for

 nearly an hour.

 Firstly he proposed to them a detailed plan to call a series of wildcat

 strikes in the mines where the labour force was controlled by his

 unions.

 'The strikes will be in sympathy with the defiance campaign, but we will

 not call a general strike which would give the Boers an excuse for

 heavy-handed action. We will bring out only a few mines at any one

 time, and then only for a limited period, before going back to work,

 just enough to thoroughly disrupt gold production and to exasperate

 management. We will nip at their heels like a terrier harassing a lion,

 ready to spring away the instant he turns. But it will be a warning. It

 will let them realize our strength, and what would happen if we called a

 general strike." He saw how they were impressed with his planning, and

 when he asked for a vote to confirm his proposal, he was given unanimous

 approval. It was another small victory, another addition to his

 prestige and influence within the group.

 'In addition to the strike action, I would like to propose a boycott of

 all white-owned business on the Witwatersrand for the duration of the

 defiance campaign. The people will be allowed to buy their necessities

 of life from shops owned and run by black businessmen only." Hendrick

 Tabaka owned over fifty large general dealer stores in the black

 townships along the gold reef, and Moses Gama was his sleeping partner.

 He saw the others at the table baulk at the suggestion, and Mandela

 objected.

 'It will cause undue hardship amongst our people,' he said. 'Many of

 them live in areas where they can trade only with white stores." 'Then

 they must travel to areas where there are black-owned businesses, and it

 will do our people no harm to learn that the struggle demands sacrifices

 from all of us,' Moses answered him quietly.

 'A boycott such as you propose would be impossible to enforce,' Mandela

 insisted, and this time, Hendrick Tabaka replied to the objection.

 'We will use the Buffaloes to make 'sure the people obey,' he growled,

 and now the more conservative members of the Council looked positively

 unhappy.

 The Buffaloes were the union enforcers. Hendrick Tabaka was their

 commander and they had a reputation for swift, ruthless action.

 They were too close to being a private political army for the peace of

 mind of some of the other men in the room, and Moses Gama frowned

 slightly. It had been a mistake for Hendrick to mention his Buffaloes

 at all. Moses hid his chagrin when the vote to declare a boycott of

 white dealers on the Witwatersrand and enforce it strictly was defeated.

 It was a victory for Mandela and his moderates. So far the score was

 even, but Moses was not finished yet.

 'There is one other matter I would like to bring up before we adjourn. I

 would like to consider what lies beyond the defiance campaign. What

 action do we take if the campaign is crushed by ruthless white police

 action, and followed by an onslaught on the black leaders and the

 promulgation of even more draconian laws of domination?" he asked. 'Will

 our response always be mild and subservient, will we always take off'our

 caps and mutter "Yes,ømy white baas! No, my white baas"?" He paused,

 and studied the others, seeing the disquiet he had expected in the faces

 of old Xuma and the conservatives, but he had not spoken for them. At

 the far end of the table there were two young men, still in their early

 twenties. They were observers from the executive of the Youth League of

 the ANC and Moses knew them both to be militants longing for fierce

 action. What he was about to say now was for them, and he knew they

 would take his words back to the other young warriors. It could begin

 the erosion of Nelson Mandela's support amongst the youth, and the

 transference of that support to a leader who was prepared to give them

 the blood and fire for which they hungered.

 'I propose the formation of a military wing of the ANC,' Moses said, 'a

 fighting force of trained men, ready to die for the struggle.

 Let us call this army Umkhonto we Sizwe, the Spear of the Nation. Let us

 forge the spear secretly. Let us hone its edge to razor-sharpness,

 keeping it hidden, but always ready to strike." He used that deep

 thrilling tone of his, and he saw the two young men at the end of the

 table stir eagerly and their faces begin to glow with expectation. 'Let

 us choose our brightest and fiercest young men, and from them form the

 impis as our forefathers did." He paused, and his expression became

 scornful. 'There are old men amongst us, and they are wise. I respect

 their grey hairs and their experience. But remember, comrades, the

 future belongs to the young. There is a time for fine words, and we

 have heard them spoken at our councils - often, too often. There is a

 time also for action, bold action and that is the world of the young."

 When at last Moses Gama sat down again he saw that he had moved them all

 deeply, each in his separate way. Old Xuma was shaking his grey pate,

 and his lips quivered. He knew his day had passed. Nelson Mandela and

 Oliver Tambo watched him impassively, but he saw the fury in their

 hearts beamed through their eyes. The battle lines had been drawn, and

 they had recognized their enemy.

 Yet, most important of all, he saw the expressions on the faces of the

 two Youth Leaguers. It was the look of men who had found a new star to

 follow.

 'Since when have you conceived such a burning interest in archaeological

 anthropology?" Shasa Courtney asked as he shook out the pages of the

 Cape Times, and turned from the financial section to the sports pages at

 the rear.

 'It was one of my majors,' Tara pointed out reasonably. 'May I pour you

 another cup of coffee?" 'Thank you, my dear." He sipped the coffee

 before he spoke again.

 'How long do you intend being away?" 'Professor Dart will be giving a

 series of four lectures on successive evenings, covering all the

 excavations from his original discovery of the Taung skull, right up to

 the present time. He has been able to correlate the whole mass of

 material with one of these new electronic computers." Behind his

 newspaper Shasa smiled reflectively as he remembered Marylee from MIT

 and her IBM 701. He wouldn't mind another visit to Johannesburg himself

 in the near future.

 'It's absolutely riveting stuff,' Tara was saying, 'and it all fits in

 with the new discoveries at Sterkfontein and Makapansgat. It really

 does seem that southern Africa was the true cradle of mankind, and that

 Australopithecus is our direct ancestor." 'So you will be away for at

 least four days?" Shasa interrupted.

 'What about the children?" 'I have spoken to your mother. She will be

 happy to come across and stay at Weltevreden while I am away." 'I won't

 be able to join you,' Shasa pointed out. 'The third reading of the new

 Criminal Law Amendment Bill is coming up, and all hands are needed in

 the House. I could have flown you up in the Mosquito - now you'll have

 to take the commercial flight on the Viscount." 'What a pity,' Tara

 sighed. 'You would have enjoyed it. Professor Dart is a fascinating

 speaker." x 'You'll stay at the Carlton suite, of course. It's standing

 empty." 'Molly has arranged for me to stay with a friend of hers at

 Rivonia." 'One of her Bolshies, I presume." Shasa frowned slightly. 'Try

 not to get yourself arrested again." He had been waiting for an

 opportunity to talk about her political activities and he lowered the

 newspaper and looked at her thoughtfully, then realized it was not the

 correct moment and merely nodded. 'Your grass orphans and your widower

 will try to bumble along without you for a few days." 'With your mother

 and sixteen servants at hand, I have no doubt you will survive,' she

 told him crisply, letting her irritation show through for an instant.

 Marcus Archer met her at the airport. He was affable and amusing and

 while they listened to a Mozart programme on the car radio as they drove

 out to Rivonia, Marcus discussed the composer's life and works. He knew

 much more about music than she did, but although she listened to his

 dissertation with pleasure and attention, she was nevertheless aware of

 his enmity. It was well concealed, but flashed out in a barbed remark

 or a spiced glance. He never mentioned Moses Gama's name, and nor did

 she. Molly had said he was a homosexual, the first she had ever

 encountered to her certain knowledge, and she wondered if they all hated

 women.

 Puck's Hill was a delight, with its shaggy thatch and unkempt grounds,

 so different from Weltevreden's carefully manicured splendour.

 'You'll find him at the end of the front stoep,' Marcus said, as he

 parked under one of the bluegums at the rear of the house. It was the

 first time he had referred to Moses, but even then he did not use his

 name. He wandered away and left her standing.

 She had not known how to dress, though she imagined that he would not

 approve of slacks. So she had chosen a long loose skirt made of cheap

 but colourful trade print that she had purchased in Swaziland, and with

 it wore a simple green cotton blouse with sandals on her feet.

 Again, she had not been sure whether she should wear make-up, and she

 had compromised with a pale pink lipstick and just a touch of mascara.

 She thought she looked well enough in the mirror of the women's room at

 the airport as she combed her dense chestnut curls, but was suddenly

 stricken by the thought that he would find her pale skin insipid and

 unattractive.

 Now standing alone in the sunshine, she was once again attacked by

 doubts and that terrible sense of inadequacy. If Marcus had been there,

 she would have begged him to drive her back to the airport, but he had

 disappeared and so she summoned up all her courage and walked slowly

 around the side of the whitewashed house.

 She paused at the corner and looked down the long covered verandah.

 Moses Gama was sitting at a table at the far end with his back to her.

 The table was piled with books and writing materials.

 He was wearing a casual white shirt with open neck that contrasted with

 the marvelous anthracite of his skin. His head was bowed and he was

 writing rapidly on a block of notepaper.

 Timidly she stepped up on to the verandah and although her approach was

 noiseless, he sensed her presence and turned abruptly when she was

 half-way down the verandah. He did not smile, but she thought she saw

 pleasure inhis gaze as he stood up and came to meet her. He did not

 attempt to embrace her, or kiss her, and she was pleased, for it

 confirmed his differentness. Instead he led her to the second chair

 placed beside his table, and seated her in it.

 'Are you well?" he asked. 'Are your children well?" The innate African

 courtesy, always the enquiry and then the offer of refreshment, 'Let me

 give you a cup of tea." He poured from the tray already set on his

 cluttered desk, and she sipped with pleasure.

 'Thank you for coming,' he said.

 'I came as soon as I received your message from Molly, as I promised I

 would." 'Will you always keep your promises to me?" 'Always,' she

 answered with simple sincerity, and he studied her face.

 'Yes,' he nodded. 'I think you will." She could hold his gaze no

  

 longer, for it seemed to sear her soul and lay it bare. She looked down

 at the table top, at the closely written sheets of his handwriting.

 'A manifesto,' he said, following her gaze. 'A blueprint for the

 future." He selected half a dozen sheets and handed them to her. She

 set aside her tea cup and took them from his hand, shivering slightly as

 their fingers touched. His skin was cool - that was one of the things

 that she remembered.

 She read the sheets, her attention becoming fastened upon them more

 firmly the more she read, and when she finished them, she lifted her

 eyes to his face again.

 'You have a poetry in your choice of words that makes the truth shine

 more luminously,' she whispered.

 They sat on the cool verandah, while outside the brilliant highveld sun

 threw shadows black and crisp as paper cut-outs beneath the trees and

 the noonday swooned in the heat, and they talked.

 There were no trivialities in their discussion, everything he said was

 thrilling and cogent, and he seemed to inspire her for her replies and'

 her own observations she knew were measured and lucid and she saw she

 had aroused and held his interest. She no longer was aware of her small

 vanities of dress and cosmetics, all that mattered now were the words

 that they exchanged and the cocoon they wove out of them. With a start

 she realized that the day had slipped away unnoticed and the short

 African twilight was upon them. Marcus came to fetch her and show her

 to her sparsely furnished bedroom.

 'We will leave for the museum in twenty minutes,' he told her.

 In the lecture theatre of the Transvaal museum the three of them sat

 near the back. There were half a dozen other blacks in the crowded

 audience, but Marcus sat between the two of them. A black man beside a

 white woman would have excited interest, and certain hostility. Tara

 found it difficult to concentrate on the eminent pro lessor's address,

 and though she glanced in his direction only once or twice, it was Moses

 Gama who occupied all her thoughts.

 Back at Puck's Hill they sat late in the cavernous kitchen, while Marcus

 hovered over the Ago stove, joining in their conversation while he

 produced a meal that even in her preoccupation Tara realized was as good

 as anything that had ever come out of the kitchens of Weltevreden.

 It was after midnight when Marcus stood up abruptly.

 'I will see you in the morning,' he said, and the look he gave Tara was

 once again spiced with venom. She could not understand how she had

 offended him, but soon it did not matter for Moses took her hand.

 'Come,' he said softly, and she thought her legs might not support her

 weight.

 Long afterwards she lay pressed to him, her body bathed in sweat and her

 nerves still spasming and twitching uncontrollably.

 'Never,' she whispered, when she could speak again. 'I have never known

 anyone like you. You teach me things about myself that I never

 suspected. You are a magician, Moses Gama. How do you know so much

 about a woman?" He chuckled softly. 'You know we are entitled to many

 wives. If a man cannot keep them all happy at the same time, then his

 life becomes a torment. He has to learn." 'Do you have many wives?" she

 asked.

 'Not yet,' he answered. 'But one day --' 'I will hate every one of

 them." 'You disappoint me,' he said. 'Sexual jealousy is a silly

 European emotion. If I were to detect it in you, I would despise you."

 'Please,' she said quietly, 'never despise me." 'Then never give me

 reason, woman,' he commanded, and she knew she was his to command.

 She realized that the first day and night with him, spent alone and

 uninterrupted, was exceptional. She realized also that he must have set

 the time aside for her, and it must have been difficult to do so for

 there were others, hundreds of others, demanding his attention.

 He was like one of the ancient African kings holding tribal court on the

 verandah of the old house. There were always men and women waiting

 patiently under the bluegum trees in the yard for their turn to speak to

 him. They were of all types and ages, from simple uneducated folk newly

 arrived from the reserves in the country to sophisticated lawyers and

 businessmen in dark suits arriving at Puck's Hill in their own

 automobiles.

 They had one thing in common only - the deference and respec they showed

 Moses Gama. Some of them clapped their hands in th traditional greeting

 and called him Babo or Nkosi, father or lord others shook his hand in

 the European manner, but Moses greeted each of them in their own

 dialect. 'He must speak twenty languages,' Tara wondered.

 Mostly he allowed Tara to sit quietly beside his table and he explained

 her presence with a quiet word. 'She is a friend - you may speak."

 However, twice he asked her to leave while he spoke to his more

 important visitors and once when a great black bull of a man, bald and

 scarred and gap-toothed, arrived in a shiny new Ford sedan, he excused

 them.

 'This is Hendrick Tabaka, my brother,' he said, and the two of them left

 the verandah and strolled side by side in the sunlit garden just out of

 earshot of where Tara sat.

 What she saw during those days impressed her immensely and confirmed her

 feelings of reverence for this man.  Everything he did, every word he

 uttered marked him as different, and the respect and adulation showered

 upon him by his fellow Africans proved that they also recognized that he

 was the giant of the future.

 Tara felt awed that he had selected her for special attention, and yet

 already saddened by the certain knowledge that she could never have for

 herself alone any part of him. He belonged to his people, and she must

 be grateful for the precious grains of his time which she could glean

 for herself.

  

 Even the evenings that followed, unlike that first evening, were crowded

 with people and events. Until long after midnight they sat at the table

 in the kitchen, sometimes as many as twenty of them at one time, smoking

 and laughing and eating and talking. Such talk, such ideas that lit the

 gloomy room and shimmered like angels' wings in the air around their

 heads. Then later, in the quiet dark hours, they made love and she felt

 as though her body no longer belonged to her but that he had taken it

 for his own, and devoured it like some darkly beloved predator.

 She must have met a hundred new faces in those three short days and

 nights, and though some of them were hazy and made little lasting

 impression, it seemed as though she had become a member of a large

 diffuse new family, and because of the patronage of Moses Gama, she was

 immediately accepted and accorded complete unquestioning trust by both

 black and white.

 On the last evening before her return to the dream world at Weltevreden,

 there was a guest beside her at the kitchen table to whom Tara took an

 instant unqualified liking. She was a young woman, at before. So

 natural and relaxed and,' sh6 hesitated, 'just like an elder sister or a

 dear friend." 'A dear friend. Yes, I like that,' Tara agreed. 'And

 Puck's Hill is probably one of the few places in the whole of this

 country where we could meet and talk like this." Involuntarily both of

 them looked up towards the head of the long kitchen table. Moses Gama

 was watching them intently, and Tara felt her stomach flop over like a

 stranded fish. For a few moments there, she had been totally engrossed

 with the Zulu girl, but now her feelings for Moses Gama flooded back at

 full ebb. She forgot Vicky, until the girl spoke quietly beside her.

 'He is a great man - our hope for the future." Tara glanced at her

 sideways. Vicky Dinizulu's face glowed with hero worship as she smiled

 shyly at Moses Gama, and jealousy struck Tara such a sickening blow in

 the pit of her stomach, that for a moment she believed she was going to

 be physically ill.

 The jealousy and terror of imminent separation persisted even after Tara

 was alone with Moses that night. When he made love to her she wanted to

 hold him within her for all eternity, knowing that this was the only

 time that he truly belonged to her. Too soon she felt the great dam

 burst and flood her and she cried out, pleading for it never to end, but

 her cry was incoherent and without sense, and then he was gone from

 within her and she was desolated.

 She thought he had fallen asleep, and she lay and listened to his quiet

 breathing, holding him in the circle of her arms, but he was awake and

 he spoke suddenly, startling her.

 'You were speaking to Victoria Dinizulu,' he said, and it took an effort

 for her to cast her mind back to the early part of the evening.

 'What did you think of her?" he persisted.

 'She is a lovely young woman. Intelligent and obviously dedicated.

 I like her very much." She tried to be objective, but the sick jealous

 feeling was there deep in her belly.

 'I had her invited,' Moses said. 'It was the first time I have met

 her." Tara wanted to ask, 'Why? - Why did you invite her?" But she

 remained silent, dreading the reply, She knew her instincts had been

 correct.

 'She is of the royal house of Zulu,' he said softly.

 'Yes. She told me,' Tara whispered.

 'She is well favoured, as I was told she was, and her .mother had many

 sons. They breed many sons in the Dinizulu line. She will make a good

 wife." 'Wife?" Tara breathed. She had not expected that.

 'I need the alliance with the Zulus, they are the largest and most

 powerful tribe. I will begin the negotiations with her family

 immediately. I will send Hendrick to Ladyburg to see her father and

 make the arrangements. It will be difficult, he is one of the old

 school, dead set against mixed tribal marriages. It must be a wedding

 that will impress the tribe, and Hendrick will convince the old man of

 the wisdom of it." 'But, but,' Tara found she was stuttering. 'You

 hardly know the girl. You spoke barely a dozen words to her all

 evening." 'What does that have to do with it?" His tone was genuinely

 puzzled, and he rolled away from her and switched on the bedside light,

 dazzling her.

 'Look at me!" he commanded, taking her by the chin and lifting her face

 to the light, studying it for a moment and then removing his fingers as

 though he had touched something loathsome. 'I have misjudged you,' he

 said scornfully. 'I believed that you were an exceptional person. A

 true revolutionary, a dedicated friend of the black people of this land,

 ready to make any sacrifice. Instead I find a weak, jealous woman,

 riddled with bourgeois white prejudices." The mattress tipped under her

 as Moses stood up. He towered over the bed.

 'I have been wasting my time,' he said, gathered his clothing, and still

 naked turned towards the door.

 Tara threw herself across the room and clung to him, barring his way to

 the door.

 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Forgive me. Please forgive me,' she

 pleaded with him, and he stood cold and aloof and silent. She began to

 weep, her tears muffling her voice, until she was no longer making

 sense.

 Slowly she slid down with her arms still encircling him, until she was

 on her knees hugging his legs.

 'Please,' she sobbed. 'I will do anything. Just don't leave me. I will

 do anything, everything you tell, me to do - only just don't send me

 away like this." 'Get up,' he said at last, and when she stood before

 him like a penitent, he said softly, 'You have one more chance. Just

 one. Do you understand?" and she nodded wildly, still choking on her

 sobs, unable to answer him. She reached out hesitantly and when he did

 not pull away, took his hand and led him back to the bed.

 As he mounted her again, he knew that at last she was ready, completely

 prepared. She would do anything and everything he commanded.

 In the dawn she came awake to find him leaning over her staring into her

 face and immediately she relived the night's terror, the dreadful fear

 of his scorn and rejection. She felt weak and trembly, her tears very

 close, but he took her calmly and made love to her with a gentle

 consideration that reassured her and left her feeling whole and vital

 again. Then he spoke to her quietly.

 'I am going to put my trust in you,' he told her, and her gratitude was

 so strong it left her breathless. 'I am going to accept you as one of

 us, one of the inner circle." She nodded, but could not speak, staring

 into his fierce black eyes.

 'You know how we have conducted the struggle thus far,' he said, 'we

 have played by the white man's rules, but he made those rules, and he

 designed them so we could never win. Petitions and delegations,

 commissions of enquiry and representations - but in the end there are

 always more laws made against us, governing every facet of our lives,

 how we work, where we live, where we are allowed to travel, or eat or

 sleep or love --' he broke off with an exclamation of scorn. 'The time

 is coming when we will rewrite the rule book. First, the defiance

 campaign when we will deliberately flout the mass of laws which bind us,

 and after that --' Now his expression was savage.

 'And after that the struggle will go on and become a great battle." She

 was silent beside him, studying his face.

 'I believe there comes a time when a man confronted by great evil must

 take up the spear and become a warrior. He must rise up and strike it

 down." He was watching her, waiting for a reply. 'Yes,' she nodded.

 'You are right." 'These are words, ideas, Tara,' he told her. 'But what

 of action? Are you ready for action?" She nodded. 'I am ready."

 'Blood, Tara, not words. Killing and maiming and burning.

 Tearing down and destroying. Can you face that, Tara?" She was

 appalled, facing the reality at last, not merely the dizzy rhetoric. In

 her imagination she saw the flames roaring up through the great roof of

 Weltevreden and blood splashed on the walls shining wetly in the

 sunlight, while in the courtyard lay the broken bodies of children, of

 her own children, and she was on the very point of rejecting the images

 when he spoke again.

 'Destroying what is evil, Tara, so that we may rebuild a good and just

 society." His voice was low and compelling, it thrilled like a drug

 through her veins and the cruel images faded, she looked beyond them to

 the paradise, the earthly paradise they would build together.

 'I am ready,' she said, and there was not a trace of a quaver in her

 voice.

 There was an hour before Marcus would take her to the airport to catch

 the Viscount flight back to Cape Town. They sat at his table on the

 verandah, just the two of them, and Moses explained to her in detail

 what must be done.

 'Umkhonto we Sizwe,' he told her. 'The Spear of the Nation." The name

 shimmered and rang like polished steel in her brain.

 'Firstly, you must withdraw from all overt liberal activities. You must

 abandon your clinic --' 'My clinic!" she exclaimed. 'Oh Moses, my poor

 little ones, what will they do --' she broke off as she saw his

 expression.

 'You care for the physical needs of a hundred,' he said. 'I'm concerned

 for the welfare of twenty million. Tell me which is more important."

 'You are right,' she whispered. 'Forgive me." 'You will use the excuse

 of the defiance campaign to make a statement of your disillusion with

 the freedom movement and to announce your resignation from the Black

 Sash." 'Oh dear, what will Molly say?" 'Molly knows,' he assured her.

 'Molly knows why you are doing it. She will help you in every way. Of

 course, the police special branch will continue to keep you under

 observation for a while, but when you give them nothing more for their

 files, they will lose interest and drop you." She nodded. 'I

 understand." 'You must take more interest in your husband's political

 activities, cultivate his parliamentary associates. Your own father is

 the deputy leader of the opposition, with access to the government

 ministers.

 You must become our eyes and our ears." 'Yes, I can do all that."

 'Later, there will be other tasks for you. Many difficult and some even

 dangerous. Would you risk your life for the struggle, Tara?" 'For you,

 Moses Gama, I would do more. I would willingly lay down that life for

 you,' she replied, and when he saw that she meant it, he nodded with

 deep satisfaction.

 'We will meet whenever we can,' he promised her. 'Whenever it is safe

 to do so." And then he gave her the salute which would become the

 rallying cry of the defiance campaign, 'Mayibuye! Afrika!" And she

 replied, 'Mayibuye! Afrika! Africa, let it persist!" 'I am an

 adulteress,' Tara thought, as she had each morning as she sat at the

 breakfast table during all the weeks that had passed since she had

 arrived back from Johannesburg. 'I am an adulteress." And she thought

 it must show, like a brand upon her forehead for all the world to see.

 Yet Shasa had greeted her cheerfully on her return, apologizing for

 sending a driver to meet her at the airport and not coming in person,

 asking her if she had enjoyed her illicit interlude with

 Australopithecus. 'Thought you might have gone for someone a little

 younger. I mean a million years old is just a little long in the tooth,

 isn't it?" And since then their relationship had continued unaltered.

 The children, with the exception of Michael, seemed not to have missed

 her at all. Centaine had run the household in her absence with her

 usual iron fist in a candy-flavoured glove and after they had greeted

 Tara with dutiful but offhand kisses, the children were full of what

 Nana had done and said, and Tara was painfully aware that she had

 neglected to bring any presents for them.

 Only Michael was different. For the first few days he would not let her

 out of his sight, but traipsed around behind her, even insisting on

 spending his precious Saturday afternoon with her at the clinic while

 his two brothers went off to Newlands Rugby Ground with Shasa to watch

 Western Province playing the visiting All Blacks team from New Zealand.

 Michael's company helped alleviate a little of the pain of making the

 first arrangements to close down the clinic. She had to ask her three

 black nursing sisters to start looking for other jobs. 'Of course,

 you'll be paid your salaries until you find other positions, and I will

 help you all I can --' But still she had to suffer the reproach in their

 eyes.

 Now, almost a month later, she sat at Weltevreden's laden breakfast

 table on a Sunday morning in the dappled shade beneath the trellised

 vines of the terrace, while the servants in crisp white uniform fussed

 about them. Shasa read aloud extracts from the Sunday Times to which

 none of them listened, Sean and Garrick wrangled acrimoniously over who

 was the best full-back in the world, and Isabella clamoured for her

 daddy's attention. Michael was giving her a detailed account of the

 plot of the book he was reading, and she felt like an impostor, an

 actress playing a role for which she had not rehearsed her lines.

 Shasa finally crumpled his newspaper and dropped it beside his chair,

 acceding to Isabella's request to 'Take me on your lap, Daddy!',

 ignoring Tara's ritual protest and demanded: 'All right, everybody, this

 meeting will come to order and address the serious question of what we

 are all going to do with this Sunday." This precipitated a near riot

 which Isabella punctuated with shrill cries of 'Picnic! Picnic!" and

 finally picnic it was, after Shasa had used his casting vote in his

 daughter's favour.

 Tara tried to excuse herself, but Michael was so close to tears that she

 relented and they all rode out together, with the servants and the

 picnic baskets following them in the little two-wheeled dog cart. Of

 course they could have gone by car, but the ride was half the fun.

 Shasa had had the pool below the waterfall bricked out to make a natural

 swimming-pool and had built a thatched summer house on the bank. The

 great attraction was the long slide down the glassy smooth rock of the

 waterfall on a red rubber inner tube, and the plunge over the final

 sheer drop into the green pool below, the entire journey accompanied by

 howls and shrieks of glee. It was sport that never palled and it kept

 the children busy all morning.

 Shasa and Tara, in their bathing-suits, lolled on the grassy bank,

 basking in the hot bright sunlight. They used to come here often in the

 first days of their marriage, even before the pool was bricked and the

 summer house built. In fact Tara was certain that more than one of the

 children had been conceived on this grassy bank. Some of the warm

 feelings from those days persisted. Shasa opened a bottle of Riesling,

 and they were both more relaxed and friendly towards each other than

 they had been for years.

 Shasa sensed his opportunity, fished the wine bottle out of the ice

 bucket and refilled Tara's glass before he said, 'My dear, have

 something to tell you that is of great importance to both of us and may

 quite substantially change our lives." 'He has found another woman,' she

 thought, half in dread, half in relief, so that she did not at first

 understand what he was telling her.

 Then suddenly the enormity of it crashed in upon her. Shasa was going

 to join them, he was going across to the Boers. He was throwing in his

 lot with the band of the 'most evil men that Africa had ever spawned.

 Those supreme architects of misery and suffering and oppression.

 'I believe that I am being offered the opportunity to use my talents and

 my financial gift for the greater good of this land and its people,' he

 was saying, and she twirled the stem of the wineglass between her

 fingers and stared down into the pale golden liquid, not daring to lift

 her eyes and look at him in case he saw what she was thinking.

 'I have considered it from every angle, and I have discussed it with

 Mater. I think I have a duty to the country, to the family and to

 myself. I believe that I have to do it, Tara." It was a terrible thing

 to feel the last blighted fruits of her love for him shrivel and fall

 away, and then almost instantly she felt free and light, the burden was

 gone and in its place came a rush of contrary emotion. It was so

 powerful that she could not put a name to it for a moment, and then she

 knew it was hatred.

 She wondered that she had ever felt guilty on his account, she wondered

 even that she could ever have loved him. His voice droned on justifying

 himself, attempting to excuse the inexcusable, and still she knew she

 dared not look up at him lest he see it in her eyes. She felt an almost

 irresistible need to scream at him, 'You are callous, selfish, evil, as

 they are!" and physically to attack him, to claw at his single eye with

 her nails, and it took all her will power to sit still and quiet. She

 remembered what Moses had told her, and she clung to his words. They

 seemed the only sane things in all this madness.

 Shasa finished the explanation that he had so carefully prepared for

 her, and then waited for her reply. She sat on the plaid rug in the sun

 with her legs curled up under her, staring into the glass in her hands,

 and he looked at her as he had not done for years and saw that she was

 still beautiful. Her body was smooth and lightly tanned, her hair

 sparkled with ruby lights in the sun, and her big breasts that had

 always enchanted him, seemed to have filled out again. He found himself

 attracted by her and excited as he had not been for a long time and he

 reached out gently and touched her cheek.

 'Talk to me,' he invited. 'Tell me what you think about it." And she

 lifted her chin and stared at him. For an instant he was chilled by her

 gaze, for it was as inscrutable and merciless as the stare of a lioness,

 but then Tara smiled slightly and shrugged, and he thought that he had

 been mistaken, it was not hatred he had seen in her eyes.

 'You have decided already, Shasa. Why do you need my approval?

 I have never been able to prevent you doing anything you wanted to do

 before. Why would I presume to do that now?" He was amazed and

 relieved, he had anticipated a bitter battle.

 'I wanted you to know why,' he said. 'I want you to know that we both

 want the same thing - prosperity and dignity for everybody in this land.

 That we have different ways of trying to achieve it, and I believe that

 my way is more effective." 'I repeat, why do you need my approval?" 'I

 need your cooperation,' he corrected her. 'For in a way this

 opportunity depends on you." 'How?" she asked, and looked away from him

 to where the children were splashing and cavorting. Only Garrick was

 not in the water.

 Sean had ducked him, and now he sat shivering on the edge of the pool.

 His thin weedy body was blue with cold. He was fighting for breath, the

 rack of his ribs sticking out of his chest as he coughed and wheezed.

 'Garry,' she called sharply. 'That's enough. Dry yourself and put on

 your jersey." 'Oh, Ma,' he gasped a protest, and she flared at him.

 'Do it this instant." And when he went reluctantly to the summerhouse

 she turned back to Shasa.

 'You want my cooperation?" She felt totally in control of herselfi She

 would not let him see how she felt towards him and his monstrous

 intention. 'Tell me what you want me to do." 'It will come as no

 surprise to you to hear that BOSS, the Bureau of State Security, has

 quite an extensive file on you." 'In view of the fact that they have

 arrested me three times,' Tara smiled again, a tight humourless grimace,

 'you are right, I'm not surprised." 'Well, my dear, what it boils down

 to is that it would be impossible for me to hold cabinet rank while you

 were still raising Cain and committing mayhem with your sisters in the

 Black Sash." 'You want me to give up my political work? But what about

 my record? I mean, I am an old hardened jailbird, you know."

 'Fortunately the security police regard you with a certain amused

 indulgence. I have seen a copy of your file. The assessment is that

 you are a dilettante, naive and impressionable, and easily swayed by

 your more vicious associates." That insult was difficult to bear. Tara

 jumped to her feet and strode around the edge of the pool, seized

 Isabella by the wrist and dragged her from the pool.

 'That's enough for you also, young lady." She ignored Isabella's howls

 of protest and stripped off her bathing costume.

 'You're hurting me,' Isabella wailed as Tara scrubbed her sodden hair

 with a rough dry towel and then wrapped her in it.

 Isabella ran to her father, still snivelling and tripping over the tails

 of the towel.

 'Mommy won't let me swim." She crawled into his lap.

 'Life is full of injustice." Shasa hugged her, and she gave one last

 convulsive sob and then cuddled her damp curls against his shoulder.

 'All right, I am an ineffectual dilettante." Tara flopped down on the

 rug again. She had regained her composure and sat cross-legged facing

 him. 'But what if I refuse to give up? What if I continue to follow

 the dictates of my conscience?" 'Tara, don't try and force a

 confrontation,' he said softly.

 'You always get what you want, don't you, Shasa?" She was goading him,

 but he shook his head, refusing the challenge.

 'I want to discuss this logically and calmly,' he said, but she could

 not prevent herself flouting him, for the insult rankled.

 'I would get the children - you must know that, your clever lawyers must

 have warned you of that." 'God damn it, Tara, you know that's not what I

 had in mind,' Shasa said coldly, but he hugged the child closer and

 Isabella reached up and touched his chin.

 'You are all scratchy,' she murmured happily, unaware of the tension.

 'But I still love you, my daddy." Yes, my angel, I love you also,' he

 said, and then to Tara, 'I wasn't threatening you." 'Not yet,' she

 qualified. 'But that comes next, if I know you - and I should." Can't

 we discuss this sensibly?" 'It's not necessary,' Tara capitulated

 suddenly. 'I had already made up my mind. I had already seen the

 futility of our little protests. I have known for some time that it was

 a waste of my life. I know I have neglected the children and during

 this last visit to Johannesburg I decided that I should take up my

 studies again and leave politics to the professionals. I had already

 decided to resign from the Sash and close down the clinic or hand it

 over to somebody else." He stared at her in amazement. He distrusted

 any victory too easily won.

 'What do you want in return?" he asked.

 'I want to go back to university and take a Ph.D. in archaeology,' she

 said crisply. 'And I want complete freedom to travel and pursue my

 studies." 'You have a bargain,' he agreed readily, not even attempting

 to conceal his relief. 'You keep your nose clean politically, and you

 can go where and when you want." And then despite himself his eyes

 dropped back to her breasts. He was right, they had filled out

 beautifully and bulged from the thin silken cups of her bikini. He felt

 a quick hot need of her.

 She saw that look on his face. She knew it so well, and she was

 revolted by it. After what he had just told her, after the insults he

 casually offered her, after his betrayal of that which she held sacred

 and dear, she knew she could never take him again. She pulled up the

 top of her bikini and reached for her robe.

 Shasa was delighted with their bargain, and though he seldom drank more

 than a glassful, this afternoon he finished the rest of the Riesling

 while he and the boys cooked their lunch on the barbecue pit.

 Sean took his duties as assistant chef seriously. Only one or two of

 the chops landed up in the dirt, but as Sean explained to his younger

 brothers, 'Those are yours, and if you don't let your teeth touch, then

 you won't even feel the grit." At the table in the summer-house Isabella

 helped Tara prepare the salads, dousing herself liberally with French

 dressing in the process, and when they sat down to eat Shasa had the

 children shrieking with laughter at his stories. Only Tara sat aloof

 from the general hilarity.

 When the children were given permission to leave the table with the

 injunction not to swim again for an hour while their food digested, Tara

 asked him quietly, 'What time are you leaving tomorrow?" 'Early,' he

 replied. 'I have to be in Johannesburg before lunch.

 Lord Littleton is arriving on the Comet from London. I want to be there

 to meet him." 'How long will you be away this time?" 'After the

 launching David and I will be going on tour,' he replied.

 He had wanted her to attend the launching party which would celebrate

 and publicize the opening of the subscription lists for shares in the

 new Silver River mine. She had found an excuse but she noticed that he

 did not repeat the invitation now.

 'So you'll be gone about ten days?" Every quarter Shasa and David made a

 tour of all the company's operations, from the new chemical factory at

 Chaka's Bay, and the paper pulp mills in the eastern Transvaal to the

 H'am Diamond Mine in the Kalahari Desert, which was the company's

 flagship.

 'Perhaps a little longer,' Shasa demurred. 'I'll be in Johannesburg at

 least four days,' and he thought happily of Marylee from MIT and her IBM

 David Abrahams had persuaded Shasa to hand the Silver River launching

 over to one of those public relations consultants, a breed that had

 recently sprung up but which Shasa viewed with suspicion.

 Despite his original misgiving hewas now reluctantly prepared to concede

 that it wasn't such a bad idea as he had first believed, even though it

 was going to cost over five thousand pounds.

 They had flown out the editors of the London Financial Times and the

 Wall Street Journal, with their wives, and afterwards would be taking

 them on for five days in the Kruger National Park with all expenses

 paid. All the local press and radio journalists were invited and as an

 unexpected bonus the television team that had come out from New York to

 do a series called 'Focus on Africa' for North American Broadcasting

 Studios had also accepted an invitation to attend the launching party.

 In the entrance lobby of the Courtney Mining Co. offices they had set

 up a twenty-five-foot-high working replica of the mine headgear that

 would be erected above the Silver River main, and had surrounded it with

 an enormous display of wild proteas designed and executed by the same

 team which had won a gold medal at the Chelsea Flower Show in London the

 previous year. Appreciating that journalism is thirsty work, David had

 laid in one hundred cases of Mot & Chandon, although Shasa had vetoed

 the idea of a vintage cru.

 'Even non-vintage is too damn good for them." Shasa did not have a lofty

 view of the profession of journalism.

 David had also hired the chorus line from the Royal Swazi Spa to provide

 a floor-show. The promise of a flash of bared bosom would be almost as

 big a draw as the champagne; to the South African censors the female

 nipple was every bit as dangerous as Karl Marx's Communist Manifesto.

 On arrival every guest was handed a presentation pack which contained a

 glossy colour brochure, a certificate made out in his or her name for

 one œ1 share in the Silver River Mining Co. and a genuine miniature bar

 of twenty-two carat South African gold, stamped with the company logo.

 David had sought Reserve Bank authority to have these bars struck by the

 South African mint, and at almost thirty dollars each they had been a

 major part of the advertising budget, but the excitement they created

 and the subsequent publicity fully justified the expense.

 Shasa made his address before the Mot & Chandon could soften the wits of

 his guests or the floor-show distract them. Speaking in public was

 something that Shasa had always enjoyed. Neither the fusillade of

 camera flashes nor the sultry brilliance of the arc lights set up by the

 NABS television camera team detracted from his enjoyment this evening.

 Silver River was one of the major achievements of his career to date. He

 alone had recognized the chance that the gold reef spurred at depth from

 the main run of the Orange Free State series, and personally he had

 negotiated the drilling options. Only when the diamond drills had

 finally intercepted the narrow black band of the gold-bearing carbon

 leader almost a mile and a half below the surface of the arid plain had

 Shasa's decision been vindicated. The strike was rich beyond even his

 expectations, running at over twenty-six penny-weights of pure gold to

 the ton of reef.

 Tonight was Shasa's night. It was his particular gift that he was able

 to extract from everything he did the last ounce of enjoyment, and he

 stood in the arc lights tall and debonair in his immaculately tailored

 evening dress, the black eye-patch giving him a rakish and dangerous

 air, so obviously at ease and in control of himself and the company he

 commanded, that he carried them all along with him effortlessly.

 They laughed and applauded at the right places, and they listened with

 fascinated attention as he explained the scale of the investment that

 was called for and how it would help to strengthen the bonds of kinship

 that tied South Africa so securely to England and the British

 Commonwealth of Nations, and set up new lines of friendship with the

 investors of the United States of America from where he hoped almost

 thirty percent of the necessary capital for the project would come.

 When he ended to prolonged applause, Lord Littleton, as head of the

 underwriting bank, stood up to reply. He was lean and silver haired,

 his evening dress just that touch archaic in cut, with wide cuffs to the

 trousers, as if to underline his aristocratic scorn of fashion. He told

 them of his bank's strong relationship with Courtney Mining and the

 intense interest that this new company had aroused in the City of

 London.

 'From the very beginning we at Littleton Bank were pretty damned certain

 that we were going to earn our underwriting fees very easily.

 We knew that there would be very few unsubscribed shares for us to take

 up. So it gives me a deal of pleasure to stand before you here this

 evening and say, I told you so." There was a buzz of comment and

 speculation which he raised a hand to silence. 'I am going to tell you

 something that not even Mr Shasa Courtney knows yet, and which Ionly

 learned myself an hour ago." He reached into his pocket and brought out

 a telex flimsy which he waved at them.

 'As you are aware, the subscription lists for shares in Silver River

 Mining opened this morning at 10 a.m. London time, two hours behind

 South African time. When my bank closed a few hours ago, they sent me

 this telex." He placed gold-rimmed reading glasses on his nose.

 'I quote: "Please convey congratulations to Mr Courtney and Courtney

 Mining and Finance as promoters of Silver River Gold-Mining Co. Stop as

 of 4 pm London time today the Silver River issue was oversubscribed by

 four times Ends Littleton Bank."' David Abrahams seized Shasa's hand,

 the first to congratulate him. In the roar of applause they grinned at

 each other happily, until Shasa broke away and jumped down off the dais.

 Centaine Courtney-Malcomess was in the first row of his audience and she

 sprang lightly to her feet to meet him. She was dressed in a sheath of

 gold lam and wearing her full suite of diamonds, each stone carefully

 picked from thirty years' production of the H'am Mine. Slim and

 glittering and lovely, she went to meet her son.

 'Now we have it all, Mater,' he whispered as he hugged her.

 No, chbri, we'll never have it all,' she whispered back. 'That would be

 dull. There is always something more to strive for." Blaine Malcomess

 was waiting to congratulate him, and Shasa turned to him with an arm

 still around Centaine's waist.

 'Big night, Shasa." Blaine took his hand. 'You deserve it all." 'Thank

 you, sir." What a pity Tara couldn't be here,' Blaine went on.

 'I wanted her to come." Shasa was immediately defensive. 'But as you

 know she decided she couldn't leave the children again so soon." The

 crowd surged around them, and they were laughing and replying to

 congratulations, but Shasa saw the public relations director hovering

 and eased his way through to her.

 'Well, Mrs Anstey, you have done us proud." He smiled at.her with all

 his charm. She was tall and rather bony but with silky blond hair that

 hung in a thick curtain over her bare shoulders.

 'I always try to give full satisfaction." Jill Anstey hooded her eyes

 and pouted slightly to give the remark an ambiguous slant. They had

 been teasing each other ever since they had met the previous day. 'But

 I'm afraid I have some more work for you, Mr Courtney.

 Will you bear with me just once more?" 'As often as you wish, Mrs

 Anstey." Shasa played the game out, and she placed her hand on his

 forearm to lead him away, squeezing just a little more than was

 necessary.

 'The television people from NABS want to do a five-minute interview with

 you, for inclusion in their "Africa in Focus" series. It could be a

 wonderful chance to speak directly to fifty million Americans." The TV

 team was setting up their equipment in the boardroom; the lights and

 cameras were being trained on the far end of the long room, where

 Centaine's portrait by Annigoni, hung on the stinkwood panelling. There

 were three men in the camera crew, all young and casually dressed but

 clearly highly professional and competent, and with them was a girl.

 'Who will do the interview?" Shasa asked, glancing around curiously.

 'That's the director,' Jill Anstey said. 'And she'll talk to you." It

 took him a moment to realize that she meant the girl, then he saw that

 without seeming to do so, the girl was directing the set-up, indicating

 a camera angle or a lighting change with a word or a gesture.

 'She's just a child,' Shasa protested.

 'Twenty-five and smart as a bunch of monkeys,' Jill Anstey warned him.

 'Don't let the little-girl look fool you. She's a professional and a

 strong corner with a big following in the States. She did that

 incredible series of interviews with Jomo Kenyatta, the Mau Mau

 terrorist, not to mention the "Heartbreak Ridge" story in Korea.

 They say she'll get an Emmy for it." South Africa did not have a TV

 network, but Shasa had seen 'Heartbreak Ridge' on BBC television during

 his last stay in London.

 It was a gritty, totally absorbing commentary on the Korean war, and

 Shasa found it hard to believe that this child had done that. She

 turned now and came directly to him, holding out her hand, frank and

 friendly, a fresh-faced ingbnue.

 'Hello, Mr Courtney, I'm Kitty Godolphin." She had an enchanting

 southern accent and there were fine golden freckles across her cheeks

 and her small pert nose, but then he saw that she had good bone

 structure and interesting planes to her face that would render her

 highly photogenic.

 'Mr Courtney,' she said. 'You speak so well, I couldn't resist trying

 to get a little more of you on film. I hope I haven't put you out too

 much." She smiled at him, a sweet engaging smile, but he looked beyond

 it into eyes as hard as any diamonds from the H'am Mine, eyes that were

 bright with a sharp cynical intelligence and ruthless ambition. That

 was unexpected and intriguing.

 'Here's a show that will be worth the entrance fee,' he thought and

 glanced down. Her breasts were small, smaller than he usually chose,

 but they were unsupported and he could see their shape beneath her

 blouse. They were exquisite.

 She led him to the leather chairs she had arranged to face each other

 under the lights.

 'If you would sit on this side we'll get right into it.  I'll do my

 introduction later. ! don't want to keep you any longer than I have

 to." 'As long as you like." 'Oh, I know that you have a room full of

 important guests." She glanced at her crew and one of them gave her a

 thumbs-up. She looked back at Shasa. 'The American public knows very

 little about South Africa,' she explained. 'What I am trying to do is

 capture a cross-section of your society and figure out how it all works.

 I will introduce you as a politician, mining tycoon and financier, and

 tell them about this fabulous new gold-mine of yours. Then we'll cut to

 you. Okay?" 'Okay!" He smiled easily. 'Let her roll." The clapper

 loader snapped the board in front of Shasa's face, somebody said

 'Sound?" and solnebody else replied 'Rolling' and then 'Action'.

 'Mr Shasa Courtney, you have just told a meeting of your shareholders

 that your new gold-mine will probably be one of the five richest in

 South Africa, which makes it one of the richest in the world. Can you

 tell our viewers just how much of that fabulous wealth will be going

 back to people from which it was stolen in the first place?" she asked

 with breathtaking candour. 'And I am, of course, referring to the black

 tribes who once owned the land." Shasa was off-balance for only the

 moment that it took him to realize that he was in a fight. Then he

 responded easily.

 'The black tribes who once owned the land on which the Silver River mine

 is situated were slaughtered, to the last man, woman and child, back in

 the 1820s by the impis of Kings Chaka and Mzilikazi, those two

 benevolent Zulu monarchs who between them managed to reduce the

 population of southern Africa by fifty percent,' he told her. 'When the

 white settlers moved northwards, they came upon a land denuded of all

 human life. The land they staked was open, they stole it from nobody. I

 bought the mineral rights from people who had clear undisputed title to

 it." He saw a glint of respect in her eyes, but she was as quick as he

 had been. She had lost a point but she was ready to play the next.

 'Historical facts are interesting, of course, but let's return to the

 present. Tell me, if you had been a man of colour, Mr Courtney, say

 black or an Asiatic businessman, would you have been allowed to purchase

 the concessions to the Silver River mine?" 'That's a hypothetical

 question, Miss Godolphin." 'I don't think so --' she cut off his escape.

 'Am I wrong in thinking that the Group Areas Act recently promulgated by

 the parliament of which you are a sitting member, prevents non-white

 individuals and companies owned by blacks from purchasing land or

 mineral rights anywhere in their own land?" 'I voted against that

 legislation,' Shasa said grimly. 'But yes, the Group Areas Act would

 have prevented a coloured person acquiring the rights in the Silver

 River mine,' he conceded. Too clever to labour a point well taken, she

 moved on swiftly.

 'How many black people does the Courtney Mining and Finance Company

 employ in its numerous enterprises'' she asked with that sweet open

 smile.

 'Altogether through eighteen subsidiary companies, we provide work for

 some two thousand whites and thirty thousand blacks." 'That is a

 marvelous achievement, and must make you very proud, Mr Courtney." She

 was breathlessly girlish. 'And how many blacks do you have sitting on

 the boards of those eighteen co ' '' mpames.

 Again he had been wrong-footed, and he avoided the question.

 'We make a point of paying well above the going rate for the job, and

 the other benefits we provide to our employees --' Kitty nodded

 brightly, letting him finish, quite happy that she could edit out all

 this extraneous material, but the moment he paused, she came in again:

 'So there are no black directors on the Courtney companies' boards. Can

 you tell us how many black departmental managers you have appointed?"

 Once long ago, hunting buffalo in the forests along the Zambezi river,

 Shasa had been attacked by a heat-maddened swarm of the big black

 African honey-bees. There had been no defence against them, and he had

 only escaped at last by diving into the crocodile infested Zambezi

 river. He felt that same sense of angry helplessness now, as she buzzed

 around his head, effortlessly avoiding his attempts to swat her down and

 darting out to sting painfully almost at will.

 'Thirty thousand black men working for you, and not a single director or

 manager amongst them!" she marvelled ingenuously. 'Can you suggest why

 that might be?" 'We have a predominantly tribal rural black society in

 this country and they come to the cities unskilled and untrained --'

 'Oh, don't you have training programmes?" Shasa accepted the opening.

 'The Courtney group has a massive training programme. Last year alone we

 spent two and a half million pounds on employee education and job

 training." 'How long has this programme been in operation, Mr Courtney?"

 'Seven years, ever since I became chairman." 'And in seven years, after

 all that money spent on education, not one black of all those thousands

 has been promoted to managerial status? Is that because you have not

 found a single capable black, or is it because your job reservation

 policy and your strict colour bar prevent any black, no matter how

 good--' He was driven back inexorably until in anger he went on the

 offensive. 'If you are looking for racial discrimination, why didn't

 you stay in America?" he asked her, smiling icily. 'I'm sure your own

 Martin Luther King would be able to help you more than I can." 'There is

 bigotry in my country,' she nodded. 'We understand that, and we are

 changing it, educating our people and outlawing its practice, but from

 what I have seen, you are indoctrinating your children in this policy

 you call apartheid and enshrining it in a monumental fortress of laws

 like your Group Areas Act and your Population Registration Act which

 seeks to classify all men by the colour of their skin alone." 'We

 differentiate,' Shasa conceded, 'but that does not mean that we

 discriminate." 'That's a catchy slogan, Mr Courtney, but not original. I

 have already heard it from your minister of Bantu affairs, Dr Hendrik

 Frensch Verwoerd. However, I suggest to you that you do discriminate. If

 a man is denied the right to vote or to own land merely because his skin

 is dark, that in my book is discrimination." And before he could

 respond, she had switched again.

 'How many black people do you number amongst your personal friends?" she

 asked engagingly, and the question transported Shasa instantly back

 across the years. He remembered as a lad standing his first shifts on

 the H'am Mine and the man who had been his friend.

 The black boss-boy in charge of the weathering grounds on which the

 newly mined blue ore from the pit was laid out to soften and crumble to

 the point at which it could be carted to the mill.

 He hadn't thought about him for years, yet he remembered his name

 without effort, Moses Gama, and he saw him in his mind's eye, tall and

 broad-shouldered, handsome as a young pharaoh with skin that glowed like

 old amber in the sunlight as they toiled side by side. He remembered

 their long rambling discussions, how they had read and argued together,

 drawn together by some unusual bond of the spirit. Shasa had lent him

 Macaulay's History of England, and when Moses Gama was fired from the

 H'am Mine on the instigation of Centaine Courtney as a direct result of

 the unacceptably intimate friendly relationship between them, Shasa had

 asked him to keep the book. Now he felt again a faint echo of the sense

 of deprivation he had experienced at the time of their enforced parting.

 'I have only a handful of personal friends,' he told her now. 'Ten

 thousand acquaintances, but only a very few friends --' He held up the

 fingers of his right hand. 'No more than that, and none of them happen

 to be black. Though once I had a black man as a friend, and I grieved

 when our ways parted." With the sure instinct which made her supreme in

 her craft, Kitty Godolphin recognized that he had given her a perfect

 peg on which to hang the interview.

 'Once I had a black man as a friend,' she repeated softly. 'And I

 grieved when our ways parted. Thank you, Mr Courtney." She turned to

 her camera man. 'Okay, Hank, cut it and get the studio to print it

 tonight." She stood up quickly and Shasa towered over her.

 'That was excellent. There is a great deal of material there we can

 use,' she enthused. 'I am really grateful for your cooperation."

 Smiling urbanely Shasa leaned close to her. 'You are a devious little

 bitch, aren't you?" he said softly. 'A face like an angel and a heart

 of hell. You know it isn't like you made it sound, and you don't care.

 As long as you get a good story, you don't give a damn whether it's true

 or not or who it hurts, do you?" Shasa turned from her and strode out of

 the boardroom. The floor-show had started and he went to the table at

 which Centaine and Blaine Malcomess were sitting, but the night had been

 spoiled for him.

 He sat and glowered at the swirling dancers, not really seeing their

 long naked limbs and gleaming flesh but thinking furiously of Kitty

 Godolphin instead. Danger excited him, that was why he hunted lion and

 buffalo and flew his own Tiger Moth and played polo.

 Kitty Godolphin was dangerous. He was always attracted to intelligent

 and competent women, with strong personalities - and this one was

 devastatingly competent and made of pure silk and steel.

 He thought about that lovely innocent face and childlike smile and the

 hard gleam of her eyes, and his fury was compounded by his desire to

 subjugate her, emotionally and physically, and the fact that he knew it

 would be difficult made the thought all the more obsessive.

 He found that he was physically aroused and that increased his anger.

 He glanced up suddenly, and from across the room Jill Anstey, the public

 relations director, was watching him. The coloured lights played on the

 Slavic planes of her face and glinted on the platinum sheet of her hair.

 She slanted her eyes at him and ran the tip of her tongue over her lower

 lip.

 'All right,' he thought. 'I have to take it out on somebody and you

 will do." He inclined his head slightly, and Jill Anstey nodded and

 slipped out of the door behind her. Shasa murmured an apology to

 Centaine, then stood up and moved through the pounding music and

 semi-darkness towards the door through which Jill Anstey had

 disappeared.

 Shasa got back to the Carlton Hotel at nine o'clock in the morning.

 Still in black tie and dinner jacket, he avoided the lobby and went up

 the back stairs from the underground garage. Centaine and Blaine were

 in the company suite, and Shasa had the smaller suite across the

 passage. He dreaded meeting either of them dressed as he was at this

 time in the morning, but he was lucky and got into his lounge

 uninterrupted.

 Somebody had slipped an envelope under his door and he picked it up

 without particular interest, until he saw the Killarney Film Studios

 crest on the flap. Kitty Godolphin was working out of that studio and

 he grinned and split the flap with his thumbnail.

 Dear Mr Courtney, The rushes are just great - you look better than Errol

 Flynn on film. If you want to see them, call me at the studio.

 Kitty Godolphin His anger had cooled and he was amused by her cheek, and

 though he had a full day ahead - lunch with Lord Littleton and meetings

 all afternoon - he phoned the studio.

 'You just caught me,' Kitty told him. 'I was on my way out. You want

 to see the rushes? Okay, can you get up here at six this evening?" She

 was smiling that sweet childlike smile and mocking him with a malicious

 green sparkle in her eyes as she came down to the reception desk of the

 studio to shake his hand and lead him to her hired projection room in

 the complex.

 'I knew I could rely on your masculine vanity to get you up here,' she

 assured him.

 Her film crew were sprawled untidily over the front row of seats in the

 projection room, smoking Camels and drinking Cokes, but Hank, the camera

 man, had the film clip in the projector ready to run, and they watched

 it through in silence.

 When the lights went up again, Shasa turned to Kitty and conceded.

 'You are good - you made me look a real prick most of the time.

 And, of course, you can always lose the parts where I held my own on the

 cutting-room floor." 'You don't like it?" she grinned, wrinkling her

 small nose so the freckles on it gleamed like tiny gold coins.

 'You are a bushwhacker, shooting from cover, and I'm out there with my

 back wide open." 'If you accuse me of faking it,' she challenged him,

 'how about you taking me and showing me the way it really is. Show me

 the Courtney mines and factories and let me film them!" So that was why

 she had called him. He smiled to himself, but asked, 'Have you got ten

 days?" 'I've got as long as it takes,' she assured him.

 'All right, let's start with dinner tonight." 'Great!" she enthused, and

 then turned to her crew. 'Mazeltov, boys, Mr Courtney is standing us

 all dinner." 'That's not exactly what I had in mind,' he murmured.

 'Do tell?" She gave him her innocent little girl look.

 Kitty Godolphin was a rewarding companion. Her interest in everything

 he said or showed her was flattering and unfeigned. She watched his

 eyes or his lips as he spoke, and often leaned so close to listen that

 he could feel her breath on his face, but she never actually touched

 him.

 For Shasa her appeal was heightened by her personal cleanliness.

 In the days they spent together, hot dusty days in the desert of the far

 west or in the eastern forests, tramping through pulp mills or

 fertilizer factories, watching the bulldozers strip the overburden from

 the coal deposits in billowing clouds of dust, or baking in the depths

 of the great excavation of the H'am Mine, Kitty was always freshfaced

 and cool-looking. Even in the dust her eyes were clear and her small

 even teeth sparkled. When or where she had an opportunity to rinse her

 clothes he could never decide, but they were always clean and crisp and

 her breath when she leaned close to him was always sweet.

 She was a professional. That impressed Shasa also. She would go to any

 lengths to get the film footage she wanted, taking no account of fatigue

 or personal danger. He had to forbid her riding on the outside of the

 mine cage on the H'am main incline shaft to film the drop into the pit,

 but she went back later, while he was in a meeting with his mine

 manager, and got exactly the shot she wanted and then smiled away his

 fury when he found out. Her crew treated her with an ambivalence that

 amused Shasa. They held her in fond affection and were immensely

 protective of her, as though they were her elder brothers, and their

 pride in her achievements was unconcealed. However, at the same time

 they were much in awe of her ruthless search for excellence, to which

 they knew she would sacrifice them and anything else that got in her

 way. Her temper, although not often displayed, was merciless and

 vitriolic and when she gave an order, no matter how quietly or how sweet

 the smile that accompanied it, they jumped.

 Shasa was also affected by the deep feelings which she had conceived for

 Africa, its land and its people.

 'I thought America was the most beautiful country in all the world,' she

 said quietly one evening as they watched the sun set behind the great

 desolate mountains of the western deserts. 'But when I look at this, I

 have to wonder." Her curiosity took her into the compounds where the

 Courtney Company employees were housed, and she spent hours talking to

 the workers and their wives, filming it all, the questions and answers

 of black miners and white overseers and shift bosses, their homes and

 the food they ate, their recreations and their worship, and at the end

 Shasa asked her, 'So how do you like the way I oppress them9' 'They live

 well,' she conceded.

 'And they are happy,' he pushed her. 'Admit it. I hid nothing from

 you. They are happy." 'They are happy like children,' she agreed.

 'As long as they look up to you like big daddy. But just how long do

 you think you can keep fooling them? How long is, it going to be before

 they look at you in your beautiful airplane flying back to parliament to

 make a few more laws for them to obey and say to themselves, "Hey man!

 I'd like to try that also"?" 'For three hundred years under white

 government the people of this land have woven a social fabric which has

 held us all together. It works, and I would hate to see it torn asunder

 without knowing what will replace it." 'How about democracy for a

 start?" she suggested. 'That's not a bad thing to replace it with - you

 know, the will of the majority must prevail!" 'You left out the best

 bit,' he flashed back at her. 'The interests of the minority must be

 safeguarded. That doesn't work in Africa. The African knows and

 understands one principle: winner takes all and let the minority go to

 the wall. That's what will happen to the white settlers in Kenya if the

 British capitulate to the Mau Mau killers." So they wrangled and sparred

 during the long hours of flying which took them over the enormous

 distances of the African continent. From one destination to the next,

 Shasa and Kitty went ahead in the Mosquito, and the helmet and oxygen

 mask were too large for her and made her appear even younger and more

 girlish. David Abrahams piloted the slower and more commodious company

 De Havilland Dove, the camera equipment and the crew flying with him,

 and even though most of Shasa's time on the ground was spent in meetings

 with his managers and administrative staff, there was still much time

 that he could devote to the seduction of Kitty Godolphin.

 Shasa was not accustomed to prolonged resistance from any female who

 warranted his concentrated attention. There might be a token flight,

 but always with coy glances over the shoulder, and usually they chose to

 hide from him in the nearest bedroom, absentmindedly forgetting to turn

 the key in the lock, and he expected it to go very much the same way

 with Kitty Godolphin.

 Getting into her blue jeans was his first priority; convincing her that

 Africa was different from America and that they were doing the best job

 they could came second by a long way. At the end of the ten days he had

 succeeded in neither endeavour. Both Kitty's political convictions and

 her virtue remained intact.

 Kitty's interest in him, however wide-eyed and intense, was totally

 impersonal and professional, and she gave the same attention to an

 Ovambo witchdoctor demonstrating how he cured abdominal cancer with a

 poultice of porcupine dung, or a muscled and tattooed white shift-boss

 explaining to her that a black worker should never be punched in the

 stomach as their spleens were always enlarged from malaria and could

 easily rupture - hitting them in the head was all right, he explained,

 because the African skull was solid bone anyway and you couldn't inflict

 serious damage that way.

 'Mary Maria!" Kitty breathed. 'That was worth the trip in itselfl' So

 on the eleventh day of their odyssey, they flew out of the vastness of

 the Kalahari Desert from the remote H'am Diamond Mine on its mystic and

 brooding range of hills, into the town of Windhoek, capital of the old

 German colony of South West Africa which had been mandated to South

 Africa at the Treaty of Versailles.

 It was a quaint little town, the German influence still very obvious in

 the architecture and the way of life of the inhabitants. Set in the

 hilly uplands above the arid littoral, the climate was pleasant and the

 Kaiserhof Hotel, where Shasa kept another permanent suite, offered many

 of the creature comforts that they had lacked during the previous ten

 days.

 Shasa and David spent the afternoon with their senior staff in the local

 office of the Courtney Company, which before its move to Johannesburg

 had been the head office, but which was still responsible for the

 logistics of the H'am Mine. Kitty and her team, never wasting a moment,

 filmed the German colonial buildings and monuments and the picturesque

 Herero women on the streets. In 1904 this tribe of warriors had engaged

 the German administration in their worst colonial war which finally left

 eighty thousand Hereroes dead of famine and battle out of a total

 population of a hundred thousand. They were tall and

 magnificent-looking people and the women wore full-length Victorian

 skirts in butterfly colours and tall matching headdresses. Kitty was

 delighted with them, and late that afternoon came back to the hotel in

 ebullient mood.

 Shasa had planned carefully, and had left David at the Courtney Company

 offices to finish the meeting. He was waiting to invite Kitty and her

 team through to the beer garden of the hotel where a traditional

 oom-pa-pa band in Lederhosen and alpine hats was belting out a medley of

 German drinking songs. The locally brewed Hansa Pilsner was every bit

 as good as the original of the Munich beerhalls, with a clear golden

 colour and thick creamy head. Shasa ordered the largest tankards, and

 Kitty drank level with her crew.

 The mood turned festive until Shasa drew Kitty aside and under cover of

 the band told her quietly, 'I don't quite know how to break this to you,

 Kitty, but this will be our last evening together. I had my secretary

 book seats on the commercial flight for you and your boys to fly back to

 Johannesburg tomorrow morning." Kitty stared at him aghast. 'I don't

 understand. I thought we were flying down to your diamond concessions

 in the Sperrgebiet." She pronounced it 'Spear Beat' in her enchanting

 accent. 'That was going to be the main act." 'Sperrgebiet means

 "Forbidden Area",' Shasa told her sadly. 'And it means just that,

 Kitty, forbidden. Nobody goes in there without a permit from the

 government inspector of mines.

 'But I thought you had arranged a permit for us,' she protested.

 'I tried. I telexed our local office to arrange it. The application

 was denied. The government doesn't want you in there, I'm afraid." 'But

 why not?" 'There must be something going on in there that they don't

 want you to see or film,' he shrugged, and she was silent but he saw the

 play of fierce emotion across her innocent features and her eyes blazed

 green with anger and determination. He had early on discovered that the

 infallible means of making anything irresistibly attractive was to deny

 it to Kitty Godolphin. He knew that now she would lie, cheat or sell

 her soul to get into the Sperrgebiet. 'You could smuggle us in,' she

 suggested.

 He shook his head. 'Not worth the risk. We might get away with it, but

 if I were caught it could mean a fine of œ100,000 or five years in the

 slammer." She laid her hand on his arm, the first time she had

 deliberately touched him. 'Please, Shasa. I want so badly to film it."

 He shook his head sorrowfully. 'I'm sorry, Kitty, can't be done, I'm

 afraid,' and he stood up. 'Got to go up and change for dinner.

 You can break it to your crew while I'm away. Your flight back to

 Jo'burg leaves ten o'clock tomorrow." It was obvious at the dinner-table

 that she hadn't warned her crew of the change of plans, for they were

 still jovial and garrulous with good German beer.

 For once Kitty took no part in the conversation, and she sat morosely at

 the end of the table, nibbling without interest at the hearty Teutonic

 fare and occasionally darting a sulky glance at Shasa.

 David skipped coffee to go and make his nightly phone call to Matty and

 the children, and Hank and his crew had been told of a local night spot

 with hot music and even hotter hostesses.

 'Ten days with no feminine company except the boss,' Hank complained.

 'My nerves need soothing." 'Remember where you are,' Shasa warned him.

 'In this country black velvet is royal game." 'Some of the poohtang I've

 seen today would be worth five years' hard labour,' Hank leered.

 'Did you know that we have a South African version of Russian roulette?"

 Shasa asked him. 'What you do is take a coloured girl into a telephone

 booth. Then you phone the police flying squad and see who comes first."

 Kitty was the only one who didn't laugh, and Shasa stood up.

 'I've got some papers to go over. We'll save the farewells until

 breakfast." In his suite he shaved and showered quickly, then slipped on

 a silk dressing-gown. As he went through to check that there was ice in

 the bar, there was a light tap on the door of the suite.

 Kitty stood on the threshold looking tragic.

 'Am I disturbing you?" 'No, of course not." He held the door open and

 she crossed the lounge and stood staring out of the window.

 'Can I get you a night-cap?" Shasa asked.

 'What are you drinking?" she asked.

 'A rusty nail." 'I'll have one also - whatever it is." While he mixed

 Drambuie and malt whisky, she said, 'I came to thank you for everything

 you've done for me these last ten days. It's going to be hard to say

 goodbye." He carried the glasses across to where she stood in the middle

 of the floor, but when he reached her she took both glasses from him and

 placed them on the coffee table. Then she stood on tiptoe, slid both

 arms around his neck and turned her face up for his kiss.

 Her lips were soft and sweet as warm chocolate, and slowly she pushed

 her tongue deeply into his mouth. When at last their mouths parted with

 a little wet sucking sound, he stooped and hooked an arm around the back

 of her knees and lifted her against his chest.

 She clung to him, pressing her face against his throat as he carried her

 through to the bedroom.

 She had the lean hips and flat belly of a boy, and her buttocks were

 white and round and hard as a pair of ostrich eggs. Like her face, her

 body seemed childlike and immature except for those tight little

 pear-shaped breasts and the startling burst of thick dark hair at the

 base of her belly, but when he touched her there he found to his

 surprise that it was fine as silk and soft as smoke.

 Her love-making was so artful as to seem totally uncontrived and

 spontaneous. She had the trick of telling him exactly what he was doing

 to her in the coarsest barnyard terms, and the obscenities on that soft

 innocent-looking mouth were shockingly erotic. She took him to those

 heights that he had seldom scaled before, and left him completely

 satiated.

 In the dawn glow she snuggled against him and whispered, 'I don't know

 how I am going to be able to bear being parted from you after this." He

 could see her face in the wall mirror across the room, although she was

 unaware of his scrutiny."Damn it - I can't let you go,' he whispered

 back. 'I don't care what it costs I'm taking you down to the

 Sperrgebiet with me." In the mirror he watched her smile, a complacent

 and smug little smile. He had been correct, Kitty Godolphin used her

 sexual favours like trumps in a game of bridge.

 At the airport her crew were packing their equipment into the Dove under

 David Abrahams' supervision when Shasa and Kitty drove up in the second

 company car, and Kitty jumped out and went to David.

 'How are you going to work it, Davie?" she asked, and he looked puzzled.

 'I don't understand the question." 'You'll have to fake the flight plan,

 won't you?" Kitty insisted.

 Still mystified, David glanced at Shasa. Shasa shrugged and Kitty

 became exasperated.

 'You know very well what I mean. How are you going to cover the fact

 that we are going into the Sperrgebiet without permits?" 'Without

 permits?" David echoed, and fished a handful of documents out of the zip

 pocket of his leather flying-jacket. 'Here are the permits. They were

 issued a week ago - all kosher and correct." Kitty wheeled and glared

 speechlessly at Shasa, but he refused to meet her eyes and instead

 ambled off to make his walk-around check of the Mosquito.

 They didn't speak to each other again until Shasa had the Mosquito at

 twenty thousand feet, flying straight and level, then Kitty said into

 his earphones, 'You son of a bitch." Her voice shook with fury.

 'Kitty, my darling." He turned and smiled at her over the oxygen mask,

 his single eye glinting happily. 'We both got what we wanted, and had a

 lot of fun in the process. What are you so mad about?" She turned her

 face away and stared down at the magnificent lioncoloured mountains of

 the Kharna's Hochtland. He left her to sulk.

 Some minutes later he heard an unusual stuttering sound in his headset,

 and he frowned and leaned forward to adjust the radio.

 Then, from the corner of his eye he saw that Kitty was hunched up in the

 seat shaking uncontrollably and that the stuttering sound was coming

 from her.

 He touched her shoulder and she turned her face to him, it was swollen

 and crimson with suppressed laughter and tears of mirth were squeezing

 out of the corners of her eyes with the pressure. She couldn't hold it

 any longer, and she let out a snort.

 'You crafty bastard,' she sobbed. 'Oh, you tricky monster--' and then

 she became incoherent as laughter overwhelmed her.

 A long time later she wiped away her tears. 'We are going to get on

 just fine together, you and me,' she declared. 'Our minds work the same

 way." 'Our bodies don't do too badly either,' he pointed out, and she

 unclipped her oxygen mask and leaned across to offer him her mouth

 again. Her tongue was sinuous and slippery as an eel.

 Their time in the desert together passed too swiftly for Shasa, for

 since they had become lovers he found her a constant joy to be with.

 Her quick and curious mind stimulated his own, and through her observant

 eyes he saw old familiar things afresh.

 Together they watched and filmed the elephantine yellow caterpillar

 tractors ripping the elevated terraces that had once been the ocean bed.

 He explained to Kitty how in the time when the crust of the earth was

 soft and the molten magma still burst through to the surface, the

 diamonds, conceived at great depth and heat and pressure, were carried

 up with this sulphurous outpouring.

 In the endless rains of those ancient times the great rivers scoured the

 earth, running down to the sea, washing the diamonds down with them,

 until they collected in the pockets and irregularities of the seabed

 closest to the river mouth. As the emerging continent shrugged and

 shifted, so the old seabed was lifted above the surface.

 The rivers had long ago dried up or been diverted, and sediment covered

 the elevated terraces, concealing the diamond-bearing pockets. It had

 taken the genius of Twenty-man-Jones to work out the old river courses.

 Using aerial photography and an inherent sixth sense, he had pinpointed

 the ancient terraces.

 Kitty and her team filmed the process by which the sand and rubble

 churned up by the dozer blades was screened and sieved, and finally

 dry-blown with great multi-bladed fans, until only the precious stones -

 one part in tens of millions - remained.

 In the desert nights the mine hutments, lacking air-conditioning, were

 too hot for sleep. Shasa made a nest of blankets out amongst the dunes,

 and with the faint peppery smell of the desert in their nostrils, they

 made love under a blaze of stars.

 On their last day Shasa commandeered one of the company jeeps and they

 drove out into a land of red dunes, the highest in all the world,

 sculptured by the incessant winds off the cold Benguela Current, their

 ridges crested like living reptiles as they writhed high against the

 pale desert sky.

 Shasa pointed out to Kitty a hrd of gemsbok, each antelope large as a

 pony, but with a marvellously patterned face mask of black and white and

 slender horns, straight and long as they were tall, that were the

 original unicorn of the fable.  They were beautiful beasts, so adapted

 to their harsh country that they need never drink from surface water,

 but could survive only on the moisture they obtained from the silvery

 sun-scorched grasses. They watched them dissolve magically into the

 heat mirage, turning to squirming black tadpoles on the horizon before

 they disappeared.

 'I was born here. Somewhere in these deserts,' Shasa told her as they

 stood hand in hand on the crest of one of the dunes and looked down a

 thousand feet to where they had left the jeep in the gut of the sand

 mountains.

 He told her how Centaine had carried him in her womb through this

 terrible terrain, lost and abandoned, with only two little Bushmen as

 her guides and companions, and how the Bushwoman, for whom the H'am Mine

 was named, acted as midwife at his birth and named him Shasa - 'Good

 Water' - after the most precious substance in her world.

 The beauty and the grandeur affected them both so they drew close

 together in the solitude, and by the end of that day Shasa was sure that

 he truly loved her and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with

 her.

 Together they watched the sun sink towards the red dunes and the sky

 turned to a screen of hot hammered bronze, dented with flecks of blue

 cloud as though by blows from a celestial blacksmith's hammer. As the

 sky cooled, the colours chameleoned into puce and orange and lofty

 purples until the sun sank behind the dunes - and at the instant it

 disappeared, a miracle occurred.

 They both gasped in wonder as in a silent explosion the entire heavens

 flared into electric green. It lasted only as long as they held their

 breath, but in that time the sky was as green as the ocean depths or the

 ice in the gaping cracks of a high mountain glacier.

 Then it faded swiftly into the drab gun-metal of dusk, and Kitty turned

 to him with a silent question in her eyes.

 'We saw it together,' Shasa said softly. 'The Bushmen call it the Green

 Python. A man can live a lifetime in the desert without seeing it. I

 have never witnessed it, not until this moment." 'What does it mean.9'

 Kitty asked.

 'The Bushmen say it is the most fortuitous of all good omens." He

 reached out and took her hand. 'They say that those who see the Green

 Python will be specially blessed - and we saw it together." In the

 fading light they went down the slip face of the dune to where Shasa had

 parked the jeep. They sank almost knee-deep in the fluffy sun-warm

 sand, and laughing they clung to each other for support.

 When they reached the jeep, Shasa took her by the shoulders, turned her

 to face him and told her, 'I don't want it to end, Kitty.

 Come with me. Marry me. I'll give you everything that life has to

 offer." She threw back her head to laugh in his face. 'Don't be daft,

 Shasa Courtney. What I want from life isn't yours to give,' she told

 him. 'This was fun, but it wasn't reality. We can be good friends for

 as long as you want, but our feet are set on different paths, and we

 aren't going in the same direction." The next day when they landed at

 Windhoek airport, a telegram addressed to her was pinned to the board in

 the crew room. Kitty read it swiftly. When she looked up she wasn't

 seeing Shasa any longer.

 'There is another story breaking,' she said. 'I have to go." 'When will

 I see you again?" Shasa asked, and she looked at him as though he were a

 complete stranger.

 'I don't know,' she said, and she and her crew were on the commercial

 flight that left for Johannesburg an hour later.

 Shasa was angry and humiliated. He had never offered to divorce Tara

 for any other woman - had never even contemplated it - and Kitty had

 laughed at him.

 There were well-explored avenues down which he knew he could cure his

 anger, one was the hunt. For Shasa nothing else existed in the world

 when the hunter's passion thrilled in his blood, when a bull buffalo,

 big as a mountain and black as hell, came thundering down upon him,

 bloody saliva drooling from its raised muzzle, the polished points of

 its curved horns glinting, and murder in its small piglike eyes.

 However, this was the rainy season and the hunting grounds in the north

 would be muggy wet and malarial, and the grass high above a man's head.

 He could not hunt so he turned to his other sure panacea, the pursuit of

 wealth.

 Money held endless fascination for Shasa. Without that obsessive

 attraction he could not have accumulated such a vast store of it, for

 that required a devotion and dedication that few men are capable of.

 Those that lack it console themselves with old platitudes about it not

 buying happiness and being the root of all evil. As an adept, Shasa

 knew that money was neither good nor evil, but simply amoral. He knew

 that money had no conscience, but that it contained the most powerful

 potential for both good and evil. It was the man who possessed it who

 made the ultimate choice between them, and that choice was called power.

 Even when he had believed himself to be totally absorbed with Kitty

 Godolphin, his instinct had been in play. Almost subconsciously he had

 noticed those tiny white specks way out on the green Benguela Current of

 the Atlantic. Kitty Godolphin had not been gone from his life for an

 hour before he stormed into the offices of Courtney Mining and Finance

 in Windhoek's main street and started demanding figures and documents,

 making telephone calls, summoning lawyers and accountants, calling in

 favours from men in high places in government, despatching his minions

 to search the archives of the registrar and the local newspapers,

 assembling the tools of his trade, facts, figures and influence, and

 then losing himself happily in them, like an opium-eater with his pipe.

 It was another five days before he was ready to bring it all together,

 and make the final weighing up. He had kept David Abrahams with him,

 for David was an excellent sounding-board in a situation like this one,

 and Shasa liked to bounce ideas off him and catch the returns.

 'So this is what it looks like,' Shasa began the summing up. There were

 five of them in the boardroom, sitting under the magnificent Pierneef

 murals that Centaine had commissioned when the artist was in his prime,

 Shasa and David, the local manager and secretary of Courtney Mining, and

 the German lawyer based in Windhoek whom Shasa kept on permanent

 retainer.

 'It looks like we have been asleep on our feet. In the last three years

 an industry has sprung up under our noses, an industry that last year

 alone netted twenty million pounds, four times the profits of the H'am

 Mine, and we have let it happen." He glowered cyclops-eyed at his local

 manager for an explanation.

 'We were aware of the recommencement of the fishing industry at Walvis

 Bay,' that unfortunate gentleman sought to explain. 'The application

 for pilchard trawling licences was gazetted, but I didn't think that

 fishing would match up with our other activities." 'With due respect,

 Frank, that's the kind of decision I like to make myself. It's your job

 to pass on all information, of whatever nature, to me." It was said

 quietly, but the three local men had no illusions as to the severity of

 the reprimand and they bowed their heads over their notepads. There was

 silence for ten seconds while Shasa let them suffer.

 'Right, Frank,' Shasa ordered him. 'Tell us now what you should have

 told us four or five years ago." 'Well, Mr Courtney, the

 pilchard-fishing industry was started in the early 1930s at Walvis Bay

 and although initially successful, it was overtaken by the depression,

 and with the primitive trawling methods of those days was unable to

 survive. The factories closed down and became derelict." As Frank

 spoke, Shasa's mind went back to his childhood. He remembered his first

 visit to Walvis Bay and blinked with the realization that it had been

 twenty years ago. He and Centaine had driven down in her

 daffodil-coloured Daimler to call in the loan she had made to De La

 Rey's canning and fishing company and to close down the factory. Those

 were the desperate years of the depression when the Courtney companies

 had survived only through his mother's pluck and determination - and

 ruthlessness.

 He remembered how Lothar De La Rey, Manfred's father, had pleaded with

 his mother for an extension of the loan. When his trawlers lay against

 the wharf, loaded to the gunwales with their catch of silver pilchards,

 and the sheriff of the court, on Centaine': orders, had put his seals on

 the factory doors.

 That was the day he had first met Manfred De La Rey. Manfret had been a

 bare-footed, cropped-head hulk of a lad, bigger and stronger than Shasa,

 burned dark by the sun, dressed in a navy-blue fisherman's jersey and

 khaki shorts that were smeared with dried fish-slime, while Shasa had

 worn immaculate grey slacks, white open neck shirt and a college sweater

 with polished black shoes on his feet.

 Two boys from different worlds, they had come face to face on the main

 fish wharf and their hostility had been instantaneous, their hackles

 rising like dogs, and within minutes, gibes and insults had turned to

 blows and they had flown at each other furiously, punching and wrestling

 down the wharf while the coloured trawlermen had egged them on

 delightedly. He remembered clearly even after all this time Manfred De

 La Rey's pale ferocious eyes glaring into his as they fell from the

 wharf on to the slippery, stinking cargo of dead pilchards, and he felt

 again the dreadful humiliation as Manfred had forced his head deeply

 into the quagmire of cold dead fish and he had begun to drown in their

 slime.

 He jerked his mind back to the present, to hear his manager saying, 'So

 the position is now that the government has issued four factory licences

 to catch and process pilchards at Walvis Bay. The department of

 fisheries allocates an annual quota to each of the licensees, which is

 presently two hundred thousand tons." Shasa contemplated the enormous

 profit potential of those quantities of fish.

 According to their published accounts, each of those four factories had

 averaged two million pounds profit in the last fiscal year.

 He knew he could improve on that, probably double it, but it didn't look

 as though he was going to get the chance.

 'Approaches to both the Fisheries Department, and to higher authority-'

 Shasa had taken the administrator of the territory himself to dinner,

 'have elicited the firm fact that no further licences will be issued.

 The only way to enter the industry would be to buy out one of the

 licensees." Shasa smiled sardonically for he had already sounded out two

 of the companies. The owner of the first one had told Shasa in movingly

 eloquent terms to commit an unnatural sexual act on himself and the

 other had quoted a figure at which he might be prepared to negotiate

 which ended with a string of zeros that reached to the horizon. Despite

 his gloomy expression, it was the kind of situation in which Shasa

 revelled, seemingly hopeless, and yet with the promise of enormous

 rewards if he could find his way around the obstacles.

 'I want a detailed breakdown of balance sheets on all four companies,'

 he ordered. 'Does anybody know the director of fisheries?"

 'Yes, but he's straight up and down,' Frank warned him, knowing how

 Shasa's mind worked. 'His fists are tight Closed, and if we try to slip

 him a little gifty, he'll raise a stink they'll smell in the high court

 in Bloemfontein." 'Besides which the issue of licences is outside his

 jurisdiction,' the company secretary agreed with him. 'They are granted

 exclusively by the ministry in Pretoria, and there won't be any more.

 Four is the limit. That is the decision of the minister himself." Five

 more days Shasa remained in Windhoek, covering every possible lead or

 chance with a total dedication to detail that was one of his strengths,

 but at the end of that time he was no closer to owning a factory licence

 at Walvis Bay than he had been when he had first spotted the little

 white trawlers out on the green ocean. The only thing he had achieved

 was to forget that malignant little sprite, Kitty Godolphin, for ten

 whole days.

 However, when at last he admitted to himself that there was nothing more

 to be gained by staying on in Windhoek and he climbed into the pilot's

 seat of the Mosquito, Kitty Godolphin's memory mocked him from the empty

 seat beside him. On impulse, instead of laying a course direct to Cape

 Town, he detoured westwards, heading for the coast and Walvis Bay,

 determined to have one long look at the site before finally abandoning

 the idea.

 There was something else besides Kitty's memory that plagued him as the

 Mosquito dropped down the escarpment towards the sea.

 It was a burr of doubt, a prickle of discomfort that he had overlooked

 something important in his investigations.

 He saw the ocean ahead, wreathed in tendrils of fog where the cold

 current brushed the land. The high dunes writhed together like a nest

 of razor-backed vipers, the colour of ripe wheat and copper, and he

 banked the Mosquito and followed the endless beaches upon which the surf

 broke in regular snowy lines until he saw the horn of the bay spike into

 the restless ocean and the lighthouse on Pelican Point winked at him

 through the fog banks.

 He throttled back the Rolls Royce Merlins and went down, brushing the

 tops of the scattered fog banks and in the gaps he saw the trawler fleet

 at work. They were close in to the land, on the edge of the current

 line. Some of the boats had their nets full, and he saw the silver

 treasure glittering through the water as the trawlermen raised it slowly

 to the surface, while over them hung a shimmering white panoply of

 seabirds, greedy for the feast.

 Then a mile away he picked out another boat hunting, cutting a foaming

 arabesque with its wake as it stalked yet another pilchard shoal.

 Shasa pulled on flap and banked the Mosquito steeply, turning above the

 trawler to watch the hunt develop. He saw the shoal, a dark shadow as

 though a thousand gallons of ink had been spilled into the green waters,

 and he was amazed by its size, a hundred acres of solid fish, each

 individual no longer than his hand, but in their multitudes dwarfing

 leviathan.

 'Millions of tons in one shoal,' he whispered. As he translated it into

 terms of wealth, the acquisitive passion flared up in him again.

 He watched the trawler beneath him throw its net around a tiny part of

 the gigantic shoal, and then he levelled out and flew at a hundred feet,

 skimming the fog banks, towards the maw of the bay. There were the four

 factory buildings, standing on the edge of the water, each with its own

 jetty thrusting out into the shallow waters, and black smoke billowing

 from the chimney stacks of the furnaces.

 'Which one belonged to old De La Rev."?" he wondered. On which of those

 flimsy structures had he fought with Manfred and ended with his ears and

 nose and mouth filled with fish slime.`? He grinned ruefully at the

 memory.

 'But surely it was farther north,' he puzzled, trying to cast his mind

 back twenty years. 'It wasn't down here so close to the hook of the

 bay." He banked the Mosquito and flew back parallel to the beach, and

 then a mile ahead he saw the line of palings, rotted and black, running

 in an irregular line out into the waters of the bay, and on the beach

 the roofless old ruins of the factory.

 'It's still there,' he realized, and ins-tantly his skin prickled with

 excitement. 'It's still there, deserted and forgotten all these years."

 He knew then what he had overlooked.

 He made two more passes, so low that the blast of his propellers raised

 a miniature sandstorm from the tops of the dunes. On the seaward wall

 of the derelict factory whose corrugated iron covering was gnawed and

 streaked with red rust, he could still make out the faded lettering:

 SOUTH WEST AFRICAN CANNING AND FISHING CO.

 LTD.

 He pushed on throttle and lifted the Mosquito's nose into a gentle

 climbing turn, bringing her out of the turn on course for Windhoek.

 Cape Town and his promise to his sons and Isabella to be home before the

 weekend were forgotten. David Abrahams had flown the Dove back to

 Johannesburg, leaving a few minutes before Shasa that morning, so there

 was nobody in Windhoek whom Shasa would trust to conduct the search. He

 went down to the registrar of deeds himself and an hour before the deed

 office closed for the weekend he found what he was looking for.

 The licence to capture and process pilchards and all other pelagic fish

 was dated 20 September 1929 and signed by the administrator of the

 territory. It was made out in favour of one Lothar De La Rey of

 Windhoek, and there was no term of expiry. It was good now and for all

 time.

 Shasa stroked the crackling, yellowing document, smoothing out the

 crumples in it lovingly, admiring the crimson revenue stamps and the

 administrator's fading signature. Here in these musty drawers it had

 lain for over twenty years - and he tried to put a value on this scrap

 of paper. A million pounds, certainly - five million pounds, perhaps.

 He chuckled triumphantly and took it to the deeds clerk to have a

 notarized copy made.

 'It will cost you a pretty penny, sir,' the clerk sniffed. 'Ten and six

 for the copy and two pounds for the attestation." 'It's a high price,'

 Shasa agreed, 'but I can just afford it." Lothar De La Rey came bounding

 up the wet black rocks, surefooted as a mountain goat, dressed only in a

 pair of black woollen bathing trunks. In one hand he carried a light

 fishing rod and in the other he held the trace on the end of which a

 small silver fish fluttered.

 'I've got one, Pa,' he called excitedly, and Manfred De La Rey roused

 himselfi He had been lost in thought; even on this, one of his rare

 vacations, his mind was still concentrated on the work of his ministry.

 'Well done, Lothie." He stood up and picked up the heavy bamboo surf rod

 that lay beside him. He watched his son gently unhook the small bait

 fish and hand it to him. He took it from him. It was cold and firm and

 slippery, and when he pressed the sharp point of his large hook through

 its flesh, the tiny dorsal fin along its back came erect and its

 struggles were frantic.

 'Man, no old kob will be able to resist that." Manfred held the live

 bait up for his son to admire. 'It looks so good, I could eat it

 myself." He picked up the heavy rod.

 For a minute he watched the surf break on the rocks below them, and then

 timing his momen he ran down to the edge, moving lightly for such a big

 man. The foam sucked at his ankles as he poised, and then swung the

 bamboo rod in a full whipping action. The cast was long and high, the

 live bait sparkled as it spun a parabola in the sunlight and then hit

 the green water a hundred yards out, beyond the first line of breakers.

 Manfred ran back as the next wave dashed head-high at him. With the rod

 over his shoulder and line still streaming from the big Scarborough reel

 he beat the angry white surf and regained his seat high up on the rocks.

 He thrust the butt of the rod into a crack in the rocks and jammed his

 old stained felt hat against the reel to hold it. Then he settled down

 on his cushion with his back to the rock and his son beside him.

 'Good kob water,' he grunted. The sea was discoloured and cloudy, like

 home-made ginger beer, the perfect conditions for the quarry they were

 seeking.

 'I promised Ma we would bring her a fish for pickling,' Lotbar said.

 'Never count your kob before it's in the pickle barrel,' Manfred

 counselled, and the boy laughed.

 Manfred never touched him in front of others, not even in front of his

 mother and the girls, but he remembered the enormous pleasure it had

 given him when he was Lothar's age to have his own father's embrace, and

 so at times when they were alone together like this he would let his

 true feelings show. He let his arm slip down off the rock and fall

 around the boy's shoulders and Lothar froze with joy and for a minute

 did not dare to breathe. Then slowly he leaned closer to his father and

 in silence they watched the tip of the long rod nod in rhythm to the

 ocean.

 'And so, Lothie, have you decided what you want to do with your life

 when you leave Paul Roost Paul Roos was the leading Afrikaans medium

 school in the Cape Province, the South African equivalent of Eton or

 Harrow for Afrikaners.

 'Pa, I've been thinking." Lothar was serious. 'I don't want to do law

 like you did, and I think medicine will be too difficult." Manfred

 nodded resignedly. He had come to terms with the fact that Lothar was

 not academically brilliant, but just a good average student. It was in

 all the other fields that he excelled. Already it was clear that his

 powers of leadership, his determination and courage, and his athletic

 prowess were all exceptional.

 'I want to join the police,' the boy said hesitantly. 'When I finish at

 Paul Roos, I want to go to the police academy in Pretoria." Manfred sat

 quietly, trying to hid'lde his surprise. It was probably the last thing

 he would have thought of himself.

 At last he said. 'Ja, why not! You'd do well there." He nodded.

 'It's a good life, a life of service to your country and your Volk." The

 more he thought about it, the more he realized that Lothar was .....

 making.a, perfect, cheic.- and-all caurserthe laet- that hid's :father

 ;,'as---minister of police wouldn't hurt the boy's career either. He

 hoped he would stick to it. 'Ja,' he repeated, 'I like it." 'Pa, I

 wanted to ask you--' Lothar started, and the tip of the rod jerked,

 bounced straight, and then arced over boldly. Manfred's old hat was

 thrown clear of the spinning reel as the line hissed from it in a blur.

 Father and son leapt to their feet and Manfred seized the heavy bamboo

 and leaned back against it to set the hook.

 'It's a monster,' he shouted, as he felt the weight of the fish, and the

 flow of line never checked, even when he thrust the palm of the leather

 mitten he wore against the flange of the reel to brake it.

 Within seconds blue smoke burned from the'friction of reel and leather

 glove.

 When it seemed that the last few turns of line would be stripped from

 the spindle of the reel, the fish stopped, and two hundred yards out

 there under the smoky grey waters it shook its head doggedly so the rod

 butt kicked against Manfred's belly.

 With Lothar dancing at his side, howling encouragement and advice,

 Manfred winched in the fish, pumping the rod to recover a few turns of

 line at a time, until the reel was almost full again and he expected to

 see the quarry thrashing in the surf below the rocks.

 Then suddenly the fish made another long heavy run, and he had to begin

 the laborious back-straining task all over again.

 At last they saw it, deep in the water below the rocks, its side shining

 like a great mirror as it caught the sun. With the rod bent taut as a

 longbow, Manfred forced it up until it flapped ponderously, washing back

 and forth in the suck and thrust of the waves, gleaming in marvelous

 iridescent shades of rose and pearl, its great jaws gaping with

 exhaustion.

 'The gar' Manfred shouted. 'Now, Lothie, now!" and the boy sprang down

 to the water's edge with the long pole in his hands and buried the point

 of the gaff hook into the fish's shoulder, just behind the gills. A

 flush of blood stained the waters pink, and then Manfred threw down his

 rod and jumped down to help Lothar with the gaff pole.

 Between them they dragged the fish, flapping and thumping, up the rocks

 above the high-water mark.

 'He's a hundred pounds if he's an ounce,' Lothar exulted. 'Ma and the

 girls will be up till midnigtit pickling this one." Lothar carried the

 rods and the fishing box while Manfred slung the fish over his shoulder,

 a short loop of rope through its gills, and they trudged back around the

 curve of white beach. On the rocks of the next headland, Manfred

 lowered the fish for a few minutes to rest. Once he had been Olympic

 light heavyweight champion, but he had fleshed out since those days, his

 belly was softening and spreading and his breath was short.

 'Too much time behind my desk,' he thought ruefully, ,and sank down on a

 black boulder. As he mopped his face he looked around him.

 This place always gave him pleasure. It grieved him that he could find

 so little time in his busy life to come here. In their old student days

 he and Roelf Stander, his best friend, had fished and hunted on this

 wild unspoiled stretch of coast. It had belonged to Roelf's family for

 a hundred years, and RoeIf would never have sold the smallest piece of

 it to anybody but Manfred.

 In the end he had sold Manfred a hundred acres for one pound. 'I don't

 want to get rich on an old friend,' he had laughed away Manfred's offer

 of a thousand. 'Just let us have a clause in the contract of sale that

 I have a right of first option to buy it back at the same price at your

 death or whenever you want to sell." There beyond the headland on which

 they sat was the cottage that he and Heidi had built, white stucco walls

 and thatch, the only sign of human habitation. Roelf's own holiday house

 was hidden beyond the next headland, but within easy walking distance so

 they could be together whenever both families were on holiday at the

 same time.

 There were so many memories here. He looked out to sea. That was where

 the German U-boat had surfaced when it had brought him back in the early

 days of the war. Roelf had been on the beach, waiting for him, and had

 rowed out in the darkness to fetch him and his equipment ashore. What

 mad exciting days those had been, the danger and the fighting, as they

 had struggled to raise the Afrikaner Volk in rebellion against the

 English-lover Jan Christian Smuts, and to declare South Africa a

 republic under the protection of Nazi Germany - and how very close they

 had come to success.

 He smiled and his eyes glowed at the memory. He wished he could tell

 the boy about it. Lothie would understand. Young as he was, he would

 understand the Afrikaner dream of republic and he would be proud.

 However that was a story that could never be told. Manfred's attempt to

 assassinate Jan Smuts and precipitate the rebellion had failed. He had

 been forced to fly the country, and to languish for the rest of the war

 in a far-off land,-while RoeIf and the other patriots had been branded

 traitors and hustled into Jannie Smuts' internment camps, humiliated and

 reviled until the war ended.

 How it had all changed. Now they were the lords of this land, although

 nobody outside the inner circle knew the part that Manfred De La Rey had

 played in those dangerous years. They were the overlords, and once

 again the dream of republic burned brightly, like a flame on the altar

 of Afrikaner aspirations.

 His thoughts were broken up by the roar of a low-flying aircraft

 overhead, and Manfred looked up. It was a sleek blue and silver

 machine, turning away steeply to line up for the airstrip that lay just

 beyond the first line of hills. The airstrip had been built by the

 public works department when Manfred had achieved full ministerial rank.

 It was essential that he was in close contact with his department at all

 times, and from that landing-field an airforce plane could fetch him

 within hours if he were needed in an emergency.

 Manfred recognized this machine and knew who was flying it, but frowned

 with annoyance as he stood up and hefted the huge carcass of the fish

 again. He treasured the isolation of this place, and fiercely resented

 any unwarranted intrusion. He and Lothar set off on the last leg of the

 long haul back to the cottage.

 Heidi and the girls saw them coming, and ran down the dunes to meet them

 and then surrounded Manfred, laughing and squealing their

 congratulations. He plodded up the soft dunes, with the girls skipping

 beside him, and hung the fish on the scaffold outside the kitchen door.

 While Heidi went to fetch her Kodak camera, Manfred stripped off his

 shirt which was stained with fish blood and stooped to the tap of the

 rainwater tank and washed the blood from his hand and the salt from his

 face.

 As he straightened up again, with water dripping from his hair and

 running down his bare chest, he was abruptly aware of the presence of a

 stranger.

 'Get me a towel, Ruda,' he snapped, and his eldest daughter ran to his

 bidding.

 'I was not expecting you." Manfred glowered at Shasa Courtney.

 'My family and I like to be alone here." 'Forgive me. I know I am

 intruding." Shasa's shoes were floury with dust. It was a mile walk

 from the airstrip. 'I am sure you will understand when I explain that

 my business is urgent and private." Manfred scrubbed his face with the

 towel while he mastered his annoyance, and then, when Heidi came out

 with the camera in her hand, he introduced her gruffly.

 Within minutes Shasa had charmed both Heidi and the girls into smiles,

 but Lothar stood behind his father and only came forward reluctantly to

 shake hands. He had learned from his father to be suspicious of

 Englishmen.

 'What a tremendous kob,' Shasa admired the fish on the scaffold.

 'One of the biggest I have seen in years. You don't often get them that

 size any more. Where did you catch it?" Shasa insisted on taking the

 photographs of the whole family grouped around the fish. Manfred was

 still bare-chested, and Shasa noticed the old bluish puckered scar in

 the side of his chest. It looked like a gunshot wound, but there had

 been a war and many men bore scars of that nature now. Thinking of war

 wounds, he adjusted his own eye-patch self-consciously as he handed the

 camera back to Heidi.

 'You will stay to lunch, Meneer?" she asked demurely.

 q don't want to be a nuisance." 'You are welcome." She was a handsome

 woman, with a large high bosom and wide fruitful hips. Her hair was

 dense and golden blond, and she wore it in a thick plaited rope that

 hung almost to her waist, but Shasa saw Manfred De La Rey's expression

 and quickly transferred all his attention back to him.

 'My wife is right. You are welcome." Manfred's natural Afrikaner duty

 of hospitality left him no choice. 'Come, we will go to the front stoep

 until the women call for us to eat." Manfred fetched two bottles of beer

 from the ice-chest and they sat in deckchairs, side by side, and looked

 out over the dunes to the wind-flecked blue of the Indian Ocean.

 'Do you remember where we first met, you and I?" Shasa broke the

 silence.

 'da,' Manfred nodded. 'I remember very well." 'I was back there two

 days ago." 'Walvis Bay?" 'Yes. To the canning factory, the jetty where

 we fought,' Shasa hesitated, 'where you thumped me, and pushed my head

 into a mess of dead fish." Manfred smiled with satisfaction at the

 memory. 'da, I remember." Shasa had to control his temper carefully. It

 still rankled and the man's smugness infuriated him, but the memory of

 his childhood victory had softened Manfred's mood as Shasa had intended

 it should.

 'Strange how we were enemies then, and now we are allies,' Shasa

 persisted, and let him think about that for a while before he went on.

 'I have most carefully considered the offer you made to me. Although it

 is difficult for a man to change sides, and many people will put the

 worst construction on my motives, I now see that it is my duty to my

 country to do what you suggest and to employ what talent I have for the

 good of the nation." 'So you will accept the prime minister's offer?"

 'Yes, you may tell the prime minister that I will join the government,

 but in my own time and my own way. I will not cross the floor of the

 House, but as soon as parliament is dissolved for the coming elections,

 I will resign from the United Party to stand for the National Party."

 'Good,' Manfred nodded. 'That is the honourable way." But there was no

 honourable way, Shasa realized, and was silent for a moment before he

 went on.

 'I am grateful for your part in this, Meneer. I know that you have been

 instrumental in affording me this opportunity. In view of what has

 happened between our families, it is an extraordinary gesture you have

 made." 'There was nothing personal in my decision." Manfred shook his

 head. et was simply a case of the best man for the job. I have not

 forgotten what your family has done to mine - and I never will." 'I will

 not forget either,' Shasa said softly. 'I have inherited guilt rightly

 or wrongly, I will never be sure. However, I would like to make some

 reparation to your father." 'How would you do that, Meneer?" Manfred

 asked stiffly. 'How would you compensate a man for the loss of his arm

 and for all those years spent in prison? How will you pay a man for the

 damage to his soul that captivity has inflicted?" 'I can never full

 compensate him,' Shasa agreed. 'However, suddenly and unexpectedly I

 have been given the opportunity to restore to your father a large part

 of that which was taken from him." 'Go on,' Manfred invited. 'I am

 listening." 'Your father was issued a fishing licence in 1929. I have

 searched the records. That licence is still valid." 'What would the old

 man do with a fishing licence now? You don't understand - he is

 physically and mentally ruined." 'The fishing industry out of Walvis Bay

 has revived and is booming. The number of licences has been severely

 limited. Your father's licence is worth a great deal of money." He saw

 the shift in Manfred's eyes, the little sparks of interest swiftly

 screened.

 'You think my father should sell it?" he asked heavily. 'And by any

 chance would you be interested in buying it?" He smiled sarcastically.

 Shasa nodded. 'Yes, of course I'd like to buy it, but that might not be

 best for your father." Manfred's smile withered, he hadn't expected

 that.

 'What else could he do with it?" 'We could re-open the factory and work

 the licence together as partners. Your father puts up thelicence, and I

 put up the capital and my business skills. Within a year or two, your

 father's share will almost certainly be worth a million pounds." Shasa

 watched him carefully as he said it. This was more, much more than a

 business offer. It was a testing. Shasa wanted to reach beyond the

 man's granite crust, that monumental armour of puritanical

 righteousness. He wanted to probe for weaknesses, to find any chinks

 that he could exploit later.

 'A million pounds,' he repeated. 'Perhaps even a great deal more." And

 he saw the sparks in the other man's fierce pale eyes again, just for an

 instant, the little yellow sparks of greed. The man was human after

 all. 'I can deal with him now,' Shasa thought, and to cover his relief

 he lifted his briefcase from the floor beside his deckchair and opened

 it on his lap.

 'I have worked out a rough agreement--' he took out a sheaf all typed

 blue foolscap sheets '--you could show it to your father, discuss it

 with him." Manfred took the sheets from him. 'da, I will see him when I

 return home next week." 'There is one small problem,' Shasa admitted.

 'This licence was issued a long time ago. The government department may

 wish to repudiate it. It is their policy to allow only four licences--'

 Manfred looked up from the contract. 'That will be no problem,' Manfred

 said, and Shasa lifted his beer tankard to hide his smile.

 They had just shared their first secret. Manfred De La Rey was going to

 use his influence for personal gain. Like a lost virginity, the next

 time would be easier.

 Shasa had realized from the beginning that he would be an outsider in a

 cabinet of Afrikaner Nationalists. He desperately needed a trustworthy

 ally amongst them, and if that ally could be linked to him by shared

 financial blessings and 'a few off-colour secrets, then his loyalty

 would be secured. Shasa had just achieved this, with the promise of

 vast profits to himself to sweeten the bargain. A good day's work, he

 thought, as he closed the briefcase with a snap.

 'Very good, Meneer. I'm grateful to you for having given me your time.

 Now I will leave you to enjoy what remains of your holiday undisturbed."

 Manfred look up. 'Meneer, my wife is preparing lunch for us. She will

 be very unhappy if you leave so soon." At last his smile was genial.

 'And this evening I will have a few good friends visit me for a

 braaivleis, a barbecue. There are plenty of spare beds. Stay the

 night.

 You can leave early tomorrow morning." 'You are very kind." Shasa sank

 back in his chair. The feeling between them had changed, but Shasa's

 intuition warned him there were hidden depths in their ?elationship

 which still had to be plumbed, and as he smiled into Manfred De La Rey's

 topaz-coloured eyes, he felt a sudden small chill, a cold wind through a

 chink in his memory. Those eyes haunted him. He was trying to remember

 something. It remained obscure but somehow strangely menacing. Could

 it have been from their childhood fight? he wondered. But he did not

 think so. The memory was closer than that, and more threatening.

 He almost grasped it, and then Manfred looked down at the contract

 again, almost as though he had sensed what Shasa was searching for, and

 the shape of the memory slipped away beyond Shasa's grasp.

 Heidi De La Rey came out on to the verandah in her apron, but she had

 changed out of her faded old skirt and twisted her plaited hair up on

 top of her head.

 'Lunch is ready - and I do hope you eat fish, Meneer Courtney." Shasa

 set out to charm the family during lunch. Heidi and the girls were

 easy. The boy Lothar was different, suspicious and withdrawn. However,

 Shasa had three sons of his own, and he drew him out with stories of

 flying and hunting big game, until despite himself the boy's eyes shone

 with interest and admiration.

 When they rose from the table, Manfred nodded grudgingly. 'Ja, Meneer,

 I must remember never to underestimate you." That evening a small group

 comprising a man and woman and four children came straggling over the

 dunes from the south, and Manfred's children rushed out to meet them and

 lead them up on to the verandah of the cottage.

 Shasa stayed in the background throughout the noisy greetings of the two

 families. Theirs was obviously a close relationship of long standing.

 Of course, Shasa recognized the head of the other family. He was a big

 man, even heavier in build than Manfred De La Rey. Like him, he had

 also been a member of the boxing team that had participated in the

 Berlin Olympic Games of 1936. He had been a senior lecturer in law at

 Stellenbosch University, but had recently resigned to become a junior

 partner in the firm of Van Schoor, De La Rey and Stander, the firm in

 which Manfred De La Rey had become the senior partner after the death of

 old Van Schoor some years before.

 Apart from his law practice, Roelf Stander acted as Manfred's chief

 party organizer and had managed Manfred's 1948 campaign for him.

 Although not himself a member of parliament, he was a leg man of the

 National Party and Shasa knew that he was almost certainly a member of

 the Broederbond, the Brotherhood, that clandestine society of elite

 Afrikaners.

 When Manfred De La Rey began to introduce them, Shasa saw that Roelf

 Stander recognized him and looked a little sheepish.

 'I hope you aren't going to throw eggs at me again, Meneer Stander,'

 Shasa challenged him, and Roelf chuckled.

 'Only if you make another bad speech, Meneer Courtney." During the 1948

 election, in which Shasa had been defeated by Manfred De La Rey, this

 man had organized the gang of bully boys who had broken up Shasa's

 election meetings. Though Shasa was smiling now, his resentment was

 almost as fierce as it had been at the time. It had always been

 standard Nationalist tactics to break up the meetings of their

 opponents. Manfred De La Rey sensed the hostile feelings between them.

 'We will soon be on the same side,' he said, as he stepped Between them

 placatingly and placed a hand on each of their arms. 'Let me find a

 beer for both of you and we'll drink to letting bygones be bygones." The

 two of them turned away and quickly Shasa scrutinized RoeIf Stander's

 wife. She was thin, almost to the point of starvation, and there was an

 air of resignation and weariness about her, so it took a moment for even

 Shasa's trained eye to see how pretty she must once have been, and how

 attractive she still was. She was returning his scrutiny, but dropped

 her eyes the moment they met Shasa's single eye.

 Heidi De La Rey had not missed the exchange and now she took the woman's

 arm and led her forward.

 'Meneer Courtney, this is my dear friend Sarah Stander." 'Aangename

 kennis,' Shasa bowed slightly. 'Pleasant meeting, Mevrou." 'How do you

 do, Squadron Leader,' the woman replied quietly, and Shasa blinked. He

 had not used his rank since the war. It was, of course, poor form to do

 so.

 'Have we met?" he asked, for once off-balance and the woman shook her

 head quickly and turned to Heidi to speak about the children. Shasa was

 unable to pursue the matter, for at that moment Manfred handed him a

 beer and the three men carried their tankards down off the stoep to

 watch Lothar and the Standers' eldest boy, Jakobus, build the fire for

 the barbecue. Though the masculine conversation was informed and their

 views interesting - both Manfred and Roelf Stander were educated and

 highly intelligent men - Shasa found his thoughts returning to the thin

 pale woman who had used his airforce rank. He wished for the

 opportunity to speak to her alone, but realized that was unlikely and

 dangerous. He knew very well how protective and jealous the Afrikaners

 were of their women, and how easy it would be to precipitate an ugly and

 damaging incident. So he kept away from Sarah Stander, but for the rest

 of the evening observed her carefully, and so gradually became aware of

 undercurrents of emotion in the relationships of the two families: The

 two men seemed very close and it was obvious that their friendship was

 of long standing, but with the women it was different. They were just

 too kind and considerate and appreciative of each other, the certain

 indications of deep-seated female antagonism. Shasa stored that

 revelation, for human relationships and weaknesses were essential tools

 of his trade, but it was only later in the evening that he made two

 other important discoveries.

 He intercepted an unguarded look that Sarah Stander directed at Manfred

 De La Rey while he was laughing with her husband, and Shasa recognized

 it instantly as a look of hatred, but that particularly corrosive type

 of hatred that a woman can conceive for a man whom she once loved. That

 hatred explained for Shasa the weariness and resignation that had almost

 ruined Sarah Stander's beauty. It explained also the resentment that

 the two women felt for each other.

 Heidi De La Rey must realize that Sarah had once loved her husband, and

 that beneath the hatred she probably still did. The play of feelings

 and emotions fascinated Shasa, he had learned so much of value and had

 achieved so much in a single day that he was well satisfied by the time

 that Roelf Stander called his family together.

 'It's almost midnight, come on, everybody. We have a long walk home."

 Each of them had brought a flashlight, and there was a flurry of

 farewells, the girls and women exchanging kisses, while first Roelf

 Stander and then his son Jakobus came to shake Shasa's hand.

 'Goodbye,' Jakobus said, with the innate good manners and respect for

 elders that every Afrikaner child is taught from birth. 'I would also

 like to hunt a black-maned lion one day." He was a tall well-favoured

 lad, two or three years older than Lothar; he had been as fascinated as

 Lothar by Shasa's hunting stories but there was something familiar about

 him that had ni'ggled Shasa all evening. Lothar stood beside his

 friend, smiling politely, and suddenly it dawned on Shasa. The boys had

 the same eyes, the pale cat-eyes of the De La Reys. For a moment he

 was.at a loss to explain it, and then it all fell into place.

 The hatred he had observed in Sarah Stander was explained. Manfred De

 La Rey was the father of her son.

 Shasa stood beside Manfred on the top stair of the stoep and they

 watched the Stander family climb the dunes, the beams of their

 flashlights darting about erratically and the shrill voices of the

 children dwindling into the night, and he wondered if he could ever

 piece together the clues he had gleaned this evening and discover the

 full extent of Manfred De La Rey's vulnerability. One day it might be

 vital to do so.

 It would be easy enough discreetly to search the records for the

 marriage date of Sarah Stander and compare it to the birth date of her

 eldest son, but how would he ever coax from her the true significance of

 her use of his military rank. She had called him 'Squadron Leader'.

 She knew him, that was certain, but how and where? Shasa smiled. He

 enjoyed a good mystery, Agatha Christie was one of his favourite

 authors. He would work on it.

 Shasa woke with the grey of dawn lining the curtains over his bed, and a

 pair of bokmakierie shrikes singing one of their complicated duets from

 the scrub of the dunes. He stripped off the pyjamas Manfred had lent

 him and shrugged on the bathrobe, before he crept from the silent

 cottage and went down to the beach.

 He swam naked, slashing over-arm through the cold green water and

 ducking under the successive lines of breaking white surf until he was

 clear; then he swam slowly parallel to the beach but five hundred yards

 off. The chances of shark attack were remote, but the possibility

 spiced his enjoyment. When it was time to go in he caught a breaking

 wave and rode it into the beach, and waded ashore, laughing with

 exhilaration and the joy of life.

 He mounted quietly to the stoep of the cottage, not wanting to disturb

 the family, but a movement from the far end stopped him.

 Manfred sat in one of the deckchairs with a book in his hands. He was

 already shaved and dressed.

 'Good morning, Meneer,' Shasa greeted him. 'Are you going fishing again

 today?" 'It's Sanday,' Manfred reminded him. 'I don't fish on a

 Sunday." 'Ah, yes." Shasa wondered why he felt guilty for having enjoyed

 his swim, then he recognized the antique leather-covered black book that

 Manfred was holding.

 'The Bible,' he remarked, and Manfred nodded.

 'Ja, I read a few pages before I begin each day, but on Sunday or when I

 have a particular problem to face, I like to read a full chapter." 'I

 wonder how many chapters you read before you screwed your best friend's

 wife,' Shasa thought, but said aloud, 'Yes, the Book is a great

 comfort,' and tried not to feel a hypocrite as he went through to dress.

 Heidi laid an enormous breakfast, everything from steak to pickled fish,

 but Shasa ate an apple and drank a cup of coffee before he excused

 himself.

 'The forecast on the radio is for rain later. I want to get back to

 Cape Town before the weather closes in." 'I will walk up to the airstrip

 with you." Manfred stood up quickly.

 Neither of them spoke until the track reached the ridge, and then

 Manfred asked suddenly, 'Your mother - how is she?" 'She is well. She

 always is, and she never seems to age." Shasa watched his face, as he

 went on, 'You always ask about her. When last did you see her?" 'She is

 a remarkable woman,' Manfred said stolidly, avoiding the question.

 'I have tried to make up in some way for the damage she has done your

 family,' Shasa persisted, and Manfred seemed not to have heard. Instead

 he stopped in the middle of the track, as if to admire the view, but his

 breathing was ragged. Shasa had set a fast pace up the hill.

 'He's out of condition,' Shasa gloated. His own breathing was

 unruffled, and his body lean and hard.

 'It's beautiful,' Manfred said, and only when he made a gesture that

 swept the wide horizon, did Shasa realize that he was talking about the

 land. He looked and saw that from the ocean to the blue mountains of

 the Langeberge inland, it was indeed beautiful.

 'And the Lord said unto him, "This is the land which I sware unto

 Abraham, unto Isaac and unto Jacob, saying, I will give it unto thy

 seed",' Manfred quoted softly. 'The Lord has given it to us, and it is

 our sacred duty to keep it for our children. Nothing else is important

 compared to that duty." Shasa was silent. He had no argument with that

 sentiment, although the expression of it was embarrassingly theatrical.

 'We have been given a paradise.-We must resist with our lives all

 efforts to despoil it, or to change it,' Manfred went on. 'And there

 are many who will attempt just that. They are gathering against us

 already. In the days ahead we will need strong men." Again Shasa was

 silent, but now his agreement was tinged with scepticism. Manfred

 turned to him.

 'I see you smile,' he said seriously. 'You see no threat to what we

 have built up here on the tip of Africa?" 'As you have said, this land

 is a paradise. Who would want to change it?" Shasa asked.

 'How many Africans to do you employ, Meneer?" Manfred seemed to change

 course.

 'Almost thirty thousand altogether,' Shasa frowned with puzzlement.

 'Then you will soon learn the poignancy of my warning,' Manfred grunted.

 'There is a new generation of trouble-makers who have grown up amongst

 the native people. These are the bringers, of darkness. They have no

 respect for the old orders of society which our forefathers so carefully

 built up and which have served us so faithfully for so long. No, they

 want to tear all that down. As the Marxist monsters destroyed the

 social fabric of Russia, so they seek to destroy all that the white man

 has built up in Africa." Shasa's tone was disparaging as he replied.

 'The vast bulk of our black peoples are happy and law-abiding. They are

 disciplined and accustomed to authority, their own tribal laws are every

 bit as strict and circumscribing as the laws we impose. How many

 agitators are there amongst them, and how great is their influence? Not

 many and not much, would be my guess." 'The world has changed more in

 the short time since the end o the war than it ever did in the hundred

 years before that." Manfrec had recovered his breath now, and he spoke

 forcefully and eloquent in his own language. 'The tribal laws which

 governed our black peoples are eroded as they leave the rural areas and

 flock to the cities in search of the sweet life. There they learn all

 the white man' vices, and they are ripened for the heresics of the

 bringers of darkness. The respect that they have for the white man and

 hi, government could easily turn to contempt, especially if they detecl

 any weakness in us. The black man respects strength and despise,

 weakness, and it is the plan of this new breed of black agitators to

 test our weaknesses and expose them." 'How do you know this?" Shasa

 asked and then immediately wa, angry with himself. He did not usually

 deal in banal questions, bul Manfred answered seriously.

 'We have a comprehensive system of informers amongst the blacks it is

 the only way a police force can do its job efficiently. We kno that

 they are planning a massive campaign of defiance of the law especially

 those laws that have been introduced in the last few year, -the Group

 Areas Act and the Population Registration Act and the pass laws, the

 laws necessary to protect our complicated society frorr the evils of

 racial integration and miscegenation." 'What form will this campaign

 take?" 'Deliberate disobedience, flouting of the law, boycotts of white

 businesses and wild-cat strikes in mining and industry." Shasa frowned

 as he made his calculation. The campaign woulc directly threaten his

 companies. 'Sabotage?" he asked. 'Destructior of property - are they

 planning that?" Manfred shook his head. 'It seems not. The agitators

 are dividec amongst themselves. They even include some whites, some of

 the olc comrades from the communist party. There are a few amongst

 theft who favour violent action and sabotage, but apparently the

 majority are prepared to go only as far as peaceful protest - for the

 moment.

 Shasa sighed with relief, and Manfred shook his head. 'Do not be too

 complacent, Meneer. If we fail to prevent them, if we sho weakness now,

 then it will escalate against us. Look what is happening in Kenya and

 Malaya." 'Why do you not simply round up the ringleaders now, before il

 happens?" 'We do not have such powers,' Manfred pointed out.

 'Then you should damned well be given them." 'Ja, we need them to do our

 job, and soon we will have them. Bul in the meantime we must let the

 snake put its head out of the hole before we chop it off." 'When will

 the trouble begin?" Shasa demanded. 'I must make my arrangements to

 deal with the strikes and disturbances--' 'That is one thing we are not

 certain of, we do not think the ANC itself has as yet decided--' 'The

 ANC,' Shasa interjected. 'But surely they aren't behind this?

 They have been around for forty years or so, and they are dedicated to

 peaceful negotiations. The leaders are decent men." 'They were,'

 Manfred corrected him. 'But the old leaders have been superseded by

 younger more dangerous men. Men like Mandela and Tambo and others even

 more evil. As I said before, times change - we must change with them."

 'I had not realized that the threat was so real." 'Few people do,'

 Manfred agreed. 'But I assure you Meneer, that there is a nest of

 snakes breeding in our little paradise." They walked on in silence, down

 to the clay-surfaced airstrip where Shasa's blue and silver Mosquito

 stood. While Shasa climbed into the cockpit and readied the machine for

 flight, Manfred stood quietly at the wingtip watching him. After Shasa

 had completed all his checks, he came back to Manfred.

 'There is one certain way to defeat this enemy,' Shasa said. 'This new

 militant ANC." 'What is that, Meneer?" 'To pre-empt their position. Take

 away from our black people the cause of complaint,' Shasa said.

 Manfred was silent, but he stared at Shasa with those implacable yellow

 eyes. Then Manfred asked, picking his words carefully, 'Are you

 suggesting that we give the natives political rights, Meneer? Do you

 think that we should give in to the parrot cry of "One man, one vote" -

 is that what you believe, Meneer?" On Shasa's reply rested all Manfred's

 plans. He wondered if he could have been so wrong in his selection. Any

 man who believed that could never be a member of the National Party, let

 alone bear the responsibility of cabinet rank.

 His relief was intense as Shasa dismissed the idea contemptuously.

 'Good Lord, no! That would be the end of us and white civilization in

 the land. Blacks don't need votes, they need a slice of the pie. We

 must encourage the emergence of a black middle class, they will be our

 buffer against the revolutionaries. I never saw a man yet with a full

 belly and a full wallet who wanted to change things." Manfred chuckled.

 'That's good, I like it. You are correct, Meneer.

 We need massive wealth to pay for our concept of apartheM. It will be

 expensive, we accept that. That is why we have chosen you. We look to

 you to find the money to pay for our future." Shasa held out his hand

 and Manfred took it. 'On a personal level, Meneer, I am pleased to hear

 that your wife has taken notice of whatever you said to her. Reports

 from my special branch indicate that she has given up her liberal left

 wing associations and is no longer taking any part in political

 protests." 'I convinced her how futile they were,' Shasa smiled. 'She

 has decided to become an archaeologist instead of a Bolshevik." They

 laughed together, and Shasa climbed back into the .cockpit.

 The engines started with a stuttering roar and a mist of blue smoke blew

 from the exhaust ports, clearing quickly. Shasa lifted a hand in salute

 and closed the canopy.

 Manfred watched him taxi down to the end of the strip then come

 thundering back, and hurtle aloft in a flash of silver and blue. He

 shaded his eyes to watch the Mosquito bank away towards the south, and

 he felt again that strange almost mystic bond of blood and destiny to

 the man under the perspex canopy as Shasa waved in farewell. Though

 they had fought and hated each other, their separate people were bound

 together by a similar bond and at the same time held apart by religion

 and language and political beliefs.

 'We are brothers, you and I,' he thought. 'And beyond the hatred lie

 the dictates of survival. If you join us, then other Englishmen may

 follow you, and neither of us can survive alone. Afrikaner and

 Englishman, we are so bound together that if one goes down, we both

 drown in the black ocean."' 'Garrick has to wear glasses,' Tara said,

 and poured esh coffee into Shasa's cup.

 'Glasses?" He looked up from his newspaper. 'What do you mean glasses?"

 'I mean eye glasses - spectacles. I took him to the optician while you

 were away. He is shortsighted." 'But nobody in our family has ever worn

 glasses." Shasa looked down the breakfast table at his son, and Garrick

 lowered his head guiltily. Until that moment he had not realized that

 he had disgraced the entire family. He had believed the humiliation of

 spectacles was his alone.

 'Glasses." Shasa's scorn was undisguised. 'While you are having him

 fitted with glasses, you might as well get them to fit a cork in the end

 of his whistle to stop him wetting his bed also." Sean let out a guffaw

 and dug an elbow into his brother's ribs, and Garrick was stung into

 self-defence. 'Gee, Dad, I haven't wet my bed since last Easter,' he

 declared furiously, red-faced with embarrassment and close to tears of

 humiliation.

 Sean made circles with his thumbs and forefingers and peered through

 them at his brother.

 'We will have to call you "Owly Wet Sheets",' he suggested, and as usual

 Michael came to his brother's defence.

 'Owls are wise,' he pointed out reasonably. 'That's why Garry came top

 in his class this term. Where did you come in yours, Sean?".

 and Sean glared at him wordlessly. Michael always had a mild but

 stinging retort.

 'All right, gentlemen." Shasa returned to his newspaper. 'No bloodshed

 at the breakfast table, please." Isabella had been out of the limelight

 for long enough. Her father had given far too much of his attention to

 her brothers, and she hadn't yet received her dues. Her father had

 arrived home late the previous evening, long after she was in bed, and

 the traditional ceremony of home-coming had not been fully enacted.

 Certainly he had kissed and pampered her and told her how beautiful she

 was, but one vital aspect had been neglected, and though she knew it was

 bad manners to ask, she had contained herself long enough.

 'Didn't you even bwing me a pwesent?" she piped, and Shasa lowered his

 newspaper again.

 'A pwesent? Now what on earth is a pwesent?" 'Don't be a silly-billy,

 Daddy - you know what it is." 'Bella, you know you mustn't beg for

 presents,' Tara chided.

 'If I don't tell him, Daddy might just forget,' Isabella pointed out

 reasonably, and made her special angel face at Shasa.

 'My goodness gracious me." Shasa snapped his fingers. 'I did almost

 forget!" And Isabella hopped her lace-clad bottom up and down on her

 high stool with excitement. 'You did You did bring me one!" 'Finish

 your porridge first,' Tara insisted, and Isabella's spoon clanked

 industriously on china as she devoured the last of it and scraped the

 plate clean.

 They all trooped though from the breakfast room to Shasa's study.

 'I'm the likklest one. I get my pwesent first." Isabella made up the

 rules of life as she went along.

 'All right, likklest one. Step to the front of the line, please." Her

 face a masterpiece of concentration, Isabella stripped away the

 wrappings from her gift.

 'A doll!" she squeaked and showered kisses upon its bland china face.

 'Her name is Oleander, and I love her already." Isabella was the owner

 of what was probably one of the world's definitive collections of dolls,

 but all additions were rapturously received.

 When Sean and Garry were handed their long packages, they went still

 with awe. They knew what they were - they had both of them pleaded long

 and eloquently for this moment and now that it had arrived, they were

 reluctant to touch their gifts in case they disappeared in a puff of

 smoke. Michael hid his disappointment bravely; he had hoped for a book,

 so secretly he empathized with his mother when she cried with

 exasperation, 'Oh, Shasa, you haven't given them guns?" All three rifles

 were identical. They were Winchester repeaters in .22 calibre, light

 enough for the boys to handle.

 'This is the best present anybody ever gave me." Sean lifted his weapon

 out of the cardboard box and stroked the walnut stock lovingly.

 The too." Garrick still couldn't bring himself to touch his. He knelt

 over the open package in the middle of the study floor, staring raptly

 at the weapon it contained.

 'It's super, Dad,' said Michael, holding his rifle awkwardly and his

 smile was unconvincing.

 'Don't use that word, Mickey,' Tara snapped. 'It's so American and

 vulgar." But she was angry with Shasa, not Michtel.

 'Look." Garry touched his rifle for the first time. 'My name - it's got

 my own name on it." He stroked the engraving on the barrel with his

 fingertip, then looked up at his father with myopic adoration.

 'I wish you'd brought them anything but guns,' Tara burst out. 'I asked

 you not to, Shasa. I hate them." 'Well, my dear, they must have rifles

 if they are coming on a hunting safari with me." 'A safari!" Sean

 shouted gleefully. 'When?" 'It's time you learned about the bush and

 the animals." Shasa put his arm around Sean's shoulders. 'You can't

 live in Africa without knowing the 'difference between a scaly anteater

 and a chacma baboon." Garry snatched up his new rifle and went to stand

 as close to his father's side as he could, so that Shasa could also put

 his other arm around his shoulders - if he wanted to. However, Shasa was

 talking to Sean.

 'We'll go up to south west in the June hols, take a couple of trucks

 from the H'am Mine and drive through the desert until we reach the

 Okavango Swamps." 'Shasa, I don't know how you can teach your own

 children to kill those beautiful animals. I really don't understand

 it,' Tara said bitterly.

 'Hunting is a man's thing,' Shasa agreed. 'You don't have to understand

 - you don't even have to watch." 'Can I come, Dad?" Garry asked

 diffidently, and Shasa glanced at him.

 'You'll have to polish up your new specs, so you can see what you're

 shooting at." Then he relented. 'Of course you are coming, Garry,' and

 then he looked across at Michael, standing beside his mother. 'What

 about you, Mickey? Are you interested?" Michael glanced apologetically

 at his mother before he replied softly. 'Gee, thanks Dad. It should be

 fun." 'Your enthusiasm is touching,' Shasa grunted and then, 'Very well,

 gentlemen, all the rifles locked in the gun room, please.

 Nobody touches them again without my permission and my supervision.

 We'll have our first shooting practice this evening when I get back

 home." Shasa made a point of getting back to Weltevreden with two hours

 of daylight in hand, and he took the boys down to the range he had built

 over which to sight in his own hunting rifles. It was beyond the

 vineyards and far enough from the stables not to disturb the horses or

 any of the other livestock.

 Sean with the coordination of a born athlete, was a natural shot.

 The light rifle seemed immediately an extension of his body, and within

 minutes he had mastered the art of controlling his breathing and letting

 the shot squeeze away without effort. Michael was nearly as good, but

 his interest wasn't really in it and he lost concentration quickly.

 Garry tried so hard that he was trembling, and his face was screwed up

 with effort. The horn-rimmed spectacles which Tara had fetched from the

 optician that morning kept sliding down his nose and misting over as he

 aimed, and it took ten shots for him finally to get one on the target.

 'You don't have to pull the trigger so hard, Garry,' Shasa told him with

 resignation. 'It won't make the bullet go any farther or any faster, I

 assure you." It was almost dark when the four of them got back to the

 house, and Shasa led them down to the gun room and showed them how to

 clean their weapons before locking them away.

 'Scan and Mickey are ready to have a crack at the pigeons,' Shasa

 announced, as they trooped upstairs to change for dinner. 'Garry, you

 will need a little more practice, a pigeon is more likely to die of old

 age than one of your bullets." Sean shouted with laughter. 'Kill them

 with old age, Garry." Michael did not join in. He was imagining one of

 the lovely blue and pink rock pigeons that nested on the ledge outside

 his bedroom window, dying in a drift of loose feathers, splattering ruby

 drops as it fluttered to earth.  It made him feel physically sick, but

 he knew his father expected it of him.

 That evening as usual the children came one at a time to say goodnight

 to Shasa as he was tying his black bow tie. Isabella was first.

 'I'm not going to sleep a wink until you come home tonight, Daddy,' she

 warned him. 'I'm just going to lie all by myself in the dark." Sean

 came next. 'You are the best Dad in the world,' he said as they shook

 hands. Kissing was for sissies.

 'Will you let me have that in writing?" Shasa asked solemnly.

 It was Michael who was always the most difficult to answer. 'Dad, do

 animals and birds hurt a lot when you shoot them?" 'Not if you learn to

 shoot straight,' Shasa assured him. 'But, Mickey, you have too much

 imagination. You can't go through life worrying about animals and other

 people all the time." 'Why not, Dad?" Michael asked softly, and Shasa

 glanced at his wristwatch to cover his exasperation.

 'We have to be at Kelvin Grove by eight. Do you mind if we go into that

 some other time, Mickey?" Garrick came last. He stood shyly in the

 doorway of Shasa's dressing-room, but his voice shook with determination

 as he announced, 'I'm going to learn to be a crack shot, like Sean.

 You'll be proud of me one day, Dad. I promise you." Garrick left his

 parents' wing and crossed to the nursery. Nanny stopped him at

 Isabella's door.

 'She's asleep already, Master Garry." In Michael's room they discussed

 the promised safari, but Mickey's attention kept wandering back to the

 book in his hands, and after a few minutes Garry left him to it.

 He looked into Sean's room cautiously, ready to take flight if his elder

 brother showed any signs of becoming playful. One of Sean's favourite

 expressions of fraternal affection was known as a chestnut and consisted

 of a painful knuckling of Garry's prominent ribcage.

 However, this evening Sean was hanging backwards over his bed, heels

 propped on the wall and the back of his head almost touching the floor,

 a Superman comic book held at arm's length above his face.

 'Goodnight, Sean,' Garry said.

 'Shazam!" said Sean without lowering the comic book.

 Garrick retreated thankfully to his own room and locked the door.

 Then he went to stand before the mirror and regard the reflection of his

 new horn-rimmed spectacles.

 'I hate them,' he whispered bitterly, and when he removed them they left

 red indentations on the bridge of his nose. He went down on his knees,

 removed the skirting board under the built-in wardrobe and reached into

 the secret recess beyond. Nobody, not even Sean, had discovered this

 hiding place.

 Carefully he withdrew the precious package. It had cost him eight weeks

 of his accumulated pocket money, but was worth every penny.

 It had arrived in a plain wrapper with a personal letter from Mr Charles

 Atlas himself. 'Dear Garrick,' the letter had begun, and Garry had been

 overcome with the great man's condescension.

 He laid out the course on his bed and stripped to his pyjama pants as he

 revised the lessons.

 'Dynamic tension,' he whispered aloud, and he took up his stance before

 the mirror. As he began the sequence of exercises he kept time with the

 soft chant of, 'More and more in every way, I'm getting better every

 day." When he finished he was sweating heavily but he made an arm and

 studied it minutely.

 'They are bigger,' he tried to put aside his doubts as he poked the

 little walnut of muscle that popped out of his straining biceps, 'they

 really are!" He stowed the course back in its hidy-hole and replaced the

 skirting board. Then he took his raincoat from the wardrobe and spread

 it on the bare boards..

 Garrick had read with admiration how Frederick Selous, the famous

 African hunter, had toughened himself as a boy by sleeping uncovered on

 the floor in winter. He switched out the light and settled down on the

 raincoat. It was going to be a long uncomfortable night, he knew from

 experience, already the floor boards were like iron, but the raincoat

 would prevent Sean detecting any nocturnal spillage when he made his

 morning inspection, and Garrick was certain that his asthma had improved

 since he had stopped sleeping on a soft mattress with a warm eiderdown

 over him.

 'I'm getting better every day,' he whispered, closing his eyes tightly

 and willing himself to ignore the cold and the hardness of the floor.

 'And then one day Dad will be proud of me -just like he is of Sean." 'I

 thought your speech this evening was very good, even for you,' Tara told

 him, and Shasa glanced at her with surprise. She had not paid him a

 compliment for a long time now. 'Thank you, my dear." 'I sometimes

 forget what a gifted person you are,' she went on.

 'It's just that you make it seem so easy and natural." He was so moved

 that he might have reached across to caress her, but she was leaning

 away from him and the Hooper coachwork of the Rolls was too wide for him

 to reach her.

 'I must say, you look absolutely stunning this evening,' he compromised

 with a matching compliment, but as he had expected, she dismissed it

 with a grimace.

 'Are you really going to take the boys on safari?" 'My dear, we have to

 let them make up their own minds aboul life. Sean will love it, but I'm

 not too sure about Mickey." Shas replied, and she noticed that he hadn't

 mentioned Garrick.

 'Well, if you are determined, then I'm going to take advantage all the

 boys' absence. I have been invited to join the archaeological dig at

 the Sundi caves." 'But you are a novice,' he was surprised. 'That's an

 important site.

 Why would they invite you?" 'Because I offered to contribute two

 thousand pounds to the cost of the dig, that's why." 'I see, this is

 straight blackmail." He chuckled sardonically as he saw the reason for

 her flattery. 'All right, it's a deal. I'll give you a cheque

 tomorrow. How long will you be away?" 'I'm not sure." But she thought,

 'as long as I can be close to Moses Oama." The site at Sundi Caves was

 only an hour's drive from the house at Rivonia. She reached under the

 fur coat and touched her stomach.

 It would begin to show soon - she had to find excuses to keep away from

 the eyes of the family. Her father and Shasa would not notice, she was

 sure of that, but Centaine de Thiry Courtney-Malcomess had eyes like a

 hawk.

 'I presume that my mother has agreed to care for Isabella while you are

 away,' Shasa was saying, and while she nodded, her heart was singing.

 'Moses, I'm coming back to you - both of us are coming back, to you, my

 darling." Whenever Moses Gama came to Drake's Farm it was like a king

 returning to his own realm after a successful crusade. Within minutes

 of his arrival, the word was flashed almost telepathically through the

 vast sprawling black township, and a sense of expectancy hung over it,

 as palpable as the smoke from ten thousand cooking fires.

 Moses usually arrived with his half brother, Hendrick Tabaka, in the

 butcher's delivery van. Hendrick owned a chain of a dozen butcher shops

 in the black townships along the Witwatersrand, so the signwriting on

 the side of the van was authentic. In sky blue and crimson, it

 declared: PHUZA MUHLE BUTCHERY BEST MEAT AT BEST PRICES

 From the vernacular 'Phuza Muhle' translated as 'Eat Well' and the van

 provided a perfect cover for Hendrick Tabaka wherever he went. Whether

 he was genuinely delivering slaughtered carcasses to his butcheries or

 goods to his general dealer stores, or was engaged in less conventional

 business: the distribution of illicitly brewed liquor, the notorious

 skokiaan or township dynamite, or ferrying his girls to their places of

 business nearer the compounds that housed the thousands of black

 contract workers of the gold-mines so that they could briefly assist

 them in relieving their monastic existence, or whether he was on the

 business of the African Mineworkers Union, that close-knit and powerful

 brotherhood whose existence the white government refused to acknowledge

 - the blue and red van was the perfect vehicle. When he was at the

 wheel, Hendrick wore a peaked driver's cap and a khaki tunic with cheap

 brass buttons. He drove sedately and with meticulous attention to all

 the rules of the road, so that in twenty years he had never been stopped

 by the police.

 When he drove the van into Drake's Farm, with Moses Gama sitting in the

 passenger seat beside him, they were entering their own stronghold. This

 was where they: had established themselves when together they had

 arrived from the wastelands of the Kalahari twenty years before.

 Although they were sons of the same father, they had been different in

 almost every way. Moses had been young and tall and marvellously

 handsome, while Hendrick was years older, a great bull of a man with a

 bald, scarred head and gapped and broken teeth.

 Moses was clever and quick, self-educated to a high standard,

 charismatic and a leader of men, while Hendrick was the faithful

 lieutenant, accepting his younger brother's authority and carrying out

 his orders swiftly and ruthlessly. Though Moses Gama had conceived the

 idea of building up a business empire, it was Hendrick who had made the

 dream a reality. Once he was shown what to do, Hendrick Tabaka was as

 much a bulldog in tenacity as he was in appearance.

 For Hendrick, what they had built between them, the business enterprises

 both illicit and legitimate, the trade union and its private army of

 enforcers known and dreaded throughout the compounds where the

 mineworkers lived and through the black townships as 'The Buffaloes',

 all these were an end in themselves. But for Moses Gama it was

 different. What they had achieved thus far was only the first stage on

 his quest for something so much greater that although he had explained

 it many times to Hendrick, his brother could not truly grasp the

 enormity of Moses Gama's vision.

 In the twenty years since they had arrived here, Drake's Farm had

 changed entirely. In those early days it had been a small squatters'

 encampment, hanging like a parasite tick on the body of the huge complex

 of gold-mines that made up the central Witwatersrand. I had been a

 collection of squalid hovels, built of scrap lumber ant wattle poles and

 old iron sheets, flattened paraffin cans and tarpape on the bleak open

 veld, a place of open drains and cesspools, lacking reticulated water or

 electricity, without schools or clinics or police protection, not even

 recognized as human habitation by the white city fathers in

 Johannesburg's town hall.

 It was only after the war that the Transvaal Divisional Council had

 decided to recognize reality and to expropriate the land from the

 absentee landowners. They had declared the entire three thousand acres

 an official township set aside for black occupation under the Group

 Areas Act. They had retained the original name, Drake's Farm, for its

 picturesque connotations to old Johannesburg, unlike the more mundane

 origin of the nearby Soweto, which was merely an acronym for South

 Western Townships. Soweto already housed over half a million blacks,

 while-Drake's Farm was home to less than half that number.

 The authorities had fenced off the new township and covered the greater

 part of it with monotonous lines of small three-roomed cottages, each

 identical except for the number stencilled on the cement brick front

 wall. Crowded close together and separated by narrow lanes with dusty

 untarred surfaces, the flat roofs in galvanized corrugated iron shone

 like ten thousand mirrors in the brilliant highveld sunlight.

 In the centre of the township were the administrative buildings where,

 under a handful of white municipal supervisors, the black clerks

 collected the rents and regulated the basic services of reticulated

 water and refuse removal. Beyond this Orwellian vision of bleak and

 soulless order, lay the original section of Drake's Farm, its hovels and

 shebeens and whorehouses - and it was here that Hendrick Tabaka still

 lived.

 As he drove the delivery van slowly through the new section of the

 township, the people came out of their cottages to watch them pass.

 They were mostly women and children, for the men left each morning

 early, commuting to their employment in the city and returning only

 after nightfall. When they recognized Moses, the women clapped and

 ululated shrilly, the greeting for a tribal chief, and the children ran

 beside the van, dancing and laughing with excitement at being so close

 to the great man.

 They drove slowly past the cemetery where the untidy mounds of earth

 were like a vast mole run. On some of the mounds crudely wrought

 crosses had been set while on the others raggedy flags fluttered in the

 wind and offerings of food and broken household utensils and weirdly

 carved totems had been placed to placate the spirits, Christian symbols

 side by side with those of the animists and witch-worshippers. They went

 down into the old township, into the higgledy-piggledy lanes, where the

 stalls of the witchdoctors stood side by side with those offering food

 and trade cloth and used clothes and stolen radios. Where the chickens

 and pigs rooted in the muddy ruts of the road and naked toddlers with

 only a string of beads around their fat little tummies defecated between

 the stalls and the young whores strutted their wares and the stink and

 the noise were wondrous.

 This was a world no white men ever entered, and where even the black

 municipal police came only on invitation and under sufferance.

 It was Hendrick Tabaka's world, where his wives kept nine houses for him

 in the centre of the old quarter. They were sturdy well-built houses of

 burned brick, but the exteriors were left deliberately shabby and

 uncared for, so they blended into the general squalor. Hendrick had

 learned long ago not to draw attention to himself and his material

 possessions. Each of his nine wives had her own home, built in a circle

 around Hendrick's slightly more imposing house, and he had not limited

 himself to women of his own Ovambo tribe. His wives were Panda and

 Xhosa and Fingo and Basuto, but not Zulu.

 Hendrick would never trust a Zulu in his bed.

 They all came out to greet him and his famous brother as Hendrick parked

 the van in the lean-to at the back of his own house.

 The obeisances of the women and their soft clapping of respect ushered

 the men into the living-room of Hendrick's house where two plush chairs

 covered with tanned leopard skins were set like thrones at the far end.

 When the brothers were seated the two youngest wives brought pitchers of

 millet beer, freshly brewed, thick as gruel, tart and effervescent and

 cold from the paraffin refrigerator, and when they had refreshed

 themselves, Hendrick's sons came in to greet their father and pay their

 respects to their uncle.

 The sons were many, for Hendrick Tabaka was a lusty man and bred all his

 wives regularly each year. However, not all his elder sons were present

 today. Those of them whom Hendrick considered unworthy had been sent

 back to the country to tend the herds of cattle and goats that were part

 of Hendrick's wealth. The more promising boys worked in the butchery

 shops, the general dealers or the shebeens, while two of them, those

 especially gifted with intelligence, were law students at Fort Hare, the

 black university in the little town of Alice in the eastern Cape.

 Only Hendrick's younger boys were here to kneel respectfully before him,

 and of these there were two whom Moses Gama looked upon with particular

 pleasure. They were the twin sons of one of Hendrick's Xhosa wives, a

 woman of unusual accomplishments.

 Apart from being a dutiful wife and a breeder of sons, she was an

 accomplished dancer and singer, an amusing story-teller, a person all

 shrewd common sense and intelligence, and a noted sangoma, a healer and

 occult doctor with sometimes uncanny powers of prescience and

 divination. Her twins had inherited most of her gifts together with

 their father's robust physique and some of their uncle Moses' fine

 features.

 At their birth, Hendrick had asked Moses to name them, and he had chosen

 their names from his treasured copy of Macaulay's History of England. Of

 all his nephews they were his favourites, and he smiled now as they

 knelt before him. They were already thirteen years old, Moses realized.

 'I see you, Wellington Tabaka,' he greeted first the one and then the

 other. 'I see you, Raleigh Tabaka." They were not identical twins.

 Wellington was the taller lad, lighter-skinned, toffee-coloured against

 Raleigh's mulberry-stain black. His features had the same Nilotic cast

 as Moses' own, while Raleigh was more negroid, flat-nsed and

 thick-lipped, his body heavier and squatter.

 'What books have you read since we last met?" Moses changed into

 English, forcing them to reply in the same language. 'Words are spears,

 they are weapons with which to defend yourself and with which to attack

 your enemies. English words have the sharpest blades, without them you

 will be warriors disarmed,' he had explained to them, and now he

 listened attentively to their halting replies in that language.

 However, he noted the improvements in their command of the language and

 remarked on it. 'It is still not good enough, but you will learn to

 speak it better at Waterford,' and both boys looked uncomfortable. Moses

 had arranged for them to write the entrance examination for this elite

 multi-racial school across the border in the independent black kingdom

 of Swaziland, and the twins had both passed and been accepted and how

 were dreading the day not far away when they would be uprooted from this

 comfortable familiar world of theirs and packed off into the unknown. In

 South Africa all education was strictly segregated, and it was the

 declared policy of the minister of Bantu affairs, Dr Hendrik Verwoerd,

 not to educate black children to the point of discontentment. He had

 told parliament quite frankly that education for blacks should not

 conflict with the government policy of apartheid and should not be of

 such a standard as to evoke in the black pupil expectations which could

 never be fulfilled. The annual expenditure by the state on each white

 pupil was œ60 while that on a black student was œ9 per annum. Those

 black parents who could afford it, the chiefs and small businessmen,

 sent their children out of the country to be educated, and Waterford was

 a favourite choice.

 The twins escaped from the daunting presence of their father and uncle

 with relief, but their mother was waiting for them in the yard beside

 the blue and crimson van, and with a sharp inclination of her head

 ordered them into her own parlour.

 The room was a sorceress's lair from which the twins were usually

 barred, and now they crept in with even more trepidation than they had

 entered their father's house. Against the far wall stood their mother's

 gods and goddesses carved in native woods and dressed in feathers and

 skins and beads, with eyes of ivory and mother-of-pearl, and bared teeth

 of dog and baboon. They were a terrifying assembly, and the twins

 shivered and dared not look directly upon them.

 Before the family idols were arranged offerings of food and small coins,

 and from the other walls hung all the gruesome accoutrements of their

 mother's craft, gourds and clay pots of ointments and medicines, bundles

 of dried herbs, snake skins and mummified iguana lizards, bones and

 baboon skulJ.x, glass jars of hippopamus and lion fat, musk of

 crocodile, and other nameless substances which festered and bubbled and

 stank so foully that it made the teeth ache in their jaws.

 'You wore the charms I gave you?" Kuzawa, their mother, asked.

 She was incongruously handsome in the midst of her unholy and hideous

 tools and medicines, full-faced and glossy-skinned with very white teeth

 and liquid gazelle eyes. Her limbs were long and gleamed with secret

 and magical ointments and her breasts under the necklaces of ivory beads

 and charms were big and firm as wild Kalahari melons.

 In response to her question, the twins nodded vehemently, too overcome

 to speak, and unbuttoned their shirts. The charms were hung around

 their necks, each on a thin leather thong. They were the horns of the

 little grey duiker, the open ends sealed with gum arabic, and Kuzawa had

 taken all the twelve years of their lives to assemble the magical potion

 that was contained in each of them. It was made up of samples of all

 the bodily excretions of Hendrick Tabaka, the father of the twins, his

 faeces and urine, his spittle and nasal mucus, his sweat and his semen,

 the wax from his ears and the blood from his veins, his tears and his

 vomit. With these, Kuzawa had mixed the dried skin from the soles of

 his feet, the clippings of his nails, the shavings of his beard and his

 pate and pubes, the'lashes of his eyes plucked in his sleep, and the

 crusted scabs and pus from his wounds. Then she had added herbs and

 fats of wonderful efficacy, and spoken the words of power over them and

 finally, to make the charm infallible, she had paid a vast sum to one of

 the grave-robbers who specialized in such procurements to bring her the

 liver of an infant drowned at birth by its own mother.

 All these ingredients she had sealed in the two little duiker horns, and

 the twins were never allowed irrto their father's presence except that

 they wore them hung around their necks. Now Kuzawa retrieved the two

 charms from her sons. They were far too precious to leave in the

 children's possession. She smiled as she weighed them in the smooth

 pink palms of her delicately shaped hands. They had been worth all the

 expense and the patience and the meticulous application of her skills to

 create.

 'Did your father smile when he saw you?" she asked.

 'He smiled like the rise of the sun,' Raleigh replied, and Kuzawa nodded

 happily.

 'And were his words kind, did he make enquiry of you fondly?" she

 insisted.

 'When he spoke to us he purred like a lion at meat,' Wellington

 whispered, still intimidated by his surroundings. 'And he asked us how

 we raed at school, and he commended us when we told him." 'It is the

 charms that have ensured his favour,' Kuzawa smiled contentedly. 'As

 long as you wear them, your father will prefer you over all his other

 children." She took the two little buckhorns and went to kneel before

 the central carved figure in the array of idols, a fearsome image with a

 headdress of lion's mane that housed the spirit of her dead grandfather.

 'Guard them well, oh venerable ancestor,' she whispered, as she hung

 them around the neck of the image. 'Keep their powers strong until they

 are needed once again." They were safer there than in the deepest vault

 of the white man's banks. No human being, and only the most powerful of

 the dark ones, would dare challenge her grandfather's spirit for

 possession of the charms, for he was the ultimate guardian.

 Now she turned back to the twins, took their hands and led them out of

 her lair into the family kitchen next door, putting aside the mantle of

 the witch and assuming that of the loving mother as she passed through

 the door and closed it behind her.

 She fed the twins, bowls piled with fluffy white maize meal and butter

 beans and stew swimming with delicious fat, food that befitted the

 family of a rich and powerful man. And while they ate, she tended them

 lovingly, questioning and chaffing them, pressing more food upon them,

 her dark eyes glowing with pride, and finally reluctantly letting them

 go.

 They fled from her, delirious with excitement, into the narrow fetid

 lanes of the old quarter. Here they were entirely at their ease.

 The men and women smiled and called greetings and pleasantries as they

 passed and laughed delightedly at their repartee for they were the

 favourites of all, and their father was Hendrick Tabaka.

 Old Mama Nginga, fat and silver-haired, sitting at the front door of the

 shebeen that she ran for Hendrick, shouted after them, 'Where are you

 going, my little ones?" 'On secret business we cannot discuss,'

 Wellington shouted back, and Raleigh added: 'But next year our secret

 business will be with you, old mama. We will drink all your skokiaan

 and stab all your girls." Mama Nginga wobbled with delight, and the

 girls sitting in the windows shrieked with laughter. 'He is the cub of

 the lion, that one,' they told each other.

 As they scurried through the lanes, they called out and from the hovels

 and the shanties of the old quarter and from the new brick cottages that

 the white government had built, their comrades hurried out to join them,

 until there were fifty or more lads of their own age following them.

 Some of them carried long bundles, carefully wrapped and bound up with

 rawhide thongs.

 At the far end of the township the high fence had been cut, the gap

 concealed from casual scrutiny by a clump of scrub. The boys climbed

 through the gap and in the plantation of bluegums beyond, they gathered

 in an excited jabbering cluster and stripped off the shabby western

 European clothing they wore. They were uncircumcised, their penises

 althoogh beginning to develop were still surmounted by the little

 wrinkled caps of skin. In a few years' time they would all of them go

 into the initiation class and endure the ordeal of the isolation and

 hardship, and the agony of the blade together. This, even more than

 their tribal blood, bound them together; all their lives they would' be

 comrades of the circumcision knife.

 They set aside their clothing carefully - any losses would have to be

 accounted for to angry parents - and then naked, they gathered around

 the precious rolls and watched impatiently as they were opened by their

 acknowledged captains Wellington and Raleigh Tabaka, and each of them

 were issued with the uniform of the Xhosa warrior - not the true

 regalia, the cow-tails and rattles and headdress - those were for

 circumcised amadoda only. These were childish replicas, merely skins of

 dogs and cats, the strays and pariahs of the township, but they donned

 them as proudly as if they were genuine, and bound their upper arms and

 thighs and foreheads with strips of fur, and then took up their weapons.

 Again these were not the warriors' long-bladed assegais, but were merely

 the traditional fighting-sticks. However, even in the hands of these

 children the long limber staves were formidable weapons. With a stick

 in each hand they were immediately transformed into shrieking demons.

 They brandished and swung the staves, using a practised wrist action

 that made them hiss and sing and whistle, they rattled them together,

 crossing them to form a guard against which the blows of their peers

 clattered, and they leapt and cavorted and danced, aiming blows at each

 other, until Raleigh Tabaka blew a sharp fluting command on his buckhorn

 whistle, and they fell in behind him in a compact, disciplined column.

 He led them away. In a swaying stylized trot, fighting-sticks held

 high, singing and humming the battle chants of their tribe, they left

 the plantation and went out into the open undulating veld. The grass

 was knee-high and brown, and the chocolate red earth showed through it

 in raw patches. The ground fell away gently to a narrow stream, its

 rocky bed enclosed by steep banks and then climbed again to meet the

 pale sapphire of the highveld sky.

 Even as they started down the slope, the clean sweep of the far skyline

 was interrupted, a long line of waving headdresses showed above it, and

 then another band ai' lads appeared, clad like them in loincloths of

 skin, legs and arms and torsos bare. Carrying their fighting-sticks

 high, they paused along the crest, and as they saw each other, both

 bands gave tongue like hounds taking the scent.

 'Zulu jackals,' howled Raleigh Tabaka, and his hatred was so intense

 that a fine sheen of sweat burst out upon his brow. For as long and as

 far back as his tribal memory reached, this had been the enemy; his

 hatred was in his blood, deep and atavistic. History did not record how

 often this scene had been repeated, how many thousands of times over the

 centuries armed impis of Xhosa and Zulu had faced each other thus; all

 that was remembered was the heat of the battle and the blood and the

 hatred.

 Raleigh Tabaka leapt as high as the shoulder of his brother beside him,

 and screamed wildly, his treacherous voice breaking into a girlish

 squeak at the end.

 'I am thirsty. Give me Zulu blood to drink!" and his warriors leapt and

 screamed.

 'Give us Zulu blood!" The threats and insults and challenges were flung

 back at them from the opposite ridge, carried to them on the wind. Then

 spontaneously both impis started down, singing and prancing into the

 shallow valley, until from the steep red banks they faced each other

 across the narrow streambed, and their captains strode forward to

 exchange more insults.

 The Zulu induna was a lad the same age as the twins. He attended the

 same class as they did in the government secondary school in the

 township. His name was Joseph Dinizulu, and he was as tall as

 Wellington and as broad across the chest as Raleigh. His name and his

 strutting arrogance reminding the world that he was a princeling of the

 royal house of Zulu.

 'Hey, you eaters of hyena dung,' he called. 'We smelt you from a

 thousand paces against the wind. The smell of Xhosa makes even the

 vultures puke." Raleigh leapt high, turning in the air and lifting the

 skirts of his loincloth to expose his buttocks. 'I cleanse the air of

 the Zulu stench with a good clean fart!" he shouted. 'Sniff that, you

 jackal-lovers,' and he blew a raspberry so loud and long that the Zulus

 facing him hissed murderously and rattled their fighting-sticks.

 'Your fathers were women, your mothers were monkeys,' Joseph Dini7ulu

 cried, scratching his own armpits. Your grandfathers were baboons,' he

 imitated a simian lollop, and your grandmothers were--' Raleigh

 interrupted this recital of his ancestral line with a blast on the

 buckhorn whistle and leapt from the bank into the streambed. He landed

 on his feet, light as a cat, and with a bound was across. He went up

 the far bank so fast that Joseph Dinizulu, who had expected the exchange

 of pleasantries to last a little longer, fell back before his onslaught.

 A dozen of the other Xhosa lads had responded to his whistle and

 followed him across, and Raleigh's furious attack had won a bridgehead

 for them on the far bank. They bunched up behind him with sticks

 hissing and singing, and drove into the centre of the opposing impi. The

 battle lust was on Raleigh Tabaka. He was invincible, his arms

 tireless, his hands and wrists so cunning that his sticks seemed to have

 separate life, finding the weak places in the guards of the Zulus who

 opposed him, thudding on flesh, cracking on bone, cutting open skin so

 that soon their sticks shone wet with blood and little droplets of it

 flew in the sunlight.

 It seemed nothing could touch him, until abruptly something crashed into

 his ribs just below his raised right arm, and he gasped with pain and

 the sudden awareness of his own humanity. For a minute there he had

 been a warrior god, but suddenly he was a small boy, almost at the end

 of his strength, hurting very badly, and so tired that he could not

 mouth another challenge while before him danced Joseph Dinizulu, who

 seemed to have grown six inches in as many seconds. Again his

 fighting-stick whistled in, aimed at Raleigh's head, and only with a

 desperate defence he deflected it. Raleigh fell back a pace and looked

 around him.

 He should have known better than to attack a Zulu so boldly.

 They were the most treacherous and sly of all adversaries, and the

 stratagem of encirclement was always their master-stroke. Chaka Zulu,

 the mad.dog who had founded this tribe of wolves, had called the

 manoeuvre 'the Horns of the Bull'. The horns surrounded the enemy while

 the chest crushed him to death.

 Joseph Dinizulu had not fallen back out of fear or surprise, it was his

 instinctive cunning, and Raleigh had led his dozen stalwarts into the

 Zulu trap. They were alone, none of the others had followed them across

 the stream. Over the heads of the encircling Zulus he could see them on

 the far bank, and Wellington Tabaka, his twin brother, stood at their

 head, silent and immobile.

 'Wellington!" he screamed, his voice breaking with exhaustion and

 terror. 'Help us! We have the Zulu dog by the testicles. Come across

 and stab him in the chest!" That was all he had time for. Joseph

 Dinizulu was on him again and each stroke of his seemed more powerful

 than the last. Raleigh's chest was agony, and then another blow crashed

 through his guard and caught him across the shoulder, paralysing his

 right arm to the fingertips, and the stick flew from his grasp.

 'Wellington!" he screamed again.. 'Help us!" and all around him his men

 were going down, some of them beaten to their knees, others simply

 dropping their sticks and cowering in the dust, screaming for mercy

 while the Zulu boys crowded in with their sticks rising and falling, the

 blows flogging into soft flesh, the Zulu war cries rising in jubilant

 chorus like hounds crowding in to rend the hares.

 'Wellington!" He had one last glimpse of his brother across the stream

 and then a blow caught him on the forehead jut above his eye, and he

 felt the skin split as warm blood poured down his face.

 Just before it blinded him he caught a last glimpse of Joseph Dinizulu's

 face, crazy with blood lust, and then his legs collapsed under him and

 he flopped face-first into the dirt, while the blows still thudded

 across his back and shoulders.

 He must have lost consciousness for a moment, for when he rolled on to

 his side and wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, he

 saw that the Zulus had crossed the stream in a phalanx and that the

 remnants of his impi were racing away in wild panic towards the bluegum

 plantation pursued by Dinizulu's men.

 He tried to push himself upright, but his senses reeled and darkness

 filled his head, as he toppled once again. When next he came to, he was

 surrounded by Zulus, jeering and mocking, covering him with insults.

 This time he managed to sit up, but then the tumult around him quieted

 and was replaced by an expectant hush. He looked up and Joseph Dinizulu

 pushed his way through the ranks and sneered down at him.

 'Bark, Xhosa dog,' he ordered. 'Let us hear you bark and whine for

 mercy." Groggy, but defiant, Raleigh shook his head, and pain flared

 under his skull at the movement.

 Joseph Dinizulu placed a bare foot on his chest and shoved hard.

 He was too weak to resist and he toppled over on his back. Joseph

 Dinizulu stood over him, and lifted the front of his loincloth. With

 his other hand he drew back his foreskin exposing the pink glans, and he

 directed a hissing stream of urine into Raleigh's face.

 'Drink that, you Xhosa dog,' he laughed. It was hot and ammoniacal and

 burned like acid in the open wound on his scalp - and Raleigh's rage and

 humiliation and hatred filled all his soul.

 'My brother, it is only very seldom that I try to dissuade you from

 something on which you have set your mind." Hendrick Tabaka sat on the

 leopard-skin covering of his chair, leaning forward earnestly with his

 elbows on his knees. 'It is not the marriage in itself, you know how I

 have always urged you to take a wife, many wives, and get yourself sons

 - it is not the idea of a wife I disapprove of, it is this Zulu baggage

 that makes me lie awake at night. There are ten million other nubile

 young women in this land - why must you choose a Zulu? I would rather

 you took a black mamba into your bed." Moses Gama chuckled softly. 'Your

 concern for me proves your love." Then he became serious. 'Zulu is the

 largest tribe in southern Africa. Numbers alone would make them

 important, but add to that their aggressive and warlike spirit, and you

 will see that nothing will change in this land without Zulu. If I can

 form an alliance with that tribe, then all the dreams I have dreamed

 need not be in vain." Hendrick sighed, and grunted and shook his head.

 'Come Hendrick, you have spoken with them. Have you not?" Moses

 insisted, and reluctantly Hendrick nodded.

 'I sat four days at the kraal of Sangane Dinizulu, son of Mbejane who

 was the son of Gubi, who was the son of Dingaan, who was the brother of

 Chaka Zulu himself. He deems himself a prince of Zulu, which he is at

 pains to point out means "The Heavens" and he lives in grand style on

 the land that his old master, General Sean Courtney, left him on the

 hills above Ladyburg, where he keeps many wives and three hundred head

 of fat cattle." 'All this I know, my brother,' Moses interrupted. 'Tell

 me about the girl." Hendrick frowned. He liked to begin a story at the

 beginning and work through it, sparing no detail, until he reached the

 end.

 'The girl,' he repeated. 'That old Zulu rogue whines that she is the

 moon of his night and the sun of his day, no daughter has ever been

 loved as he loves her - and he could never allow her to marry any man

 but a Zulu chief." Hendrick sighed. 'Day after day I heard the virtues

 of this Zulu she-jackal recounted, how beautiful she is, how talented,

 how she is a nurse at the government hospital, how she comes from a long

 line of son-bearing wives --' Hendrick broke off and spat with disgust.

 'It took three days before he mentioned what had been on his mind from

 the first minute - the lobola, the bride price,' and Hendrick threw up

 his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

 'All Zulus are thieves and dung-eaters." 'How much?" Moses asked with a

 smile. 'How much did he need to compensate him for a marriage outside

 the tribe?" 'Five hundred head of prime cattle, all cows in calf, none

 older than three years,' Hendrick scowled with outrage. 'All Zulus are

 thieves and he claims to be a prince, which makes him a prince of

 thieves." 'Naturally you agreed to his first price?" Moses asked.

 'Naturally I argued for two more days." 'The final price?" 'Two hundred

 head,' Hendrick sighed. 'Forgive me, my brother. I tried, but the old

 dog of a Zulu was like a rock. It was his very lowest price for the

 moon of his night." Moses Gama leaned back in his chair, and thought

 about it. It was an enormous price. Prime cattle were worth œ50 the

 head, but unlike his brother, Moses Gama had no yen for money other than

 as a means to procure an end.

 'Ten thousand pounds?" he asked softly. 'Do we have that much?" 'It

 will hurt. I will ache for a year as though I have been whipped with a

 sjambok,' Hendrick grumbled. 'Do you realize just how much else a man

 could buy with ten thousand pounds, my brother? I could get you at

 least ten Xhosa maidens, pretty as sugar birds and plump as guinea fowl,

 each with her maidenhead attested by the most reliable midwife --' 'Ten

 Xhosa maidens would not bring the Zulu people within my reach,' Moses

 cut him off. 'I need Victoria Dinizulu." 'The lobola is not the only

 price demanded,' Hendrick told him.

 'There is more." 'What else?" 'The girl is a Christian. If you take

 her, there will be no others.

 She will be your only wife, my brother, and listen to a man who has paid

 for wisdom in the heavy coin of experience. Three wives are the very

 minimum a man needs for contentment. Three wives are so busy competing

 with one another for their husband's favour, that a man can relax. Two

 wives are better than one. However, a single wife, a one and only wife,

 can sour the food in your belly and frost your hair with silver. Let

 this Zulu wench go to someone who deserves her, another Zulu." 'Tell her

 father that we will pay the price he asks and that we agree to his

 terms. Tell him also that if he is a prince, then we expect him to

 provide a marriage feast that befits a princess. We expect a marriage

 that will be the talk of Zululand from the Drakensberg Mountains to the

 ocean. I want every chieftain and elder of the tribe there to see me

 wed, I want every counseller and induna, I want the king of the Zulus

 himself to come and when they are all assembled, I will speak to them."

 'You might as well talk to a troop of baboons. A Zulu is too proud and

 too full of hatred to listen to sense." 'You are wrong, Hendrick

 Tabaka." Moses laid his hand on his brother's arm. 'We are not proud

 enough, nor do we hate enough.

 What pride we do have, the little hatred that we do have, is misspent

 and ill-directed. We waste it on each other, on other black men. If

 all the tribes of this land took all their pride and all their hatred

 and turned it on the white oppressor - then how could he resist us? This

 is what I will talk about when I speak at my wedding feast. This is what

 I have to teach the people. It is for this that we are forging Umkhonto

 we Sizwe, the Spear of the Nation'.

 They were silent awhile. The depth of his brother's vision, the

 terrible power of his commitment, always awed Hendrick.

 'It will be as you wish,' he agreed at last. 'When do you wish the

 wedding to take place?" 'On the full moon of mid-winter." Moses did not

 hesitate. 'That will be the week before our campaign of defiance

 begins." Again they were silent, until Moses roused himself. 'It is

 settled then. Is there anything else we should discuss before we take

 the evening meal?" 'Nothing." Hendrick rose to his feet and was about to

 call his women to bring their food, when he remembered. 'Ah. There is

 one other thing. The white woman, the woman who was with you at Rivonia

 - do you know the one?" Moses nodded. 'Yes, the Courtney woman." 'That

 is the one. She has sent a message. She wishes to see you again."

 'Where is she?" 'She is close by, at a place called Sundi Caves. She

 has left a telephone number for you. She says it is an important

 matter." Moses Gama was clearly annoyed. 'I told her not to try and

 contact me,' he said. 'I warned her of the dangers." He stood up and

 paced the floor. 'Unless she learns discipline and self-control, she

 will be of no value to the struggle: White women are like that, spoiled

 and disobedient and self-indulgent. She must be trained --' Moses broke

 off and went to the window. Something in the yard had caught his

 attention, and he called out sharply. 'Wellington!

 Raleigh! Come here, both of you." A few seconds later the two boys

 shuffled self-consciously into the room, and stood just inside the door,

 hanging their heads guiltily.

 'Raleigh, what has happened to you?" Hendrick demanded angrily.

 The twins had changed their furs and loincloths for their ordinary

 clothing, but the gash in Raleigh's forehead was still weeping through

 the wad of grubby rags he had strapped on it. There were speckles of

 blood on his shirt, and the swelling had closed one eye.

 'Babo!" Wellington started to explain. 'It was not our fault. We were

 set upon by the Zulus." And Raleigh darted a look of contempt at him

 before he contradicted his twin.

 'We arranged a faction fight with them. It went well, until some of us

 ran away and left the others,' Raleigh raised his hand to his injured

 head. 'There are cowards even amongst the Xhosa,' he said, and again

 glanced at his twin. Wellington stood silent.

 'Next time fight harder and show more cunning,' Hendrick Tabaka

 dismissed them and when they scurried from the room he turned to Moses.

 'Do you see, my brother. Even with the children, what hope do you have

 of changing it?" 'The hope is with the children,' Moses told him. 'Like

 monkeys, you can train them to do anything. It is the old ones who are

 difficult to change." Tara Courtney parked her shabby old Packard on the

 edge of the mountain drive and stood for a few seconds looking down on

 the city of Cape Town spread below her. The south-easter was whipping

 the waters of Table Bay to cream.

 She left the car and walked slowly along the verge, pretending to admire

 the flush of wild flowers which painted the rocky slope above her. At

 the head of the slope the grey rock bastion of the mountain rose sheer

 to the heavens, and she stopped walking and tilted her head back to look

 up at it. The clouds were driving over the top, creating the illusion

 that the wall of rock was falling.

 Once again she darted a glance along the road up which she had driven.

 It was still empty. She was not being followed. The police must have

 finally lost interest in her. It was weeks since last she had been

 aware of being tailed.

 Her aimless behaviour altered and she returned to the Packard and took a

 small picnic basket from the boot, then she walked quickly back to the

 concrete building that housed the lower cable station. She ran up the

 stairs and paid for a return ticket just as the attendant opened the

 doors at the end of the waiting room, and the small party of other

 passengers trooped out to the gondola and crowded into it.

 The crimson car started with a jerk and they rose swiftly, dangling

 below the silvery thread of the cable. The other passengers were

 exclaiming with delight as the spreading panorama of ocean and rock and

 city opened below them, and Tara inspected them surreptitiously. Within

 a few minutes she was convinced that none of them were plain-clothes

 members of the special branch and she relaxed and turned her attention

 to the magnificent view.

 The gondola was climbing steeply, rising almost vertically up the face

 of the cliff. The rock had weathered into almost geometrical cubes, so

 that they seemed to be the ancient building blocks of a giant's castle.

 They passed a party of rock-climbers roped together inching their way

 hand over hand up the sheer face. Tara imagined being out there,

 clinging to the rock with the empty drop sucking at her heels, and

 vertigo made her sway dizzily. She had to clutch the handrail to steady

 herself, and when the gondola docked at the top station on the brink of

 the thousand-foot-high cliff, she escaped from it thankfully.

 In the little tearoom, built to resemble an alpine chalet, Molly was

 waiting for her at one of the tables and she jumped up when she saw her

 friend.

 Tara rushed to her and embraced her. 'Oh Molly, my dear dear Molly, I

 have missed you so." After a few moments they drew apart, slightly

 embarrassed by their own display and the smiles of the other teashop

 customers.

 'I don't want to sit still,' Tara told her.  'I'm just bursting with

 excitement. Come on, let's walk. I've brought some sandwiches and a

 Thermos." They left the tearoom and wandered along the path that skirted

 the precipice. In mid-week there were very few hikers on the mountain,

 and before they had gone a hundred yards they were alone.

 'Tell me about all my old friends in the Black Sash,' Tara ordered.

 'I want to know everything you have been doing. How is Derek and how

 are the children? Who is running my clinic now? Have you been there

 recently? Oh, I so miss it all, all of you." 'Steady on,' Molly

 laughed. 'One question at a time --' and she began to give Tara all the

 news. It took time, and while they chatted, they found a picnic spot

 and sat with their legs dangling over the cliff, drinking hot tea from

 the Thermos, and with scraps of bread feeding the fluffy little hyrax,

 the rock rabbits that crept out of the crevices and cracks of the cliff.

 At last they exhausted their stocks of news and gossip, and sat ir

 companionable silence. Tara broke it at last. 'Molly, I'm going to

 have another baby." 'Ah ha!" Molly giggled. 'So that's what has been

 keeping you busy.

 She glanced at Tara's stomach.

 'It doesn't show yet. Are you certain?" 'Oh, for Pete's sake, Molly.

 I'm hardly the simpering virgin, you know. Give me credit for the four

 I have already! Of course I'm certain." 'When is it due?" 'January next

 year." 'Shasa will be pleased. He dotes on the kids. In fact, apart

 from money, they are the only things I've ever seen Shasa Courtney

 sentimental about. Have you told him yet?" Tara shook her head. 'No.

 You are the only one I've told. I came to you first." 'I'm" natterea. I

 wish you both joy." Then she paused as she noticed Tara's expression and

 studied her more seriously.

 'For Shasa there will be little joy in it, I'm afraid,' Tara said

 softly.

 'It's not Shasa's baby." 'Good Lord, Tara! You of all people --' then

 she broke off, and thought about it. 'I'm going to ask another silly

 question, Tara darling, but how do you know it isn't Shasa's effort?"

 'Shasa and I - we haven't - well, you know - we haven't been man and

 wife since - oh, not for ages." 'I see." Despite her affection and

 friendship, Molly's eyes sparkled with interest. This was intriguing.

 'But, Tara love, that isn't the end of the world. Rush home now and get

 Shasa's pants off.

 Men are such clots, dates don't mean much to them, and if he does start

 counting, you can always bribe the doctor to tell him it's a preen."

 'No, Molly, listen to me. If ever he saw the infant, he would know." x

 'I don't understand." 'Molly, I am carrying Moses Gama's baby." 'Sweet

 Christ!" Molly whispered.

 The strength of Molly's reaction brought home to Tara the full gravity

 of the predicament in which she found herself.

 Molly was a militant liberal, as colour-blind as Tara was herself, and

 yet Molly was stunned by the idea of a white woman bearing a black man's

 infant. In this country miscegenation was an offence punishable by

 imprisonment, but that penalty was as nothing compared to the social

 outrage it would engender. She would become an outcast and a pariah.

 'Oh dear,' Molly moderated her language. 'Oh dear, oh dear! My poor

 Tara, what a mess you are in. Does Moses know?" 'Not yet, but I hope to

 see him soon and I'll tell him." 'You will have to get rid of it, of

 course. I have an address in Lourenqo Marques. There is a Portuguese

 doctor there. We sent one of our girls from the orphanage to him. He's

 expensive, but clean and good, not like some dirty old crone in a back

 room with a knitting needle." 'Oh Molly, how could you think that of me?

 How could you believe I would murder my own baby?" 'You are going to

 keep it?" Molly gaped at her.

 'Of course." 'But, my dear, it will be --' 'Coloured,' Tara finished for

 her. 'Yes, I know, probably carb all lait in colour and with crispy

 black hair and I will love it with all my heart. Just as I love the

 father." 'I don't see how --' 'That's why I came to you." Tll do

 whatever you want -just tell me what that is." 'I want you to find me a

 coloured couple. Good decent people, preferably with children of their

 own, who will take care of the infant for me until I can arrange to take

 it myselfi Of course, they will have all the money they need and more

 --' her voiced trailed off and she stared at Molly imploringly.

 Molly considered for a minute. 'I think I know the right couple.

 They are both school-teachers and they have four of their own, all

 girls.  They'll do it for me - but, Tara, how are you going to hide it?

 It will begin to show soon, you were huge with Isabella. Shasa might

 not notice, he's so busy looking into his cheque book, but your

 mother-in-law is an absolute tartar: You couldn't get anything by her."

 'I've already made plans to cover that. I have convinced Shasa that I

 have conceived a burning interest in archaeology to replace my political

 activities and I've got a job on the dig at Sundi Caves with the

 American archaeologist, Professor Marion Hurst, you know." 'Yes, I've

 read two of her books." 'I've told Shasa that I will only be away for

 two months, but once I'm out of his sight I'll just keep postponing my

 return. Centaine will look after the children, 'I've arranged that

 also, she loves doing it and, the Lord knows, the kids will benefit from

 it. She's a much better disciplinarian than I am. They'll be perfectly

 behaved angels by the time my beloved mother-in-law is finished with

 them." 'You'll miss them,' Molly stated, and Tara nodded.

 'Yes, of course, I shall miss them, but it's only another six months to

 go." 'Where will you have the child?" Molly persisted.

 'I don't know. I can't go to a recognized hospital or nursing home.

 Oh God, could you imagine the fuss if I produced a little brown bundle

 on their clean whites-only sheets, in their lovely clean whitesonly

 maternity hospital. Anyway, there is plenty of time to arrange all that

 later. The first thing is to get away to Sundi, away from Centaine

 Courtney-Malcomess' malevolent eye." 'Why Sundi, Tara, what made you

 choose Sundi?" 'Because I will be near to Moses." 'Is it that

 important?" Molly stared at her mercilessly. 'Do you feel like that

 about him? It wasn't just a little experiment, just a little kinky fun

 to find out what it is really like with one of them?" Tara shook her

 head.

 'Are you sure, Tara? I mean I've had the same urge occasionally. I

 suppose it's natural to be curious, but I've never been caught at it."

 'Molly, I love him. If he asked me, I would lay down my life for him

 without a qualm." 'My poor sweet Tara." Tears started in Molly's eyes,

 and she reached out with both arms. They hugged desperately and Molly

 whispered, 'He is far beyond your reach, my darling. You can never,

 never have him." 'If I can have a little piece of him, for even a little

 while. That will be enough for me." Moses Gama parked the crimson and

 blue butchery van in one of the visitors' bays and switched off the

 engine. In front of him stretched lawns on which a single small

 sprinkler was trying to atone for all the frosts and drought of the

 highveld winter, but the Kikuyu grass was scared and lifeless. Beyond

 the lawn was the long doublestoried block of the Baragwanath nurses'

 home.

 A small group of black nurses came up the pathway from the main

 hospital. They were in crisp white uniform, neat and efficientlooking,

 but when they drew level with the van and saw Moses at the wheel, they

 dissolved into giggles, hiding their mouths with their hands in the

 instinctive gesture of subservience to the male.

 'Young woman, I wish to speak to you." Moses leaned out of the window of

 the van. 'Yes, you!" The chosen nurse was almost overcome with shyness.

 Her friends teased her as she approached Moses and paused timidly five

 paces from him.

 'Do you know Sister Victoria Dinizulu?" 'Eh he!" the nurse affirmed.

 'Where is she?" 'She is coming now. She is on the day shift with me."

 The nurse looked around for escape, and instead picked out Victoria in

 the middle of the second group of white-clad figures coming up the path.

 'There she is. Victoria! Come quickly!" the girl cried, and then fled,

 taking the steps up into the nurses' home two at a time. Victoria

 recognized him, and with a word to her friends, left them and cut across

 the dry brown lawns, coming directly to him. Moses climbed out of the

 van, and she looked up at him.

 'I'm sorry. There was a terrible bus accident, we were working in

 theatre until the last case was attended to. I have kept you waiting."

 Moses nodded. 'It's not important. We have plenty of time still." 'It

 will take me only a few minutes to change into street clothes,' she

 smiled up at him. Her teeth were perfect, so white that they seemed

 almost translucent and her skin had the lustre of health and youth. 'I

 am so pleased to see you again - but I do have a very big bone to pick

 with you." They were speaking English, and although hers was accented,

 she seemed confident in the language with a choice of words which

 matched his own fluency.

 'Good,' he smiled gravely. 'We will have your bone for dinner which

 will save me money." She laughed, a fine throaty chuckle. 'Don't go

 aw/ty, I will be back." She turned and went into the nurses' home, and

 he watched her with pleasure as she climbed the steps. Her waist was so

 narrow that it accentuated the swell of her buttocks under the white

 uniform.

 Although her bosom was small, she was full-bottomed and broadhipped; she

 would carry a child with ease. That kind of body was the model of Nguni

 beauty, and Moses was strongly reminded of the photographs he had seen

 of the Venus de Milo. Her carriage was erect, her neck long and

 straight, and although her hips swayed as though she danced to a distant

 music, her head and shoulders never moved. It was obvious that as a

 child she had taken her turn with the other young girls at carrying the

 brimming clay pots up from the water-hole, balancing the pot on her head

 without spilling a drop.

 That was how the Zulu girls acquired that marvellously regal posture.

 With her round madonna face and huge dark eyes, she was one of the

 handsomest women he had ever seen, and while he waited, leaning against

 the bonnet of the van, he pondered how each race had its ideal of

 feminine beauty, and how widely they differed. That led him on to think

 of Tara Courtney, with her huge round breasts and narrow boyish hips,

 her long chestnut hair and soft insipid white skin. Moses grimaced,

 faintly repelled by the image, and yet both women were crucial to his

 ambitions, and his sensual response to them - attraction or revulsion -

 was completely irrelevant. All that m. attered was their utility.

 Victoria came back down the steps ten minutes later. She was wearing a

 vivid crimson dress. Bright colours suited her, they set off that

 glossy dark skin. She slid into the passenger's seat of the van beside

 him, and glanced at the cheap gold-plated watch on her wrist.

 'Eleven minutes sixteen seconds. You cannot really complain,' she

 announced, and he smiled and started the engine.

 'Now let us pick your thighbone of a dinosaur,' he suggested.

 'Tyrannosaurus Rex,' she corrected him. 'The most ferocious of the

 dinosaurs. But, no, we'll keep that for dinner as you suggested." Her

 banter amused him. It was unusual for an unmarried black girl to be so

 forthcoming and self-assured. Then he remembered her training and her

 life here at one of the world's largest and busiest hospitals. This

 wasn't a little country girl, empty-headed and giggling, and as if to

 make the point, Victoria fell into an easy discussion of General Dwight

 Eisenhower's prospects for election to the White House, and how that

 would affect the American civil rights struggle - and ultimately their

 own struggle here in Africa.

 While they talked, the sun began to set and the city, with all its fine

 buildings and parks, fell behind them, until abruptly they entered the

 half world of Soweto township where half a million black people lived.

 The dusk was thick with the smell of wood-smoke from the cooking fires,

 and it turned the sunset a diabolical red, the colour of blood and

 oranges. The narrow unmade sidewalks were crowded with black commuters,

 each of them carrying a parcel or a shopping bag, all hurrying in the

 same direction, back to their homes after a long day that had begun

 before the sun with a tortuous .journey by bus or train to their places

 of work in the outer world, and that now ended in darkness with the

 reverse journey which fatigue made even longer and more tedious.

 The van slowed as the streets became more crowded, and then some of them

 recognized Moses and ran ahead of them, clearing the way.

 'Moses Gama! It's Moses Gama, let him pass!" And as they went by, some

 of them shouted greetings. 'I see you, Nkosi." 'I see you, Babo!" They

 called him father and lord.

 When they reached the community centre which abutted the administration

 buildings, the huge hall was overflowing, and they were forced to leave

 the van and go on foot for the last hundred yards.

 However, the Buffaloes were there to escort them. Hendrick Tabaka's

 enforcers pushed a way through the solid pack of humanity, tempering

 this show of force with smiles and jokes so the crowd made way for them

 without resentment.

 'It is Moses Gama, let him pass,' and Victoria hung on to his arm and

 laughed with the excitement of it.

 As they went in through the main doors of the hall, she glanced up and

 saw the name above the door: H. F. VERWOERD COMMUNITY HALL.

 It was fast becoming a custom for the Nationalist governmentto name all

 state buildings, airports, dams and other public works after political

 luminaries and mediocrities, but there was an unusual irony in nanling

 the community hall of the largest black township after the white

 architect of the laws which they had gathered here to protest.

 Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd was the minister of Bantu affairs, and the

 principal hi'chitec of apartheid.

 Inside the hall, the noise was thunderous. A permit to use the hall for

 a political rally would have been denied by the township administration,

 so officially this had been billed and advertised as a rock 'n' roll

 concert by a band that gloried in the name of'The Marmalade Mambas'.

 They were on the stage now, four of them dressed in tight-fitting

 sequined suits that glittered in the flashing coloured lights. A bank

 of amplifiers sent the music crashing over the packed audience, like an

 aerial bombardment, and the dancers screamed back at them, swaying and

 writhing to the rhythm like a single monstrous organism.

 The Buffaloes opened a path for them across the dance floor and the

 dancers recognized Moses and shouted greetings, trying to touch him as

 he passed. Then the band became aware of his presence and broke off in

 the middle of the wild driving beat to give him a trumpet fanfare and a

 roll of drums.

 Dozens of willing hands helped Moses up on to the stage, while Victoria

 remained below with her head at the level of his knees, trapped in the

 press of bodies that pressed forward to see and to hear Moses Gama. The

 band leader attempted to introduce him but even the power of the

 electronic amplifiers could not lift his voice above the tumultuous

 welcome that they gave Moses. From four thousand throats a savage

 sustained roar rose and went on and on without diminution. It broke

 over Moses Gama like a wild sea driven by a winter gale, and like a rock

 he stood unmoved by it.

 Then he lifted his arms, and the sound died away swiftly until a

 suppressed and aching silence hung over that great press of humanity,

 and into that silence Moses Gama roared.

 'Amandla! Power!" As a single voice they roared back at him, 'Amandla!"

 He shouted again, in that deep thrilling voice that rang against th

 rafters and reached into the depths of their hearts. 'Mayibuye!" They

 bellowed the reply back at him 'Afrika! Let Africa persist." And then

 they were silent again, expectant and wound up wit[ excitement and

 tension, as Moses Gama began to speak. 'Let us talk of Africa,' he

 said.

 'Let us talk of a rich and fruitful land with tiny barren pockets or

 which our people are forced to live.

 'Let us speak of the children without schools and the mother, without

 hope.

 'Let us speak of taxes and passes.

 'Let us speak of famine and sickness.

 'Let us speak of those who labour in the harsh sunlight, and in the

 depths of the dark earth.

 'Let us speak of those who live in the compounds far from their

 families.

 Let us speak of hunger and tears and the hard laws of the Boers." For an

 hour he held them in his hands, and they listened in silence except for

 the groans and involuntary gasps of anguish, and the occasional growl of

 anger, and at the end Victoria found she was weeping. The tears flowed

 freely and unashamedly down her beautiful upturned moon face.

 When Moses finished, he dropped his arms and lowered his chin upon his

 chest, exhausted and shaken by his own passion and a vast silence fell

 upon them. They were too moved to shout or to applaud.

 In the silence Victoria suddenly flung herself on to the stage and faced

 them.

 'Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika,' she sang.

 'God save Africa,' and immediately the band picked up the refrain, while

 from the body of the hall their magnificent African voices soared in

 haunting chorus. Moses Gama stepped up beside her and took her hand in

 his, and their voices blended.

 At the end it took them almost twenty minutes to escape from the hall,

 their way was blocked by the thousands who wanted the experience to

 last, to touch them and to hear their voices and to be a part of the

 struggle.

 In the course of one short evening the beautiful Zulu girl in the

 flaming crimson dress had become part of the almost mystic legend that

 surrounded Moses Gama. Those who were fortunate enough to be there that

 evening would tell those who had not, how she had looked like a queen as

 she stood and sang before them, a queen that befitted the tall black

 emperor at her side.

 'I have never experienced anything like that,' Vicky told him, when at

 last they were alone again, and the little blue and crimson van was

 humming back along the main highway towards Johannesburg. 'The love

 they bear you is so powerful --' she broke off. 'I just can't describe

 it." 'Sometimes it frightens me,' he agreed. 'They place such a heavy

 responsibility upon me." 'I don't believe you know what fear is,' she

 said.

 'I do." He shook his head. 'I know it better than most." And then he

 changed the subject. 'What time is it? We must find something to eat

 before curfew." 'It's only nine o'clock." Victoria looked surprised as

 she turned the dial of her wristwatch to catch the light of a street

 lamp. 'I thought it would be much later. I seem to have lived a

 lifetime in one short evening." Ahead of them a neon sign flickered:

 'DOLLS' HOUSE DRIVEIN. Tasty Eats." Moses slowed and turned the van

 into the parking lot. He left Vicky for a few minutes to go to the

 counter of the replica dolls' house, then he returned with hamburgers

 and coffee in two paper mugs.

 'Ah, that's good!" she mumbled through a mouthful of hamburger.

 'I didn't realize I was so hungry." 'Now what about this bone you

 threaten me with?" Moses asked, and he spoke in fluent Zulu.

 'You speak Zulu!" She was amazed. 'I didn't know. When did you learn?"

 she demanded in the same language.

 'I speak many languages,' he told her. 'If I want to reach all the

 people, there is no other way." And he smiled. 'However, young woman,

 you don't change the subject so easily. Tell me about this bone." 'Oh,

 I feel so stupid talking about it now, after all we have shared this

 evening --' she hesitated. 'I was going to ask you why you sent your

 brother to speak to my father before you had said anything to me. I'm

 not a country girl of the kraals, you know. I am a modern woman with a

 mind of my own." 'Victoria, we should not discard the old traditions in

 our struggle for liberation. What I did was out of respect for you and

 for your father. I am sorry if it offended you." 'I was a little

 ruffled,' she admitted.

 'Will it help at all if I ask you now?" he smiled. 'You can still

 refuse. Before we go any further, think very deeply. If you marry me,

 you marry the cause. Our marriage will be part of the struggle of our

 people, and the road before us will be hard and dangerous, with never an

 end in sight." 'I do not need to think,' she said softly. 'Tonight when

 I stood there before our people with your hand in mine, I knew that was

 the reason why I was born." He took both her hands in his and drew her

 gently towards him, but before their mouths could touch, the harsh white

 beam of a powerful spotlight shone into their faces. Startled, they drew

 apart, shielding their eyes with raised hands.

 'Hey, what is this?" Moses exclaimed.

 'Police!" a voice answered from the darkness beyond the open side

 window. 'Get out both of you!" They climbed out of the van, and Moses

 went around the bonnet to stand beside Victoria. He saw that while they

 had been engrossed with each other, a police pick-up had entered the

 parking lot and parked beside the restaurant building. Now four

 blue-uniformed constables with flashlights were checking the occupants

 of all the parked vehicles in the lot.

 'Let me see your passes, both of you." The constable in front of him was

 still shining the light in his eyes, but beyond it Moses could make out

 that he was very young.

 Moses reached into his inner pocket, while Victoria searched in her

 purse, and they handed their pass booklets to the constable. He turned

 the beam of the flashlight on them and studied them minutely.

 'It's almost curfew,' he said in Afrikaans, as he handed them back. 'You

 Bantu should be in your own locations at this time of night." 'There is

 still an hour and a half until curfew,' Victoria replied sharply, and

 the constable's expression hardened.

 'Don't take that tone with me, maid." That term of address was insulting

 and again he shone the flashlight in her face. 'Just because you've got

 shoes on your feet and rouge on your face, doesn't mean you are a white

 woman. Just remember that." Moses took Victoria's arm and firmly

 steered her back to the van.

 'We are leaving right away, officer,' he said placatingly, and once they

 were both in the van, he told Victoria, 'You will accomplish nothing by

 getting us both arrested. That is not the level at which we should

 conduct the struggle. That is just a callow little white boy with more

 authority than he knows how to carry." 'Forgive me,' she said. 'I just

 get so angry. What were they looking for anyway?" 'They were looking

 for white men with black girls, their Immorality Act to keep their

 precious white blood pure. Half their police force spends its time

 trying to peer into other people's bedrooms." He started the van and

 turned into the highway.

 Neither of them spoke again until he parked in front of the Baragvanath

 nurses' home." 'I hope we will not be interrupted again,' Moses said

 quietly, and placing an arm around her shoulders turned her gently to

 face him.

 Although she had seen how it was done on the cinema screen, and although

 the other girls in the hostel endlessly discussed what they referred to

 as 'Hollywood style', Victoria had never kissed a man. It was not part

 of Zulu custom or tradition. So she lifted her face to him with a

 mixture of trepidation and breathless expectation, and was amazed at the

 warmth and softness of his mouth. Swiftly the stiffness and tension

 went out of her neck and shoulders and she seemed to mould herself to

 him.

 The work at Sundi Caves was even more interesting than Tara Courthey had

 expected it to be, and she adapted rapidly to the leisurely pace and

 life and intellectually stimulating companionship of the small

 specialist team of which she was now a part.

 Tara shared a tent with two young students from the University of the

 Witwatersrand, and she found with mild surprise that the close proximity

 of other women in such spartan accommodation did not bother her. They

 were up long before dawn to escape the heat in the middle of the day,

 and after a quick and frugal breakfast, Professor Hurst led them up to

 the site and allocated the day's labours. They rested and ate the main

 meal at noon, and then as the day cooled, they returned to the site and

 worked on until the light failed. After that they had only enough

 energy for a hot shower, a light meal and the narrow camp beds.

 The site was in a deep kloof. The rocky sides dropped steeply two

 hundred feet-to the narrow riverbed in the gut. The vegetation in the

 protected and sun-warmed valley was tropical, quite alien to that on the

 exposed grasslands that were scoured by wind and winter frosts. Tall

 candelabra aloes grew on the upper slopes, while farther down it became

 even denser, and there were tree ferns and cycads, and huge strangler

 figs with bark like elephant hide, grey and wrinkled.

 The caves themselves were a series of commodious open galleries that ran

 with the exposed strata. They were ideal for habitation by primitive

 man, located high up the slope and protected from the prevailing winds

 yet with a wide view out across the plain on to which the kloof

 debouched.  They were close to water and readily defensible against all

 marauders, and the depth of the midden and accumulated detritus on the

 floor of the caves attested to the ages over which they had been

 occupied.

 The roofs of the caves were darkened with the smoke of countless cooking

 fires and the inner walls were decorated with the engravings and

 childlike paintings of the ancient San peoples and their predecessors.

 All the signs of a major site with the presence of very early hominids

 were evident, and although the dig was still in its early stages and

 they had penetrated only the upper levels, spirits and optimism were

 high and the whole feeling on the dig was of a close-knit community of

 persons bound by a common interest cooperating selflessly on a project

 of outstanding importance.

 Tara particularly liked Marion Hurst, the American professor in charge

 of the excavations. She was a woman in her early fifties, with cropped

 grey hair, and a skin burned to the colour and consistency of

 saddle-leather by the suns of Arabia and Africa. They had become firm

 friends even before Tara discovered that she was married to a negro

 professor of anthropology at Cornell. That knowledge made their

 relationship secure, and relieved Tara of the necessity of any

 subterfuge.

 One night she sat late with Marion in the shed they were using as a

 laboratory, and suddenly Tara found herself telling her about Moses Gama

 and her impossible love, even about the child she was carrying. The

 elder woman's sympathy was immediate and sincere.

 'What iniquitous social order can keep people from loving others - of

 course, I knew all about these laws before I came here. That is why Tom

 stayed at home. Despite my personal feelings, the work here was just

 too important to pass up. However, you have my promise that I will do

 anything in my power to help the two of you." Yet Tara had been on the

 dig for five weeks without having heard from Moses Gama. She had

 written him a dozen letters and telephoned the Rivonia number, arid the

 other number in Drake's Farm township. Moses was never there, and never

 responded to her urgent messages.

 At last she could stand it no longer, and she borrowed Marion's pick-up

 truck and went into the city, almost an hour's drive with the first half

 of the journey over clay roads that were rutted and bumpy, and finally

 over wide black-top highways in a solid stream of heavy traffic, coming

 up from the coalfields at Witbank.

 She parked the pick-up under the bluegum trees at the back of Puck's

 Hill and was suddenly afraid to see him again, terrified that it had all

 changed and he would send her away. It took all her courage to leave

 the cab of the pick-up and go around the big unkempt house to the front

 verandah.

 At the far end there was a man sitting at the desk and her heart soared

 and then as swiftly plunged as he turned and saw her and stood up. It

 was Marcus Archer. He came down the long verandah towards her, and his

 smile was spiteful and vinegary.

 'Surprise!" he said. 'The last person I expected to see." 'Hello,

 Marcus. I was looking for Moses." 'I know who you are looking for,

 dearie." 'Is he here?" Marcus shook his head. 'I haven't seen him for

 almost two weeks." 'I have written and telephoned - he doesn't reply. I

 was worried." 'Perhaps he doesn't reply, because he doesn't want to see

 you." 'Why do you dislike me so, Marcus?" 'Oh my dear, whatever gave you

 that idea?" Marcus smiled archly.

 'I'm sorry to have bothered you." She began to turn away and then

 paused. Her expression hardened. 'Will you give him a message, when

 you see him?" Marcus inclined his head, and for the first time she

 noticed the grey hairs in his ginger sideburns and the wrinkles in the

 corners of his eyes. He was much older than she had thought.

 'Will you tell Moses that I came to find him, and that nothing has

 changed. That I meant every word I said." 'Very well, dearie. I'll

 tell him." Tara went down the steps, but when she reached the bottom, he

 called after her.

 'Tara." And she looked up. He leaned on the railing of the verandah.

 'You'll never have him. You know that, don't you?

 He will keep you only as long as he needs you. Then he will cast you

 aside. He will never belong to you." 'Nor to you either, Marcus

 Archer,' she said softly, and he recoiled from her. 'He belongs to

 neither of us. He belongs to Africa and his people." And she saw the

 desolation in his eyes. It gave her no satisfaction, and she went

 slowly back to the pick-up and drove away.

 At Level Six in the main gallery of the Sundi Caves they exposed an

 extensive deposit of clay pottery fragments. There were no intact

 artefacts, and it was obviously a dumping site for the ancient potters.

 Nevertheless, the discovery was of crucial importance in dating the

 levels for the pottery was of a very early type.

 Marion Hurst was excited by the find, and transmitted her excitement to

 all of them. By this time Tara had been promoted from the heavy work of

 grubbing in the dirt at the bottom of the trenches.

 i She had displayed a natural aptitude for the puzzle game of fitting

 the fragments of bone and pottery together in their original form, and

 she now worked in the long prefabricated shed under Marion Hurst's

 direct supervision and was making herself an invaluable member of the

 team.

 Tara found that while she was absorbed with the fragments, she could

 suppress the ache of longing and the turmoil of uncertainty and guilt.

 She knew that her neglect of her children and her family was

 unforgivable. Once a week she telephoned Rhodes Hill and spoke to her

 father and Centaine and to Isabella. The child seemed quite content,

 and in a strangely selfish way Tara resented the fact that she seemed

 not to pine for her mother but was accepting her grandmother as a happy

 substitute. Centaine was friendly and made no criticism of her

 continued absence, but Blaine Malcomess, her beloved father, was as

 usual bluntly outspoken.

 'I don't know what you are trying to run away from, Tara, but believe me

 it never works. Your place is here with your husband and your children.

 Enough of this nonsense now. You know your duty, however unpleasant you

 may find it - it's still your duty." Of course, Shasa and the boys would

 soon be returning from their grand safari, and then she could

 procrastinate no longer. She would have to make a decision, and she was

 not even certain of the alternatives. Sometimes in the night, in those

 silent small hours when human energy and spirits are at their lowest

 ebb, she even considered following Molly's advice and aborting the child

 from her womb and turning her back on Moses, going back to the seductive

 and destructively soft life of Weltevreden.

 'Oh, Moses, if only I could see you again. Just to speak to you for a

 few hours - then I would know what to do." She found herself withdrawing

 from the company of the other workers on the excavation. The cheerful

 carefree attitude of the two university students she shared her tent

 with began to irritate her.

 Their conversation was so naive and childlike, even the music they

 played endlessly on a portable tape recorder was so loud and uncouth

 that it rasped her nerves.

 With Marion's blessing she purchased a small bell tent of her own and

 erected it near the laboratory where she worked, so that when the others

 took their noonday siesta, she could slip back to her work bench and

 forget all her insoluble problems in the totally absorbing task of

 fitting together the shattered scraps. Their antiquity seemed to soothe

 her and make the problems of the present seem trivial and unimportant.

 It was here, at her bench, in the middle of a hot somnolent highveld

 afternoon, that the light from the open doorway was blocked suddenly,

 and she looked up frowning, wiping back the sweaty wisps of hair from

 her forehead with the back of her hand, and then her mouth went dry and

 her heart seemed to freeze for a long moment and then race wildly.

 The sunlight was behind him, so his was a tall silhouette, broad

 shouldered, slim-hipped and regal. She sobbed and sprang up from the

 bench and flew to him, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing

 her face to his heart so that she could feel it beat against her cheek.

 She could not speak, and his voice was deep and gentle above her.

 'I have been cruel to you. I should have come to you sooner." 'No,' she

 whispered. 'It doesn't matter. Now that you are here, nothing else

 matters." He stayed only one night, and Marion Hurst protected them from

 the other members of the expedition so that they were alone in her small

 tent, isolated from the world and its turmoil. Tara did not sleep that

 night, each moment was far too precious to waste.

 In the dawn he said to her. 'I must go again soon. There is something

 that you must do for me." 'Anything!" she whispered.

 'Our campaign of defiance begins soon. There will be terrible risk and

 sacrifice by thousands of our people, but for their sacrifice to be

 worth while it must be brought to the attention of the world." 'What can

 I do?" she asked.

 'By a most fortunate coincidence, there is an American television team

 in the country at this very moment. They are making a series called

 "Africa on Focus"." 'Yes, I know about them. They interviewed --' she

 broke off. She didn't want to mention Shasa, not now, not during this

 treasured interlude.

 'They interviewed your husband,' he finished for her. 'Yes, I know.

 However, they have almost finished filming and I have heard that they

 plan to return to the United States within the next few days. We need

 them here. We need them to film and record our struggle. They must

 show it to the world - the spirit of our people, the indomitable will to

 rise above oppressi6n and inhumanity." 'How can I help?" 'I cannot reach

 the producer of this series on my own. I 'need a gobetween. We have to

 prevent them leaving. We have to make certain they are here to film the

 defiance when it begins. You must speak to the woman in charge of the

 filming. Her name is Godolphin, Kitty Godolphin, and she will be

 staying at the Sunnyside Hotel in Johannesburg for the next three days."

 'I will go to her today." 'Tell her that the time is not yet agreed -

 but when it is, I will let her know, and she must be there with her

 camera." 'I will see that she is,' Tara promised, and he rolled her

 gently on to her back and made love to her again. It seemed impossible,

 but for Tara every time was better than the last, and when he left her

 and rose from the campbed, she felt weak and soft and warm as molten

 wax.

 'Moses,' she said softly, and he paused in buttoning the pale blue

 open-neck shirt.

 'What is it?" he asked softly.

 She had to tell him about the child she was carrying. She sat up,

 letting the rumpled sheet fall to her waist and her breasts, already

 heavy with her pregnancy, were dappled with tiny blue veins beneath the

 ivory smooth skin.

 'Moses,' she repeated stupidly, trying to find the courage to say it,

 and he came to her.

 'Tell me,' he commanded, and her courage failed her. She could not tell

 him, the risk that it would drive him away was too great.

 'I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you have given me this

 opportunity to be of service to the struggle." It was much easier to

 contact Kitty Godolphin than she had expected it to be. She borrowed

 Marion's pick-up and drove five miles to the nearest village, and she

 telephoned from the public booth in the little single-roomed post

 office. The operator in the Sunnyside Hotel put her through to the

 room, and a firm young voice with a Louisiana lilt said, 'Kitty

 Godolphin. Who is this please?" 'I'd rather not give my name, Miss

 Godolphin. But I would like to meet you as soon as possible. I have a

 story for you, an important and dramatic story." 'When and where do you

 want to meet?" 'It will take me two hours to reach your hotel." 'I'll be

 waiting for you,' said'Kitty Godolphin, and it was as easy as that.

 Tara checked with Reception and the girl at the desk phoned through to

 Miss Godolphin's suite and then told her to go up.

 A young girl, slim and pretty, in a tartan shirt and blue jeans opened

 the door to Tara's ring.

 'Hello, is Miss Godolphin in? She's expecting me." The girl looked her

 over carefully, taking in her khaki bush skirt and mosquito boots, her

 tanned arms and face and the scarf tied around her thick auburn hair.

 'I'm Kitty Godolphin,' said the girl, and Tara could not hide her

 surprise.

 'Okay, don't tell me. You expected an old bag. Come on in and tell me

 who you are." In the lounge Tara removed her sunglasses and faced her.

 'My name is Tara Courtney. I understand you know my husband.

 Shasa Courtney, Chairman of Courtney Mining and Finance." She saw the

 shift in the other woman's expression, and the sudden hard gleam in

 those eyes that she had thought were frank and innocent.

 'I meet a lot of people in my business, Mrs Courtney." Tara had not

 expected the hostility, and hurriedly she tried to forestall it.

 'I'm sure you do --' 'Did you want to talk to me about your husband,

 lady? I don't have a lot of time to waste." Kitty looked pointedly at

 her wristwatch.

 It was a man's Rolex and she wore it on the inside of her wrist like a

 soldier.

 'No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you that impression. I have come

 here on behalf of someone else, someone who is unable to come to you

 himselfi' 'Why not?" Kitty asked sharply,' and Tara readjusted her early

 estimate of her. Despite her childlike appearance, she was as tough and

 sharp as any man Tara had ever met.

 'Because he is being watched by the police special branch, and because

 what he is planning is dangerous and illegal." Tara saw instantly that

 she had said the right things and had aroused the newswoman's instinct.

 'Sit down, Mrs Courtney. Do you want some coffee?" She picked up the

 house phone and ordered from room service, then turned back to Tara.

 'Now tell me. Who is this mysterious person?" 'You probably have never

 heard of him, but soon the whole world will know his name,' Tara said.

 'It's Moses Gama." 'Moses Gama, hell!" Kitty Godolphin exclaimed. 'For

 six weeks now I've beefi trying to catch up with him. I was beginning to

 think he was just a rumour, and that he didn't really exist. A scarlet

 pimpernel." 'He exists,' Tara assured her.

 'Can v9u et me an interview_with_him2',KitI'.emande.oanfious that she

 leaned across and grasped Tara's wrist impulsively. 'He's an Emmy

 score, that one. He is the one person in South Africa I really want to

 talk to." 'I can do a whole lot better than that,' Tara promised her.

 ?

 Shasa Courtney was determined that his sons would not grow up believing

 that the affluent white suburbs of Cape Town and Johannesburg were all

 of Africa. This safari was to show them the old Africa, primeval and

 eternal, and to establish for them a firm link with their history and

 their ancestors, to engender in them a sense of pride in what they were

 and in those who had gone before them.

 He had set aside six whole weeks, the full period of the boys' school

 holidays, for this venture, and that had taken a great deal of planning

 and considerable heart-searching. The affairs of the company were so

 many-faceted and complex that he did not like leaving them, even in such

 capable hands as those of David Abrahams. The shaft-sinking at Silver

 River was going ahead apace, and they were down almost a thousand feet

 already while work on the plant was also far advanced. Apart from that,

 the first six pilchard trawlers for the factory at Walvis Bay were due

 for delivery in three weeks' time, and the canning plant was on the

 water from the suppliers in the United Kingdom. There was so much

 happening, so many problems that could demand his immediate decision.

 Centaine was, of course, always on hand for David to consult with, but

 of late she had withdrawn more and more from the running of the company,

 and there were many eventualities that might arise that could only be

 dealt with by Shasa personally. Shasa weighed up the chances of this

 happening against what was necessary, in his view, for his sons'

 education and understanding of their place in Africa and their inherited

 duties and responsibilities, and decided he had to risk it. As a last

 resort he arranged a strict itinerary for the safari, of which both

 Centaine and David had a copy, so that they would know exactly where he

 was during every day of his absence, and a radio contact would be

 maintained with the H'am Mine so that an aircraft could reach any of his

 camps in the deep bush within four or five hours.

 'If you do call me out, then'the reason had better be ironclad,' Shasa

 warned David grimly. 'This is probably the only time in our lives that

 the boys and I will be able to do this." They left from the H'am Mine

 the last week in May. Shasa had taken the boys out of school a few days

 early, which in itself was enough to put everybody in the right mood and

 ensure a splendid beginning. He had commandeered four of the mine's

 trucks and made up a full team of safari boys, including drivers, camp

 servants, skinners, trackers, gunbearers and the chef from the H'am Mine

 Club. Of course, Shasa's own personal hunting vehicle was always kept

 in the mine workshops, tuned to perfection and ready to go at any time.

 It was an ex-army jeep which had been customized and modified by the

 mine engineers without regard to expense. It had everything from

 long-range fuel tanks and gun racks to a shortwave radio set, and the

 seats were upholstered in genuine zebra skin while the paintwork was an

 artistic creation in bush camouflage. Proudly the boys clipped their

 Winchester .22 repeaters into the gun rack beside Shasa's big .375

 Holland and Holland magnum, and dressed in their new khaki bush jackets,

 scrambled into their seats in the jeep. As was the right of the eldest,

 Sean sat up front beside his father, with Michael and Garry in the open

 back.

 'Anybody want to change his mind and stay at home.9' Shasa asked as he

 started the jeep, and they took the question seriously, shaking their

 heads in unison, eyes shining and faces pale with excitement, too

 overcome to speak.

 'Here we go then,' Shasa said and they drove down the hill from the mine

 offices with the convoy of four trucks following them.

 The uniformed mine guards opened the main gates and gave them a flashy

 salute, grinning widely as the jeep passed, and behind them the camp

 boys on the backs of the open trucks started to sing one of the

 traditional safari songs.

 Weep, oh you women, tonight you sleep alone The long road calls us and

 we must go -Their voices rose and fell to the eternal rhythm of Africa,

 full of its promise and mystery, echoing its grandeur and its savagery,

 setting the mood for the magical adventure into which Shasa took his

 sons.

 They drove hard those first two days to get beyond the areas which had

 been spoiled by men's too frequent intrusions with rifle and four-wheel

 drive vehicle, where the veld was almost bare of large game and those

 animals that they did see were in small herds that were running as soon

 as they heard the first hum of the jeep engine and were merely tiny

 specks in their own dust by the time they spotted them.

 Sadly Shasa realized how much had changed since his earliest memory of

 this country. He had been Sean's age then and the herds of springbok

 and gemsbok had been on every side, great herds, trusting and confiding.

 There had been giraffe and lion, and small bands of Bushmen, those

 fascinating little yellow pygmies of the desert. Now, however, wild men

 and beast had all retreated before the inexorable advance of

 civilization deeper and deeper into the wilderness. Even now, Shasa

 could look ahead to the day when there would be no more wilderness, no

 more retreat for the wild things, when the roads and the railway lines

 would criss-cross the land and the endless villages and kraals would

 stand in the desolation they had created. The time when the trees were

 all cut down for firewood, and the grass was eaten to the roots by the

 goaps and the top soil turned to dust and blew on the wind. The vision

 filled him with sadness and a sense of despair, and he had to make a

 conscious effort to throw it off so as not to spoil the experience for

 his sons.

 'I owe them this glimpse of the past. They must know a little of the

 Africa that once was, before it has all gone, so that they will

 understand something of its glory." And he smiled and told them the

 stories, reaching back in his memory to bring out for them all his own

 experiences, and then going back farther, to what he had learned from

 his own mother, and from his grandfather, trying to make clear to them

 the extent and depth of their family's involvement with this land, and

 they sat late around the camp fire that first night, listening avidly

 until, despite themselves, their eyelids drooped and their heads began

 to nod.

 On they went, driving hard all day over rutted tracks, through desert

 scrub and grassland and then through mopani forest, not yet stopping to

 hunt, eating the food they had brought with them from the mine, though

 that night the servants muttered about fresh meat.

 On the third day they left the rudimentary road they had been following

 since dawn. It was nothing more than a double track of tyres that had

 last been used months before, but now Shasa let it swing away towards

 the east and they went on northwards, breaking fresh ground, weaving

 through the open forest until abruptly they came out on the banks of a

 river, not one of the great African rivers like the Kavango, but one of

 its tributaries. Still, it was fifty feet wide, but green and deep, a

 formidable barrier that would have turned back any hunting safari before

 them that had come this far north.

 Two weeks previously Shasahad reconnoitred this entire area fromz the

 air, flying the Mosquito low over the tree tops so that he could count

 the animals in each herd of game, and judge the size of the ivory tusks

 that each elephant carried. He had marked this branch of the river on

 his large-scale map, and had navigated the convoy back to this exact

 spot. He recognized it by the oxbow bend of the banks and the giant

 makuyu trees on the opposite side, with a fish eagle nest in the upper

 branches.

 They camped another two days on the southern river bank while every

 member of the safari, including the three boys and the fat Herero chef,

 helped to build the bridge. They cut the mopani poles in the forest,

 thick as a fat woman's thigh and forty feet long, and dragged them up

 with the jeep. Shasa kept guard against crocodiles, standing high on

 the bank with the .375 magnum under his arm while his naked gangs

 floated the poles out into the centre of the river and set them into the

 mud of the bottom. Then they lashed the cross-ties to them with ropes

 of mopani bark that still wept glutinous sap, red as blood.

 When at last the bridge was complete, they unloaded the vehicles to

 lighten them, and one at a time Shasa drove them out on to the rickety

 structure. It swayed and creaked and rocked under them, but at last he

 had the jeep and all four trucks on the far bank.

 'Now the safari truly begins,' he told the boys. They had entered a

 pocket of country, protected by its remoteness and its natural barriers

 of forest and river from men's over-exploitation, and from the air Shasa

 had seen the herds of buffalo thick as domestic cattle and the clouds of

 white egrets hovering over them.

 That night he told the boys stories about the old elephant hunters

 -'Karamojo' Bell, and Frederick Selous and Sean Courtney their own

 ancestor, Shasa's great-uncle and the namesake of his eldest son.

 'They were tough men, all of them, incredible shots and natural

 athletes. They had to be to survive the hardships and the tropical

 disease. When he was a young man, Sean Courtney hunted on foot in the

 tsetse-fly belt of the Zambezi valley where the temperature reaches 115ø

 at noon, and he could run forty miles in a day after the big tuskers.

 His eye was so sharp he could actually see the flight of his bullet."

 The boys listened with total fascination, pleading with him to continue

 whenever he paused, until at last he told them, 'That's enough. You

 have to be up early tomorrow. Five o'clock in the morning. We are

 going to hunt for the first time." In the dark they drove slowly along

 the northern bank of the river in the open jeep, all of them bundled up

 against the cold for the frost lay thick in the open vleis and crunched

 under the jeep's tyres. In the first feeble light of dawn they found

 where a herd of buffalo had drunk during the night and then gone back

 into the heavy bush.

 They left the jeep on the river bank, and stripped off their padded

 anoraks. Then Shasa put his two Ovambo trackers to the spoor and they

 followed the herd on foot. As they moved silently and swiftly through

 the dense second-growth mopani thickets, Shasa explained it all to the

 boys, speaking in a whisper and relying on hand signals to point out the

 different hoof prints of old bull and cow and calf, or to draw their

 attention to other smaller but equally fascinating animals and birds and

 insects in the forest around them.

 A little before noon they finally came up with the herd. Over a hundred

 of the huge cow-like beasts, with their trumpet-shaped ears and the

 drooping horns that gave them such a lugubrious air. Most of them were

 lying in the mopani shade, ruminating quietly, although one or two of

 the herd bulls were dozing on their feet. The only movement was the

 lazy flick of their tails as the stinging flies swarmed over their

 flanks.

 Shasa showed the boys how to work in close. Using the breeze and every

 stick of cover, freezing whenever one of the great horned heads swung in

 their direction, he took them within thirty feet of the biggest of the

 bulls. They could smell him, the hot rank bovine reek of him, and they

 could hear his breathing puffing through his wet drooling muzzle, hear

 his teeth grinding on his cud, so close they could see the bald patches

 of age on his shoulders and rump and the balls of dried mud from the

 wallow that clung in the stiff black hairs of his back and belly.

 While they held their breaths in delicious terror and watched in total

 fascination, Shasa slowly raised the heavy rifle and aimed into the

 bull's thick neck, just forward of his massive shoulder.

 'Bang!" he shouted, and the great bull plunged forward wildly, crashing

 into the screen of thick mopani, and Shasa gathered his sons and drew

 them into the shelter of one of the grey tree trunks, keeping his arms

 around them while on all sides the panicking herd galloped, huge black

 shapes thundering by, the calves bawling and the old bulls grunting.

 The sounds of their flight dwindled away into the forest though the dust

 of their passage hung misty in the air around them, and Shasa was

 laughing with the joy of it as he let his arms fall from their

 shoulders.

 'Why did you do that?" Sean demanded furiously, turning his face up to

 his father. 'You could have shot him easily - why didn't you kill him?"

 'We didn't come out here to kill,' Shasa explained. 'We came here to

 hunt." 'But --' Sean's outrage turned to bewilderment '-- but what's the

 difference?" 'Ah! That's what you have to learn. That bull was a big

 one, but not big enough, and we have all the meat we need, so I let him

 go.

 That's lesson number one. Now, for lesson number two - none of you is

 going to kill anything until you know all about that animal, understand

 its habits and life cycle, and learn to respect it and hold it in high

 esteem. Then and only then." In camp that evening he gave them each two

 books, which he had had bound in leather with their own names on the

 cover: Roberts' Mammals of South Africa and his Birds of South Africa.

 'I brought these especially for you, and I want you to study them,' he

 ordered. Sean looked appalled, he hated books and studying, but both

 Garry and Mickey hurried to their tent to begin the task.

 Over the days that followed he questioned them on every animal and bird

 they saw. At first the questions were elementary, but he made them

 progressively more difficult and soon they could quote the biological

 names and give him full details of sizes and body weights of males and

 females, their calls and behaviour patterns, distribution and breeding,

 down to the smallest detail. Set an example by his younger brothers,

 even Sean mastered the difficult Latin names.

 However, it was ten days before they were allowed to fire a shot and

 then it was only bird-hunting. Under strict supervision, they were

 allowed to hunt the fat brown francolin and speckled guinea fowl with

 their strange waxen yellow helmets in the scrub along the river. Then

 they had to clean and dress their kill and help the Herero chef to

 prepare and cook it.

 'It's the best meal I've ever eaten,' Sean declared, and his brothers

 agreed with him enthusiastically through full mouths.

 The next morning Shasa told them, 'We need fresh meat for the men." In

 camp there were thirty mouths to feed, all with an enormous appetite for

 fresh meat. 'All right, Sean, what is the scientific name for impala?"

 'Aepyceros Melampus,' Sean gabbled eagerly. 'The Afrikaners call it

 rooibok and it weighs between 130 and 160 pounds." 'That will do,' Shasa

 laughed. 'Go and get your rifle." In a patch of whistling thorn near

 the river, they found a solitary old ram, an outcast from the breeding

 herd. He had been mauled by a leopard and was limping badly on one

 foreleg, but he had a fine pair of lyre-shaped horns. Sean stalked the

 lovely red brown antelope just as Shasa had taught him, using the river

 bank and the wind to get within easy shot, even with the light rifle.

 However, when the boy knelt and raised the Winchester to his shoulder,

 Shasa slipped the safety-catch of his heavy weapon, ready to render the

 coup de gr5ce, if it was needed.

 The impala dropped instantly, shot through the neck, dead before it

 heard the shot, and Shasa went to join his son at the kill.

 As they shook hands, Shasa recognized in Sean the deep atavistic passion

 of the hunter. In some contemporary men that urge had cooled or been

 suppressed - in others it still burned brightly. Shasa and his eldest

 son were of that ilk, and now Shasa stooped and dipped his forefinger in

 the bright warm blood that trickled from the tiny wound in the ram's

 neck and then he traced his finger across $eon's forehead and down each

 cheek.

 'Now you are blooded,' he said, and he wondered when that ceremony had

 first been performed, when the first man had painted his son's face with

 the blood of his first kill, and he knew instinctively that it had been

 back before recorded time, back when they still dressed in skins and

 lived in caves.

 'Now you are a hunter,' he said, and his heart warmed to his son's proud

 and solemn expression. This was not a moment for laughter and chatter,

 it was something deep and significant, something beyond mere words. Sean

 had sensed that and Shasa was proud of him.

 The following day they drew lots and it was Michael's turn to kill.

 Again Shasa wanted a solitary impala ram, so as not to alarm the

 breeding herd, but an animal with a good pair of horns as a trophy for

 the boy. It took them almost all that day of hunting before they found

 the right one.

 Shasa and his two brothers watched from a distance as Michael made his

 stalk. It was a more difficult situation than Sean had been presented

 with, open grassland and a few scattered flat-top acacia thorns, but

 Michael made a stealthy approach on hands and knees, until he reached a

 low ant heap from which to make his shot.

 Michael rose slowly and lifted the light rifle. The ram was still

 unaware, grazing head down thirty paces off, broadside on and offering

 the perfect shot for either spine or heart. Shasa was ready with the

 Holland and Holland to back him, should he wound the impala. Michael

 held his aim, and the seconds drew out. The ram raised its head and

 looked around warily, but Michael was absolutely still, the rifle to his

 shoulder, and the ram looked past him, not seeing him. Then it moved

 away unhurriedly, stopping once to crop a few mouthfuls. It disappeared

 into a clump of taller grass and without having fired, Michael slowly

 lowered his rifle.

 Sean jumped to his feet, ready to rush out and challenge his brother,

 but Shasa restrained him with a hand on his shoulder. 'You and Garry go

 and wait for us back at the jeep,' he said.

 Shasa walked out to where Michael was sitting on the ant heap with the

 unfired Winchester held across his lap. He sat down beside Michael and

 lit a cigarette. Neither of them said anything for almost ten minutes

 and then Michael whispered, 'He looked straight at me. - and he had the

 most beautifut eyes." Shasa dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground

 it out under his heel. They were silent again, and then Michael

 blurted, 'Do I really have to kill something, Dad? Please don't make

 me." 'No, Mickey,' Shasa put his arm around his shoulders. 'You don't

 have to kill anything. And in a different sort of way, I'm just as

 proud of you as I am of Sean." Then it was Garrick's turn. Again it was

 a solitary ram with'a beautiful head of wide-curved horns and the stalk

 was through scattered bush and waist-high grass.

 His spectacles glinting determinedly, Garry began his stalk under

 Shasa's patient supervision. However, he was still a long way out of

 range of the ram, when there was a squawk and Garry disappeared into the

 earth. Only a small cloud of dust marked the spot where he had been.

 The impala raced away into the forest, and Shasa and the two boys ran

 out to where Garry had last been seen. They were guided by muffled

 cries of distress, and a disturbance in the grass.

 Only Garry's legs were still above ground, kicking helplessly in the

 air. Shasa seized them and heaved Garry out of the deep round hole in

 which he was wedged from the waist.

 It was the entrance to an antbear burrow. Intent on his stalk, Garry

 had tripped over his own bootlace and tumbled headlong into the hole.

 The lenses of his spectacles were thick with dust and he had skinned his

 cheek and torn his bushjacket. These injuries were insignificant when

 compared to the damage to his pride. In the next three days Garry made

 as many attempts to stalk. All of these were detected by his intended

 victim, long before he was within gunshot.

 Each time as he watched the antelope dash away, Garry's dejection was

 more abject and Sean's derision more raucous.

 'Next time we will do it together,' Shasa consoled him, and the

 following day he coached Garry quietly through the stalk, carrying the

 rifle for him, pointing out the obstacles over which Garry would have

 tripped, and leading him the last ten yards by the hand until they were

 in a good position for the shot. Then he handed him the loaded rifle.

 'In the neck,' he whispered. 'You can't miss." The ram had the best

 trophy horns they had seen yet, and he was twenty-five yards away.

 Garry lifted the rifle and peered through spectacles that were misted

 with the heat of excitement and his hands began to shake uncontrollably.

 Watching Garry's face screwed up with tension, and seeing the erratic

 circles that the rifle barrel was describing, Shasa recognized the

 classic symptoms of 'buck fever' and reached out to prevent Garry

 firing. He was too late, and the ram jumped at the sharp crack of the

 shot, and then looked around with a puzzled expression.

 Neither Shasa nor the animal, and least of all Garry, knew where the

 bullet had gone.

 'Garry? Shasa tried to prevent him, but he fired again as wildly, and a

 puff of dust flicked from the earth half-way between them and the ram.

 The impala went up into the air in a fluid and graceful leap, a.

 flash of silken cinnamon-coloured skin and a glint of sweeping horns and

 then it was bounding away on those long delicate legs, so lightly it

 seemed not to touch the earth.

 They walked back to the jeep in silence, Garry trailing a few paces

 behind his father, and his elder brother greeted him with a peal of

 merry laughter.

 'Next time throw your specs at him, Garry." 'I think you need a little

 more practice before you have another go at it,' Shasa told him

 tactfully. 'But don't worry. Buck fever is something that can attack

 anyone - even the oldest and most experienced." They moved camp, going

 deeper into the little Eden they had discovered. Now every day they

 came across elephant droppings, knee-high piles of fibrous yellow lumps

 the size of tennis balls, full of chewed bark and twigs and the stones

 of wild fruit in which the baboons and red-cheeked francolin delved

 delightedly for titbits.

 Shasa showed the boys how to thrust a finger into the pile of dung to

 test for body heat and judge its freshness, and how to read the huge

 round pad-marks in the dust. To differentiate between bull and cow,

 between front and rear foot, to tell the direction of travel and to

 estimate the age of the animal. 'The tread is worn off the feet of the

 old ones - smooth as an old car tyre." Then, at last, they picked up the

 spoor of a huge old bull elephant, with smooth pad-marks the size of

 garbage-bin lids, and they left the jeep and followed him on foot for

 two days, sleeping on the spoor, eating the hard rations they carried.

 In the late afternoon of the second day, they caught up with the bull.

 He was in almost impenetrable jess bush through which they crept on

 hands and knees, and they were almost within touching distance when they

 made out the loom of the colossal grey body through the interlaced

 branches.

 Eleven foot high at the shoulder, he was grey as a storm cloud, and his

 belly rumbled like distant thunder. One at a time Shasa took the boys

 up closer to have a good look at him, and then they retreated out of the

 jess bush and left the outcast to his eternal wanderings.

 'Why didn't you shoot him, Dad?" Garry stuttered. 'After following all

 that way?" 'Didn't you see? One tusk was broken off at the tip and

 despite his bulk, the other tusk was pretty small." They limped back

 over the miles on feet that were covered in blisters, and it took two

 rest days in camp for the boys to recover from a march that had been

 beyond their strength.

 Often during the nights they were awakened and lay in their narrow camp

 beds, thrilling to the shrieking cries of the hyena scavenging the

 garbage dump beside the lean-to kitchen. They were accompanied by the

 soprano yelping bark of the little dog-like jackals. The boys learned

 to recognize all these and the other sounds of the night - the birds

 such as the night jar and the dikkop, the smaller mammals, the night

 ape, the genet and the civet, and the insects and reptiles that squealed

 and hummed and croaked in the reeds of the waterhole.

 They bathed infrequently, in matters of hygiene Shasa was more

 easy-going than their mother and a thousand times more so than their

 grandmother, and they ate the delicious concoctions that the Herero chef

 dreamed up for them with plenty of sugar and condensed milk. School was

 far away and they were happy as they had ever been with their father's

 complete and undivided attention and his wonderful stories and

 instruction.

 'We haven't seen any signs of lions yet,' Shasa remarked at breakfast

 one morning. 'That's unusual. There are plenty of buffalo about, and

 the big cats usually keep close to the herds." Mention of lions gave the

 boys delightful cold shivers, and it was as though Shasa's words had

 conjured'up the beast.

 That afternoon as the jeep bumped and weaved slowly through the long

 grass avoiding antbear holes and fallen logs, they came out on the edge

 of a long dry vlei, one of those grassy depressions of the African bush

 that during the rainy season become shallow lakes and at other times are

 treacherous swamps where a vehicle can easily bog down, or in the driest

 months are smooth treeless expanses resembling a well-kept polo ground.

 Shasa stopped the jeep in the tree line and searched the far side of the

 vlei, panning his binoculars slowly to pick up any game standing amongst

 the shadows of the tall grey mopani trees on the far side.

 'Only a couple of bat-eared foxes,' he remarked, and passed the

 binoculars to the boys. They laughed at the antics of these quaint

 little animals, as they hunted grasshoppers in the short green grass in

 the centre of the vlei.

 'Hey, Dad!" Sean's tone changed. 'There is a big old baboon in the top

 of that tree." He passed the binoculars back to his father.

 'No,' Shasa said, without lowering the glasses. 'That's not a baboon.

 It's a human being!" He spoke in the vernacular to the two Ovambo

 trackers in the back of the jeep, and there was a quick but heated

 discussion, everybody taking differing views.

 'All right, let's go and take a look." He drove the jeep out into the

 open vlei, and before they were half-way across there was no longer any

 doubt. In the top branches of a high mopani crouched a child, a little

 black girl dressed only in a loin cloth of cheap blue trade cotton.

 'She's all alone,' Shasa exclaimed. 'Out here, fifty miles from the V'

 nearest 11age.

 Shasa sent the jeep roaring across the last few hundred yards then

 pulled up in a rolling cloud of dust and ran to the base of the mopani.

 He shouted up at the almost naked child. 'Come down!" and gestured to

 reinforce the command that she would certainly not understand.

 She neither moved nor raised her head from the branch on which she lay.

 Shasa looked around him quickly. At the base of the tree lay a blanket

 roll which had been ripped open, the threadbare blankets had been

 shredded and torn. A skin bag had also been xi.pned.and_ ....

 the-dry-maize--mea'r?t--contaiiaed had poured into the dust, there was a

 black three-legged pot lying on its side, a crude axe with the blade

 rough forged from a piece of scrap mild steel, and the shaft of a spear

 snapped off at the back of the head, but the point was missing.

 A little farther off were scattered a few rags on which blood stains had

 dried black as tar, and some other objects which were covered by a

 living cloak of big shimmering iridescent flies. As Shasa approached,

 the flies rose in a buzzing cloud, revealing the pathetic remains on

 which they had been feasting. There were two pairs of human hands and

 feet, gnawed off at the wrists and ankles, and then - horribly - the

 heads. A man and a woman, their necks chewed through and the exposed

 vertebrae crushed by great fangs. Both heads were intact, although the

 mouths and nostrils and empty eyesockets were filled with the white rice

 pudding of eggs laid by the swarming flies. The grass was flattened over

 a wide area, crusted with dried blood, and the trodden dust was

 patterned with the unmistakable pug-marks of a fully grown male lion.

 'The lion always leaves the head and hands and feet,' his Ovambo tracker

 said in a matter-of-fact voice, and Shasa nodded and turned to warn the

 boys to stay in the car. He was too late.

 They had followed him and were studying the grisly relics with varied

 expressions - Sean with ghoulish relish, Michael with nauseated horror

 and Garry with intense clinical interest.

 Swiftly Shasa covered the severed heads with the torn blankets.

 He smelt that they were already in an advanced state of decomposition:

 they must have lain here many days. Then once again he turned his

 attention to the child in the branches high above them, calling urgently

 to her.

 'She is dead,' said his tracker. 'These people have been dead four days

 at least. The little one has been in the tree all that time.

 She is surely dead." Shasa would not accept that. He removed his boots

 and safari jacket and climbed into the mopani. He went up cautiously,

 testing each hand-hold and every branch before committing his weight to

 it.

 To a height of ten feet above the ground the bark of the tree had been

 lacerated by claws. When the child was directly above him, almost

 within reach, Shasa called to her softly in Ovambo and then in Zulu.

 'Hey, little one, can you hear me?" There was no movement and he saw

 that her limbs were thin as sticks, and her skin ash-grey with that

 peculiar dusty look that in the African presages death. Shasa eased

 himself up the last few feet and reached up to touch her leg. The skin

 was warm, and he felt an unaccountable rush of relief. He had expected

 the soft cold touch of death. However, the child was unconscious and

 her dehydrated body was light as a bird as Shasa gently loosened her

 grip on the branch and lifted her against his chest. He climbed down

 slowly, shielding her from any jarring or rough movement and when he

 reached the ground carried her to the jeep and laid her in the shade.

 The first-aid kit contained a comprehensive collection of medical

 equipment. Long ago, Shasa had been forced to minister to one of his

 gunbearers mauled by a wounded buffalo and after that he never hunted

 without the kit, and he had learned to use all of it.

 Swiftly he prepared a drip set and probed for the vein in the child's

 arm. The vein had collapsed, her pulse was weak and erratic, and he had

 to try again in the foot. This time he got the canula in and

 administered a full bag of Ringers lactate, and while it was flowing he

 added ten ccs of glucose solution to it. Only then did he attempt to

 make the child take water orally, and her swallowing reflex was still

 evident. A few drops at a time he got a full cup down her throat, and

 she showed the first signs of life, whimpering and stirring restlessly.

 As he worked, he gave orders to his trackers over his shoulder.

 'Take the spade, bury those people deep. It is strange that the hyena

 haven't found them yet, but make sure they don't do so later." One of

 the trackers held the child on his lap during the rough journey back to

 camp, protecting her from the jolts and heavy bumps. As soon as they

 arrived, Shasa strung the aerial of the short-wave radio to the highest

 tree in the grove, and after an hour of frustration finally made

 contact, not with the H'am Mine, but with one of the Courtney Company's

 geological exploration units that was a hundred miles closer.

 Even then the contact was faint and scratchy and intermittent, but with

 many repetitions he got them to relay a message to the mine. They were

 to send an aircraft, with the mine doctor, to the landing strip at the

 police post at Rundu as soon as possible.

 By this time, the little girl was conscious and talking to the Ovambo

 trackers in a weak piping voice that reminded Shasa of the chirping of a

 nestling sparrow. She was speaking an obscure dialect of one of the

 river people from Angola in the north, but the Ovambo was married to a

 woman of her tribe and could translate for Shasa.

 The story she told was harrowing.

 She and her parents had been on a journey to see her grandparents at the

 river village of Shakawe in the south, a trek on foot of hundreds of

 miles. Carrying all their worldly possessions, they had taken a short

 cut through this remote and deserted country when they had become aware

 that a lion was dogging them, following them through the forest - at

 first keeping its distance and then closing in.

 Her father, an intrepid hunter, had realized the futility of stopping

 and trying to build some sort of shelter or of taking to the trees where

 the beast would besiege them. Instead he had tried to keep the lion off

 by shouting and clapping while he hurried to reach the river and the

 sanctuary of one of the fishing villages.

 The child described the final attack when the animal, its thick ruff of

 black mane erect, had rushed in at the family, grunting and roaring. Her

 mother had only time enough to push the girl into the lowest branch of

 the mopani before the lion was on them. Her father had stood gallantly

 to meet it, and thrust his long spear into its chest, but the spear had

 snapped and the lion leapt upon him and tore out his bowels with a

 single swipe of curved yellow claws. Then it had sprung at the mother

 as she was attempting to climb into the mopani and hooked its claws into

 her back and dragged her down.

 In her small birdlike voice the child described how the lion had eaten

 the corpses of her parents, down to the heads and feet and hands, while

 she watched from the upper branches. It had taken two days over the

 grisly feast, at intervals pausing to lick the spear wound in its

 shoulder. On the third day it had attempted to reach the child, ripping

 at the trunk of the mopani and roaring horribly. At last it had given

 up and wandered away into the forest, limping heavily with the wound.

 Even then the child had been too terrified to leave her perch and she

 had clung there until at last she had passed out with exhaustion and

 grief, exposure and fear.

 While she was relating all this, the camp servants were refuelling the

 jeep and preparing supplies for the journey to Rundu. Shasa left as

 soon as this was done, taking the boys with him. He would not leave

 them in the camp while there was a wounded man-eating lion roaming in

 the vicinity.

 They drove through the night, recrossing their jerry-built bridge and

 retracing their tracks until the following morning they intersected the

 main Rundu road, and that afternoon they finally arrived, dusty and

 exhausted, at the airstrip. The blue and silver Mosquito that Shasa had

 left at H'am Mine was parked in the shade of the trees at the edge of

 the strip and the company pilot and the doctor were squatting under the

 wing, waiting patiently.

 Shasa gave the child into the doctor's care, and went quickly through

 the pile of urgent documents and messages that the pilot had brought

 with him. He scribbled out orders and replies to these, and a long

 letter of instruction to David Abrahams. When the Mosquito took off

 again, the sick girl went with them. She would receive first-rate

 medical attention at the mine hospital, and Shasa would decide what to

 do with the little orphan once she was fully recovered.

 The return to the safari camp was more leisurely than the outward

 journey, and over the next few days the excitement of the lion adventure

 was forgotten in the other absorbing concerns of safari life, not least

 of which was the business of Garry's first kill. Bad luck now combined

 with his lack of coordination and poor marksmanship to cheat him of this

 experience that he hungered for more than any other, while on the other

 hand Sean succeeded in providing meat for the camp at every attempt.

 'What we are going to do is practise a little more on the pigeons,'

 Shasa decided, after one of Garry's least successful outings.

 In the evenings the flocks of fat green pigeons came flighting in to

 feast on the wild figs in the grove beside the waterhole.

 Shasa took the boys down as soon as' the sun lost its heat, and placed

 them in the hides they had built of saplings and dried grass, each hide

 far enough from the next and carefully sited so that there was no danger

 of a careless shot causing an accident. This afternoon Shasa put Sean

 into a hide at the near end of the glade, with Michael, who had once

 again declined to take an active part in the sport, to keep him company

 and pick up the fallen birds for him.

 Then Shasa and Garry set off together for the far side of the grove.

 Shasa was leading with Garry following him as the game path twisted

 between the thick yellow trunks of the figs. Their bark was yellow and

 scaly as the skin of a giant reptile, and the bunches of figs grew

 directly on the trunks rather than on the tips of the branches. Beneath

 the trees the undergrowth was tangled and thick, and the game path was

 so twisted that they could see only a short distance ahead, The light

 was poor this late in the afternoon, with the branches meeting overhead.

 Shasa came around another turn and the lion was in the game path,

 walking straight towards him only fifty paces away. In the instant he

 saw it, Shasa realized that it was the man-eater. It was a huge beast,

 the biggest he had ever seen in a lifetime of hunting. It stood higher

 than his waist, and its mane was coal-black, long and shaggy and dense,

 shading to blue grey down the beast's flanks and back.

 It was an old lion, its flat face criss-crossed with scars. Its mout

 was gaping, panting with pain as it limped towards him, and he so, that

 the spear wound in the shoulder had mortified, the raw ties crimson as a

 rose petal and the fur around the wound wet and slicke, down where the

 lion had been licking it. The flies swarmed to th wound, irritating and

 stinging, and the lion was in a vicious mood sick with age and pain. It

 lifted its dark and shaggy head and Shas looked into the pale yellow

 eyes and saw the agony and blind rag, they contained.

 'Garry!" he said urgently. 'Walk backwards! Don't run, but ge out of

 here,' and without looking around he swung the sling of the rifle off

 his shoulder.

 The lion dropped into a crouch, its long tail with the black bust of

 hair at the tip lashed back and forth like a metronome, as il gathered

 itself for the charge, and its yellow eyes fastened on Shasa.

 a focus for all its rage. ú Shasa knew there would be time for only a

 single shot, for it would cover the ground between them in a blazing

 blur of speed. The light was too bad and the range was too far for that

 single shot to be conclusive, he would let it come in to where there

 could be no doubt, and the big 300-grain soft-nosed bullet from the

 Holland and Holland would shatter its skull and blow its brains to a

 mush.

 The lion launched into its charge, keeping low to the earth, snaking in

 and grunting as it came, gut-shaking bursts of sound through the gaping

 jaws lined with long yellow fangs. Shasa braced himself and brought up

 the rifle, but before he could fire, there was the sharp crack of the

 little Winchester beside him and the lion collapsed in the middle of his

 charge, going down head first and cartwheeling, flopping over on its

 back to expose the soft butter-yellow fur of its belly, its limbs

 stretching and relaxing, the long curved talons in its huge paws slowly

 retracting into the pads, the pink tongue lolling out of its open jaws,

 and the rage dying out of those pale yellow eyes. From the tiny bullet

 hole between its eyes a thin serpent of blood crawled down to dribble

 from its brow into the dirt beneath it.

 In astonishment Shasa lowered his rifle and looked round. Beside him

 stood Garry, his head at the level of Shasa's lowest rib, the little

 Winchester still at his shoulder, his face set and deadly pale, and his

 spectacles glinting in the gloom beneath the trees.

 'You killed it,' Shasa said stupidly. 'You stood your ground and killed

 it." Shasa walked forward slowly and stooped over the carcass of the

 man-eater. He shook his head in amazement, and then looked back at his

 son. Garry had not yet lowered the rifle, but he was beginning now to

 tremble with delayed terror. Shasa dipped his finger into the blood

 that dribbled from the wound in the man-eater's forehead, then walked

 back to where Garry stood. He painted the ritual stripes on the boy's

 forehead and cheeks.

 'Now you are a man and I'm proud of you,' he said. Slowly the colour

 flushed back into Garry's cheeks and his lips stopped trembling, and

 then his face began to glow. It was an expression of such pride and

 unutterable joy that Shasa felt his throat close up and tears sting his

 eyelids.

 Every servant came from the camp to view the man-eater and to hear Shasa

 describe the details of the hunt. Then, by the light of the lanterns,

 they carried the carcass back. While the skinners went to work, the men

 sang the song of the hunter in Garry's honour.

 Sean was torn between incredulous admiration and deepest envy of his

 brother, while Michael was fulsome in his praises. Garry refused to

 wash the dried lion's blood from his face when at last, well after

 midnight, Shasa finally ordered them to bed. At breakfast he still wore

 the crusted stripes of blood on his beaming grubby face and Michael read

 aloud the heroic poem he had written in Garry's honour. It began: With

 lungs to blast the skies with sound And breath hot as the blacksmith's

 forge Eyes as yellow as the moon's full round And the lust on human

 flesh to gorge Shasa hid a smile at the laboured rhyming, and at the end

 applauded as loudly as the rest of them. After breakfast they all

 trooped out to watch the skinners dressing out the lion-skin, pegging it

 fur side down in the shade, scraping away the yellow subcutaneous fat

 and rubbing in coarse salt and alum.

 'Well, I still think it died of a heart attack,' Sean could suppress his

 envy no longer, and Garry rounded on him furiously.

 'We all know what a clever dick you are. But when you shoot your first

 lion, then you can come and talk to me, smarty pants. All you are good

 for is a few little old impala!" It was a long speech, delivered in

 white heat, and Garry never stumbled nor stuttered once. It was the

 first time Shasa had seen him stand up to Sean's casual bullying, and he

 waited for Sean to assert his authority. For seconds it hung in the

 balance, he could see Sean weighing it up, deciding whether to tweak the

 spikes of hair at Garry's temple or to give him a chestnut down the

 ribs. He could see also that Garry was ready for it, his fists clenched

 and his lips set in a pale determined line. Suddenly Sean grinned that

 charming smile.

 'Only kidding,' he announced airily, and turned back to admire the tiny

 bullet-hole in the skull. 'Wow! Right between the eyes? It was a

 peace offering.

 Garry looked bemused and uncertain. It was the first time that had

 forced Sean to back down, and he wasn't able immediately grasp that he

 had succeeded.

 Shasa stepped up and put his arm around Garry's shoulders. 'E you know

 what I'm going to do, champ? I'm going to have the he fully mounted for

 the wall in your room, with eyes and everythin he said.

 For the first time, Shasa was aware that Garry had develope hard little

 muscles in his shoulders and upper arm. He had alwa, thought him a

 runt. Perhaps he had never truly looked at the chi] before.

 Then suddenly it was over, and the servants were breaking camp an

 packing the tents and beds on to the trucks, and appallingly th prospect

 of the return to Weltevreden and school loomed ahead c them. Shasa tried

 to keep their spirits jaunty with stories and song on the long drive

 back to H'am Mine but with every mile the boy were more dejected.

 On the last day when the hills which the Bushmen call the 'Plac, of All

 Life' floated on the horizon ahead of them, detached from th earth by

 the shimmering heat mirage, Shasa asked, 'Have you gentle men decided

 what you are going to do when you leave school?" I was an attempt to

 cheer them up, more than a serious enquiry. 'Who about you, Sean?" 'I

 want to do what we have been doing. I want to be a hunter, or] elephant

 hunter like great-grand-uncle Sean." 'Splendid? Shasa agreed. 'Only

 problem I can see is that you are at least sixty years too late." 'Well

 then,' said Sean, Tll be a soldier - I like shooting things." A shadow

 passed behind Shasa's eyes before he looked at Michael.

 'What about you, Mickey?" 'I want to be a writer. I will work as a

 newspaper reporter and in my spare time I'll write poetry and great

 books." 'You'll starve to death, Mickey,' Shasa laughed, and then he

 swivelled around to Garry who was leaning over the back of the driving

 seat.

 'What about you, champ?" 'I'm going to do what you do, Dad." 'And what

 is it ! do?" Shasa demanded with interest.

 'You are the chairman of Courtney Mining and Finance, and you tell

 everybody else what to do. That's what I want to be one day, chairman

 of Courtney Mining and Finance." Shasa stopped smiling and was silent

 for a moment, studying the child's determined expression, then he said

 lightly, 'Well then, it looks as though it's up to you and me to support

 the elephant hunter and the poet." And he ran his hand over Garry's

 already unruly hair. It no longer required any effort to make an

 affectionate gesture towards his ugly duckling.

 They came singing across the rolling grasslands of Zululand, and they

 were one hundred strong. All of them were members of the Buffaloes and

 Hendrick Tabaka had carefully picked them for this special honour guard.

 They were the best, and all of them were dressed in tribal regalia,

 feathers and furs and monkey-skin capes, kilts of cow-tails. They

 carried only fighting-sticks, for the strictest tradition forbade metal

 weapons of any kind on this day.

 At the head of the column Moses Gama and Hendrick Tabaka trotted. They

 also had set aside their European clothing for the occasion, and of all

 their men they alone wore leopard-skin cloaks, as was their noble right.

 Half a mile behind them rose the dust of the cattle herd.

 This was the lobola, the marriage price, two hundred head of prime

 beasts, as had been agreed. The herd-boys were all of them sons of the

 leading warriors who had ridden in the cattle trucks with their charges

 during the three-hundred-mile journey from the Witwatersrand.  In charge

 of the herd-boys were Wellington and Raleigh Tabaka and they had

 detrained the herd at Ladyburg railway station. Like their father, they

 had discarded their western-style clothing for the occasion and were

 dressed in loincloths, and armed with their fighting-sticks, and they

 danced and called to the cattle, keeping them in a tight bunch, both of

 them excited and filled with self-importance by the task they had been

 allotted.

 Ahead of them rose the high escarpment beyond the little town of

 Ladyburg. The slopes were covered with dark forests of black wattle and

 all of it was Courtney land, from where the waterfall smoked with spray

 in the sunlight around the great curve of hills. All ten thousand acres

 of it belonged to Lady Anna Courtney, the relict of Sir Garrick Courtney

 and to Storm Anders, who was the daughter of General Sean Courtney.

 However, beyond the waterfall lay a hundred choice acres of land which

 had been left to Sangane Dinizulu in terms of the will of General Sean

 Courtney, for he had been a faithful and beloved retainer of the

 Courtney family as had his lath Mbejane Dinizulu before him.

 The road descended the escarpment in a series of hairpin bend and when

 Moses Gama shaded his eyes and stared ahead, he so another band of

 warriors coming down it to meet them. They we many more in number,

 perhaps five hundred strong. Like Mose party they were dressed in full

 regimentals, with plumes of fur an feathers on their heads and war

 rattles on their wrists and ankle The two parties halted at the foot of

 the escarpment, and from hundred paces faced each other, though still

 they sang and stampe and brandished their weapons.

 The shields of the Zulus were matched, selected from dapple cowhides of

 white and chocolate brown, and the brows of the wal riors that carried

 them were bound with strips of the same dapple hide while their kilts

 and their plumes were cow-tails of purest whit They made a daunting and

 warlike show, all big men, their bodie gleaming with sweat in the

 sunlight, their eyes bloodshot with din and excitement and the pots of

 millet beer they had already downec Facing them Moses felt his nerves

 crawl with a trace of the terra that these men had for two hundred years

 inspired in all the other tribes of Africa, and to suppress it he

 stamped and sang as loudly a his Buffaloes who pressed closely around

 him. On this his weddinl day, Moses Gama had put aside all the manners

 and mores of th west, and slipped back easily into his African origins

 and his hear pumped and thrilled to the rhythms and the pulse of this

 horst continent.

 From the Zulu ranks opposite him sprang a champion, a magnificent figure

 of a man with the strip of leopard skin around hi, brow that declared

 his royal origins. He was one 'of Victorin Dinizulu's elder brothers,

 and Moses knew he was a qualified lawyel with a large practice at

 Eshowe, the Zululand capital, but today he was all African, fierce and

 threatening as he swirled in the giya, the challenge dance.

 He leapt and spun and shouted his own praises and those of his family,

 daring the world, challenging the men who faced him, while behind him

 his comrades drummed with their sticks on the ravhide shields, and the

 sound was like distant thunder, the last sound that a million victims

 had ever heard, the death-knell of Swazi and Xhosa, of Boer and Briton

 in the days when the impis of Chaka and Dingaan and Cetewayo had swept

 across the land, from Isandhlawana, the Hill of the Little Hand, where

 seven hundred British infantry were cut down in one of the worst

 military reverses that England had ever suffered in Africa, to the

 'Place of Weeping' which the Boers named 'Weenen' for their grief for

 the women and children who died to that same dreadful drum roll when the

 impis came swarming down across the Tugela river, to a thousand other

 nameless and forgotten killing grounds where the lesser tribes had

 perished before the men of Zulu.

 At last the Zulu champion staggered back into the ranks, streaked with

 sweat and dust, his chest heaving and froth upon his lips, and now it

 was Moses' turn to giya, and he danced out from amongst his Buffaloes,

 and leapt shoulder-high with his leopard-skins swirling around him. His

 limbs shone like coal freshly cut from the face, and his eyes and teeth

 were white as mirrors flashing in the sunlight. His voice rang from the

 escarpment, magnified by the echoes, and though the men facing him could

 not understand the words, the force and meaning of them was clear, his

 haughty disdain evident in every gesture. They growled and pressed

 forward, while his own Buffaloes were goaded by his example, their blood

 coming to the boil, ready to rush forward and join battle with their

 traditional foe, ready to perpetuate the bloody vendetta that had

 already run a hundred years.

 At the very last moment, when violence and inevitable death were only a

 heartbeat away, and rage was as thick in the air as the static

 electricity of the wildest summer thunderstorm, Moses Gama stopped

 dancing abruptly, posing like a heroic statue before them - and so great

 was the force of his personality, so striking his presence, that the

 drumming of shields and the growl of battle rage died away.

 Into the silence Moses Gama called in the Zulu language. 'I bring the

 marriage price!" and he held his stick aloft, a signal to the herdboys

 who followed the marriage party.

 Lowing and bawling, adding their dust to the dust of the dancers, the

 herd was driven forward and immediately the mood of the Zulus changed.

 For a thousand years, since they had come down from the far north,

 following the tsetse-fly-free corridors down the continent with their

 herds, the Nguni peoples from which the Zulu tribe would emerge under

 the black emperor Chaka, had been cattle men. Their animals were their

 wealth and their treasure. They loved cattle as other men love women

 and children. Almost from the day they could walk unaided, the boys

 tended the herds, living with them in the veld from dawn to dusk of

 every day, establishing with them a bond and almost mystic communion,

 protecting them from predators with their very lives, talking to them

 and handling them and coming to know them completely. It was said that

 King Chaka knew every individual beast in his royal herds, and that out

 of a hundred thousand head he would know immediately if one were missing

 and would ask for it with a complete description, and not hesitate to

 order his executioners with their knobkerries to dash out the brains of

 even the youngest herd-boy if there was even a suspicion of his

 negligence.

 So it was a committee of strict and expert judges who put asi the

 dancing and posturing and boasting, and instead applied the selves to

 the serious business of appraising.the bride price. Ea animal was

 dragged from the herd, and amid a buzz of cornroe and speculation and

 argument, was minutely examined. Its lien and trunk were palpated by

 dozens of hands simultaneously, its ja were forced open to expose the

 teeth and tongue, its head twisted that its ears and nostrils could be

 peered into, its udders stroked or weighed in the palm, its tail lifted

 to estimate its calf-bearing histo: and potential. Then finally, almost

 reluctantly, each animal w declared acceptable by old Sangane Dinizulu

 himself, the father the bride. No matter how hard they tried, they

 could find no groun( for rejecting a single animal. The Ovambo and the

 Xhosa love the cattle every bit as much as the Zulu, and are as expert

 in their judgement. Moses and Hendrick had exercised all their skills

 in makin their selection, for pride and honour were at stake.

 It took many hours for every one of the two hundred animals to b

 examined while the bridegroom's party, still keeping aloof from th

 Zulus, squatted in the short grass on the side of the road, pretendin

 indifference to the proceedings. The sun was hot and the dust aggra

 voted the men's thirst, but no refreshment was offered while th,

 scrutiny went on.

 Then at last Sangane Dinizulu, his silver pate shining in the sun but

 his body still upright and regal, called his herd-boys. JosepI Dinizulu

 came forward. As the senior herdsman, the old man gay the herd into his

 care. Although his exhortations were severe and he scowled most

 ferociously, the old man's affection for his youngesl son was

 ill-concealed, as was his delight at the quality of the stock which made

 up the marriage price. So when he turned and for the first time greeted

 his future son-in-law, he was having great difficulty in suppressing his

 smiles, they kept shooting out like beams of sunlight through cloud

 holes and were just as swiftly extinguished.

 With dignity he embraced Moses Gama, and though he was a tall man, he

 had to reach up to. do so. Then he stepped back and clapped his hands,

 ' calling to the small party of young women who were sitting a little

 way off.

 Now they rose and helped each other to settle the enormous clay pots of

 beer upon each other's heads. Then they formed a line and came forward,

 singing and undulating their hips, although their heads remained steady

 and not a drop slopped over the rims of the pots. They were all

 unmarried girls, none of them wore the high clay headdress or the

 matron's leather cloak, and above their short beaded skirts their bodies

 were oiled and stark naked so their pert young breasts joggled and

 bounced to the rhythm of the song of welcome and the wedding guests

 murmured and smiled appreciatively.

 Although deep down old Sangane Dinizulu disapproved of marriage outside

 the tribe of Zulu, the lobola had been good and his future son-in-law

 was, by all accounts, a man of stature and importance.

 None could reasonably object to suitors of this calibre, and as there

 might be others like him in the bridegroom's party, Sangane was not

 loath to show off his wares.

 The girls knelt in front of the guests, hanging their heads and averting

 their eyes shyly. Giggling in response to the knowing looks and sly

 sallies of the men, they proffered the brimming beer-pots, and then

 withdrew swinging their hips so their skirts swirled up and pert young

 buttocks peeked provocatively from beneath them.

 The beer-pots were so heavy that they required both hands to lift, and

 when they were lowered, there were thick white moustaches on the upper

 lips of the guests. Noisily they licked them away and the laughter

 became more relaxed and friendly.

 When the beer-pots were empty, Sangane Dinizulu stood before them and

 made a short speech of welcome. Then they formed up again and started

 up the road that climbed the escarpment, but now Zulu ran shoulder to

 shoulder with Ovambo and Xhosa. Moses Gama had never believed he would

 see that happen. It was a beginning, he thought, a fine beginning, but

 there remained to be scaled a range of endeavour as high as the peaks of

 the Drakensberg mountains which rose out of the blue distances before

 them as they topped the escarpment.

 Sangane Dinizulu had set the pace up the slope, although he must be all

 of seventy years of age, and now he led the cavalcade of men and animals

 down to his kraal. It was sited on a grassy slope above the river. The

 huts of his many wives were arranged in a circle, beehives of smooth

 thatch each with an entrance so low that a man must stoop to enter. In

 the centre of the circle was the old man's hut.

 It also was a perfect beehive, but much grander than the others, and the

 thatch had been plaited into intricate patterns. It was the home of a

 chieftain of Zulu, a son of the heavens.

 On the grassy slope was assembled a multitude, a thousand or more of the

 most important men of the tribe with all their senior wives. Many of

 them had travelled for days to be here, and they squatted in clumps and

 clusters down the slope, each chieftain surrounded by his own retainers.

 When the bridegroom's party came over the crest, they rose as one man,

 shouting their greetings and drumming their shields, and Sangane

 Dinizulu led them down to the entrance of the kraal where he paused and

 spread his arms for silence. The wedding guests settled down again

 comfortably in the grass. Only the chieftains sat on their carved

 stools of office, and while the young girls carried the beer pots

 amongst them, Sangane Dinizulu made his wedding speech.

 First he related the history of the tribe, and particularly of hi own

 clan of Dinizulu. He recited their battle honours and the valian deeds

 of his ancestors. These were many and it took a long time, bu the

 guests were well content for the black beer-pots were replenishe( as

 swiftly as they were emptied, and although the old ones knew tN history

 of the tribe as intimately as did Sangane Dinizulu, it repetition gave

 them endless satisfaction, as though it were an anchol in the restless

 sea of life. As long as the history and the custom persisted, the tribe

 was secure.

 At last Sangane Dinizulu was done, and in a voice that was hoarse and

 scratchy, he ended, 'There are those amongst you who have queried the

 wisdom of a daughter of Zulu marrying with a man all another tribe. I

 respect these views, for I also have been consumed by doubts and have

 pondered long and seriously." Now the older heads in the congregation

 were nodding, and a few hostile glances were shot at the bridegroom's

 party, but Sangane Dinizulu went on.

 'I had these same doubts when my daughter asked my permission to leave

 the hut of her mother and journey to goldi, the place of gold, and to

 work in the great hospital at Baragwanath. Now I am persuaded that what

 she has done was right and proper. She is a daughter of which an old

 man can be proud. She is a woman of the future." He faced his peers

 calmly and resolutely, seeing the doubt in their eyes, but ignoring it.

 'The man who will be her husband is not of Zulu - but he also is a man

 of the future. Most of you have heard his name. You know him as a man

 of force and power. I am persuaded that by giving him my daughter in

 marriage I am once again doing what is right - for my daughter and for

 the tribe." When the old man sat down' on his stool they were silent,

 serious and withdrawn, and they looked uneasily towards the bridegroom

 where he squatted at the head of his party.

 Moses Gama rose to his feet, and strode up the slope from where he could

 look down upon them. He was silhouetted against the sky, his height was

 emphasized and the royal leopard skin declared his lineage.

 'Oh people of Zulu, I greet you." That deep thrilling voice reached to

 everyone of them, carrying clearly in the silence, and they stirred and

 murmured with surprise as they realized that he was speaking fluent

 Zulu.

 'I have come to take one of the most comely daughters of your tribe, but

 as part of the marriage price I bring you a dream and a promise,' he

 began, and they were attentive but puzzled. Slowly the mood changed as

 he went on to set out his vision for them, a unification of the tribes

 and a sloughing off of the white domination under which they had existed

 for three hundred years. The older men became more and more uneasy as

 they listened, they shook their heads and exchanged angry glances, some

 of them muttered aloud, an unusual discourtesy towards an important

 guest, but what he was suggesting was a destruction of the old ways, a

 denial of the customs and orders of society which had held together the

 fabric of their lives. In its place he was offering something strange

 and untested, a world turned upside down, a chaos in which old values

 and proven codes were discarded with nothing to replace them except wild

 words - and like all old men, they were afraid of change.

 With the younger men it was different. They listened, and his words

 warmed them like the flames of the camp fire in the frosty winter night.

 One of them listened more intently than all the rest.

 Joseph Dinizulu was not yet fourteen years of age, but the blood of

 great Chaka charged his veins and pumped up his heart. These words,

 strange at first, began to sing in his head like one of the old fighting

 chants, and his breath came quicker as he heard Moses Gama end his

 bridal speech.

 'So, people of Zulu, I come to give you back the land of your fathers.

 I'come to give you the promise that once again a black man will rule in

 Africa, and that as surely as tomorrow's sun will rise, the future

 belongs to us." All of a sudden Joseph Dinizulu was struck by a sense of

 destiny.

 'A black man will rule in Africa." For Joseph Dinizulu, as for many

 others there that day, the world would never be the same again.

 Victoria Dinizulu waited in her mother's hut. She sat on the earthen

 floor with a tanned kaross of hyrax fur under her. She wore the

 traditional dress of a Zulu bride. The beadwork had been sewn by her

 mother and her sisters, intricate and beautiful, each pattern carrying a

 hidden message. There were strings of coloured beads around her wrists

 and her ankles, and necklaces of beads, while her short skirt of leather

 strips was beaded and strings of beads were plaited into her hair and

 draped around her waist.  In one respect only did her costume differ

 from that of the traditional Zulu bride: her breasts were covered, as

 they had been since puberty when she had been baptized into the Anglican

 Church. She wore a blouse of striped silk in gay colours which

 complemented the rest of her co, tume.

 As she sat in the centre of the hut, she listened intently to th voice

 of her bridegroom from without. It carried clearly to her, through] she

 had to shush the other girls when they whispered and giggled Every word

 struck her with the force of an arrow, and she felt he love and duty for

 the man who uttered them swell until they threatened to choke her.

 The interior of the hut was gloomy as an ancient cathedral lo: there

 were no windows, and the air was hazy with wood smoke that uncoiled

 lazily from the central fire and rose to the small hole in th summit of

 the belled roof. The cathedral atmosphere enhanced bel mood of

 reverence, and when the voice of Moses Gama ceased, th silence seemed to

 enter her heart. No cheers or shouted agreemenl followed his speech.

 The men of Zulu were silent and disturbed by it.

 Victoria could feel it even where she sat in the darkened hut.

 'It is time now,' her mother whispered, and lifted her to her feet.

 'Go with God,' she whispered, for her mother was a Christian and had

 introduced her to that religion.

 'Be a good wife to this man,' she instructed, and led her to the

 entrance of the hut.

 She stepped outside, into the dazzling sunlight. This was the moment

 for which the guests had been waiting, and when they saw how beautiful

 she was, they roared like bulls and drummed their shields. Her father

 came to greet her and lead her to the carved ebony stool at the entrance

 of the kraal, so that the cimeza ceremony could begin.

 The cimeza was the 'closing of the eyes' and Victoria sat with her eyes

 tightly closed as the representatives of the various clans came forward

 one at a time to place their gift before her. Only then was Victoria

 allowed to open her eyes and exclaim in wonder at the generosity of the

 givers. There, were gifts of pots and blankets and ornaments,

 marvellously woven beadwork, and envelopes of money.

 Shrewdly old Sangane calculated the value of each as he stood behind her

 stool, and he was grinning with satisfaction when at last he gave the

 signal to his son Joseph to drive in the feast. He had set aside twelve

 fat steers for the slaughter, a gesture that proved him to be even more

 generous than the bearers of the wedding gifts, but then he was a great

 man and head of a noble clan. The chosen warriors came forward to

 slaughter the steers, and their mournful death bellows and the rank

 smell of fresh blood in the dust soon gave way to the aroma from the

 cooking fires that drifted blue smoke across the hillside.

 At a gesture from old Sangane Moses Gama strode up the slope to the

 entrance of the kraal and Victoria rose to her feet to meet him. They

 faced each other and once again a silence fell. The guests were awed by

 this couple, the groom so tall and commanding, the bride beautiful and

 nubile.

 Involuntarily they craned forward as Victoria unclipped the ucu string

 of beads from around her waist. This was the symbol of her virginity,

 and she knelt before Moses and, with both hands cupped in the formal and

 polite gesture, she offered him the beads. As he accepted her and her

 gift, a great shout went up from the guests. It was done, Moses Gama

 was her husband and her master at last.

 Now the feasting and the beer-drinking could begin in earnest, and the

 raw red meat was heaped upon the coals and snatched off again barely

 singed, while the beer-pots passed from hand to hand and the young girls

 went swinging down the slope bearing fresh pots upon their heads.

 Suddenly there was an uproar and a band of plumed warriors came dashing

 up the slope towards where Victoria sat at the kraal entrance. They were

 her brothers and half-brothers and nephews, even Joseph Dinizulu was

 amongst them, and they shouted their war cries as they came to rescue

 their sister from this stranger who would take her from their midst.

 However, the Buffaloes were ready for them, and with Hendrick at their

 head and sticks whistling and hissing, they rushed in to prevent the

 abduction. The women wailed and ululated and the fighting-sticks

 clattered and whacked on flesh, and the warriors howled and circled and

 charged at each other in a fine mist of dust.

 It was for this that all metal weapons were strictly banned from the

 ceremony, for the fighting, which was at first playful, soon heated up

 and blood dripped and bones cracked before the abductors allowed

 themselves to be driven off. The blood was staunched with a handful of

 dust clapped on the wound, and both victors and vanquished had worked up

 a fine thirst and shouted to the girls to bring more beer. The uproar

 subsided for only a few minutes to be resumed almost immediately as from

 the top of the slope came the rumble of motor cars.

 The children raced up the hill and began to clap and sing as two big

 motor cars appeared over the brow and came bumping slowly over the rough

 track that led to the kraal.

 In the leading vehicle was a large white woman, with a red face as lined

 and craggy as that of a bulldog, and a wide-brimmed oldfashioned hat on

 her head from under which grey hair curled untidily.

 'Who is she?" Moses demanded.

 'Lady Anna Courtney,' Victoria exclaimed. She was the one who

 encouraged me to leave here and go into the world." Impulsively Victoria

 ran forward to meet the vehicle, and when Lady Anna descended

 ponderously, she embraced her.

 'So, my child, you have come back to us." Lady Anna's accent was still

 thick, though she had lived thirty-five years in Africa.

 'Not for long." Victoria laughed and Lady Anna looked at her fondly.

 Once the child had served in the big house as one of her house maids,

 until her bright beauty and intelligence had convinced Lady Anna that

 she was superior to such menial work.

 'Where is this man who is taking you away?" she demanded, and Victoria

 took her hand.

 'First you must greet my father, then I will introduce you to my

 husband." From the second motor car a middle-aged couple climbed down to

 be enthusiastically greeted by the crowd that pressed forward around

 them. The man was tall and dapper, with the bearing of a soldier.

 He was tanned by the sun and his eyes had the far-away look of the

 outdoor man. He twirled his moustaches and took his wife on his arm.

 She was almost as tall and even slimmer than he was, and despite the

 streaks of grey in her hair, she was still an unusually handsome woman.

 Sangane Dinizulu came to greet them.

 'I see you, Jamela!" His dignity was somewhat tempered by a happy grin

 of welcome, and Colonel Mark Anders answered him in perfectly colloquial

 Zulu.

 'I see you, old man." The term was one of respect. 'May all your cattle

 and all your wives grow fat and sleek." Sangane turned to his wife

 Storm, who was the daughter of old General Scan Courtney. 'I see you,

 Nkosikazi, you bring honour to my kraal." The bond between the two

 families was like steel. It went back to another century and had been

 tested a thousand times.

 'Oh, Sangane, I am so happy for you this day - and for Victoria." Storm

 left her husband and went quickly to embrace the Zulu girl.

 'I wish you joy and many fine sons, Vicky,' she told her, and Victoria

 answered, 'I owe you and your family so much, Nkosikazi. I will never

 be able to repay you." 'Don't ever try,' Storm told her with mock

 severity. 'I feel as though my own daughter is getting married today.

 Introduce us to your husband, Vicky." Now Moses Gama came towards them,

 and when Storm greeted him in Zulu, he replied gravely in English, 'How

 do you do, Mrs Anders. Victoria has spoken of you and your family very

 often." When at last he turned to Mark Anders, he proffered his right

 hand.

 'How do you do, Colonel?" Moses asked, and a wry smile flitted across

 his lips as he saw the white man hesitate momentarily before accepting

 the handshake. It was unusual for men to greet each other thus across

 the dividing line of colour, and despite his fluency in the language and

 his pretended affection for the Zulu people, Moses recognized this man.

 Colonel Mark Anders was an anachronism, a son of the English Queen

 Victoria, a soldier who had fought in two world wars, and the warden of

 Chaka's Gate National Park which he had saved from the poachers and

 despoilers by dedication and sheer bloody-mindedness, and made into one

 of Africa's most celebrated wild-life sanctuaries.

 He loved the wild animals of Africa with a kind of paternal passion,

 protecting and cherishing them, and to only a slightly less degree his

 attitude towards the black tribes, especially the Zulus, was the same,

 paternalistic and condescending. By this definition he was the mortal

 enemy of Moses Gama, and as they looked into each other's eyes, they

 both recognized this fact.

 'I have heard the lion roar from afar,' Mark Anders said in Zulu.

 'Now I meet the beast face to face." 'I have heard of you as well,

 Colonel,' Moses replied, pointedly speaking English.

 'Victoria is a gentle child,' Mark Anders persisted in his use of Zulu.

 'We all hope you will not teach her your fierce ways." 'She will be a

 dutiful wife,' Moses said in English. 'She will do what I ask of her, I

 am sure." Storm had been following the exchange, sensing the innate

 hostility between the two men and now she intervened smoothly.

 'If you are ready, Moses, we can all go down to Theuniskraal for the

 ceremony." Victoria and her mother had insisted on a Christian ceremony

 to reinforce the traditional tribal wedding. Now Sangane and most of

 the other guests who were pagan and ancestor-worshippers, remained at

 the kraal, while the diminished bridal party crowded into the two motor

 vehicles.

 Theuniskraal was the home of Lady Anna Courtney and the original seat of

 the Courtney family. It stood amongst its sprawling lawns and unruly

 gardens of palms and bourgainvillaea and pride of India trees at the

 foot of the Ladyburg escarpment. It was a rambling old building of

 oddly assorted architectual styles, and beyond the gardens stretched

 endless fields of sugar cane, that dipped and undulated to the breeze

 like the swells of the ocean.

 The wedding party trooped into the house to change into garb more

 suitable than beads and furs and feathers for the second ceremony while

 Lady Anna and the family went to greet the Anglican priest in the

 marquee that had been set up on the front lawn.

 When the bridegroom and his attendants came out on to the lawns half an

 hour later, they wore dark lounge suits and Victoria's elder brother,

 who had pranced and swirled his plumes in the giya just a few hours

 before, now wore his Law Association tie in an impeccable Windsor knot

 and aviator-style dark glasses against the glare of Theuniskraal's

 whitewashed walls, as he chatted affably with the Courtney family, while

 they waited for the bride.

 Victoria's mother was decked out in one of Lady Anna's cast-off caftans,

 for the two ladies were of similar build, and she was already sampling

 the fare that was laid out on the long trestle table in the marquee.

 Colonel Mark Anders and the Anglican priest stood a little aside from

 the main group; men of the same generation, they both found the

 proceedings disquieting and unnatural. It had taken all Storm's powers

 to persuade the priest to perform the ceremony, and then he had only

 agreed on condition that the wedding was not held in his own church in

 the village where his conservative white congregation might take

 offence.

 'Damned if we weren't all a sight better off in the old days when

 everybody knew their place instead of trying to ape their betters,' Mark

 Anders grumbled, and the priest nodded.

 'No sense in looking for trouble --' He broke off as Victoria came out

 on to the wide verandah. Storm Anders had helped her select her

 full-length white satin wedding dress with a wreath of tiny red tea

 roses holding the long veil in place around her brow. The contrast of

 red and white against her dark and glossy skin was striking and her joy

 was infectious. Even Mark Anders forgot his misgivings for the moment,

 as Lady Anna at the piano struck up the wedding march.

 x At her father's kraal, Victoria's family had built a magnificent new

 hut for her nuptial night. Her brothers and half-brothers had cut the

 wattle saplings and the trunk for the central post and plaited the

 stripped green branches into the shape of the beehive. Then her mother

 and sisters and half-sisters had done the women's work of thatching,

 carefully combing the long grass stems and lacing the crisp bundles on

 to the wattle framework, packing and trimming and weaving them until the

 finished structure was smootll and symmetrical and the brushed grass

 stems shone like polished brass.

 Everything the hut contained was new, from the three-legged pot to the

 lamp and the blankets and the magnificent kaross of hyrax and

 monkeyskins which was the gift of Victoria's sisters, lovingly tanned

 and sewn by them into a veritable work of art.

 At the cooking fire in the centre of the hut Victoria worked alone,

 preparing the first meal for her husband, while she listened to the

 shouted laughter of the guests outside in the night. The millet beer

 was mild. However, the women had brewed hundreds of gallons and the

 guests had been drinking since early morning.

 Now she heard the bridegroom's party approaching the hut. There was

 singing and loud suggestive advice, cries of encouragement and rude

 exhortations to duty and then Moses Gama stooped through the entrance.

 He straightened and stood tall over her, his head brushing the curved

 roof and outside the voices of his comrades retreated and dwindled.

 Still kneeling, Victoria sat back on her heels and looked up at him. Now

 at last she had discarded her western clothing and wore for the last

 time the short beaded skirt of the virgin. In the soft ruddy light of

 the fire her naked upper body had the dark patina of antique amber.

 'You are very beautiful,' he said, for she was the very essence of Nguni

 womanhood. He came to her and took her hands and lifted her to her

 feet.

 'I have prepared food for you,' she whispered huskily.

 'There will be time later to eat." He led her to the piled kaross and

 she stood submissively while he untied the thong of her apron and then

 lifted her in his arms and laid her on the bed of soft fur.

 As a girl she had played the games with the boys in the reed banks

 beside the waterhole, and out on the open grassy veld where she had gone

 with the other girls to gather firewood conveniently close to where the

 cattle were being herded. These games of touching and exploring, of

 rubbing and fondling, right up to the forbidden act of intromission,

 were sanctioned by tribal custom and smiled at by the elders, but none

 of them had fully prepared her for the power and skill of this man, or

 for the sheer magnificence of him. He reached deeply into her body and

 touched her very soul so that much later in the night she clung to him

 and whispered: 'Now I am more than just your wife, I am your slave to

 the end of my days." In the dawn her joy was blighted, and though her

 lovely moon face remained serene, she wept within when he told her,

 'There will 0my be one more night - on the road back to Johannesburg.

 Then I must leave you." 'For how long?" she asked.

 'Until my work is done,' he replied, then his expression softened and he

 stroked her face. 'You knew that it must be so. I warned you that when

 you married me, you were marrying the struggle." 'You warned me,' she

 agreed in a husky whisper. 'But there'was no way that I could guess at

 the agony of your leaving." They rose early the following morning. Moses

 had acquired a secondhand Buick, old and _slbbvenJg.b.not

 toex.('itehntrs,* o_,- but one of Hendrick Tabaka's expert mechanics had

 overhauled the engine and tightened the suspension, leaving the exterior

 untouched.

 In it they would return to Johannesburg.

 Though the sun had not yet risen, the entire kraal was astir, and

 Victoria's sisters had prepared breakfast for them. After they had

 eaten came the hard part of taking leave of her family. She knelt

 before her father.

 'Go in peace, my daughter,' he told her fondly. 'We will think of you

 often. Bring your sons to visit us." Victoria's mother wept and keened

 as though it were a funeral, not a wedding, and Victoria could not

 comfort her although she embraced her and protested her love and duty

 until the other daughters took her away.

 Then there were all her stepmothers and her half-brothers and

 half-sisters, and the uncles and aunts and cousins who had come from the

 farthest reaches of Zululand. Victoria had to make her farewells to all

 of them, though some partings were more poignant than others. One of

 these was her goodbye to Joseph Dinizulu, her favourite of all her

 relatives. Although he was a half-brother and seven years younger than

 she was, a special bond had always existed between them. The two of

 them were the brightest and most gifted of their generation in the

 family, and because Joseph lived at Drake's Farm with one of the elder

 brothers, they had been able to continue their friendship.

 However, Joseph would not be returning to the Witwatersrand.

 He had written the entrance exams and been accepted by the exclusive

 multi-racial school, Waterford, in Swaziland, and Lady Anna Courtney

 would be paying his school fees. Ironically, this was the same school

 to which Hendrick Tabaka was sending his sons, Wellington and Raleigh.

 There would be opportunity for their rivalry to flourish.

 'Promise me you will work hard, Joseph,' Vicky said. 'Learning makes a

 man strong." 'I will be strong,' Joseph assured her. The elation that

 Moses Gama's speech had aroused in him still persisted. 'Can I come and

 visit you and your husband, Vicky? He is a man, the kind of man I will

 want to be one day." Vicky told Moses what the child had said. They

 were alone in the old Buick, all the wedding gifts and Vicky's

 possessions filling the boot and piled in the back seat, and they were

 leaving that great littoral amphitheatre of Natal, going up over the

 tail of the Drakensberg range on to the high veld of the Transvaal.

 'The children are the future,' Moses nodded, staring ahead at the steep

 blue serpent of road that climbed the escarpment, past the green hill of

 Majuba where the Boers had thrashed the British in the first of many

 battles with them. 'The old men are beyond hope. You saw them at the

 wedding, how they kicked and baulked like unbroken oxen when I tried to

 show them the way - but the children, ah the children!" He smiled. 'They

 are like fresh clean sheets of paper. You can write on them what you

 will. The old men are stone-hard and impermeable, but the children are

 clay, eager clay waiting for the shaping hands of the potter." He held

 up one of his hands. It was long and shapely, the hand of a surgeon or

 an artist and the palm was a delicate shade of pink, smooth and not

 calloused by labour.

 'Children lack any sense of morality they are without fear, and death is

 beyond their conception. These are all things they acquire later, by

 the teaching of their elders. They make perfect soldiers for they

 question nothing and it takes no great physical strength to pull a

 trigger. If an enemy strikes them down they become the perfect martyrs.

 The bleeding corpse of a child strikes horror and remorse into even the

 hardest heart. Yes, the children are our key to the future. Your

 Christ knew it when he said "Suffer the little children to come unto

 me"." Victoria twisted on the leather bench seat of the Buick and stared

 at him.

 'Your words are cruel and blasphemous,' she whispered, torn by her love

 for him and her instinctive rejection of what he had just said.

 'And yet your reaction proves their truth,' he said.

 'But --' she paused, reluctant to ask, and fearful to hear his reply,

 'but are you saying that we should use our children --' She broke off,

 and an image of the paediatric section of the hospital came into her

 mind. She had spent the happiest months of all her training amongst the

 little ones. 'Are you suggesting that you would use the children in the

 front line of the struggle - as soldiers?" 'If a child cannot grow up a

 free man, then he might as well die as a child,' Moses Gama said.

 'Victoria, you have heard me say this before. It is time now that you

 learn to believe it. There is nothing I would not do, no price I would

 not pay, for our victory. If I have to see a thousand little children

 dead so that a hundred thousand more may live to grow up free men, then

 for me the bargain is a fair one." Then, for the very first time in her

 life, Victoria Dinizulu was trul' afraid.

 That night they stayed at Hendrick Tabaka's house in Drake's Farn

 Township, and it was well after midnight before they could go to th

 small bedroom that had been set aside for them because there were many

 who demanded Moses' attention, men from the Buffaloes and the

 Mineworkers' Union, a messenger from the council of the AN( and a dozen

 petitioners and supplicants who came quietly as jackak, to the lion when

 the word flashed through the township that Mose, Gama had returned.

 At all these meetings Victoria was present, although she nevei spoke and

 sat quietly in a corner of the room. At first the men .were surprised

 and puzzled, darting quick glances across at her and reluctant to come

 to their business until Moses pressed them. None of them was accustomed

 to having women present when serious matters were discussed. However,

 none of them could bring themselves to protest, until the ANC messenger

 came into the room. He was invested with all the power and importance

 of the council he represented, and so he was the first to speak about

 Victoria's presence.

 'There is a woman here,' he said.

 'Yes,' Moses nodded. 'But not just a woman, she is my wife." 'It is not

 fitting,' said the messenger. 'It is not the custom. This is men's

 business." 'It is our purpose and our aim to tear down and burn the old

 customs and to build up the new. In that endeavour we will need the

 help of all our people. Not just the men, but the women and children

 also." There was a long silence while the messenger fidgeted under

 Moses' dark unrelenting stare.

 'The woman can remain,' he capitulated at last.

 'Yes,' Moses nodded. 'My wife will remain." Later in the darkness of

 their bedroom, in the narrowness of the single bed, Victoria pressed

 close to him, the soft plastic curves of her body conforming to his

 hardness and she said: 'You have honoured me by making me a part of your

 struggle.

 Like the children, I want to be a soldier. I have thought about it and

 I have discovered what I can do." 'Tell me,' he invited.

 'The women. I can organize the women. I can begin with the nurses of

 the hospital, and then the other women - all of them. We must take our

 part in the struggle beside the men." His arms tightened around her.

 'You are a lioness,' he said. 'A beautiful Zulu lioness." 'I can feel

 your heartbeat,' she whispered, 'and my own heart beats in exact time to

 it." In the morning Moses drove her to the nurses' home at the hospital.

 She stood at the top of the steps and did not go into the building. He

 watched her in the rear-view mirror as he drove away and she was still

 standing there when he turned into the traffic, heading back towards

 Johannesburg and the suburb of Rivonia.

 He was one of the first to arrive at Puck's Hill that morning to attend

 the council meeting to which the previous night's messenger had summoned

 him.

 Marcus Archer met Moses on the verandah, and his smile was vitriolic as

 he greeted him. 'They say a man is incomplete until he marries - and

 only then is he finished." There were two men already seated at the long

 table in the kitchen which had always been used as their council

 chamber. They were both white men.

 Brain Fischer was the scion of an eminent Afrikaner family whose father

 had been a judge-president of the Orange Free State. Though he was an

 expert on mining law, and a QC at the Johannesburg bar, he had also been

 a member of the old Communist Party and was a member of the ANC, and

 lately his practice had become almost entirely the defence of those

 accused under the racial laws that the Nationalist government had

 enacted since 1948. Although he was a charming and erudite man with a

 real concern for his countrymen of all races, Moses was wary of him. He

 was a starry-eyed believer in the eventual miraculous triumph of good

 over evil, and firmly opposed the formation of Umkhonto we Sizwe, the

 military branch of the ANC. His pacifist influence on the rest of the

 Congress set a brake on Moses' aspirations.

 The other white man was Joe Cicero, a Lithuanian immigrant.

 Moses could guess why he had come to Africa - and who had sent him. He

 was one of the eagles, fierce hearted as Moses was himself, and an ally

 when the need for direct and even violent action was discussed. Moses

 went to sit beside him, across the table from Fischer. He would need

 Joe Cicero's support this day.

 Marcus Archer, who loved to cook, set a plate of devilled kidneys and

 oenœs ranchero in front of him, but before Moses had finished his

 breakfast, the others began to arrive. Nelson Mandela and his faithful

 ally Tambo, arrived together, followed quickly by Walter Sisulu and

 Mbeki and the others, until the long table was crowded and cluttered

 with papers and dirty plates, with coffee cups and ashtrays which were

 soon overflowing with crushed cigarette butts.

 The air was thick with tobacco smoke and Marcus's cooking aromas, and

 the talk was charged and serious as they tried to decide and agree

 exactly what were the objects of the defiance campaign.

 'We have to stir the awareness of our people, to shake them out of their

 dumb cowlike acceptance of oppression." Mandela put the premier

  

 proposition, and across from him Moses leaned forward.

 'More important, we must awaken the conscience of the rest of the world,

 for that is the direction from which our ultimate salvation will come."

 'Our own people--' Mandela began, but Moses interrupted him.

 'Our own people are powerless without weapons and training. The forces

 of oppression ranged against us are too powerful. We cannot triumph

 without arms." 'You reject the way of the peace then?" Mandela asked.

 'You presuppose that freedom can only be won at the point of the gun?"

 'The revolution must be tempered and made strong in the blood of the

 masses,' Moses affirmed. 'That is always the way." 'Gentlemen!

 Gentlemen!" Brain Fischer held up his hand to stop them. 'Let us return

 to the main body of the discussion. We agree that by our campaign of

 defiance we hope to stir our own people out of their lethargy and to

 attract the attention of the rest of the world.

 Those are our two main objects. Let us now decide on our secondary

 objects." 'To establish the ANC as the only true vehicle of liberation,'

 Moses suggested. 'At present we have less than seven thousand members,

 but by the end of the campaign we should aim to have enrolled one

 hundred thousand more." To this there was general agreement, even

 Mandela and Tambo nodded and when the vote was taken it was unanimous

 and they could go on to discuss the details of the campaign.

 It was a massive undertaking, for it was planned that the campaign

 should be nationwide and that it hould be conducted simultaneously in

 every one of the main centres of the Union of South Africa so as to

 place the utmost strain on the resources of the government and to test

 the response of the forces of law and order.

 'We must fill their gaols until they burst. We must offer ourselves up

 for arrest in our thousands until the machinery of tyranny breaks down

 under the strain,' Mandela told them.

 For three more days they sat in the kitchen at Puck's Hill, working out

 and agreeing every minute detail, preparing the lists of names and

 places, putting together the timetable of action, the logistics of

 transport and communication, establishing the lines of control from the

 central committee down through the provincial headquarters of the

 movement, and ultimately to the regional cadres in every black township

 and location.

 It was an onerous task but at last there was only one detail left to

 decide - the day on which it would begin. Now they all looked to Albert

 Luthuli at the head of the table and he did not hesitate.

 'June the twenty-sixth,' he said, and when there was a murmur of

 agreement, he went on, 'So be it then. We all know our tasks." And he

 gave them the salute of upraised thumbs. 'Amandla.t Power!

 Ngawethu.t' When Moses went out to where the old Buick was parked

 beneath the gum trees, the sunset was filling the western sky with

 furnace colours of hot orange and smouldering red, and Joe Cicero was

 waiting for him. He leaned against the silvery trunk of one of the

 bluegum trees, with his arms folded over his broad chest, a bearlike

 figure, short and squat and powerful.

 He straightened up as Moses came towards him.

 'Can you give me a lift in to Braamfontein, comrade?" he asked, and

 Moses opened the door of the Buick for him, and they drove in silence

 for ten minutes before Joe said quietly, 'It is strange that you and I

 have never spoken privately." His accent was elusive, but The planes of

 his pale face above the short dark fringe of beard were flat and Slavic

 and his eyes were dark as tar pools. 'Why is it so strange?" Moses

 asked.

 'We share common views,' Joe replied. 'We are both true sons of the

 revolution." 'Are you certain of that?" 'I am certain,' Joe nodded.

 'I have studied you and listened to you with approval and admiration. I

 believe that you are one of the steely men that the revolution needs,

 comrade." Moses did not reply. He kept his eyes on the road, and his

 expression impassive, letting the silence draw out, forcing the other

 man to break it.

 'What are your feelings towards mother Russia?" Joe asked softly at

 last, and Moses considered the question.

 'Russia has never had colonies in Africa,' Moses answered carefully. 'I

 know that she gives support to the struggle in Malaya and Algeria and

 Kenya. I believe she is a true ally of the oppressed peoples of this

 world." Joe smiled and lit another Springbok cigarette from the flat

 maroon and white pack. He was a chain-smoker and his stubby fingers

 were stained dark brown.

 'The road to freedom is steep and rocky,' he murmured. 'And the

 revolution is never secure. The proletariat must be protected from

 itself by the revolutionary guards." 'Yes,' Moses agreed. 'I have read

 the works of both Marx and Lenin." 'Then I was correct,' Joe Cicero

 murmured. 'You are a believer.

 We should be friends - good friends. There are difficult days ahead and

 there will be a need for steely men." He reached over the back seat and

 picked up his attach case. 'You can let me out at th, central railway

 station, comrade,' he said.

 It had been fully dark for two hours by the time Moses reached th camp

 in the gorge below the Sundi Caves and parked the Buick behind the

 Nissen hut that was the expedition's office and laboratory, and he went

 up the path to Tara Courtney's tent, stepping softly sc as not alarm

 her. He saw her silhouette against the canvas side. She was lying on

 her stretcher bed reading by the light of the petromax lantern, and he

 saw her start as he scratched on the canvas.

 'Don't be afraid,' he called softly. 'It's me." And her reply was low

 but quivering with joy. 'Oh God, I thought you'd never come." She was

 in a frenzy for him. Her other pregnancies had always left her feeling

 nauseous and bloated, and the thought of sexual contact during that time

 had been repugnant. But now, even though she was over three months

 pregnant, her wanting was a kind of madness.

 Moses seemed to sense her need, but did not try to match it. He lay

 naked upon his back on the stretcher, and he was like a pinnacle of

 black granite. Tara hurled herself upon him to impale herselfi She was

 sobbing and uttering little cries and yelps. At once both clumsy and

 adroit, her body, not yet swollen by the child within her, thrashed and

 churned above him as he lay quiescent and unmoving, and she went off

 beyond physical endurance, beyond the limits of flesh, insatiable and

 desperate for him, until exhaustion at last overcame her and she rolled

 off him and lay panting weakly, her chestnut hair darkened by her own

 sweat and plastered to her forehead and neck, and there was a thin pink

 co19uring of blood on the front of her thighs, so wild had been her

 passion.

 Moses drew the sheet over her and held her until she had stopped shaking

 and her breathing had quietened, and then he said, 'It will begin soon -

 the date has been agreed." Tara was so transported that for a while she

 did not understand, and she shook her head stupidly.

 'June the twenty-sixth,' Moses said. 'Across the land, in every city,

 all at the same time. Tomorrow I will be going to Port Elizabeth in the

 eastern Cape to command the campaign there." That was hundreds of miles

 from Johannesburg, and she had come to be near him. With the melancholy

 of after-love upon her, Tara felt cheated and abused. She wanted to

 protest but with an effort checked herself.

 'How long will you be away?" 'Weeks." 'Oh Moses!" she began, and then

 warned by his quick frown, she relapsed into silence.

 'The American woman - the Godolphin woman. Have you contacted her?

 Without publicity the value of our efforts will be halved." 'Yes." Tara

 paused. She had been on the point of telling him that it was all

 arranged, that Kitty Godolphin would meet him any time he wanted, but

 she stopped herself. Instead of handing her over to Moses and standing

 aside, here was her chance to stay close to him.

 'Yes, I have spoken to her. We met at her hotel, she is eager to meet

 you but she is out of town at the moment, in Swaziland." 'That is no

 good,' Moses muttered. 'I had hoped to see her before I left." 'I could

 bring her down to Port Elizabeth,' Tara cut in eagerly.

 'She will be back in a day or two and I will bring her to you." 'Can you

 get away from here?" he asked dubiously.

 'Yes, of course. I will bring the television people down to you in my

 own car." Moses grunted uncertainly, and was silent while he thought

 about it, and then he nodded.

 'Very well. I will explain how you will be able to contact me when you

 get there. I will be in the township of New Brighton, just outside the

 city." 'Can I be with you, Moses? Can I stay with you?" 'You know that

 is impossible." He was irritated by her persistence.

 'No whites are allowed in the township without a pass." 'The television

 team will not be able to help you much if we are kept out of the

 township,' Tara said quickly. 'We should be close to you to be of any

 use to the struggle." Cunningly she had linked herself to Kitty

 Godolphin, and she held her breath as he thought about it.

 'Perhaps,' he nodded, and she exhaled softly. He had accepted it.

 'Yes. There might be a way. There is a mission hospital run by German

 nuns in the township. They are friends. You could stay there. I will

 arrange it." She tried not to let him see her triumph. She would be

 with him, that was all that was important. It was madness, but though

 her body was bruised and sore, already she wanted him again.

 It was not physical lust, it was more than that. It was the only way

 she could possess him, even for a few fleeting minutes. When she had

 him locked in her body, he belonged to her alone.

 Tara was puzzled by Kitty Godolphin's attitude towards her. She was

 accustomed to people, both men and women, responding immediately to her

 own warm personality and good looks. Kitty was different, from the very

 beginning there had been a cold-eyed reserve and an innate hostility in

 her. Very swiftly Tara had seen beyond the angelic, little-girl image

 that Kitty so carefully projected, but even after she had recognized the

 tough and ruthless person beneath, she could find no logical reason for

 the woman's attitude. After all Tara was offering her an important

 assignment, and Kitty was examining the gift as though it were a live

 scorpion.

 'I don't understand,' she protested, her voice and eyes snapping.

 'You told me we could do the interview here in Johannesburg. Now you

 want me to traipse off into the deep sticks somewhere." 'Moses Gama has

 to be there. Something important is about to take place--' 'What is so

 important.9' Kitty demanded, fists on her lean denimclad hips. 'What we

 agreed was important also." Most people, from leading politicians and

 international stars of sport and entertainment down to the lowest

 nonentity, were ready to risk slipping a spinal disc in their eagerness

 to appear for even the briefest moment on the little square screen. It

 was Kitty Godolphin's right, a semi-divine right, to decide who would be

 accorded that opportunity and who would be denied it. Moses Gama's

 cavalier behaviour was insulting. He had been chosen, and instead of

 displaying the gratitude which was Kitty Godolphin's due, he was setting

 conditions.

 'Just what is so important that he cannot make the effort of common

 courtesy.9' she repeated.

 'I'm sorry, Miss Godolphin, I can't tell you that." 'Well then, I'm

 sorry also, Mrs'Courtney, but you tell Moses Gama from me that he can go

 straight to hell without passing GO and without collecting his two

 hundred dollars." 'You aren't serious!" Tara hadn't expected that.

 'I have never been more serious in my life." Kitty rolled her wrist to

 look at her Rolex. 'Now, if you will excuse me, I have more important

 matters to attend to." 'All right,' Tara gave in at once. 'I will risk

 it. I'll tell you what is going to happen--' Tara paused while she

 considered the consequences, and then asked, 'You will keep it to

 yourselL what I am about to tell you.9' 'Darling, if there is a good

 story in it, they wouldn't get it out of me with thumbscrew and hot

 irons - that is, not until I splash it across the screen myself." Tara

 told her in a rush of words, getting it out quickly before she could

 change her mind. 'It will be a chance to film him at work, to see him

 with his people, to watch him defying the forces of oppression and

 bigotry." She saw Kitty hesitating and knew that she had to think

 quickly.

 'However, I should warn you, there may be danger. The confrontation

 could turn to violence and even bloodshed,' she said, and she had got it

 exactly right.

 'Hank!" Kitty Godolphin shouted through to the lounge of her suite where

 the camera crew were strewn over the furniture like the survivors of a

 bomb blast, listening at full volume of the radio to the new rock 'n'

 roll sensation warning them to keep off his blue suede shoes.

 'Hank!" Kitty raised her voice above Presley's. 'Get the cameras

 packed. We are going to a place called Port Elizabeth. If we can find

 where the hell it is." They drove through the night in Tara's Packard,

 and the suspension sagged under the weight of bodies and camera

 equipment.

 In his travels around the country Hank had discovered that cannabis grew

 as a weed around most of the villages in the reserves of Zululand and

 the Transkei. In an environment that the plant found agreeable, it

 reached the size of a small tree. Only a few of the older generation of

 black tribesmen smoked the dried leaves, and although it was proscribed

 as a noxious plant and listed as a dangerous drug, its use was so

 localized and restricted to the more primitive blacks in the remote

 areas - for no white person or educated African would lower himself to

 smoke it - that the authorities made little effort to prevent its

 cultivation and sale. Hank had found an endless supply of what he

 declared to be 'pure gold' for the payment of pennies.

 'Man, a sack of this stuff on the streets of Los Angeles would fetch a

 hundred thousand dollars,' he murmured contentedly as he lit a

 hand-rolled cigarette and settled down on the back seat of the Packard.

 The heavy incense of the leaves filled the interior, and after a few

 draws Hank passed the cigarette to Kitty in the front seat. Kitty drew

 on the butt deeply and held the smoke in her lungs, as long as she was

 able, before blowing it out in a pale streamer against the windscreen.

 Then she offered the butt to Tara.

 'I don't smoke tobacco,' Tara told her politely, and they all laughed.

 'That ain't baccy, sweetheart,' Hank told her.

 'What is it?" 'You call it dagga here." 'Dagga." Tara was shocked.

 She remembered that Centaine had fired one of her houseboys who smoked

 it.

 'He dropped my Rosenthal tureen, the one that belonged to Czar

 Nicholas,' Centaine had complained. 'Once they start on that stuff they

 become totally useless." 'No thanks,' Tara said quickly, and thought how

 angry Shasa would be if he knew that she had been offered it. That

 thought gave her pause and she changed her mind. 'Oh, all right." She

 took the butt, steering the Packard with one hand. 'What do I do?"

 'Just suck it in and hold it down,' Kitty advised, 'and ride the glow."

 The smoke scratched her throat and burned her lungs, but the thought of

 Shasa's outrage gave her determination. She fought the urge to cough

 and held it down.

 Slowly she felt herself relaxing, and a mild glow of euphoria made her

 body seem air-light and cleansed her mind. All the agonies of her soul

 became trivial and fell behind her.

 'I feel good,' she murmured, and when they laughed, she laughed with

 them and drove on into the night.

 In the early morning before it was fully light, they reached the coast,

 skirting the bay of Algoa where the Indian Ocean took a deep bite out of

 the continent, and the green waters were chopped to a white froth by the

 wind.

 'Where do we go from here?" Kitty asked.

 'The black township of New Brighton,' Tara told her. 'There is a

 mission run by German nuns, a teaching and nursing order, the Sisters of

 St Magdalene. They are expecting us. We aren't really allowed to stay

 in the township, but they have arranged it." Sister Nunziata was a

 handsome blond woman, not much older than forty years. She had a clear

 scrubbed-looking skin and her manner was brisk and efficient. She wore

 the light grey cotton habit of the order, and a white shoulder-length

 veil.

 'Mrs Courtney, I have been expecting you. Our mutual friend will be

 here later this morning. You will want to bathe and rest." She led them

 to the cells that had been set aside for them and apologized for the

 simple comforts they contained. Kitty and Tara shared a cell.

 The floor was bare cement, the only decoration was a crucifix on the

 whitewashed wall, and the springs of the iron bedsteads were covered

 with thin hard coir mattresses.

 'She's just great,' Kitty enthused. 'I must get her on film. Nuns

 always make good footage." As soon as they had bathed and unpacked their

 equipment, Kitty had her crew out filming. She recorded a good

 interview with Sister Nunziata, her German accent lent interest to her

 statements, and then they filmed the black children in the schoolyard

 and the out patients waiting outside the clinic.

 Tara was awed by the girl's energy, her quick mind and glib tongue, and

 her eye for angle and subject as she directed the shooting.

 It made Tara feel superfluous, and her own lack of talent and creative

 skill irked her. She found herself resenting the other girl for having

 pointed up her inadequacies so graphically.

 Then everything else was irrelevant. A nondescript old Buick sedan

 pulled into the mission yard and a tall figure climbed out and came

 towards them. Moses Gama wore a light blue open-neck shirt, the short

 sleeves exposed the sleek muscle in his upper arms and neck, and his

 tailored blue slacks were belted around his narrow waist.

 Tara didn't have to say anything, they all knew immediately who he was

 as Kitty Godolphin breathed softly beside her, 'My God, he is beautiful

 as a black panther." Tara's resentment of her flared into seething

 hatred. She wanted to rush to Moses and embrace him so that Kitty might

 know he was hers, but instead she stood dumbly while he stopped in front

 of Kitty and held out his right hand.

 'Miss Godolphin? At last,' he said, and his voice brought out a rush of

 goose-bumps down Tara's arms.

 The rest of the day was spent in reconnaisance and the filming of more

 background material, this time with Moses as the central figure in each

 shot. The New Brighton township was typical of the South African urban

 locations, rows of identical low-cost housing laid out in geometric

 squares of narrow roads, some of them paved and others rutted and filled

 with muddy puddles in which the pre-school children and toddlers, many

 of them naked or dressed only in ragged shorts, played raucously.

 Kitty filmed Moses picking his way around the puddles, squatting to talk

 to the children, lifting a marvellously photogenic little black cherub

 in his arms and wiping his snotty nose.

 'That's great stuff,' Kitty enthused. 'He's going to look magnificent

 on film." The children followed Moses, laughing and skipping behind him

 as though he were the Pied Piper, and the women attracted by the

 commotion came out of the squalid little cottages. When they recognized

 Moses and saw the cameras, they began to ululate and dance.

 They were natural actresses and completely without inhibition, and Kitty

 was everywhere, calling for shots and unusual camera angles, clearly

 delighted by the footage she was getting.

 In the late afternoon the working men began to arrive back in the

 township by bus and train. Most of them were production-line workers in

 the vehicle assembly plants of Ford and General Motors, or

 factory-workers in the tyre companies of Goodyear and Firestone, for

 Port Elizabeth and its satellite town of Uitenhage formed the centre of

 the country's motor vehicle industry.

 Moses walked the narrow streets with the camera following him, and he

 stopped to talk to the returning workers, while the camera recorded

 their complaints and problems, most of which were the practical everyday

 worries of making ends meet while remaining within the narrow lines

 demarcated by the forest of racial laws. Kitty could edit most of that

 out, but every one of them mentioned the 'show on demand' clause of the

 pass laws as the thing they hated and feared most. In every little

 vignette they filmed Moses Gama was the central heroic figure.

 'By the time I've finished with him, he will be as famous as Martin

 Luther King,' Kitty enthused.

 They joined the nuns for their frugal evening meal, and afterwards Kitty

 Godolphin was still not satisfied. Outside one of the cottages near the

 mission a family was cooking on an open fire, and Kitty had Moses join

 them, hunched over the fire in the night with the flames lighting his

 face, adding drama to his already massive presence as she filmed him

 while he spoke. In the background one of the women was singing a

 lullaby to the infant at her breast, and there were the murmurous sounds

 of the location, the soft cries of the children and the distant yapping

 of pariah dogs.

 Moses Gama's words were poignant and moving, spoken in that deep

 thrilling voice, as he described the agony of his land and his people,

 so that Tara, listening to him in the darkness, found tears running down

 her face.

 In the morning Kitty left her team at the mission, and without the

 camera the three of them, Kitty and Tara and Moses, drove in the Buick

 to the railway station that served the township and watched the black

 commuters swarm like hiving bees through the station entrance marked NON

 WHITES --, NIE BLANKES, crowding on to the platform reserved for blacks,

 and as soon as the train pulled in, flooding into the coaches set aside

 for them.

 Through the other entrance, marked WHITES ONLY -- BLANKES ALLEENLIK, a

 few white officials and others who had business in the township

 sauntered and unhurriedly entered the first-class coaches at the rear of

 the train where they sat on green leathercovered seats and gazed out

 through glass at the black swarm on the opposite platform with detached

 expressions as though they were viewing creatures of another species.

 'I've got to try and get that,' Kitty muttered. 'I've got to get that

 reaction on film." She was busily scribbling notes in her pad, sketching

 rough maps of the station layout and marking in camera sites and angles.

 Before noon Moses excused himself. 'I have to meet the local organizers

 and make the final plans for tomorrow,' and he drove away in the Buick.

 Tara took Kitty and the team down to the seaside at St George's Strand,

 and they filmed the bathers on the beaches lying under the signboards

 BLANKES ALLEENLIK -- WHITES ONLY. School was out and tanned young

 people, the girls in bikinis and the boys with short haircuts and frank

 open faces lolled on the white sand, or played beach games and surfed

 the rolling green waves.

 When Kitty asked them, 'How would you feel if black pea151e came to swim

 here?" some of them giggled nervously at a question they had never

 considered before: 'They aren't allowed to come here - they've got their

 own beaches." And at least one was indignant. 'They can't come here and

 look at our girls in bathing-costumes." He was a beefy young man with

 seasalt caked in his sun-streaked hair and skin peeling from his

 sunburned nose.

 'But wouldn't you look at the black girls in their bathing costumes?"

 Kitty asked innocently.

 'Sis, man!" said the surfer, his handsome tanned features contorted with

 utter disgust at the suggestion.

 'It's just too good to be true!" Kitty marvelled at her own fortune.

 'I'll cut that in with some footage I've got of a beautiful black dancer

 in a Soweto night club." On the way back to the mission Kitty asked Tara

 to stop at the New Brighton railway station once again, for a final

 reconnaisanc› They left the cameras in the Packard and two

 white-uniformed railway constables watched them with idle disinterest as

 they wandered around the almost deserted platforms that during the rush

 hours swarmed with thousands of black commuters. Quietly Kitty pointed

 out to her team the locations she had chosen earlier, and explained to

 them what shots she would be striving for.

 That night Moses joined them for the evening meal in the mission

 refectory, and though the conversation was light and cheerful, there was

 a hint of tension in their laughter. When Moses left, Tara went out

 with him to where the Buick was parked in the darkness behind the

 mission clinic.

 'I want to be with you tonight,' she told him pathetically. 'I feel so

 alone without you." 'That is not possible." 'It's dark - we could go for

 a drive to the beach,' she pleaded.

 'The police patrols are looking for just that sort of thing,' Moses told

 her. 'You would see yourself in the Sunday Times next week end." 'Make

 love to me here, please Moses,' and he was angry.

 'Your selfishness is that of a spoilt child - you think only of your.

 self and your own desires, even now when we are on the threshold all

 great events, you would take risks that could bring us down." Tara lay

 awake most of the night and listened to Kitty's peaceful breathing in

 the iron bed across the cell.

 She fell asleep just before dawn, and awoke feeling nauseous and heavy,

 when Kitty leapt gaily out of bed in her pink striped pyjamas, eager for

 the day.

 'June twenty-sixth,' she cried. 'The big day at last!" None of them

 took more than a cup of coffee for an early breakfast. Tara felt too

 sick and the others were too keyed up. Hank had checked his equipment

 the previous night, but now he went over it again before he loaded it

 into the Packard and they drove down to the railway station.

 It was gloomy and the few street lights were still burning while under

 them the hordes of black commuters hurried. However, by the time they

 reached the station the first rays of the sun struck the entrance and

 the light was perfect for filming. Tara noticed that a pair of police

 Black Maria vans were parked outside the main entrance and instead of

 the two young constables who had been on duty the previous day, there

 were eight railway policemen in a group under the station clock. They

 were in blue uniform with black peaked caps and holstered sidearms on

 their polished leather Sam Browne belts. They all carried riot batons.

 'They have been warned,' Tara exclaimed, as she parked across the street

 from the two vans. 'They are expecting trouble -just look at them."

 Kitty had twisted around and was giving last-minute instructions to Hank

 in the back seat, but when Tara glanced at her to assess her reaction to

 the waiting police, Romething about Kitty's expression and her inability

 to meet Tara's eyes made her pause.

 'Kitty?" she insisted. 'These policemen. You don't seem --' she broke

 off as she remembered something. The previous afternoon on the way to

 the beach, Kitty had asked her to stop outside the Humewood post office

 because she wanted to send a telegram. However, from across the road

 looking through the post office window, Tara had seen her slip into one

 of the glass telephone booths. It had puzzled her at the time.

 'You!" she gasped. 'It was you who warned the police!" 'Listen,

 darling,' Kitty snapped at her. 'These people want to get themselves

 arrested. That's the whole point. And I want film of them getting

 arrested. I did it for all our sakes --' she broke off and cocked her

 head. 'Listen!" she cried. 'Here they come!" Faintly on the dawn there

 was the sound of singing, hundreds of voices together, and the group of

 policemen in the station entrance stirred and looked around

 apprehensively.

 'Okay, Hank,' Kitty snapped. 'Let's go!" They jumped out of the

 Packard, and hurried to the positions they had chosen, lugging their

 equipment.

 The senior police officer with gold braid on his cap was a captain.

 Tara knew enough of police rank insignia from first-hand experience.

 He gave an order to his constables. Two of them began to cross the road

 towards the camera team.

 'Shoot, Hank. Keep shooting!" Tara heard Kitty's voice, and the singing

 was louder now. The beautifully haunting refrain of Nkosi Sikelel'

 iAfrika carried by a thousand African voices made Tara shiver.

 The two constables were halfway across the road when the first rank of

 protesters marched around the nearest row of shops and cottages and

 hurriedly the police captain called his constables back to his side.

 They were twenty abreast, arms linked, filling the road from pavement to

 pavement, singing as they came on, and behind them followed a solid

 column of black humanity. Some of them were dressed in business suits,

 others in tattered cast-off clothing, some were silver-haired and others

 were in their teens. In the centre of the front rank, taller than the

 men around him, bare-headed and straightbacked as a soldier, marched

 Moses Gama.

 Hank ran into the street with his sound technician following him.

 With the camera on his shoulder, he retreated in front of Moses,

 capturing him on film, the sound man recording his voice as it soared in

 the anthem, full and magnificent, the very voice of Africa and his

 features were lit with an almost religious fervour.

 Hurriedly the police captain was drawing his men up across the

 whites-only entrance, and they were hefting their batons nervously,

 pale-faced in the early sunlight. The head of the column wheeled across

 the road and began to climb the steps, and the police captain stepped

 forward and spread his arms to halt them. Moses Gama held up one hand.

 The column came to a jerking shuffling halt, and the singing died away.

 The police captain was a tall man with a pleasantly lined face.

 Tara could see him over their heads, and he was smiling. That was the

 thing that struck Tara. Faced with a thousand black protesters, he was

 still smiling.

 'Come on now,' he raised his voice, like a schoolmaster addressing an

 unruly class. 'You know you can't do this, it's just nonsense, man. You

 are acting like a bunch of skollies, and I know you are good people." He

 was still smiling as he picked a few of the leaders out of the front

 ranks. 'Mr Dhlovu and Mr Khandela - you are on the management

 committee, shame on you!" He waggled his finger, and the men he had

 spoken to hung their heads and grinned shamefacedly. The whole

 atmosphere of the march had begun to change. Here was the father

 figure, stern but benevolent, and they were the children, mischievous

 but at the bottom good-hearted and dutiful.

 'Off you go, all of you. Go home and don't be silly now,' the captain

 called, and the column wavered. From the back ranks there was laughter,

 and a few of those who had been reluctant to join the march began to

 slip away. Behind the captain his constables were grinning with relief,

 and the crowd began to jostle as it broke up.

 'Good Christ!" Kitty swore bitterly. 'It's all a goddamned anticlimax.

 I have wasted my time--' Then on to the top steps of the railway station

 a tall figure stepped out of the ranks and his voice rang out over them,

 silencing them and freezing them where they stood. The laughter and the

 smiles died away.

 'My people,' Moses Gama cried, 'this is your land. In it you have God's

 right to live in peace and dignity. This building belongs to all who

 live here - it is your right to enter, as much as any other person's

 that lives here. I am going in - who will follow me?" A ragged,

 uncertain chorus of support came from the front ranks and Moses turned

 to face the police captain.

 'We are going in, Captain. Arrest us or stand aside." At that moment a

 train, filled with black commuters, pulled into the platform and they

 hung out of the windows of the coaches and cheered and stamped.

 'Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika!" sang Moses Gama, and with his head held high

 he marched under the warning sign WHITES ONLY. 'You are breaking the

 law,' the captain raised his voice. 'Arrest that man." And the thin

 rank of constables moved forward to obey.

 Instantly a roar went up from the crowd behind him. 'Arrest me!

 Arrest me too!" And they surged forward, picking Moses up with them as

 though he were a surfer on a wave.

 'Arrest me!" they chanted. 'Malan! Malan! Come and arrest us!" The

 crowd burst through the entrance, and the white police constables were

 carried with them, struggling ineffectually in the press of bodies.

 'Arrest me!" It had become a roar. 'Amandla! Amandla!" The captain was

 fighting to keep his feet, shouting to rally his men, but his voice was

 drowned out in the chant of, 'Power! Power!" The captain's cap was

 knocked over his eyes and he was shoved backwards on to the platform.

 Hank, the cameraman, was in the midst of it, holding his A rriflex high

 and shooting out of hand.

 Around him the white faces of the constables bobbed like flotsam in a

 wild torrent of humanity. From the coaches the black passengers swarmed

 out to meet and mingle with the mob, and a single voice called out.

 'Jee!" the battle cry that can drive an Nguni warrior into the

 berserker's passion, and 'Jee!" a hundred voices answered him and 'Jee!"

 again. There was the crash of breaking glass, one of the coach windows

 exploded as a shoulder thrust into it and 'Jee!" they sang.

 One of the white constables lost his footing and went sprawling

 backwards. Immediately he was trampled under foot and he screamed like

 a rabbit in a snare.

 'Jee!" sang the men, transformed into warriors, the veneer of western

 manners stripped away, and another window smashed. By now the platform

 was choked with a struggling mass of humanity. From the cab of the

 locomotive, the mob dragged the terrified enginedriver and his fireman.

 They jostled and pushed them, ringing them in.

 'Jee!" they chanted, bouncing at the knees, working themselves up into

 the killing madness. Their eyes were glazing and engorging with blood,

 their faces turning into shining black masks.

 'Jee!" they sang. 'Jee!" and Moses Gama sang with them. Let the others

 call for restraint and passive resistance to the enemy, but all that was

 forgotten and now Moses Gama's blood seethed with all his pent-up hatred

 and 'Jee!" he cried, and his skin crawled and itched with atavistic fury

 and his fighting heart swelled to fill his chest.

 The police captain, still on his feet, had been driven back against the

 wall of the station-master's office. One epaulette had been torn from

 the shoulder of his uniform and he had lost his cap. There was a fleck

 of blood at the corner of his mustache where an elbow had struck him in

 the mouth, and he was struggling with the flap of the holster on his

 belt.

 'Kill!" shouted a voice. 'Bulala!" and it was taken up. Black hands

 clutched at the police captain's lapels, and he drew the service

 revolver from its holster and tried to raise it, but the crowd was

 packed too densely around him. He fired blindly from the hip.

 The shot was a great blurt of sound, and somebody yelled with shock and

 pain, and the crowd around the captain backed away, leaving a young

 black man in an army surplus greatcoat kneeling at his feet, moaning and

 clutching his stomach.

 The captain, white-faced and panting, lied the revolver and fired again

 into the air.

 'Form up on me!" he shouted in a voice hoarse and breaking with terror

 and exertion. Another of his men was down on his knees, submerged in

 the milling crowd, but he managed to clear his revolver from its holster

 and he fired point-blank, emptying the chamber into the press around

 him.

 Then they were running, blocking the entrance, jamming in it as they

 sought to escape the gunfire, and all the police constables were firing,

 some on their knees, all of them dishevelled and terrified, and the

 bullets told in the mass of bodies with loud, meaty thumps, like a

 housewife beating the dust from a hanging carpet. The air was thick

 with the smell of gunsmoke and dust and blood, of sweat and unwashed

 bodies and terror.

 They were screaming and pushing, fighting their way out into the street

 again, leaving their fallen comrades crumpled on the platform in seeping

 puddles of blood, or crawling desperately after them dragging

 bullet-shattered limbs.

 And the little group of policemen were running to help each other to

 their feet, bruised and bloodied in torn uniforms. They gathered up the

 engine-driver and his fireman and, staggering, supporting each other,

 drawn revolvers still in their hands, they crossed the platform stepping

 over the bodies and the puddles of blood and hurried down the steps to

 the two parked vans.

 Across the road the crowd had reassembled and they screamed and shook

 their fists and chanted as the policemen scrambled into the vehicles and

 drove away at speed, and then the crowd swarmed into the roadway and

 hurled stones and abuse at the departing vans.

 Tara had watched it all from the parked Packard, and now she sat

 paralysed with horror, listening to the animal growl of the crowd

 penetrated by the cries and groans of the wounded.

 Moses Gama ran to her and 'shouted into the open window, 'Go and fetch

 Sister Nunziata. Tell her we need all the help we can get." Tara nodded

 dumbly and started the engine. Across the road she could see Kitty and

 Hank still filming. Hank was kneeling beside a wounded man, shooting

 into his tortured face, panning down on to the pool of blood in which he

 lay.

 Tara pulled away, and the crowd in the road tried to stop her.

 Black faces, swollen with anger, mouthed at her through the Packard's

 windows and they beat with their fists on the roof, but she sounded her

 horn and kept driving.

 'I have to get a doctor,' she shouted at them. 'Let me pass, let me

 through." She got through them, and when she looked in the rear-view

 mirror, she saw that in frustration and fury they were stoning the

 railway station, ripping up the pavement and hurling the heavy slabs

 through the windows. She saw a white face at one of the windows, and

 felt a pang for the station-master and his staff. They had barricaded

 themselves in the ticket office.

 The crowd outside the building was solid, and as she drove towards the

 mission she passed a flood of black men and women rushing to join it.

 The women were ululating wildly, a sound that maddened their menfolk.

 Some of them ran into the road to try and stop Tara, but she jammed her

 palm down on the horn ring and swerved around them. She glanced up into

 her driving-mirror and one of them picked up a rock from the side of the

 road and hurled it after the car. The rock crashed against the metal of

 the cab and bounced away.

 At the mission hospital they had heard the sound of gunfire and the roar

 of the mob. Sister Nunziata, the white doctor, and her helpers, were

 anxiously waiting on the verandah and Tara shouted up at her.

 'You must come quickly to the station, Sister, the police have shot and

 wounded people - I think some of them are dead." They must have been

 expecting the call, for they had their medical bags on the verandah with

 them. While Tara backed and turned the Packard, Sister Nunziata and the

 doctor ran down the steps, carrying their black bags. They clambered

 into the cab of the mission's small blue Ford pick-up and turned towards

 the gate, cutting in front of Tara's Packard. Tara followed them, but

 by the time she had turned the Packard and driven out through the gates,

 the little blue pick-up was a hundred yards ahead of her. It turned the

 corner into the station road and even above the engine-beat Tara heard

 the roar of the mob.

 When she swung through the corner the Ford was stopped only fifty paces

 head of her. It was completely surrounded by the crowd.

 The road from side to side was packed with screaming black men and

 women. Tara could not hear the words, there was no sense to their fury,

 it was incoherent and deafening. They were concentraing on the Ford,

 and took no notice of Tara in the Packard.

 Those nearest to the Ford were beating on the metal cab, and rocking the

 vehicle on its suspension. The side door opened and Sister Nunziata

 stood on the running board, a little higher than the heads of the

 howling mob that pushed closely around her. She was trying to speak to

 them, holding up her hands and pleading with them to let her through to

 take care of the wounded.

 Suddenly a stone was thrown. It arced up out of the crowd and hit the

 nun on the side of her head. She reeled as she stood, and there was a

 bright flash of blood on her white veil. Stunned, she raised her hand

 to her cheek and it came away bloody.

 The sight of blood enraged them. A forest of black arms reached up to

 Sister Nunziata and dragged her down from the vehicle. For a while they

 fought over her, dragging her in the road and worrying her like a pack

 of hounds with the fox. Then suddenly Tara saw the flash of a knife,

 and sitting in the Packard she screamed and thrust her fingers into her

 mouth to silence herself.

 The old crone who wielded the knife was a sangoma, a witchdoctor, and

 around her neck she wore the necklace of bones and feathers and animal

 skulls that were her insignia. The knife in her right hand had a handle

 of rhino horn and the hand-forged blade was nine inches long and

 wickedly curved. Four men caught the nun and threw her across the

 engine bonnet of the Ford while the old woman hopped up beside her. The

 men held Sister Nunziata pinioned, face up, while the crowd began to

 chant wildly, and the sangoma stooped over her.

 With a single stroke of the curved blade she cut through the nun's grey

 habit and split her belly open from groin to rib cage. While Sister

 Nunziata writhed in the grip of the men who held her, the crone thrust

 her hand and naked arm into the wound. Tara watched in disbelief as she

 brought out something wet and glistening and purple, a soft amorphous

 thing. It was done so swiftly, so expertly, that for seconds Tara did

 not realize that it was Sister Nunziata's liver that the crone held in

 her bloody hands.

 With a slash of the curved blade, the sangoma cut a lump from the still

 living organ and hopped to her feet. Balancing on the curved bonnet of

 the Ford she faced the crowd.

 'I eat our white enemy,' she screeched, 'and thus I take his strength."

 And the mob roared, a terrible sound, as the old woman thrust the purple

 lump into her toothless mouth and chewed upon it.

 She hacked another piece off thee liver, and still chewing with open

 mouth, she threw it to the crowd below her.

 'Eat your enemy!" she shrilled, and they fought for the bloody scraps

 like dogs.

 'Be strong! Eat the liver of the hated ones!" She threw them more and

 Tara covered her eyes and heaved convulsively. Acid vomit shot up her

 throat and she swallowed it down painfully.

 Abruptly the driver's door of the Packard beside her was jerked open and

 rough hands seized Tara. She was dragged out into the road. The blood

 roar of the crowd deafened her, but terror armed her with superhuman

 strength, and she tore herself free of the clutching hands.

 She was at the edge of the mob, and the attention of most of them was

 entirely on the ghastly drama around the Ford. The crowd had set the

 vehicle alight. Sister Nunziata's mutilated body lay on the bonnet like

 a sacrifice on a burning altar, while trapped in the cab, the doctor

 thrashed around and beat at the flames with his bare hands, and the

 crowd chanted and danced around him like children around the bonfire on

 Guy Fawkes night.

 For that instant Tara was free, but there were men around her, shouting

 and reaching for her, their faces bestial, their eyes glazed and

 insensate. No longer human, they were driven into that killing madness

 in which there was no reason nor mercy. Swift as a bird Tara ducked

 under the outstretched arms and darted away. She found that she had

 broken out of the mob, and in front of her was a plot of wasteland

 strewn with old rusted car bodies and rubbish. She fled across it and

 behind her she heard her pursuers baying like a pack of hunting dogs.

 At the end of the open land a sagging barbed-wire fence blocked her way,

 and she glanced back over her shoulder. A group of men still followed

 her, and two of them had outdistanced the others. They were both big

 and powerful-looking, running strongly on bare feet, their faces

 contorted in a cruel rictus of excitement. They came on silently.

 Tara stooped into the space between the strands of the wire. She was

 almost through when she felt the barbs catch in the flesh of her back,

 and pain arrested her. For a moment she struggled desperately, feeling

 her skin tear as she fought to free herself and blood trickled down her

 flanks - and then they seized her.

 Now they shouted with wild laughter as they dragged her back through the

 fence, the barbs ripping at her clothing and her flesh.

 Her legs collapsed under her, and she pleaded with them. 'Please don't

 hurt me. I'm going to have a baby--' They dragged her back across the

 waste plot, half on her knees, twisting and pleading in their grip - and

 then she saw the sangoma coming to meet them, hopping and capering like

 an ancient baboon, cackling through her toothless mouth, her bones and

 beads rattling around her scrawny neck and the curved knife in her

 blood-caked fingers.

 Tara began to scream, and she felt her urine squirt uncontrollably down

 her legs. 'Please! Please don't!" she raved and terror was an icy

 blackness of her mind and body that crushed her to earth, and she closed

 her eyes and steeled herself to the stinging kiss of the blade.

 Then in the mindless animal roar of the crowd, above the old crone's

 shrill laughter, there was another voice, a great lion's roar of anger

 and command that stilled all other sound. Tara opened her eyes and

 Moses Gama stood over her, a towering colossus, and voice alone stopped

 them and drove them back. He lifted her in arms and held her like a

 child.  The crowd around the Packard open before him as he carried her

 to it and placed her on the front sc and then slid behind the wheel.

 As he started the engine and swung the Packard away in a ha U-turn, the

 black smoke from the burning van poured over the and obscured the

 windscreen for a moment, and Tara smelled Sist Nunziata's flesh

 roasting.

 This time she could not control herself and she flopped forwar, her head

 'between her knees, and vomited on the floor of the Pa, kard.

 ,Ic , , Manfred De La Rey had taken the chair at the top of the long

 tabl in the operations rooms in the basement of Marshall Square. He ha.

 come across from his own office suite in the Union Buildings iJ Pretoria

 to police headquarters at the centre of the storm, where hid.

 could be at hand to consider, with his senior officers, each fresl

 despatch as it came in from the police provincial HQs around the

 country.

 The entire wall facing Manfred's seat was a large-scale map of the

 sub-continent. Working in front of it were two junior police officers.

 They were placing magnetic markers on the map. Each of the small black

 discs had a name printed upon it and represented one of the almost five

 hundred ANC officials and organizers that had been so far identified by

 the intelligence department.

 The discs were clustered most thickly along the great crescent of the

 Witwatersrand in the centre of the continent, although others were

 scattered across the entire map as the physical whereabouts of each

 person was confirmed by the police reports that were coming in every few

 seconds.

 Amongst the rash of black markers were a very few red discs, less than

 fifty in all. These represented the known members of the central

 committee of the African National Congress.

 Some of the names were those of Europeans: Harris, Marks, Fischer, and

 some were Asians like Naicker and Nana Sita, but the majority were

 African. Tambo and Sisulu and Mandela - they were all there. Mandela's

 red disc was placed on the city of Johannesburg, while Moroka was in the

 Eastern Cape and Albert Luthuli was in Zululand.

 Manfred De La Rey was stony-faced as he stared at the map, and the

 senior police officers seated around him studiously avoided catching his

 eye or even looking directly at him. Manfred had a reputation of being

 the strongman of the cabinet. His colleagues privately referred to him

 as 'Panga Man' after the heavy chopping knife that was used in the cane

 fields, and was the favourite weapon of the Mau Mau in Kenya.

 Manfred looked the part. He was a big man. The hands that lay on the

 table before him were still, there was no fidgeting of nervousness or

 uncertainty, and they were big hard hands. His face was becoming craggy

 now, and his, jowls and thick neck heightened the sense of power that

 emanated from him. His men were afraid of him.

 'How many more?" he asked suddenly, and the colonel sitting opposite

 him, a man with the medal ribbons of valour on his chest, started like a

 schoolboy and quickly consulted his list.

 'Four more to find - Mbeki, Mtolo, Mhlaba and Gama." He read out the

 names on his list that remained unticked, and Manfred De La Rey relapsed

 into silence.

 Despite his brooding stillness and forbidding expression, Manfred was

 pleased with the day's work. It was not yet noon on the first day and

 already they had pinpointed the whereabouts of most of the ringleaders.

 Altogether the ANC had planned the entire campaign with quite

 extraordinary precision and had exhibited unusual thoroughness and

 foresight in its execution, Manfred reflected. He had not expected them

 to be so efficient, the African was notoriously lackadaisical and

 happy-go-lucky - but then they had the advice and assistance of their

 white communist comrades. The protests and demonstrations and strikes

 were widespread and effective. Manfred grunted aloud and the officers

 at the table looked up apprehensively, but dropped their eyes hurriedly

 when he frowned.

 Manfred returned to his thoughts. No, not bad for a bunch of kaffirs,

 even with a few white men to help them. Yet their naivety and

 amateurishness showed in their almost total lack of security and

 secrecy. They had blabbed as though they were at a beer-drink. Full of

 their own importance they had boasted of their plans and made little

 effort to conceal the identities of the leaders and cover their

 movements. The police informers had had little difficult in picking up

 the information.

 There were, of course, exceptions and Manfred scowled as he considered

 the lists of leaders still unaccounted for. One name pricked like a

 burr, Moses Gama. He had made a study of the man's file.

 After Mandela, he was probably the most dangerous of them all.

 'We must have him,' he told himself. 'We must get those two, Mandela

 and Gama." And now he spoke aloud, barking the question: 'Where is

 Mandela?" 'At the moment he is addressing a meeting in the community hal

 at Drake's Farm township,' the colonel answered promptly, glancinl up at

 the red marker on the map. 'He will be followed when hid leaves, until

 we are ready to make the arrests." 'No word of Gama yet?" Manfred asked

 impatiently, and th officer shook his head.

 'Not yet, Minister, he was last seen here on the Witwatersrant nine days

 ago. He might have gone underground. We may have t( move without him."

 'No,' Manfred snapped. 'I want him. I want Moses Gama." Manfred

 relapsed into silence, brooding and intense. He knew thai he was caught

 in the cross-currents of history. He could feel the good winds blowing

 at his back, set fair to carry him away on hL, course. He knew also that

 at any moment those winds might drop, and the ebb of his tide might set

 in. It was dangerous - mortally dangerous but still he waited. His

 father and his ancestors had all been huntsmen. They had hunted the

 elephant and lion and he had heard them speak of the patience and the

 waiting that was part of the hunt. Now Manfred was a hunter as they had

 been, but his quarry, though every bit as dangerous, was infinitely more

 cunning.

 He had set his snares with all the skill at his command. The banning

 orders, five hundred of them, were already made out. The men and women

 to whom they were addressed would be driven out from society into the

 wilderness. Prohibited from attending a goth.

 ering of more than three persons, physically confined to a single

 magisterial district, prohibited also from publishing a single written

 word and prevented from having their spoken word published by anyone

 else, their treacherous and treasonable voices would be effectively

 gagged. That was how he would deal with the lesser enemy, the smaller

 game of this hunt.

 For the others, the fifty big game, the dangerous ones, he had other

 weapons ready. The warrants of arrest had been drawn up and the charges

 framed. Amongst them were high treason and furthering the aims of

 international communism, conspiracy to overthrow the government by

 violent revolution, incitement to public violenceand these, if proven,

 led directly to the gallows tree. Complete success was there, almost

 within his grasp, but at any moment it could be snatched away.

 At that moment a voice was raised so loudly in the operations room

 beyond the cubicle windows that they all looked up. Even Manfred swung

 his head towards the sound and narrowed his pale eyes. The officer who

 had spoken was sitting with his back to the window holding the telephone

 receiver to his ear, and scribbling on the notepad on the desk in front

 of him. Now he slammed the receiver back on to its bracket, ripped the

 top sheet off the pad and hurried into the map room.

 'What is it."?" demanded the super.

 'We've got him, sir." The man's voice was shrill with excitement.

 'We've got Moses Gama. He is in Port Elizabeth. Less than two hours

 ago he was at the head of a riot at the New Brighton railway station.

 The police were attacked, and were forced to open fire in self-defence.

 At least seven people have been killed, one of them a nun. She was

 horribly mutilated - there is even an unconfirmed report that she was

 cannibalized - and her body has been burned." 'Are they sure it was

 him?" Manfred asked.

 'No doubt, Minister. He was positively identified by an informer who

 knows him personally and the police captain has identified him by file

 and photograph." 'All right,' Manfred De La Rey said. 'Now we can

 move." He looked down at the commissioner of police at the far end of

 the long table. 'Do it, please, Commissioner,' he said, and picked up

 his dark fedora hat from the table. 'Report to me the moment you have

 them all locked up." He rode up in the lift to ground level and his

 chauffeur-driven limousine was waiting to take him back to his office in

 the Union Buildings. As he settled back against the leather-padded rear

 seat and the limousine pulled away, he smiled for the first time that

 morning.

 'A nun,' he said aloud. 'And they ate her!" He shook his head with

 satisfaction. 'Let the bleeding hearts of the world read that and know

 what kind of savages we are dealing with." He felt the good winds of his

 fortune freshen, bearing him away towards those places which only

 recently he had allowed himself to dream of." When they got back to the

 mission, Moses helped Tara out of the Packard. She was still pale and

 shaking like a woman with malaria.

 Her clothing was ripped and soiled with blood and dirt, and she could

 hardly stand unaided.

 Kitty Godolphin and her camera crew had escaped the wrath of the mob by

 running across the railway tracks and hiding in a stormwater drain, then

 working their way in a wide circle back to the mission.

 'We've got to get out of here,' Kitty yelled at Tara as she came out on

 to the verandah and saw Moses helping her up the steps. 'I've got the

 most incredible footage of my life. I can't trust it to anybody else. I

 want to get on the Pan Am flight from Jo'burg tomorrow morning and take

 the undeveloped cans to New York myself." She was so excited that her

 voice shook wildly, and like Tara her denim jeans were torn and dusty.

 However, she was already packed and ready to leave, carrying the red

 canvas tote bag that was all her luggage.

 'Did you film the nun?" Moses demanded. 'Did you film them killing

 Sister Nunziata?" 'Sure did, sweetheart!" Hank grinned. He was close

 behind Kitty.

 'Got it all." 'How many cans did you shoot?" Moses insisted.

 'Four." Hank was so excited he could not stand still. He was bouncing

 on his toes and snapping his fingers.

 'Did you get the police shooting?" 'All of it, sweetheart, all of it."

 'Where is the film of the nun?" Moses demanded.

 'Still in the camera." Hank slapped the A rriflex that hung by his side.

 'It's all here, baby. I had just changed film when they grabbed the nun

 and ripped her up." Moses left Tara leaning against the column of the

 verandah, and crossed to where Hank stood. He moved so casually that

 none of them realized what he was about to do. Kitty was still talking.

 'If we leaYe right away, we can be in Jo'burg by tomorrow morning.

 The Pan Am flight leaves at 11.30--' Moses had reached Hank's side. He

 seized the heavy camera, twisting the carrying strap so that Hank was

 pulled up on his toes helplessly, and he unclipped the round magazine of

 film from its seat on top of the camera body. Then he turned and

 smashed the magazine against the brick column of the verandah.

 Kitty realized what he was doing and she flew at him like an angry cat,

 clawing for his eyes with her nails. 'My film,' she screeched.

 'God damn you to hell, that's any film." Moses shoved her so violently

 that she collided with Hank, taking him off balance and they fell over

 each other, sprawling together on the verandah floor.

 Moses hit the magazine again and this time the can burst open.

 The ribbon of glistening celluloid spilled out and cascaded over the

 retaining wall.

 'You've ruined it,' Kitty screamed, coming to her feet and charging at

 him.

 Moses tossed the empty can away, and caught Kitty's wrists, lifting her

 bodily off the ground and holding her effortlessly, though she struggled

 and kicked at him.

 'You have the film of police brutality, the murder of innocent blacks,'

 he said. 'The rest of it you were not meant to witness. I will not let

 you show that to the world." He pushed her away. 'You may take the

 Packard." Kitty glared at him, massaging her wrists where the skin was

 red from his grip and she spat like a cat.

 'I won't forget that - one day you will pay for that, Moses Gama." Her

 malignancy was chilling.

 'Go,' Moses commanded. 'You have a plane to catch." For a moment she

 hesitated, and then she whirled, picked up her tote bag.

 'Come on, Hank,' she called, and she ran down the stairs to the Packard

 and sprang into the driver's seat.

 'You cock-sucking bastard,' Hank hissed at Moses as he passed.

 'That was the best stuff I ever scored." 'You've still got three cans,'

 Moses said softly. 'Be grateful for that." Moses watched them drive

 away in the Packard and then turned to Tara.

 'We must move very fast now - the police will act at once. We have to

 get out of the township before they cordon it off. I am a marked man -

 we have to get clear." 'What do you want me to do?" Tara asked.

 'Come, I'll explain later,' Moses said and hustled her towards the

 Buick. 'First, we must get clear." Tara gave the salesman a cheque and

 waited in the tiny cubicle of his office that stank of cheap cigar smoke

 while he phoned her bank in Cape Town.

 There was a crumplednewspaper on the cluttered desk, and she picked it

 up and read it avidly.

 SEVEN DEAD IN P.E. RIOTS NATIONWIDE DISTURBANCES 500 ACTIVISTS BANNED

 MANDELA ARRESTED Almost the entire newspaper was devoted to the defiance

 campaign and its consequences. At the bottom of the page, under the

 lurid accounts of the killing and the cannibalization of Sister

 Nunziata, there were accounts of the action taken by the ANC in other

 sectors of the country. Thousands had been arrested, and there were

 photographs of protesters being loaded into police vans, grinning

 cheerfully and giving the thumbs-up sign that had become the protester's

 salute.

 The inner page of the newspaper gave the lists of almost ri hundred

 persons who had been banned, and explained the const quences of the

 banning orders - how they effectively terminated tll public life of the

 victim.

 There was also the much shorter list of persons who had bee arrested for

 high treason and furthering the aims of the communi, party, and Tara bit

 her lip when she saw Moses Gama's name. Th police spokesman must have

 anticipated his arrest, but it was proc that the precautions Moses was

 taking were wise. High treason wa a capital offence, and she had a

 mental picture of Moses, his hea, hooded, twisting and kicking from the

 gallows crossbeam. Sh shuddered and thrust the image aside,

 concentrating on the rest o the newspaper.

 There were photographs, most of them murky and indistinct, o the leaders

 of the ANC, and she smiled humourlessly as she realize( that these were

 the first fruits of the campaign. Up to this moment not one in a

 hundred white South Africans had ever heard of Mose Gama, Nelson

 Mandela, or any of the other leaders, but now the 3

 had come bursting in on the national conscience. The world suddenl3

  

 knew who they were.

 The middle pages were mostly filled with public reaction to the campaign

 and to the government's counter measures. It was too soon for the

 foreign reactions, but local opinion seemed almost unanimous:

 condemnation of the barbaric murder of Sister Nunziata, and high praise

 for police courage and the swift action of the minister of police in

 crushing the communist-inspired plot.

 The editor wrote: We have not always been able to commend the actions

 and utterances of the Minister of Police. However, the need finds the

 man and we are thankful this day that a man of courage and strength

 stands between us and the forces of anarchy -Tara's reading was

 interrupted by the used car salesman. He bustled back into the tiny

 office to fawn on Tara and to gush.

 'My dear Mrs Courtney, you must forgive me. I had no idea who you were,

 or I would never have subjected you to the humiliation of querying your

 cheque." He ushered her out to the yard, bowing and grinning

 ingratiatingly, and held open the door of the 1951-model black Cadillac

 for which Tara had just given her cheque for almost a thousand pounds.

 Tara drove down the hill and parked on the Donkin overlooking the sea.

 The military and naval outfitters were only half a block down the main

 street and from their stocks she picked out a chauffeur's cap with a

 glossy patent-leather peak and a dove-grey tunic with brass buttons in

 Moses' size which the assistant packed in a brown paper bag.

 Back in the new Cadillac she drove slowly down to the main railway

 station and parked opposite the entrance. She left the key in the

 ignition and slipped into the back seat. Within five minutes Moses came

 out. He was dressed in grubby blue overalls and the police constable at

 the railway entrance did not even glance at him. Moses sauntered down

 the sidewalk and as he drew level with the Cadillac, Tara passed the

 paper bag through the open window.

 Within ten minutes Moses was back, the overalls discarded, wearing the

 chauffeur's cap and smart new tunic over his dark slacks and black

 shoes. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

 'You were right. There is a warrant out for your arrest,' she said

 softly.

 'How do you know?" 'There is a newspaper on the seat." She had folded it

 open at the report on his arrest. He read it swiftly, and then eased

 the Cadillac out into the traffic stream.

 'What are you going to do, Moses? Will you give yourself up and stand

 trial?" 'The courtroom would be a platform from which to speak to the

 world,' he mused.

 'And if you were convicted, the gallows would be an even more riveting

 pulpit,' she pointed out acidly, and he smiled at her in the rear-view

 mirror.

 'We need martyrs - every cause must have martyrs." 'My God, Moses, how

 can you speak like that? Every cause needs a leader. There are many

 who would make fine martyrs, but very few who can lead." He drove in

 silence for a while and then he said firmly, 'We will go to

 Johannesburg. I must talk to the others before I decide." 'Most of the

 others have been arrested,' Tara pointed out.

 'Not all." He shook his head. 'I must talk to those who have escaped.

 How much money do you have?" She opened her handbag and counted the

 notes she had in her purse.

 'Over a hundred pounds." 'More than enough,' he nodded. 'Be prepared to

 play the grand lady when the police stop us." They ran into the first

 road-block on the outskirts of the city at the Swartkops bridge. There

 was a line of cars and heavy vehicles and they moved forward slowly,

 stopping and starting, until two police constables signalled them over

 and a young police warrant officer came to the passenger window.

 'Good aernoon, Mevrou." He touched his cap. 'May we look i the boot of

 your car?" 'What is this about, officer?" 'The troubles, madam. We are

 looking for the trouble-makers wh, killed the nun and ate her." Tara

 leaned forward and spoke sharply to Moses. 'Open the boo for the

 policeman, Stephen." And Moses climbed out and held the lit open while

 the constables made a cursory search. Not one of then looked at his

 face, the chauffeur's uniform had rendered him miraculously invisible.

 'Thank you, lady." The warrant officer waved them through and Moses

 murmured 'That was most unflattering. I thought I was a celebrity now."

 It was a long and arduous drive from the coast, but Moses drov{

 sedately, careful not to give anyone an excuse to stop them ant question

 them more carefully.

 As he drove he tuned the Cadillac's wireless for the South African

 Broadcasting Corporation's hourly news bulletin. The reception wa

 intermittent as the terrain varied, but they picked up one excitin item.

 The Soviet Union supported by her allies had demanded an urgent debate

 in the United Nations General Assembly on the situation in the country.

 This was the first time the UN had ever shown an interest in South

 Africa. For that alone all their sacrifice had been worthwhile.

 However, the rest of the news was disquieting. Over eight thousand

 protesters had been arrested and all the leaders banned or picked up,

 and a spokesman for the minister of police assured the country that the

 situation was firmly under control.

 They drove on until after dark when they stopped at one of the small

 Orange Free State hotels that catered mainly for commercial travellers.

 When Tara asked for board and lodging for her chauffeur, the request was

 taken as matter of course because all the travellers employed coloured

 drivers and) Moses was sent around the back to the servants' quarters in

 the hotel yard.

 After the plain and unappetizing fare in the hotel dining-room, Tara

 telephoned Weltevreden, and $eon answered on the second ring.

 They had returned from their hunting safari with Shasa the previous day,

 and were garrulous and excited. Each of the boys spoke to her in turn,

 so she was treated to three separate accounts of how Garrick had shot a

 man-eating lion. Then Isabella came on the line, and her sweet childish

 lisp tugged at Tara's heart, making her feel dreadfully guilty at her

 lack of maternal duty. Yet none of the children, Isabella included,

 seemed to have missed her in the least. Isabella was just as long-winded

 as her brothers in recounting 11 the things that she and Nana had done

 together, and the new dress that Nana had bought her and the doll that

 grandpa Blaine had brought back from England especially for her. None

 of them asked her how she was and when she was coming home to

 Weltevreden.

 Shasa came on the line last, distant but friendly. 'We are all having a

 wonderful time - Garry shot a lion --' 'Oh God, Shasa, don't you tell me

 about it, I've already had three accounts of the poor beast's death."

 Within a few minutes they had run out of things to say to each other.

 'Well then, old thing, take care of yourself. I see the uglies are

 cutting up rather rough on the Rand, but De La Rey has it well in hand,'

 Shasa ended. 'Don't get caught up in any unpleasantness." 'I won't,'

 she promised.  'Now I'll let you go in to dinner." Shasa liked to dine

 at eight o'clock sharp and it was four minutes before the hour. She

 knew he was already dressed and checking his watch.

 When she hung up she. realized that he hadn't asked her where she was,

 what she was doing or when she was coming home. 'Saved me from having

 to lie,' she consoled herself.

 From her bedroom she could look over the hotel yard, and the lights were

 on in the servants' quarters. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with

 loneliness. It was so chilling, that she seriously thought about

 creeping across the yard to be with him. It took an effort of will to

 thrust that madness aside, and instead she picked up the telephone again

 and asked the operator for the number at Puck's Hill.

 A servant, with a marked African accent, answered and Tara's heart sank.

 It was vital that they find out whether the Rivonia house was still

 safe. They could be going into a police trap. 'Is Nkosi Marcus there?"

 she demanded.

 'Nkosi Marcus no here, he go away, missus,' the servant told her.

 'You Missus Tara?" 'Yes! Yes!" Although she did not remember a servant,

 he must have recognized her voice, and she was about to go on when

 Marcus Archer spoke in his normal voice.

 'Forgive me, my dear, for the music-hall impression, but the sky has

 fallen in here. Everybody is in a panic - the pigs have moved much

 quicker than anybody expected. Joe and I are the only ones to survive,

 as far as I know. How is our good friend, have they got him?" 'He's

 safe. Can we come to Puck's Hill?" 'So far it seems as though they have

 overlooked us here, but do be careful, won't you? There are road-blocks

 everywhere." Tara slept very little and was up before dawn to begin the

 last leg of the journey. The hotel chef had made her a packet of corned

 beef sandwiches and a thermos of hot tea, so they breakfasted as they

 drove. Any stop would increase their chances of discovery and arrest,

 and except to refuel, they kept going and crossed the Vaal river before

 noon.

 Tara had been seeking the right moment to tell Moses ever since she had

 returned to the Transvaal to be near him, but now she knew that there

 would never be a right moment and that within hours they would be at

 Puck's Hill. After that nothing was certain except that there would be

 confusion and great danger for all of them.

 'Moses,' she addressed the back of his head in a resolute voice, 'I

 can't keep it from you any longer. I have to tell you now. I am

 bearing your child." She saw his head flinch slightly and then those

 dark mesmeric eyes were glowering at her in the driver's mirror.

 'What will you do?" he asked. He had not asked if she were certain nor

 had he queried his paternity of the child. That was typical of him -

 and yet he had accepted no responsibility either. 'What will you do?" 'I

 am not sure yet. I will find a way to have it." 'You must get rid of

 it." 'No,' she cried vehemently. 'Never. He's mine. I will take care

 of him." He did not remark on her choice of the masculine pronoun.

 'The child will be half-caste,' he told her. 'Are you prepared for

 that?" 'I will find a way,' she insisted.

 'I cannot help you - not at all,' he went on remorselessly. 'You

 understand that." 'Yes, you can,' she answered. 'You can tell me that

 you are pleased that I am carrying your son - and that you will love

 him, as I love his father." 'Love?" he said. 'That is not an African

 word. There is no word for love in my vocabulary." 'Oh, Moses, that is

 not true. You love your people." 'I love them as a people entire, not

 as individuals. I would sacrifice any one of them for the good of the

 whole." 'But our son, Moses. Something precious that we have made

 between us - don't you feel anything at all for him?" She watched his

 eyes in the mirror and saw the pain in them.

 'Yes,' he admitted. 'Of course, I do. Yet I dare not acknowledge it. I

 must lock such feelings away lest they weaken my resolve and destroy us

 all." 'Then I will love him for both of us,' she said softly.

 As Marcus Archer had warned Tara, there were more road-blocks.

 As they drew closer to the great industrial and mining complex of the

 Witwatersrand, they were stopped three times, the last at Halfway House,

 but each time the chauffeur's uniform and Tara's white face and haughty

 manner protected him.

 Tara had expected Johannesburg to be like a city under siege, but the

 road-blocks and the news posters on the street corners were the only

 indications of something unusual afoot. The headgear wheels of the

 mines they passed were spinning busily, and beyond the perimeter fences

 they saw the black miners in gumboots and shiny hard hats flocking to

 the shaft heads.

 When they passed through downtown Johannesburg, the city streets were

 crowded as usual with shoppers of all races and their faces were

 cheerful and relaxed. Tara was disappointed. She was not sure what she

 had expected, but at least she had hoped for some visible sign that the

 people were on the march.

 'You cannot expect too much,' Moses told her when she lamented that

 nothing had changed. 'The forces against us are obdurate as granite,

 and the resources they command are limitless.

 Yet it is a beginning - our first faltering step on the road to

 liberation." They drove past Puck's Hill slowly. It seemed deserted,

 and at least there were no signs of police activity. Moses parked the

 Cadillac in the wattle plantation at the back of the Country Club and

 left Tara while he went back on foot to make absolutely certain they

 were not running into a police trap.

 He was back within half an hour. 'It's safe. Marcus is there,' he told

 her as he started the Cadillac and drove back.

 Marcus was waiting for them on the verandah. He looked tired and worn,

 and he had aged dramatically in the short time since Tara had last seen

 him.

 He led them into the long kitchen, and went back to the stove on which

 he was preparing a meal for them, and while he worked he told them

 everything that had happened in their absence.

 'The police reaction was so massive and immediate that it must have been

 carefully prepared. We expected a delay while they caught up with the

 situation and gathered themselves. We expected to be able to exploit

 that delay, and call upon the masses to join us in the defiance campaign

 until it gathered its own momentum and became irresistible, but they

 were ready for us. There are not more than a dozen of the leaders at

 large now, Moses is one of the lucky ones, and without leaders the

 campaign is already beginning to grind to a halt." He glanced at Tara

 with a vindictive sparkle in his eye before he went on.

 'However, there are still some pockets of resistance - our little

 Victoria is doing sterling work. She has organized the nurses at

 Baragwanath and brought them out as part of the campaign. She won't

 keep that up much longer - she'll be arrested or banned pretty damn

 soon, you can bet on that." 'Vicky is a brave woman,' Moses agreed. 'She

 knows the risks, and she takes them willingly." He looked straight at

 Tara as he said it, as if daring her to voice her jealousy. She knew of

 his marriage, of course, but she had never spoken of it. She knew what

 the consequences would be, and now she dropped her eyes, unable to meet

 his challenge.

 'We have underestimated this man De La Rey,' Moses said. 'He is a

 formidable opponent. We have achieved very little of what we hoped

 for." 'Still, the United Nations is debating our plight,' Tara said

 quietly without looking up again.

 'Debating,' Moses agreed scornfully. 'But it requires only a single

 veto from America or Britain or France, and no action will be taken.

 They will talk and talk while my people suffer." 'Our people,' Marcus

 chided him. 'Our people, Moses." 'My people,' Moses contradicted him

 harshly. 'The others are all in prison. I am the only leader who

 remains. They are my people." There was silence in the kitchen, except

 for the scrape of utensils on the plates as they ate, but Marcus was

 frowning and it was he who broke the silence.

 'So what happens now?" he asked. 'Where will you go? You cannot stay

 here, the police may swoop at any moment. Where will you go?" 'Drake's

 Farm?" Moses mused.

 'No." Marcus shook his head. 'They know you too well there. The moment

 you arrive the whole township will know and there are police informers

 everywhere. It will be the same as turning yourself in at the nearest

 police station." They were silent again until Moses asked, 'Where is Joe

 Cicero?"

 Have they taken him?" 'No,' Marcus answered. 'He has gone underground."

 'Can you contact him?" 'We have an arrangement. He will ring me here -

 if not tonight, then tomorrow." Moses looked across the table at Tara.

 'Can I come with you to the expedition base at Sundi Caves? It's the

 only safe place I can think of at the moment." And Tara's spirits

 bounded. She would have him for a little longer still.

 Tara explained to Marion Hurst, not attempting to conceal Moses'

 identity nor the fact that he was a fugitive, and she was not surprised

 by the American woman's response.

 'It's like Martin Luther King coming and asking me for sanctuary,' she

 declared. 'Of course, I'll do whatever I can to help." As a cover,

 Marion gave Moses a job in the pottery section of the warehouse under

 the name of Stephen Khama, and he was absorbed immediately into the

 company of the expedition. Without asking questions the other members,

 both black and white, gathered around to shield him.

 Despite Marcus Archer's assurances, it was almost a week before he was

 able to contact Joe Cicero, and another day before he could arrange for

 them to meet. The hardest possible way they had learned not to

 underestimate the vigilance of the police, while Joe Cicero had always

 been secretive and professional. Nobody was certain where he lived or

 how he maintained himself, his comings and goings were unannounced and

 unpredictable.

 'I have always thought him to be theatrical and over-careful, but now I

 see the wisdom behind it,' Moses told Tara as they drove into the city.

 Moses was once more dressed in his chauffeur's uniform.

 'From now on we must learn from the professionals, for those ranged

 against us are the hardest of professionals." Joe Cicero came out of the

 entrance of the Johannesburg railway station as Moses stopped the

 Cadillac for the red light at the pedestrian crossing, and he slipped

 unobtrusively into the back seat beside Tara. Moses pulled away,

 heading out in the direction of Doornfontein.

 'I congratulate you on still being at large,' Joe told Moses wryly, as

 he lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and glanced sideways

 at Tara. 'You are Tara Courtney,' and smiled at her surprise.

 'What is your part in all this?" 'She is a friend,' Moses spoke for her.

 'She is committed to us.

 You may speak freely in front of her." 'I never speak freely,' Joe

 murmured. 'Only an idiot does that." They were all silent then until

 Joe asked suddenly, 'And so, my friend, do you still believe that the

 revolution can be won without blood?

 Are you still one of the pacifists who would play the game by the rules

 that the oppressor makes and changes at will?" 'I have never been a

 pacifist,' Moses' voice rumbled. 'I have always been a warrior." 'I

 rejoice to hear you say it, for it confirms what I have always

 believed." Joe smiled a sly and inscrutable smile behind the fringeof

 dark beard. 'If I did not, I would not be sitting here now." Then his

 tone altered. 'Make a U-turn here and take the Krugersdorp road!" he

 ordered.

 The three of them were silent while Joe turned to scrutinize the

 following traffic. After a minute he seemed satisfied and relaxed in

 the back seat. Moses drove out of the built-up areas into the open

 grassy veld.  The traffic around them thinned, and abruptly Joe Cicero

 leaned forward and pointed ahead to an empty lay-by on the side of the

 road.

 'Pull in there,' he ordered, and as Moses parked the Cadillac he opened

 the door beside him. As he stepped out he jerked his head.

 'Come!" When Tara opened her own door to join them, Joe snapped. 'No,

 not you! Stay here!" With Moses at his side he walked through the stand

 of scraggly black wattle into the open veld beyond, out of sight of the

 road.

 'I told you the woman is trustworthy,' Moses said, and Joe shrugged.

 'Perhaps. I do do not take chances until it is necessary to do so." And

 then he changed direction. 'I asked you once what you thought of Mother

 Russia?" 'And I replied that she was a friend of the oppressed peoples

 of the world." 'She wishes to be your friend also,' Joe said simply.

 'Do you mean me personally - Moses Gama?" 'Yes, you personally - Moses

 Gama." 'How do you know this?" 'There are men in Moscow who have watched

 you carefully for many years. What they have seen they approve off They

 offer you the hand of friendship." 'I ask you again. How do you know

 this?" 'I am a colonel in the Russian KGB. I have been ordered to tell

 you this." Moses stared at him. It was moving so fast that he needed a

 respite to catch up.

 x 'What does the offer of friendship entail?" he asked cautiously,

 buying time in which to think, and Joe Cicero nodded approvingly.

 'It is good you ask the terms of our friendship. It confirms our

 estimate of you. That you are a careful man. You will be given the

 answer to that in due course. In the meantime be content with the fact

 that we have singled you out above all others." 'Very well,' Moses

 agreed. 'But tell me why I have been chosen.

 There are other good men - Mandela is one of them." 'Mandela was

 considered, but we do not believe he has the steel.

 We detect a softness in him. Our psychologists believe that he will

 flinch from the hard and bloody work of the revolution. We know also

 that he does not have the same high regard for Mother Russia that you

 do. He has even called her the new oppressor, the colonialist of the

 twentieth century." 'What about the others?" Moses asked.

 'There are no others,' Joe told him flatly. 'It was either you or

 Mandela. It is you. That is the decision." 'They want my answer now?"

 Moses stared into the tar pits of his eyes, but they had a strangely

 lifeless dullness in them and Joe Cicero shook his head.

 'They want to meet you, talk to you, make sure you understand the

 bargain. Then you will be trained and groomed for the task ahead."

 'Where will this meeting take place?" Joe smiled and shrugged. 'In

 Moscow - where else?" And Moses did not let his amazement show on his

 face, though his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

 'Moscow! How will I get there?" 'It has been arranged,' Joe assured

 him, and Moses lifted his head and stared at the tall thunderheads that

 rose in silver and blue splendour along the horizon. He was lost in

 thought for many minutes.

 He felt his spirits grow light and take wing up towards those soaring

 thunder clouds. It had come - the moment for which he had worked and

 waited a lifetime. Destiny had cleared the field of all his rivals, and

 he had been chosen.

 Like a victor's laurel they were offering a land and a crown.

 'I will go to meet them,' he agreed softly.

 'You will leave in two days' time. It will take me that long to make

 the final arrangements. In the meantime keep out of sight, do not

 attempt to take leave of any friends, do not tell anybody you are going

 - not even the Courtney woman or your new wife. I will get a message to

 you through Marcus Archer and if he is arrested before then, I will

 contact you at the expedition base at Sundi Caves. Professor Hurst is a

 sympathizer." Joe dropped the butt of his'cigarette and while he ground

 it under his heel, he lit another. 'Now we will go back to the car."

 Victoria Gama stood at the top end of the sloping lawns of the

 Baragwanath nurses' home. She was still dressed in her uniform with the

 badges of a nursing sister sparkling on her tunic, but she looked very

 young and self-conscious as she faced the hundred or so off-duty nurses

 who were gathered on the lawns below her. The white matron had refused

 permission for them to meet in the dining-hall, so they were standing

 out under a sky full of towering thunderheads.

 'My sisters!" She held out her hands towards them. 'We have a duty to

 our patients - to those in pain, to those suffering and dying, to those

 who turn to us in trust. However, I believe that we have a higher duty

 and more sacred commitment to all our people who for three hundred years

 have suffered under a fierce and unrelenting oppression --' Victoria

 seemed to gather confidence as she spoke, and her sweet young voice had

 a music and rhythm that caught their attention.

 She had always been popular with the other nurses, and her winning

 personality, her capacity for hard work and her unselfish attitude had

 seen her emerge, not only as one of the most senior nursing staff for

 her age, but also as an example and a trend-setter amongst the younger

 nurses. There were women ten and fifteen years older than she was, who

 listened now to her with attention and who applauded her when she paused

 for breath. Yheir applause and approval bolstered Victoria and her

 voice took on a sharper tone.

 'Across the land our leaders, in actions rather than pale words, are

 showing the oppressors that we will no longer remain passive and

 acquiescent. They are crying to the world for justice and humanity.

 What kind of women will we be if we stand aside and refuse to join them?

 How can we ignore the fact that our leaders are being arrested and

 harassed by the infernal laws --' There was a stir in the crowd of

 uniformed nurses, and the faces which had been lifted towards Victoria

 turned away and the expressions of rapt concentration changed to

 consternation. From the edges of the crowd one or two of the nurses

 broke away and scuttled back up the steps of the nurses' home.

 Three police vans had driven up to the gates, and the white matron and

 two of her senior staff had hurried out to confer with the police

 captain in charge of the contingent as he alighted from the leading

 vehicle. The matron's white tunic and skirt contrasted with the blue of

 the police uniforms, and she was pointing at Victoria and talking

 animatedly to the captain.

 Victoria's voice faltered, and despite her resolve, she was afraid. It

 was an instinctive and corrosive fear. From her earliest remembered

 childhood the blue police uniforms had been symbols of unquestionable

 might and authority. To defy them now went against all her instincts

 and the teaching of her father and all her elders.

 'Do not challenge the white man,' they had taught her. 'For his wrath

 is more terrible than the summer fires that consume the veld.

 None can stand before it." Then she remembered Moses Gama, and her voice

 firmed; she beat down her fear and cried aloud, 'Look at yourselves, my

 sisters.

 See how you tremble and cast your eyes down at the sight of the

 oppressor. He has not yet spoken nor raised a hand to you, but you have

 become little children!" The police captain left the group at the gate

 and came to the edge of the lawn. There he paused and raised a

 bull-horn to his lips.

 'This is an illegal gathering on state-owned property." His voice was

 magnified and distorted. 'You have five minutes to disperse and return

 to your quarters." He raised his arm and ostentatiously checked his

 wristwatch. 'If you have not done so in that time --' The nurses were

 scattering already, scampering away, not waiting for the officer to

 complete his warning, and Victoria found herself alone on the wide lawn.

 She wanted to run and hide also, but she thought about Moses Gama and

 her pride would not let her move.

 The police officer lowered his loud-hailer and turned back to the white

 matron. They conferred again, and the officer showed her a sheaf of

 paper which he took from his despatch case. The mattoil nodded and they

 both looked at Victoria again. Alone now, she still stood at the top of

 the lawn. Pride and fear held her rigid. She stood stiffly, unable to

 move as the police captain marched across to where she stood.

 'Victoria Dinizulu? he asked her in a normal conversational voice, so

 different from the hoarse booming of the loud-hailer.

 Victoria nodded, and then remembered. 'No,' she denied. 'I am Victoria

 Gama." The police officer looked confused. He was very fair-skinned

 with a fine blond mustache. 'I was told you were Victoria Dinizulu -

 there has been a mess-up,' he muttered, and then he blushed with

 embarrassment and immediately Victoria felt sorry for him.

 'I got married,' she explained. 'My maiden name was Victoria Dinizulu,

 but now I am Victoria Gama." 'Oh, I see." The captain looked relieved,

 and glanced down at the document in his hand. 'It's made out to

 Victoria Dinizulu. I suppose it's still all right though." He was

 uncertain again.

 'It's not your fault,' Victoria consoled him. 'The wrong name, I mean.

 They can't blame you. You couldn't have known." 'No, you're right." The

 captain perked up visibly. 'It's not my fault.

 I'll just serve it on you anyway. They can sort it out back at HQ."

 'What is it?" Victoria asked curiously.

 'It's a banning order,' the captain explained. He showed it to her.

 'It's signed by the minister of police. I have to read it to you, then

 you have to sign it,' he explained and then he looked contrite. 'I'm

 sorry, it's my duty." 'That is all right." Vicky smiled at him. 'You

 have to do your duty." He looked down at the document again and began to

 read aloud:

 TO VICTORIA THANDELA DINIZUL. U

 Notice in terms of Section 9(i) of the Internal Security Act 1950 (Act

 of 1950). Whereas 1, Manfred De La Rey, Minister of Police, am

 satisfied that you are engaged in activities which endanger or are

 calculated to endanger the maintenance of public order -The captain

 stumbled over the more complicated legal phraseology and mispronounced

 some of the English words. Vicky corrected him helpfully. The banning

 document was four typewritten pages, and the policeman reached the end

 of it with patent relief.

 'You have to sign here." He offered her the document.

 q don't have a pen." 'Here, use mine." 'Thank you,' said Victoria.

 'You are very kind." She signed her name in the space provided and as

 she handed him back his pen, she had ceased to be a complete person. Her

 banning order prohibited her from being in the company of more than two

 other persons at any one time, except in the course of her daily work,

 of addressing any gathering or preparing any written article for

 publication. It confined her physically to the magisterial area of

 Johannesburg and required that she remain under house arrest for twelve

 hours of the day and also that she report daily to her local police

 station.

 'I'm sorry,' the police captain repeated, as he screwed the top back on

 his pen. 'You seem a decent girl." 'It's your job,' Victoria smiled

 back at him. 'Don't feel bad about it." Over the following days

 Victoria retreated into the strange halfworld of isolation. During

 working hours she found that her peers and superiors avoided her, as

 though she were a carrier of plague.

 The matron moved her out of the room that she shared with two other

 nursing sisters and she was given a small single room on the unpopular

 southern side of the hostel which never received the sun in winter. In

 this room her meals were served to her on a tray as she was prohibited

 from using the dining-hall when more than two other persons were

 present. Each evening after coming off shift she made the two-mile walk

 down to the police station to sign the register, but this soon became a

 pleasant outing rather than a penance. She was able to smile and greet

 the people she passed on the street for they did not know she was a

 non-person and she enjoyed even that fleeting human contact.

 Alone in her room she listened to her portable radio and read the books

 that Moses had given her, and thought about him. More than once she

 heard his name on the radio. Apparently a controversial film had been

 shown on the NABS television channel in the United States which had

 created a furore across the continent. It seemed that South Africa,

 which for most Americans was a territory remote as the moon and a

 thousand times less important, was suddenly a political topic. In the

 film Moses Gama had figured largely, and such was his presence and

 stature that he had been accepted abroad as the central figure in the

 African struggle. In the United Nations debate which had followed the

 television film, nearly every one of the speakers had referred to Moses

 Gama. Although the motion in the General Assembly calling for the

 condemnation of South Africa's racial discrimination had beerr vetoed in

 the Security Council by Great Britain, the debate had sent a ripple

 across the world and a cold shiver down the spine of the white

 government in the country.

 South Africa had no television network, but on her portable radio

 Victoria listened to a pungent edition of 'Current Affairs' on the

 state-controlled South African Broadcasting Corporation in which the

 campaign of defiance was described as the action of a radical minority,

 and Moses Gama was viiifled as a communist-inspired revolutionary

 criminal who was still at large, although a warrant had been issued for

 his arrest on a charge of high treason.

 Cut off from all other sympathetic human contact, Victoria found herself

 pining for him with such desperate longing that she cried herself to

 sleep in her lonely room each night.

 On the tenth day of her banning she was returning from her daily report

 to the police station, keeping to the edge of the pavement in that

 sensual gliding walk that the Nguni woman practises from childhood when

 she carries every load, from faggots of firewood to five-gallon clay

 pots of water, balanced upon her head. A light delivery van slowed down

 as it approached her from behind, and began to keep pace with her.

 Victoria was accustomed to extravagant male attention, for she was the

 very essence of Nguni female beauty, and when the driver of the vehicle

 whistled softly, she did not glance in his direction but lifted her chin

 an inch and assumed a haughty expression.

 The driver whistled again, more demandingly, and from the corner of her

 eye she saw the van was blue with the sign EXPRESS DRY CLEANERS -- SIX

 HOUR SERVICE painted on the side. The driver was a big man, and

 although his cap was pulled low over his eyes, she sensed he was

 attractive and masterful. Despite herself her hips began to swing as

 she strode on, and her large perfectly round buttocks oscillated like

 the cheeks of a chipmunk chewing a nut.

 'Victoria!" Her name was hissed, and the voice was unmistakable.

 She stopped dead and swung round to face him.

 'You!" she whispered, and then glanced around her frantically.

 For the moment the sidewalk was clear and only light traffic moved down

 the highway between rows of tall bluegum trees. Her eyes flashed back

 to his face, almost hungrily, and she whispered, 'Oh Moses, I didn't

 think you'd come." He leaned across the front seat of the van and opened

 the door nearest her, and she rushed across and threw herself into the

 moving van.

 'Get down,' he ordered, and she crouched below the dashboard while he

 slammed the door closed and accelerated away.

 'I couldn't believe it was you. I still don't - this van, where did you

 get it? Oh Moses, you'll never know how much - I heard your name on the

 radio, many times - so much has happened --' She found that she was

 gabbling almost hysterically. It had been so long since she had been

 able to talk freely, and it was as though the painful abscess of

 loneliness and longing had burst and all the poison was draining in the

 rush of words.

 She began to tell him about the nurses; strike and the banning, and hid

 of J hei no. ks ulu. had. can.*zted, her- or, qcthe e was-

 going-rffbe a march by a hundred thousand women, to the government

 buildings at Pretoria, and she was going to defy her banning order to

 join the march.

 'I want you to be proud of me. I want to be part of the struggle, for

 that is the only way I can truly be a part of you." Moses Gama drove in

 silence, smiling a little as he listened to her chatter. He wore blue

 overalls with the legend 'Express Dry Cleaners' embroidered across his

 back and the rear of the van was filled with racks of clothing that

 smelled strongly of cleaning solvent. She knew he had borrowed the van

 from Hendrick Iabaka.

 After a few minutes Moses slowed the van and then turned off sharply on

 to a spur road which swiftly deteriorated into a rutted track, and then

 petered out entirely. He bumped the last few yards over tussocks of

 grass and then parked behind a ruined and roofless building, the windows

 from whmh the frames had been ripped out were like the eyes of a skull.

 Victoria straightened up from under the dashboard.

 'I have heard about the nurses' strike-and your banning,' he said softly

 as he switched off the engine. 'And yes, I am proud of you.

 Very proud. You are a wife fit for a chief." She hung her head shyly,

 and the pleasure his words gave her was almost unbearable. She had not

 truly realized how much she loved him while they had been separated, and

 now the full force of it rushed back upon her.

 'And you are a chief,' she said.  'No, more than that - you are a king."

 'Victoria, I do not have much time,' he said. 'I should not have come

 here at all --' 'I would have shrivelled up if you had not - my soul was

 droughtstricken --' she burst out, but he laid his hand on her arm to

 still her.

 'Listen to me, Victoria. I have come to tell you that I am going away.

 I have come to charge you to be strong while I am away." 'Oh, my

 husband!" In her agitation she lapsed into Zulu. 'Where are you going?"

 'I can tell you only that it is to a distant land." 'Can I not journey

 by your side?" she pleaded.

 'No." 'Then I will send my heart to be your travelling companion, while

 the husk of me remains here to await your return. When will you come

 back, my husband?" 'I do not know, but it will be a long time." 'For me

 every minute that you are gone will become a weary day,' she told him

 quietly, and he raised his hand and stroked her face gently.

 'If there is anything you need you must go to Hendrick Tabaka.

 He is my brother, and I have placed you in his care." She nodded, unable

 to speak.

 'There is only one thing I can tell you now. When I return I will take

 the world we know and turn it on its head. Nothing will ever be the

 same again." 'I believe you,' she said simply.

 'I must go now,' he told her. 'Our time together has come to an end."

 'My husband,' she murmured, casting down her eyes again. 'Let me be a

 wife to you one last time, for the nights are so long and cold when you

 are not beside me." He took a roll of canvas from the back of the van

 and spread it on the grass beside the parked van. Her naked body was

 set off by the white cloth as she lay upon it like a figure cast in dark

 bronze thrown down upon the snow.

 At the end when he had spent and lay weak as a child upon her, she

 clasped his head tenderly to the soft warm swell of her bosom and she

 whispered to him, 'No matter how far and how long you travel, my love

 will burn away time and distance and I will be beside you, my husband."

 Tara was waiting for him, with the lantern lit, lying awake in the

 cottage tent when Moses returned to the camp. She sat up as he came

 through the fly. The blanket fell to her waist and she was naked. Her

 breasts were big and white and laced with tiny bluish veins around the

 swollen nipples - so different from those of the woman he had just left.

 'Where have you been?" she demanded.

 He ignored the question as he began to undress.

 'You have been to see her, haven't you? Joe ordered you not to." Now he

 looked at her scornfully, and then deliberately re-buttoned the front of

 his overalls as he moved to leave the tent again.

 'I'm sorry, Moses,' she cried, instantly terrified by the thought of his

 going. 'I didn't mean it, please stay. I won't talk like that again. I

 swear it, my darling. Please forgive me. I was upset, I have had such

 a terrible dream --' she threw aside the blanket and came up on her

 knees, reaching out both hands towards him. 'Please!" she entreated.

 'Please come to me." For long seconds he stared at her and then began

 once more to unbutton his overalls. She clung to him desperately as he

 came into the bed.

 'Oh Moses - I had such a dream. I dreamed of Sister Nunziata again. Oh

 God, the look on their faces as they ate her flesh. They were like

 wolves, their mouths red and running with her blood. It was the most

 horrific thing, beyond my imagination. It made me want to despair for

 all the world." 'No,' he said. His voice was low but it reverberated

 through her body as though she were'the sounding box of a violin

 trembling to the power of the strings. 'No!" he said. 'It was beauty -

 stark beauty, shorn of all but the truth. What you witnessed was the

 rage of the people, and it was a holy thing. Before that I merely

 hoped, but after witnessing that I could truly believe. It was a

 consecration of our victory. They ate the flesh and drank the blood as

 you Christians do to seal a pact with history. When you have seen that

 sacred rage you have to believe in our eventual triumph." He sighed, his

 great muscular chest heaved in the circle of her arms and then he went

 to sleep. It was something to which she could never grow accustomed,

 the way he could sleep as though he had closed a door in his mind.  She

 was left bereft and afraid, for she knew what lay ahead for her.

 Joe Cicero came for Moses in the night. Moses had dressed like one of a

 thousand other contract workers from the gold-mines in a surplus army

 greatcoat and woollen balaclava helmet that covered most of his face. He

 had no luggage, as Joe had instructed him, and when the ramshackle Ford

 pick-up parked across the road from them and flashed its lights once,

 Moses slipped out of the Cadillac and swiftly crossed to it. He did not

 say goodbye to Tara, they had taken their farewells long ago and he did

 not look back to where she sat forlornly behind the wheel of the

 Cadillac.

 As soon as Moses climbed into the rear of the Ford, it pulled away. The

 tail lights dwindled and were lost around the first curve of the road,

 and Tara was smothered by such a crushing load of despair that she did

 not believe she could survive it.

 Franois Afrika was the headmaster of the Mannenberg coloured school on

 the Cape Flats. He was a little over forty years old, a plump and

 serious man with a carb all lait complexion and thick very curly hair

 which he parted in the middle and plastered flat with Vaseline.

 His wife Miriam was plump also, but much shorter and younger than he.

 She had taught history and English at the Mannenberg junior school until

 the headmaster had married her, and she had given him four children, all

 daughters. Miriam was president of the local chapter of the Women's

 Institute which she used as a convenient cover for her political

 activities. She had been arrested during the defiance campaign, but

 when that petered out she had not been charged and had been released

 under a banning order. Three months later, when the furore had died

 away completely, her banning order had not been renewed.

 Molly Broadhurst had known her since before she had married Franqois,

 and the couple were frequent visitors at Molly's home.

 Behind her thick spectacles Miriam wore a perpetual chubby smile.

 Her home in the grounds of the junior school was clean as an operating

 theatre with crocheted antimacassars on the heavy maroon easy chairs,

 and a mirrorlike shine on the floors. Her daughters were always

 beautifully dressed with coloured ribbons in their pigtails and like

 Miriam were chubby and contented, a consequence of Miriam's cookery

 rather than her genes.

 Tara met Miriam for the first time at Molly's home. Tara had come down

 by train from the expedition base at Sundi Caves two weeks before her

 baby was due. She had booked a private coup compartment and kept the

 door locked the entire journey to avoid being recognized. Molly had met

 her at Paarl station, for she had not wanted to risk being seen at the

 main Cape Town terminus. Shasa and her family still believed that she

 was working with Professor Hurst.

 Miriam was all that Tara had hoped for, all that Molly had promised her,

 although she was not prepared for the maternity dress.

 'You are pregnant also?" she demanded as they shook hands, and Miriam

 patted her stomach shyly.

 'It's a cushion, Miss Tara, I couldn't just pop a baby out of nowhere,

 could I? I started with just a small lump as soon as Molly told me, and

 I've built it up slowly." Tara realized what inconvenience she had put

 her to, and now she embraced her impulsively. 'Oh, I can never tell you

 how grateful I am. Please don't call me Miss Tara. I'm your friend and

 plain Tara will do very well." 'I'll look after your baby like it's my

 own, I promise you,' Miriam told her, and then saw Tara's expression and

 hastily qualified her assurance. 'But he will always be yours, Tara.

 You can come and see him whenever, and one day if you are able to take

 him - well, Francois and I won't stand in your way." 'You are even nicer

 than Molly told me!" Tara hugged her. 'Come, I want to show you the

 clothes I've brought for our hah ' 'Oh, they areall blue." Miriam ,v.in:

 ..... Y' are going to have a boy.9' -- ......... ,,mcu. you are so

 sure you 'No question about it - I'm sure." 'So was I,' Miriam chuckled.

 'And look at me now - all girls!

 Though it's not too bad, they are good girls and they are all expecting

 this one to be a boy,' she patted her padded abdomen, 'and I know they

 are going to spoil him something terrible." Tara's baby was born in

 Molly Broadhurst's guest room. Doctor Chetty Abrahamji who delivered it

 was an old friend of Molly's and had been a secret member of the

 Communist Party, one of its few Hindu members.

 As soon as Tara went into labour, Molly telephoned Miriam Afrika, and

 she arrived with bag and bulging tummy and went in directly to see Tara.

 'I'm so glad we have started at last,' she cried. 'I must admit that

 although it was a difficult pregnancy, it will be my quickest and

 easiest delivery." She reached up under her own skirt and with a

 flourish produced the cushion. Tara laughed with her and then broke off

 as the next contraction seized her.

 'Ouch!" she whispered. 'I wish mine was that easy. This one feels like

 a giant." Molly and Miriam took turns, sitting beside her and holding

 her hand when the contractions hit her, and the doctor stood at the foot

 of the bed exhorting her to, 'Push! Push!" By noon the following day

 Tara was exhausted, panting and racked, her hair sodden with sweat as

 though she had plunged into the sea.

 'It's no good,' the doctor said softly. 'We'll have to move you into

 hospital and do a Caesar." 'No! No!" Tara struggled up on an elbow,

 fierce with determination. 'Give me one more chance." When the next

 contraction came she bore down on it with such force that every muscle

 in her body locked and she thought the sinews in her loins must snap

 like rubber bands. Nothing happened, it was jammed solid, and she could

 feel the blockage like a great log stuck inside her.

 'More!" Molly whispered in her ear. 'Harder - once more for the baby,'

 Tara bore down again with the strength of desperation and then screamed

 as she felt her flesh tear like tissue paper. There was a hot slippery

 rush between her thighs and relief so intense that her scream changed to

 a long drawn-out cry of joy, that joined with her infant's birth cry.

 'Is it a boy?" she gasped, trying to sit up. 'Tell me - tell me

 quickly." 'Yes,' Molly reassured her. 'It's a boy -just look at his

 whistle.

 Long as my finger. There's no doubt about that - he's a boy all right,'

 and Tara laughed out aloud.

 He weighed nine and a half pounds with a head that was covered with

 pitch black hair, thick and curly as the fleece of an Astrakhan lamb. He

 was the colour of hot toffee, and he had Moses Gama's fine Nilotic

 features. Tara had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life,

 none of her other babies had been anything like this.

 'Let me hold him,' she croaked, hoarse with the terrible effort of his

 birth, and they placed the child still wet and slippery in her arms.

 'I want to feed him,' she whispered. 'I must give him his first suck -

 then he will be mine for ever." She squeezed out her nipple and pressed

 it between his lips and he fastened on it, snuffling and kicking

 spasmodically with pleasure.

 'What is his name, Tara?" Miriam Afrika asked.

 'We'll call him Benjamin,' Tara said. 'Benjamin Afrika. I like that -

 he is' truly of Africa." Tara stayed with the infant five days. When

 finally she had to relinquish him, and Miriam drove away with him in her

 little Morris Minor, Tara felt as though part of her soul had been

 hacked away by the crudest surgery. If Molly had not been there to help

 her through, Tara knew she could not have borne it. As it was Molly had

 something for her.

 'I've been saving it until now,' she told Tara. 'I knew how you would

 feel when you had to give up your baby. This will cheer you up a

 little." She handed Tara an envelope, and Tara examined the handwritten

 address. 'I don't recognize the writing." She looked mystified.

 'I received it by a special courier - open it up. Go on!" Mo ordered

 impatiently, and Tara obeyed. There were four sheets cheap writing

 paper. Tara turned to the last sheet and as she re the signature her

 expression altered.

 'Moses!" she cried. 'Oh I can't believe it - after all these months.

 had given up hope. I didn't even recognize his handwriting." TaJ

 clutched the letter to her breast.

 'He wasn't allowed to write, Tara dear. He has been in a vel strict

 training camp. He disobeyed orders and took a grave risk t get this

 note out to you." Molly went to the door. Tll leave you i peace to read

 it. I know it will make up a little for your loss." Even after Molly

 had left her alone, Tara was reluctant to begi reading. She wanted to

 savour the pleasure of anticipation, but a last she could deny herself

 no longer.

 Tara, my dearest, I think of you every day in this place, where the work

 is very hard am demanding, and I wonder about you and our baby. Perhaps

 it has alread, been born, I do not know, and I wonder often if it is a

 boy or a little girl Although what I am doing is of the greatest

 importance for all of us for the people of Africa, as well as for you

 and me- yet I find roysell longing for you. The thought of you comes to

 me unexpectedly in the night and in the day and it is like a knife in my

 chest.

 Tara could not read on, her eyes were awash with tears.

 'Oh Moses,' she bit her lip to prevent herself blubbering, 'I never knew

 you could feel like that for me." She wiped her eyes with the back of

 her hand.

 When I left you, I did not know where I was going, nor what awaited me

 here. Now everything is clear, and I know what the difficult tasks are

 that lie ahead of us. I know also that I will need your help. You will

 not refuse me, my wife? I call you 'wife' because that is how I feel

 towards you, now that you are carrying our child.

 x It was difficult for Tara to take it in. She had never expected him

 to give her this kind of recognition and now she felt humbled by it.

 'There is nothing that I could ever refuse you,' she whispered aloud,

 and her eyes raced down the sheet. She turned it over quickly and Moses

 had written: Once before I told you how valuable it would be if you used

 your family connections to keep us informed of affairs of state. Since

 then this has become more imperative. Your husband, Shasa Courtney, is

 going over to the side of the neo-fascist oppressors. Although this

 fills you with hatred and contempt for him, yet it is a boon we could

 not have expected or prayed for. Our information is that he has been

 promised a place in least ten years junior to Tara, barely into her

 twenties, but with an unusual maturity for one so young.

 'My name is Victoria Dinizulu,' she introduced herself. 'My friends

 call me Vicky. I know you are Mrs Courtney." 'Tara,' Tara corrected her

 quickly. Nobody had used her surname since she had left Cape Town and

 it sounded a jarring note in her own ears.

 The girl smiled shyly in acknowledgement. She had the serene beauty of

 a black madonna, the classic moon face of the high-bred Zulu with huge

 almond eyes and full lips, her skin the colour of dark amber, her hair

 plaited into an intricate pattern of tiny curls over her skull.

 'Are you related to the Courtneys of Zululand?" she asked Tara.

 'Old General Sean Courtney and Sir Garrick Courtney of Theuniskraal,

 near Ladyburg?" 'Yes." Tara tried not to show the shock she felt at the

 mention of those names. 'Sir Garrick was my husband's grandfather. My

 own sons are named Sean and Garrick after them. Why do you ask, Vicky?

 Do you know the family well?" 'Oh yes, Mrs Courtney - Tara." When she

 smiled, the Zulu girl's face seemed to glow like a dark moon. 'Long

 ago, during the last century, my grandfather fought at General Sean

 Courtney's side in the Zulu wars against Cetewayo who stole the kingship

 of Zululand from my family. It was my grandfather, Mbejane, who should

 have been king. Instead he became General Courtney's servant.

 'Mbejane!" Tara cried. 'Oh yes. Sir Garrick Courtney wrote about him

 in his History of Zululand. He was Sean Courtney's faithful retainer

 until his death. I remember they came up here to the gold-' fields of

 the reef together and later went on to what is now Rhodesia, hunting

 ivory." 'You know all about that!" Vicky laughed with pleasure.

 'My father used to tell me the same stories when I was a little girl. My

 father still lives near Theuniskraal. After my grandfather, Mbejane

 Dinizulu, died my father took his place as the old general's body

 servant. He even went to France with the general in 1916 and worked for

 him until the general was murdered. In his will the general left him a

 section of Theuniskraal for his lifetime and a pension of a thousand

 pounds a year. They are a fine family, the Courtneys. My old father

 still weeps whenever he mentions the general's name --' Vicky broke off

 and shook her head, suddenly perplexed and saddened. 'Life must have

 been so simple in those days, my grandfather and my father were

 hereditary chieftains and yet they were satisfied to spend their lives

 subservient to a white man, and strangely they loved that man and he, in

 his way, seemed to love them. I wonder sometimes if theirs was not the

 better way --' 'Do not even think that,' Tara almost hissed at her. 'The

 Courtneys have always been heartless robber barons, plundering and

 exploiting your people. Right and justice are on the side of your

 struggle. Never entertain the slightest doubt of that." 'You are

 right,' Vicky agreed firmly. 'But sometimes it's nice to think of the

 friendship of the general and my grandfather. Perhaps one day we could

 be friends again, equal friends, both sides stronger for the

 friendship." 'With every new oppression, with every new law passed, the

 prospect fades,' Tara said grimly, 'and I become more ashamed of my

 race." 'I don't want to be sad and intense tonight, Tara. Let's talk

 about happy things. You said you have sons, Seen and Garrick, named

 after their ancestors. Tell me about them, please." However, the

 thought of the children and Shasa and Weltevreden made Tara feel guilty

 and uncomfortable, and as soon as she could she changed the subject

 again.

 'Now tell me about yourself, Vicky,' she insisted. 'What are you doing

 in Johannesburg, so far from Zululand?" 'I work at Baragwanath

 Hospital,' Vicky told her.

 Tara knew that was one of the largest hospitals in the world, certainly

 the largest in the southern hemisphere, with 2400 beds and over 2000

 nurses and doctors, most of them black, for the hospital catered

 exclusively for black patients. All hospitals, like schools and

 transport and most other public facilities, were strictly segregated by

 law, true to the grand concept of apartheid.

 Vicky Dinizulu was so modest about her own achievements that Tara had to

 draw out of her the fact that she was a qualified theatre sister.

 'But you are so young, Vicky' she protested.

 'There are others younger,' the Zulu girl laughed. Her laughter had a

 pleasing musical lilt.

 'She really is a lovely child,' Tara thought, smiling in sympathy, and

 then corrected herself. 'No, not a child - a clever and competent young

 woman." So Tara told her about her clinic at Nyanga, and the problems of

 malnutrition and ignorance and poverty they encountered, and Vicky

 related some of her experiences and the solutions they had found to the

 terrible challenges that faced them in caring for the physical wellbeing

 of a peasant population trying to adapt to an urban existence.

 'Oh, I have enjoyed talking to you,' Vicky blurted out at last. 'I don't

 know when I have ever spoken to a white woman like this the cabinet of

 that barbarous regime. If you were in his confidence, it would afford

 us a direct inside view and knowledge of all their plans and intentions.

 This would be so valuable that it would be impossible to put a price

 upon it.

  

 'No,' she whispered, shaking her head, sensing what was coming, and it

 took courage for her to read on.

 I ask you, for the sake of our land and our love, that when the child

 has been born and you are recovered from the birth, that you return to

 your husband's home at Weltevreden, ask his forgiveness for your

 absence, tell him that you cannot live without him and his children, and

 do all in your power to ingratiate yourself with him and to earn his

 confidence once more.

 'I cannot do it,' Tara whispered, and then she thought of the children,

 and especially of Michael, and she felt herself wavering.

 'Oh Moses, you don't know what you are asking of me." She covered her

 eyes with her hand. 'Please don't make me do it. I have only just won

 my freedom - don't force me to give it up again." But the letter went on

 remorselessly: Every one of us will be called upon to make sacrifice in

 the struggle that lies ahead. Some of us may be required to lay down

 our very lives and I could well be one of those 'No, not you, my

 darling, please not you!'

 However, for the loyal and true comrades there will be rewards,

 immediate rewards in addition to the ultimate victory of the struggle

 and the final liberation. If you can bring yourself to do as I ask you,

 then my friends here will arrange for you and me to be together - not

 where we have to hide our love, but in a free and foreign land where,

 for a happy interlude, we can enjoy our love to the utmost. Can you

 imagine that, my darling?

 Being able to spend the days and nights together, to walk in the streets

 hand in hand, to dine together in public and laugh openly together, to

 stand up unafraid and say what we think aloud, to kiss and do all the

 silly adorable things that lovers do, and to hold the child of our love

 between usIt was too painful, she could not go on. When Molly found her

 weeping bitterly, she sat on the bed beside her and took her in her

 arms.

 'What is it, Tara dear, tell me, tell old Molly." 'I have to go back to

 Weltevreden,' she sobbed. 'Oh God, Molly, I thought I was rid of that

 place for ever, and now I have to go back." Tara's request for a formal

 meeting to discuss their matrimonial aJ rangements threw Shasa into a

 state of utmost consternation. H had been well enough satisfied by the

 informal understanding b tween them, by which he had complete freedom of

 action and contrr of the children, together with the respectability and

 protection of th marriage form. He had been happy to pay without

 comment the bill that Tara forwarded to him, and to see that her

 generous allowanc was paid into her bank account promptly on the first

 of each month He had even made good the occasional shortfall when the

 bani manager telephoned him to report that Tara had overdrawn. On on,

 occasion there was a cheque made out to a second-hand mota dealer, for

 almost a thousand pounds. Shasa did not query it. What ever it was, it

 was a bargain as far as he was concerned.

 Now it looked as if all this was coming to an end, and Shas immediately

 called a meeting of his principal advisors in the board.

 room of Centaine House. Centaine herself was in the chair ant Abraham

 Abrahams had flown down from Johannesburg, bringin with him the senior

 partner of a firm of renowned but very expensive divorce lawyers.

 Centaine took over immediately. 'Let us consider the worst possible

 case,' she told them crisply. 'Tara will want the children and she'll

 want a settlement, plus a living allowance for herself and each of the

 children." She glanced at Abe who nodded his silver head, which set the

 rest of the legal counsel nodding like mandarin dolls, looking grave and

 learned, and secretly counting their fees, Shasa thought wryly.

 'Damn it, the woman deserted me! I'll go to hell before I give her my

 children." 'She will claim that you made it impossible for her to remain

 in the conjugal home,' Abe said, and then when he saw Shasa's thunderous

 expression, tried to soothe him. 'You must remember, Shasa, that she

 will probably be taking the best available legal advice herselfi'

 'Damned shyster lawyers!" said Shasa bitterly, and his counsel looked

 pained, but Shasa did not apologize nor qualify. 'I've already warned

 her I won't give her a divorce. My political career is at a very

 delicate stage. I cannot afford the scandal. Very soon I'll be

 contesting a general election." 'You may not be able to refuse,' Abe

 murmured. 'Not if she has good grounds." 'She hasn't any,' said Shasa

 virtuously. Tve always been the considerate and generous husband."

 'Your generosity is famous,' Abe murmured drily. 'There is many an

 attractive young lady who could give you a testimonial on that score."

 'Really Abe,' Centaine intervened. 'Shasa has always kept out of

 trouble with women --' 'Centaine, my dear. We are dealing with facts

 here - not maternal illusions. I am not a private detective and Shasa's

 private life is none of my concern. However, completely disinterested

 as I am, I am able to cite you at least six occasions in the last few

 years when Shasa has given Tara ample grounds --' Shasa was making

 frantic signals down the table to shut Abe up, but Centaine leaned

 forward with an interested expression. 'Go ahead, Abe,' she ordered.

 'Start citing!" 'In January two years ago the leading lady in the

 touring production of the musical Oklahoma,' Abe began, and Shasa sank

 down in his chair and covered his eyes as though in prayer. 'A few

 weeks later the left-winger, ironically, in the visiting British women's

 hockey team." So far Abe was avoiding mentioning names, but now he went

 on. 'Then there was the female TV producer from North American

 Broadcasting Studios, pert little vixen with a name like a fish - no a

 dolphin, that's it, Kitty Godolphin.

 Do you want me to go on? There are a few more, but as I have said

 already, I'm not a private investigator. You can be sure that Tara will

 get herself a good one, and Shasa makes very little effort to cover his

 tracks." 'That will do, Abe,' Centaine stopped him, and considered her

 son with disapproval and a certain grudging admiration.

 'It's the de Thiry blood,' she thought. 'The family curse. Poor

 Shasa." But she said sternly, 'It looks as though we do have a problem

 after all,' and she turned to the divorce lawyer.

 'Let us accept that Tara has grounds of infidelity. What is the worst

 judgement we might expect against us?" 'It's very difficult, Mrs

 Courtney--' 'I'm not going to hold you to it,' Centaine told him

 brusquely.

 'You don't have to equivocate. Just give me the worst case." 'She could

 get custody, especially of the two younger children, and a large

 settlement." 'How much?" Shasa demanded.

 'Considering your circumstances, it could be --' the lawyer hesitated

 delicately '-- a million pounds, plus the trimmings, a house and

 allowance and a few other lesser items." Shasa sat up very straight in

 his chair. He whistled softly and then murmured 'That is really taking

 seriously something that was merely poked in fun,' he said, and nobody

 laughed.

 So Shasa took pains preparing for the reunion with Tara. He studied the

 written advice which Abe and the other lawyers had drawn up for him, and

 had his tactics firmly established. He knew what to say and what to

 avoid. He was to make no admissions an no promises, particularly

 regarding the children.

 For the venue he chose the pool at the foot of the Constanti Berg,

 hoping that Tara would associate it with the happy hours the had spent

 there. He had his chef prepare an exquisite picnic hampe which

 contained all Tara's favourite delicacies, and he chose half dozen

 bottles of his best wines from the cellar.

 He took especial care with his appearance. He had his hair trimme and

 picked out a new black silk eye-patch from the drawer that hid, kept

 full of them. He wore the after-shave she had given him am the

 cream-coloured wild silk suit which she had once remarked ai favourably,

 with his airforce scarf in the open neck of his blue shirt All the

 children were packed off to Rhodes Hill, into Centaine' care for the

 weekend, and he sent the chauffeur in the Rolls to fetc Tara from Molly

 Broadhurst's home where she was staying. Th chauffeur brought her

 directly up to the pool and Shasa opened the door for her, and was

 surprised when she offered him her cheek fol his kiss.

 'You look so well, my dear,' he told her, and it was not entirely

 untrue. She had lost a lot of weight, her waist was once again wasped

 in and her bosom was magnificent. Despite the gravity of the moment

 Shasa felt his loins stir as he looked down that cleavage.

 'Down boy!" he admonished himself silently and looked away,

 concentrating on her face. Her skin had cleared, the rings below her

 eyes were barely discernible and her hair had been washed and set.

 Obviously she had taken the same pains with her appearance as he had.

 'Where are the children?" she demanded immediately.

 'Mater has them - so we could talk without interruption." 'How are they,

 Shasa?" 'They are all just fine. Couldn't be better." He wanted there

 to be no special pleading on that score.

 'I do miss them terribly,' she said. The remark was ominous, and he did

 not reply. Instead he led her to the summer-house and settled her on

 the couch facing the waterfall.

 'It's so beautiful here." She looked around her. 'It is my favourite

 spot on all of Weltevreden." She took the wineglass he handed her.

 'Better days!" He gave her the toast. They clinked glasses and drank.

 Then she set her glass down on the marble table-top and Shasa steeled

 himself to receive the opening shot of the engagement.

 'I want to come back home,' she said, and he spilled white wine down the

 front of his silk suit, and then dabbed at it with the handkerchief from

 his breast pocket to give himself time to recover his balance.

 In a perverse way he had been looking forward to the bargaining.

 He was a businessman, supremely confident in his ability to get the best

 trade. Furthermore, he had already adjusted to the idea of becoming a

 bachelor once more, and was beginning to look forward to the delights of

 that state, even if it cost him a million pounds. He felt the prickle

 of disappointment.

 'I don't understand,' he said carefully.

 'I miss the children. I want to be with them - and yet I don't want to

 take them away from you. They need a father as much as a mother." It

 was too easy. There had to be more than that, Shasa's bargaining

 instincts were sure.

 I have tried living alone,' she went on. 'And I don't like it. I want

 to come back." 'So we just pick it up again where we dropped it?" he

 asked carefully, but she shook her head.

 'That's impossible, we both know that." She prevented further questions

 with a raised hand. 'Let me tell you what I want. I want to have all

 the benefits of my old life, access to my children, the prestige that

 goes with the name Courtney and the money not to have to stint -' 'You

 were always scornful of the position and the money before." He could not

 prevent the jibe, but she took no offence.

 'I had never had to do without it before,' she said simply. 'However, I

 want to be able to go away for a while when it becomes too much for me

 here - but I will not embarrass you politically or in any other way."

 She paused. 'That's all of it." 'And what do I get in return?" he

 asked.

 'A mother for your children, and a public wife. I will preside at your

 dinner-parties, and make myself agreeable to your associates, I will

 even help you with your political electioneering, I used to be very good

 at that." 'I thought that my politics disgusted you." 'They do - but I

 will never let it show." 'What about my conjugal rights, as they are

 delicately referred to by the lawyers?" 'No." She shook her head. 'That

 will only complicate our relationship." She thought of Moses. She could

 never be unfaithful to him, even if he had ordered it. 'No, but I have

 no objection to you going elsewhere. You have always been reasonably

 discreet. I know you will continue to be." He looked at her bosom and

 felt a twinge of regret, but the bargain she was offering amazed him. He

 had everything he wanted, and had saved himself a million pounds into

 the bargain.

 'Is that all?" he asked. 'Are you sure?" 'Unless you can think of

 anything else we should discuss." He shook his head. 'Shall we shake

 hands on it - and open a bottle of the Widow?" She smiled at him over

 the rim of her glass to conceal what she truly felt for him and his

 world, and She made a vow as she sipped the tingling yellow wine.

 'You will pay, Shasa Courtney, you will pay for your bargain much more

 than you ever dreamed." For over a decade Tara had been the mistress of

 Weltevreden, so there was nothing difficult or alien in taking up that

 role again, except that now more than ever she felt that she was acting

 a part in a tedious and unconvincing play.

 There were some differences, however. The guest list had altered

 subtly, and now included most of the top Nationalist politicians and

 party organizers, and more often than before the conversation at the

 dinner-table was in Afrikaans rather than English. Tara's knowledge of

 Afrikaans was adequate, it was after all a very simple language with a

 grammar so uncomplicated that the verbs were not even conjugated and

 much of the vocabulary was taken directly from English. However, she

 had some difficulty with the guttural inflections, and most of the time

 smiled sweetly and remained silent. She found that by doing so her

 presence was soon overlooked and she heard much more than she would have

 had she joined in the conversation.

 A frequent visitor to Weltevreden now was the minister of police,

 Manfred De La Rey, and Tara found it ironical that she was expected to

 feed and entertain the one man who to her epitomized all that was evil

 and cruel in the oppressive regime that she hated with all her being. It

 was like sitting down to a meal with a man-eating leopard, even his eyes

 were pale and cruel as those of a great predatory cat.

 Strangely, she found that despite her loathing, the man fascinated her.

 It surprised her to find, once she had got over the initial shock of his

 presence, that he had a fine brain. Of course it was common knowledge

 that he had been a brilliant student in the law faculty of Stellenbosch

 University, and before standing for parliament, he had built up a highly

 successful law practice in his own right. She knew also that no man who

 was not essentially brilliant was included in the Nationalist cabinet,

 yet his intelligence was sinister and ominous.

 She found herself listening to the most heinous concepts expressed with

 such logic and eloquent conviction that she had to shake herself out of

 his mesmeric influence, like a bird trying to break the spell of the

 cobra's swaying dance.

 Manfred De La Rey's relationship to the Courtney family was another

 enigma to her. It was part of family lore how his father had robbed the

 H'am Mine of a million pounds of diamonds, and how Blaine, her own

 father, and Centaine, before she was Blaine's wife, had pursued him into

 the desert and after a fierce battle captured him. Manfred's father had

 served fifteen years of a life sentence before being released under the

 amnesty that the Nationalists had granted to so many Afrikaner prisoners

 when they came to power in 1948.

 The two families should have been bitter enemies, and indeed Tara

 detected definite traces of that hatred in the occasional tone of a

 remark and unguarded look that Manfred De La Rey and Shasa directed at

 each other, and there was a peculiarly brittle and artificial quality to

 the overtly friendly facade they showed, as though at any moment it

 might be stripped away and they would fly at each other's throats like

 fighting dogs.

 On the other hand, Tara knew that Manfred was the one who had enticed

 Shasa into forsaking the ailing United Party and joining the

 Nationalists with the promise of ministerial rank, and that Shasa had

 made the De La Reys, father and son, major shareholders and directors in

 the new fish canning company at Walvis Bay, a company which looked set

 to turn half a million pounds of profit in its very first year of

 operation.

 The mystery of their relationship was made even more intriguing by

 Centaine. On the second occasion that Shasa invited Manfred De La Rey

 and his wife to dine at Weltevreden, Centaine had telephoned her a few

 days beforehand, and asked her bluntly if she and Blaine might join the

 party.

 Although Tara had determined to see as little of Centaine as possible,

 and to do all in her power to reduce Centaine's influence over the

 children and the general running of the estate, Tara had been so taken

 aback by the direct request that she had not been able to think of an

 excuse.

 'Of course, Mater,' she had agreed with false enthusiasm. 'I would have

 invited you and Daddy anyway, but I thought you might have found the

 evening tedious, and I know Daddy cannot abide De La Rey --' 'Whatever

 gave you that idea, Tara?" Centaine asked tartly. 'They are on opposite

 sides of the house, but Blaine has a healthy respect for De La Rey, and

 he concedes that De La Rey certainly handled the troubles firmly enough.

 His police did a magnificent job in clamping down on the ringleaders and

 preventing serious disruptions and further loss of life." Furious words

 filled Tara's mouth and she wanted to hurl them her mother-in-law, but

 she gritted her teeth and took a deep breatl before she said sweetly,

 'Well then, Mater, both Shasa and I will 1: looking forward to Friday

 night.  Half past seven for eight, an naturally the men will be wearing

 black tie." 'Naturally,' said Centaine.

 It had been a surprisingly mellow evening, when the explosiv elements

 seated around the same table were considered, but it was strict rule of

 Shasa's that shop party politics were never discussed i] Weltevreden's

 palatial dining-room. The men's conversation range from the projected

 All Blacks rugby tour to the recent anglin capture of a six hundred

 pound blue fin tunny in False Bay, the firs of its kind. Manfred De La

 Rey and Blaine were both keen angler and were excited by the prospect of

 such a magnificent prize.

 Centaine was unusually quiet during the meal. Tara had placed he:

 beside Manfred, but she listened attentively to everything that hid said

 and when they went through to the blue drawing-room at th end of the

 meal, she stayed close to Manfred, and the two of then were soon

 oblivious of everyone else, lost in rapt but low-voicec discussion.

 Manfred's statuesque blond German wife, Heidi, had failed to enthral

 Tara with a long-winded complaint about the laziness and dishonesty of

 her coloured servants, and Tara escaped as soon as she could and took

 another cognac to her father on the long blue velvet sofa, and then

 settled beside him.

 'Centaine says that you admire De La Rey,' she said quietly, and they

 both looked across at the other couple on the far side of the room.

 'He's a formidable piece of work,' Blaine grunted. 'Hard as iron and

 sharp as an axe. Do you know even his own colleagues call him "Panga

 Man"?" 'Why does he fascinate Centaine so much? She rang me and

 demanded an invitation when she knew he would be here. She seems to

 have some sort of obsession with him. Why is that, Daddy, do you know?"

 Blaine dropped his eyes and considered the firm grey ash on his cigar.

 What could he tell her? he wondered. He was one of probably only four

 people in the world who knew Manfred De La Rey was Centaine's bastard

 son. He remembered his own shock and horror when she had told him. Not

 even Shasa knew that he and Manfred were half-brothers, though Manfred

 knew, of course. Centaine had told him, when she used it as blackmail

 to prevent Manfred destroying Shasa's political career back in 1948.

 It was all so complicated, and Blaine found himself disturbed as he had

 been so oen over the years by the echoes of Centaine's follies and

 indiscretions before he had met her. Then he smiled ruefully. She was

 still a fiery and impetuous woman, and he wouldn't have had it any other

 way.

 'I think she is interested in anything that affects Shasa's career.

 It's only natural she should be, De La Rey is Shasa's sponsor. It's as

 simple as that, my dear." 'Yes, De La Rey is his sponsor,' Tara agreed.

 'But what do you think, Daddy, about Shasa's turn of political coats?"

 Despite her resolution to remain calm, she had raised her voice in

 agitation, and Shasa, who was in intimate conversation with the French

 ambassador's chic and bold-eyed young second wife, heard his name across

 the room and glanced up in her direction. Tara dropped her voice

 quickly.

 'What do you think of it, Daddy? Weren't you simply appalled?" 'I was

 at first,' Blaine admitted. 'But then I discussed it with Centaine and

 Shasa came to see me. We thrashed it out between us, and I had my say -

 but in the end I came to see his point of view. I don't agree with it,

 but I respect it. He believes that he can do the greatest good --' Tara

 heard her own father repeating all Shasa's trite and glib justifications

 and the sense of outrage overwhelmed her all over again.

 She found herself trembling with suppressed passion, and she wanted to

 scream out at them, Shasa and Centaine and her own father, but then she

 thought of Moses and the struggle and with an effort she was able to

 retain her self-control.

 'I must remember everything,' she told herself. 'Everything that they

 say or do. Even the smallest detail might be of inestimable value to

 the struggle." So, faithfully she reported it all to Molly Broadhurst.

 She slipped away from Weltevreden at least once a week on the pretence

 of visiting her dressmaker or her hairdresser. She and Molly met only

 after Tara had taken elaborate precautions to make sure she was not

 followed. Her instructions were to cut all her left-wing connections

 and to refrain at all times from political or socialistic comments in

 the presence of others. Molly was her only contact with the real world

 of the struggle, and she treasured every minute of their time together.

 Miriam Afrika was always able to bring the baby to be with her during

 these interludes, and Tara held him in her arms and fed him his bottle

 as she made her report to Molly. Everything about little Benjamin

 fascinated her from the tight curls of crisp black hair that covered his

 scalp, through the exquisite softness and colour shading of his skin -

 honey and old ivory - down to the soles of his tiny feet which were the

 palest, clearest, coral pink.

 Then on one of her visits Molly had another letter for her froJ Moses,

 and even the joy of holding baby Benjamin paled beside th of those

 written words.

 The letter had been written in Addis Ababa, the capital Ethiopia. Moses

 was there to address a meeting of the heads of tl black African states

 at the express invitation of the Emperor Hail Selassie, and he described

 to her the warm welcome that he had bee given, and the offers of

 support, moral, financial and military, the had been pledged to the

 struggle in Anzania - that was the new nam for South Africa. It was the

 first time she had heard it, and when sh repeated it aloud, the sound of

 it stirred a deep patriotic response i: her that she had never felt

 before. She read the rest of Moses' lettel From here I will travel on

 to Algeria, where I will meet with Colone Boumedienne, who is at this

 moment struggling against French imperialisrr and whose great valour

 will surely bring freedom and happiness to hi tragically oppressed land.

 After that I will fly to New York, and it seems certain that I will b

 allowed to put our case to the General Assembly of the United Nations.

 AI this is exciting, but I have even better news that affects you and

 our hah' Benjamin.

 If you continue the important work you are doing for the cause, ou

 powerful friends are determined to give you a special reward. Some day

 th, three of us - you and me and Benjamin - will be together in London.

 Z cannot tell you how greatly I look forward to holding my son and to

 greetinl you again.

 ! will write to you as soon as I have more definite news. In the

 meantime I entreat you to continue your valuable work for the cause, in

 particulal you should make every effort to see that your husband is

 elected to the government front benches at the elections next month.

 This will make youl position and value to the struggle unique.

 For days after receiving this letter Tara's mood was so light and gay

 that both Shasa and Centaine remarked on it, and took it as a sign that

 she had finally accepted'her responsibilities as the mistress of

 Weltevreden, and was prepared to honour the agreement that she had made

 with Shasa.

 When the prime minister announced the date of the general election, the

 country was immediately seized by the peculiar frenzy of excitement and

 intrigue which accompanies all major political activity in South Africa

 and the newspapers began their strident and partisan pronouncements.

 Shasa's resignation from the United Party and his nomination as the

 Nationalist candidate for the-constituency of South Boland was one of

 the highlights of the campaign. The English press castigated him,

 branding him a coward and a traitor, while the Burger and the

 Transvalet, those stalwarts of the Nationalist cause, hailed him as a

 far-seeing man of the future and looked forward to the day when all

 white South Africans, albeit under the firm hand of the National Party,

 marched shoulder to shoulder towards the golden republic which was the

 dream of all true South African patriots.

 Kitty Godolphin had flown back from New York to cover the elections and

 to up-date her famous 'Focus on Africa' series that had won her another

 Emmy and had made her one of the highest paid of the new generation of

 young, pretty and waspish television commentators.

 Shasa's political defection was the headline story when she landed at

 Jan Smuts airport, and she telephoned him from the airport on his

 private line and got him in his office just as the board meeting he had

 been chairing broke up, and he was about to leave Centaine House to fly

 up to the H'am Mine for his monthly inspection. 'Hi!" she said gaily.

 'It's me." 'You bitch." He recognized her voice instantly. 'After what

 you did to me, I should kick your bottom, wearing hobnailed boots and

 taking a full swing, at that." 'Oh, did you see it? Wasn't it good? I

 thought I captured you perfectly." 'Yes, I saw it last month on BBC

 while I was in London. You made me look like a cross between Captain

 Bligh and Simon Legree, although more pompous than either and a lot less

 lovable." 'That's what I said - I got you perfectly." 'I don't know why

 I am talking to you,' he chuckled despite himself.

 'Because you are lusting after my miraculously beautiful body,' she

 suggested.

 'I'd be wiser to make advances to a nest of hornets." 'We aren't talking

 wisdom here, buddy boy, we are talking lust.

 The two are not compatible." And Shasa had a poignant vision of her slim

 body and her perfect little breasts, and he felt slightly breathless.

 'Where are you?" he asked.

 'Johannesburg airport." .

 What are you doing this evening? He made a qmck calculation.

 He could postpone the H'am Mine inspection, and it was four hours'

 flying time to Johannesburg in the Mosquito.

 'I'm open to suggestions,' she told him, 'as long as the suggestions

 include an exclusive interview for NABS on yofir change of political

 status and your view of the up-coming elections and what they mean to

 the ordinary people of this country." 'I should know better,' he said.

 'But I'll be there in five hours.

 Don't go away." Shasa placed the receiver back on its cradle and stood

 for a moment wondering at himself. His change of plans would throw the

 entire company into consternation, for he had a tight schedule laid out

 for the weeks ahead, including the opening of his election campaign, but

 the woman had woven some sort of spell around him.

 Like a malignant sprite her memory had danced at the edge of his mind

 all these months, and now the thought of being with her filled him with

 that quivering expectation he had not known since he was a lad embarking

 on his very first sexual explorations.

 The Mosquito was fuelled and parked on the hardstand ready for the

 flight to H'am Mine. It took him ten minutes to calculate his new

 flight plan and file it with air traffic control and then he climbed up

 into the cockpit and, grinning like a schoolboy playing hookey, he

 cranked the Rolls Royce Merlin engines.

 It was dusk when he landed, but a company car was waiting for him and he

 drove directly to the Carlton Hotel in the centre of Johannesburg. Kitty

 was in the lobby as he came in through the revolving doors. She was

 fresh-faced as a teenager, long-legged and narrow-hipped in blue jeans,

 and she came to him with childlike enthusiasm and wrapped both arms

 around his neck to kiss him. Strangers in the lobby must have imagined

 Shasa was a father greeting his ú schoolgirl daughter, and they smiled

 indulgently.

 'They let us into your suite,' she told him as she led him towards the

 elevator, skipping beside him to keep pace and hugging his arm in a

 pantomime of adoration. 'Hank had got his camera and lights set up

 already." 'You aren't even giving me time to visit the heads,' Shasa

 protested, and she pulled a wry face.

 'Let's get it over and done. Tfien we'll have more time for whatever

 you want to do afterwards." She gave him a devilish grin, and he wagged

 his head in reluctant acquiescence.

 It was deliberate, of course. Kitty was too professional to give him

 time to pull himself together and concentrate his mind. It was part of

 her technique to get her subject off-balance, while on the other hand,

 she had been carefully preparing her own notes and questions during the

 five hours since they had spoken on the telephone.

 She had rearranged the furniture in his suite, making one corner into an

 intimate nook and Hank had lit it and was standing by with his A

 rriflex. Shasa shook hands with him and exchanged a friendly greeting

 while Kitty poured him a massive whisky from the liquor cabinet.

 'Take your jacket off,' she instructed as she handed it to him. 'I want

 you relaxed and casual. 'She led him to the two facing chairs and while

 he sipped his whisky she lulled him with an amusing account of the

 flight out which had been delayed by bad weather in London for eight

 hours. Then Hank gave her the signal and she said sweetly: 'Shasa

 Courtney, since the turn of this century your family has been a

 traditional ally of General Smuts. He was a personal friend of your

 grandfather, and your mother. He was a frequent guest in your house,

 and sponsored your own entry into the political arena. Now you have

 turned your back on the United Party which he led, and have deserted the

 fundamental principles of decency and fair play towards the coloured

 citizens of this country which were so much a part of General Smuts'

 philosophy. You have been called a deserter and a turncoat - and worse.

 Do you think that is a fair description, and if not, why not?" The

 attack was so swift and savage that for a moment it checked him, but he

 had known what to expect, and he grinned. He knew he was going to enjoy

 this.

 'General Smuts was a great man, but not quite as saintly towards the

 natives as you suppose. In all the time he was in power, their

 political status remained unchanged, and when they stepped out of line,

 he did not hesitate before sending in the troops and giving them a whiff

 of grape. Have you ever heard of the Bondelswart rebellion and the

 Bulhoek massacre?" 'You are suggesting that Smuts also oppressed the

 native people of this country?" 'No more than a strict headmaster

 oppresses his children. In the main, he never seriously addressed

 himself to the coloured question.

 He left that for a future generation to settle. We are that future

 generation." 'All right, so what are you going to do about the black

 people of this country who outnumber you nearly four to one and have no

 political rights whatsoever in the land of their birth?" 'Firstly, we

 will try to avoid the trap of simplistic thinking." 'Can you explain

 that?" Kitty frowned. She didn't want him to wriggle out of her grip by

 using vague terminology. 'Give us a concrete example of simplistic

 thinking." He nodded. 'You glibly use the terms black people and white

 people, dividing this population into two separate, if unequal,

 portions. That is dangerous. It might work in America. If all the

 American blacks were given white faces they would be simply Americans

 and think of themselves as that--' 'You are suggesting that this is not

 the case in Africa?" 'I am indeed,' Shasa agreed. 'If all the blacks in

 this country were given white faces, they would still think of

 themselves as Zulus and Xhosas and Vendas, and we would still be English

 and Afrikaners very little would have altered." Kitty didn't like that,

 it was not what she wanted to tell her audiences.

 'So, of course, you are ruling out the idea of a democracy in this

 country. You will never accept the policy of one man one vote, but will

 always aspire to white domination--' Shasa cut in on her quickly. 'One

 man one vote would lead not to the black government you seem to foresee,

 but to a Zulu government, for the Zulus outnumber any other group. We

 would have a Zulu dictator, like good old King Chaka, and that would be

 a thrilling experience." 'So what is your solution?" she demanded,

 hiding her irritation behind that little-girl smile. 'Is it white

 baasskap, white domination and savage oppression backed by an all-white

 army and police force --9." 'I don't know the solution,' he cut her off.

 'It's something we have to work towards, but I expect it will be a

 system in which every tribal group, whether it be black, brown or white,

 can maintain its identity and its territorial integrity." 'What a noble

 concept,' she agreed. 'But tell me when, in the history of mankind, any

 group who enjoyed supreme political power over all others ever gave up

 that power without an armed struggle.

 Do you truly believe the white South Africans will be the first?" 'We'll

 have to make our own history,' Shasa matched her honeyed smile. 'But in

 the meantime theanaterial existence of the black people in this country

 is five or six times better than any other on the African continent.

 More is spent on black education, black hospitals and black housing, per

 capita, than in any other African country." 'How does the expenditure

 per capita on black education compare with expenditure on white

 education?" Kitty shot back at him. 'My information is that five times

 more is spent on the education of a white child, than on a black." 'We

 will strive to correct that imbalance, as we build up the wealth of our

 nation, as the black peasant becomes more productive and makes more of a

 contribution to the taxation that pays for that education. At the

 moment the white section of the population pays ninety-five percent of

 the taxes --' That wasn't the way the interview was meant to go and

 Kitty headed him off smoothly.

 'And just how and when will the black people be consulted in these

 changes? Is it fair to say that nearly all blacks, and certainly all

 the educated and skilled blacks who are the natural leaders, totally

 reject the present political system which allows one sixth of the

 population to decide the fate of the rest?" They were still sparring

 when Hank lifted his head from the camera lens, and rolled his eyes.

 'Out of film, Kitty, you told me twenty minutes tops. We have

 forty-five minutes in the can." 'Okay, Hank. My fault. I didn't

 realize we had such a garrulous bigot on the show." She smiled at Shasa

 acidly. 'You can wrap it up, Hank, and I'll see you in the morning.

 Nine o'clock at the studio." She turned back to Shasa and they didn't

 even look up as Hank left the suite. 'So what did we decide?" she asked

 Shasa.

 'That the problem is more complex than anybody, perhaps even we in

 government, realize." 'Insoluble?" Kitty asked.

 'Certainly - without delicacy and the utmost good will of everybody in

 the country, and our friends abroad." 'Russia?" she teased him, and he

 shuddered.

 'Britain,' he said.

 'What about America?" 'No. Britain understands. America is too wrapped

 up in her own racial problems. They aren't interested in the

 dissolution of the British Empire. However, we have always stood by

 Britain - and now Britain will stand by us." 'Your confidence in the

 gratitude of great nations is refreshing.

 However, I think you will find that in the next decade there will be an

 enormous rip-tide of concern over human rights emanating from the United

 States. At least I hope so - and North American _.Broadcasting

 -Studios- -will -be--doing all-in its-power to- build it up into a tidal

 wave." 'Your job is to report reality, not to attempt to re-structure

 it,' Shasa told her. 'You are a reporter, not the God of judgement."

 'If you believe that, you are naive,' she smiled. 'We make and destroy

 kings." Shasa stared at her, as though he were seeing her for the first

 time.

 'My God, you are in the power game, just like everybody else." 'It's the

 only game in town, buddy boy." 'You are amoral." 'No more than you are."

 'Oh yes you are. We are prepared to make our decisions and live with

 the consequences. You wreak your'destruction, then like a child with a

 broken toy, throw it aside and go on without a moment's remorse to some

 new cause that will sell more advertising time." He had made her angry.

 Her eyes slanted and narrowed into brigl arrowheads and the freckles on

 her nose and cheeks glowed ll specks of gold leaf. It roused him to see

 her come out from behm the screen, as hard and formidable as any

 adversary he had ev faced. He wanted to goad her further, to make her

 give way con pletely.

 'You have made yourself the guru of southern Africa on US tek vision for

 one reason only. Not for concern over the fate of th black masses, but

 quite simply because you smell blood and violenc in the air. You have

 sensed that this is where the action will be the and you want to be the

 one who captures it on film--' 'You bastard,' she hissed at him. 'I

 want peace and justice." 'Peace and justice don't make good footage,

 Kitty my love. You or here to record the killing and the screaming -

 and if it doesn't happe] soon enough, well that is easily fixed - you'll

 give it a little shove." She was out of her chair now, facing him, and

 her lips were frost' with rage.

 'For the last hour you have been spouting the most vicious racia poison,

 and now you accuse me of injustice. You call me an agen provocateur for

 the violence that is coming." He raised an eyebrow, giving her the

 taunting supercilious smih which had enraged his opponents across the

 floor of the House, an( it was too much for her to bear. She sprang at

 him, white-lipped ant shaking with fury, and she clawed for his single

 mocking eye wit both hands.

 Shasa caught her wrists, and lifted her feet clear of the floor. She wa,

 shocked by his strength, but she lifted her knee sharply, driving fm his

 groin. He turned slightly and caught the knee on the hard muscle of his

 thigh.

 'Where did a nice girl learn a trick like that?" he asked, and twisted

 her arms behind her, took both her wrists in his left hand and then

 bowed over her. She pressed ler lips together, and tried to turn her

 face away, but he found her mouth and while he kissed her, he opened her

 blouse and with his free hand took out her small breasts.

 Her nipples were standing out like ripe mulberries, she was as aroused

 as he was, but kicking and spitting with fury.

 He swung her round and threw her face down over the thick padded arm of

 the buttoned leather chair, pinning her with a hand between her shoulder

 blades, and her bottom in the air. That's how they had administered the

 cane at Shasa's school, and now while she screamed and kicked he jerked

 the leather belt out of the loops of her jeans, and pulled her trousers

 and panties down as far as her ankles and stepped in close behind her.

 Her buttocks were white and round and they maddened him.

 Though she fought and struggled without let-up, at the same time she

 lifted her hips slightly and arched her back to make it easier for him,

 and only when it happened did she stop fighting and push back hard

 against him, sobbing with the effort of keeping pace with him.

 It was over very quickly for both of them, and she rolled over and

 pulled him down on to the chair and whispered raggedly into his mouth,

 'Well, that's one hell of a way to settle an argument, I'll give you

 that much." Shasa ordered dinner served in the suite, grilled crayfish

 with a sauce Mornay, followed by a Chateaubriand, baked baby potatoes

 and fresh young asparagus. He sent the waiter away and served it

 himself for Kitty was clad only in one of the hotel's long towelling

 dressing gowns.

 As he drew the cork on the bottle of Chambertin, he told her, 'I've put

 four days aside for us. In the last few weeks I have been fortunate

 enough to get my hands on fifty thousand acres of land across the Sabi

 river from the Kruger National Park. I've been after it for fifteen

 years. It belonged to the widow of one of the old Randlords and I had

 to wait for the old biddy to cross the great divide before it came on

 the market. It's marvelous unspoilt bush country, teeming with wild

 game, perfect place for a lost weekend, we'll fly down after breakfast

 tomorrow - nobody will know where we are." She laughed at him. 'You are

 out of your little mind, lover. I'm a working girl. At eleven o'clock

 tomorrow I've got an interview with the leader of the opposition, De

 Villiers Graaff, and I'm certainly not breezing off into the boondocks

 with you to stare at lions and tigers." 'No tigers in Africa - you are

 the African expert, you should know that." He was angry again. 'It's a

 case of false pretences. You got me all the way up here for nothing,'

 he accused.

 'Nothing?" she chuckled again. 'You call that nothing?" 'I expected

 four days of it." 'You overestimate the going price for an interview.

 All you get is the rest of the night, and then tomorrow it's back to

 work - for both of us." She was getting under his guard too often, Shasa

 realized. Last time he had proposed marriage to her, and the idea still

 had its appeal.  She had moved him the way no woman had since he had

 first met Tara. It was partly her unattainability that made her so

 desirable. Shasa was accustomed to getting what he wanted, even if it

 was a hard and heartless little vixen with a childlike face and body.

 He watched her eat the rare steak with the same sensual gusto as she

 made love. She was sitting cross-legged on the front edge of her chair

 and the hem of her dressing-gown had ridden up high on her thighs. She

 saw the direction of his gaze but made no effort to cover herself.

 'Eat up,' she grinned at him. 'One thing at a time, lover." Shasa was

 chary of Tara's offer to assist his election campaign, and for the first

 two meetings left her at Weltevreden and drove out alone over Sir

 Lowry's Pass and the mountains.

 South Boland, his new constituency, was an area of rich land, between

 the mountains and the sea, on the Cape's eastern littoral.

 The voters were almost entirely of Afrikaner extraction, and their

 families had held the land for three hundred years. They were wealthy

 farmers of wheat and sheep, Calvinist and conservative, but not as

 rabidly republican and anti-English as their cousins of the interior,

 the Free Staters and the Transvalers.

 They received Shasa's first speeches with caution, and applauded him

 politely at the end. His opponent, the United Party candidate, was a

 blood Smuts man, like Blaine, who had been the incumbent until 1948 when

 he lost it to the Nationalists. Yet he still had a base of support in

 the district amongst the men who had known Smuts and had gone 'up north'

 to fight the Axis.

 After Shasa's second meeting, the local Nationalist organizers were

 looking worried and scared.

 'We are losing ground,' one of them told Shasa. 'The wives are

 suspicious of a man who campaigns without his own wife. They want to

 have a look at her.?

 'You see, Meener Courtney, you are a bit too good-looking. It's okay

 for the younger women who think you look like Errol Flynn, but the older

 women don't like it, and the men don't like the way the young women look

 at you. We have to show them you are a family man." Tll bring my wife,'

 Shasa promised, but his spirits sank. What kind of impression would

 Tara create in this dour God-fearing community where many of the women

 still wore the voortrekker bonnets and the men believed a woman's place

 was either in the bed or in the kitchen?

 'Another thing,' the chief party organizer went on tactfully. 'We need

 one of the top men, one of the cabinet ministers to stand up on the

 platform with you. You see, Meneer Courtney, the people are having

 difficulty believing that you are a ware Nationalist. What with the

  

 English name and your family history." 'We need somebody to make me look

 respectable, you mean?" Shasa hid his smile, and they all looked

 relieved.

 'Ja, man! That's it!" 'What if I could get Minister De La Rey to come

 out for the meeting on Friday - and my wife, of course?" 'Hell, man!"

 they enthused. 'Minister De La Rey is perfect. The people like the way

 he handled the trouble. He is a good strong man. If you get him to

 come to talk to them, we'll have no more problems." Tara accepted the

 invitation without comment, and by an exercise J--elfxest, raknt.-Shoe,

 a..r-ofr.ed.Cca giiag-lcr-advice On how to dress or to conduct herself,

 and was delighted and grateful when she came on to the platform in the

 town hall of the little town of Caledon, dressed in a sober dark blue

 dress with her thick auburn hair neatly gathered into a bun behind her

 head.

 Though pretty and smiling she was the picture of the good wife.

 Isabella sat up beside her with knee-length white socks and ribbons in

 her hair. A born actress, Isabella responded to the occasion by

 behaving like a candidate for holy orders. Shasa saw the organizers

 exchanging approving nods and relieved smiles.

 Minister De La Rey, supported by his own blonde wife and large family,

 introduced Shasa with a fiery speech in which he made it very clear that

 the Nationalist government was not going to allow itself to be dictated

 to by foreign governments or communist agitators, especially not if

 these agitators were black as well as communist.

 Manfred had a finely tuned style of oratory, and he thrust out his jaw

 and flashed those topaz-coloured eyes, he wagged his finger at them, and

 stood with arms defiantly akimbo when they stood up to applaud him at

 the end.

 Shasa's style was different, relaxed and friendly, and when he tried his

 first joke, they responded with genuine amusement. He followed it with

 assurances that the government would increase the already generous

 subsidy for farm products, especially wool and wheat, and that they

 would at the same time foster local industry and explore new overseas

 markets for the country's raw materials, particularly wool and wheat. He

 ended by telling them that many English speakers were coming to realize

 that the salvation of the country lay in strong uncompromising

 government and predicted a substantial increase in the Nationalist

 majority.

 This time there was no reservation in the tumultuous applause that

 followed his speech, and the votes of confidence in the government, the

 National Party and the Nationalist candidate for South Boland were all

 carried unanimously. The entire district, including the United Party

 supporters, turned up for the free barbecue on the local rugby grounds,

 to which Shasa invited them. Two whole oxen were roasted on the spit

 and were washed down with lakes of Castle beer and rivers of mampoer,

 the local peach brandy.

 Tara sat with the women, looking meek and demure and speakiJ little,

 allowing the older women to develop pleasantly matern feelings towards

 her, while Shasa circulated amongst their husband talking knowledgeably

 about such momentous subjects as scale ( wheat and scab on sheep. The

 whole atmosphere was cosy and reassu ing, and for the first time Shasa

 was able to appreciate the depth planning by the party organizers, their

 dedication and commitmel to the Nationalist cause, which resulted in

 this degree of mobilizatio of all its resources. The United Party could

 never match it, for tk English speakers were complacent and lethargic

 when it came t politics. It was the old English fault of wanting never

 to appear t try too hard. Politics was a kind of sport and every

 gentleman kne that sport should be played only by amateurs.

 'No wonder we lost control,' Shasa thought. 'These chaps or

 professionals, and we just couldn't match them' - and then he checke

 himself. These were his organizers now, no longer the enemy. H had

 become a part of this slick, highly tuned political machine, am the

 knowledge was a little daunting.

 At last, with Tara at his side, Shasa made a round of goodnight: with a

 party organizer steering him tactfully to each of the enos important

 local dignitaries, making sure that none of these wa slighted, and

 everybody agreed that the family made a charmint group.

 They stayed overnight with the most prosperous of the local farmers, and

 the following morning, which was Sunday, attended the Dutch Reformed

 Church in the village. Shasa had not been in a church since Isabella

 was christened. He was not looking forward to it. This was another

 grand show, for Manfred De La Rey had prevailed upon his uncle, the

 Reverend Tromp Bierman, moderator of the church, to deliver the sermon.

 Uncle Tromp's sermons were famous throughout the Cape, nd families

 thought nothing of travelling a hundred miles to listen to them.

 'I never thought I would ever speak for a cursed rooinek,' he told

 Manfred. 'It is either advancing senility, or a sign of my great love

 for you, that I do so now." Then he climbed into the pulpit, and with

 his great silver beard flashing like the surf of a stormy sea, he lashed

 the congregation with such force and fury that they quivered and

 squirmed with delicious terror for their souls.

 At the end of the sermon, Uncle Tromp reduced the volume to remind them

 that there was an election coming up, and that a vote for the United

 Party was a vote for Satan himself. No matter how some of them felt

 about Englishmen, they weren't voting for a man here, they were voting

 for the party upon which the Almighty had bestowed his blessing and into

 whose hands he had. delivered the destiny of the Volk. He stopped just

 short of closing the gates of Heaven in the face of any of them who did

 not put their cross opposite the name of Courthey, but when he glared at

 them threateningly, there were very few who felt inclined to take a

 chance on his continued forbearance.

 'Well, my dear, I can't thank you enough for your help,' Shasa told

 Tara, as they drove home over the high mountain passes of the Hottentots

 Holland. 'From here on it looks like a cakewalk." 'It was interesting

 to watch our political system in action,' Tara murmured. 'All the other

 jockeys got down off their mounts and shooed you in." Polling day in

 South Boland was merely an endorsement of certain victory, and when the

 votes were counted it appeared that Shasa had wooed across at least five

 hundred erstwhile United Party voters, and, much to the delight of the

 Nationalist hierarchy, increased the majority most handsomely. As the

 results came in from around the rest of the country, it became apparent

 that the trend was universal.

 For the first time ever, substantial numbers of English speakers were

 deserting Smuts' party. The Nationalists took 103 seats to the United

 Party's 53. The promise of strong uncompromising government was bearing

 good fruits.

 At Rhodes Hill Centaine gave an elaborate dinner dance for 150 important

 guests to celebrate Shasa's appointment to the new cabinet.

 As they swirled together around the dance floor to the strains of 'The

 Blue Danube', Centaine told Shasa, 'Once again we have done the right

 thing at the right time, chgri. It can still come true - all of it? And

 she sang softly the praise song that the old Bushman had composed at

 Shasa's birth: 'His arrows will fly to the stars And when men speak his

 name It will be heard as far And wherever he goes he will find good

 water?

 The clicking sounds of the Bushman language, like snapping twigs and

 footsteps in mud, raised nostalgic memories from the distant time when

 they had been together in the' Kalahari.

 Shasa enjoyed the Houses of Parliament. They were like an exclusive

 men's club. He liked the grandeur of white columns and lofty halls, the

 exotic tiles on the floors, the panelling and the green leathercovered

 benches. He often paused in the labyrinth of corridors to admire the

 paintings and the sculpted busts of famous men, Merriman and Louis

 Botha, Cecil Rhodes and Leander Starr Jameson.

 heroes and rogues, statesmen and adventurers. They had made this

 country's history - and then he reminded himself: 'History is a river

 that never ends. Today is history, and I am here at the fountainhead,'

 and he imagined his own portrait hanging there with the others one day.

 'I'll have it commissioned at once,' he thought. 'While I am still in

 my prime. For the time being I'll hang i at Weltevreden, but I'll put a

 clause in my will." As a minister, he now had his own office in the

 House, the sam suite of rooms that had been used by Cecil Rhodes when he

 wa prime minister of the old Cape parliament before the House hoc been

 enlarged and extended. Shasa redecorated and furnished it a his own

 expense. Thesens, the timber firm from Knysna, installec the panelling.

 It was indigenous wild olive, marvellously grained ant with a satiny

 lustre. He hung four of his finest Pierneef landscape on the panelling,

 with a Van Wouw bronze of a Bushman huntel standing on the table beneath

 them. Although he was determined to keep the artwork authentically

 African, the carpet was the choices' green Wilton and his desk Louis

 XIV.

 It felt strange to enter the chamber for the first time to take hi place

 on the government front bench, a mirror image of his usua view. He

 ignored the hostile glances of his erstwhile colleagues smiling only at

 Blaine's expressionless wink and while the Speaker o: the House read the

 prayer, he measured the men to whom he hat transferred his allegiance.

 His reflections were interrupted as the Speaker of the House endec the

 prayer, and across the floor De Villiers Graaff, the tai handsome leader

 of the opposition, rose to propose the traditiona vote of no confidence,

 while the government members, smug ant cocksure, still revelling in

 their heady election triumph, mocked bin noisily with cries of 'Skande!

 Scandal!" and 'Siestog, man! Shame or you, man!" Two days later Shasa

 rose to deliver his first speech from the government front benches and

 pandemonium seized the House. Hi,.

 former comrades howled their contempt, and waved their order] papers at

 him, stamping their feet and whistling with outrage, whil his newly

 adopted party roared encouragement and support.

 Tall and elegant, smiling with scorn, switching easily from Englis!

 to Afrikaans, Shasa gradually quietened the benches opposite bin with

 his low key but riveting oratorical style, and once he had thei:

 attention he made them squirm uneasily as he dissected their part: with

 an insider's surgical skill, then held up their weaknesses ant blemishes

 for them to contemplate.

 When he sat down he left them severely discomforted, and the prime

 minister leaned forward in his seat to nod at him, an unprecedented

 public accolade, while most of the other ministers, even those

 northerners most hostile to his appointment, passed him notes of

 congratulation. Manfred De La Rey's note invited him to join a party of

 senior ministers for lunch in the member's dining-room. It was an

 auspicious beginning.

 Blaine Malcomess and Centaine came out to Weltevreden for the weekend.

 As usual the family spent all of Saturday afternoon at the polo field.

 Blaine had recently resigned as captain of the South African team.

 'It's obscene for a man over sixty to still be playing,' he had

 explained his decision to Shasa.

 'You are better than most of us youngsters of forty, Blaine, and you

 know it." 'Wouldn't it be pleasant to keep the captaincy in the family?"

 Blaine suggested.

 'I've only got one eye." 'Oh tush, man. You hit the ball as sweetly as

 you ever did. It's simply a matter of practice and more practice." 'I

 don't have the time for that,' Shasa protested.

 There is time for everything in life that you really want." So Blaine

 forced him to practise, but deep down he knew that Shasa had lost

 interest in ball games and would never captain the national team. Oh,

 certainly he still rode like a centaur, his arm was strong and true and

 he had the courage of a lion when he was roused, but these days it

 needed stronger medicine to get'his blood racing.

 'It's a strange paradox that a man gifted with too many talents can

 fritter them all away without developing a single one to its full." At

 that thought Blaine looked from Shasa to his sons.

 As always Sean and Garrick had joined in the practice uninvited, and

 though they could not come close to matching the furious pace and skill

 of their elders, they were acting as pick-up men and passers for them.

 Sean rode as his father had at that age and it gave Blaine a nostalgic

 pang to watch.him. The horse was a part of him, the. accord between

 rider and mount was total, his stick work was natural and unforced, but

 he lost interest quickly and made sloppy little errors, was more

 interested in teasing his brother and showing off and making eyes at the

 young girls in the stand than in perfecting his style.

 Garrick was the opposite of his elder brother. He rode with enough

 sunlight shining between the saddle-leather and his burn to dazzle a

 blind man. However, his concentration was absolute, and he scowled

 murderously at the ball through his spectacles, using his stick with all

 the grace of a labourer digging a trench, but it was surprisin how often

 he got a solid strike and how the bamboo root ball flew when he did.

 Then Blaine was amazed by the sudden change in his physique. From the

 skinny little runt he had been not long before, he was almost

 grotesquely overdeveloped in shoulder and chest and upper arms for a

 child of his age. Yet when they went in for tea and dismounted, his

 still skinny legs gave him an unfortunate anthropoid appearance. When

 he removed his riding cap, his hair stuck up in unruly dark spikes, and

 while Sean sauntered across to make the girls giggle and blush, Garrick

 stayed close to his father. Again Blaine was surprised at how often

 Shasa spoke directly to the child, even demonstrating a fine point of

 grip by rearranging his fingers on the handle of the stick, and when he

 perfected it, Shasa punched his arm lightly and told him: That's it,

 champ. We'll get you into a green and gold jersey one day." Garrick's

 glow of gratification was touching to watch, and Blaine exchanged a

 glance with Centaine. Not long before, they had discussed Shasa's total

 lack of interest in the child, and the detrimental effect that it might

 have on him. Their fears for Garrick seemed to have been unfounded,

 Blaine conceded, it was the other two they should have been worrying

 about.

 Michael was not riding today. He had hurt his wrist, a mysterious

 injury which although excruciatingly painful, showed no bruising nor

 swelling. It was astonishing how often that wrist, or his ankle or his

 knee, plagued him whenever there was the prospect of hard physical

 exercise in the offing. Blaine frowned as he glanced at him now,

 sitting beside Tara at the tea table under the oaks, both their heads

 bowed over a book of poetry. Neither of them had looked up once during

 all the shouting and glloping, and ribald exchanges on the field. Blaine

 was a firm believer in the old adage that a young man should have a

 disciplined mind in a healthy body, and should be able to join robustly

 in the rough and tumble of life. He had spoken to Tara about him, but

 though she had promised to encourage Michael's participation in sport

 and games, Blaine had not noticed any evidence that she had done so.

 There was a chorus of muted shrieks and giggles behind him, and Blaine

 glanced over his shoulder. Wherever Sean was these days there seemed

 always to be a flock of females. He attracted them the way a tree full

 of fruit brings a swarm of noisy mousebirds to it. Blaine had no idea

 who all these girls belonged to, some of them were the daughters of the

 estate managers and of Shasa's German wine-maker, the pretty blond child

 was the American consul's daughter and the two little dark ones were the

 French ambassador's, but the others were unknown - probably the

 offspring of the half dozen politicians and other members of the

 diplomatic corps who made up the usual guest-list for Saturday high tea

 at Weltevreden.

 'Shouldn't really interfere,' Blaine grumbled to himself. 'But I think

 I'll have a word with Shasa. No good speaking to Tara. She's too soft

 by a long chalk." Blaine glanced around and saw that Shasa had left the

 group at the tea table under the oaks and had moved down the pony lines.

 He was squatting with one of the grooms to examine the fore hock of his

 favourite pony, a powerful stallion he had named Kenyatta, because he

 was black and dangerous.

 'Good opportunity,' Blaine grunted and went to join Shasa. They

 discussed taping the pony's leg, his only weak point, and then stood up.

 'How's Sean making out at Bishops?" Blaine asked casually, and Shasa

 looked surprised.

 'Tara been talking to you?" he asked. Sean had gone up to the senior

 school at the beginning of the year, after ending as head boy and

 captain of sport at his preparatory school. 'Having trouble?" Blaine

 asked.

 'Going through a phase,' Shasa shrugged. 'He'll be all right. He has

 too much talent not to make good in the end." 'What happened?" 'Nothing

 to worry about. He's become a bit of a rebel, and his grades have gone

 to hell. I gave him the sweet end of the riding-crop.

 Only language he speaks fluently. He'll be all right, Blaine, don't

 worry." 'For some people it's all too easy,' Blaine remarked. 'They get

 into the habit of free-wheeling through life." He saw Shasa bridle

 slightly, and realized he was taking the remark personally. Good, he

 thought, let him - and he went on deliberately, 'You should know, Shasa.

 You have the same weakness." 'I suppose you do have the right to speak

 to me like that. The only man in the world who does,' Shasa mused. 'But

 don't expect me to enjoy it, Blaine." 'I expect young Sean cannot accept

 criticism either,' Blaine said.

 'He's the one I wanted to talk about, not you. How did we end up

 discussing you? However, since we are, let an old dog give a few words

 of caution to both of you. Firstly, don't dismiss Sean's behaviour too

 lightly, you may just find yourself with a serious problem one day, if

 you don't check it now. Some people have to have constant stimulation

 or else they get bored. I think Sean might be one of those. They

 become addicted to excitement and danger. Watch him, SMsa." 'Thank you,

 Blaine,' Shasa nodded, but he was not grateful.

 'As for you, Shasa. You have been playing life like a game." 'That's

 all it is, surely,' Shasa agreed.

 'If you truly believe that, then you have no right to take on the

 responsibility of cabinet rank,' Blaine said softly. 'No, Shasa. You

 have made yourself responsible for the welfare of sixteen million souls.

 It's no longer a game, but a sacred trust." They had stopped walking and

 turned to face each other.

 'Think about that, Shasa,' Blaine said.  'I believe that there are dark

 and difficult days ahead, and you won't be playing for an increase in

 company dividends - you will be playing for the survival of a natioh,

 and if you fail, it will mean the end of the world you know.

 You will not suffer alone-' Blaine turned to Isabella as she ran to him.

 'Grandpapa! Grandpapa!" she cried. 'I want to show you the new pony

 daddy gave me,' and they both looked down at the beautiful child.

 'No, Shasa, not you alone,' Blaine repeated, and took the child's hand.

 'All right, Bella,' he said. 'Let's go down to the stables." Shasa had

 found that Blaine's words were like arrow-grass seeds.

 They scratched when they first attached themselves to your clothing, and

 then gradually worked themselves deeper until they penetrated the skin

 to cause real pain. Those words were still with him when he went into

 the cabinet room on Monday morning and took his place at the foot of the

 table, as befitted the most junior member of the gathering.

 Before Blaine had spoken to him, Shasa had considered these meetings no

 more important than, say, a full board meeting of Courtney Mining and

 Finance. Naturally, he prepared himself as thoroughly, not only were

 his own notes exhaustive and cogent, but he had assembled full

 portfolios on every other member of the cabinet.

 Blaine had helped him with this work, and the results had been fed into

 the company computer and were kept up to the minute. After a lifetime

 in politics, Blaine was a skilled analyst and he had been able to trace

 in the tenuous and concealed lines of loyalty and commitment that bound

 this group of important men together.

 At the broadest level every single one of them, apart from Shasa, was a

 member of the Broederbond- the Brotherhood - that invidious secret

 society of eminent Afrikaners whose single object was to advance the

 interest of the Afrikaner above all others at every possible turn and at

 every level from that of national politics through business and the

 economy, on down to the levels of education and the civil service. No

 outsider could ever hope to fathom its ramifications, for it was

 protected by a curtain of silence which no Afrikaner dared to break. It

 united them all, no matter whether they were members of the Calvinist

 Dutch Reformed Church or of the even more extreme Dapper church, the

 Hervormde church which by Article No. 3 of its charter had ordained

 that heaven was reserved exclusively for members of the white race. The

 Broederbond united even the southerners, the Cape Nationalists, and

 those hard men from the north.

 As Shasa rearranged his thick sheaf of notes, which he would not need

 since they were already committed to memory, he glanced down the table

 and saw how the two opposing forces in the cabinet had arranged

 themselves like the grouping of an army. Shasa was quite obviously

 arrayed with the southerners under Dr Theophilus D6nges, one of the most

 senior men, who had been a member of the cabinet since Dr Malan brought

 the party to power in 1948. He was leader of the party in the Cape, and

 Manfred De La Rey was one of his men. However, they were the smaller

 and least influential of the two groups. The northerners comprised both

 the Transvalers and the Orange Free Staters, and amongst them were the

 most formidable politicians in the land.

 Strangely, in this assembly of impressive men. Shasa's attention went

 to a man who had been a member of the Senate as long as Shasa had

 himself been a member of the lower house. Before his appointment to the

 Senate in 1948, Verwoerd had been the editor of Die Transvalet, and

 before that he had been a Professor at Stellenbosch University. Shasa

 knew that he had lectured to Manfred De La Rey when he was a student,

 and had exerted enormous influence upon him. However, they were in

 different camps now, Verwoerd was of the north. Since 1950 he had been

 Minister of Bantu Affairs, with godlike powers over the black population

 and had made his name synonymous with the ideal of racial segregation at

 all levels of society.

 For a man with such a monumental reputation for racial intolerance, the

 architect of the great edifice of apartheid which was being erected with

 intricate interlocking laws that dictated every aspect of the lives of

 the country's millions of black people, his appearance and manner were a

 pleasant surprise. His smile was kindly, almost benign, and he was

 quiet spoken but persuasive as he rose to address the cabinet and

 explain with the aid of a specially prepared map of South Africa his

 plans for the rearrangement of black population densities.

 Tall and slightly round-shouldered, with his curly hair beginning to

 turn to silver, there could be little doubt of his utmost sincerity and

 belief in the absolute rightness of his conclusions. Shasa found himself

 being carried along on the plausible flood of his logic. Although his

 voice was pitched a little too high, and the tense note of his monologue

 grated on the ear, he carried them all on the strength, not only of his

 total conviction, but also of his personality. Even his opponents were

 filled with awe at his debating ability.

 Only one small detail worried Shasa, Verwoerd's blue eyes were slitted,

 as though he were always looking into the sun, and though they were

 surrounded by a complex web of laughter lines, they were cold eyes, the

 eyes of a machine-gunner staring over the sights of his weapon.

 Blaine's words came back to Shasa as he sat at the polished stinkwood

 table. 'No, Shasa, it's not a game. You have made yourself responsible

 for the welfare of sixteen million souls. It's no longer a game, but a

 sacred trust." But he remained expressionless as Verwoerd ended his

 presentation. 'Not one of us here today doubts that South Africa is a

 white man's country. My proposals will see to it that within the

 reserves the natives will have some measure of autonomy. However, as to

 the country as a whole, and the European areas in particular, we the

 white people, are and shall remain the masters." There was a general

 murmur of agreement and approbation, and two of the others asked for

 clarification on minor points. There was no call to vote or to make any

 joint decision, for Verwoerd's lecture had been in the form of a report

 back from his department.

 'I think that Doctor Henk has covered this subject fully - unless

 anybody else has a question, we can go on to the next matter on the

 agenda." The prime minister looked down the table at Shasa. The agenda

 read: iTEM TWO; Projection by the Han. Minister for Mines and Industry

 on the capital requirements of the private industrial sector over the

 next ten years and the proposal of means to satisfy such requirements.

 This morning would be the first time Shasa would address the full

 cabinet, and he hoped he would muster only a small portion of Verwoerd's

 aplomb and persuasion.

 His nervousness faded as soon as he rose to speak, for he had prepared

 in depth and detail. He began with an assessment of the foreign capital

 needs of the economy over the next decade, 'to carry us through to the

 end of the 1960s,' and then set out to estimate the amounts available to

 them from their traditional markets within the British Commonwealth.

 'As you see, this leaves us with a considerable shortfall, particularly

 in mining, the new oil from coal industry and the armaments sector.

 This is how I propose that shortfall should be met: in the first

 instance we have to look to the United States of America. That country

 is a potential source of capital that has barely been tapped --' He held

 their attention completely as he described his department's plans to

 advertise the country as a prosperous market amongst the American

 business leaders, and to entice as many of them as he could to visit

 South Africa at the expense of his department. He also intended

 establishing associations with sympathetic and influential politicians

 and businessmen in the United States and the United Kingdom to promote

 the country's image, and to this end he had already contacted Lord

 Littleton, head of Littleton merchant banks, who had agreed to act as

 chairman of the British South Africa Club.

 A similar association, the American South Africa Club, would be formed

 in the United States.

 Shasa was encouraged by the obviously favourable reception of his

 presentation to continue with a matter he had not intended raising.

 'We have just heard from Dr Verwoerd the proposal to build up

 self-governing black states within the country. I don't wish to tackle

 the political aspects of this scheme, but as a businessman I feel that I

 am competent to bring to your attention the final cost, in financial

 rather than human terms, of putting this into practice." Shasa went on

 swiftly to outline the massive obstacles in logistics and lost

 productivity that would result.

 'We will have to duplicate a number of times the basic structures of the

 state in various parts of the country, and we must expect the bill for

 this to run into many billions of pounds. That money could more

 profitably be invested in wealth-producing undertakings --' Across the

 table he saw Verwoerd's great charm ice over with a crust of hostility.

 Shasa knew he was autocratic and contemptuous of criticism, and he

 sensed that he was taking a risk by antagonizing a man who might one day

 wield ultimate power, but he went on doggedly.

 'The proposal has another flaw. By decentralizing industry we will make

 it less effective and competitive. In a modern age when all countries

 are economically in competition with each other, we will be placing a

 handicap on ourselves." When he sat down he saw that though he might

 have convinced nobody, he had given them much to think about seriously

 and soberly, and when the meeting ended, one or two of the other

 ministers, most of them southerners, stayed to exchange a few words with

 him. Shasa sensed that he had enhanced his reputation and consolidated

 his place in the cabinet with that afternoon's work, and he drove back

 to Weltevreden feeling well pleased with himself.

 He dropped his briefcase on the desk in his study and, hearin: voices

 out on the terrace, went out into the late sunshine. The gues that Tara

 was entertaining was the headmaster of Bishops. Usuall' this worthy

 would summon the parents of recalcitrant pupils t appear before him as

 summarily as he did their offspring. This dk not apply to the Courtney

 family. Centaine Courtney-Malcomess hat been a governor of the school

 for almost thirty years, the only womal on the board. Her son had been

 head boy before the war and wa,.

 now on the board with his mother, and both of them were majo]

 contributors to the College's coffers - amongst their gifts were th

 organ, the plate-glass windows in the new chapel, and the new kit.

 chens to the main dining-hall. The headmaster had come to call upor

 Shasa, rather than the other way around. However, Tara was looking

 uneasy and stood up to greet Shasa with relief.

 'Hello, Headmaster." Shasa shook hands, but was not encouraged by the

 head's lugubrious expression.

 'Headmaster wants to talk to you about Sean,' Tara explained." I think

 a man-to-man chat will be appropriate, so I will leave the two of you

 alone while I go and get a fresh pot of tea." She slipped away, and

 Shasa asked genially, 'Sun's over the yard arm. May I offer you a

 whisky, Headmaster?" 'No thank you, Mr Courtney." That he had not used

 Shasa's Christian name was ominous, and Shasa adjusted his own

 expression to the correct degree of solemnity and took the chair beside

 him.

 'Sean, hey? So what has that little hooligan been up to now?" Tara

 opened the door to the dining-room quietly and crossed the floor to

 stand behind the drapes. She waited until the voices on the terrace

 were so intense and serious that she could be certain that Shasa would

 be there for the next hour at the least. She turned quickly and left

 the dining-room, closing the door behind her, and went swiftly down the

 wide marble-tiled passageway, past the library and the gun room." The

 door to Shasa's study was unlocked, the only doors ever locked at

 Weltevreden were those to the wine cellar.

 Shasa's briefcase stood in the middle of his desk. She opened it and

 saw the blue folder embossed with the coat of arms of the state which

 contained the typed minutes of that day's cabinet meeting.

 She knew that numbered copies were made and distributed to each minister

 at the end of the weekly meetings, and she had expected to find it in

 his case.

 She lifted it out, careful not to disarrange anything else in the

 crocodile-skin attach case, and carried it to the table beside the

 french doors. The light was better here, and in addit-ion, by glancing

 around the drapes, she could see down the terrace to where Shasa and the

 headmaster were still deep in conversation under the trellis of vines.

 Quickly she arranged the blue sheets on the table, and then focused the

 tiny camera that she took from the pocket of her skirt. It was the size

 of a cigarette-lighter. She was still unaccustomed to the mechanism,

 and her hands were shaking with nervousness. It was the first time she

 had done this.

 Molly had given her the camera at their last meeting, and explained that

 their friends were so pleased by the quality of the information she was

 providing that they wanted to make her job easier for her.

 Her fingers felt like pork sausages as she manipulated the tiny knobs

 and snapped each of the sheets twice, to cover herself against possible

 mistakes of exposure or focus. Then she slipped the camera back into

 her pocket, before stacking the sheets in their folder and replacing it

 carefully in Shasa's briefcase in exactly the same way she had found it.

 She was so nervous that her bladder felt as though it might burst and

 she had to run down the passage to the downstairs toilet. She only just

 reached it in time. Five minutes later she carried the silver Queen

 Anne teapot out on to the terrace. Usually this would have annoyed

 Shasa who did not like her to usurp the servants' work, especially in

 front of guests. However, he was too engrossed in his discussion with

 the headmaster to notice.

 'I find it difficult to believe that it is anything more than robust

 boyish spirits, Headmaster." He was frowning as he sat forward in his

 chair, hands on his knees, to confront the schoolmaster.

 'I have tried to look upon it that way." The headmaster shook his head

 regretfully. 'In view of the special relationship that your family has

 to the school, I have been as lenient as I can be. However,' he paused

 meaningfully, 'we are not dealing simply with an isolated instance. Not

 simply one or two boyish pranks, but a state of mind, an entire

 behaviour pattern which is most alarming." The headmaster broke off to

 accept the cup of tea that Tara passed across the table to him. 'Forgive

 me, Mrs Courtney, this is as painful to me as it must be to you." Tara

 said quietly, 'I can believe that. I know you look upon each of your

 boys as one of your own sons." And she glanced at Shasa.

 'My husband has been reluctant to come to terms with the problem." She

 hid her smug satisfaction behind a sorrowful but brave little smile.

 Sean had always been Shasa's child, strong-willed and thoughtless of

 others. She had never understood nor accepted that cruel streak in him.

 She recalled his selfishness and lack of gratitude even before he could

 talk. As an infant when he had gorged himself at her breast, he would

 let her know he was satiated by biting her nipple with sufficient force

 to bruise her painfully. She had loved him, of course, but had found it

 hard to like him. As soon as he had learned to walk, he headed straight

 for his father, staggering after him like a puppy, and his first word

 had been 'Dada'. That hurt her, after she had carried him big and heavy

 in her belly and given him birth and suck, 'Dada'. Well, he was Shasa's

 child now and she sat back and watched him grapple with the problem,

 feeling a spiteful pleasure at his discomfort.

 'He's a natural sportsman,' Shasa was saying, 'and a born leader.

 He has a good mind - I am convinced that he will pull himself together.

 I gave him a good thrashing after his school report at the end of last

 term, and I'll give him another this evening to get him in the right

 frame of mind." 'With some boy. s the cane has-no effect, or rather it

 has the opposite to the desired effect. Your Sean looks upon corporal

 punishment the way a soldier looks on his battle wounds, as a mark of

 his courage and fortitude." 'I have always been against my husband

 beating the children,' Tara said, and Shasa flashed her a warning look,

 but the headmaster went on.

 'I have also tried the cane on Sean, Mrs Courtney. He seems positively

 to welcome that punishment as though it affords him some special

 distinction." 'But he is a good athlete,' Shasa repeated rather lamely.

 'I see you choose, as I would, the term "athlete" rather than

 "sportsman",' the headmaster nodded. 'Sean is precocious and mature for

 his age. He is stronger than the other boys in his group and has no

 qualms in using his strength to win, not always in accordance with the

 rules of the game." The headmaster looked at Shasa pointedly. 'He does

 have a good brain, but his school marks indicate that he is not prepared

 to use it in the classroom. Instead he applies his mind to less

 commendable enterprises." The headmaster paused, sensing that this was

 not the moment to give a doting father concrete examples. He went on:

 'He is also, as you have noted, a born leader. Unfortunately, he

 gathers about him the least desirable elements in the school, which he

 has formed into a gang with which he terrorizes the other boys, even

 those senior to him are afraid of him." 'I find this difficult to

 accept." Shasa was grim-faced.

 'To be blunt, Mr Courtney: Sean seems to have a vindictive and vicious

 streak in him. I am, of course, looking for an improvement in him.

 However, if that is not soon forthcoming, I will have to make a serious

 decision over Sean's future at Bishops." 'I had set my heart on him

 being head boy, as I was,' Shasa admitted, and the headmaster shook his

 head.

 'Far from becoming head boy, Mr Courtney, unless Sean has pulled up his

 socks by the end of the year, I am, with the greatest reluctance, going

 to have to ask you to remove him from Bishops altogether." 'My God!"

 Shasa breathed. 'You don't really mean that?" 'I'm sorry to say that I

 do." It was quite remarkable that Clare East had ever been employed by

 the headmaster of Bishops. The explanation was that the appointment was

 a temporary one, a mere six-month contract, to fill in after the

 unexpected resignation of the previous art master on the grounds of

 ill-health. The salary offered was such that it had attracted only two

 other applications, both patently unsuitable.

 Clare had come to the interview with the headmaster dressed in clothes

 she had not worn for six years, not since she was twenty-one years of

 age. She had exhumed them from a forgotten cabin trunk for the

 occasion, a high-buttoned dress in drab green that conformed closely to

 the head's own ideas of suitable apparel for a schoolmistress. Her long

 black hair she had plaited and twisted up severely behind her head, and

 the portfolio of her painting she had chosen to show him, was composed

 of landscapes and seascapes and still lifes, subjects which had

 interested her at about the same time as she had bought the chaste

 woollen dress. At Bishops, art was not one of the main-stream subjects,

 but merely a catch-all for the pupils who showed little aptitude for the

 sciences.

 Once Clare had charge of the art school, which was situated far enough

 from the main buildings as to offer her a certain freedom of behaviour,

 she reverted to her usual style of dress: wide loose skirts in vivid

 colours and flamboyant patterns, worn with Mexican-style blouses like

 those that Jane Russell had worn in The Outlaw. She had seen the movie

 five times while she was attending the London School of Arts, and

 modelled herself on Jane Russell, though of course Clare knew her own

 breasts were better than Russell's, just as big but higher and more

 pointed.

 Her long hair she wore in a different style every day, and when she was

 teaching she always kicked off her sandals and strode around the art

 room barefooted, smoking thin black Portuguese cigarettes which one of

 her lovers brought her in packs of a thousand.

 Sean had absolutely no interest in art. He had filtered down to this

 class by a process of natural rejection. Physics and chemistry demanded

 too much effort, and geography, the next lowest subject, was an even

 greater bore than paint-brushes.

 Sean fell in love with Clare East the very moment that she walked into

 the art room. The first time she had paused at his easel to inspect the

 mess of colour he had smeared on his sheet of art paper, he realized

 that she was an inch shorter than he was, and when she reached up to

 correct one of his shaky outlines, he saw that she had not shaved her

 armpit. That bush of dark coarse hair glistening with sweat, induced

 the hardest and most painful erection he had ever experienced.

 He tried to impress her with manly strutting behaviour, and when that

 failed, he used an oath in her presence that he usually reserved for one

 of his polo ponies. Clare East sent him *o the head with a note and the

 head gave him four strokes of his heavy Malacca cane, accompanying the

 beating with a few words of counsel.

 'You will have to learn, young man, WHACK, that I will not allow you to

 compound atrocious behaviour, WHACK, with foul language, WHACK,

 especially in the presence of a lady, WHACK." 'Thank you very much,

 Headmaster." It was traditional to express gratitude for these

 ministrations, and to refrain from rubbing the injured area in the great

 man's presence. When Sean returned to the art room, his ardour, far

 from being cooled by the Malacca cane, was rather inflamed to unbearable

 proportions, but he realized he had to change tactics.

 He discussed it with his henchman, Snotty Arbuthnot, and was only mildly

 discouraged by Snotty's advice. 'Forget it, man. Every fellow in

 school is whacking away thinking about Marsh Mallows --' the nickname

 was a reference to Clare East's bosom, 'but Tug saw her at the movies

 with some chap at least thirty, with a mustache and his own car. They

 were smooching away like mad dogs in the back row. Why don't you go and

 see Poodle instead?" Poodle was a sixteen-year-old from Rustenberg

 Girls' School, just across the railway line from Bishops. She was a

 young lady with a mission in life, to see as many boys across the

 borders of manhood as she could fit into her busy afternoons. Though

 Sean had never spoken to her, she had been a spectator at every one of

 his recent cricket matches and she had sent a message to him through a

 mutual friend suggesting a meeting in the pine forest on Rondebosch

 Common.

 'She looks like a poodle,' Sean dismissed the suggestion scornfully, and

 resigned himself to distant adoration of Clare East, until one day he

 was searching her desk for those black Portuguese cigarettes for which

 he had developed a taste. Love did not mean he could not steal from

 her. In a locked drawer which he picked with a paper clip, he came

 across a stiff cardboard folder tied with green ribbons. The folder

 contained over twenty pencil drawings of nude male models, all of them

 signed and dated by Clare East, and after the first jealous shock, Sean

 realized that each drawing was of a different subject with only one

 common feature. While the models' faces had been roughed in, their

 genitals had been depicted in minute and loving detail, and all of them

 were fully tumescent.

 What Sean had discovered was Clare's collection of scalps, or an

 equivalent thereof. Clare East had strong tastes, but even more than

 garlic and red wine she needed men in her diet. This was so evident in

 the secret folder that all Sean's deflated hopes were once more revived,

 and that night he commissioned Michael, for the sum of five shillings,

 to paint a portrait of Clare East in Sean's art book.

 Michael was in the junior art class and was able to make his studies for

 the portrait without the model's knowledge, and the completed work

 surpassed even Sean's expectations. He submitted the portrait and at

 the end of the following session Clare dismissed the class with a rider,

 ."Oh Sean, will you please remain behind?" When the art room was

 cleared, she opened his art book at the painting of herself.

 'Did you do this, Sean?" she asked. 'It really is very good." The

 question was innocent enough, but the difference between the portrait

 and Sean's own murky compositions was so evident that even he saw the

 danger of claiming authorship.

 'I was going to tell you I did it,' he admitted openly, 'but I can't lie

 to you, Miss East. I paid my brother to do it for me." 'Why, SeanT 'I

 suppose because I like you so much,' he mumbled, and to her surprise she

 saw that he was actually blushing. Clare was touched.

 Up to that time she had actively disliked this boy. He was brash and

 cocky and a disruptive influence in her class. She was certain that it

 was he who was stealing her cigarettes.

 This unsuspected sensitivity surprised her, and suddenly she realized

 that his bumptious behaviour had been to attract her attention. She

 relented towards him, and over the following days and weeks she showed

 Sean that she had forgiven him, by giving him small largesse - from a

 special smile to an extra few minutes of her time tidying up his

 creative efforts.

 In return Sean began leaving gifts in her desk, thereby confirming her

 suspicion that he had been into it before. However, the theft of

 cigarettes stopped and she accepted the offerings of fruit and flowers

 without comment, just a smile and a nod as she passed his easel.

 Then one Friday afternoon she opened her drawer and there lay a blue

 enamel box with 'Garrards' in gold lettering on the lid. She opened it

 with her back turned to the class, and she started uncontrollably and

 almost dropped the box as she realized that it contained a brooch of

 white gold. The centrepiece was a large star sapphire, and even Clare,

 who was no judge of gems, realized that it was an exquisite stone. It

 was surrounded by small diamonds set in a star pattern. Clare

 experienced a giddy rush of avarice. The brooch must certainly be worth

 many hundreds of pounds, more money than she had ever had in her hand at

 one time, more than a year's salary at her present parsimonious rate of

 pay.

 Sean had taken the piece from his mother's dressing-table and hidden it

 in the thatch of the saddle room behind the stables until the furore had

 died down. All the house servants had been interrogated, first by

 Shasa, who was outraged by this breach of faith. Nothing, apart from

 liquor, had ever been stolen by his employees before. When his own

 investigations ran into a dead end, Shasa called in the police.

 Fortunately for Sean, it transpired that one of the junior maids had

 previously served a six-month sentence for theft from an employer. She

 was obviously guilty and the Wynberg magistrate gave her eighteen

 months, her offence compounded by her obstinate refusal to return the

 stolen brooch. Since she was now over twenty-one years, the maid was

 sent to the Pollsmoor Women's Prison.

 Sean had waited another ten days for the incident to be forgotten before

 presenting the gift to the object of his passion. Clare East was

 mightily tempted. She realized that the brooch must have been stolen,

 but on the other hand she was, as usual for her, in serious financial

 difficulty. This was the only reason she had taken on her present

 employment. She looked back with nostalgic regret on the idle days of

 eating and drinking and painting and making love which had led her into

 her present embarrassed circumstances. The brooch would solve it all'.

 She had no scruples of conscience, but a terror of being convicted of

 theft. She knew that her free and creative soul would wither behind the

 bars of a women's prison.

 Surreptitiously she returned he brooch to her desk drawer and for the

 rest of that art period she was distracted and withdrawn. She

 chain-smoked cigarettes and kept well clear of the rear of the art room,

 where Sean made a fine picture of innocence as he applied himself with

 unusual industry to his easel. She did not have to tell him to remain

 behind when the bell rang at the end of the period.

 He came to where she sat at her desk.

 'Did you like it?" he asked softly, and she opened the drawer and placed

 the enamel box in the centre of the desk between them.

 'I cannot accept it, Sean,' she said. 'You know that very well." She

 didn't want to ask him where he had obtained it. She didn't want to

 know, and involuntarily she reached out to touch the box for the last

 time. The enamel surface felt like a new-laid egg, smooth and warm to

 the touch.

 'It's all right,' Sean said quietly. 'Nobody knows. They think

 somebody else took it. It's quite safe." Had the child seen through her

 so easily? She stared at him. Was it one amoral soul recognizing

 another? It made her angry to be found out, to have her greed so

 exposed. She took her hand off the box and placed it in her lap.

 She drew a breath, and steeled herself to repeat her refusal, but Sean

 stilled her by opening his art book and taking out three loose leaves.

 He placed them beside the blue enamel box, and she drew a hissing

 breath. They were her own drawings from her fun folder, signed by

 herself.

 'I took these - sort of fair exchange,' Sean said, and she looked at him

 and truly saw him for the very first time.

 He was young in years only. In the museum in Athens she had been

 enchanted by a marble statue of the great god Pan in his manifestation

 as a young boy. A beautiful child, but about him an ancient evil as

 enthralling as sin itself. Clare East was not a teacher by vocation,

 she felt no innate revulsion at the corruption of the young. It was

 simply that she had not thought of it before. With her hearty sexual

 appetite she had experienced almost everything else, including partners

 of her own sex, although those had been unsuccessful experiments long

 ago put behind her. Men she had known, in the biblical sense, in every

 possible variation of size and shape and colour. She took and discarded

 them with a kind of compulsive fervour, seeking always an elusive

 fulfilment which seemed to dance for ever just beyond her grasp. Often

 she was afraid, truly terrified, that she had reached the point of

 satiety, when her pleasure was irreparably blunted and jaded.

 Now she was presented with a new and titillating perversion, enough to

 reawaken the lusty response that she had thought lost for ever. This

 child's loveliness contained a wickedness that left her breathless as

 she discovered it.

 She had never been paid before, and this mannikin was offering her a

 prostitute's fee that was princely enough for a royal courtesan.

 She had never been blackmailed before, and he was threatening her with

 those unwise sketches. She knew what would happen if they ever fell

 into the hands of the school governors, and she did not doubt that he

 would carry out the unspoken threat. He had already hinted that he had

 placed blame for the theft of the sapphire brooch on an innocent party.

 Most tantalizing, she had never had a child before. She let her eyes

 run over him curiously. His skin was clear and firm, with the sweet

 gloss of youth on it. The hair on his forearms was silky, but his

 cheeks were bare. He was using a razor already, and he was taller than

 she was, a man's outline emerging from boyhood in his shoulders and

 narrow hips. His limbs were long and shapely, strange that she should

 never have noticed the muscle in his arms before. His eyes were green

 as emeralds, or-of crbme de menthe in a crystal glass and there were

 tiny flecks of brown and gold surrounding the pupils. She saw those

 pupils dilate sightly as she leaned forward, deliberately letting the

 top of her blouse gape open to expose the swell and cleavage of her

 breasts. Carefully she picked up the enamel box.

 'Thank you, Sean,' she whispered hoarsely. 'It's a magnificent gift and

 I shall treasure it." Sean picked up the lewd sketches and slipped them

 into his art book, hostage to the unspoken pact between them.

 'Thank you, Miss East." His voice was as rough as hers. 'I am so glad

 you like it." It was so exciting to see his agitation that her own loins

 melted and she felt the familiar pressure build up swiftly in her lower

 body.

 With calculated cruelty she stood up, dismissing him to the exquisite

 torture of anticipation. Instinctively she knew that he had planned it

 all. No further effort would be required from her, the boy's genius

 would providd the means and the moment, and it was part of the

 excitement, waiting to see what he would do.

 She did not have long to wait, and though she had expected something

 unusual, she was surprised by the note he left on her desk.

 Dear Miss East, My son, Sean, tells me that you are having difficulty in

 procuring suitable lodgings. I do understand how difficult this can be,

 particularly in the summer when the whole world seems to descend upon

 our little peninsula.

 As it happens, I have a furnished cottage on the estate, which at the

 present time is standing empty. If you find it suitable, you are

 welcome to the use of it. The rental would be nominal. I should say a

 guinea a week would satisfy the estate bookkeeper, and you would find

 the cottage secluded and quiet with a lovely view over the Constantia

 Berg and False Bay, which will appeal to the artist.

 Sean speaks highly of your work, and I look forward to seeing examples

 of it.

 Very sincerely, Tara Courtney Clare East was paying five guineas a week

 for a single squalid room beside the railway tracks at the back of

 Rondebosch station.

 When she sold the sapphire brooch for three hundred pounds, which she

 suspected was a fraction of its real value, Clare had been determined to

 pay off her accumulated debts. However, as with so many of her good

 intentions, she closed her mind to the impulse, and instead blew most of

 the money on a secondhand Morris Minor.

 She drove out to Weltevreden the following Saturday morning.

 Some instinct warned her not to attempt to conceal her Bohemian

 inclinations, and she and Tara recognized kindred spirits at the very

 first meeting. Tara sent a driver and one of the estate lorries to

 fetch her few sticks of furniture and her pile of finished canvases, and

 personally helped her move into the cottage.

 As they worked together, Clare showed Tara a few of the canvases,

 beginning with the landscapes and seascapes. Tara's response was

 noncommittal, so once again, following her instinct, Clare stripped the

 cover off one of her abstracts, a cubist arrangement of blues and fiery

 reds, and held it up for Tara.

 'Oh God, it's magnificent!" Tara murmured. 'So fierce and

 uncompromising. I love it." A few evenings later Tara came down the

 path through the pines, carrying a small basket. Clare was on the stoep

 of the cottage, sitting bare-footed and cross-legged on a leather

 cushion with a sketch-pad on her lap.

 She looked up and grinned, 'I hoped you'd come,' and Tara flopped down

 beside her and took a bottle of Shasa's best estate wine, the

 fifteen-year-old vintage, out of the basket.

 They chatted easily while Clare sketched, drinking the wine and watching

 the sunset over the mountains.

 'It's good to find a friend,' Tara said impulsively. 'You can't imagine

 how lonely it is here sometimes." '_With ark tJe_guesLs_a

 nd_v'mitor'_Cja.r, ewJ:u.to kled .as. hr 'Those aren't real people,'

 Tara said. 'They are just talking dolls, stuffed with money and their

 own importance,' and she took a flat silver cigarette case out of the

 pocket of her skirt, and opened it. It contained rice papers and

 shredded yellow leaf. 'Do you?" she asked shyly.

 'Darling, you have probably saved my life,' Clare exclaimed. 'Roll one

 for us this instant. I can't wait." They passed the joint back and

 forth, and in the course of their lazy conversation Clare remarked, Tve

 been exploring. It's so beautiful here. A little earthly paradise."

 'Paradise can be an awful bore,' Tara smiled.

 'I found a waterfall with a little summer-house." 'That's the picnic

 spot. None of the servants are allowed there, so if you want to swim in

 the buff, you don't have to worry. Nobody is going to surprise you."

 Clare had not seen Sean on the estate since she moved into the cottage.

 She had expected him to come panting to the door on the very first day,

 and was slightly piqued when he did not. Then after a few more days she

 was amused by his restraint, he had an instinct far beyond his years,

 the touch of the born philanderer, and she waited with a rising sense of

 anticipation for him to approach her.

 Then the delay began to gall her. She was unaccustomed to extended

 periods of celibacy, and her sleep started to become fitful and

 disturbed by erotic dreams.

 The spring evenings lengthened and became balmy, and Clare took up

 Tara's suggestion to visit the pool below the waterfall. Each afternoon

 she hurried back to Weltevreden after school, and pulled a pair of

 shorts and a sleeveless blouse over her bikini before taking the short

 cut through the vineyards to the foot of the hills. Tara's assurances

 were well founded. The pool was always deserted except for the sugar

 birds amongst the proteas on the bank, and soon she discarded the

 bikini.

 On her third visit, as she was standing under the waterfall letting her

 long dark hair flow down her body, she was suddenly aware that she was

 being watched. She sank down quickly, the water up to her chin, and

 looked around her apprehensively.

 Sean sat on one of the wet black rocks at the head of the pool, almost

 within touching distance. The roar of the waterfall had muffled any

 sound of his approach. He was regarding her solemnly, and the

 resemblance to the youthful Pan god was enhanced in this wild and

 beautiful place. He was barefoot and wore only shorts and a cotton

 shirt. His lips were slightly parted and his teeth were white and

 perfect, a lock of dark hair had fallen over one eye and he lifted his

 hand and brushed it aside.

 Slowly she raised herself until the water dropped to her waist, the foam

 swirled around her, and her body shone with wetness. She saw his eyes

 go to her breasts, and his tongue flicked between his teeth and he

 winced as if in pain. Matching his solemn expression, she crooked her

 finger and beckoned him. The noise of the waterfall prevented all

 speech.

 x He stood up and began to unbutton his shirt, and then paused.

 She saw that at last he was uncertain, and his confusion amused and

 excited her. She nodded encouragement and beckoned again. His

 expression firmed and he stripped off his shirt and threw it aside, then

 he unbuckled his belt and let his shorts drop around his ankles.

 She drew breath sharply and felt the muscles on the inside of her thighs

 tense. She was not sure what she had expected, but protruding from a

 smoky haze of pubic hair he was long and white and rigid. Here, as in

 so many other ways, he was almost fully matured, the lingering signs of

 childhood on his body were all the more titillating foe this.

 He stood naked for only an instant and then dived head first into the

 pool, to surface beside her, water streaming down his face, grinning

 like an imp. Immediately she ducked away, and he chased her. He was a

 stronger swimmer than she was, moving in the water like a young otter,

 and he caught her in the middle of the pool.

 They struggled together playfully, giggling and gasping, treading water,

 going under and bobbing up again. She was surprised by the hardness and

 strength of his body, and though she extended herself, he began to get

 the better of her. She was tiring and she slowed her movements and let

 him rub himself against her. Cold water and exertion had softened him,

 but she felt him grow again, his hips slipping over her belly, probing

 instinctively at her. She hooked an arm around his neck and pulled his

 face down between her breasts.

 His entire body arched and convulsed and for a moment she thought he had

 gone too far, and she reached down and squeezed him hard and painfully

 to stop him.

 Then as he broke away, shocked by her assault, she turned and swam

 swiftly to the bank, dragged herself from the pool and ran wet and naked

 to the summer-house. She snatched up her towel, wiped her face dry and,

 holding the towel in front of her, turned back to face him as he reached

 the door of the summer-house behind her. He stood flushed and angry in

 the doorway, and they stared at each other, both of them panting

 heavily.

 Then slowly she lowered the towel and tossed it over the couch.

 Swinging her hips deliberately she went to where he stood.

 'All right, Master Sean. We know you are worse than useless with a

 paint brush. Let's see if there isn't anything else we can teach you."

 He was like a blank canvas on which she could trace her own designs, no

 matter how bizarre.

 There were things from which her other lovers had recoiled, and other

 acts that she had only imagined and never had the courage to suggest to

 a partner. At last she felt free of all constraint. It was as though

 he could read her intentions. She had only to start some new

 experiment, guide him just part of the way, and he picked it up with a

 greedy relish that astonished her and carried it through to a conclusion

 that she had not always fully foreseen, and which sometimes left her

 stunned.

 His strength and confidence increased with every one of their meetings.

 For the first time she had found something that did not swiftly pall.

 Gradually her existence seemed to centre around the summer-house beside

 the pool, and she could not wait to reach it each evening. It required

 all her self-discipline to keep her hands off him in the art room. She

 could not trust herself to stand close 'to him, or to look at him

 directly during her classes.

 Then he initiated a new series of dangerous games. He would remain

 behind after class, for just a few minutes. It had to be very quick,

 but risk of discovery enhanced the thrill for both of them.

 Once the janitor came in as they were busy and it was so close, so

 exciting, that she thought she had experienced heart failure at the

 climax. Sean was standing erect behind her desk, and she was kneeling

 in front of him. He had taken a handful of her hair and twisted it,

 holding her face against his lower body.

 'I am looking for Miss East,' the janitor said from the doorway.

 He was a pensioner, almost seventy years of age but out of vanity he

 refused to wear spectacles. 'Is she here?" he demanded, peering at Sean

 myopically.

 'Hello, Mr Brownlee. Miss East has gone up to the staff common room

 already,' Sean told him coolly, holding Clare by her hair so she could

 not pull away from him. The janitor muttered unintelligibly and turned

 to leave the art room, when to Clare's horror Sean called him back.

 'Oh, Mr Brownlee, can I give her a message for you?" he asked, and he

 and the janitor talked for almost a minute that seemed like all the

 ages, while she, screened by the desk, was forced to continue.

 She knew then, when she paused to think about it, that she was in over

 her head. She had seen glimpses of the cruelty and violence in him and

 as the months passed, his physical strength increased with all the

 sudden blooming of desert grass after rain. The last garlands of puppy

 fat around his torso were replaced by hard muscle and it seemed that

 before her eyes his chest broadened and took on a covering of springing

 dark curls.

 Though sometimes she still challenged and fought him, each time he

 subdued her with greater ease, and then he would force her to perform

 one of the tricks to which she had originally introduced him, but which

 he had embroidered with little sadistic twists of his own.

 She developed a taste for these humiliations, and she began deliberately

 to provoke him, until at last she succeeded beyond her expectations. It

 was in her cottage - the first time they had met there because there was

 always the danger that Tara would drop in unexpectedly, but by now both

 of them were reckless.

 Clare waited until he was fully ripe, his eyes glazing and his lips

 pulled back in a rictus of ecstasy, then she twisted and bucked,

 throwing him off her and she knelt before him and jeered with laughter.

 He was angry, but she calmed him down. Then a few minutes later she did

 it again, and this time she squeezed him painfully, just as she had done

 that first evening at the pool.

 Seconds later she lay dazed, only semi-conscious, sprawled half off the

 bed, both her eyes rapidly closing with plum-coloured swellings, her

 lips broken against her teeth, and blood dripping from her nose.

 Sean stood over her. His face was white as ice, the knuckles of his

 clenched fists grazed raw, still shaking with fury. He caught her by

 the tresses of her dark hair and knelt over her while he forced her to

 take him through her split and bleeding lips. After that there was no

 question but that he was her master.

 Clare missed three days of school, while the worst of the swelling

 subsided and the bruises faded, and then wore dark sunglasses to her art

 class. When she passed Sean at his easel, she brushed herself against

 him like a cat, and he waited behind again after class.

 Sean had gone long enough without boasting of his conquest, but Snotty

 Arbuthnot refused to believe him.

 'You've got a screw loose if you think I swallow that,' he taunted.

 'You think I'm' as green as I'm cabbage-looking, man? You and Marsh

 Mallows - in your dreams you mean!" Sean had one alternative to beating

 him up. 'Okay then, I'll prove it to you." 'Boy, it had better be

 good." 'It will be,' Sean assured him grimly.

 The following Saturday afternoon he placed Snotty amongst the protea

 bushes at the head of the waterfall, and for good measure, lent him the

 binoculars that his grandmother had given him for his fourteenth

 birthday.

 'Let's take the cushions off the couch,' he suggested to Clare when she

 came into the summer-house. 'We'll put them on the lawn, there on the

 bank. It will be warmer in the sun." She agreed with alacrity.

 Snotty Arbuthnot was still almost inarticulate when they met at the

 school gates the next day.

 'Hell man, I never dreamed that people did that. I mean, unbelievable,

 man! When she - you know - when she actually - well, I thought I was

 going to die on the spot." 'Did I tell the truth?" Sean demanded. 'Or

 did I lie to you?" 'Man, it was super titanic. Boy, Sean, I was

 painting maps of Africa over my sheets all last night, I kid you not.

 Will you let me watch again - please, Sean, please?" 'Next time will

 cost you money,' Sean said. Even though performing to an audience had

 filled an exhibitionist need, Sean meant it as a refusal, but when

 Snotty asked without hesitation, 'How much, Sean? Just name your price!"

 Sean looked at him appraisingly.

 It was Shasa's policy to keep his sons on very modest pocketmoney, a

 policy that he had inherited from his own mother. 'They must learn the

 value of money,' was the family maxim.

 Even Snotty whose father was only a surgeon received four times the

 pittance that was Sean's allowance. The protection racket that Sean ran

 amongst the juniors, an idea he had picked up from a George Raft movie

 at the Odeon, more than doubled his income.

 However, he was always lamentably short of hard cash, and Snotty could

 afford to pay.

 'Two pounds,' Sean suggested. He knew that was exactly his weekly

 pocket money, but Snotty smiled radiantly. 'You're on, man!" However,

 it was only when Snotty actually placed the two crumpled notes in Sean's

 fist the following Saturday morning that.

 Sean realized the full financial potential.

 There was very little chance of Clare realizing that she was on stage.

 The protea bushes were dense, the noise of the waterfall covered the

 sound of any involuntary gasps or sniggers, and anyway once she was

 started, Clare was deaf and blind to all else. Sean appointed Snotty

 his ticket salesman and organizer. The commission he received ensured

 Snotty's free admission to each Saturday performance. Reluctantly they

 decided to restrict admission to ten spectators at any one session, but

 even that meant a take of eighteen pounds every single week. It lasted

 almost three months, which was in itself a miracle, for after the first

 sell-out matinee, the entire senior school was agog.

 The word-of-mouth publicity was so good that Snotty was able to demand

 cash with reservation, and even so his booking sheet was full as far

 ahead as the beginning of the hols and half the fellows were saving so

 frantically to try and come up with two pounds that sales at the school

 tuck shop fell off dramatically. Snotty was trying to get Sean to agree

 to a mid-week performance, or at least to an increase in the Saturday

 gate, when the first rumour reached the staff common room.

 While passing the windows of one of the change rooms, the history

 teacher had overheard two satisfied customers discussing the previous

 Saturday's performance. The headmaster was unable to bring himself to

 take the report seriously. The whole idea was patently preposterous.

 Nevertheless, he knew it was his duty to have a discreet word with Miss

 East, if only to warn her of the revolting little-tattle that was

 circulating.

 He went down to the art room after school, late on Friday afternoon, a

 most inopportune moment. Clare had by this time abandoned all sense of

 discretion, for her it had become almost a self-destructive frenzy. She

 and Sean were in the paint store at the back of the art school, and it

 was some seconds before either of them realized that the headmaster was

 in the room with them: For Shasa everything seemed to happen at once.

 Sean's expulsion from Bishops was a bombshell that ripped through

 Weltevreden.

 When it happened, Shasa was in Johannesburg, and they had to call him

 out of a meeting with the representatives of the Chamber of Mines to

 receive the headmaster's telephone call. On the open line the

 headmaster would give no details, and Shasa flew back to Cape Town

 immediately and drove directly from the airfield to the school.

 Flabbergasted and seething with anger at the stark details the

 headmaster gave him, Shasa sent the Jaguar roaring around the lower

 slopes of Table Mountain towards Weltevreden.

 From the first he had not approved of the woman who Tara had installed

 in the cottage. She was all the things he despised, with her great

 sloppy breasts and silly pretensions which she thought made her

 avant-garde and artistic. Her paintings were atrocious, daubed primary

 colours and childish perspectives, and she tried to conceal her lack of

 talent and taste behind Portuguese cigarettes, sandals and skirts of

 blindingly vivid designs. He decided to deal with her first.

 However, she had fled, leaving the cottage in slovenly disarray.

 Thwarted, Shasa took his anger unabated up to the big house and shouted

 at Tara as he stormed into the hall.

 'Where is the little blighter - I'm going to skin his backside for him."

 The other children, all three of them, were peeking over the railing

 from the second-floor gallery, in a fine fever of vicarious terror.

 Isabella's eyes were as enormous as one of Walt Disney's fawns.

 Shasa saw them and roared up the stair well. 'Back to your own rooms,

 this instant. That goes for you as well, young lady." And they ducked

 and scampered. As an afterthought Shasa bellowed after them, 'And tell

 that brother of yours I want to see him in the gun room immediately."

 The three of them raced each other down the passage of the nursery wing,

 each of them determined to be the bearer of the dreaded summons. The

 gun room was the family equivalent of Tower Green where all executions

 took place.

 Garrick got there first, and pounded on Sean's locked door.

 'Pater wants you immediately,' he yelled.

 '-- in the gun room --' Michael joined in, and Isabella who had been

 left far behind at the start, piped up breathlessly, 'He's going to skin

 your backside!" She was flushed and trembling with eagerness, and she

 hoped desperately that Sean would show her his bottom after Daddy had

 carried out his threat. She couldn't imagine what it would look like,

 and she wondered if Daddy would have the skin made into a floor mat like

 the skins of the zebras and lions in the gun room. It was probably the

 most exciting thing that had ever happened in her life.

 In the entrance hall Tara was attempting to calm Shasa. She had seen

 him in a comparable rage only two or three times during their marriage,

 always when he fancied the family honour or reputation had been

 compromised. Her efforts were in vain, for he turned on her with his

 single eye glittering.

 'Damn you, woman. This is mostly your fault. It was you who insisted

 on bringing that whore to live on Weltevreden." As Shasa stormed off to

 the gun room, his voice carried clearly up the stairwell to where Sean

 was bracing himself to come down and face retribution. Up to that moment

 Sean had been so confused by the speed of events that he hadn't been

 thinking clearly. Now, as he descended the stairs, his mind was racing

 as he prepared his defence.

 He passed his mother, still standing in the middle of the chessboard

 black and white marble squares of the entrance hall floor, and she gave

 him a strained smile of encouragement.

 'I tried to help, darling,' she whispered. They had never been close,

 but now for once Shasa's rage made them allies. 'Thank you, Mater." He

 knocked on the gun-room door, and opened it cautiously when his father

 roared. He closed it carefull37 behind him and advanced to the centre

 of the lion skin where he halted and stood to attention.

 Beatings at Weltevreden followed an established ritual. The riding

 crops were laid out on the baize gun table, five of them of various

 lengths, weights and stinging potential. He knew his father would make

 a show of selecting the correct one for the occasion, and that today it

 would almost certainly be the long whippy whalebone. Involuntarily he

 looked to the over-stuffed leather chair beside the fireplace over which

 he would be asked to drape himself, reaching over to grip the legs of

 the chair on the far side. His father was an international polo player

 with wrists like steel springs, his strokes made even the headmaster's

 seem like a powder puff.

 Then deliberately Sean closed his mind against fear and lifted his chin

 to stare calmly at his father. Shasa was standing in front of the

 fireplace, hands clasped beside his back, rocking on the balls of his

 feet.

 'You have been fired from Bishops,' he said.

 Although the headmaster had not specifically mentioned this fact to Sean

 himself during his extended diatribe, the news did not come as a

 complete surprise. 'Yes, sir,' he said.

 'I find it hard to believe what I have been told about you. It is true

 that you were making a spectacle of yourself with this - this woman?"

 'Yes, sir." 'That you were letting your friends watch you?" 'Yes, sir."

 'And charging them money for the privilege?" 'Yes, sir." 'A pound a

 head?" 'No, sir." 'What do you mean - no sir?" 'Two pounds a head, sir."

 'You are a Courtney - what you do reflects directly on every member of

 this family. Do you realize that?" 'Yes, sir." 'Don't keep saying that.

 In the name of all that is holy, how could you do it?" 'She started it,

 sir. I would have never even thought of it without her." Shasa stared

 at him, and suddenly his rage evaporated. He remembered himself at

 almost exactly the same age, standing chastened before Centaine. She

 had not beaten him, but had sent him to a lysol bath and a humiliating

 medical examination. He remembered the girl, a saucy little harlot only

 a year or two older than he was, with a shock of sun bleached hair and a

 sly smile - and he almost smiled himself. She had teased and provoked

 him, leading him on into folly, and yet he felt a strange nostalgic

 glow. His first real woman - he might forget a hundred others but never

 that one.

 Sean had seen the anger fade out of his father's eye, and sensed that

 now was the moment to exploit the change of mood.

 'I realize that I have brought scandal on the family, and I know that I

 have to take my medicine --' His father would like that, it was one of

 his sayings, 'Take your medicine like a man." He saw the further

 softening of his father's regard. 'I know how stupid I have been, and

 before my punishment I would just like to say how sorry I am that I have

 made you ashamed of me." This was not exactly true, and Sean

 instinctively knew it. His father was angry with him for being caught

 out, but deep down he was rather proud of his eldest son's now proven

 virility.

 'The only excuse I have was that I couldn't help myself. She just drove

 me mad, sir. I couldn't think of anything else but - well, but what she

 wanted me to do with her." Shasa understood entirely. He was still

 having the same sort of problems at nearly forty - what was it that

 Centaine said? 'It's the de Thiry blood, we all have to live with it."

 He coughed softly, moved by his son's honesty and openness. He was such

 a fine-looking boy, straight and tall and strong, so handsome and

 courageous, no wonder the woman had picked on him. He couldn't really

 be bad, Shasa thought, a bit of a devil perhaps, a little too cocksure,

 a little too eager for life - but not really bad. 'I mean, if boffing a

 pretty girl is mortal sin, there is no salvation for any of us,' he

 thought. I'm going to have to beat you, Sean,' he said aloud.

 Yes, sir, I know that." Not a trace of fear, no whining. No, damn it,

 he was a good boy. A son to be proud of.

 Shasa went to the gun table and picked up the long whalebone crop, the

 most formidable weapon in his arsenal, and without being ordered to do

 so, Sean marched to the armchair and adopted the prescribed position.

 The first stroke hissed in the air and cracked against his flesh, then

 suddenly Shasa grunted with disgust and threw the crop on to the gun

 table.

 'The stick is for children - and you are no longer a child,' Shasa said.

 Stand up, man." Sean could hardly believe his luck. Although the single

 stroke had stung like a nest of scorpions, he kept an impassive face and

 made no effort to rub the seat of his pants.

 What are we going to do with you?" his father demanded, and Sean had the

 sense to remain silent.

 'You have to finish matric,' Shasa stated flatly. 'We'll just have to

 find someone else to take you on." This was not as easy as Shasa had

 anticipated. He tried SACS and Rondebosch Boys and then Wynberg Boys.

 The headmasters all knew about Sean Courtney. He was, for a short

 while, the best-known schoolboy in the Cape of Good Hope.

 In the end he was accepted by Costello's Academy, a cram school that

 operated out of a dilapidated Victorian mansion on the other side of

 Rondebosch common, and was not particular about its admissions. Sean

 arrived for th: first day and was gratified to find he was already a

 celebrity. Unlike the exclusive boys school which he had recently left,

 there were girls in the classrooms and academic excellence and moral

 rectitude were not prerequisites for entrance to Costello's Academy.

 Sean had found his spiritual home and he set about sorting out the most

 promising of his.fellov scholars and organizing them into a gang which

 within a year was virtually running the cram school. His final

 selection included a half dozen of the most comely and accommodating

 young ladies on the academy's roll. As both his father and erstwhile

 headmaster had noted, Sean was a born leader.

 Manfred De La Rey stood to attention on the reviewing stand. He wore a

 severe dark pinstripe suit and a black Homburg hat, with a small spray

 of carnations and green fern in his buttonhole. This was the uniform of

 a Nationalist cabinet minister.

 The police band was playing a traditional country air 'Die Kaapse Nooi'-

 'The Cape Town girl', to a lively marching beat and the ranks of the

 police cadets stepped out vigorously, passing the stand with their FN

 rifles at the slope. As each platoon drew level with the dais, they

 gave Manfred the eyes right, and he returned the salute.

 They made a grand show with their smart blue uniforms and sparkling

 brasswork catching the white highveld sunlight. These athletic young

 men, proud and eager, their perfect drill formations, their transparent

 dedication and patriotism filled Manfred De La Rey with a vast sense of

 pride.

 Manfred stood to attention while the formations wheeled past him and

 then formed up in review order on the open parade ground facing the

 stand. The band played a final ruffle of drums and then fell silent.

 Resplendent in full dress uniform and decorations, the police general

 stepped to the microphone and in a few crisp sentences introduced the

 minister, then fell back relinquishing the microphone to Manfred.

 Manfred had taken especial care with the preparation of his speech, but

 before he began he could not prevent himself from glancing aside to

 where Heidi sat in the front row of honoured guests.

 This was her day also, and she looked like a blond Valkyrie, her

 handsome Teutonic features set off by the wide-brimmed hat and its tall

 decoration of artificial roses. Few women would have the presence and

 stature to wear it without looking ridiculous, but on Heidi it was

 magnificent. She caught his eye and smiled at Manfred.

 'What a woman,' he thought. 'She deserves to be First Lady in the land,

 and I will see that she is - one day. Perhaps sooner than she

 imagines." He turned back to the microphone and composed himself. He

 knew that he was a compelling orator, and he enjoyed the fact that

 thousands of eyes were concentrated upon him. He felt at ease up here

 on the dais, relaxed and in total control of himself and those below

 him.

 'You have chosen a life of service to your Volk and to your country,' he

 began. He was speaking in Afrikaans and his reference to the Volk was

 quite natural. The intake of police recruits was almost exclusively

 from the Afrikaner section of the white community. Manfred De La Rey

 would not have had it any other way.

 It was desirable that control of the security forces should be vested

 solidly in the more responsible elements of the nation, those who

 understood most clearly the dangers and threats that faced them i the

 years ahead. Now he began to warn this dedicated body of younl men of

 those dangers.

 'It will require all our courage and fortitude to resist the dari forces

 which are arrayed against us. We must thank our Maker, th Lord God of

 our fathers, that in the covenant he made with ou ancestors on the

 battlefield of Blood river he has guaranteed us hi protection and

 guidance. It needs only that we remain constant and true, trusting him,

 worshipping him, for the way always to be mad smooth for our feet to

 follow." He ended his address with the act of faith that had lifted the

 Afrikaner out of poverty and oppression to his rightful place in the

 land: Believe in your God.

 Believe in your Volk.

 Believe in yourself.

 His voice, magnified a hundred times, boomed across the parade ground,

 and he truly felt the divine and benevolent presence very close to him

 as he looked out upon their shining faces.

 Now came the presentation. Out on the field there were shouted orders

 and the blue ranks came to attention. A pair of offic, e ste17pci

 forvard to flank Manfred and one of them carried a velvetlined tray on

 which were laid out the medals and awards.

 Reading from the list in his hands the second officer called the

 recipients forward. One at a time they left the ranks, marching

 briskly, to halt before the imposing figure of Manfred De La Rey.

 He shook hands with each of them, and then pinned the medals upon their

 chests.

 Then came the moment, and Manfred felt his pride suffocating him. The

 last of the award-winners was marching towards him across the parade

 ground, and this dne was the tallest and smartest and straightest of

 them all. In the front rank of guests, Heidi was weeping silently with

 joy, and she dabbed unashamedly at her tears with a lace handkerchiefi

 Lothar De La Rey came to a halt in front of his father and stood to

 rigid attention. Neither of them smiled, their expressions were stern;

 they stared into each other's eyes, but between them flowed such a

 current of feeling that made words or smiles redundant.

 With an effort Manfred broke that silent rapport, and turned to the

 police colonel beside him. He offered the sword to Manfred, and the

 engraved scabbard glistened in silver and gold as Manfred took it from

 him and turned back to his son.

 'The sword of honour,' he said. 'May you wear it with distinction,' and

 he stepped up to Lothar and attached the beautiful weapon to the

 blanched belt at his son's waist. They shook hands, both of them solemn

 still, but the brief grip they exchanged expressed a lifetime of love

 and pride and filial duty.

 They stood to attention, holding the salute, as the band played the

 national anthem: From the blue of our heavens From the depths of our

 seasAnd then the parade was breaking up, and young men were swarming

 forward to find their families in the throng, and there were excited

 female cries and laughter and long fervent embraces as they met.

 Lothar De La Rey stood between his parents, with the sword hanging at

 his side, and while he shook the hands of an endless procession of

 well-wishers and made modest responses to their fulsome congratulations,

 neither Manfred nor Heidi could any longer contain their proud and happy

 smiles.

 'Well done, Lothie!" One of Lothar's fellow cadets got through to him at

 last, and the two lads grinned as they shook hands. 'No doubt about who

 was the best man." 'I was lucky,' Lothat laughed self-deprecatingly, and

 changed the subject. 'Have you been told your posting yet, Hannes?"

 'Ja, man. I'm being sent down to Natal, somewhere on the coast.

 How about you, perhaps we'll be together?" 'No such luck,' Lothar shook

 his head. 'They are sending me to some little station in the black

 townships near Vereeniging - a place called Sharpeville." 'Sharpeville?

 Bad luck, man." Hannes shook his head with mock sympathy. 'I've never

 heard of it." 'Nor had I. Nobody has ever heard of it,' said Lothar

 with resignation. 'And nobody ever will." On 24 August 1958 the prime

 minister, Johannes Gerhardus Strijdom, 'Lion of the Waterberg',

 succumbed to heart disease. He had only been at the head of government

 for four years, but his passing left a wide gap in the granite cliffs of

 Afrikanerdom, and like termites whose nest has been damaged, they rushed

 to repair it.

 Within hours of the announcement of the prime minister's death, Manfred

 De La Rey was in Shasa's office, accompanied by two of the senior Cape

 back-benchers of the National Party.

 'We have to try and keep the northerners out,' he announced bluntly. 'We

 have to get our man in." Shasa nodded cautiously. He was still regarded

 by most of the party as an outsider in the cabinet. His influence in

 the coming election of a new leader would not be decisive, but he was

 ready to watch and learn as Manfred laid out their strategy for him.

 'They have already made Verwoerd their candidate,' he said. 'All right,

 he has been in the Senate most of his career and has little experience

 as an MP, but his reputation is that of a strong man and a clever one.

 They like the way he has handled the blacks. He has made the name

 Verwoerd and the word apartheid mean the same thing. The people know

 that under him there will be no mixing of races, that South Africa will

 always belong to the white man." 'Ja,' agreed one of the others. 'But

 he is so brutal. There are ways of doing things, ways of saying things

 that don't offend people. Our own man is strong also. Dnges introduced

 the Group Areas Bill and the Separate Representation of Voters bill -

 nobody can accuse him of being a kafferboetie, a nigger-lover. But he's

 got more style, more finesse." 'The northerners don't want finesse. They

 don't want a genteel prime minister with sweet lips, they want a man of

 power, and Verwoerd is a talker, hell that man can talk and he's not

 afraid of work - and as we all know, anybody whom the English press

 hates so much can't be all bad." They laughed, watching Shasa, waiting

 to see how he would take it. He was still an outsider, their tame

 rooinek, and he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing their

 raillery score. He smiled easily.

 'Verwoerd is canny as an old bull baboon, and quick as a mamba.

 We'll have to work hard if we are to keep him out,' Shasa agreed.

 They worked hard, all of them. Shasa was convinced that despite his

 record of introducing racially inspired legislation to the House, D6nges

 was the most moderate and altruistic of the three men who allowed

 themselves to be persuaded to stand as candidates for the highest office

 in the land.

 As Dr Hendrik Verwoerd himself said, as he accepted nomination, 'When a

 man receives a desperate call from his people, he does not have the

 right to refuse." On 2 September 1958, the caucus of the National Party

 met to choose the new leader. The caucus was made up of 178 Nationalist

 members of parliament and Nationalist senators voting together, and

 Verwoerd's short term in parliament that had seemed at first to be a

 weakness, turned out to be an advantage. For years Hendrik Verwoerd had

 been the leader of the Senate, and had dominated the upper house by the

 strength of his personality and the powers of his oratory. The

 senators, docile and compliant, men whose ranks had been enlarged to

 enable the governing party to force through distasteful legislation,

 voted for Verwoerd as a block.

 D6nges survived the first ballot in which 'Blackie' Swart, the Free

 State's candidate, was eliminated, but on the second ballot, a straight

 contest between Verwoerd and D6nges, the northerners closed their ranks

 and swept Verwoerd into the premiership by ninety-eight votes to

 seventy-five.

 That evening when, as prime minister, Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd broadcast

 to the nation, he did not try to conceal the fact that his election had

 been the will of Almighty God. 'He it is who has ordained that I should

 lead the people of South Africa in this new period of their lives."

 Blaine and Centaine had driven across from Rhodes Hill. It was a family

 tradition to gather in this room to listen to important broadcasts. Here

 they had heard speeches and announcements that had shifted the world

 they knew on its axis: declarations of war and peace, the news of the

 evil mushroom clouds planted in the skies above Japanese cities, the

 death of kings and beloved rulers, the accession of a queen, to all

 these and others they had listened together in the blue drawing-room of

 Weltevreden.

 Now they sat quietly as the high-pitched, nervously strained but

 articulate voice of the new prime minister came to them, jarring when he

 repeated platitudes and well-worn themes.

 'No one need doubt for a single moment that it will always be my aim to

 uphold the democratic instutitions of our country, for they are the most

 treasured possessions of western civilization,' Verwoerd told them, 'and

 the right of people with other convictions to express their views will

 be maintained." 'Just as long as those views are passed by the

 government board of censors, the synod of the Dutch Reformed Church and

 the caucus of the National Party,' Blaine murmured, a sarcastic

 qualification for him, and Centaine nudged him.

 'Do be quiet, Blaine, I want to listen." Verwoerd had moved on to

 another familiar subject, how the country's enemies had deliberately

 misconstrued his racial policies. It was not he who had coined the word

 apartheid, but other dedicated and brilliant minds had foreseen the

 necessity of allowing all the races of a complicated and fragmented

 society to develop towards their own separate potential. 'As the

 minister of Bantu affairs, since 1950 it has been my duty to give

 cohesion and substance to this policy, the only policy which will allow

 full opportunity for each and every group within its own racial

 community. In the years ahead, we will not deviate one inch from this

 course." Tara had been tapping her foot restlessly as she listened, but

 now she sprang to her feet. Tm sorry,' she blurted. 'I'm feeling a

 little queasy. I must get a breath of fresh air on the terrace --' and

 she hurried from the room. Centaine glanced sharply at Shasa, but he

 smiled and shrugged, was about to make a light comment, when the voice

 on the radio riveted them all once more.

 'I come now to one of the most, if not the most sacred ideal of our

 people,' the high-pitched voice filled the room, 'and that is the

 formation of the Republic. I know how many of the English-speaking

 South Africans listening to me tonight are filled with a sense of

 loyalty to the British Crown. I know also that this divided loyalty has

 prevented them from always dealing with the real issues on their merits.

 The ideal of monarchy has too often been a divisive factor in our midst,

 separating Afrikaners and English-speakers when they should have been

 united. In a decolonizing world, the black.man and his newly fledged

 nations are beginning to emerge as a threat to the South Africa we know

 and love. Afrikaner and Englishman can no longer afford to stand apart,

 but must now link arms as allies, secure and strong in the ideal of a

 new white republic." 'My God,' Blaine breathed, 'that's a new line. It

 used always to be the Afrikaner Republic exclusively, and nobody took it

 seriously, least of all the Afrikaners. But this time he is serious,

 and he has started something that is going to raise a stink. I remember

 all too well the controversy over the flag, back in the 1920s. That

 will seem like a love feast compared to the idea of a republic --' he

 broke off to listen as Verwoerd ended: 'Thus I give you my assurance

 that from now on the sacred ideal of Republic will be passionately

 pursued." When the prime minister finished speaking, Shasa crossed the

 room and switched off the radio; then he turned and stood with his hands

 thrust deeply into his pockets, and his shoulders hunched as he studied

 their faces. They were all of them subdued and shaken.

 For one hundred and fifty years the country had been British, and there

 was a pride and a vast sense of security in that state. Now it was to

 change, and they were afraid. Even Shasa felt strangely bereft and

 uncertain.

 'He doesn't mean it. It's just another sop for his own people. They are

 always ranting about the republic,' Centaine said hopefully, but Blaine

 shook his head.

 'We don't know this man very well yet. We only know what he wrote when

 he was editor of Transvaler, and we know with what vigour and

 determination he has set about segregating our society.

 There is one other thing we have learned about him. He is a man who

 means exactly what he says, and who will let nothing stand in his way."

 He reached across and took Centaine's hand. 'No, my heart. You are

 wrong. He means it." They both looked up at Shasa, and Centaine asked

 for both of them, 'What will you do, chbri?" 'I am not sure that I will

 have any choice. They say he brooks no opposition, and I opposed him. I

 lobbied for D6nges. I may not be on the list when he announces his

 cabinet on Monday." 'It will be hard to move to the back bench again,'

 Blaine remarked.

 'Too hard,' Shasa nodded. 'And I will not do it." 'Oh chbri,' Centaine

 cried. 'You would not resign your seat - after all we have sacrificed,

 after all our hard work and hopes." 'We'll know on Monday,' Shasa

 shrugged, trying not to let them see how bitterly disappointed he was.

 He had held true power for too short a time, just long enough to learn

 to enjoy the taste of it.

 He knew, furthermore, that there was so much he had to offer his

 country, so many of his efforts almost ready for harvesting. It would

 be hard to watch them wither and die with his own ambitions, before he

 had even tasted the first sweets, but Verwoerd would sack him from his

 cabinet. He could not doubt it for a moment.

 '"If you can meet with triumph and disaster",' Centaine quoted, and then

 laughed gaily, with only the barest tremor in it. 'Now, chri, let's

 open a bottle of champagne. It's the only way to treat those two

 impostors of Kipling's." Shasa entered his office in the House, and

 looked around it regretfully. It had been his for five years, and now

 he would have to pack up his books and paintings and furniture; the

 panelling and carpeting he would leave as a gift to the nation. He had

 hoped to make a larger bequest than that, and he grimaced and went to

 sit behind his desk for the last time and try to assess where he had

 erred and what he could have done if he had been allowed. The telephone

 on his desk rang, and he picked it up before his secretary in the outer

 office could reach it.

 'This is the prime minister's secretary,' the voice told him, and for a

 moment he thought of the dead man and not his successor.

 'The prime minister would like to see you as soon as is convenient." 'I

 will come right away, of course,' Shasa replied, and as he replaced the

 receiver he thought, 'So he personally wants to have the pleasure of

 chopping me down." Verwoerd kept him waiting only ten minutes and then

 rose from behind his desk to apologize as Shasa entered his office.

 'Forgive me. It has been a busy day,' and Shasa smiled at the

 understatement.

 His smile was not forced, for Verwoerd was displaying all his enormous

 charm, his voice soft and lulling, unlike the higher harsher tone of his

 public utterances, and he actually came around the desk and took Shasa's

 arm in an avuncular grip. 'But, of course, I had to speak to you, as I

 have spoken to all the members of my new cabinet." Shasa started so that

 he pulled his arm out of the other man's grip, and the.

 y turned to face each other.

 'I am keeping the portfolio of Mines and Industry open, and of course

 there is no man better qualified for the job than you. I have liked

 your presentations to the old cabinet. You know what you are talking

 about." 'I cannot pretend not to be surprised, Prime Minister,' Shasa

 told him quietly, and Verwoerd chuckled.

 'It is good to be unpredictable at times." 'Why?" Shasa asked. 'Why me?"

 Verwoerd cocked his head on the side, a characteristic gesture of

 interrogation, but Shasa insisted, 'I know you value straight talk,

 Prime Minister, so I will say it. You have no reason to like me or to

 consider me an ally." 'That is true,' Verwoerd agreed. 'But I don't need

 sycophants. I have enough of those already. What I have considered is

 that the job you are doing is vital to the eventual well-being of our

 land, and that there is no one who could do it better. I am sure we

 will learn to work together." 'Is that all, Prime Minister?" 'You have

 mentioned that I like to talk straight. Very well, that is not all. You

 probably heard me begin my premiership with an appeal for a drawing

 together of the two sections of our white population, an appeal to Boer

 and Briton to forget old worn-out antipathy and side by side to build

 the Republic. How would it look if with the next breath I fired the

 only Englishman in my government?" They both laughed, and then Shasa

 shook his head. 'On the matter of the Republic I will oppose you,' he

 warned, and for a moment saw through a chink the cold and monolithic ego

 of a man who would never bow to the contrary view, and then the chink

 was closed and Verwoerd chuckled.

 'Then I will have to convince you that you are wrong. In the meantime

 you will be my conscience - what is the name of the character in the

 Disney story?" 'Which one?" 'The story of the puppet - Pinocchio, is it?

 What was the name of the cricket?" 'Jimmy Cricket,' Shasa told him.

 'Yes, in the meantime you will be my Jimmy Cricket. Do you accept the

 task?" 'We both know it is my duty, Prime Minister." As Shasa said it,

 he thought cynically, 'Isn't it remarkable that once ambition has

 dictated, duty so readily concurs?" They were dining out that night, but

 Shasa went to Tara's room to tell her the news as soon as he had

 dressed.

 She watched him in the mirror as he explained his reasons for accepting

 the appointment. Her expression was solemn but her voice had a brittle

 edge of contempt in it as she said, 'I am delighted for you. I know that

 is what you want, and I know that you will be so busy you will not even

 notice that I am gone." 'GoneT he demanded.

 'Our bargain, Shasa. We agreed that I could go away for a while when I

 felt the need. Of course, I will return - that was also part of our

 bargain." He looked relieved. 'Where will you go - and for how long?"

 'London,' she replied. 'And I should be away several months. I want to

 attend a course on archaeology at London University." She tried to hide

 it from him, but she was wildly, deliriously excited. She had only

 heard from Molly that afternoon, just after the new cabinet had been

 announced. Molly had a message. Moses had at last sent for her, and

 she had already booked passage for Benjamin, Miriam and herself on the

 Pendennis Castle to Southampton. She would take the child to meet his

 father.

 The mailship sailing was an exciting event in which the citizens of the

 mother city, of whatever station in life, could join gaily. The deck

 was crowded and noisy. Paper streamers joined the tall ship to the

 quayside with a web of colour that fluttered in the south-easter.

 A coon band on the dock vied with the ship's band high up on the

 promenade deck, and the old Cape favourite 'Alabama' was answered by

 'God be with you till we meet again'.

 Shasa was not there. He had flown up to Walvis Bay to deal with some

 unforeseen problem at the canning factory. Nor was Sean, he was writing

 exams at Costello's Academy, but Blaine and Centaine brought the other

 three children down to the docks to see Tara off on her voyage.

 They stood in a small family group, surrounded by the crowd, each of

 them holding a paper streamer and waving up at Tara on the first class

 'A' deck. As the gap between the quay and the ship's side opened, the

 foghorns boomed, and the paper streamers parted and floated down to

 settle on the dark waters of the inner harbour. The tugs pushed the

 great bows around, until they lined up with the harbour entrance and

 under the stern the gigantic propeller choppe, the water into foam and

 drove her out into Table Bay.

 Tara ran lightly up the companionway to her stateroom. She had

 protested only mildly when Shasa had insisted that she cancel he

 original bookings in tourist and travel first class. 'My dear, there

 or, bound to be people we know on board. What would they think o my

 wife travelling steerage?" 'Not steerage, Shasa - tourist." 'Everything

 below "A" deck is steerage,' he had replied, and nov she was glad of his

 snobbery for the stateroom was a private place where she could have Ben

 all to herself. It would have excited curl.

 osity if she had been seen with a coloured child on the public deck As

 Shasa had pointed out, there were watching eyes on board and the reports

 would have flown back to Shasa like homing pigeons.

 However, Miriam Afrika had good-naturedly agreed to wear a servant's

 livery and to act out the subterfuge of being Tara's maid during the

 voyage. Her husband had reluctantly let her go with Tara to England,

 despite the disruption to his own household. Tara had compensated him

 generously and Miriam had come aboard with the child registered as her

 own.

 Tara hardly left her stateroom during the entire voyage, declining the

 captain's offer to join his table and shunning the cocktail parties and

 fancy-dress dance. She never tired of being with Moses' son, her love

 was a hunger that could never be appeased and even when, exhausted by

 her attentions, Benjamin fell asleep in his cot, Tara hovered over him

 constantly. 'I love you,' she whispered to him, 'best in the world

 after your Daddy,' and she did not think of the other children, not even

 Michael. She ordered all their meals to be sent up to her suite, and

 ate with Benjamin, almost jealously taking over his care from Miriam.

 Only late at night with the greatest reluctance did she let her carry

 the child away to the tourist cabin on the deck below.

 x The days sped by swiftly and, at last, holding Benjamin's hand she

 stepped off the gangplank to the'boat train in Southampton docks for the

 ride up to London.

 Again at Shasa's insistence, she had taken the suite at the Dorchester

 overlooking the park that the family always used, with a single room at

 the back for Miriam and the baby for which she requested a separate bill

 and paid in cash out of her own pocket so that Shasa would have no

 record of it on her bank statement.

 There was a message from Moses waiting for her at the porter's desk when

 she registered. She recognized the handwriting. She opened the

 envelope the moment she entered the suite, and felt the cold slide of

 disappointment. He wrote very formally: Dear Tara, I am sorry I was not

 able to meet you. However, it is necessary for me to attend important

 talks in Amsterdam with our friends. I will contact you immediately on

 my return.

 Yours sincerely, Moses Gama.

 She was thrown into black despair by the tone of the letter and the

 dashing of her expectations. Without Miriam and the child she would

 have despaired. However, they passed the waiting days in the parks and

 zoos, and in long walks along the river bank and through London's

 fascinating alleys and convoluted streets. She shopped for Benjamin at

 Marks & Spencer and C & A, avoiding Harrods and Self ridges, for those

 were Shasa's haunts.

 Tara registered at the university for the course in African archaeology.

 She did not trust Shasa not to check that she had done so.

 In accordance with Shasa's other expectations she even dressed in her

 most demure twin set and pearls and took a cab up to Trafalgar Square to

 make a courtesy call on the high commissioner at South Africa House. She

 could not avoid his invitation to lunch and had to show a bright face

 during a meal whose menu and wine-list and fellow guests could have been

 taken straight from a similar gathering at Weltevreden.

 She listened to the editor of the Daily Telegraph, who sat beside her,

 but kept glancing out of the windows at Nelson's tall column, and longed

 to be free as the cloud of pigeons that circled it. Her duty done, she

 escaped at last, only just in time to get back to the Dorchester and

 give Ben his bath.

 She had bought him a plastic tugboat at Hamley's toy shop which was a

 great success, and Ben sat in the bath and chuckled with delight as the

 tugboat circled him.

 Tara was laughing and drying her hands when Miriam came through from the

 lounge to the bathroom. 'There is somebody to see you, Tara." 'Who is

 it?" Tara demanded without rising from where she knelt beside the bath.

 'He wouldn't give his name? Miriam kept a straight face. 'I will

 finish bathing Ben." Tara hesitated, she did not want to waste a minute

 away from her son. 'Oh all right,' she agreed, and with the towel in

 her hand she went through to the lounge, and stopped abruptly in the

 doorway.

 The shock was so intense that her face drained of blood and she swayed

 giddily and had to snatch at the door jamb to steady herself.

 'Moses,' she whispered, staring at him.

 He wore a long tan-coloured trenchcoat, and the epauletted shoulders

 were spattered with rain drops. The coat seemed to accentuate his

 height and the breadth of his shoulders. She had forgotten the grandeur

 of his presence. He did not smile, but regarded her with that steady

 heart-checking stare of his.

 'Moses,' she said again, and took a faltering step towards him.

 'Oh God, you'll never know how slowly the years have passed since last I

 saw you." 'Tara." His voice thrilled every fibre of her being. 'My

 wife,' and he held out his arms to her.

 She flew to him and he enfolded her and held her close. She pressed her

 face to his chest and clung to him, inhaling the rich masculine smell of

 his body, as warm and exciting as the herby smell of the African

 noonday. For many seconds neither of them moved or spoke except for the

 involuntary tremors that shook Tara's body and the little moaning sound

 she made in her throat.

 Then gently he held her off and took her face between his hands and

 lifted it to look into her eyes.

 'I have thought about you every day,' he said, and suddenly she was

 weeping. The tears streamed down her cheeks, and into the corners of

 her mouth, so that when he kissed her, their metallic salt mingled with

 the slick taste of his saliva.

 Miriam brought Benjamin out to them, clean and dry and dressed in his

 new blue pyjamas. He regarded his father solemnly.

 'I greet you, my son,' Moses whispered. 'May you grow as strong and

 beautiful as the land of your birth,' and Tara thought that her heart

 might stop with the pride and sheer joy of seeing them together for the

 first time.

 Though the colour of their skins differed, Benjamin was caramel and

 chocolate cream while Moses was amber and African bronze, Tara could see

 the resemblance in the shape of their heads and the set of jaw and brow.

 They had the same wide-spaced eyes, the same noses and lips, and to her

 they were the two most beautiful beings in her existence.

 Tara kept the suite at the Dorchester, for she knew that Shasa would

 contact her there and that any invitations from South Africa House or

 correspondence from the university would be addressed to her at the

 hotel. But she moved into Moses' flat off the Bayswater Road.

 The flat belonged to the Ethiopian emperor, and was kept for the use of

 his diplomatic staff. However, Haile Selassie had placed it at Moses

 Gama's disposal for as 10ng as he needed it. It was a large rambling

 apartment, with dark rooms and a strange mixture of furnishings,

 well-worn Western sofas and easy chairs, with handwoven woollen

 Ethiopian rugs and wall hangings. The ornaments were African artefacts,

 carved ebony statuettes, crossed two-handed broadswords, bronze Somali

 shields and Coptic Christian crosses and icons, in native silver studded

 with semi-precious stones.

 They slept on the floor, in the African manner, on thin hard mattresses

 filled with coir. Moses even used a small wooden head stool as a

 pillow, though Tara could not accustom herself to it. Benjamin slept

 with Miriam in the bedroom at the end of the passage.

 Love-making was as naturally part of Moses Gama's life as eating or

 drinking or sleeping, and yet his skills and his consideration of her

 needs were an endless source of wonder and delight to her. She wanted

 more than anything else in life to bear him another child.

 She tried consciously to open the mouth of her womb, willing it to

 expand like a flower bud to accept his seed, and long after he had

 fallen asleep she lay with her thighs tightly crossed and her knees

 raised so as not to spill a precious drop, imagining herself a sponge

 for him, or a bellows to draw his substance up deeply into herselfi Yet

 the times they were alone were far too short for Tara, and it irked her

 that the flat seemed always filled with strangers. She hated to share

 Moses with them, wanting him all for herself. He understood this, and

 when she had been churlish and sulky in the presence of others, he

 reminded her sternly.

 'I am the struggle, Tara. Nothing, nobody, comes ahead of that.

 Not even my own longings, not my life itself can come before my duty to

 the cause. If you take me, then you make that same sacrifice." To

 moderate the severity of his words, he lifted her in his arms and

 carried her to the mattress, and made love to her until she sobbed and

 rolled her head from side to side, delirious with the power and wonder

 of it, and then he told her, 'You have as much of me as any person will

 ever have. Accept that without complaint, and be grateful for it, for

 we never know when one of us may be called to sacrifice it all. Live

 now, Tara, live for our love this day, for there may never be a

 tomorrow." 'Forgive me, Moses,' she whispered. 'I have been so small

 and petty. I will not disappoint you again." So she put aside her

 jealousy and joined in his work, and looked upon the men and women who

 came to the Bayswater Road no longer as strangers and interlopers, but

 as comrades - part of their life and the struggle. Then she could

 realize what a fascinating slice of humanity they represented. Most of

 them were Africans, tall Kikuyus from Kenya, Jomo Kenyatta's young men,

 the warriors of Mau Mau, once even the little man with a great heart and

 brain, Hastings Banda, spent an evening with them. There were Shonas

 and Shangaans from Rhodesia, Xhosas and Zulus from her own South Africa

 and even a few of Moses' own tribe from Ovamboland.

 They had formed a fledgling freedom association which they called South

 West African Peoples' Organization, and they wanted Moses' patronage,

 which he gave them willingly. Tara found it difficult to think of Moses

 as belonging to a single tribe, all of Africa was his fief, he spoke

 most of their separate languages and understood their specific fears and

 aspirations. If ever the word 'African' described one man, that man was

 Moses Gama.

 There were others who came to the flat in Bayswater Road; Hindus and

 Moslems and men of the north lands, from Ethiopia and Sudan and

 Mediterranean Africa, some of them still living under colonial tyranny,

 others newly liberated and eager to help their suffering fellow

 Africans.

 There were white men and women also, speaking in the accents of

 Liverpool and the north country, of the coal mines or the mills; and

 other white men and women whose English was halting and laboured, but

 whose hearts were fierce, patriots from Poland and East Germany and the

 Soviet bloc, some from Mother Russia herselfi All had a common love of

 freedom and hatred of the oppressor.

 From the unlimited letter of credit that Shasa had given her to his

 London bank, Tara filled the flat with good food and liquor, taking a

 vindictive pleasure in paying out Shasa's money for the very best fillet

 steak and choice lamb, for turbot and sole and lobster.

 For the first time she derived pleasure from ordering Burgundies and

 clarets of the best vintages and noblest estates, about which she had

 listened to Shasa lecturing his dinner guests so pompously. She laughed

 delightedly when she watched the enemies of all Shasa stood for, the

 ones called the 'bringers of darkness', quaffing his wines as though

 they were Coca-Cola.

 She had not prepared food fol- a long time, the chef at Weltevreden

 would have been mortified if she had attempted to do so, and now she

 enjoyed working with some of the other women in the kitchen.

 The Hindu wives showed her how to make wondrous curries and the Arab

 women prepared lamb in a dozen exciting ways, so that every meal was a

 feast and an adventure. From the impecunious students to the heads of

 revolutionary governments and the leaders in exile of captive nations,

 they came to talk and plan, to eat and drink and exchange ideas even

 more heady than the wines that Tara poured for them.

 Always Moses Gama was at the centre of the excitement. His vast

 brooding presence seemed to inspire and direct their energies, and Tara

 realized that he was making bonds, forging loyalties and friendships to

 carry the struggle onwards to the next plateau. She was immensely proud

 of him, and humbly proud of her own small part in the grand enterprise.

 For the very first time in her life she felt useful and important. Until

 the present time she had spent her life in trivial and meaningless

 activity. By making her a part of his work, Moses had made her a whole

 person at last. Impossible as it seemed, during those enchanted months

 her love for him was multiplied a hundredfold.

 Sometimes they travelled together, when Moses was invited to speak to

 some important group, or to meet representatives of a foreign power.

 They went to Sheffield and Oxford to address elements from opposite ends

 of the political spectrum, the British Communist Party and the

 association of Conservative students. One weekend they flew to Paris to

 meet with officials from the French directorate of foreign affairs and a

 month later they even went to Moscow together. Tara travelled on her

 British passport and spent the days sightseeing with her Russian

 Intourist guide while Moses was closeted in secret talks in the offices

 of the fourth directorate overlooking the Gorky Prospekt.

 When they returned to London, Moses and some of his exiled fellow South

 Africans organized a protest rally in Trafalgar Square directly opposite

 the imposing edifice of South Africa House, with its frieze of animal

 head sculptures and colonnaded front entrance.

 Tara could not join the demonstration, tFor Moses warned her that they

 would be photographed with telescopic lenses from the building, and

 forbade her to expose herself to the racist agents. She was far too

 valuable to the cause. Instead she struck upon a delightfully ironic

 twist, and telephoned the high commissioner. He invited her to lunch

 again. She watched from his own office, sitting in one of his easy

 chairs in the magnificent stinkwood-panelled room, while below her in

 the square Moses stood beneath a banner 'Apartheid is a crime against

 Humanity' and made a speech to five hundred demonstrators. Her only

 regret was that the wind and the traffic prevented her hearing his

 words. He repeated them to her that evening as they lay together on the

 hard mattress on the floor of their bedroom, and she thrilled to every

 single world.

 One lovely English spring morning they walked arm in arm through Hyde

 Park, and Benjamin threw crumbs to the ducks in the Serpentine.

 They watched the riders in Rotten Row, and admired the show of spring

 blooms in the gardens as they passed them on their way up to Speakers'

 Corner.

 On the lawns the holiday crowds were taking advantage of the

 unseasonable sunshine, and many of the men were shirtless while the

 girls had pulled their skirts high on their thighs as they lolled on the

 grass. The lovers were entwined shamelessly, and Moses frowned.

 Public displays of this kind offended his African morality.

 As they arrived at Speakers' Corner, they passed the militant

 homosexuals and Irish Republicans on their upturned milk crates and went

 to join the group of black speakers. Moses was instantly recognized, he

 had become a well-known figure in these circles, and half a dozen men

 and women hurried to meet him, all of them were coloured South African

 expatriates, and all of them were eager to give him the news.

 'They have acquitted them --' 'They have set them all free --' 'Nokwe,

 Makgatho, Nelson Mandela - they are all free!" 'Judge Rumpff found every

 one of them not guilty of treason --' Moses Gama stopped dead in his

 tracks and glowered at them as they surrounded him, dancing joyfully,

 and laughing in the pale English sunlight, these sons and daughters of

 Africa.

 'I do not believe it,' Moses snarled angrily, and somebody shoved a

 crumpled copy of the Observer at him. 'Here! Read it! It's true."

 Moses snatched the newspaper from him. He read swiftly, scanning the

 front-page article. His face was set and bleak, and then abruptly he

 thrust the paper into his pocket and shouldered his way out of the

 group. He strode away down the tarmac pathway, a tall brooding figure

 and Tara had to run with Benjamin to catch up with him.

 'Moses, wait for us." He did not even glance at her, but his fury was

 evident in the set of his shoulders and the fixed snarl on his lips.

 'What is it, Moses, what has made you so angry? We should rejoice that

 our friends are free. Please speak to me, Moses." 'Don't you

 understand?" he demanded. 'Are you so witless that you do not see what

 has happened?" 'I don't - I'm sorry --' 'They have come out of this with

 enormous prestige, especially Mandela. I had thought that he would

 spend the rest of his life in prison, or better still, that they would

 have dropped him through the trap of the gallows." 'Moses!" Tara was

 shocked. 'How can you speak like that? Nelson Mandela is your

 comrade." 'Nelson Mandela is my rival to the death,' he told her flatly.

 'There can only be one ruler in South Africa, either him or me." 'I did

 not understand." 'You understand very little, woman. It is not

 necessary that you should. All you must learn to do is obey me." She

 annoyed and irritated him with her perpetual moods and jealousies. He

 found it more difficult each day to accept her cloying adoration. Her

 soft pale flesh had begun to revolt him and each time it took more of an

 effort to feign passion. He longed for the day that he could be rid of

 her - but that day was not yet.

 'I am sorry, Moses, if I have been stupid and made you angry." They

 walked on in silence, but when they came back to the Serpentine, Tara

 asked diffidently, 'What will you do now?" 'I have to lay claim to my

 rightful place as the leader of the people.

 I cannot allow Mandela to have a clear field." 'What will you do?" she

 repeated.

 'I must go back - back to South Africa." 'Oh, no!" she gasped. 'You

 cannot do that. It is too dangerous, Moses. They will seize you the

 minute you set foot on South African soil." 'No,' he shook his head.

 'Not if I have your help. I will remain underground, but I will need

 you." 'Of course. Whatever you want - but, my darling, what will you

 hope to achieve by taking such a dreadful risk?" With an effort he put

 aside his anger, and looked down at her.

 'Do you remember where we first met, the first time we spoke to each

 other?" 'In the corridors of the houses of parliament,' she answered

 promptly. 'I will never forget." He nodded. 'You asked me what I was

 doing there, and I replied that I would tell you one day. This is the

 day." He spoke for another hour, softly, persuasively, and as she

 listened her emotions rose and fell, alternating between a fierce joy

 and a pervading dread.

 'Will you help me?" he asked at the end.

 'Oh, I am so afraid for you." 'Will you do it?" 'There is nothing I can

 deny you,' she whispered. 'Nothing." A week later Tara telephoned

 Centaine at Rhodes Hill and was surprised by the clarity of the

 connection. She spoke to each of the children in turn. Sean was

 monosyllabic and seemed relieved to surrender the telephone to Garry,

 who was solemn and pedantic, in his first year at business school. It

 was like talking to a little old man, and Garry's single topic of

 original news was the fact that his father had at last allowed him to

 start work part-time, as an office boy at Courtney Mining and Finance.

 'Pater is paying me two pounds ten shillings a day,' he announced

 proudly. 'And soon I an to have my own office with my name on the

 door." When his turn came to speak to her, Michael read her a poem o his

 own, about the sea and the gulls. It was really very good, so he

 enthusiasm was genuine. 'I love you so much,' he whispered. 'Pleas

 come home soon." Isabella was petulant. 'What present are you going to

 brin me?" she demanded. 'Daddy bought me a gold locket with a real

 diamond --' and Tara was guiltily relieved when her daughter passed the

 telephone back to Centaine.

 'Don't worry about Bella,' Centaine soothed her. 'We've had a little

 confrontation and mademoiselle's feathers are a wee bit ruffled." 'I

 want to buy a coming-home present for Shasa,' Tara told her. 'I have

 found the most gorgeous medieval altar that has been converted into a

 chest. I thought it would be just perfect for his cabinet office at the

 House. Won't you measure the length of the wall on the right of his

 desk, under the Pierneef paintings - I want to be certain it will fit in

 there." Centaine sounded a little puzzled. It was unusual for Tara to

 show any interest in antique furniture. 'Of course, I will measure it

 for you,' she agreed dubiously. 'But remember Shasa has very

 conservative tastes - I wouldn't choose anything too - ah --' she

 hesitated delicately, not wanting to denigrate her daughter-in-law's

 taste, 'too obvious or flamboyant." Tll phone you tomorrow evening."

 Tara did not acknowledge the advice. 'You can read me the measurements

 then." Two days later Moses accompanied her when she returned to the

 antique dealer in Kensington High Street. Together they made meticulous

 measurements of both the exterior and interior of the altar. It was

 truly a splendid piece of work. The lid was inlaid with mosaic of

 semi-precious stones while effigies of the apostles guarded the four

 corners. They were carved in iyory and rare woods and decorated with

 gold leaf. The panels depicted scenes of Christ's agony, from the

 scourging to the crucifixion. Only after careful examination did Moses

 nod with satisfaction.

 'Yes, it will do very well." Tara gave the dealer a bank draft for six

 thousand pounds.

 'Price is Shasa's yardstick of artistic value,' she explained to Moses

 while they waited for his friends to come and collect the piece. 'At six

 thousand pounds he won't be able to refuse to have it in his office."

 The dealer was reluctant to hand the chest over to the three young black

 men who arrived in an old van in response to Moses' summons.

 'It is a very agile piece of craftsmanship,' he protested. 'I would

 feel a lot happier if you entrusted the packing and shipping to a firm

 of experts. I can recommend --' 'Please don't worry,' Tara reassured

 him. 'I accept full responsibility from now on." 'It's such a beautiful

 thing,' the dealer said. 'I would simply curl up and die if it were

 even scratched." He wrung his hands piteously as they carried it out and

 loaded it into the back of the van. A week later Tara flew back to Cape

 Town.

 The day after the crate cleared Customs in Cape Town docks, Tara held a

 small, but select, surprise party in Shasa's cabinet office to present

 him with her gift. The prime minister was unable to attend, but three

 cabinet ministers came and with Blaine and Centaine and a dozen others

 crowded into Shasa's suite to drink Bollinger champagne and admire the

 gift.

 Tara had removed the rosewood Georgian sofa table that had previously

 stood against the panelled wall, and replaced it with the chest. Shasa

 had some idea of what was in store. Centaine had dropped a discreet

 hint, and of course the charge had appeared on his latest statement from

 Lloyds Bank.

 'Six thousand pounds!" Shasa had been appalled. 'That's the price of a

 new Rolls." What on earth was the damned woman thinking of?

 It was ridiculous buying him extravagant gifts for which he paid

 himself; knowing Tara's tastes, he dreaded his first view of it.

 It was covered by a Venetian lace cloth when Shasa entered his office,

 and he eyed it apprehensively as Tara said a few pretty words about how

 much she owed him, what a fine and generous husband and what a good

 father he was to her children.

 Ceremoniously Tara lifted the lace cloth off the chest and there was an

 involuntary gasp of admiration from everyone in the room.

 The ivory figurines had mellowed to a soft buttery yellow and the gold

 leaf had the royal patina of age upon it. They crowded closer to

 examine it, and Shasa felt his unreasonable antipathy towards the gift

 cool swiftly. He would never have guessed that Tara could show such

 taste. Instead of the garish monstrosity he had expected, this was a

 truly great work of art, and if his instinct was correct, which it

 almost always was, it was also a first-class investment.

 'I do hope you like it?" Tara asked him with unusual timidity.

 'It's magnificent,' he told her heartily.

 'You don't think it should be under the window?" 'I like it very well

 just where you put it,' he answered her, and then dropped his voice so

 nobody else could overhear. 'Sometimes you surprise me, my dear. I'm

 truly very touched by your thoughtfulness." 'You too were kind and

 thoughtful to let me go to London,' sl replied.

 'I could skip the meeting this afternoon and get home early th evening,'

 he suggested, glancing down at her bosom.

 'Oh, I wouldn't want you to do that,' she answered quickly, su prised by

 her own physical revulsion at the idea. 'I-am certain to t exhausted by

 this afternoon. It's such a strain --' 'So our bargain still stands -

 to the letter?" he asked.

 'I think that it is wiser that way,' she told him. 'Don't you?" Moses

 flew from London directly to Delhi, and had a series c friendly meetings

 with Indira Gandhi, the president of the India Congress Party. She gave

 Moses the warmest encouragement an, promises of help and recognition.

 At Bombay he went on board a Liberian-registered tramp steame with a

 Polish captain. Moses signed on as a deckhand for the voyag, to Loureno

 Marques in Portuguese Mozambique. The tramp caller in at Victoria in

 the Seychelles Islands to discharge a cargo of rict and then sailed

 direct for Africa.

 In the harbour of Lourengo Marques Moses said goodbye to th jovial

 Polish skipper and slipped ashore in the company of fiv members of the

 crew who were bound for the notorious red-lighl area of the seaport. His

 contact was waiting for him in a dingy nighl club. The man was a senior

 member of the underground freedom organization which was just beginning

 its armed struggle against Portuguese colonial rule.

 They ate the huge juicy Mozambique prawns for which the club was famous,

 and drank the tart green wine of Portugal while they discussed the

 advancement of the struggle and promised each other the support and

 assistance of comrades.

 When they had eaten, the agent nodded to one of the bar girls and she

 came to the table and after a few minutes of arch conversation took

 Moses' hand and led him through the rear door of the bar to her room at

 the end of the yard.

 The agent joined them there after a few minutes and while the girl kept

 watch at the door, to warn them of a surprise raid by the colonial

 police, the man handed Moses the travel documents he had prepared for

 him, a small bundle of second-hand clothing, and sufficient escudos to

 see him across the border and as far as the Witwatersrand gold-mines.

 The next afternoon Moses joined a group of a hundred or more labourers

 at the railway station. Mozambique was an important source of labour

 for the gold-mines, and the wages earned by her citizens made a large

 contribution to the economy. Authentically dressed and in possession of

 genuine papers, Moses was indistinguishable from any other in the

 shuffling line of workers and he went aboard the third-class railway

 coach without even a glance from the uninterested white Portuguese

 official.

 They left the coast in the late afternoon, climbed out of the muggy

 tropical heat and entered the hilly forests of the lowveld to approach

 the border post of Komatipoort early the following morning. As the coach

 rumbled slowly over the low iron bridge, it seemed to Moses that they

 were crossing not a river but a great ocean. He was filled with a

 strange blend of dismay and joy, of dread and anticipation.

 He was coming home - and yet home was a prison for him and his people.

 It was strange to hear Afrikaans spoken again, guttural and harsh, but

 made even more ugly to Moses' ear because it was the language of

 oppression. The officials here were not the indolent and slovenly

 Portuguese. Dauntingly brisk and efficient, they examined his papers

 with sharp eyes, and questioned him brusquely in that hated language.

 However, Moses had already masked himself in the protective veneer of

 the African. His face was expressionless and his eyes blank, just a

 black face among millions of black faces, and they passed him through.

 Swart Hendrick did not recognize him when he slouched into the general

 dealer's store in Drake's Farm township. He was dressed in ill-fitting

 hand-me-downs and wore an old golfing cap pulled down over his eyes.

 Only when he straightened up to his full height and lifted the cap did

 Swart Hendrick start and exclaim in amazement, then seized his arm and,

 casting nervous glances over his shoulder, hustled his brother through

 into the little cubicle at the back of the store that he used as an

 office.

 'They are watching this place,' he whispered agitatedly 'Is your head

 full of fever, that you walk in here in plain daylight?" Only when they

 were safely in the locked office and he had recovered from the shock,

 did he embrace Moses. 'A part of my heart has been missing, but isnow

 restored." He shouted over the rhino board partition wall of his office,

 'Raleigh, come here immediately, boy!" and his son came to peer in

 astonishment at his famous uncle and then kneel before him, lift one of

 Moses's feet and place it on his own head in the obeisance to a great

 chief. Smiling, Moses lifted him to his feet and embraced him,

 questioned him about his schooling and his studies and then let him

 respond to Swart Hendrick's order.

 'Go to your mother. Tell her to prepare food. A whole chicken and

 plenty of maize meal porridge, and a gallon of strong tea will plenty of

 sugar. Your uncle is hungry." They stayed locked in Swart Hendrick's

 office until late that night for there was much to discuss. Swart

 Hendrick made a full report o all their business enterprises, the state

 of the secret mineworkers union, the organization of their Buffaloes,

 and then gave him all th news of their family and close friends.

 When at last they left the office, and crossed to Swart Hendrick',

 house, he took Moses' arm and led him to the small bedroom whicl was

 always ready for his visits, and as he Opened the door, Victoria rose

 from the low bed on which she had been sitting patiently.

 She came to him and, as the child had done, prostrated herself in fronl

 of him and placed his foot upon her head.

 'You are my sun,' she whispered. 'Since you went away I have been in

 darkness." 'I sent one of the Buffaloes to fetch her from the hospital,'

 Swart Hendrick explained.

 'You did the right thing." Moses stooped and lifted the Zulu girl to her

 feet, and she hung her head shyly.

 "We will talk again in the morning." Swart Hendrick closed the door

 quietly and Moses placed his forefinger under Vicky's chin and lifted it

 so he could look at her face.

 She was even more beautiful than he remembered, an African madonna with

 a face like a dark moon. For a moment he thought of the woman he had

 left in London, and his senses cringed as he compared her humid white

 flesh, soft as putty, to this girl's glossy hide, firm and cool as

 polished onyx. His nostrils flared to her spicy African musk, so

 different from the other woman's thin sour odour which she tried to

 disguise with flowery perfumes. When Vicky looked up at him and smiled,

 the whites of her eyes and her perfect 'teeth were luminous and ivory

 bright in her lovely dark face.

 When they had purged their airst passion, they lay under the thick

 kaross of hyrax skins and talked the rest of the night away.

 He listened to her boast of her exploits in his absence. She had

 marched to Pretoria with the other women to deliver a petition to the

 new minister of Bantu affairs, who had replaced Dr Verwoerd when he had

 become prime minister.

 The march had never reached the Union Buildings. The police had

 intercepted it, and arrested the organizers. She had spent three days

 and nights in prison, and she related her humiliations with such humour,

 giggling as she repeated the Alice in Wonderland exchanges between the

 magistrate and herself, that Moses chuckled with her. In the end. the

 charges of attending an unlawful assembly and ' ' incitement to public

 violence had been dropped, and Vicky and the other women had been

 released.

 'But I am a battle-trained warrior now,' she laughed. 'I have bloodied

 my spear, like the Zulus of old King Chaka." 'I am proud of you,' he

 told her. 'But the true battle is only just beginning --' and he told

 her a small part of what lay ahead for all of them, and in the yellow

 flickering light of the lantern, she watched his face avidly and her

 eyes shone.

 Before they at last drifted off into sleep, the false dawn was framing

 the single small window, and Vicky murmured with her lips against his

 naked chest, 'How long will you stay this time, my lord?" 'Not as long

 as I wish I could." He stayed on three more days at Drake's Farm, and

 Vicky was with him every night.

 Many visitors came when they heard that Moses Gama had returned and most

 of them were the fierce younger men of Urnkhonto we Sizwe, the Spear of

 the Nation, the warriors eager for action.

 Some of the older men of the Congress who came to talk with Moses left

 disturbed by what they had heard and even Swart Hendrick was worried.

 His brother had changed. He could not readily tell in what way he had

 changed, but the difference was there. Moses was more impatient and

 restless. The mundane details of business, and the day-to-day running

 of the Buffaloes and the trade union committees no longer seemed to hold

 his attention.

 'It is as though he has fastened his eyes upon a distant hilltop, and

 cannot see anything in between. He speaks only of strange men in

 distant lands and what do they think or say that concerns us here?" he

 grumbled to the twins' mother, his only real confidante. 'He is

 scornful of the money we have made and saved, and says that after the

 revolution money will have no value. That everything will belong to the

 people --' Swart Hendrick broke off to think for a moment of his stores

 and his shebeens, the bakeries and herds of cattle in the reservations

 which belonged to him, the money in the post office savings book and in

 the white man's bank, and the cash that he kept hidden in many secret

 places - some of it even buried under the floor upon which he now sat

 and drank the good beer brewed by his favourite wife. 'I am not sure

 that I wish all things to belong to the people,' he muttered

 thoughtfully.

 'The people are cattle, lazy and stupid, what have they done to deserve

 the things for which I have worked so-long and hard?" 'Perhaps it is a

 fever. Perhaps your great brother has a worm in his bowel,' his

 favourite wife suggested. 'I will make a muti for him that will clear

 his guts and his skull." Swart Hendrick shook his head sadly. He was

 not at all certain that even one of his wife's devastating laxatives

 would drive the dark schemes from his brother's head.

 !iiz Of course, long ago he had talked and dreamed strange and wi things

 with his brother. Moses had been young and that was the w of young men,

 but now the frosts of wisdom were upon Hendrick head, and his belly was

 round and full, and he had many sons or herds of cattle. He had not

 truly thought about it before, but he was a man contented. True he was

 not free - but then he was not su what free really meant. He loved and

 feared his brother very muc] but he was not sure that he wanted to risk

 all he had for a word uncertain meaning.

 'We must burn down and destroy the whole monstrous system his brother

 said, but it occurred to Swart Hendrick that in tl: burning down might

 be included his stores and bakeries.

 'We must goad the land, we must make it wild and ungovernabh like a

 great stallion, so that the oppressor is hurled to earth from il back,'

 his brother said, but Hendrick had an uncomfortable irnag of himself and

 his cosy existence taking that same painful toss.

 'The rage of the people is a beautiful and sacred thing, we must le it

 run free,' Moses said, and Hendrick thought of the people runnin freely

 through his well-stocked premises. He had also witnessed th rage of the

 people in Durban during the Zulu rioting, and the vet first concern of

 every man had been to provide himself with a the suit of clothing and a

 radio from the looted Indian stores.

 'The police are the enemies of the people, they too will perish i the

 flames,' Moses said, and Hendrick remembered that when the faction

 fighting between the Zulus and the Xhosas had swept throughout Drake's

 Farm the previous November, it was the police who hat separated them and

 prevented many more than forty dead. They hoc also saved his stores

 from being looted in the uproar. Now Hendrick wondered just who would

 prevent them killing each other after the police had been burned, and

 just what day-to-day existence would be like in the townships when each

 man made his own laws.

 Iffowever, Swart Hendrick was ashamed of his treacherous reliet when

 three days later Moses left Drake's Farm, and moved to the house at

 Rivonia. Indeed it was Swart Hendrick who had gently pointed out to his

 brother the danger of remaining when almost everybody in the township

 knew he had returned, and all day long there was a crowd of idlers in

 the street hoping for a glimpse of Moses Gama, the beloved leader. It

 was only a matter of time before the police heard about it through their

 informers.

 The young warriors of Umkhonto we Sizwe willingly acted as Moses' scouts

 in the weeks that followed. They arranged the meetings, the small

 clandestine gatherings of the most fierce and bloody-minded amongst

 their own ranks. After Moses had spoken to them, the smouldering

 resentments which they felt towards the conservative and pacific

 leadership of the Congress was ready to burst into open rebellion.

 Moses sought out and talked with some of the older members of Congress

 who, despite their age, were radical and impatient. He met secretly

 with the cell leaders of his own Buffaloes without the knowledge of

 Hendrick Tabaka for he had sensed the change in his brother, the cooling

 of his political passions which had never boiled at the same white heat

 as Moses' own. For the first time in all the years he no longer trusted

 him entirely. Like an axe too long in use, Hendrick had lost the keen

 bright edge, and Moses knew that he must find another sharper weapon to

 replace him.

 'The young ones must carry the battle forward,' he told Vicky Dinizulu.

 'Raleigh, and yes, you also, Vicky. The struggle is passing into your

 hands." At each meeting he listened as long as he spoke, picking up the

 subtle shifts in the balance of power which had taken place in the years

 that he had been in foreign lands. It was only then that he realized

 how much ground he had lost, how far he had fallen behind Mandela in the

 councils of the African National Congress and the imagination of the

 people.

  

 'It was a serious error on my part to go underground and leave the

 country,' he mused. 'If only I had stayed to take my place in the dock

 beside Mandela and the others --' 'The risk was too great,' Vicky made

 excuse for him. 'If there had been another judgement - if any of the

 Boer judges other than Rumpff had tried them, they might have gone to

 the gallows and if you had gone with them the cause would have died upon

 the rope with all' of you. You cannot die, my husband, for without you

 we are children without a father." Moses growled angrily. 'And yet,

 Mandela stood in the dock and made it a showcase for his own

 personality. Millions who had never heard his name before, saw his face

 daily in their newspapers and his words became part of the language."

 Moses shook his head. 'Simple words: Amandla and Ngawethu, he said, and

 everyone in the land listened." ' 'They know your name also, and your

 words, my lord." Moses glared at her. 'I do not want you to try to

 placate me, woman. We both know that while they were in prison during

 the trial - and I was in exile - they formally handed over the

 leadership to Mandela. Even old Luthuli gave his blessing, and since

 his acquittal Mandela has embarked on a new initiative. I know that he

 !:

 has been travelling around the country, in fifty different disguis

 consolidating that leadership. I must confront him, and wrest t

 leadership back from him very soon, or it will be too late and I be

 forgotten and left behind." 'What will you do, my lord? How will you

 unseat him? He riding high now - what can we do?" 'Mandela has a

 weakness - he is too soft, too placatory towar the Boers. I must

 exploit that eakness. He said it quietly, but the W was such a fierce

 light in his eyes that Victoria shivered involuntaril and then with an

 effort closed her mind against the dark images 1 words had conjured up.

 'He is my husband,' she told herself, fervently. 'He is my lord, or

 whatever he says or does is the truth and the right." The confrontation

 took place in the kitchen at Puck's Hill. Outsic the sky was pregnant

 with leaden thunder clouds, dark as bruis that cast an unnatural gloom

 across the room and Marcus Arche switched on the electric lights that

 hung above the long table in thei pseudo-antique brass fittings.

 The thunder crashed like artillery and rolled heavily back and fort]

 through the heavens. Outside the lightning flared in brilliant

 crackling white light and the rain poured from the eaves in a rippling

 silve curtain across the windows. They raised their voices against

 tumult uous nature so they were shouting at each other. They were the

 higt command of Umkhonto we Sizwe, twelve men in all, all of then black

 except Joe Cicero and Marcus Archer - but only two of theft counted,

 Moses Gama and Nelson Mandela. All the others wer silent, relegated to

 the role of observers, while these two, like dominant black-maned lions,

 battled for the leadership of the pride.

 'If I accept what you prolose,' Nelson Mandela was standing, leaning

 forward with clenched fists on the table top, 'we will forfeit the

 sympathy of the world." 'You have already accepted the principle of

 armed revolt that I have urged upon you all these years." Moses leaned

 back in the wooden kitchen chair, balancing on its two back legs with

 his arms folded across his chest. 'You have resisted my call to battle,

 and instead you have wasted our strength in feeble demonstrations of

 defiance which the Boers crush down contemptuously." 'Our campaigns have

 united the people,' Mandela cried. He had grown a short dark beard

 since Moses had last seen him. It gave him the air of a true

 revolutionary, and Moses admitted to himself that Mandela was a

 fine-looking man, tall and strong and brimming with confidence, a

 formidable adversary.

 'They have also given you a good look at the inside of the white man's

 gaol,' Moses told him contemptuously. 'The time for those childish

 games has passed. It is time to strike ferociously at the enemy's

 heart." 'You know we have agreed." Mandela was still standing. 'You know

 we have reluctantly agreed to the use of force --' Now Moses leapt to

 his feet so violently that his chair was flung crashing against the wall

 behind him.

 'Reluctantly!" He leaned across the table until his eyes were inches

 from Mandela's dark eyes. 'Yes, you are as reluctant as an old woman

 and timid as a virgin. What kind of violence is this you propose -

 dynamiting a few telegraph poles, blowing up a telephone exchange?"

 Moses's tone was withering with scorn. 'Next you will blow up a public

 shit house and expect the Boers to come cringing to you for terms. You

 are naive, my friend, your eyes are full of stars and your head full of

 sunny dreams. These are hard men you are taking on and there is only

 one way you will get their attention.

 Make them bleed and rub their noses in the blood." 'We will attack only

 inanimate targets,' Mandela said. 'There will be no taking of human

 life. We are not murderers." 'We are warriors." Moses dropped his

 voice, but that did not reduce its power. His words seemed to shimmer

 in the gloomy room.

 'We are fighting for the freedom of our people. We cannot afford the

 scruples with which you seek to shackle us." The younger men at the foot

 of the table stirred with a restless eagerness, and Joe Cicero smiled

 slightly, but his eyes were fathomless and his smile was thin and cruel.

 'Our violent acts should be symbolic,' Mandela tried to explain, but

 Moses rode over him.

 'Symbols! We have no patience with symbolic acts. In Kenya the

 warriors of Mau Mau took the little children of the white settlers and

 held them up by their feet and chopped between their legs with

 razor-sharp pangas and threw the pieces into the pit toilets, and that

 is bringing the whtte men to the conference table. That is the type of

 symbol the white men understand." 'We will never sink to such

 barbarism,' Nelson Mandela said firmly, and Moses leaned even closer to

 him, and their eyes locked.

 As they stared at each other, Moses was thinking swiftly. He had forced

 his opponent to make a stand, to commit himself irrevocably in front of

 the militants on the high command. Word of his refusal to engage in

 unlimited warfare would be swiftly passed to the Youth Leaguers and the

 young hawks, to the Buffaloes and the others who made up the foundation

 of Moses' personal support.

 He would not push Mandela further now, that could only Moses some of his

 gains. He would not give Mandela the opportunity to explain that he

 might be willing to use harder measure: in the future. He had made

 Mandela appear a pacifist in the eye,.

 of the militants, and in contrast had shown them his own fierce heart.

 He drew back disdainfully from Nelson Mandela and he gave soft scornful

 chuckle, as he glanced at the young men at the end all the table and

 shook his head as though he had given up on a dul and stubborn child.

 Then he sat down, crossed his arms over his chest and let his chin sink

 forward on his chest. He took no further part in the conference.

 remaining a massive brooding presence, by his very silence mocking

 Mandela's proposals for limited acts of sabotage on government property.

 He had given them fine words, but Moses Gama knew that they would need

 deeds before they all accepted him as the true leader.

 'I will give them a deed - such a deed that will leave not a doubt in

 their hearts,' he thought, and his expression was grim and determined.

 The motorcycle was a gift from his father. It was a huge Harley

 Davidson with a seat like a cowboy saddle and the gear shift was on the

 side of the silver tank. Sean was not quite sure why Shasa had given it

 to him. His final results at Costello's Academy didn't merit such

 paternal generosity. Perhaps Shasa was relieved that he had managed to

 scrape through at all, and on the other hand perhaps he felt that

 encouragement was what Sean needed now, or again it might merely be an

 expression of Shasa's guilt feelings towards his eldest son. Sean

 didn't care to consider it too closely. It was a magnificent machine,

 all chrome and enamel and red glass diamond reflectors, flamboyant

 enough to catch the eye of any young lady and Sean had wound it up to

 well over the ton on the straight stretch of road beyond the airport.

 Now, however, the engine was burbling softly between his knees, --

 andasthey reac"nd the crest of th'filll he switched off the headlight

 and then as gravity took the heavy machine, he cut the engine. They

 free-wheeled down silently in darkness, and there were no street lights

 in this elegant suburb. The plots of land around each grand home were

 the size of small farms.

 Near the foot of the hill Sean swung the Harley Davidson off the road.

 They bumped through a shallow ditch into a clump of trees.

 They climbed off and Sean pulled the motorcycle up on to its kick stand.

 'Okay?" he asked his companion. Rufus was not one of Sean's friends

 whom he could invite back to Weltevreden to meet the folks.

 Sean had only met him through their mutual love for motorcycles.

 He was smaller than Sean by at least four inches, and at first glance

 appeared to be a skinny runt of a lad with a grey complexion as though

 road grime and sump oil had soaked mt his skin. He had nervously shy

 mannerisms, hanging his head and avoiding eye contact. It had taken some

 time for Sean to realize that Rufus's lean body was sinewy hard, that he

 was as quick and agile as a whippet, and that his whining voice and

 shifty eyes hid a sharp street-wise intelligence and a caustic and

 irreverent wit. It had not taken long after that for him to be promoted

 to the rank of principal lieutenant in Sean's gang.

 Since graduating without particular distinction from Costello's Academy,

 his father had insisted that Sean enter articles with the object of one

 day becoming a member of the Institute of Chartered Accountants. The

 auditors of the Courtney Mining and Finance, Messrs Rifkin and

 Markovitch, had been prevailed upon, not without some misgivings on

 their part, to accept Sean as an articled clerk.

 This employment was not as dreary as Sean had at first imagined.

 He had no compunction in using the family name and his boundless charm

 to work himself into the plummiest audits, preferably of those companies

 which employed a large female staff, and none of the senior partners had

 courage enough to report to Shasa Courtney that his favourite son was on

 a free ride. The Courtney account was worth almost a quarter of a

 million pounds annually.

 Sean was never more than an hour late for work in the morning, his

 hangover or his lack of sleep hidden by gold-framed aviator's glasses

 and his brilliant smile. A little judicious rest during the morning and

 some light banter with the typists and female clerks would set him up

 for a lunch at the Mount Nelson or Kelvin Grove which ended just in time

 for a swift return to the office to hand in an imaginative rep(;rt to

 the senior partner, after which he was free for a game of squash or an

 hour's polo practice at Weltevreden.

 He usually took dinner at home, it was cheaper than eating out, and

 although Shasa added substantially to the miserly salary paid 'by Messrs

 Rifkin and Markovitch, Sean was always in a financial crisis.

 After dinner he was free to shed his dinner jacket and black tie and

 change into a leather cycling jacket and steel-shod boots and then his

 other life beckoned, the life so different from his diurnal existence, a

 life of excitement and danger, full of colourful fascinating beings, of

 eager women and satisfying companions, of deliberate risks a: wild

 adventures - like the one this evening.

 Rufus unzipped his black leather jacket and grinned at hiJ 'Ready,

 willing and able, as the actress said to the bishop." Und the jacket he

 wore a black roll-neck sweater, black trousers and his head a black

 cloth cap.

 They didn't have to discuss what they were about to do. They hi worked

 together on the same kind of job four times already, and the planning

 had been gone over in detail. However, Rufus's gr was pale and tense in

 the starlight beneath the trees. This was the most ambitious project

 yet. Sean felt the delicious blend of fear or excitement like raw

 spirit in his blood tingling and charging him.

 This was what he did it for, this feeling, this indescribable euphor

 with which danger always charged him. This was just the first tick of

 it, it would grow stronger, more possessing, as the danger il creased.

 He often wondered just how high he could go, there mu: be a zenith

 beyond which it was not possible to rise, but unlike tk sexual climax

 which was intense but so fleeting, Sean knew he had not even approached

 the ultimate thrill of danger. He wondered what it would be like,

 killing a man with his bare hands? Killing a woma the same way - but

 doing it as she reached her own climax beneat him? The very idea of

 that always gave him an aching erection, bu until those opportunities

 presented themselves, he would savour th lesser moments such as these.

 'Nail?" Rufus asked, offering him his cigarette tin, but Sean shoal his

 head. He wanted nothing to blunt his enjoyment, not nicotine no

 alcohol, he wanted to experience the utmost enjoyment of every instant

 'Smoke half of it and then follow me,' he ordered, and slipper away

 amongst the trees.

 He followed the footpath along the low bank of the stream an( then

 crossed at a shallow place, stepping lightly over the exposer rocks. The

 high diamond-mesh security fence was on the opposit bank, and he

 squatted below it. He didn't have to wait long. Withir seconds a

 wolflike shape appeared out of the darkness beyond the fence, and the

 moment it saw him the German shepherd rushed all him, hurling itself

 against the heavy-gauge wire fence.

 'Hey, Prince,' Sean said quietly, leaning toward the animal, showing not

 the least sign of fear. 'Come on, boy, you know me." The dog recognized

 him at last. It had only barked once, not creating enough of an uproar

 to alert the household, and now Sean gently pushed his fingers through

 the diamond mesh, talking softly and soothingly. The dog .sniffed his

 hand and its long tail began to wave back and forth in friendly

 salutation. Sean had a way with all living creatures, not only humans.

 The dog licked his fingers.

 Sean whistled softly and Rufus scrambled up the bank behind him.

 Immediately the German shepherd stiflened and the hair on its back came

 erect. It growled throatily and Sean whispered, 'Don't be a fool,

 Prince. Rufus is a friend." it took another five minutes for Sean to

 introduce the two of them, but at last in response to Sean's urging,

 Rufus gingerly put his fingers through the mesh and the dog sniffed them

 carefully and wagged his tail.

 TI1 go over first,' Sean said, and swarmed up the high fence. There were

 three strands of barbed wire at the top, but Sean flicked his body over,

 feet first, arching his back like a gymnast. He dropped lightly to

 earth and the dog rose on its hind legs and placed its front paws on his

 chest. Sean fondled his head holding him while Rufus came over the

 barbed wire with even greater agility than Sean had.

 'Let's go,' Sean whispered, and with the guard dog padding along beside

 them they went up towards the house, crouching as they ran and keeping

 to the shadow of the ornamental shrubs until they flattened against the

 wall, shrinking into the leafy ivy that covered the brickwork.

 The house was a double-storied mansion, almost as imposing as

 Weltevreden. It belonged to another leading Cape family, close friends

 of the Courtneys. Mark Weston had been at school with Shasa and in the

 same engineering class at university. His wife, Marjorie, was a

 contemporary of Tara Courtney's. They had two teenage daughters, the

 elder of which Sean had deprived of her virginity the previous year, and

 then dropped without another phone call.

 The seventeen-year-old child had suffered a nervous breakdown, refusing

 to eat, threatening suicide and weeping endlessly until she had to be

 taken out of school. Marjorie Weston had sent for Sean to try to

 remonstrate with him, and persuade him to let her daughter down gently.

 She had arranged the meeting without her daughter's knowledge, and while

 her husband was on one of his regular business trips to Johannesburg.

 She took Sean to her sewing room on the ground floor and locked the

 door. It was Thursday afternoon, the servants' day off, and her younger

 daughter was at school while the eldest, Veronica, was in her bedroom

 upstairs palely pining.

 Marjorie patted the sofa. 'Please come and sit next to me, Sean." She

 was determined to keep the interview friendly. It was only when he was

 beside her that Marjorie realized how infernally good-looking he was.

 Even more so than his father, and Marjorie had always had a strong fancy

 for Shasa Courtney.

 She found that she was becoming a little breathless as she reasoned with

 Sean, but it was only when she placed her hand on his bare arm and felt

 the elastic muscle under the smooth young skin that she realized what

 was happening.

 Sean had the philanderer's sure and certain instinct, perhaps he had

 inherited it from his father. He hadn't really thought about Veronica's

 mother that way. God! She was as old as his mother.

 However, since Clare East he had always had a taste for older women, and

 Marjorie Weston was slim and athletic from swimming and tennis and

 meticulously tanned to disguise the crow's feet at the corners of her

 eyes and the first signs of craping at her throat; and where Veronica

 was vacuous and simpering, her mother was poised and mature, but with

 the same mauve-blue eyes that had first attracted him to the daughter

 and an even more carefully groomed mane of thick tawny hair.

 As Sean became aware of her excitement, the flush of blood beneath her

 tan, the agitated breathing that made her bosom beneath the angora

 jersey and pearls work like a bellows and the subtle change in her body

 odour that the average male would not have noticed, but which to Sean

 was like an invitation on an embossed card, he found his own arousal was

 spiced by the perversity of the situation.

 'A double,' he thought. 'Mother and daughter - now that's something

 different." He didn't have to plot further, he let his infallible

 instinct guide him.

 'You are much more attractive than your daughters could ever be - the

 main reason I broke off with Ronny was I couldn't bear being near you

 without being able to do this --' and he leaned over her and kissed her

 with an open mouth.

 Marjorie had believed herself to be in complete control of the situation

 right up until the moment she tasted his mouth. Neither of them spoke

 again until he was kneeling in front of her, holding her knees apart

 with both hands, and she was sprawled across the sofa with her pleated

 skirt rucked up around her waist. Then she panted brokenly, 'Oh Christ,

 I can't believe this is happening - I must be crazy." Now she sat at the

 foot of the stairs in her satin bathrobe. She was naked under the robe

 and every few seconds she shivered in a brief spasm. The night was

 warm, and the house was in darkness. The girls were asleep upstairs and

 Mark was away on one of his regular business trips. This was the first

 chance at an assignation there had been in almost two weeks and she was

 shivering with anticipation.

 She had switched off the burglar alarms at nine o'clock as they had

 arranged - Sean was almost half an hour late. Perhaps something had

 happened and he wasn't coming after all. She hugged herself and

 shivered miserably at the thought, then she heard the light tap on the

 glass of the french windows leading on to the swimming-pool patio, and

 she leapt to her feet and raced across the darkened room.

 She found she was panting as she fumbled with the latch.

 Sean stepped into the room and seized her. He was so tall and powerful

 that she turned to putty in his arms. No man had ever kissed her like

 this, so masterfully and yet so skilfully. She sometimes wondered who

 had taught him and then was consumed by jealousy at the thought. Her

 need of him was so intense that waves of giddy vertigo washed over her

 and without his arms to support her she was certain she would have

 sagged to the floor. Then he tugged at the knot that secured the belt

 of her robe. It came undone and he thrust his hand into the opening.

 She shifted her weight, setting her feet wider apart so he could reach

 her more easily, and she gave a stifled gasp as she felt him slip his

 forefinger into her and she pushed hard against his hand.

 'Lovely,' Sean chuckled in her ear. 'Like the Zambezi river in flood."

 'Shh,' she whispered. 'You'll wake the girls." Marjorie liked to think

 of herself as genteel and refined, yet his crude words increased her

 excitation to a fever. 'Lock the door,' she ordered him, her voice

 thick and shaking. 'Let's go upstairs." He released her and turned to

 the door. He pressed it closed until the catch snapped and then turned

 the key and in the same instant reversed the movement, leaving it

 unlocked.

 'All right." He turned back to Marjorie. 'All set." They kissed again,

 and she ran her hands frantically down the front of his body, feeling

 the throbbing hardness through the thin cloth. It was she who broke

 away at last.

 'Oh God, I can't wait any longer." She took his hand and dragged him up

 the marble staircase. The girls' bedrooms were in the east wing and

 Marjorie locked the heavy mahogany door that secured the master suite.

 They were safe from discovery here, and at last she could let herself go

 completely.

 Marjorie We, stan had been married for over twenty years, and she had

 taken about the same number of lovers in that time. Some of them had

 merely been mad one-night frolics, others had been longer more permanent

 liaisons. One had lasted for almost all these twenty years, an erratic

 on-and-off arrangement, passionate interludes interspersed with long

 periods of denial. However, none of her other lovers had been able to

 match this stripling in beauty and performance, in physical endurance

 and in devilish inventiveness, not even Shasa Courtney who was that

 other long-term lover. The son had the same intuitive understanding of

 her needs. He knew when to be rough and cruel and when to be loving and

 gentle, but in other ways he outstripped his father. She had never been

 able to exhaust him or even to force him to falter, and he had a streak

 of genuine brutality and inherent evil in him that could terrify her at

 times. Added to that was the almost incestuous delight of taking the

 son after having had the father.

 Tonight Sean did not disappoint her. While she was driving hard towards

 her first climax of the evening he suddenly reached out to the bedside

 table and lifted the telephone receiver.

 'Ring your husband,' he ordered, and thrust the instrument into her

 hand.

 'God, are you mad!" she gasped. 'What would I say to him?" 'Do it!" he

 said, and she realized that if she refused, he would slap her across the

 face. He had done that before.

 Still holding him between her thighs, she twisted awkwardly and dialled

 the Carlton Hotel in Johannesburg. When the hotel operator answered,

 she said, 'I wish to speak to Mr Mark Weston in Suite 1750." 'You are

 going through,' the operator said, and Mark answered on the third ring.

 'Hello darling,' Marjorie said, and above her Sean began to move again.

 'I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd ring you. Sorry if I woke you." It

 became a contest will Sean trying to force her to gasp or cry out, while

 she attempted to maintain a casual conversation with Mark. When he

 succeeded and she gave a little involuntary squeal, Mark asked sharply,

 'What was that?" 'I made myself a cup of Milo and it was too hot. I

 burned my lip." She could see how it was exciting Sean also. His face

 was no longer beautiful but swollen and flushed so that his features

 seemed coarsened, and in her she felt him swell and harden, filling her

 to bursting point, until she could control herself no longer, and she

 broke off the telephone conversation abruptly. 'Goodnight, Mark, sleep

 well,' and slammed the receiver down on its cradle, just as the first

 scream came bursting up her throat.

 Afterwards they lay still, both of them regaining their breath, but when

 he tried to roll off her she tightened the grip of her legs and held him

 hard. She knew that if she could keep him from sliding out, within

 minutes he would be ready again.

 Outside on the front lawn, the dog barked once. 'Is someone there?" she

 asked.

 'No Prince is just being naughty,' Sean murmured, but he was listening

 intently, even though he knew that Rufus was too good to be heard, and

 they had planned every detail with care. Both he and Rufus knew exactly

 what they were after.

 To commemorate the first month of their affair, Marjorie had bought Sean

 a set of Victorian dress studs and links in platinum and onyx and

 diamonds. She had invited him up to the house on a Thursday afternoon

 and led him through to Mark Weston's panelled study on the ground floor.

 While Sean watched, she checked the combination of the wall safe which

 was discreetly engraved on the corner of the silver-framed photograph of

 herself and the girls on Mark's desk, and then she had swung aside the

 false front of the section of the bookcase that concealed the safe and

 tumbled the combination of the lock.

 She left the safe door ajar when she brought the gift to him. Sean had

 demonstrated his gratitude by pulling her skirts up and her

 peach-coloured satin bloomers down, then sitting her on the edge of her

 husband's desk, he lifted her knees and placed her feet on each corner

 of the leather-bound blotter. Then while he stood in front of her and

 made love to her, he evaluated the contents of the safe over her

 shoulders.

 Sean had heard his father talk about Mark Weston's collection of British

 and South African gold coins. It was apparently one of the ten most

 important in private hands anywhere in the world. In addition to the

 dozen thick leather-bound albums which contained the collection, the

 middle shelf of the safe held the ledgers and cash books for the running

 of the estate and household, and a small gentleman's jewel box, while

 the top shelf was crammed with wads of pristine banknotes still in the

 bank wrappers and a large canvas bag stencilled 'Standard Bank Ltd'

 which obviously contained silver.

 There could not have been less than œ5,000 in notes and coins in the

 safe.

 Sean had explained to Rufus exactly where to look for the safe

 combination, how to open the false front of the bookcase and what to

 expect when he did.

 The knowledge that Rufus was at work downstairs and the danger of

 possible discovery stimulated Sean so that at one point Marjorie

 blurted, 'You aren't human - you are a machine." He left'her at last,

 lying in the big bed like a wax doll that had melted in the sun, her

 limbs soft and plastic, the thick mane of her hair darkened and sodden

 with her own sweat and her mouth smeared out of shape by exhausted

 passions. Her sleep was catatonic.

 Sean was still pent up and excited. He looked into Mark Weston's study

 on the way out. The front of the bookcase was open, the safe door wide,

 the ledgers and cash books tumbled untidily on the floor, and the

 excitement came on him again in a thick musky wave and he found he was

 once more fully tumescent.

 It was dangerous to remain in the house another minute, and the

 knowledge made his arousal unbearable. He looked up the marble

 staircase again and only then did the idea come to him. Veronica's room

 was the second door down the east wing passage. She might scream if he

 woke her suddenly, she might hate him so that she would scream when she

 recognized him, but on the other hand she might not. The risk was

 lunatic, and Sean grinned in the darkness and started back up the marble

 staircase.

 A silver blade of moonlight pierced the curtains and Fell on Veronica's

 pale hair that swirled across the pillow. Sean leaned over her and

 covered her mouth with his hand. She came awake struggling and

 terrified.

 'It's me,' he whispered. 'Don't be afraid, Ronny. It's me." Her

 struggles stilled, the fear faded from her huge mauve eyes, and she

 reached up for him with both arms. He lifted his hand off her mouth and

 she said, 'Oh, Sean, deep down I knew it. I knew you still loved me."

 Rufus was furious. 'I thought you had been caught,' he whined.

 'What happened to you, man?" 'I was doing the hard work." Sean kicked

 the Harley Davidson and it roared into life. As he turned back on to

 the road he felt the weight of the saddle bags pull the machine off

 balance, but he met her easily and straightened up.

 'Slow down, man,' Rufus leaned forward from the pillion to caution him.

 'You'll wake the whole valley." And Sean laughed in the wild rush of

 wind, drunk with excitement, and they went up over the crest at a

 hundred miles an hour.

 Sean parked the Harley Davidson on the Kraaifontein road and they

 scrambled down the bank and squatted in the dry culvert beneath the

 road. By the light of an electric torch they shared the booty.

 'You said there would be five grand,' Rufus whined accusingly.

 'Man, there isn't more than a hundred." 'Old man Weston must have paid

 his slaves." Sean chuckled carelessly as he split the small bundle of

 bank notes, and pushed the larger pile towards Rufus. 'You need it more

 than me, kid." The jewel box contained cuff-links and studs, a diamond

 tie-pin that Sean judged to be fully five carats in weight, masonic

 medallions, Mark Weston's miniature decorations on a bar - he had won an

 M.C. at E1 Alamein and a string of campaign medals - a Pathek Philippe

 dress watch in gold and a handful of other personal items.

 Rufus ran over them with an experienced eye. 'The watch is engraved,

 all the other stuff is too hot to move, too dangerous, man.

 We'll have to dump it." They opened the coin albums. Five of them were

 filled with sovereigns. 'Okay,' Rufus grunted. 'I can move that small

 stuff, but not these. They are red hot, burn your fingers." With scorn

 he discarded the albums of heavy coins, the five-pound and five-guinea

 issues of Victoria and Elizabeth, Charles and the Georges.

 After he dropped Rufus off at the illicit shebeen in the coloured

 District Six where Rufus had parked his own motorcycle, Sean rode out

 alone along the high winding road that skirts the sheer massif of

 Chapman's Peak. He parked the Harley on the edge of the cliff. The

 green Atlantic crashed against the rock five hundred feet below where he

 stood. One at a time Sean hurled the heavy gold coins out over the

 edge. He flicked them underhanded, so that they caught the dawn's

 uncertain light, and then were lost in the shadows of the cliff face as

 they fell, so he could not see them strike the surface of the water far

 below. When the last coin was gone, he tossed the empty albums after

 them and they fluttered as they caught the wind. Then he flung the gold

 wristwatch and the diamond pin out into the void.

 He kept the medals for last. It gave him a vindictive satisfaction to

 have screwed Mark Weston's wife and daughter, and then to throw his

 medals into the sea.

 When he mounted the Harley Davidson and turned it back down the steep

 winding road, he pushed the goggles up on to his forehead and let the

 wind beat into his face and rake his eyes so that the tears streamed

 back across his cheeks. He rode hard, putting the glistening machine

 over as he went into the turns so that the footrest struck a shower of

 sparks from the road surface.

 'Not much profit for a night's work,' he told himself, and the wind tore

 the words from his lips. 'But the thrills, oh, the thrills!" When all

 his best efforts to interest Sean and Michael in the planetary system of

 the Courtney companies had resulted in either lukewarm and devioasly

 feigned enthusiasm or in outright disinterest, Shasa had gone through a

 series of emotions, beginning with puzzlement.

 He tried hard to see how anyone, particularly a young man of superior

 intellect, and even more particularly a son of his, could find the whole

 complex interlinking of wealth and opportunity, of challenge and reward,

 less than fascinating. At first he thought that he was to blame, that

 he had not explained it sufficiently, that he had somehow taken their

 response for granted and had through his own omissions, failed to

 quicken their attention.

 To Shasa it was the very stuff of life itselfi His first waking thought

 each morning and his last before sleep each night, was for the welfare

 and sustenance of the company. So he tried again, more patiently, more

 exhaustively. It was like trying to explain colour to a blind man, and

 from puzzlement Shasa found himself becoming angry.

 'Damn it, Mater,' he exploded, when he and Centaine were alone at her

 favourite place on the hillside above the Atlantic. 'They just don't

 seem to care." 'What about Garry?" Centaine asked quietly.

 'Oh Garry!" Shasa chuckled disparagingly. 'Every time I turn around I

 trip over him. He is like a puppy." 'I see you have given him his own

 office on the third floor,' Centaine observed mildly.

 'The old broom cupboard,' Shasa said. 'It was a joke really, but the

 little blighter took it seriously. I didn't have the heart --' 'He

 takes most things seriously, does young Garrick,' Centaine observed.

 'He's the only one who does. He's quite a deep one." 'Oh, come on,

 Mater! Garry?" 'He and I had a long chat the other day. You should do

 the same, it might surprise you. Did you know that he's in the top

 three in his year?" 'Yes, of course, I knew - but I mean, it's only his

 first year of business administration. One doesn't take that too

 seriously." 'Doesn't one?" Centaine asked innocently, and Shasa was

 unusually silent for the next few minutes.

 The following Friday Shasa looked into the cubbyhole at the end of the

 passage which served as Garry's office when he was temporarily employed

 by Courtney Mining during his college vacations.

 Garry leapt dutifully to his feet when he recognized his father and he

 pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose.

 'Hello, champ, what are you up to?" Shasa asked, glancing down at the

 forms that covered the desk.

 'It's a control,' Garry was caught in a cross-fire - awe at his father's

 sudden interest in what he was doing and desperation to retain his

 attention and to obtain his approval.

 'Did you know that we spent over a hundred pounds on stationery last

 month alone?" He was so anxious to impress his father that he stuttered

 again, something he only did when he was overexcited.

 'Take a deep breath, champ." Shasa eased into the tiny room. There was

 just room for the two of them. 'Speak slowly, and tell me about it."

 One of Garry's official duties was to order and issue the office

 stationery. The shelves behind his desk were filled with sheaves of

 typing paper and boxes of envelopes.

 'According to my estimates we should be able to cut that below eighty

 pounds. We could save twenty pounds a month." 'Show me." Shasa perched

 on the corner of the desk and applied his mind to the problem. He

 treated it with as much respect as if they were discussing the

 development of a new gold-mine.

 'You are quite right,' Shasa approved his figures. 'You have full

 authority to put your new control system into practice." Shasa stood up.

 'Well done,' he said, and Garry glowed with gratification. Shasa turned

 to the door so the lad wouldn't see his expression of amusement, and

 then he paused and looked back.

 'Oh, by the way, I'm flying up to Walvis Bay tomorrow. I'm meeting the

 architects and the engineers on site to discuss the extensions to the

 canning factory. Would you like to come along?" Unable to trust his

 voice lest he stutter again, Garry nodded emphatically.

 Shasa allowed Garry to fly. Garry had been granted his private pilot's

 licence two months previously, but he still needed a few hours for his

 twin-engine endorsement. A year older than Garry, Sean had been given

 his licence immediately he was eligible. Sean flew the way he rode and

 shot, naturally, gracefully, but carelessly. He was one of those pilots

 who flew by the grace of God and the seat of his pants.

 In contrast, Garry was painstaking and meticulous and therefore, Shasa

 admitted grudgingly, the better pilot. Garry filed a flight plan as

 though he was submitting a thesis for his doctorate, and his preflight

 checks went on so long that Shasa squirmed in the right-hand seat and

 only just contained himself from crying out, 'For God's sake, Garry,

 let's get on with it." Yet it was a mark of his trust that he allowed

 Garry to take the controls of the Mosquito at all. Shasa was prepared

 to take over at the first sign of trouble, but he was amply rewarded for

 his forbearance when he saw the sparkle of deep pleasure behind Garry's

 spectacles as he 'handled the lovely machine, lifting her up through the

 silver wreaths of cloud into a blue African sky where Shasa could share

 with him a rare feeling of total accord.

 Once they arrived at Walvis Bay Shasa tended to forget that Garry was

 with him. He had become accustomed to his middle son's close

 attendance, and though he did not really think of it, it was becoming

 familiar and comforting to have him there. Garry seemed to anticipate

 his smallest need, whether it was a light for his cigarette or a piece

 of scrap paper and pencil on which to illustrate an idea to the

 architect. Yet Garry was quiet and unobtrusive, not given to inane

 questions and bumptious or facetious remarks.

 The cannery was fast becoming one of the big winners in the Courtney

 stable of companies. For three seasons they had captured their full

 quota of pilchards, and then there had been an unusual development. In

 a private meeting Manfred De La Rey had suggested to Shasa that if the

 company were to issue a further ten thousand bonus shares in the name of

 a nominee in Pretoria, the consequences might be very much to

 everybody's advantage. Taking Manfred on trust, Shasa had issued the

 shares as suggested, and within two months there had been a review of

 their quota by the government Department of Land and Fisheries and that

 quota had been almost doubled to the two hundred thousand tons of

 pilchard that they were now permitted to capture annually.

 'For three hundred years the Afrikaners have been left out of business,'

 Shasa smiled cynically as he received the glad tidings. 'But they are

 catching on fast. They are in the race now, and not too fussy about how

 they win. The Jews and the English had better look to their business

 laurels, here come the Nats." And he set about planning and financing

 the extension to the cannery.

 It was late afternoon before Shasa finished with the architects, but at

 this season there were still a few hours of daylight remaining.

 'How about a swim at Pelican Point?" Shasa suggested to Garry, and they

 took one of the cannery Land-Rovers and drove along the hard wet sand at

 the edge of the bay. The waters of the bay stank of sulphur and fish

 offal, but behind it the high golden dunes and arid mountains rose in

 desolate grandeur, while out over the protected and silken waters the

 flamingo flocks were such a brilliant pink as to seem improbable and

 theatrical. Shasa drove fast around the curve of the bay with the wind

 ruffling their hair.

 'So what, if anything, did you learn today?" I learned that if you want

 other people to talk too freely, you keep quiet and look sceptical,'

 Garry answered, and Shasa glanced at his son with a startled expression.

 That had always been a deliberate technique of his, but Shasa had never

 expected anyone so young and inexperienced to see through it. 'Without

 saying anything, you made the architect admit that he really hasn't

 worked out a solution to siting the boiler room yet,' Garry went on.

 'And even I could see that his present proposal is an expensive

 compromise." 'Is that so?" It had taken Shasa a full day of discussion

 to reach the same conclusion, but he wasn't going to say so. 'What

 would you do then?" 'I don't know, Pater, not for sure,' Garry said. He

 had a peciantic manner of delivering an opinion which had at first

 irritated Shasa, but which now amused him, particularly as the opinions

 were usually worth listening to. 'But instead of simply sticking on

 another boiler, I would explore the possibility of installing the new

 Patterson process --' 'What do you know about the Patterson process?"

 Shasa demanded sharply. He had only heard about it himself very

 recently. Suddenly Shasa found himself arguing as though with an equal.

 Garry had read all the sales pamphlets and memorized the specifications

 and figures of the process, and had worked out for himself most of the

 advantages and disadvantages over the conventional method of preparation

 and canning.

 They were still arguing as they rounded the sandy horn of the bay, and

 beyond the lighthouse the deserted beach, clean and white, stretched

 away in dwindling perspective to the horizon. Here the Atlantic waters

 were wild and green, cold and clean, foamy and effervescent with the

 rush of the surf.

 They stripped off their clothes and, naked, swam out into the tumultuous

 seas, diving deep beneath each curling wave as it came hissing down upon

 them. At last they emerged, their bodies tinted blue with the cold, but

 laughing breathlessly with exhilaration.

 As they stood beside the Land-Rover and towelled themselves, Shasa

 studied his son frankly. Even though sodden with salt water, Garry's

 hair stuck up in disorderly spikes and without his spectacles he had a

 bemused myopic look. His torso was massively developed, his chest was

 like a pickle barrel and he had grown such a coat of dark body hair that

 it almost obscured the ridges of muscle that covered his belly like

 chain mail.

 'Looking at him, there is no way you would ever suspect that he was a

 Courthey. If I didn't know better, I would think that Tara had a little

 fling on the side." Shasa was certain that Tara might be capable of many

 things, but never infidelity or promiscuity. 'There is nothing about

 him of his ancestry,' he thought, and then looked further and grinned

 suddenly.

 'Well at least, Garry, you have inherited one of the Courthey gifts.

 You've got a-wanger on you that would make old General Courtney himself

 turn in his grave with envy." Hurriedly Garry covered himself with his

 towel and reached into the Land-Rover for his underpants, but secretly

 he was pleased. Up until now he had always regarded that portion of his

 anatomy with suspicion. It seemed to be an alien creature with a will

 and existence of its own, determined to embarrass and humiliate him at

 the most unexpected or inappropriate moments, like that unforgettable

 occasion when he was standing in front of the commerce class at business

 school giving his dissertation and the girls in the front row started

 giggling, or when he was forced to retreat in confusion from the

 typing-pool at Centaine House because of the alien's sudden but very

 apparent interest in the surroundings. However, if his father spoke

 respectfully of it, and the shade of the legendary general approved,

 then. Garry was prepared to reconsider his own relationship with it and

 come to terms.

 They flew on to the H'am Mine the next morning. All three of the boys

 had done their stint at the H'am. As indeed had Shasa so many years

 before, they had been required to work their way through every part of

 the mine's operaton, from the drilling and blasting in the deep

 amphitheatre of the open pit, to the final separation rooms where at

 last the precious crystals were recovered from the crushed blue ground.

 That forced labour had been more than sufficient for both Sean and

 Michael and neither of them had ever shown the least desire to return to

 the H'am Mine again. Garry was the exception, he seemed to have

 developed the same love for these remote wild hills as both Shasa and

 Centaine shared. He asked to accompany his father here whenever Shasa's

 regular inspection tours were scheduled. In a few short years he had

 built up an expert knowledge of the mine's operation, and had at one

 time or another personally performed all of the tasks involved in the

 process of production. So on their last evening at the mine the two of

 them, Shasa and Garry, stood on the brink of the great pit and while the

 sun set over the desert behind them, they stared down into its shadowy

 depths.

 'It's strange to think that it all came out of there,' Garry said

 softly. 'Everything that you and Nana have built up. It makes one feel

 somehow humble, like when I am in church." He was silent for a long

 moment and then went on. 'I love this place. I wish we could stay

 longer." To hear his own feeling echoed like this, moved Shasa deeply.

 Of his three sons, this was the only one who understood, who seemed

 capable of sharing with him the almost religious awe that this massive

 excavation and the wealth it produced evoked in him. This was the

 fountainhead, and only Garry had recognized it.

 He placed his arm around Garry's shoulders and tried to find words, but

 after a moment he simply said, 'I know how you feel, champ. But we have

 to get back home. I have to introduce my budget to the House on

 Monday." It was not what he had wanted to say, but he sensed that Garry

 knew that, and as they picked their way down the rough pathway in the

 dusk, they were closer in spirit than they had ever been.

 The budget for Shasa's ministry of mines and industry had been almost

 doubled this year, and he knew that the opposition were planning to give

 it a rough passage. They had never forgiven him for changing parties.

 So he was on his mettle as he rose to his feet and sought the Speaker's

 recognition, and then instinctively glanced up at the galleries.

 Centaine was in the middle of the front row of the visitors' gallery.

 She was always there when she knew that either Shasa or Blaine was going

 to speak. She wore a small flat hat tilted forward over her eyes with a

 single yellow bird of paradise feather raked back at a jaunty angle, and

 she smiled and nodded encouragement as their eyes met.

 Beside Centaine sat Tara. Now that was unusual. He couldn't remember

 when last she had come to listen to him.

 'Our bargain doesn't include torture by boredom,' she had told him, but

 there she was looking surprisingly elegant in a dainty straw basher with

 a trailing pink ribbon around the crown and elbowlength white gloves.

  

 She touched the brim in a mocking salute, and Shasa lifted an eyebrow at

 her and then turned to the press gallery high above the Speaker's

 throne. The political correspondents from the English-speaking press

 were all there, pencils poised eagerly.

 Shasa was one of their favourite prey, but all their attacks seemed only

 to consolidate his position in the National Party, and by their

 pettiness and subjectivity point up the efficiency and effectiveness

 with which he ran his ministry.

 He loved the rough and tumble of parliamentary debate, and his single

 eye sparkled with battle lust as he took up his familiar slouch, both

 hands in his pockets, and launched into his presentation.

 They were at him immediately, yapping and snapping at his heels,

 interjecting with expressions of disbelief and outrage, calling out

 'Shame on you, sir!" and 'Scandal!" and Shasa's grin infuriated them and

 goaded them to excesses which he brushed aside with casual contempt,

 holding his own easily and then gradually overwhelming them and turning

 their own ridicule back upon them, while around him his colleagues

 grinned with admiration and encouraged his more devastating sallies with

 cries of 'Haar, boot! - Hear, hear!" When the division was called, his

 party backed him solidly, and his budget was approved by the expected

 majority. It was a performance which had enhanced his stature and

 standing. He was no longer the junior member of the cabinet and Dr

 Verwoerd passed him a note.

 'I was right to keep you on the team. Well done." In the front of the

 visitors' gallery Centaine caught his eye, and clasped both hands

 together in a boxer's victory flourish, yet somehow she made the gesture

 appear at once regal and ladylike.

 Shasa's smile faded as he realized that beside her Tara's seat was

 empty, she had left during the debate, and Shasa was surprised by his

 own feeling of disappointment. He would have liked her to witness his

 triumph.

 The House was moving on to other business which did not concern .....

 him 'and on an irdpuFs'e nasa rose and let the chamber. He went up the

 wide staircase and down the long panelled passageway to his office

 suite. As he approached the front entrance to the suite, he checked

 suddenly and again on impulse turned at the corner of the passage and

 went down to the unobtrusive and unmarked doorway at the end.

 This was the back door to his office, a convenient escape route from

 unwanted visitors which had been ordered by old Cecil John Rhodes

 himself as a by-pass of the front waiting-room, a means for special

 visitors to reach him and leave again unobserved. Shasa found it

 equally convenient. The prime minister used it occasionally, as did

 Manfred De La Rey, but the majority of other users were female, and

 their business with Shasa was seldom political.

 Instead of rattling the key in the Yale lock, Shasa slipped it in

 silently and turned it gently, then pushed the door open sharply. On

 the inside the door was artfully blended into the panelling of his

 office and few people knew of its existence.

 Tara was standing with her bhck towards him, bending over the altar

 chest. She did not know the door existed. Except for the gift of the

 chest, she had taken little interest in the decoration and furbishment

 of his office. It was a few seconds before she sensed that she was not

 alone, and then her reaction was extravagant. She jumped back from the

 chest and whirled to face him, and as she recognized Shasa, instead of

 showing relief, she paled with agitation and began to explain

 breathlessly.

 'I was just looking at it - it's such a magnificent piece of work.

  

 Quite beautiful, I had forgotten how beautiful--' One thing Shasa

 realized immediately, she was as guilty as if she had been caught

 red-handed in some dreadful crime, but he could not imagine what had

 made her react that way. She was quite entitled to be in his office,

 she had her own key to the front door, and she had given him the chest -

 she could admire it whenever she chose.

 He remained silent and fastened his eye upon her accusingly, hoping to

 trick her into over-explaining, but she left the chest and moved across

 to the window behind his desk.

 'You were doing very well on the floor,' she said. She was still a

 little breathless, but her colour had returned and she was recovering

 her composure. 'You always put on such a good show." 'Is that why you

 left?" he asked, as he closed the door andspointedly crossed the room to

 the chest.

 'Oh you know how useless I am with figures, you quite lost me towards

 the end." Shasa studied the chest carefully. 'What was she up to."?" he

 asked himself thoughtfully, but he could not see that anything was

 altered.

 The Van Wouw bronze sculpture of the Bushman was still in its place, so

 she could not have opened the lid.

 'It's a marvelous piece,' he sai& and stroked the effigy of St Luke at

 the corner.

 'I had no idea there was a door in the panel." Clearly Tara was trying

 to distract his attention from the chest, and her efforts merely piqued

 his curiosity. 'You gave me quite a turn." Shasa refused to be led and

 ran his fingers over the inlaid lid.

 'I should get Dr Findlay from the National Gallery to have a look at it,

 Shasa mused. 'He's an expert on medieval and Renaissance religious

 art." 'Oh, I promised Tricia I would let her know when you arrived."

 Tara sounded almost desperate. 'She's got an important message for you?

 She crossed quickly to the interleading door and opened it.

 'Tricia, Mr Courtney's here now." Shasa's secretary popped her head into

 the inner office.

 'Do you know a Colonel Louis Nel.?" she asked. 'He's been trying to get

 hold of you all morning." 'Nel?." Shasa was still studying the chest.

 'Nel.9 No, I don't think so." 'He says he knows you, sir. He says you

 worked together during the war?

 'Oh, good Lord, yes!" She had Shasa's full attention now. 'It was so

 long ago - but, yes, I know him well. He wasn't a colonel then." 'He's

 head of CID for the Cape of Good Hope now,' Tricia told him. 'And he

 wants you to telephone him as soon as you can. He says it's very

 urgent, he actually said "life and death"." 'Life and death, hey,' Shasa

 grinned. 'That probably means he wants to borrow money. Get him on the

 blower, please Trish." He went to his desk, sat down and pulled the

 telephone towards him. He motioned Tara towards the couch, but she

 shook her head.

 'I'm meeting Sally and Jenny for lunch,' and she sidled towards the door

 with a relieved expression. But he wasn't looking at her, he was

 staring out of the window over the oaks to the slopes of Signal Hill

 beyond, and he didn't even glance round as she slipped out of the room

 and closed the door quietly behind her.

 Louis Nel's call had transported Shasa back almost twenty years in time.

 'Was it that long ago.9' he wondered. 'Yes, it was. My God, how

 quickly the years have passed." Shasa had been a young squadron leader,

 invalided back from the campaign in Abyssinia where he had lost his eye

 fighting the Duke of Aosta's army on the drive up to Addis Ababa. At a

 loose end, certain that his life was ruined and that he was a cripple

 and a burden on his family and friends, Shasa had gone into seclusion

 and started drinking heavily and letting himself slip into careless

 despondency. It had been Blaine Malcomess who had sought him out and

 given him a scornful and painful tongue-lashing, and then offered him a

 job helping track down and break up the Ossewa Brandwag, the Sentinels

 of the Wagon Train, a secret society of militant nationalist Afrikaners

 who were virulently opposed to FieldMarshal Jan Christian Smuts'

 pro-British war efforts.

 Shasa had worked in cooperation with Louis Nel, establishing the

 identity of the leading members of the pro-Nazi conspiracy and preparing

 the warrants for their arrest and internment. His investigations of the

 Ossewa Brandwag's activities had put him in contact with a mysterious

 informer, a woman who had contacted him only by telephone and who took

 every precaution to conceal her identity. To this day Shasa did not

 know who she had been, or indeed if she were still alive.

 This informer had revealed to him the OB theft of weapons from the

 government arms and munitions factory in Pretoria, and enabled them to

 deal a major blow to the subversive organization. Then the same

 informer had warned Shasa of the White Sword conspiracy.

 This was an audacious plot to assassinate Field-Marshal Smuts, and in

 the ensuing confusion to seize control of the armed forces, declare

 South Africa a republic, and throw in their lot with Adolf Hitler and

 the Axis powers.

 Shasa had been able to foil the plot at the very last minute, but only

 by the most desperate efforts, and at the cost of his own grandfather's

 life. Sir Garrick Courtney had been shot by the assassin in mistaken

 identity, for the old mail had physically resembled his good and dear

 friend, Field-Marshal Smuts.

 Shasa had not thought about those dangerous days for many years.

 Now every detail came back vividly. He lived it all again as he waited

 for the telephone on his desk to ring; the reckless climb up the sheer

 side of Table Mountain as he tried to catch his grandfather and the

 Field-Marshal before they could reach the summit where the killer was

 waiting for them. He recalled his dreadful sense of helplessness as the

 rifle shot crashed and echoed against the rocky clEiffs and he realized

 he was too late, the horror of finding his grandfather lying in the

 track with the ghastly bullet wound which had blown his chest open, and

 the old Field-Marshal kneeling beside him strickon with grief.

 Shasa had chased the killer, using his intimate knowledge of the

 mountain to cut off his retreat against the top of the cliff. They

 fought chest to chest, fought for their very lives. White Sword had

 used his superior strength to break away and escape, but not before

 Shasa had put a bullet from his 6.5 men Beretta into his chest. White

 Sword disappeared and the plot to overthrow Smuts' government collapsed,

 but the killer had never been brought to justice, and Shasa felt once

 again the agony of his grandfather's murder. He had loved the old man

 and named his second son after him.

 The telephone rang at last and Shasa snatched it up.

 'Louis?" he asked.

 'Shasa!" Shasa recognized his voice immediately. 'It's been a long

 time." 'It's good to speak to you." 'Yes, but I wish I was the bearer of

 better news. I'm sorry." 'What is it?" Shasa was immediately serious.

 'Not on the telephone - can you come down to Caledon Square as soon as

 possible?" 'Ten minutes,' Shasa said, and hung up.

 The headquarters of the CID were only a short walk from the House of

 Assembly and he stepped it out briskly. The episode with Tara and the

 chest was put out of his mind as he tried to imagine what bad news Louis

 Nel had for him.

 The sergeant at the front desk had been alerted and he recognized Shasa

 immediately.

 'The colonel is expecting you, Minister. I'll send someone to show you

 up to his office,' and he beckoned one of the uniformed constables.

 Louis Nel was in his shirt-sleeves and he came to the door to welcome

 Shasa and lead him to one of the easy chairs. 'How about a drink?"

 'Still too early for me." Shasa shook his head, but he accepted the

 cigarette Louis offered him.

 The policeman was lean as ever, but he had lost most of his hair and

 what remained was ice white. There were dark pouches beneath his eyes

 and after his welcoming smile his mouth settled back into a thin nervous

 line. He looked like a man who worried a lot, worked too hard and slept

 badly at night. He must be past retirement age, Shasa thought.

 'How's the family - your wife?" Shasa asked. He had met her only once

 or twice and could not remember her name or what she looked like.

 'We were divorced five years ago." 'I'm sorry,' Shasa said, and Louis

 shrugged.

 'It was bad at the time.". Then he leaned forward. 'Your family you

 have three boys and a girl. That's right?" 'Ah! You have been doing a

 police number on me,' Shasa smiled, but Louis did not respond. His

 expression remained serious as he went on.

 'Your eldest son - his name is Sean. That's right, isn't it?" Shasa

 nodded, he was no longer smiling either, and he was seized by a sudden

 presentiment.

 'You want to speak to me about Sean?" he asked softly.

 Louis stood up abruptly and crossed to the window. He was looking down

 into the street as he answered.

 'This is off the record, Shasa. Not the way we usually do things, but

 there are extraordinary factors here. Our past association, your

 present rank --' He turned back from the window. 'In the usual

 circumstances this would probably not have been brought to my notice at

 all, at least not at this stage of the investigation." The word

 'investigation' startled Shasa, and he wanted Louis to give him the bad

 news and get it over with but he controlled his agitation and impatience

 and waited quietly.

 'For some time now we have been troubled by a series of housebreakings

 in the better-class suburbs - you have surely read about them. The

 press are calling the thief the "Cape Raffles"." 'Of course,' Shasa

 nodded. 'Some of my friends, good friends, have been the victims - the

 Simpsons, the Westons. Mark Weston lost his collection of gold coins."

 'And Mrs Simpson lost her emeralds,' Louis Nel agreed. 'Some of those

 emeralds, the earrings, were recovered when we raided a fence in

 District Six. We were acting on a tip-off and we recovered an enormous

 quantity of stolen articles. We arrested the fence - he's a coloured

 chap who was running an electrical business in the front of his premises

 and receiving stolen goods through the back door. We have had him

 locked up for two weeks now, and he is beginning to cooperate. He gave

 us a list or names, and on it was one lovable little rogue named Rufus

 Constantine, ever heard of him?" Shasa shook his head. 'How does this

 link up with my son?" 'I'm coming to that. This Constantine was

 apparently the one who passed the emeralds and some of the other booty.

 We picked him up and brought him in forquestioning. He is a tough

 little monkey, but we found a way to open him up and make him sing to

 us. Unfortunately the tune wasn't very pretty." 'Sean?" Shasa asked,

 and Louis nodded.

 'I'm afraid so. Looks as though he was the leader of an organized

 gang." 'It doesn't make sense. Not Sean." 'Your son has built up quite

 a reputation." 'He was a little wild at one time,' Shasa admitted, 'but

 he is settling down to his articles now, working hard. And why would he

 want to get involved in something like that? I mean, he doesn't need

 the money." 'Articled clerks are not paid a great fortune." 'I give him

 an allowance,' Shasa shook his head again. 'No, I don't believe it.

 What would he know about house-breaking?" 'Oh, no - he doesn't do it

 himself. He sets up the job and Rufus and his henchman do the dirty

 work." 'Sets it up - what do you mean by that?" 'As a son of yours he is

 welcome in any home in the city, that is right, isn't it?" 'I suppose

 so." Shasa was cautious.

 'According to little Rufus, your son studies each prospective victim's

 home, decides on what valuables there are and pinpoints where they are

 kept - strong rooms, hidden drawers, wall safes and that sort of thing.

 Then he begins an affair with one of the family, the mother or a

 daughter, and uses his opportunities to let his accomplice into the home

 while he is entertaining the lady of his choice upstairs." Shasa stared

 at him wordlessly.

 'By all accounts it works very well, and in more than one case the theft

 was not even reported to us - the ladies involved were more concerned

 with their reputations and their husband's wrath than with the loss of

 their jewellery." 'Marge Weston?" Shasa asked. 'She was one of the

 ladies?" 'According to our information - yes, she was." Shasa whispered,

 'The little bastard." He was appalled, and totally convinced. It all

 fitted too neatly not to be true. Marge and Sean, his son and one of

 his mistresses, it was just not to be tolerated. 'This time he has gone

 too far." 'Yes,' Louis agreed. 'Too far by a mile. Even as a first

 offender, he will probably get five or six years." All Shasa's attention

 snapped back to him. The shock to Shasa's pride and sense of propriety

 was such that he had not even begun to consider the legal implications,

 but now his righteous rage was snuffed out at the suggestion of his

 eldest son standing in the dock and being sentenced to long-term

 imprisonment.

 'Have you prepared a docket yet?" he asked. 'Is there a warrant out?"

 'Not yet." Louis was speaking as carefully. 'We were only given this

 information a few hours ago." He crossed to his desk and picked up the

 blue interrogation folder.

 'What can I do?" Shasa asked quietly. 'Is there anything we can do

 'I've done all I can,' Louis answered. 'I've done too much alread, I

 could never justify holding up this information, nor could I justii

 informing you of an investigation in progress. I've already stretche my

 neck way out, Shasa. We go back a long way, and I'll never forget the

 work you did on White Sword - that's the only reason took the chance --'

 he paused to take a deep breath, and Shas sensing there was more to

 come, remained silent. 'There is nothin else I can do. Nothing else

 anyone can do at this level." " ' He place peculiar emphasis on the last

 three words, and then he added seem ir/gly incongruously, 'I'm retiring

 next month, there'll be someore else in this office after that." 'How

 long do I have?" Shasa asked, and he did not have to elabor.

 ate. They understood each other.

 'I can sit on this file for another few hours, until five o'clock today,

 and then the investigation will have to go ahead." Shasa stood up. 'You

 are a good friend." 'I'll walk you down,' Louis said, and they were

 alone in the lift before they spoke again. It had taken Shasa that long

 to master his perturbation.

 'I hadn't thought about White Sword for years,' he changed the subject

 easily. 'Not until today. All that seems so far away and long ago,

 even though it was my own g and father.

 r 'I've never forgotten it,' Louis Nel said softly. 'The man was a

 murderer. If he had succeeded, if you hadn't prevented it, all of us in

 land would be a lot worse off than we are today." th!sI wonder what

 happened to White Sword - who he was and where he is now? Perhaps he is

 long dead, perhaps--' 'I don't think so - there is something that makes

 me doubt it. A few years ago I wanted to go over the White Sword

 file--' The lift stopped at the ground floor and Louis broke off. He

 remained silent as they crossed the lobby and went out into the

 sunlight. On the front steps of the headquarters building, they faced

 each other.

 'Yes?" Shasa asked. 'The file, the White Sword file?" 'There is no

 file,' Louis said softly.

 'I don't understand." 'No file,' Louis repeated. 'Not in police records

 or the Justice Department or the central records. Officially, White

 Sword never existed." Shasa stared at him. 'There must be a file - I

 mean, we worked on it, you and I. It was this thick --' Shasa held his

 thumb and forefinger apart. 'It can't have dsappeared!" 'You can take

 my word for it. It has." Louis held out his hand.

 'Five o'clock,' he said gently. 'No later, but I will be in my office

 all day right up to five, if anyone wanted to telephone me there." Shasa

 took his hand. 'I will never forget this." He glanced at his wristwatch

 as he turned away. It was a few minutes before noon, and most

 fortuitously he had a lunch date with Manfred De La Rey.

 He headed back up Parliament Lane, and the noon-day gun fired just as he

 went in through the main doors. Everybody in the main lobby, including

 the ushers, instinctively checked their watches at the distant clap of

 cannon shot.

 Shasa turned towards the members' dining-room, but he was far too early.

 Except for the white-uniformed waiters, it was deserted. In the

 members' bar he ordered a pink gin and waited impatiently, glancing

 every few seconds at his watch, but his appointment with Manfred was for

 twelve-thirty and it was no good going to search for him. He could be

 anywhere in the huge rambling building, so Shasa employed the time in

 cherishing and fanning his anger.

 'The bastard!" he thought. 'I've allowed him to fool me all these

 years. All the signs were there, but I refused to accept them. He's

 dirty rotten, right to the core --' and then his indignation went off in

 , a new direction. 'Marge Weston is old enough to be his mother, how

 many of my other women has he been boffing? Is nothing sacred to the

 little devil?" Manfred De La Rey was a few minutes early. He came to

 the members' bar smiling and nodding and shaking hands, playing the

 genial politician, so that it took him a few minutes to cross the room.

 Shasa could barely contain his impatience, but he didn't want anyone to

 suspect his agitation.

 Manfred asked for a beer. Shasa had never seen him take hard spirit,

 and only after he had taken his first sip did Shasa tell him quietly,

 'I'm in trouble - serious trouble." Manfred's easy smile never faltered,

 he was too shrewd to betray his emotions to a room full of adversaries

 and potential rivals, but his eyes went cold and pale as those of a

 basilisk.

 'Not here,' he said, and led Shasa through to the men's room.

 They stood shoulder to shoulder at the urinal and Shasa spoke softly but

 urgently, and when he finished, Manfred stood staring at the white

 ceramic through for only a few seconds before he roused himself.

 'What is the number?" Shasa slipped him a card with Louis Nel's

 telephone number at CID headquarters.

 'I'll have to use the security line from my office. Give me fifteen

 minutes. I will meet you back at the bar." Manfred zipped his fly

 closed and strode out of the lavatory.

 He was back in the members' bar within ten minutes, by whic time Shasa

 was entertaining the four other members of the lunct eon party, all of

 them influential back-benchers. When the finished their drinks, Shasa

 suggested, 'Shall we go through?" A they moved towards the dining-room

 Manfred took his upper art in a firm grip, and leaned close to him,

 smiling as though conveying a pleasantry.

 'I've squashed it, but he is to be out of the country within twenty four

 hours, and I don't want him back. Is that a bargain?" 'I am grateful,'

 Shasa nodded, and his anger at his son wa: compounded by this obligation

 that had been forced upon him. I was a debt that he would have to

 repay, with interest.

 Sean's Harley was parked down at the sports hall that Shasa hoc built as

 a joint Christmas present for all three boys two years pre.

 Obviously. It contained a gymnasium and squash court, half Olympic.

 size indoor swimming-pool and change rooms. As Shasa approached.

 he heard the explosive echo of the rubber ball from the courts and he

 went up to the spectators' gallery.

 Sean was playing with one of his cronies. He wore white silk shorts

 but'his chest was bare. There was a white sweat band around his

 forehead, and white tennis shoes on his feet. His body glistened with

 sweat and was tanned to a golden brown. He was impossibly beautiful,

 like a romantic painting of himself, and he moved with the unforced

 grace of a hunting leopard, driving the tiny black ball against the high

 white wall with such deceptive power that it resounded like a fusillade

 of rifle fire as it rebounded. He saw Shasa in the gallery and flashed

 him a dazzle of even white teeth and green eyes, so that despite his

 anger, Shasa suffered a sudden pang at the idea of having to part from

 him.

 In the change room Shasa dismissed his playing partner curtly: 'I want

 to speak to Sean - alone,' and as soon as he was gone he turned on his

 son. 'The police are on to you,' he said. 'They know all about you."

 He waited for a reaction, but he was disappointed.

 Sean towelled his face and neck. 'Sorry, Pater, you've lost me there.

 What is it they know?" He was cool and debonair, and Shasa exploded.

 'Don't play your games with me, young man. What they know can put you

 behind bars for ten years." Sean lowered the towel and stood up from the

 bench. He was serious at last. 'How did they find out?" 'Rufus

 Constantine." 'The little prick. I'll break his neck." He wasn't going

 to deny it and Shasa's last hope that he was innocent faded.

 'I'll break any necks that have to be broken,' Shasa snapped.

 'So what are we going to do?" Sean asked, and Shasa was taken aback by

 his casual assumption.

 'We?" he asked. 'What makes you think that I'm going to save your

 thieving hide?" 'Family honour,' Sean was matter-of-fact. 'You'll never

 let me go to court. The family would be on trial with me - you would

 never allow that." 'That was part of your calculations?" Shasa asked,

 and when Sean shrugged, he added, 'You don't, understand the words

 honour or decency." 'Words,' Sean replied. 'Just words. I prefer

 actions." 'God, ! wish I could prove you wrong,' Shasa whispered. He

 was so furious now that he wanted the satisfaction of physical violence.

 'I wish I could let you rot in some filthy cell." His fists were

 clenched, and before he thought about it, he shifted into balance for

 the first blow, and instantly Sean was on guard, his hands stiffening

 into blades crossed before his chest and his eyes were fierce. Shasa

 had paid hundreds of pounds for his training by the finest instructors

 in Africa, and all of them had at last admitted that Sean was a natural

 fighter and that the pupil in each case outstripped the master.

 Delighted that Sean had at last found something that could hold his

 interest, Shasa had, before Sean began his articles, sent him to Japan

 for three months to study under a master of the martial arts.

 Now as he confronted his son, Shasa was suddenly aware of every one of

 his forty-one years, and that Sean was a man in full physical flower, a

 trained fighter and an athlete in perfect condition. He realized that

 Sean could toy with him and humiliate him, he could even read in Sean's

 expression that he was eager to do so. Shasa stepped back and

 unclenched his fists.

 'Pack your bags,' he said quietly. 'You are leaving and you are not

 coming back." They flew north in the Mosquito, landing only to refuel in

 .Johannesburg and then flying on to Messina on the border with Rhodesia.

 Shasa had a thirty percent shareholding in the copper mine at Messina,

 so when he radioed ahead there was a Ford pickup waiting for him at the

 airstrip.

 Sean tossed his suitcase in the back of the truck and Shasa took the

 wheel. Shasa could have flown across the border to Salisbury or

 Lourenqo Marques, but he wanted the break to be clean and definite.

 Sean crossing a border on foot would be symbolic and salutary. As he

 drove the last few miles through the dry hot bushveld to the bridge over

 the Limpopo river, Sean slumped down in the seat beside him, hands in

 his pockets and one foot up on the dashboard.

 'I've been thinking,' he spoke in pleasant conversational tones.

 'I've been thinking what I should do now, and I have decided to joi] one

 of the safari companies in Rhodesia or Kenya or Mozambique Then when

 I've finished my apprenticeship, I'll apply for a huntinl concession of

 my own. There is a fortune in it and it must be th, best life in the

 world. Imagine hunting every day!" Shasa had determined to remain

 withdrawn and stern, and uI until now he had succeeded in speaking

 barely a word since leavin Cape Town, but at last Sean's total lack of

 remorse and his cheerfull selfish view of the future forced Shasa to

 abandon his good intentions.

 'From what I hear, you wouldn't last a week without a woman,' he

 snapped, and Sean smiled.

 'Don't worry about me, Pater. There will be bags of jig-jig, that's

 part of the perks - the clients are old and rich and they bring their

 daughters or their new young wives with them--' 'My God, Sean, you are

 completely amoral." 'May I take that as a compliment, sir?" 'Your plans

 to apply for your own hunting concession and to run your own safari

 company - what do you intend using in lieu of money?" Sean looked

 puzzled. 'You are one of the richest men in Africa.

 Just think - free hunting whenever you wanted it, Pater. That would be

 part of our deal." Despite himself, Shasa felt a prickle of temptation.

 In fact, he had already considered starting a safari operation and his

 estimates showed that Sean was correct. There was a fortune to be made

 in marketing the African wilderness and its unique wild life. The only

 thing that had prevented him doing it before was that he had never found

 a trustworthy man. who understood the special requirements of a safari

 company to run it for him.

 'Damn it --' he broke off that line of thought, 'I've spawned a devil's

 pup. He could sell a secondhand car to the judge who was passing the

 death sentence on him." He felt his anger softened by reluctant

 admiration, but he spoke grimly. 'You don't seem to understand, Sean.

 This is the end of the road for you and me." As he said it they topped

 the rise. Ahead of them lay the Limpopo river, but despite Mister

 Rudyard Kipling, it was neither grey green nor greasy and there was not

 a single fever tree on either bank. This was the dry season and though

 the river was half a mile wide, the flow was reduced to a thin trickle

 down the centre of the bed. The long low concrete bridge stretched

 northwards crossing the orangecoloured sand and straggly clumps of

 reeds.

 They drove over the bridge in silence and Shasa stopped the pickup at

 the barrier. The border post was a small square building with a

 corrugated-iron roof. Shasa kept the engine of the Ford running.

 Sean climbed out and lifted his suitcase out of the back of the truck,

 then crossed in front of the bonnet and came to Shasa's open window.

 'No, Dad." He leaned into the window. 'You and I will never reach the

 end of the road. I am part of you, and I love you too deeply for that

 ever to happen. You are the only person or thing I have ever loved."

 Shasa studied his face for any trace of insincerity, and when he found

 none, he reached up impulsively and embraced him. He had not meant this

 to happen, had been determined that it would not, but now he found

 himself reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and bringing out

 the thick sheaf of banknotes and letters that he had carried with him,

 despite his best intentions to turn Sean loose without a penny.

 'Here are a couple of pounds to tide you over,' he said, and his voice

 was gruff. 'And there are three letters of introduction to people in

 Salisbury who may be able to help you." Carelessly Sean stuffed them

 into his pocket and picked up his suitcase.

 'Thanks, Pater. I don't deserve it." 'No,' Shasa agreed. 'You don't -

 but don't worry too much about it. There won't be any more. That's it,

 Sean, finished. The first and only insraiment of your inheritance." As

 always Sean's smile was a little miracle. It made Shasa doubt, despite

 all the evidence, that his son was thoroughly bad.

 TI1 write, Pater. You'll see, one day we'll laugh about this - when we

 are together again." Lugging his suitcase Sean passed through the

 barrier, and after he disappeared into the customs hut, Shasa was left

 with an unbearable sense of futility. Was this how it ended after all

 the care and love over all the years?

 Shasa was amused by the ease with which Isabella was able to overcome

 her lisp. Within two weeks of enrolling at Rustenberg Girls' Senior

 School, she was talking, and looking, like a little lady.

 Apparently the teachers and her fellow pupils had not been impressed by

 babytalk.

 It was only when she was trying to wheedle her father that she still

 employed the lisp and the pout. She sat on the arm of his chair now and

 stroked the silver wings of hair above Shasa's ears.

 'I have the most beautiful daddy in the world,' she crooned, and indeed

 the flashes of silver contrasted with the dense darkness of the rest of

 his hair and the tanned almost unlined skin of his face to enhance

 Shasa's looks. 'I have the kindest and most loving daddy in the world."

 'And I have the most scheming little vixen in the world for a daughter,'

 he said, and she laughed with delight, a sound that made his heart

 contract, and her breath in his face smelled milky and sweet as a

 newborn kitten, but he shored up his crumbling defences.

 'I have a daughter who is only fourteen years old--' 'Fifteen,' she

 corrected him.

 'Fourteen and a half,' he countered.

 'Almost fifteen,' she insisted.

 'A daughter under fifteen years of age, who is much too precious to

 allow out of my house after ten o'clock at night." 'Oh, my big cuddly

 growly bear,' she whispered in his ear and hugged him hard, and as she

 rubbed her soft cheek against his, her breasts pressed against his arm.

 Tara's breasts had always been large and shapely, he still found them

 immensely attractive. Isabella had inherited them from her. Over the

 last few months Shasa had watched with pride and interest their

 phenomenal growth, and now they were firm and warm against his arm.

 'Are there going to be boys there?" he asked, and she sensed the first

 rack in his defence.

 'Oh, I m not interested in boys, Papa,' and she shut her eyes tight in

 case a thunderbolt came crashing down on her for such a fib.

 These days Isabella could think of little else but boys, they even

 occupied her dreams, and her interest in their anatomy was so intense

 that both Michael and Garry had forbidden her to come into their rooms

 while they were changing. Her candid and fascinated examination was too

 disconcerting.

 'How will you get there and back? You don't expect your mother to wait

 up until midnight, do you? And I'll be in Jo'burg that night,' Shasa

 asked and she opened her eyes.

 'Stephen can take me and bring me back." 'Stephen?" Shasa asked sharply.

 'Mommy's new chauffeur. He's so nice and awfully trustworthyMommy says

 so." Shasa wasn't aware that Tara had taken on a chauffeur. She usually

 drove herself, but that reprehensible old Packard of hers had finally

 given up the ghost when she was away at Sundi and he had prevailed on

 her to accept a new Chevvy station wagon. Presumably the chauffeur went

 with it. She should have consulted him - but they had drifted further

 and further apart over the last few years and seldom discussed domestic

 routine.

 'No,' he said firmly. 'I won't have you driving around on your own at

 night." 'I'll be with Stephen,' she pleaded, but he ignored the protest.

 He knew nothing about Stephen, except that he was male and black.

 'I'll tell you what. If you can get a written guarantee from one of the

 other girls' parents - somebody I know - that they will get you there

 and back before midnight - well, then, all right, you may go." 'Oh

 Daddy! Daddy!" She showered soft warm kisses on his face, and then

 leapt up and did a little victory pirouette around his study.

 She had long willowy legs under the flaring skirt and a tight little

 bottom in lace panties.

 'She is probably,' he thought, and then corrected himself, 'she is

 without doubt the most beautiful child in the entire world." Isabella

 stopped suddenly, and assumed a woebegone expression.

 'Oh, Papa!" she cried in anguish.

 'What is it now?" Shasa leaned back in his swivel chair and hid his

 smile.

 'Both Patty and Lenora are going to have new dresses, and I shall look

 an awful frump." 'A frump, forsooth! We cannot have that now, can we?"

 And she rushed to him.

 'Does that mean I may have a new dress, Daddy darling?" She wound both

 arms around his neck again. The sound of a motor car coming up the

 drive interrupted their idyll.

 'Here comes Mommy!" Isabella sprang from his lap and seizing his hand

 dragged him to the window. 'We can tell her about the party and the

 dress now, can't we, darling Daddy." The new Chevrolet with the high

 tail fins and great chromed grille pulled up at the front steps, and the

 new chauffeur stepped out. He was an imposing man, tall and

 broad-shouldered in a dove-grey livery and cap with patent-leather peak.

 He opened the rear door, and Tara slipped out of her seat. As she

 passed him she tapped the chauffeur on the arm, an over-friendly gesture

 so typical of Tara's treatment of the servants which irritated Shasa as

 much as usual.

 Tara came up the front stairs and disappeared from Shasa's view, while

 the chauffeur went back into the driver's seat and pulled away towards

 the garages. As he drove below the windows of the study, he glanced up.

 His face was half obscured by the peak of his cap, but there was

 something vaguely familiar about his jawline and the way his head was

 set on that corded neck and those powerful shoulders.

 Shasa frowned, trying to place him, but the memory was an ancient one,

 or erroneous, and then behind him Isabella was calling in her special

 honeyed voice.

 'Oh Mommy, Daddy and I have something to tell you,' and Shasa turned

 from the window, steeling himself for Tara's familiar accusation of

 favouritism and indulgence.

 The hidden door to Shasa's parliamentary suite of offices provide› the

 key to the problem that they had been working on over the weeks that

 Moses Gama had been in Cape Town.

 It was simple enough for Moses to enter the parliament buildin itself,

 dressed in chauffeur's livery and carrying an armful oJ shopping - shoe

 boxes and hat boxes from the most expensive stores He merely followed

 Tara as she swept past the doormen at the front entrance. There was

 virtually no security in operation, no register to sign, no lapel badges

 were necessary. A stranger might be asked to show a visitor's pass at

 the entrance, but as the wife of cabinet minister, Tara merited a

 respectful salute, and she made point of getting to know the doormen.

 Sometimes she paused to ask after a sick child, or the janitor's

 arthritis, and with her sunny personality and her concerned

 condescension, she was soon a favourite of the uniformed staff who

 guarded the entrance.

 She did not take Moses in with her on every occasion, only when she was

 certain that there was no risk of meeting Shasa. She brought him often

 enough to establish his presence and his right to be there. When they

 reached Shasa's suite, Tara would order him to place the parcels in the

 inner office while she paused to chat with Shasa's secretary. Then,

 when Moses emerged from the office emptyhanded, she would dismiss him

 lightly.

 'Thank you, Stephen. You may go down now. I will need the car at

 eleven. Please bring it around to the front and wait for me." Then

 Moses would walk down the main staircase, standing respectfully aside

 for parliamentary messengers and members and cabinet members, once he

 even passed the prime minister on the stairs, and he had to drop his

 gaze in case Verwoerd recognized the hatred in his eyes. It gave him a

 weird feeling of unreality to pass only arm's length from the man who

 was the author of his people's misery, who more than any other

 represented all the forces of injustice and oppression. The man who had

 elevated racial discrimination to a quasi-religious philosophy.

 Moses found he was trembling as he went on down the stairs, but he

 passed the doormen without a glance and the janitor in his cubicle

 barely lifted his eyes before concentrating once more on his newspaper.

 It was vital to Moses' plans that he should be able to leave the

 building unaccompanied, and constant repetition had made that possible.

 To the doormen he was almost invisible.

 However, they had still not solved the problem of access to Shasa's

 inner office. Moses might go in there long enough to deposit the armful

 of parcels, but he could not risk remaining longer, and especially he

 could not be in there behind a closed door, or alone with Tara. Tricia,

 Shasa's secretary, was alert and observant, and obsessively loyal to

 Shasa; like all Shasa's female employees she was more than just a little

 in love with him.

 The discovery of the concealed rear door to the suite came as a blessing

 when they were almost desperately considering leaving the final

 preparation to Tara alone.

 'Heavens, it was so simple, after all our worrying!" Tara laughed with

 relief, and the next time Shasa left for his inspection tour of the H'am

 Mine, taking Garry with him as usual, she and Moses made one of their

 visits to parliament to test their arrangement.

 After Moses had left her parcels in the inner office and in front of

 Tricia, Tara sent him away. 'I won't need the car until much later,

 Stephen, I'm having lunch with my father in the dining-room." Then as he

 left, closing the outer door behind him, Tara turned back to Tricia.

 'I have a few letters to write. I'll use my husband's office. Please

 see that I'm not disturbed." Tricia looked dubious, she knew that Shasa

 was fussy about his desk and the contents of his drawers, but she could

 not think of any way to prevent Tara making use of it, and while she

 hesitated, Tara marched into Shasa's office, closed the door and firmly

 locked it behind her. Another precedent had been set.

 On the outside there was a light tap, and it took her a moment to

 discover the inside lock, disguised as a light switch. She opened the

 panelled door a crack, Moses slipped through it into the office. She

 held her breath against the snap of the lock, and then turned eagerly to

 Moses.

 'Both doors are locked,' she whispered, and she embraced him.

 'Oh Moses, Moses - it's been so long." Even though they spent so much

 time in each' other's company, the moments of total privacy were rare

 and precious and she clung to him.

 'Not now,' he whispered. 'There is work to do." Reluctantly she opened

 her embrace and let him go. He went to the window first, standing to

 one side as he drew the drapes so that he could not be seen from

 outside, and then he switched on the desk lamp and removed his uniform

 jacket, hanging it on the back of Shasa's chair, before crossing to the

 altar chest. He paused before it, putting Tara in mind of a worshipper,

 for his head was bowed and his hands clasped before him reverently. Then

 he roused himself and lifted the heavy bronze Van Wouw sculpture from

 the top of th chest. He carried it across the room and placed it on

 Shasa's desk He went back and carefully opened the lid, wincing as the

 antiqu, hinges squeaked.

 The interior of the chest had been half-filled with the overflor from

 Shasa's bookshelves. Piles of old copies of Hansard, out-of date white

 papers and old parliamentary reports. Moses was annoye( at this

 unexpected obstacle.

 'You must help me,' he whispered to Tara, and between them the began to

 unpack the chest.

 'Keep everything in the same order,' Moses warned, as he passer the

 piles of publications to her. 'We will have to leave it exactly as il

 was." The chest was so deep that at the end Moses found it easier to

 climb into it and pass the last of the contents out to her. The carpel

 was covered with stacks of paper now, but the chest was empty.

 'Let me have the tools,' Moses ordered. They were in one of the packets

 that Moses had carried up from the car, and she handed them to him.

 'Don't make any noise,' she pleaded.

 The chest was large enough to conceal him completely. She went to the

 door and listened for a moment. Tricia's typewriter was tapping away

 reassuringly. Then she went back to the chest and peered into it.

 Moses was on his knees working on the floor of the chest with a

 screwdriver. The screws were authentically antique, taken from another

 old piece of furniture so that they were not obvious recent additions,

 and the floor panels of the chest were likewise aged oak and only close

 examination by an expert would have revealed that they were not

 original. Once the screws were loose, Moses lifted out the panels to

 reveal the compartment beneath. This was tightly packed with cotton

 waste and gently Moses worked it loose, and as he removed the top layer

 placed it in the package that had contained the tools.

 Tara watched with awful fascination as the contents of the first secret

 compartment came into view. They were small rectangular blocks of some

 dark amorphous material, like sticky toffee or carpenter's putty, each

 covered with a translucent greaseproof wrapper and with a label marked

 in Russian Cyrillic script.

 There were ten blocks in the top layer, but Tara knew that there must be

 two layers below that. Thirty blocks in all, each block weighed two

 pounds, which made a total of sixty pounds of plastic explosive. It

 looked mundane and harmless as some kitchen commodity, but Moses had

 warned her of its lethal power.

 'A two-pound brick will destroy the span of a steel bridge, ten pounds

 would knock down the average house, sixty pounds --' he shrugged. 'It's

 enough to do the job ten times over." Once he had removed the packing

 and reassured himself of the contents, Moses replaced the panel and

 screwed it closed. Then he opened the centre panel of the floor. Again

 it was packed with cotton waste. As he removed it, he explained in a

 whisper, 'There are four different types of detonators to cover all

 possible needs. These,' he gingerly lifted a small flat tin the size of

 a cigarette pack out of its nest of cotton packing, 'these are

 electrical detonators that can be wired up to a series of batteries or

 to the mains. These,' he returned the tin to its slot and lifted the

 loose cotton to reveal a second larger tin, 'these are radio receiver

 detonators and are set off by a VHF transmission from this miniature

 transmitter." It looked to Tara like one of the modern portable radios.

 Moses lifted it out of its nest. 'It needs only six torch batteries to

 activate it. Now these are simple acid time-fused detonators,

 primitive, and the time delay isn't very accurate, but this here is a

 trembler detonator. Once it is primed, the slightest movement or

 vibration will set it off. Only an expert will be able to defuse the

 charge once it is in place." Until this moment she had considered only

 the abstract dialectic of what they were doing, but now she was faced

 with the actuality.

 Here before her was the very stuff of violent death and'destruction, the

 innocent appearance no less menacing than the coils of a sleeping mamba,

 and she found herself wavering.

 'Moses,' she whispered. 'Nobody will be hurt. No human life, you said

 that - didn't you?" 'We have discussed that already." His expression was

 cold and scornful, and she felt ashamed. 'Forgive me, please." Moses

 ignored her and unscrewed the third and last panel. This compartment

 contained an automatic pistol and four clips of ammunition. It took up

 little space and the rest of the compartment was packed with cotton

 waste which Moses removed.

 'Give me the other packet,' he ordered, and when she passed it to him,

 he began to pack the contents into the empty recess. Firstly there was

 a compact tool kit which contained a keyhole saw and hand drill, drill

 bits and augers, a box of hearing-aid batteries for the detonator and

 torch batteries for the transmitter, a Penlite torch, a

 five-hundred-foot roll of thin electrical wire, diamond glass-cutters,

 putty, staples and tiny one-ounce tins of touch-up paint. Lastly there

 was a pack of hard rations, dried biscuit and cans of meat and

 vegetables.

 'I wish you had let me give you something more appetizing." 'It will be

 only two days,' Moses said, and she was reminded ho little store he set

 by creature comforts.

 Moses replaced the panel, but he did not tighten the retainin screws

 fully, so that they could be loosened by hand.

 'All right, pass the books to me now." He repacked the ches replacing

 the bundles in the same order as he had found them, s that to a casual

 glance it would not be apparent that the contents c the chest had been

 disturbed. Carefully Moses closed the chest an replaced the bronze

 statue on the lid. Then he stood in front of th desk and surveyed the

 room carefully. 'I will need a place to hide." 'The drapes,' Tara

 suggested, and he nodded.

 'Not very original, but effective." The curtains were embroidere

 brocade, cut full, and they reached to the floor.

 'A key to that door - I'll need one." He indicated the hidden doo: in

 the panelling.

 'I will try --' Tara began and then broke off as there was a knoc on the

 interleading door. For a moment he thought she might panic and he

 squeezed her arm to calm her.

 'Who is it?" Tara called in a level voice.

 'It's me, Mrs Courtney,' Tricia called respectfully. 'It's one o'clock

 and I'm going to take my lunch." 'Go ahead, Tricia. I'll be a little

 longer, but I'll lock up when I leave." They heard the outer door close,

 and then Moses released her arm. 'Go out and search her desk. See if

 she has a key to the back door." Tara was back within minutes with a

 small bunch of keys. She tried them in the lock and the third one

 turned the door in the panelling.

 'The serial number is on it." She scribbled a note of the number on

 Shasa's noteblock and ripped off the top sheet. Tll return the keys to

 Tricia's desk." When she came back, Moses was buttoning his uniform

 jacket, but she locked the door behind her.

 'What I need now is a plan of the building. There must be one in the

 public works department, and you must get me a copy. Tell Tricia to do

 it." 'How?" she asked. 'What excuse can I give?" 'Tell her that you

 want to change the lighting in here,' he gestured at the chandelier in

 the roof. 'Tell her you must have an electrical plan of this section,

 showing the circuits and wall-fittings." 'Yes, I can do that,' she

 agreed.

 'Good. We are finished here for the time being. We can go now." 'There

 is no hurry, Moses. Tricia will not be back for another hour." He

 looked down at her, and for a moment she thought she saw a flash of

 contempt, even disgust, in those dark brooding eyes, but she would not

 let herself believe that, and she pressed herself to him, hiding her

 face against his chest. Within seconds she felt the swelling and

 hardening of his loins through the cloth that separated their lower

 bodies, and her doubts were dispelled. She was certain that in his own

 strange African way he loved her still and she reached down to open his

 clothing and bring him out.

 He was so thick that she could barely encompass him within the circle of

 her thumb and forefinger, and he was hot and hard as a shaft of black

 ironstone that had lain in the full glare of the sun at midday.

 Tara sank down onto the thick silken rug, drawing him down on top of

 her.

 Every day now increased the danger of discovery and both of them were

 aware of it.

 'Will Shasa recognize you?" Tara asked Moses more than once. 'It is

 becoming more and more difficult to keep you from meeting him face to

 face. He asked about my new chauffeur a few days ago." Isabella had

 apparently drawn Shasa's attention to the new employee for her own

 selfish reasons, and Tara could cheerfully have thrashed her for it. But

 there had been the danger of establishing the importance of her new

 driver even more clearly in the child's devious mind, so she had let it

 pass without comment.

 'Will he know you?" she insisted, and Moses considered it carefully.

 'It was long ago, before the war. He was a child." Moses shook his

 head. 'The circumstances were so different, the place so remote and yet

 for a short while we were close. I believe we made a deep impression

 upon each other - if merely because of the unlikelihood of such a

 relationship, black man and white boy becoming familiar, developing an

 intimate friendship." He sighed. 'It is certain, however, that at the

 time of the trial he must have read the intelligence reports and known

 of the warrant for my arrest which, by the way, is still in force.

 Whether he would connect the wanted revolutionary criminal with his

 childhood friend, I do not know, but we cannot take that chance. We

 must do what has to be done as soon as possible." 'It seems that Shasa

 has been out of town every weekend for the last five years." Tara bit

 her lip with frustration. 'But now that I want him gone, he won't leave

 Weltevreden for a single day. Firsl it's this damned polo b ' ' usmess.

 The Argentinian polo team was touring the country, and Shasa was hosting

 their stay in Cape Town, while the polo fields of Weltevreden would be

 the venue for the first test match of their visit. 'Then immediately

 after that it will be the British prime minister, Harold Macmillan's

 visit. Shasa won't be leaving Cape Town before the end of the month at

 the very arhest.

 e ' ' She watched his face in the driving-mirror as he pondered it.

 'There is risk either way,' he said softly. 'To delay is as dangerous

 as to act hastily. We must choose the exact moment." Neither of them

 spoke again until they reached the bus stop, and Moses parked the Chev

 on the opposite side of the road. Then he switched off the engine and

 asked: 'This polo match. When will it take place?" 'The test match is

 on Friday afternoon." 'Your husband will be playing?" 'The South African

 team will be announced in the middle of the week, but Shasa is almost

 certain to be on the team. He might even be chosen as captain." 'Even

 if he is not, he will be the host. He must be there." Yes,' Tara

 agreed.

 'Friday - that will give me the whole weekend." He made up his mind. 'We

 will do it then." For a few moments Tara felt the suffocating

 desperation of somebody trapped in quicksand, sinking slowly, and yet

 there was an inevitability about it that made fear seem superfluous.

 There was no escape and she felt instead an enervating sense of

 acceptance.

 'Here is the bus,' Moses said, and she heard the faintest tremor of

 excitement in his voice. It was one of the very few times that she had

 ever known his personal feelings to betray him.

 As the bus drew up at the halt, she saw the woman and child standing on

 the platform at the rear. They were both peering eagerly at the parked

 Chev, and when tara waved the child hopped down and started across the

 road. The bus pulled away and Miriam Afrika stayed on the platform at

 the back of the bus, staring back at them until it turned the next

 corner.

 Benjamin came to meet them, his face bright with anticipation. He was

 growing into a likely lad, and Miriam always dressed him so well - clean

 white shirt, grey shorts and polished black shoes. His toffee-coloured

 skin had a scrubbed look and his crisp dark curls were trimmed into a

 neat cap.

 'Isn't he just too gorgeous?" Tara breathed. 'Our son, Moses, our fine

 son." The boy opened the door and jumped in besides Moses. He looked up

 at him with a beaming smile and Moses embraced him briefly.

 Then Tara leaned over the seat and kissed him and gave him a brief but

 fierce hug. In public she had to limit any show of affection, and as he

 grew older, their relationship became more difficult and obscure.

 The child still believed that Miriam Afrika was his mother, but he was

 almost six years old now, and a bright intelligent and sensitive boy.

 She knew that he suspected some special relationship between the three

 of them. These clandestine meetings were too regular, and emotionally

 charged, for him not to suspect that something had remained to be fully

 explained to him.

 Benjamin had been told merely that they were good friends of the family,

 but even at his tender age he would be aware of the social taboos that

 they were flouting, for his very existence must be permeated by the

 knowledge that white and black were somehow different and set apart from

 his own light brown, and sometimes he stared at Tara with a kind of

 wonder as though she were some fabulous creature from a fairy tale.

 There was nothing Tara could think of that could fulfill her more than

 taking him in her arms and telling him, 'You are my baby, my own true

 baby, and I love you as much as I love your father." But she could not

 even let him sit on the seat beside her in case they were seen together.

 They drove out across the Cape Flats towards Somerset West, but before

 they reached the village, Moses turned off onto a side track, through

 the dense stands of Port Jackson willow until they came out on to the

 long deserted curve of beach with the green waters of False Bay before

 them, and on each side the mountainous ramparts that formed the horns of

 the wide bay.

 Moses parked the Chev and fetched the picnic basket from the boot, and

 then the three of them followed the footpath along the top of the beach

 until they reached their favourite spot. From here anyone approaching

 along the beach would be obvious from half a mile, while inland the

 exotic growth formed an almost impenetrable jungle. The only persons

 likely to venture this far along the lonely beach were surf fishermen

 casting into the tumbling waves for kob and steenbras, or lovers seeking

 seclusion. Here they felt safe.

 Tara helped Benjamin change into his bathing-costume, and then all three

 of them went hand in hand to the enclosed rock pool where the child

 splashed and played like a spaniel puppy. When at last he was chilled

 through and tired, Tara towelled down his shivering body and dressed him

 again. Then he helped Moses build a fire amongst the dunes and grill

 the raw sausages and chops upon the coals.

 After they had eaten, Benjamin wanted to swim again, but gently Tara

 forbade him. 'Not on a full stomach, darling." So he went to search for

 shells along the tide-mark of the beach, and Tara and Moses sat on the

 crest of the dune and watched him. Tara was as happy and contented as

 she could ever remember being until Moses broke the silence.

 'This is what we are working for,' he said. 'Dignity and a chance for

 happiness for all in this land." 'Yes, Moses,' she whispered.

 'It is worth any price." 'Oh, yes,' she agreed fervently. 'Oh yes!"

 'Part of the price is the execution of the architect of our misery,' he

 said sharply. 'I have kept this from you until now, but Verwoerd must

 die and all his henchmen with him. Destiny has appointed me his

 executioner - and his successor." Tara paled at his words, but they came

 as such a shock that she could not speak. Moses took her hand with a

 strange and unusual gentleness.

 'For you, for me and for the child - that he may live with us in the

 sunshine of freedom." She tried to speak, but her voice faltered, and he

 waited patiently until she was able to enunciate. 'Moses, you

 promised!" 'No." He shook his head. 'You persuaded yourself of that,

 and it was not the time to disillusion you." 'Oh God, Moses!" The

 enormity of it crashed in upon her. 'I thought you were going to blow

 up the empty building as a symbolic gesture, but all along you planned

 to --' she broke off, unable to complete the sentence, and he did not

 deny it.

 'Moses - my husband Shasa, he will be on the bench beside Verwoerd." 'Is

 he your husband?" Moses asked. 'Is he not one of them, one of the

 enemy?" She lowered her eyes to acknowledge the truth of this, and then

 suddenly she was agitated again. 'My father - he will be in the House."

 'Your father and your husband are part of your old life. You have left

 that behind you. Now, Tara, I am both your father and your husband, and

 the struggle is your new life." 'Moses, isn't there some way they can be

 spared?" she pleaded.

 He did not speak, but she saw the answer in his eyes and she covered her

 face with both hands and began to weep. She wept silently, but the

 spasms of grief shook her whole body. Down on the beach the child's

 happy cries came to her faintly on the wind, and beside her Moses sat

 unmoving and without expression. After a while, she lifted her head and

 wiped the tears from her face with the palms of her hands.

 'I'm sorry, Moses,' she whispered. 'I was weak, please forgive me.

 I was mourning my father, but now I am strong again, and ready to do

 whatever you require of me." The test match against the visiting

 Argentinian polo team was the most exciting event that had taken place

 at Weltevreden in a decade or more.

 As mistress of the estate, the planning and organization of the event

 should have fallen to Tara, but her lack of interest in the sport and

 her poor organizational skills were too much for Centaine

 Courtney-Malcomess to abide. She began by giving discreet advice and

 ended in exasperation by taking all responsibility out of her

 daughter-in-law's hands. The result was that the occasion was in every

 respect a towering success. After Centaine had chivvied the coloured

 greensman, and with Blaine's expert advice, the turf on the field was

 green and velvety, the going beneath it neither hard enough to jar the

 legs of the ponies nor soft enough to slow them down. The goalposts

 were painted in the colours of the teams, the pale blue and white of

 Argentina, and orange, blue and white of South Africa, and two hundred

 flags in the same colours flew from the grandstand.

 The stand itself was freshly painted, as were the fence pickets and the

 stables. A fence was erected to keep the general public out of the

 chfiteau's private grounds, but the new facilities designed by Centaine

 especially for the occasion included an extension to the grandstand,

 with public toilets below and an open air restaurant that could seat two

 hundred guests. The extensions to the stables were sufficient for fifty

 ponies, and there were new quarters for the grooms. The Argentinians

 had brought their own, and they wore traditional gaucho costume with

 wide hats and their chaps decorated with silver coins.

 Garry tore himself away from his new office at Centaine House which was

 on the top floor, only three doors down from Shasa, and he spent two

 days at the stables watching and learning from these masters of

 horsecraft and the game of polo.

 Michael had at last managed to secure an official assignment. He

 blissfully believed that the Golden City Mail in Johannesburg had

 appointed him their local correspondent on his own merits as a

 cubreporter. Centaine, who had made a discreet telephone call to the

 chairman of Associated Newspapers of South Africa who owned the Mail,

 did nothing to disillusion him. Michael was to be paid five guineas for

 the day, plus a shilling a word for any copy of his actually printed by

 the newspaper. He interviewed every member of both teams, including the

 reserves, all the grooms, the umpire and referees.

 He drew up a full history and score card of all previous matches played

 between the two countries going back to the 1936 Olympic Games, and he

 worked out the pedigrees of all the ponies - but here he showed

 restraint by limiting the listing to only two generations.

 Even before the match day he had written enough to make Gone with the

 Wind look like a pamphlet. Then he insisted on telephoning this

 important copy through to a long-suffering sub at the newspaper offices,

 and the telephone charges far outstripped his five-guinea salary.

 'Anyway, Mickey,' Shasa consoled him, 'if they print everything you have

 written at a shilling a word, you'll be a millionaire." The big

 disappointment for the family came on the Wednesday when the South

 African team was announced. Shasa was chosen to play in his usual

 position at Number Two but he was passed over for the captaincy. This

 went to Max Theunissen, a flamboyant, hardriding millionaire farmer from

 Natal who was a long-time rival of Shasa's, ever since their first

 meeting on this same field as juniors many years before.

 Shasa hid his disappointment behind a rueful grin. 'It means more to

 Max than it does to me,' he told Blaine, who was one of the selectors,

 and Blaine nodded.

 'Yes,' he agreed. 'That's why we gave it to him, Shasa. Max values

 it." Isabella fell desperately in love with the Argentinian Number Four,

 a paragon of masculinity with olive skin, dark flashing eyes, thick wavy

 hair and dazzling white teeth.

 She changed her frock three and four times a day, trying out all the

 most sophisticated of the clothes with which Shasa had filled her

 wardrobes. She even applied a very light coat of rouge and lipstick,

 not enough to catch Shasa's attention but just enough, she hoped, to

 pique Jos Jesfis Goncalves De Shntos interest. She exercised all her

 ingenuity in waylaying him, hanging around the stables endlessly and

 practising her most languid poses whenever he hove into view.

 The object of her adoration was a man in his early thirties who was

 convinced that the Argentinian male was the world's greatest lover and

 that he, Jos Jesfis Goncalves De Santas, was the national champion.

 There were at least a dozen mature and willing ladies vying for his

 attention at any one time. He did not even notice the antics of this

 fourteen-year-old child, but Centaine did.

 'You are making an exhibition of yourself, Bella,' she told her.

 'From now on you are forbidden to go near the stables, and if I see one

 speck of make-up on your face again, you may be certain your father will

 learn about it." Nobody went against Nora's orders, not even the boldest

 and most love-lorn, so Isabella was forced to abandon her fantasy of

 ambushing Jos in the hayloft above the stables and presenting him with

 her virginity. Isabella was not entirely certain what this entailed.

 Lenora had lent her a forbidden book which referred to it as 'a pearl

 beyond price'. Whatever it was, Jos Jeshs could have her pearl and

 anything else he wanted.

 However, Nana's strictures reduced her to trailing around after him at a

 discreet distance, and directing burning but long-range looks at him

 whenever he glanced in her direction.

 Garry intercepted one of these passionate looks and was so alarmed by it

 that he demanded in a loud voice, and within earshot of her beloved,

 'Are you sick, Bella? You keep looking like you are going to throw up."

 It was the first time in her life that she truly hated her middle

 brother.

 Centaine had planned for two thousand spectators. Polo was an elite

 sport with a limited following, and at two pounds each, tickets were

 expensive, but on the day the gate exceeded five thousand. This

 guaranteed the club a healthy profit but put a considerable strain on

 Centaine's logistics. All her reserves, which included Tara, were

 thrown in to deal with the overflow and to organize the additional food

 and drink required, and only when the teams rode out on to the field

 could Tara escape her mother-in-law's all-seeing eye and go up into the

 stand.

 For the first chukka Shasa was riding a bay gelding whose hide was

 burnished until it shone like a mirror in the sunlight. In his green

 jersey piped with gold, and his snowy white breeches and glossy black

 boots, Tara had to admit to herself that Shasa looked magnificent. As

 he cantered below the stand he looked up and smiled, the black eye-patch

 gave an intriguing sinister nuance to his otherwise boyish and charming

 grin, and despite herself Tara responded, waving to him, until she

 realized that Shasa was not smiling at her but at someone below her in

 the stand. Feeling a little foolish, she stood on tiptoe and peered

 down to try and see who it was. The woman was tall with a narrow waist,

 but her face was obscured by the brim of a garden party hat decorated

 with roses. However, the arm she lifted to wave at Shasa was slim and

 tanned with diamond engagement and gold wedding rings on the third

 finger of her shapely hand.

 Tara turned away and removed her hat so that Centaine could not easily

 pick her out of the crowd, and she worked her way quickly but

 unobtrusively to the side exit of the stand. As she crossed the carpark

 and headed around the back of the stables, the first roaring cheer went

 up from the stand. Nobody would look for her for a couple of hours now,

 and she began to run. Moses had the Chev parked in the plantation of

 pines, near the guest cottages and she pulled open the back door and

 tumbled into the seat.

 'Nobody saw me leave,' she panted, and he started the engine and drove

 sedately down the long driveway and out through the Anreith gateway.

 Tara checked her wristwatch; it was a few minutes past three o'clock,

 but it would take forty minutes to round the mountain and reach the

 city. They would reach the parliament building at four o'clock when the

 doormen were thinking about their tea-break. It was a Friday afternoon,

 and the House was in Committee of Supply, the kind of boring routine

 business which would leave the members nodding on the benches. In fact,

 Blaine and Shasa had tactfully arranged this schedule with the whips so

 that they, and quite a few of their peers, might sneak away to the polo

 without missing any important debate or division. Many of the other

 members must have made plans to leave early for the weekend, for the

 building was quiet and the lobby almost deserted.

 Moses parked in the members' carpark and went around to the back of the

 station wagon to bring out the packages. Then he followed Tara at a

 respectful distance as she climbed the front staircase. Nobody

 challenged them, it was all so easy, almost an anti-climax, and they

 went up to the second floor, past the press gallery entrance, where Tara

 had a glimpse of three junior reporters slumped dispiritedly on their

 benches as they listened to the honourable minister of posts and

 telegraphs droning out his selfcongratulations on the exemplary fashion

 in which he had conducted his department during the previous fiscal

 year.

 Tricia was sitting behind her desk in the outer office painting her

 fingernails with varnish, and she looked flustered and guilty as Tara

 walked in.

 'Oh, Tricia, that is a pretty colour,' Tara said sweetly, and Tricia

 tried to look as though her fingers didn't belong to her, but the

 varnish was wet and she didn't quite know what to do with them.

 'I've finished all the letters Mr Courtney left for me,' she tried to

 excuse herself, 'and it's been so quiet today, and I've got a date

 tonight - I just thought --' she petered out lamely.

 'I've brought up some samples of curtain material,' Tara told her.

 'I thought we'd change them when we installed the new light fittings.

 I would like it to be a surprise for Shasa, so don't mention it to him,

 if you can avoid it." ?f course not, Mrs Courtney." I will be trying to

 work out the new colour scheme for the curtains, and I'll probably be

 here until long after five o'clock. If you've finished your work, why

 don't you go off early? I will take any phone calls." 'Oh, I'd feel bad

 about that,' Tricia protested half-heartedly.

 'Off you go!" Tara ordered firmly. 'I'll hold the fort. You enjoy your

 date - I hope you have a lovely evening." 'It's so kind of you, Mrs

 Courtney. It really is." 'Stephen, take those samples through and put

 them on the couch please,' Tara ordered without looking at Moses, and

 she lingered while Tricia cleared her desk with alacrity and headed for

 the door.

 'Have a super weekend, Mrs Courtney - and thanks a lot." Tara locked the

 door after her and hurried through to the inner office.

 'That was a bit of luck,' she whispered.

 'We should give her some time to get clear,' Moses told her, and they

 sat side by side on the sofa.

 Tara looked nervous and unhappy, but she kept silent for many minutes

 before she blurted out, 'Moses, about my father - and Shasa." 'Yes?" he

 asked, but his voice was bleak, and she hesitated, twisting her fingers

 together nervously. 'Yes?" he insisted.

 'No - you are right,' she sighed. 'It has to be done. I must be

 strong." 'Yes, you must be strong,' he agreed. 'But now you must go,

 and leave me to do my work." She stood up. 'Kiss me please, Moses,' she

 whispered, and then after a moment broke from his embrace. 'Good luck,'

 she said softly.

 She locked the outer door of the office and went down the staircase into

 the main lobby, and half-way down she was suddenly overwhelmed by a

 sense of doom. It was so strong that she felt the blood drain from her

 head and an icy sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip. For a

 moment she felt dizzy, and had to clutch the banisters to prevent

 herself from falling. Then she forced herself to go on down and cross

 the lobby.

 The janitor was staring at her strangely. She kept walking. He was

 leaving his cubicle and coming to intercept her. She felt panic come at

 her and she wanted to turn and run back up the stairs, to warn Moses

 that they had been discovered.

 'Mrs Courtney." The janitor stopped in front of her, blocking her path.

 'What is it?" she faltered, trying to think up a plausible reply to his

 demands.

 'I've got a small bet on the polo this afternoon, do you know how it's

 going?" She stared at him, and for a moment it did not make sense.

 She almost blurted out, 'Polo, what polo?" and then she caught herself

 and with an enormous effort of will and concentration chatted with the

 man for almost a minute before she could escape. In the carpark she

 could no longer control her panic and she ran to the Chev and flung

 herself behind the wheel sobbing for breath.

 When he heard the key turn in the lock of the outer door, Moses went

 back into Shasa's office and drew the drapes over the windows.

 Then he went to the bookshelves and studied the titles. He would not

 unpack the altar chest until the last moment. Tricia might return for

 something she had forgotten, there might be a routine check of the

 offices by the parliamentary staff. Shasa might even come in on the

 Saturday morning. Although Tara had assured him that Shasa would be

 fully occupied at Weltevreden with his guests over the whole weekend,

 Moses would take no chances. He would disturb nothing in the office

 until it was absolutely necessary.

 He smiled as he saw Macaulay's History of England on the shelf.

 It was an expensive leather-bound edition, and it brought back vivid

 memories of the time when he and the man he was about to kill had been

 friends - of that time long ago when there had still been hope.

 He passed on down the shelves until he reached a section in which Shasa

 obviously kept all those works with whose principles he differed, works

 ranging from Mein Kampf to Karl Marx with Socialism in between. Moses

 chose a volume of the collected works of Lenin and took it across to the

 desk. He settled down to read, confident that any unwanted visitor must

 give him sufficient time to reach his hiding-place behind the drapes.

 He read until the dusk fell and, the light failed in the room, then he

 took the blanket from the package he had brought up from the Chev and

 settled down on the sofa.

 He woke early on Saturday morning, when the rock pigeons began crooning

 on the ledge outside the window, and let himself out of the panel door.

 He used the toilets at the end of the passage in the knowledge that it

 was going to be a long day, and took a cynical pleasure in defying the

 'Whites Only' sign on the door.

 Although the House did not sit on a Saturday, the main doors were open

 and there would still be some activity in the building, cleaners and

 staff, perhaps ministers using their offices. He could do nothing until

 the Sunday, when Calvinist principles forbade any work or unnecessary

 activity outside the body of the church. Again he spent the day

 reading, and at nightfall he ate from the supplies he had brought with

 him and disposed of the empty cans and wrappers in the rubbish bin in

 the toilets.

 He slept fitfully and was fully awake before dawn on Sunday morning. He

 ate a frugal breakfast and changed into workman's overalls and tennis

 shoes from the package before he began a cautious reconnaissance of the

 House. The building was utterly silent and deserted. Looking down the

 stairs he saw that the front doors were barred and all the lights were

 extinguished. He moved about with more confidence, and tried the door

 to the press gallery. It was unlocked and he stood at the rail and

 looked down into the chamber where all the laws that had enmeshed and

 enslaved his people had been enacted and he felt his rage like a captive

 animal inside his chest, clamouring to be set free.

 He left the gallery and went down the staircase into the entrance lobby

 and approached the high main doors of the chamber. His footsteps echoed

 from the marble slabs. As he had expected, the doors were locked, but

 the locks were massive antiques. He knelt in front of them, and from

 his pocket took the folding wallet of locksmith's picks.

 His training in Russia had been exhaustively thorough and the lock

 resisted him for less than a minute. He opened one leaf of the door a

 crack and slipped through, closing it behind him.

 Now he stood in the very cathedral of apartheid, and it seemed to him

 that the evil of it was a palpable thing that pressed in upon him with a

 physical weight and shortened his breathing. He moved slowly up the

 aisle towards the Speaker's throne with the massive coat of arms above

 it, and then he turned to the left, skirting the table on which the mace

 and despatch boxes would lie, until he stood at the head of the

 government front benches, at the seat of the prime minister, Dr Hendrik

 Frensch Verwoerd,'and Moses' broad nostrils flared open as though he

 smelled the odour of the great beast.

 With an effort he roused himself, setting aside his feelings and his

 passions, and became as objective as a workman. He examined the bench

 carefully, going down on his stomach to peer beneath it. Of course, he

 had studied every photograph of the chamber that he had been able to

 obtain, but these had been pathetically inadequate.

 Now he ran his hands over the green leather; the padding was indented by

 the weight of the men who had sat upon it, and at this close range it

 was scuffed and cracked with wear over the years. The bench frame was

 of massive mahogany, and when he groped up beneath the seat he found the

 heavy cross members that strengthened it. There were no surprises here,

 and he grunted with satisfaction.

 He returned to Shasa's office, letting himself in through the panel

 door, and went immediately to unpack the altar chest. Once again he was

 careful to lay out the contents so that it could be repacked in exactly

 the same order. Then he climbed into the chest and lifted the floor

 panels.

 The food he set aside for his evening meal, and he piled the blocks of

 plastic into the blanket. One of the advantages of this explosive was

 that it was inert and could endure the roughest handling.

 Without a detonator, it was completely safe.

 He picked up the four corners of the blanket and slung it over his

 shoulder like a tent bag, and then hurriedly went down to the assembly

 chamber again. He stowed the blanket and its contents under a bench

 where it would escape casual discovery and. went back to the office to

 fetch the tool kit. The third time he descended to the chamber, he

 locked the main doors behind him, so as to be able to work in total

 security.

 He could not risk the noise of using an electric drill. He lay on his

 back beneath the prime minister's bench and began laboriously setting

 the staples into the mahogany above his face, boring the holes with the

 hand drill and then screwing in the threaded staples. He worked

 meticulously, pausing to measure and mark each hole, so it was almost an

 hour before he was ready to start placing the blocks of plastic. He

 arranged them in stacks of five, ten pounds of plastic in each stack,

 and wired them together. Then he wriggled back under the bench and

 secured each stack of five blocks in place. He threaded each tag end of

 wire through the loop of a separate staple and twisted them up tightly,

 then he reached for the next stack of bricks and set that in neatly

 against the last until the entire underside of the bench was lined with

 explosive.

 Then he crawled out and checked his progress. There was a lip of

 mahogany below the leather cushion which completely hid the layer of

 blocks. Even when he squatted down as a person might do to retrieve a

 pen or fallen order paper from under the bench, he could not see a trace

 of his handiwork.

 'That will do,' he murmured, and started to clean up. Meticulously he

 brushed up every speck of sawdust from the drilling and the offcuts of

 wire, then he gathered his tools.

 'Now we can test the transmitter,' he told himself and hurried upstairs

 to Shasa's office.

 He inserted the new torch batteries in the transmitter and checked it.

 The test globe lit up brightly. He switched it off. Next he took the

 radio detonator from its cardboard box and placed the hearing-aid

 battery in its compartment. The detonator was the size of a matchbox,

 made of black bakelite with a small toggle switch at one end. The

 switch had three positions: 'off', 'test' and 'receive'. A thin twist

 of wire prevented the switch accidentally being moved to 'on'.

 Moses switched it to 'test' and laid it on the sofa, then he went to the

 transmitter and flipped the 'on' switch. Immediately the tiny globe at

 one end of the detonator case lit up and there was a loud buzz, like a

 trapped bee inside the casing. It had received the signal from the

 transmitter. Moses switched off the transmitter and the buzz ceased and

 the globe extinguished.

 'Now I must check if it will transmit from here to the assembly

 chamber." He left thee transmitter on and descended once again to the

 chamber. Kneeling beside the prime minister's bench, he held the

 detonator in the palm of his hand and held his breath as he switched it

 to 'test'.

 Nothing happened. He tried it three times more, but it would not

 receive the signal from the office upstairs. Clearly there was too much

 brick and reinforced concrete between the two pieces of equipment.

 'It was going too easily,' he told himself ruefully. 'There had to be a

 snag somewhere,' and he sighed as he took the roll of wire from the tool

 kit. He had wanted to avoid stringing wire from the chamber to the

 office on the second floor; even though the wire was gossamer thin and

 the insulating cover was a matt brown, it would infinitely increase the

 risk of discovery.

 'Nothing else for it,' he consoled himselfi He had already studied the

 electrical wiring plan of the building that Tara had procured from the

 public works department, but he unrolled it and spread it on the bench

 beside him to refresh his memory as he worked.

 There was a wall plug in the panelling behind the back benches of the

 government section. From the plan he saw that the conduit was laid

 behind the panelling and went up the wall into the roof. The diagram

 also showed the main fuse box in the janitor's office opposite the front

 door. The office was locked but he picked the lock without difficulty

 and threw the main switch.

 Then he returned to the chamber, located the wall plug and removed the

 cover, exposing the wiring, and was relieved to find that it was

 colour-coded. That would make the job a lot easier.

 So he left the chamber and went up to the second floor. There was a

 cleaner's cupboard in the men's toilet that contained a step-.

 ladder. The trap door that gave access to the roof was also in the

 men's toilet. He found it and set the step-ladder below it. From the

 top of the ladder he removed the trap door and wriggled up through the

 square opening.

 The space below the roof and the ceiling was dark and smelled of rats.

 He switched on his Penlite and began to pick his way through the forest

 of timber joists and roof posts. The dust had been undisturbed for

 years and rose in a languid cloud around his feel He sneezed and covered

 his mouth and nose with a handkerchief a he went forward carefully,

 stepping from beam to beam, countinl each pace to keep himself

 orientated.

 Above the exposed section of wall that was certainly the top of th rear

 side wall of the chamber, he found the electrical conduits. Thert were

 fifteen of them laid side by side. Some had been there a ion time,

 while others were obviously new additions.

 It took him a while to isolate the conduit that led down to th chamber

 below, but when he unscrewed the joint in it, he recognizec the coded

 wiring of the wall-socket that it contained. His relief was intense. He

 had anticipated a number of problems that he might have encountered at

 this stage, but now it would be a simple matter to get his own wire into

 the roofi He uncoiled the long flexible electrician's spring that he had

 brought from his tools and fed the end of it into the open conduit

 tubing until he felt it encounter resistance. Then he began the tedious

 journey back through the roof, down the step-ladder, along the passage,

 down the staircase and into the chamber.

 He found the end of the electrician's spring protruding from the open

 wall-socket, and he attached the end of the coil of light detonator wire

 to it and laid out the rest of the wire so that it would feed smoothly

 into the conduit when he drew the spring in from the other end.

 Back in the roof he recovered the spring and the end of the wire came up

 with it. Gently he drew in the rest of it, working overhand like a

 fisherman recovering his handline until it came up firmly against the

 knot that held the far end to the bench in the chamber below. He coiled

 the wire neatly and left it, while he returned to the chamber. By this

 time his overalls were filthy with dust and cobwebs.

 He untied the loose end .of the wire from the bench and laid it out on

 the floor, leading it to the 'pack of plastic explosive under the front

 bench, making certain he had given himself sufficient slack.

 Then he worked carefully to conceal' the exposed wire from casual

 detection. He threaded it under the green wall-to-wall carpeting and

 stapled it securely to the underside of the government benches. He

 filed a notch in the enamelled metal plate that covered the wallsocket

 and laid the wire into it while he screwed the cover back into place.

 Then he went carefully over the floor and carpet to make certain he had

 left no trace of his work. Apart from the few inches of unobtrusive

 wire protruding from the wall socket, there was nothing to betray his

 preparations and he sat on Dr Verwoerd's bench to rest for a few minutes

 before beginning the final phase. He returned upstairs.

 The most difficult and frustrating part of the entire job was placing

 himself in the roof directly above Shasa's office. Three times he had

 to climb down the ladder into the toilet and then pace out the angles of

 the passages and the exact location of the office suite before once more

 climbing back into the ceiling and attempting to follow the same route

 through the dust and the roof timbers.

 Finally he was sure he was in the correct position and gingerly he bored

 a small hole through the ceiling between his feet. Light came up

 through the hole, but even when he knelt and placed his eye to the

 aperture, it was too small to see what lay below. He enlarged it

 slightly, but he still could see nothing, and yet again he had to make

 the journey back to the trap door and along the passage to Shasa's

 office.

 Immediately he let himself into the office he saw that he had misjudged.

 The hole he had bored through the ceiling was directly above the desk,

 and in enlarging it he had cracked the plaster and dislodged a few

 fragments which had fallen on to the desk top. He realized that this

 could be a serious mistake. The hole was not large, but the network of

 hair cracks around it would be apparent to anyone studying the ceiling.

 He thought about trying to cover or repair the damage, .but knew that he

 would only aggravate it. He brushed the white crumbs of plaster off the

 desk, but this was all he could do. He would have to take comfort in

 the unlikelihood that anybody would look at the ceiling, and even if

 they did, that they would think nothing of the minute blemish. Angrily

 aware of his mistake, he did what he should have done originally and

 bored the next hole from below, standing on one of the bookshelves to

 reach the ceiling. Between the window drapes and the edge of the

 bookshelves, the hole was almost invisible to any but the most

 painstaking inspection. He went up into the roof and paid the end of

 the wire down through the second hole. When he returned to the office

 he found it dangling down the wall, the end of it lying in a tangle on

 the carpet in the'corner.

 He gathered and coiled the end and tucked it carefully behind the row of

 Encyclopaedia Britannica on the top shelf and then arranged the window

 drapes to cover the two or three inches that were visible protruding

 from the puncture in the ceiling. Once again he cleaned up, going over

 the shelf and floor for the last speck of plaster, and then, still not

 satisfied, returning to the desk. Another tiny crumb of white plaster

 had fallen and he wetted his finger with saliva and picked it up. Then

 he polished the desk top with his sleeve.

 He left the office through the panel door, and went back over everything

 he had done. He closed the trap door in the roof of the toilet and

 brushed up the dust that he had dislodged. He replaced the cleaner's

 ladder in the closet and then returned for the last time to the chamber.

 At last he was ready to wire up the detonator. He removed the wire

 safety device and switched the detonator on. He bored a hole in the

 soft centre block of explosive and placed the detonator into it.

 He taped it firmly in place, and then scraped the last inch of

 insulation from the gleaming copper wire and screwed that into the

 connector in the end of the black cylindrical detonator and crawled out

 from under the bench.

 He gathered up his tools, made one last thorough check for any tell-tale

 evidence, and then satisfied at last, he left the chamber, locking the

 main doors behind him and carefully polishing his sweaty fingerprints

 from the gleaming brass. Then he let himself into the janitor's office

 and switched on the current at the mains.

 He retreated up the stairs for the last time and locked himself in

 Shasa's office before he checked his wristwatch. It was almost half

 past four. It had taken him all day, but he had worked with special

 care and he was well satisfied as he slumped down on the sofa. The

 strain on his nerves and the unremitting need for total concentration

 had been more wearying than any physical endeavour.

 He rested awhile before repacking the altar chest. He stuffed his dirty

 overalls into the empty explosives compartment and placed the

 transmitter on top of them where he could reach it quickly. It would be

 a few minutes' work to retrieve it, connect it to the loose wire that

 was concealed behind the row of encyclopaedia, close the circuit and

 fire the detonator in the chamber below. He had calculated that Shasa's

 office was far enough from the centre of the blast, and that there were

 sufficient walls and cast concrete slabs between to cushion the effects

 of the explosion and ensure his own survival, but the chamber itself

 would be totally devastated. A good day's work indeed, and as the light

 in the room faded, he settled down on the sofa and pulled the blanket up

 over his shoulders.

 At dawn he roused himself and made one last check of the office,

 glancing ruefully up at the insignificant spider-web of cracks in the

 ceiling. He gathered up his packages, then he let himself out through

 the panel door and went to the men's toilet.

 He washed and shaved in one of the basins. Tara had provided a razor

 and hand towel in the packet of food. Then he donned his chauffeur's

 jacket and cap and locked himself in one of the toilets.

 He could not wait in Shasa's office for Tricia would come in at nine

 o'clock, nor could he leave until the House activity was in full swing

 and he could pass out through the front doors unremarked.

 He sat on the toilet seat and waited. At nine o'clock he heard

 footsteps passing down the passage. Then somebody came in and used the

 cubicle next to his, grunting and farting noisily. At intervals over

 the next hour men came in, singly or in groups, to use the basins and

 urinals. However, in the middle of the morning there was a tull. Moses

 stood up, gathered his parcels, braced himself, let himself out of the

 cubicle, and briskly crossed to the door into the passage.

 The passageway was empty and he started towards the head of the

 staircase, and then halfway there he chilled with horror and checked in

 mid-stride.

 Two men came up the stairs, and into the passageway, directly towards

 Moses. Walking side by side, they were in earnest conversation and the

 shorter and elder of the two was gesticulating and grimacing with the

 vehemence of his explanation. The younger taller man beside him was

 listening intently, and his single eye gleamed with suppressed

 amusement.

 Moses forced himself to walk on to meet them, and his expression fixed

 into that dumb patient mould with which the African conceals all emotion

 in the presence of his white master. As they approached each other,

 Moses stepped respectfully aside to let the two of them pass. He did not

 look directly at Shasa Courtney's face, but let his eyes slide by

 without making contact.

 As they came level, Shasa burst out laughing at what his companion had

 told him.

 'The silly old ass!" he exclaimed, and he glanced sideways at Moses.

 His laughter checked and a puzzled frown creased his forehead.

 Moses thought he was going to stop, but his companion seized his sleeve.

 'Wait for the best bit - she wouldn't give him his pants until he --' he

 led Shasa on towards his own office, and without looking back or

 quickening his pace, Moses went on down the staircase and out through

 the front doors.

 The Chev was parked in the lot at the top of the lane where he expected

 it to be. Moses placed his parcels in the back and then went round to

 the driver's door. As he slid in behind the steering-wheel, Tara leaned

 forward from the back seat and whispered: 'Oh thank God, I was so

 worried about you." The arrival of Harold Macmillan and his entourage in

 Cape Town engendered real excitement and anticipation, not only in the

 mother city but throughout the entire country.

 The British prime minister was on the final leg of an extensive journey

 down the length of Africa where he had visited each of the British

 colonies and members of the Commonwealth on the continent, of which

 South Africa was the largest and richest and most prosperous.

 His arrival meant different things for different sections of the white

 population. For the English-speaking community it was an affirmation of

 the close ties and deep commitment that they felt towards the old

 country. It reinforced the secure sense of being part of the wider body

 of the Commonwealth, and the certain knowledge that there still existed

 between their two countries, who had stood solidly beside each other for

 a century and more through terrible wars and economic crises, a bond of

 blood and suffering hat could never be eroded. It gave them an

 opportunity to reaffirm their loyal devotion to the queen.

 For the Nationalist Afrikaners it meant something entirely different.

 They had fought two wars against the British crown, and though many

 Afrikaners had volunteered to fight beside Britain in two other wars -

 Delville Wood and El Alamein were only part of their battle honours -

 many others, including most members of the Nationalist cabinet, had

 vehemently opposed the declarations of war against Kaiser Wilhelm and

 Adolf Hitler. The Nationalist cabinet included members who had actively

 fought against the Union of South Africa's war efforts under Jan Smuts,

 and many now high in government, men like Manfred De La Rey, had been

 members of the Ossewa Brandwag. To these men the British prime

 minister's visit was an acknowledgement of their sovereign rights and

 their importance as rulers of the most advanced and prosperous nation on

 the continent of Africa.

 During his stay Harold Macmillan was a guest at Groote Schuur the

 official residence of the South African prime minister, and the climax

 of his visit was to be an tddress to both houses of the legislature of

 the Union of South Africa, the Senate and the House of Assembly, sitting

 together. On the evening of his arrival in Cape Town, the British prime

 minister was to be the guest of honour at a private dinner party to meet

 the ministers of Dr Verwoerd's cabinet, the leaders of the opposition

 United Party and other dignitaries.

 Tara hated these official functions with a passion, but Shasa was

 insistent. 'Part of our bargain, my dear. The invitation is

 specifically for Mr and Mrs, and you promised not to make an ass of me

 in public." In the end she even wore her diamonds, something she had not

 done in years, and Shasa was appreciative and complimentary.

 'You really are a corker when you take the trouble to spruce up like

 that,' he told her, but she was silent and distracted on the drive

 around the southern slope of Table Mountain to Groote Schuur.

 'Something is worrying you,' Shasa said as he steered the Rolls with one

 hand and lit a cigarette with his gold Ronson lighter.

 'No,' she denied quickly. 'Just the prospect of saying the right things

 to a room full of strangers." The true reason for her concern was a long

 way from that. Three hours previously, while Moses drove her back from

 a meeting of the executive of the Women's Institute, he had told her

 quietly, 'The date and the time has been set." He did not have to

 elaborate. Since she had picked him up outside the Parliament House

 just after ten o'clock the previous Monday, Tara he been haunted night

 and day by her terrible secret knowledge. 'When?" she whispered.

 'During the Englishman's speech,' he said simply, and Tara winced.

 The logic of it was diabolical.

 'Both houses sitting together,' Moses went on. 'All of them, all the

 slave-masters and the Englishman who is their accomplice and their

 protector. They will die together. It will be an explosion that will

 be heard in every corner of our world." Beside her Shasa snapped the cap

 of the Ronson and snuffed out the flame. 'It won't be all that

 unpleasant. I've arranged with protocol that you will be Lord

 Littleton's dinner partner - you get on rather well with him, don't

 you?" 'I didn't know he was here,' Tara said vaguely. This conversation

 seemed so petty and pointless in the face of the holocaust which she

 knew was coming.

 'Special adviser on trade and finance to the British government." Shasa

 slowed the Rolls and lowered his side window as he turned into the main

 gates of Groote Schuur and joined the line of limousines that were

 moving slowly down the driveway. He showed his invitation to the

 captain of the guard and received a respectful salute.

 'Good evening, Minister. Please go straight on down to the front

 entrance." Groote schuur was high Dutch for 'The Great Barn'. It had

 once been the home of Cecil John Rhodes, empire builder and adventurer,

 who had used it as his residence while he was prime minister of the old

 Cape Colony before the act of Union in 1910 had united the separate

 provinces into the present Union of South Africa. Rhodes had left the

 huge house, restored after it was destroyed by fire, to the nation. It

 was a massive and graceless building, reflecting Rhodes' confessed taste

 for the barbaric, a mixture of different styles of architecture all of

 which Tara found offensive.

 Yet the view from the lower slopes of Table Mountain out ov the Cape

 Flats was spectacular, a field of lights spreading out to tl dark

 silhouette of the mountains that rose against the moonbrigl sky. Tonight

 the bustle and excitement seemed to rejuvenate t ponderous edifice.

 Every window blazed with light and the uniformed footmen wei meeting the

 guests as they alighted from their limousines an ushering them up the

 broad front steps to join the reception line i the entrance lobby. Prime

 Minister Verwoerd and his wife Betsi were at the head of the line, but

 Tara was more interested in thei guest.

 She was surprised by Macmillan's height, almost as tall as Ver woerd,

 and by the close resemblance he bore to all the cartoons she had seen of

 him. The tufts of hair above his ears, the horsy teeth an› the scrubby

 mustache. His handshake was firm and dry and hi, voice as he greeted

 her was soft and plummy, and then she and Shasa had passed on into the

 main drawing-room where the other dinner guests were assembling.

 There was Lord Littleton coming to her, still wearing the genteelly

 shabby dinner jacket, the watered silk of: the lapels tinged with the

 verdigris of age, but his smile was alight with genuine pleasure.

 'Well, my dear, your presence makes the evening an occasion for me!" He

 kissed Tara's cheek and then turned to Shasa. 'Must tell you of our

 recent travels across Africa - fascinating,' and th three of them were

 chatting animatedly.

 Tara's forebodings were for the moment forgotten, as she exclaimed,

 'Now, Milord, you cannot hold up the Congo as being typical of emerging

 Africa. Left to his own devices, Patrice Lumumba would be an example of

 what a black leader--' 'Lumumba is a rogue, and a convicted felon. Now

 Tshombe--' Shasa interrupted her and Tara rounded on him, 'Tshombe is a

 stooge and a Quisling, a puppet of Belgian colonialism." 'At least he

 isn't eating the opposition like Lumumba's lads are,' Littleton

 interjected mildly, and Tara turned back to him with the battle light in

 her eyes.

 'That isn't worthy of somebody--' she broke off with an effort.

 Her orders were to avoid radical arguments and to maintain her role as a

 dutiful establishment wife.

 'Oh, it's so boring,' she said. 'Let's talk about the London theatre.

 What is on at the moment?" 'Well, just before I left I saw The

 Caretaker, Pinter's new piece,' Littleton accepted the diversion, and

 Shasa glanced across the room.

 Manfred De La Rey was watching him with those intense pale eyes, and as

 he caught Shasa's eye he inclined his head sharply.

 'Excuse me a moment,' Shasa murmured, but Littleton and Tara were so

 occupied with each other that they barely noticed him move away and join

 Manfred and his statuesque German wife.

 Manfred always seemed ill at ease in tails, and the starched wing collar

 of his dress shirt bit into his thick neck and left a vivid red mark on

 the skin.

 'So, my friend,' he teased Shasa. 'The dagoes from South America

 thrashed you at your horse games, hey?" Shasa's smile slipped a

 fraction. 'Eight to six is hardly a massacre,' he protested, but

 Manfred was not interested in his defence.

 He took Shasa's arm and leaned closer to him, still smiling jovially as

 he said, 'There is some nasty work going on." 'Ah!" Shasa smiled easily

 and nodded encouragement.

 'Macmillan has refused to show Doctor Henk a copy of the speech he is

 going to deliver tomorrow." 'Ah!" This time Shasa had difficulty in

 maintaining the smile. If this was a fact, then the British prime

 minister was guilty of a flagrant breach of etiquette. It was common

 courtesy for him to allow Verwoerd to study his text so as to be able to

 prepare a reply.

 'It's going to be an important speech,' Manfred went on.

 'Yes,' Shasa agreed. 'Maud returned to London to consult with him and

 help him draw it up, they must have been polishing it up since then."

 Sir John Maud was the British high commissioner to South Africa.

 For him to be summoned to London underlined the gravity of the

 situation.

 'You are friendly with Littleton,' Manfred said quietly. 'See if you

 can get anything out of him, even a hint as to what Macmillan is going

 to do." 'I doubt he knows much,' Shasa was still smiling for the benefit

 of anybody watching them. 'But I'll let you know if I can find out

 anything." The dinner was served on the magnificent East India Company

 service, but was the usual bland and tepid offering of the civil service

 chefs whom Shasa was certain had served their apprenticeship on the

 railways. The white wines were sweet and insipid, but the red was a

 1951 Weltevreden Cabernet Sauvignon. Shasa had influenced the choice by

 making a gift of his own cru for the banquet, and he judged it the equal

 of all but the very best Bordeaux. It was a pity that the white was so

 woefully bad. There was no reason for it, they had the climate and the

 soil. Weltevreden had always concentrated on the red but he made a

 resolution to improve his own production of whites, even if it meant

 bringing in another wine-master from Germany or France and buying

 another vineyard on the Stellenbosch side of the peninsula.

 The speeches were mercifully short and inconsequential, a brief welcome

 from Verwoerd and a short appreciation from Macmillan, and the

 conversation at Shasa's end of the table never rose above such

 earth-shaking subjects as their recent defeat by the Argentinians on the

 polo field, Denis Compton's batting form and Stirling Moss' latest

 victory in the Mille Miglia. But as soon as the banquet ended Shasa

 sought out Littleton who was still with Tara, drawing out the pleasure

 of her company to the last.

 'Looking forward to tomorrow,' he told Littleton casually. 'I hear your

 Super Mac is going to give us some fireworks." 'Wherever did you hear

 that?" Littleton asked, but Shasa saw the sudden shift of his gaze and

 the guarded expression that froze his smile.

 'Can we have a word?" Shasa asked quietly, and apologized to Tara.

 'Excuse me, my dear." He took Littleton's elbow and chatting amicably

 steered him through the glass doors on to the paved stoep under the

 trellised vines.

 'What is going on, Peter?" He lowered his voice. 'Isn't there anything

 you can, tell me?" Their relationship was intimate and of long standing;

 such a direct appeal could not be ignored.

 'I will be frank with you, Shasa,' Littleton said. 'Mac has something

 up his sleeve. I don't know what it is, but he is planning on creating

 a sensation. The press at home have been put on the alert.

 It's going to be a major policy statement, that is my best guess." 'Will

 it alter things between us - preferential trade, for instance?" Shasa

 demanded.

 'Trade?" Littleton chuckled. 'Of course not, nothing alters trade.

 More than that I can't tell you. We will all have to wait for

 tomorrow." Neither Tara nor Shasa spoke on the drive back to

 W.eltevreden until the Rolls passed beneath the Anreith gateway and then

 Tara asked, her voice strained and jerky, 'What time is Macmillan making

 his speech tomorrow?" 'The special session will begin at eleven

 o'clock,' Shasa replied,' but he was still thinking of what Littleton

 had told him.

 'I wanted to be in the visitors' gallery. I asked Tricia to get me a

 ticket." 'Oh, the session isn't being held in the chamber - not enough

 seating. It will be in the dining-room and I don't think they will

 allow visitors --' he broke off and stared at her. In the reflected

 light of the headlamps she had gone deathly pale. 'What is it, Tara?"

 'The dining-room,' she breathed. 'Are you sure?" 'Of course I am. Is

 something wrong, my dear?" 'Yes - no! Nothing is wrong. Just a little

 heartburn, the dinner--' 'Pretty awful,' he agreed, and returned his

 attention to the road.

 'The dining-room,' she thought, in near panic. 'I have to warn Moses. I

 have to warn him it cannot be tomorrow - all his arrangements will have

 been made for the escape. I have to let him know." Shasa dropped her at

 the front doors of the chiteau and took the Rolls down to the garages.

 When he came back, she was in the blue drawing-room and the servants,

 who had as usual waited up for their return, were serving hot chocolate

 and biscuits. Shasa's valet helped him change into a maroon velvet

 smoking-jacket, and the housemaids hovered anxiously until Shasa

 dismissed them.

 Tara had always opposed this custom. 'I could easily warm up the milk

 myself and you could put on a jacket without having another grown man to

 help you,' she complained when the servants had left the room. 'It's

 feudal and cruel to keep them up until all hours." 'Nonsense, my dear."

 Shasa poured himself a cognac to go with his chocolate. 'It's a

 tradition they value as much i3s we do - makes them feel indispensable

 and part of the family. Be'sides, chef would have a seizure if you were

 to mess with his kitchen." Then he slumped into his favourite armchair

 and became unusually serious. He began to talk to her as he had at the

 beginning of their marr4age when they had still been in accord.

 'There is something afoot that I don't like. Here we stand at the

 opening of a new decade, the 1960s. We have had nearly twelve years of

 Nationalist rule and none of my direst predictions have come to pass,

 but I feel a sense of unease. I have the feeling that our tide has been

 at full flood, but the turn is coming. I think that tomorrow may be the

 day when the ebb sets in --' he broke off, and grinned shamefacedly.

 'Forgive me. As you know, I don't usually indulge in fantasy,' he said

 and sipped his chocolate and his cognac in silence.

 Tara felt not the least sympathy for him. There was so much she wanted

 to say, so many recriminations to lay upon him, but she could not trust

 herself to speak. Once she began, she might lose control and divulge

 too much. She might not be able to prevent herself gloating on the

 dreadful retribution that awaited him and all those like him, and she

 did not want to prolong this tte-a-tdte, she wanted to be free to go to

 Moses, to warn him that today was not the day he had planned for.

 So she rose. 'You know how I feel, we don't have to discuss it. I'm

 going to bed. Excuse me." 'Yes, of course." He stood up courteously.

 'I'll be working for the next few hours. I have to go over my notes for

 my meeting with Littleton and his team tomorrow afternoon, so don't

 worry about me." Tara checked that Isabella was in her room and asleep,

 before went to her suite and locked the door. She changed out of her lc

 dress and jewellery into jeans and a dark sweater, then she made

 cannabis cigarette and while she smoked it, she waited fifteen minu by

 her watch for Shasa to settle down to his work. Then she switch off her

 lights. She dropped the cigarette butt into the toilet a: flushed it

 away, before she let herself into the passage once ago locking her suite

 against the unlikely chance that Shasa might cot up to look for her.

 Then she went down the back stairs.

 As she crossed the wide stoep, keeping against the wall, staying the

 shadows and moving silently, a telephone rang in the libra wing and she

 froze involuntarily, her heart jarring her ribs. Then s] realized that

 the telephone must be Shasa's private line, and she w, about to move on,

 when she heard his voice. Although the curtail were drawn› the windows

 of his study were open and she could s.

 the shadow of his head against the drapes.

 'Kitty!" he said. 'Kitty Godolphin, you little witch. I should ha

 guessed that you'd be here." The name startled Tara, and brought back

 harrowing memorie but she could not resist the temptation to creep

 closer to the curtaine window.

 'You always follow the smell of blood, don't you?" Shasa said, an

 chuckled at her reply.

 'Where are you? The Nellie." The Mount Nelson was simply th best hotel

 in Cape Town. 'And what are you doing now - I meal right this moment?

 Yes, I know it's two o'clock in the morning, bu any time is a good time

 - you told me that yourself a long time ago It will take me half an hour

 to get there. Whatever else you do, don' start without me." He hung up

 and she saw his shadow on the curtaiI as he stood up from his desk.

 She ran to the end of the long stoep and jumped down into th hydrangea

 bed and crouched'in the bushes. Within a few minute, Shasa came out of

 the side door. He had a dark overcoat over his smoking-jacket. He went

 down to the garages and drove away in the Jaguar. Even in his haste he

 drove slowly through the vineyards so as not to blow dust on his

 precious grapes, and, watching the headlights disappear, Tara hated him

 as much as she ever had. She thought that she should have grown

 accustomed to his philandering, but he was like a torn cat in rut - no

 woman was safe from him, and his moral outrage against Sean, his own

 son, for the same behaviour, had been ludicrous.

 Kitty Godolphin - she cast her mind back to their first meeting and the

 television reporter's reaction to the mention of Shasa's name and now

 the reason for it became clear.

 'Oh God, I hate him so. He is totally without conscience or pity.

 He deserves to die!" She said it aloud, and then clapped her hand over

 her mouth. 'I shouldn't have said it, but it is true! He deserves to

 die and I deserve to be free of him - free to go to Moses and my child."

 She rose out of the hydrangea bushes, brushed the clinging soil from her

 jeans and crossed the lawns quickly. The moon was in its first quarter,

 but bright enough to throw her shadow in front of her, and she entered

 the vineyard with relief and hurried down the rows of vines that were

 heavy with leaf and grape. She skirted the winery and the stables and

 reached the servants' cottages.

 She had placed Moses in the room at the end of the second row of

 cottages and his window faced out on to the vineyard. She tapped on his

 window and his response was almost immediate; she knew he slept as

 lightly as a wild cat. 'It's me,' she whispered.

 'Wait,' he said. 'I will open the door." He loomed in the doorway,

 naked except for a pair of white shorts, and his body shone in the

 moonlight like wet tar.

 'You are foolish to come here,' he said, and taking her arm drew her

 into the single room. 'You are putting everything at risk." 'Moses,

 please, listen to me. I had to tell you. It cannot be tomorrow." He

 stared at her contemptuously. 'You were never a true daughter of the

 revolution." 'No, no, I am true, and I love you enough to do anything,

 but they have changed the arrangements. They will not use the chamber

 where you have set the charge. They will meet in the parliamentary

 dining-room." He stared at her a second longer, then he turned and went

 to the narrow built-in cupboard at the head of his bed and began to

 dress in his uniform.

 'What are you going to dot she asked.

 'I have to warn the others - they also are in danger." 'What others'?."

 she asked.  'I did not know there were others." 'You know only what you

 have to know,' he told her curtly. 'I must use the Chev - is it safe?"

 'Yes, Shasa is not here. He has gone out. Can I come with you."?" 'Are

 you mad?" he asked. 'If the police find a black man and a white woman

 together at this time of night--' he did not finish the sentence. 'You

 must go back to the house and make a phone call.

 Here is the number. A woman will answer, and you will say only "Cheetah

 is coming - he will be there in thirty minutes." That is all you will

 say and then you will hang up." Moses threaded the Chev through the maze

 of narrow streets c District Six, the old Malay quarter. During the day

 this was colourful and thriving community of small stores and

 businesse..

 General dealers and tailors and tinsmiths and halaal butcherk occupied

 the ground-floor shops of the decrepit Victorian building while from the

 cast-iron fretwork of the open balconies above him a festival of drying

 laundry, and the convoluted streets were clarr.

 orous with the cries of street vendors, the mournful horns of itinerar

 fishmongers and the laughter of children.

 At nightfall the traders shuttered their premises and left the streel to

 the street gangs and the pimps and the prostitutes. Some of th more

 daring white revellers came here late at night, to listen to th jazz

 players in the crowded shebeens or to look for a pretty coloure, girl -

 more for the thrill of danger and discovery than for any physJ cal

 gratification.

 Moses parked the Chev in a dark side street. On the wall were th

 graffiti that declared this the territory of the Rude Boys, one of th

 most notorious of the street gangs, and he waited only a few second

 before the first gang member materialized out of the shadows, all urchin

 with the body of a child and the face of a vicious old man.

 'Look after it well,' Moses flipped him a silver shilling. 'If th tyres

 are slashed when I come back, I'll do the same for your back side." The

 child grinned at him evilly.

 He climbed the dark and narrow staircase to the Vortex Club. t couple

 on the landing were copulating furtively but furiously agains the wall

 as Moses squeezed past. The white man turned his fac away but he never

 missed a beat.

 At the door to the club somebody studied him briefly through th peephole

 and then let him enter. The long crowded room was haz with tobacco

 smoke and the sweet smell of cannabis. The clientel included the full

 spectrum from gang members in zoot suits an( wide ties to white men in

 dinNer-jackets. Only the women were all coloured.

 Dollar Brand 'and his Quartet were playing a sweet soulful jaz and

 everybody was still and attentive. Nobody even looked up a Moses

 slipped down the side wall to the door at the far end, but th man

 guarding it recognized Moses and stood aside for him to enter In the

 backroom there was only one man sitting at a rounc gambling table under

 a green shaded light. There was a cigarette smouldering between his

 fingers, and his face was pale as putty, hi, eyes implacable dark pits.

 'You are foolhardy to call a meeting now,' said Joe Cicero, 'with.

 out good reason. All the preparations have been made. There is nothing

 more to discuss." 'I have good reason,' said Moses, and sat down on the

 empty chair, facing him across the baize-covered table.

 Joe Cicero listened without expression, but when Moses finished, he

 pushed the lank hair off his forehead with the back of his hand.

 Moses had learned to interpret that gesture as one of agitation.

 'We cannot dismantle the escape route and then set it up again later.

 These things take time to arrange. The aircraft is already in

 position." It was an Aztec chartered from a company in Johannesburg, and

 the pilot was a lecturer in political philosophy at Witwatersrand

 University, the holder of a private pilot's licence and a secret member

 of the South African Communist Party.

 'How long can he wait at the rendezvous?" Moses asked, and Cicero

 thought about it a moment.

 'A week at the longest,' he replied.

 The rendezvous was an unregistered airstrip on a large droughtstricken

 ranch in Namaqualand which was lying derelict, abandoned by the

 discouraged owner. From the airfield it was a four-hour flight to

 Bechuanaland, the British protectorate that lay against the northwestern

 .border of the Union of South Africa. Sanctuary had been arranged for

 Moses there, the beginning of the pipeline by which most political

 fugitives were channelled to the north.

 'A week must be enough,' Moses said. 'Every hour increases the danger.

 At the very first occasion that we can be sure Verwoerd will take his

 seat again, I will do it." It was four o'clock in the morning before

 Moses left the Vortex Club and went down to where he had parked the

 Chev.

 Kitty Godolphin sat in the centre of the bed, naked and crosslegged with

 all the shameless candour of a child.

 In the years Shasa had known her, she had changed very little

 physically. Her body had matured slightly, her breasts had more weight

 to them and the tips had darkened. He could no longer make out the rack

 of her ribs beneath the smooth pale skin, but her buttocks were still

 lean as a boy's and her limbs coltishly long and slim.

 Nor had she lost the air of guileless innocence, that aura of eternal

 youth which so contrasted with the cynical hardness of her gaze. She

 was telling him about the Congo. She had been there for the last five

 months and the material she had filmed would surely put her in line for

 her third Emmy and confirm her position as the most successful

 television journalist on the American networks. She was speaking in the

 breathless voice of an ingdnue.

 'They caught these three Simba agents and tried them under th mango

 trees outside the burnt-out hospital, but by the time they ha sentenced

 them to death, the light was too bad for filming. I gave th commander

 my Rolex watch, and in return he postponed the executions until the sun

 was up the next morning so that Hank could filr It was the most

 incredible footage. The next morning they paraded th condemned men

 naked through the market-place and the local wome bargained for the

 various parts of their bodies. The Baluba have always been cannibals.

 When they had sold all three of them, they too] them down to the river

 and shot them, in the head, of course, so a not to damage the meat, and

 they butchered them there on the rive bank and the women queued up to

 claim their portions." She wa trying to shock him, and it irritated

 Shasa that she had succeeded.

 'Where do you stand, my love?" he asked bitterly. 'One day yol are

 sympathetically interviewing Martin Luther King, and the nex you are

 portraying all the grossest savagery of Africa." She laughed, that

 throaty chuckle that always roused him. 'Ant the very next day I am

 recording the British imperialist makin bargains with your gang of bully

 boys while you stand with a loo on the neck of your slaves." 'Damn it,

 Kitty. What are you - what are you trying to do?" 'Capture reality,'

 she told him simply.

 And when reality doesn't conform to your view of it, you bribe somebody

 with a Rolex watch to alter it." 'I've made you mad." She laughed

 delightedly, and he stood UlC from the bed and crossed to where he had

 thrown his clothes ovel the back of the chair. 'You look like a little

 boy when you sulk,' she called after him.

 'It will be light in an hour. I have to get back home and change,' he

 said. 'I've got an appointment with my Imperialist slave-masters at

 eleven." 'Of course, you've got to be there to hear Supermac tell you

 how much he wants to buy your gold and diamonds - and he doesll't care

 whether they are dripping with the sweat and blood--' 'All right,

 sweetness,' he cut her off. 'That's enough for one night." He stepped

 into his trousers, and as he tucked in his shirt, he grinned at her.

 'Why do I always pick screaming radical females?" 'You like the

 stimulation,' she suggested, but he shook his head, and reached for the

 velvet smoking-jacket.

 'I prefer the loving - talking of which, when will I see you again?"

 'Why, at eleven o'clock at the houses of parliament, of course.

 I'll try to get you in the shot, you are so photogenic, darling." He

 went to the bed and stooped over her to kiss that angelic smile on her

 lips. 'I can never understand what I see in you,' he said.

 He was still thinking of her as he went down to the hotel carpark and

 wiped the dew off the windshield of the Jaguar. It was amazing how she

 had been able so effortlessly to hold his interest over all these years.

 No other woman, except Tara, had ever done that. It was silly how good

 he felt when he had been with her. She could still drive him wild with

 erotic desire, her tricks still worked on him, and afterwards he felt

 elated and wonderfully alive - and, yes, he enjoyed arguing with her.

 'God, I haven't closed my eyes all night, yet I feel like a Derby

 winner. I wonder if I am still in love with the little bitch." He took

 the Jaguar down the long palm-lined drive from the Mount Nelson Hotel.

 Considering the proposition and recalling his proposal of marriage and

 her outright rejection, he went out through the hotel gates and took the

 main road that skirted the old Malay quarter of District Six. He

 resisted the temptation to shoot the red of the traffic lights at the

 foot of Roeland Street. It was highly unlikely there would be other

 traffic at this time of the morning, but he braked dutifully and was

 startled when another vehicle shot out of the narrow cross street and

 turned in front of his bonnet.

 It was a sea-green Chevrolet station wagon, and he didn't have to check

 the number plate to know that it was Tara's. The headlights of the

 Jaguar shone into the cab of the Chev and for an instant he had a full

 view of the driver. It was Tara's new chauffeur. He had seen him twice

 before, once at Weltevreden and once in the House of Assembly, but this

 time the driver was bare-headed and Shasa could see the full shape of

 his head.

 As he had on both the previous occasions, Shasa had a strong sense of

 recognition. He had definitely met or known this man before, but the

 memory was eroded by time and quickly extinguished by his annoyance. The

 chauffeur was not permitted to use the Chev for his own private

 purposes, and yet here he was in the small hours of the morning driving

 around as though the vehicle belonged to him.

 The Chev pulled away swiftly. The chauffeur had obviously recognized

 Shasa and the speed was proof of his guilt. Shasa's first instinct was

 to give chase and confront the man, but the traffic light was still red

 against him and while he waited for it to change, he had time to

 reflect. He was in too good a mood to spoil it with unpleasantness,

 besides which any confrontation at four in the morning would be

 undignified, and would inevitably lead to questions about his own

 presence at the same hour on the fringes of the city's notorious

 redlight area. There would be a better time and place to deal with the

 driver, and Shasa let him go, but he had neither forgiven nor forgotten.

 Shasa parked the Jaguar in the garage at Weltevreden, and the green Chev

 was in its place at the end of the line of cars, betwee Garry's MG and

 Shasa's customized Land-Rover. As he passed i he laid his hand on the

 bonnet of the Chev and it was still hot, t metal ticking softly as it

 cooled. He nodded with satisfaction an went on up to the house, amused

 by the necessity to creep up to hid own suite like a burglar.

 He still felt light and happy at breakfast and he hummed as loaded his

 plate with eggs and bacon from the silver chafing dish o the sideboard.

 He was the first one down but Garry was only minute behind him.

 'The boss should always be the first man on the job, and tl last man off

 it,' he had taught Garry, and the boy had taken it t heart. 'No, no

 longer boy." Shasa corrected himself, as he studie Garry. His son was

 only an inch shorter than he was, but wid across the shoulders and

 heavier in the chest. Down the full lengt of the corridor Shasa had

 often heard him grunting over his hody building weights. Even though he

 had just shaved, Garry's jaw wa blue with beard that by evening would

 need the razor again, an despite the Brylcreem his hair was already

 springing up in unrul spikes.

 He sat down beside Shasa, took a mouthful of his omelette an,

 immediately began talking shop. 'He just isn't up to the job an more,

 Pater. We need a younger man in that position, especiall with all the

 extra responsibility of the Silver River Mine coming o: stream." 'He has

 been with us twenty years, Garry,' Shasa said mildly.

 'I'm not suggesting we shoot him, Dad. Just let him take his re

 tirement. He is almost seventy." 'Retirement will kill him." 'If he

 stays it will kill us." 'All right,' Shasa sighed. Garry was right, of

 course, the man hal outlived his usefulness. 'But I, will speak to him

 personally." 'Thanks, Dad." Garry's spectacles gleamed victoriously.

 'Talking about the Silver River Mine, I have arranged for you to begin

 your stint up there just as soon as you have written your sup.

 Garry spent more time at Centaine House than in his lecture room at

 business school. As a consequence, he was carrying one subjec for his

 Bachelor's degree in Commerce. He would write the supple mentary

 examination the following week and Shasa was sending bin up to work on

 the Silver River Mine for a year or two.

 'After all, it has taken over from the old H'am now as th Company

 flagship. I want you to move more and more into th centre of things."

 He saw the glow of anticipation behind Garry'..

 spectacles.

 'Oh boy, am I looking forward to really starting work, after bashing the

 books all these dreary years." Michael came bursting breathlessly into

 the dining-room. 'Thank goodness, Pater, I thought I had missed you."

 'Slow down, Mickey,' Shasa cautioned him. 'You'll burst a blood vessel.

 Have some breakfast." 'I'm not hungry this morning." Michael sat down

 opposite his father. 'I wanted to talk to you." 'Well, open fire then,'

 Shasa invited.

 'Not here,' Michael demurred. 'I rather hoped we could talk in the gun

 room,' and all three of them looked grave. The gun room was only used

 on the most portentous occasions, and a request for a meeting in the gun

 room was not to be taken lightly.

 Shasa glanced at his watch. 'Mickey, Harold Macmillan is addressing

 both houses--' 'I know, Pater, but this won't take long. Please, sir."

 The fact that Michael was calling him 'sir' underlined the seriousness

 of the request, but Shasa resented the deliberate timing.

 Whenever Michael wanted to raise a contentious issue, he did so when

 Shasa's opportunity to respond was severely curtailed. The lad was as

 devious as his mother, whose child he indubitably was, spiritually as

 well as physically.

 'Ten minutes, then,' Shasa agreed reluctantly. 'Will you excuse us

 please, Garry?" Shasa led the way down the passage and locked the

 gun-room door behind them.

 'Very well." He took his usual place in front of the fireplace. 'What is

 it, my boy?" 'I've got a job, Dad." Michael was breathless again.

 'A job. Yes, I know you have a part-time job as local stringer for the

 Mail. I enjoyed your report on the polo - in fact you read it to me.

 Very good it was,' Shasa grinned, 'all five lines of it." 'No, sir, I've

 got a full-time job. I spoke to the editor of the Mail and they have

 offered me a job as a cub reporter. I start the first of next month."

 Shasa's grin faded into a scowl. 'Damn it, Mickey. You can't be

 serious - what about your education? You have two more years to go at

 university." 'I am serious, sir. I will get my education on the paper."

 'No,' Shasa raised his voice. 'No, I forbid it. I won't have you

 leaving university before you are capped." 'I'm sorry, sir. I've made up

 my mind." Michael was pale and trembling, yet he had that obstinate set

 expression that infuriated $hasa even more than the words - but he

 controlled himself.

 'You know the rules,' Shasa said. 'I've made them clear to all of you.

 If you do things my way, there is no limit to the help I will giv you.

 If you go your own way, then you are on your own --' he too a breath,

 and then said it, surprised at how painful it was '-- like Sean." God,

 how he still missed his eldest son.

 'Yes, sir,' Michael nodded. 'I know the rules." 'Well?" 'I have to do

 it, Sir. There is nothing else I want to do with my lif I want to learn

 to write. I don't want to go against you, Pater, but simply have to do

 it." 'This is your mother's doing,' Shasa said coldly. 'She has put yo

 up to this,' he accused, and Michael looked sheepish.

 'Mater knows about it,' he admitted, 'but it's my decision aloin sir."

 'You understand that you will be forfeiting my support? You' not

 receive another penny from me once you leave this hous You'll have to

 live on the salary of a cub reporter." 'I understand, sir,' Michael

 nodded.

 'All right, then, Michael. Off you go,' he said, and Michael looke.

 stunned.

 'Is that all, sir?" 'Unless you have some other announcement to make."

 'No, sir." Michael's shoulders slumped. 'Except that I love yo very

 much, Pater, and I appreciate all that you have done for me." 'You

 have,' said Shasa, 'a most peculiar way of demonstratin that

 appreciation, if you don't mind me saying so." He went to th door.

 He was halfway into the city, racing the Jaguar down the the highway

 between the university and Groote Schuur, before he re covered from his

 affront at Michael's disloyalty, for that is how Shas saw his son's

 decision. Now suddenly he began to think about news papers again.

 Publicly he had always disparaged the strange suicida impulse that

 gripped so manysuccessful men in their middle years t, own their own

 newspaper. It was notoriously difficult to milk a reason able profit

 from a newspaper, but in secret Shasa had felt th sneaking temptation to

 indulge in the same rich man's folly.

 'Not much profit,' he mused aloud, 'but the power! To be able t,

 influence the minds of people!" In South Africa the English press was

 hysterically anti-government, while the Afrikaans press was fawningly

 and abjectly the slav of the National Party. A thinking man could trust

 neither.

 'What about an English-language paper that was aimed at th, business

 community and politically uncommitted,' he wondered, a he had before.

 'What if I were to buy one of the smaller weake papers and build it up?

 After the Silver River Mine's next dividend i declared, we are going to

 be sitting on a pile of money." Then he grinned. 'I must be getting

 senile, but at least I'll be able to guarantee a job for my drop-out

 journalist son!" And the idea of Michael as editor of a large

 influential newspaper had an increasing appeal, the longer he thought

 about it. Still, I wish the little blighter would get himself a decent

 education first,' he grumbled, but he had almost forgiven him for his

 treachery by the time he parked the Jaguar in the parking area reserved

 for cabinet ministers. 'Of course, I'll keep him on a decent

 allowance,' he decided. 'That threat was just a little bluff." A sense

 of excited expectation gripped the House as Shasa went up the stairs to

 the front entrance. The lobby was crowded with senators and members of

 parliament. The knots of dark-suited men formed and dissolved and

 re-formed, in the intricate play of political cross-currents that

 fascinated Shasa. As an insider he could read the significance of who

 was talking to whom and why.

 It took him almost twenty minutes to reach the foot of the staircase for

 as one of the prime actors he was drawn inexorably into the subtle

 theatre of power and favour. At last he escaped and with only minutes

 to spare hurried up the stairs and down the passage to his suite.

 Tricia was hovering anxiously. 'Oh, Mr Courtney, everybody is looking

 for you. Lord Littleton telephoned and the prime minister's secretary

 left a message." She was reading from her pad as she followed him into

 the inner office.

 'Try to get the PM's secretary first, then Lord Littleton." Shasa sat at

 his desk, and frowned as he noticed some chalky white specks on his

 blotter. He brushed them away irritably, and would have given Tricia an

 order to speak to the cleaners, but she was still reading from her pad

 and he had less than an hour to tackle the main items on her list before

 the joint sitting began.

 He dealt with the queries that Verwoerd's secretary had for him.

 The answers were in his head and he did not have to refer to anybody in

 his department - and then Littleton was on the line. He wanted to

 discuss an addition to the agenda for their meeting that afternoon, and

 once they had agreed that, Shasa asked tactfully, 'Have you found out

 anything about the speeches this morning?" 'Afraid not, old man. I'm as

 much in the dark as you are." As Shasa reached across the desk to

 replace the receiver, he noticed another white speck of chalk on his

 blotter that had not been there a minute before; he was about to brush

 that away also, when he paused and looked up to see where it had come

 from. This time he scowled as he saw the small hole in his ceiling and

 the hair-line cracks around it. He pressed the switch on his intercom.

 'Tricia, please come in here a moment." When she stood in the doorway,

 he pointed at the ceiling. 'What do you make of that?" Tricia looked

 mystified and came to stand beside his chair. They both peered at the

 damage.

 'Oh, I know,' Tricia looked relieved, 'but I'm not supposed to tell

 you." 'Spit it out, woman!" Shasa ordered.

 'Your wife, Mrs Courtney, said she was planning some renovations to your

 office as a surprise. I suppose she has asked Maintenance to do the

 work for her." 'Damn!" Shasa didn't like surprises which interfered with

 the comfortable tenor of his existence. He liked his office the way it

 was and he didn't want anybody, particularly anyone of Tara's avant

 garde taste, interfering with something that worked extremely well as it

 was.

 'I think she is planning to change the curtains also,' Tricia added

 innocently. She didn't like Tara Courtney. She considered her shallow,

 insincere and scheming. She didn't approve of her disrespectful

 attitude to Shasa, and she wasn't above sowing a few seeds of

 dissension. If Shasa were free, there was just a chance, a very small

 and remote chance that he might see her clearly and realize just how

 much she, Tricia, felt for him, 'And she was talking about altering the

 light fittings,' she added.

 Shasa jumped up from his desk and went to touch his curtains. He and

 Centaine had studied at least a hundred samples of fabric before

 choosing this one. Protectively he rearranged the drapes, and then he

 noticed the second hole in the ceiling and the thin insulated wire that

 protruded from it. He had difficulty controlling his fury in front of

 his secretary.

 'You get on to Maintenance,' he instructed. 'Talk to Odendaal himself,

 not one of his workmen, and you tell him I want to know exactly what is

 going on. Tell him whatever it is, it's damned shoddy workmanship and

 that there is plaster all over my desk." Tll do that this morning,'

 Tricia promised, and then, placatingly, 'It's ten minutes to, Mr

 Courtney - you don't want to be late." Manfred De La Rey was just

 leaving his own office as Shasa came down'the passage, and they fell in

 side by side.

 'Have you found out anything?" 'No - have you?" Manfred shook his head.

 'It's too late anyway- nothing we can do now." Shasa saw Blaine

 Malcomess at the door of the dining-room and went to greet him. They

 filed into the panelled dining-room together.

 'How is Mater?" 'Centaine is fine - looking forward to seeing you for

 dinner tomorrow evening." Centaine was holding a dinner party in

 Littleton's honour out at Rhodes Hill. 'I left her giving the chef a

 nervous breakdown." They laughed together and then found their seats in

 the front row of chairs. As minister and deputy leader of the

 opposition, they both warranted reserved seats.

 Shasa swivelled in his seat and looked to the back of the large hall

 where the press cameras had been set up. He picked out Kitty Godolphin,

 looking tiny and girlish beside her camera crew, and she winked at him

 mischievously. Then the two prime ministers were taking their places at

 the top table and Shasa leaned across to Manfred De La Rey and murmured,

 'I hope this isn't all a boo-ha over nothing - and that Supermac has

 really got something of interest to tell us." Manfred shrugged. 'Let's

 hope it isn't too exciting either,' he said.

 'Sometimes it's safer to be bored --' but he broke off as the Speaker of

 the House called for silence and rose to introduce the prime minister of

 Great Britain and the packed room, filled with the most powerful men in

 the land, settled into attentive and expectant silence.

 Even when Macmillan, tall and urbane and strangely benign in expression,

 rose to his feet, Shasa had no sense of being at the anvil while history

 was being forged and he crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his

 chin in the attitude of listening and concentration in which he followed

 all debate and argument.

 Macmillan spoke in an unemotional voice, but with weight and lucidity,

 and his text had all the indications of having been carefully prepared,

 meticulously polished and rehearsed.

 'The most striking of all the impressions I have formed since I left

 London a month ago,' he said, 'is the strength of this African national

 consciousness. In different places it may take different forms, but it

 is happening everywhere.  The wind of change is blowing through the

 continent. Whether we like it or not, this growth of national

 consciousness is a political fact. We must all accept it as a fact. Our

 national policies must take account of it." Shasa sat up straight and

 unfolded his arms, and around him there was a similar stirring of

 incredulity. It was only then that Shasa realized with a clairvoyant

 flash that the world he knew had altered its shape, that in the fabric

 of life that had held together their diverse nation for almost three

 hundred years, the first rent had been torn by a few simple words, a

 rent that could never be repaired. While he attempted to grasp the full

 extent of the damage, Macmillan was going on in those plummy measured

 tones.

 'Of course, you understand this as well as anyone. You are sprung from

 Europe, the home of nationalism." Cunningly, Macmillan was including

 them in his new sweeping view of Africa. 'Indeed, in the history of our

 times yours will be recorded as the first of the African nationalisms."

 Shasa glanced at Verwoerd beside the British prime minister and he could

 see that he was agitated and alarmed. He had been caught unawares by

 Macmillan's stratagem of withholding his text from him.

 'As a fellow member of the Commonwealth, it is our earnest desire to

 give South Africa our support and encouragement, but I hope you won't

 mind me saying frankly that there are some aspects of your policies

 which make it impossible for us to do this without being false to our

 own deep convictions about the political destinies of free men."

 Macmillan was announcing nothing less than a parting of ways and Shasa

 was devastated by the idea. He wanted to leap to his feet and shout,

 'But I am British also - you cannot do this to us." He looked around him

 almost pleadingly and saw his own deep distress echoed on the faces of

 Blaine and most of the other English members of the House.

 Macmillan's words had devastated them.

 Shasa's mood persisted over the remainder of that day and the next. The

 atmosphere at the meetings with Littleton and his advisers was one of

 mourning, and though Littleton himself was apologetic and conciliatory,

 they all knew that the damage was real and irreparable. The fact was

 undeniable. Britain was dropping them. She might go on trading with

 them, but at arm's length. Britain had chosen sides.

 Late on the Friday a special session of the House was announced for the

 following Monday, when Verwoerd would make his accounting to his

 parliament and his people. They had the weekend to brood over their

 fate. Mactnillan's speech even cast a shadow over Centaine's dinner

 party on the Friday evening, and Centaine took it as a personal insult.

 The man's timing is atrocious,' she confided to Shasa. 'The day before

 my party! Perfidious Albion!" 'You French have never trusted the

 British,' Shasa teased her, his first attempt at humour in forty-eight

 hours.

 'Now I know why,' Centaine retorted. 'Look at the man - typically

 English. He hides expediency in a cloak of high moral indignation.

 He does what is best for England and makes himself a saint while he does

 it." It was left for Blaine Malcomess to sum up after the women had left

 the men to their port and cigars in Rhodes Hill's magnificent

 dining-room.

 'Why are we so incredulous?" he asked. 'Why do we feel it so impossible

 that Britain would reject us, simply because we fought two wars for

 her?" He shook his head. 'No, the caravan moves on and so must we. We

 must ignore the gloating of the London press, we must ignore their

 delight in this unprecedented rebuke and repudiation of all of us, the

 Nationalists and those that strenuously oppose them. From now on we will

 be increasingly alone, and we must learn to stand on our own feet."

 Shasa nodded. 'Macmillan's speech was a huge political gain for

 Verwoerd. There is only one way for us to go now. The bridge has been

 chopped down behind us. No retreat is possible. We have to go along

 with Verwoerd. South Africa will be a republic before the year is out,

 mark my words, and after that --' Shasa drew on his cigar while he

 considered '-- and after that only God and the Devil know for certain."

 'At times it seems that God and fate take a direct hand in our petty

 affairs,' Tara said softly. 'But for a tiny detail, the choice of the

 dining-room rather than the chamber, we might have destroyed the man who

 had brought us a message of hope." 'For once it does seem that your

 Christian God favours us." Moses watched her in the driving-mirror as he

 drove the Chevrolet through the Monday rush hour traffic. 'Our timing

 has been perfect. At the moment when the British Government, supported

 by the British press and the nation, has recognized our rights, the

 political destinies of free men, as Macmillan put it, we will deliver

 our first hard blow for the promised freedom." 'I am afraid, Moses,

 afraid for you and for all of us." 'The time for fear has passed,' he

 told her. 'Now is the time for courage and resolution, for it is not

 oppression and slavery that breeds revolution. The lesson is clear.

 Revolution rises out of the promise of better things. For three hundred

 years we have borne oppression in weary resignation, but now this

 Englishman has shown us a glimpse of the future and it is golden with

 promise. He has given our people hope, and after today, after we have

 struck down the most evil man in Africa's dark and tormented history,

 when Verwoerd is dead, the future will at last belong to us." He had

 spoken softly, but with that peculiar intensity that made her blood

 thrill through her veins and pound in her eardrums. She felt the

 elation, but also the sorrow and the fear.

 'Many men will die with him,' she whispered. 'My father. Is there no

 way he can be spared, Moses?" He did not reply, but she saw the

 reflection of his gaze in the mirror and she could not bear the scorn.

 She dropped her own eyes and murmured.

 'I'm sorry - I will be strong. I will not speak of it again." But her

 mind was racing. There must be some way to keep her father out of the

 chamber at'the fateful moment, but it would have to be compelling. As

 deputy leader of the opposition, he must attend such solemn business as

 Verwoerd's speech. Moses disturbed her thoughts. 'I want you to repeat

 your duties to me,' he said.

 'We have gone over it so often,' she protested weakly.

 'There must be no misunderstanding." His tone was fierce. 'Do as I tell

 you." 'Once the House is in session - so that we are certain Shasa will

 not intercept us - we will go up to his suite in the usual way,' she

 began, and he nodded confirmation as she went over the arrangements,

 correcting her when she omitted a detail. 'I will leave the office at

 exactly ten-thirty and go to the visitors' gallery. We must be certain

 that Verwoerd is there." 'Do you have your pass?" 'Yes." Tara opened her

 handbag and showed him. 'As soon as Verwoerd rises to begin his

 address, I will return to the office, using the panel door. By that

 time you will have --' her voice faltered.

 'Go on,' he ordered harshly.

 'You will have connected the detonator. I will confirm that Verwoerd is

 in his seat, and you will --' again her voice dried up.

 'I will do what has to be done,' he finished for her and then went on,

 'After the explosion there will be a period of total panic and confusion

 - with enormous damage to the ground floor. There will be no control,

 no organized police or security effort. That period will last

 sufficiently long for us to go downstairs and leave the building

 unchallenged, just as rn'ost other survivors will be doing." 'When you

 leave the country, can I come with you, Moses?" she pleaded.

 'No." He shook his head firmly. 'I must travel swiftly and you would

 impede us and put us in danger. You will be safer here. It will only

 be for a short time. After the assassination of the white slavemasters,

 our people will rise. The young comrades of Umkhonto we Sizwe are in

 position and ready to call the nation to revolution.

 Millions of our people will spontaneously fill the streets. When they

 have seized the power, I will return. Then you will have a place of

 high honour by my side." It was amazing how naYvely she accepted his

 assurances, he thought grimly. Only a besotted woman could doubt that

 afterwards the security police would take her away, and her

 interrogation would be brutal. It did not matter. It did not matter if

 they tried and hanged her. Her husband would be dead with Verwoerd and

 Tara Courtney's usefulness would be at an end. One day when the

 people's democratic government of the African National Congress ruled

 the land, they would name a street or a square after her, the white

 woman martyr, but now she was expendable.

 'Give me your promise, Moses,' she begged him.

 His voice was a deep reassuring rumble. 'You have done well, everything

 I have required of you. You and your son will have a place at my side

 just as soon as that is possible. I give you my promise." 'Oh Moses, I

 love you,' she whispered. 'I shall always love you." Then she sat back

 in her seat and adopted the role of cool white madam, as Moses turned

 the Chevrolet out of Parliament Lane into the members' carpark and the

 constable at the gate saw the sticker on the windshield and saluted

 respectfully.

 Moses parked in the reserved bay and switched off the engine.

 They had fifteen minutes to wait before the House went into session.

 'Ten minutes to, Mr Courtney,' Tricia called Shasa on the intercom.

 'You had better start going down, if you don't want to miss the opening

 of the PM's speech." 'Thank you, Tricia." Shasa had been totally

 absorbed with his own work. Verwoerd had asked him to draw up a full

 report on the country's ability to respond to an embargo on sales of

 military equipment to South Africa by her erstwhile western allies.

 Apparently Macmillan had hinted at this possibility to Verwoerd, a

 veiled threat in private conversation just before his departure.

 Verwoerd wanted the report before the month's end, which was typical of

 the man, and Shasa would have difficulty meeting that deadline.

 'Oh, by the way, Mr Courtney,' Tricia stopped him breaking off the

 connection. 'I spoke to Odendaal." 'OdendaalT It took Shasa a moment to

 make the mental switch.

 'Yes, about the work on your ceiling." 'Oh, I hope you gave him a flea

 in the ear. What did he say?" 'He says there has been no work done in

 your office, and no request from your wife or anybody else for rewiring

 of any kind." 'That's decidedly odd,' Shasa looked up at the damage,

 'because somebody has definitely been fiddling around in here. If it

 wasn't Odendaal, then have you any idea who it might be, Tr, icia?" 'No,

 Mr Courtney." Nobody been in here to your knowledge?" Shasa insisted.

 'Nobody, sir, except of course your wife and her driver." 'All right,

 thank you, Tricia." Shasa stood up and fetched his jacket from the dumb

 valet in the corner. While he shrugged into it, he studied the hole

 above his desk and the length of wire that had been drawn out of the

 corner beside the bookcase and the end tucked behind the row of

 encyclopaedias. Until Tricia mentioned it, he had forgotten his

 irritation in the face of other more dire considerations, but now he

 thought about the little mystery with full attention.

 He crossed to the mirror and while he reshaped the knot of his tie and

 adjusted his black eye-patch, he pondered the additional enigma of

 Tara's new chauffeur. Tricia's remark had reminded him of it. He still

 hadn't taken the man to task for his unauthorized private use of the

 Chev. 'Damn - where have I seen him before?" he wondered, and with one

 last glance at the ceiling, he left the office. He was still thinking

 about the driver as he went down the corridor. Manfred De La Rey was

 waiting for him at the head of the stairs. He was smiling and quietly

 triumphant, and Shasa realized that he had not spoken to him in private

 since, the shock of Macmillan's speech.

 'So,' Manfred greeted him, 'Britannia has cut the apron strings, my

 friend." 'Do you remember how once you called me Soutpiel?" Shasa asked.

 'Ja." Manfred chuckled. '"Salt Prick" - with one foot in Cape Town and

 the other in London and the best part of you dangling in the Atlantic

 Ocean. Ja, I remember." 'Well, from now on I will have both feet in

 Cape Town,' Shasa told him. It was not until that moment, when the fact

 of Britain's rejection had sunk in, that Shasa realized for the first

 time that above all other things he was first and foremost a South

 African.

 'Good,' Manfred nodded. 'So ,at last you understand that although we

 may not always like each other or agree, circumstances have made us

 brothers in this land. One cannot survive without the .other, and in

 the end we have only each other to turn to." They went down into the

 chamber and took their seats on the green leather benches, side by side.

 When the Assembly rose to pray, to ask God's blessing on their

 deliberations, Shasa looked across the floor at Blaine Malcomess and

 felt a familiar rush of affection for him. Silver-haired but tanned and

 handsome with those protruding ears and big strong nose, Blaine had been

 a tower in his life for as long as he cared to remember. In his new

 mood of patriotism - and, yes, of defiance of Britain's rejection - he

 was glad of the knowledge that this would draw them still closer

 together. It would narrow the political differences between them, just

 as it had brought Afrikaner and Englishman closer.

 As the prayer ended, he sat down and turned his attention to Dr Hendrik

 Frensch Verwoerd as he rose to make his address. Verwoerd was a strong

 articulate speaker and a brilliant debater. His address was sure to be

 long and carefully reasoned. Shasa knew they were in for fine

 entertainment and he crossed his arms, leaned against the padded back

 rest with anticipation and closed his eyes.

 Then before Verwoerd could say his first word, Shasa opened his eyes and

 sat up straight on his bench. In that moment when he had cleared his

 mind of all recent worry, while he was relaxed and receptive, the

 ancient memory had flashed in upon him - full blown.

 He remembered where and when he had last seen Tara's new chauffeur.

 'Moses Gama,' he said aloud, but his words were lost in the applause

 that greeted the prime minister.

 Tara gave the doorman at the main entrance to parliament a cheery smile,

 and was surprised at herself. She felt cocooned in a layer of

 unreality, as though she watched an actress playing her role.

 She heard the muffled applause from the chamber as she swept up the

 stairs with Moses following her at a respectful distance in his

 chauffeur's uniform and burdened by an armful of parcels. They had done

 this so often, and Tara smiled again as they passed one of the

 secretaries in the corridor. She tapped on the door to Shasa's suite

 and without waiting for an answer swept into the outer office. Tricia

 rose from her desk.

 'Oh, good morning, Mrs Courtney. You'll be late for the PM's address.

 You'd better hurry." 'Stephen, you can just leave the parcels." Tara

 stopped in front of Tricia as Moses closed the outer door.

 'Oh, by the way. Somebody has been working on the ceiling of your

 husband's office,' Tricia came around the desk, as though to lead the

 way to Shasa's office. 'We wondered if you knew anything --' Moses

 placed the armful of parcels on a chair, and with his hands free turned

 to Tricia as she came level with him. He whipped one arm around her

 neck and with his other hand covered her mouth.

 Tricia was powerless in his grip, but her eyes flew wide with shock.

 'There are ropes and a gag in the top packet,' Moses spoke softly to

 Tara. 'Get them." Tara stood paralysed. 'You said nothing about this,'

 she blurted.

 'Get them." His voice was still low, but it crackled with impatience and

 Tara sprang to obey.

 'Tie her hands behind her,' Moses ordered, and while Tara fumbled at the

 knots, he stuffed a clean, white, folded cloth into the terrified girl's

 mouth and taped it in place.

 'Stay in here,' he ordered Tara, 'in case somebody comes in,' and he

 bundled Tricia through into the inner office and forced her down on her

 stomach behind the desk. Swiftly he checked Tara's knots.

 They were loose and sloppy. He retied them and then bound Tricia's

 ankles as securely.

 'Come in here,' he called, and Tara was flustered and stammering as she

 rushed in.

 'Moses, you haven't hurt her?" 'Stop that!" he told her. 'You have

 important work to do and you are behaving like a hysterical child." She

 closed her eyes, clenched her fists and took a deep breath.

 'I'm sorry." She opened her eyes. 'I realize that it was necessary. I

 didn't think. I am all right now." Moses had already crossed to the

 corner of the bookshelf and he reached up and brought down the roll of

 wire from behind the encyclopaedias. He paid it out across the carpet

 as he moved back to the desk.

 'Good,' he said. 'Now go to your seat in the gallery. Wait five

 minutes after Verwoerd begins to speak and then come back here. Do not

 run, do not even hurry. Do everything calmly and deliberately." 'I

 understand." Tara crossed to the mirror and opened her handbag. Quickly

 she ran a comb through her hair and retouched her lipstick.

 Moses had gone to the altar chest and lifted the heavy bronze Bushman

 statue. He placed it on the carpet and lifted the lid of the chest.

 Tara hesitated, watching him anxiously.

 'Why are you waiting'?." he asked. 'Go, woman, and do your duty." 'Yes,

 Moses." She hurried to the door of the outer office.

 'Lock both doors behind you,' he ordered.

 'Yes, Moses,' she whispered.

 As Tara went down the corridor, she was searching in her handbag again,

 and she found her leather-bound notepad with the miniature gold-plated

 pencil in the spine loops. At the head of the stairs she paused, and

 used the banisters to steady the notepad while she scribbled hastily on

 a blank page.

 Daddy, Centaine has been seriously injured in a motorcar accident.

 She is asking for you. Please come quickly.

 Tara She tore the page out of the notebook and folded it. It was the

 one appeal to which she knew her father would respond and she wrote his

 name on the folded note.

 Instead of going directly to the visitors' gallery, she hurried down the

 wide staircase into the lobby and ran to one of the uniformed

 parliamentary messengers who was standing outside the main doors to the

 chamber.

 bYou have to get this message to Colonel Malcomess,' she told lien.

 'I don't like to go in now, Dr Verwoerd is speaking,' the messenger

 demurred, but she thrust the note into his hand.

 It's terribly urgent,' she pleaded and her distress was evident. 'His

 wife is dying. Please - please." Tll do what I can." The messenger

 accepted the note, and Tara ran back up the stairs. She showed her pass

 to the doorman at the entrance to the visitors' gallery and squeezed

 past him.

 The gallery was crowded. Somebody had taken Tara's seat, but she edged

 forward and craned to look down into the chamber. Dr Verwoerd was on

 his feet, talking in Afrikaans. His silvery curls were neatly cropped

 and his eyes slitted with concentration as he used both hands to

 emphasize his words.

 'The question that this person from Britain put to us was not addressed

 to the South African monarchists, nor was it addressed to the South

 African republicans. It was to all of us that he spoke." Verwoerd

 paused. 'The question he asked was simply this. Does the white man

 survive in Africa or does he perish?" He had electrified the chamber.

 There was not a movement nor a shift of eyes from his face - until the

 uniformed parliamentary messenger slipped unobtrusively down the front

 row of opposition benches and stopped beside Blaine.

 Even then he had to touch Blaine's shoulder to draw his attention, and

 Blaine accepted the note without seeming to realize what he was doing.

 He nodded at the messenger, and, with the folded scrap of paper unread

 in his fingers, once more focused all his attention on Verwoerd where he

 stood below the Speaker's throne.

 'Read it, Daddy? Tara whispered aloud. 'Please read it." In all that

 multitude Shasa was the only one who was not mesmerized by Verwoerd's

 oratory. His thoughts were a jumbled torrent, one racing after another,

 overtaking and mingling as they followed without logical sequence.

 'Moses Gama." It was scarcely believable that the memory had taken so

 long to return to him, even over the years and in spite o changes that

 time had wrought in both of them. They had once beer good friends, and

 the man had made a deep impression on Shasa a a formative period of his

 life.

 Then again, Shasa had heard the name much more recently, it hoc been on

 the list of wanted revolutionaries during the 1952 troubles.

 While the others, Mandela and Sobukwe and the rest, had stood trial,

 Moses Gama had disappeared, and the warrant for his arrest was

 outstanding. Moses Gama was still a criminal at large, and a dangerous

 revolutionary.

 'Tara.t' His mind darted aside. She had selected Gama as her chauffeur

 and, given her political leanings, it was impossible that she didn't

 know who he was. Suddenly Shasa knew that Tara's meek repudiation of

 her previous left-wing companions and her new conciliatory behaviour had

 all been a sham. She had not changed at all. This man Moses Gama was

 more dangerous than all and any of her previous effete companions. Shasa

 had been hoodwinked. In fact she must have moved even further to the

 left, crossing the delicate line between legitimate political opposition

 and criminal involvement. Shasa almost rose to his feet, and then

 remembered where he was. Verwoerd was speaking already.

 'The need to do justice to all, does not mean only that the black men

 must be nurtured and protected. It means justice and protection for the

 white men in Africa also --' Shasa glanced up at the visitors' gallery

 and there was a strangersitting in Tara's seat. Where was Tara? She

 must be in his office and the association of ideas led him on. -Moses

 Gama had been in his office. Shasa had seen him in the corridor and

 Tricia had told him, 'Only Mrs Courtney and her driver." Moses Gama had

 been in his office and somebody had drilled the ceiling and laid

 electrical wires. It had not been Odendaal or Maintenance. It hadn't

 been anyone who had authority to do so.

 'We are not newcomers to Africa. Our forefathers were here before the

 first black man,' Verwoerd was saying. 'Three hundred years ago, when

 our ancestors set out into the interior of this land, it was an empty

 wilderness. The black tribes were still far to the north, making their

 way slowly southwards. The land was empty and our forefathers claimed

 it and worked it. Later they built the cities and laid the railways and

 sank the mine-shafts. Alone, the black man was incapable of doing any

 of these things. Even more than the black tribes we are men of Africa

 and our right to be here is as Godgiven and inalienable as is theirs."

 Shasa heard the words but made no sense of them - Moses Gama, probably

 with the help and connivance of Tara, had laid electrical wires in his

 office and - suddenly, he gasped aloud. The altar chest.

 Tara had placed the chest in his office, like the Trojan horse.

 Wild with anxiety now, he swivelled his whole body towards the visitors'

 gallery, and this time he saw Tara. She was squeezed against one wall

 and even at this distance Shasa could see that she was pale and

 distraught. She was watching someone or something on the opposition

 side of the chamber, and Shasa followed her gaze.

 Blaine Malcomess was oblivious of all else as he followed the prime

 minister's speech. Shasa saw the messenger reach him and hand him the

 note.

 Shasa looked back at the gallery and Tara was still concentrated on her

 father. After all the years Shasa could read her expression, and he had

 never seen her so worried and concerned, even when one of the children

 was gravely ill.

 Then her face cleared with patent relief and Shasa glanced back at

 Blaine. He had unfolded the note and was reading it. Suddenly Blaine

 leapt to his feet and hurried towards the main doors.

 Tara had summoned her father - that much was obvious. Shasa stared at

 her, trying to divine her purpose. Almost as though she sensed his

 gaze, Tara looked directly at him, and her relief crumbled into horror

 and wild guilt. She turned and fled from the visitors' gallery, pushing

 aside those who stood in her way.

 A second longer Shasa stared after her. Tara had enticed her father out

 of the chamber, and her concern could only have been so intense had she

 believed he was in some kind of dire danger. This was followed by guilt

 and horror as she realized that Shasa was watching her. It was clear to

 Shasa then that something terrible was about to happen. Moses Gama and

 Tara - there was danger, mortal danger and Tara was trying to save her

 father. The danger was pressing and imminent - the wires in his office,

 the chest, Blaine and Tara and Moses Gama. He knew they were all

 interwoven and that he had little time in which to act.

 Shasa jumped to his feet and strode down the aisle. Verwoerd frowned

 and checked his speech, watching him, while all around the chamber heads

 turned. Shasa quickened his stride. Manfred De La Rey reached out to

 touch him as he passed his bench, but without a glance at him Shasa

 brushed past his outstretched hand and went on.

 As he hurried out into the lobby Shasa saw Blaine Malcomess near the

 front door talking agitatedly to the janitor. As soon as he saw Shasa

 he said, 'Thank God!" and came towards him across the chequered marble

 floor.

 Shasa turned away from him and looked up the staircase. From the top

 Tara stared down at him, white-faced and terrified, held by some

 unnatural passion.

 'Tara!" Shasa called and started towards the foot of the staircase, but

 she whirled and disappeared around the angle of the corridor.

 Shasa flew at the stairs, taking them three at a time.

 'What's happening, Shasa?" Blaine called after him, but Shasa did not

 answer.

 He came out of the staircase still at a run, and as he rounded the

 corner Tara was halfway down the corridor ahead of him. He did not

 waste time by shouting at her, and instead flung himself forward, and

 sprinted after her. As she ran, Tara glanced over her shoulder and saw

 him swiftly overtaking her.

 'Moses!" she screamed. 'Look out, Moses!" It was futile, the panelled

 walls of Shasa's office were too thick and soundproof for her warning to

 reach him, and her cry confirmed all Shasa's worst suspicions.

 Instead of running straight on towards the front door of his suite as

 Shasa expected, Tara jinked suddenly into the side passage, ducking

 under Shasa's outstretched arm and he tried to turn with her but he was

 off balance as she disappeared into his blind spot.

 Shasa ran into the corner of the wall, crashing into it head-first,

 taking it on the brow above his blind eye. The silk patch cushioned the

 impact slightly, but still the skin split and blood poured down his

 cheek. Although he was stunned, Shasa managed to keep his feet.

 He staggered in a full circle, still dazed. Blaine was following him,

 his face flushed with effort and concern as he ran down the corridor.

 What the hell is going on, Shasa?" he roared.

 Shasa turned from him, and saw Tara at the door to the back entrance of

 his office. She had a key, but she was in such a state that her hands

 were shaking too wildly to insert it in the lock.

 Shasa gathered himself, shaking the darkness out of his head, and the

 droplets of his blood splattered the wall beside him. Then he launched

 himself after Tara. She saw him coming and dropped the key, it tinkled

 at her feet, and she clenched her fists and beat with them on the closed

 door.

 'Moses!" she screamed. 'Moses!" As Shasa reached her the door was

 jerked open from the inside, and Moses Gama stood in the threshold. The

 two men confronted each other over Tara's head until Tara ran forward.

 Moses, I tried to warn you,' she screamed and threw both arms around

 him.

 In that instant Shasa looked beyond the pair and saw that the altar

 chest stood open, its contents piled on the carpet. The coil of wire

 that he had found behind the encyclopaedias had been laid across the

 floor to his desk and connected to some kind of compact electrical

 apparatus. Shasa had never seen one before, but he knew instinctively

 that it was a detonation device and that it was ready to fire. On the

 desk top beside it lay an automatic pistol.

 As a firearms enthusiast and collector, he recognized it as a Tokarev

 7.62 men, the standard Russian military issue. On the floor behind his

 desk Tricia lay on her side. She was gagged and bound at wrists and

 ankles, but she was wriggling desperately and giving little muffled

 cries.

 Shasa lunged forward to tackle Moses Gama, but the black man gathered

 Tara in his arms and hurled her into Shasa's chest. The two of them

 reeled backwards against the jamb of the door. Moses spun around and

 leapt to the desk, as Shasa tried to get free of Tara. She was clinging

 to him and moaning. 'No! No! He must do it." Shasa broke her grip and

 flung her aside, but across the room Moses was standing over the

 electrical transmitter. He pressed a switch and a bulb on the panel of

 the casing glared redly.

 Shasa knew that he could not reach Moses across the floor before he

 fired the device, but his mind was racing ahead of his limbs and ( body.

 He saw the wire strung out across the carpet, almost at his feet, and he

 stooped and took a twist of it around his right hand and heaved back

 against it with all his strength.

 The end of the wire was firmly attached to the transmitter, and as Shasa

 hauled on it the device was jerked out of Moses' hands and flew off the

 desk top to clatter across the floor, midway between the two of them.

 They both leapt for it at the same instant, but Moses was by a fraction

 of a second the quickest, and his hands scrabbled on the transmitter.

 Shasa was in full stride, and he did not check. He leaned forward, and

 transferred all the weight and power of his body into his hips, swinging

 his right leg into the kick he aimed at Moses' head.

 The kick caught Moses in the side of the temple, and snapped his head

 over. The transmitter tumbled from his grip and he was flung over

 backwards, rolling until he crashed into the desk.

 Shasa followed him and aimed another flying kick at his head, but Moses

 caught his foot on his raised forearm and seized his ankle. He twisted

 violently, lifting the ankle and Shasa was caught on one foot with his

 weight backwards, and he fell heavily.

 Moses pulled himself up the side of the desk and reached out for the

 Tokarev pistol, and Shasa scrambled after him on hands and knees. As

 Moses swung the pistol around, Shasa lunged at him again and grabbed his

 wrist with both hands. They wrestled over the floor, rolling and

 kicking and grunting, fighting for the Tokarev.

 Tara had recovered and now she ran into the room and picked up the

 fallen transmitter. She stood helplessly with it in her hands.

 'Moses, what must I do?" she cried.

 Moses grunted with a supreme effort as he rolled on top of Shasa.

 'The yellow button. Push the yellow button!" At that instant Blaine

 Malcomess ran in through the open door.

 'Stop her, Blaine!" Shasa yelled. 'They are going to blow --' Moses'

 elbow hit him in the mouth and cut off the words.

 While the two of them still struggled on the floor, Blaine held out both

 hands to his daughter.

 Here, give that to me, Tara." 'Don't touch me, Daddy." She backed away

 from him, but she was trying to locate the yellow button, groping for it

 while she stared at her father. 'Don't try and stop me, Daddy."

 'Blaine,' Shasa gasped, but broke off as Moses attempted once more to

 wrench his pistol arm out of Shasa's grip. The corded black muscles in

 Moses' arm bulged and writhed with the effort, and Shasa made a choking

 sound in his throat as he tried to hold him.

 The muzzle blast of the pistol lit the room like a flash bulb and there

 was the immediate sharp stink of burnt powder.

 Blaine Malcomess, his arms outstretched towards Tara, spun around as the

 bullet hit him and he went reeling into the bookcase.

 He stood there for a moment with the blood starting to spread in a dark

 tide down the front of his white shirt and then he sagged slowly on to

 his knees.

 'Daddy!" Tara dropped the transmitter and ran to him. She fell on her

 knees beside him.

 Shock had weakened Shasa's grip for an instant and Moses twisted free

 and jumped to his feet, but as he lunged for the transmitter, Shasa was

 after him. He caught Moses from behind as he stooped over the

 transmitter and with one arm around his throat pulled him away from it.

 In his efforts to break the throttling grip, Moses dropped the pistol

 and clawed at Shasa's arm with both hands. They grappled wildly,

 twisting and grunting, and the transmitter lay at their feet.

 Shasa shifted his weight, lifted one foot and drove his heel into the

 panel of the transmitter, the panel crackled as it was stove in, but the

 red bulb still burned.

 Moses was galvanized to fresh effort by the damage to the transmitter,

 and he almost tore himself free of Shasa's grip, twisting to face him,

 but Shasa put out all his strength and they stood chest to chest,

 gasping and heaving, spittle and sweat and droplets of blood from

 Shasa's head wound smearing both their faces.

 Again Shasa had him off balance for a moment, and he aimed another kick

 at the transmitter. He landed solidly and it went skidding across the

 floor and crashed into the wall beyond the desk.

 The plastic case split open at the impact, the wire tore loose from the

 terminal and the red bulb flickered and then extinguished.

 Moses gave a wild despairing cry and sent Shasa flying backwards over

 the desk. As he lay sprawled across the desk top, Moses scooped up the

 pistol from the carpet and staggered to the open doorway.

 There he turned and raised the Tokarev and aimed at Shasa.

 'You!" he gasped. 'You!" but his hands were shaking and the pistol

 wavered. He fired and the bullet thudded into the desk top beside

 Shasa's head, tearing up a blur of splinters.

 Before Moses could fire again, Manfred De Le Rey bulked in the doorway

 behind him. He had seen Shasa's agitation and followed him up from the

 chamber.

 He took in the situation at first glance, and he reacted instantly.

 He swung the big hard fist that had won him an Olympic gold medal, and

 it crashed into the side of Moses Gama's neck below the ear.

 The pistol fell from Moses' hand and he toppled forward unconscious on

 top of it.

 ( .

 Shasa dragged himself off the desk and tottered across to Blaine.

 'Here,' he whispered, as he dropped to his knees beside him. 'Let me

 have a look." Tara was blubbering incoherently. 'Daddy, I'm sorry. I

 didn't mean this to happen. I only did what I thought was right." Shasa

 tried to pull her away, but she clung to Blaine, blood on her hands and

 down the front of her dress.

 'Let him alone,' Shasa said, but she was hysterical now, and tugged at

 her father so that his head jerked from side to side loosely.

 'Daddy, speak to me, Daddy." Shasa leaned back and slapped her hard,

 knocking her head across.

 'Leave him, you murderous bitch,' he hissed at her, and she crawled away

 from him, her face beginning to redden and swell from the blow. Shasa

 ignored her and gently opened the jacket of Blaine's dark suit.

 Shasa was a hunter, and he recognized the bright clear colour of

 arterial blood seething with tiny bubbles from the torn lungs. 'No,' he

 whispered. 'Please, no!" Only then he realized that Blaine was watching

 his face, reading in it his own death.

 'Your mother --' he said, and the wind of his lungs puffed through the

 bullet hole in his chest. 'Tell Centaine --' he could nol go on.

 'Don't talk,' Shasa said. 'We will get a doctor." He shouted ovel his

 shoulder at Manfred who was already on the telephone, 'Hurry, man.

 Hurry!" But Blaine gripped his sleeve, tugging it urgently. 'Love --'

 he choked on his own blood. 'Tell her - love - tell her I love her." He

 got it out at last, and panted as the blood gurgled in his chest - and

 then he gathered himself for his last great effort.

 'Shasa,' he said. 'Shasa, my son - my only son." The noble silver head

 fell forward, and Shasa held it to his chest, hugging him as he had

 never been able to before.

 Then still holding him, Shasa wept for the man who had been his friend

 and his father. The tears squeezed out of his empty eyesocket and

 trickled from under the silk eye-patch down his face to mingle with his

 own blood and drip from his chin.

 When Tara crawled forward on her knees, and reached out to touch her

 father's corpse, Shasa lifted his head and looked at her.

 'Don't touch him,' he said softly. 'Don't you dare soil him with your

 touch." There was such a look in his single eye, such contempt and

 hatred in his face, that she recoiled from him and covered her face with

 both hands. Still on her knees, she began to sob hysterically.

 The sound of it rallied Shasa. Gently he laid Blaine on his back and

 closed his eyes with his fingertips.

 In the doorway Moses groaned and shuddered, and Manfred slammed the

 telephone back on its cradle and crossed to him. He stood over him,

 with those huge fists clenched and asked, 'Who is he?" 'Moses Gama."

 Shasa stood up, and Manfred grunted.

 'So, we have been looking for him for years. What was he doing?" 'I'm

 not sure." Shasa went to where Tricia lay and stooped over her. 'But I

 think he has laid explosives somewhere in the House.

 That is the transmitter. We'd better clear the place and have the army

 bomb disposal --' He didn't have to finish, for at that moment there was

 the sound of running men in the corridor and three of the security

 guards burst into the suite.

 Manfred took over immediately, snapping orders at them. 'Get the

 handcuffs on that black bastard." He pointed at Moses. 'And then I want

 the building cleared." Shasa freed Tricia, leaving the gag until last,

 but the instant her mouth was clear Tricia pointed at Tara where she

 still knelt sobbing beside Blaine's corpse.

 'She --' Shasa did not let her finish. He seized her wrist and jerked

 Tricia to her feet.

 'Quiet!" he snarled at her, and his fury silenced the girl for a moment.

 He dragged her through into the outer office and closed the door.

 'Listen to me, Tricia." He faced her, still holding both her wrists.

 'But she was with him." Tricia was trembling. 'It was her --' 'Listen

 to me." Shasa shook her into silence. 'I know. I know all about it.

 But I want you to do something for me. Something for which I will

 always be grateful. Will you do it?" Tricia sobered and stared at him.

 She saw the blood and the tears on his face and thought her heart might

 break for him. Shasa took the handkerchief from his top pocket and

 wiped his face.

 'For me, Tricia. Please,' he repeated and she gulped noisily and

 nodded.

 'If I can,' she agreed.

 'Don't say anything about my wife's part in this until the police take a

 formal statement from you. That won't be until much later.

 Then you can tell them everything." 'Why?" she asked.

 'For me and for my children. Please Tricia." Again she nodded and he

 kissed her forehead. 'You are a good brave girl,' he said and left her.

 He went back into the inner office. The security police were grouped

 around Moses Gama. He was manacled but he lifted his head and stared at

 Shasa for a moment. It was a smouldering gaze, dark and filled with

 outrage. Then they led him away.

 The office was crowded and noisy. White-uniformed ambulance attendants

 were bringing a stretcher through the doorway. A doctor, a member of

 parliament summoned from the chamber, was working over Blaine as he lay

 on his back, but now he stood up, shook his head and gestured at the

 stretcher bearers to take Blaine's body. The uniformed guards,

 supervised by Manfred De La Rey, were already gathering up the pieces of

 the smashed transmitter and beginning to trace the wire to its source.

 Tara was sitting in the chair behind his desk, weeping silently into her

 halads. Shasa went past her to the wall safe hidden behind one of the

 paintings.

 He tumbled the combination and swung open the steel door, screening it

 with his own body. Shasa always kept two or three thousand pounds in

 banknotes against an emergency. He stuffed the wads into his pockets,

 and then quickly he sorted through the stack of family passports until

 he found Tara's. He relocked the safe, went to where she sat and pulled

 her to her feet. 'Shasa, I didn't--' 'Keep quiet,' he hissed at her,

 and Manfred De La Rey glanced at him across the office.

 'She's had a terrible shock,' Shasa said. 'I'm taking her home." 'Come

 back here as soon as you can,' Manfred nodded. 'We'll need a

 statement." Still gripping her arm, Shasa marched her out of the office

 and down the corridor. The fire alarm bells were ringing throughout the

 building and members and visitors and staff were streaming out through

 the front doors. Shasa joined them, and as soon as they were out in the

 sunlight he led Tara to the Jaguar.

 'Where are we going?" Tara asked, as they drove away. She sat very

 small and subdued in her corner of the bucket seat.

 'If you talk to me again, I may lose control,' he warned her tightly.

 'I may not be able to stop myself strangling you." She did not speak

 again until they reached Youngsfield Airport, and Shasa pushed her up

 into the cockpit of the silver and blue Mosquito.

 'Where are we going?" she repeated, but he ignored her as he went

 through the start-up procedures and taxied out to the end of the runway.

 He did not speak until they had climbed to cruise altitude and were

 flying straight and level.

 'The evening flight for London leaves Johannesburg at seven o'clock. As

 soon as we are in radio contact, I will reserve your seat,' he told her.

 'We will get there with an hour or so to spare." 'I don't understand,'

 she whispere into her oxygen mask. 'Are you helping me to escape? I

 don't understand why." 'For my mother, firstly. I don't want her to

 know that you murdered her husband - it would destroy her." 'Shasa, I

 didn't --' she was weeping again, but he felt no twinge of compassion.

 'Shut up,' he said. 'I don't want want to listen to your blubbering.

 You will never know the depths.of my feelings for you. Hatred and

 contempt are gentle words that do not describe them." He drew a breath.

 Then went on, 'After my mother, I am doing it for my children. I don't

 want them to live their lives with the knowledge of what their mother

 truly was. That is too much for a young man or woman to be burdened

 with." Then they were both silent, and Shasa allowed the terrible grief

 of Blaine's death, which up until then he had suppressed, to rise up and

 engulf him. In the seat beside him Tara was mourning her father also,

 spasms of weeping shook her shoulders. Her face above the mask was

 chalky and her eyes were like wounds.

 As strong as his grief was Shasa's hatred. After an hour's flying, he

 spoke again.

 'If you ever return to this country again, I will see you hanged.

 That is my solemn promise. I will be divorcing you for desertion as

 soon as possible. There will be no question of alimony or maintenance

 or child custody. You will have no rights nor privileges of any kind.

 As far as we are concerned, it will be as though you have never existed.

 I expect you will be able to claim political asylum somewhere, even if

 it is in Mother Russia." Again he was silent, gathering himself,

 regaining full control.

 You will not even be at your father's funeral, but every minute of every

 day his memory will stalk you. That is the only punishment I am able to

 inflict upon you - God grant it is enough. If He is just, your guilt

 will slowly drive you mad. I pray for that." She did not reply, but

 turned her face away. Later, when they were on approach to

 Johannesburg, descending through ten thousand feet, with the skyscrapers

 and the white mine dumps glowing in the late sunlight ahead of them,

 Shasa asked: You were sleeping with him, weren't you?" Instinctively,

 she knew it was the last chance she would ever have to inflict pain upon

 him, and she turned in the seat to watch his face as she replied.

 'Yes, I love him - and we are lovers." She saw him wince, but she wanted

 to hurt him more and she went on. 'Apart from my father's death, there

 is nothing I regret. Nothing I have done of which I am ashamed. On the

 contrary, I am proud to have known and loved a man like Moses Gama -

 proud of what I have done for him and for my country." 'Think of him

 kicking and choking on the rope, and be proud of that also, Shasa said

 quietly, and landed. He taxied the Mosquito to the terminal buildings

 and they climbed down on to the tarmac and faced each other. There was

 a bruise on her face where he had struck her, and the icy highveld wind

 pulled at their clothing and ruffled their hair. He handed her the

 little bundle of bank notes and her passport.

 'Your seat on the London flight is reserved. There is enough here to

 pay for it and to take you where you want to go." His voice broke as his

 rage and his sorrow took control of him again. 'To hell or the gallows,

 if my wish for you comes true. I hope never to see or hear of you

 again." He turned away from her, but she called after him.

 'We were always enemies, Shasa Courtney, even in the best times.

 And we will be enemies to the very end. Despite your wish, you will

 hear of me again. I promise you that much." He climbed into the

 Mosquito and it was minutes before he had himself sufficiently in hand

 to start the engines. When he looked out through the windshield again,

 she was gone.

 Centaine would not let them bury Blaine. She could not bear the thought

 of him lying in the earth, swelling and putrefying.

 Mathilda Janine, Blaine's younger daughter, came down from Johannesburg

 with David Abrahams, her husband, in the company Dove, and they sat with

 the family in the front row of the memorial chapel at the crematorium.

 Over a thousand mourners attended the service and both Dr Verwoerd and

 Sir De Villiers Graaff, the leader of the opposition, were amongst them.

 Centaine kept the little urn of Blaine's ashes on the table beside her

 bed for almost a month, before she could get up her courage.

 Then she summoned Shasa, and the two of them climbed the hill to her

 favourite rock.

 'Blaine and I used to come here so often,' she whispered. 'This will be

 the place where I shall come when I need to know that he is still close

 to me." She was nearly sixty years old, and when Shasa studied her with

 compassion, he saw that for the first time she truly looked that old.

 She was letting the grey grow out in the thick bush of her hair and he

 saw that soon there would be more of it than the black. Grief had

 dulled her gaze and weighed down the corners of her mouth, and that

 clear youthful skin which she so carefully cherished, seemed overnight

 to have seamed and puckered.

 'Do it for me, please Shasa,' she said, and handed him the urn.

 Shasa opened it and stepped out of the lee of the rock, into the full

 force of the south-easter. The wind fluttered his shirt like a trapped

 bird, and he turned to look back at her.

 Centaine nodded encouragement, and he held the urn high and upended it.

 The ashes streamed away like dust in the wind, and when the urn was

 empty, Shasa turned to her once more.

 'Break it!" she commanded, and he hurled the vessel against the rock

 face. It shattered, and she gasped and swayed on her feet.

 Shasa ran to her and held her in his arms.

 'Death is the only adversary I know I shall never overcome.

 Perhaps that is why I hate it so,' she whispered.

 He led her to her seat on the rock and they were silent for a long

 while, staring out over the wind-speckled Atlantic and then Centaine

 said, 'I know you have been protecting me. Now tell me about Tara.

 What was her part in this?" So he told her, and when he finished

 Centaine said, 'You have made yourself an accessory to murder. Was it

 worth it?" 'Yes. I think so,' he answered without hesitation. 'Could

 any of us have survived her trial if I had allowed her to be arrested

 and charged?" 'Will there be consequences?" Shasa shook his head. 'Maned

 - he will protect us again. Just as he did with Sean." Shasa saw her

 pain at the mention of Sean's name. Like him she had never recovered

 from it, but now she said quietly, 'Sean was one thing, but this is

 murder and treason and attempting to assassinate a head of state. It is

 fostering bloody revolution and attempting by force to overthrow a

 government. Can Manfred protect us from that?

 And if he can, why should he?" I don't know the answers to that, Mater."

 Shasa looked at her searchingly. 'I thought that perhaps you did."

 'What do you mean?" she asked, and he thought that he might have taken

 her unawares, for there was fear and confusion in her eyes for an

 instant. Blaine's death had slowed her and weakened her.

 Before that, she would never have betrayed herself so readily.

 'In protecting us, me in particular, Manfred is protecting himself and

 his political ambitions,' Shasa reasoned it out carefully. 'For if I am

 destroyed, then - I am his protbgd - his own career would be blighted.

 But there is more than that. More than I can fathom." Centaine did not

 reply, but she turned her head away and looked out to sea.

 'It's as though Manfred De La Rey feels some strange loyalty to us, or a

 debt that he must repay - or even a' sense of deep guilt towards our

 fmily. Is that possible, Mater? Is there something that I do not know

 of that would put him under an obligation to us?

 Have you withheld something from me all these years?" He watched her

 struggle with herself, and at one moment it seemed she might burst out

 with some long-hidden truth, or with a terrible secret that she had

 carried too long alone. Then he saw her expression firm and it was

 almost possible to watch the strength and force which had been drained

 from her since Blaine's death flow back into her.

 It was a little miracle. Age seemed to fall away from her. Her eyes

 brightened and her carriage of head and shoulders was once more erect

 and perky. Even the lines and creases around her eyes and mouth seemed

 to smooth away.

 'What ever gave you that idea?" she asked crisply, and stood up.

 Tve been moping and pining far too long. Blaine would never have

 approved of that." She took Shasa's arm. 'Come along. I've still got a

 life to live and work to do." Half-way down the hill, she asked

 suddenly, 'When does the trial of Moses Gama begin?" 'The tenth of next

 month." 'Do you know he once worked for us, this Moses Gama?" 'Yes,

 Mater. I remembered him. That was how I was able to sto him." He was a

 terrible troublemaker even in those days. We must d all we can to

 enstlre that he pays the extreme penalty. That is th least we can do

 for Blaine's memory." 'I don't understand why you are saddling me with

 this little scrubber, Desmond Blake protested acidly. He had been

 twenty-two years on th.

 newspaper and before the gin bottle had taken over, he had been th.

 best courtroom and political journalist on the staff of the Golde City

 Mail. The quantities of gin which he absorbed had not onl placed a

 ceiling on his career but had greyed and prematurely line his face,

 ruined his liver and soured his disposition without, how.

 ever, clouding his insight into the criminal mind nor spoiling hi

 political acumen.

 'Well, he is a bright lad,' his editor explained reasonably.

 'This is the biggest, most sensational trial of our century,' Desmond

 Blake said, 'and you want me to drag a cub reporter with me, a puking

 infant who couldn't even cover a local flower show or a mayoral tea

 party." 'I think he has a lot of potential - I just want you to take him

 in hand and show him the ropes." 'Bullshit!" said Desmond Blake. 'Now

 tell me the real reason." 'All right." The editor showed his

 exasperation. 'The real reason is that his grandmother is Centaine

 Courtney and his father is Shasa Courtney, and Courtney Mining and

 Finance have acquired thirty-five percent of the shareholding of our

 parent company over the past months, and if you know nothing else you

 should know that nobody bucks Centaine Courtney, not if they want to

 remain in business. Now take the kid with you and stop bitciting. I

 haven't got time to argue any more - I've got a paper to get out."

 Desmond Blake threw up both hands in despair, and as he rose to leave

 the office his editor added one last unsubtle threat.

 'Just look at it this way, Des. It will be good job insurance,

 especially for an aging newshound who needs the price of a bottle of gin

 a day. Just think of the kid as the boss's son." Desmond wandered

 lugubriously down the length of the city room.

 He knew the boy by sight. Somebody had pointed him out as a sprig of

 the Courtney empire and wondered aloud what the hell he was doing here

 instead of on the polo field.

 Desmond stopped beside the corner desk which Michael was sharing with

 two other juniors.

 'Your name is Michael Courtney?" he asked, and the boy leapt to his

 feet.

 'Yes, sir." Michael was overcome at being directly addressed by somebody

 who had his own column and by-line.

 'Shit!" said Desmond bitterly. 'Nothing is more depressing than the

 shining face of youth and enthusiasm. Come along, boy." 'Where are we

 going?" Michael snatched up his jacket eagerly.

 'To the George, boy. I need a double to give me the strength to go

 through with this little lark." At the bar of the George, he studied

 Michael over the rim of his glass.

 'Your first lesson, boy --' he took a swallow of gin and tonic.

 'Nothing is ever what it seems to be. Nobody is ever what he says he

 is. Engrave that on your heart. Your second lesson. Stick to your

 orange juice. They don't call this stuff mother's ruin for nothing.

 Your third lesson. Always pay for the drinks with a smile." He took

 another swig. 'So you are from Cape Town, are you? Well that's just

 fine, because that is where we are going, you and me. We are going to

 see a man condemned to die." Vicky Gama took the bus from Baragwanath

 Hospital to Drake's Farm. It went 0my as far as the administration

 building and the new government school. She had to walk the last mile

 through the narrow dusty lanes between the rows of raw brick cottages.

 She walked slowly, for although her pregnancy was only four months

 advanced, she was beginning to tire easily.

 Hendrick Tabaka was in the crowded general dealer's shop, watching the

 tills, but he came to Vicky immediately and she greeted him with the

 respect due to her husband's eldest brother. He led her through to his

 of.rice, and called for one of his sons to bring her a comfortable

 chair.

 Vicky recognized Raleigh Tabaka, and smiled at him as he placed her

 chair. 'You have grown into a fine young man, Raleigh. Have you

 finished your schooling now?" 'Yebo, sissie." Raleigh returned her

 greeting with polite reserve, for even though she was the wife of his

 uncle, she was a Zulu. His father had taught him to distrust all Zulus.

 'I help my father now, sisMe. I learn the business from him and soon I

 will manage one of the shops on my own." Hendrick Tabaka smiled proudly

 at his favourite son. 'He learns fast, and I have great faith in the

 boy." He endorsed what Raleigh had said. 'I am sending him soon to our

 shop at Sharpeville near Vereeniging to learn the bakery business."

 Where is your twin brother, Wellington?" Vicky asked, and immediately

 Hendrick Tabaka frowned heavily and waved at Raleigh to leave the

 office. As soon as they were alone, he answered her question angrily.

 'The white priests have captured Wellington's heart. They have seduced

 him from the gods of his tribe and his ancestors and taken him to the

 service of the white man's God. This strange Jesus God with three

 heads. It grieves me deeply, for I had hoped that Wellington, like

 Raleigh, would be the son of my old age. Now he studies to be a priest,

 and I have lost him." He sat down at the tiny cluttered table that

 served him as a desk and studied his own hands for a moment. Then he

 raised that bald cannonball head, the scalp criss-crossed with ridged

 scars from old battles.

 'So, wife of my brother, we live in a time of great sorrow. Moses Gama

 has been taken by the white men's police, and we cannot doubt what they

 will do with him. Even in my sorrow, I must recall that I warned him

 that this would happen. A wise man does not throw stones at the

 sleeping lion." 'Moses Gama did what he knew was his duty. He lived out

 the deed for which he was born,' Vicky said quietly. 'He struck a blow

 for all of us - you and me and our children." She touched her belly

 where beneath the white nurse's uniform the first bulge of her pregnancy

 showed. 'And now he needs our help." 'Tell me how I can help." Hendrick

 inclined his head. 'For he was not only my brother, but my chief as

 well." 'We need money to hire a lawyer to defend him in the white man's

 court. I have been to see Marcus Archer and the others of the ANC at

 the house in Rivonia. They will not help us. They say that Moses acted

 without their agreement or approval. They say that it was agreed not to

 endanger human life. They say that if they give us money to help in the

 defence, the police will trace it to them. They say many other things -

 everything but the truth." 'What is the truth, my sister?" Hendrick

 asked.

 And suddenly Vicky's voice was quivering with fury. 'The truth is that

 they hate him. The truth is that they are afraid of him. The truth is

 that they are jealous of him. Moses has done what none of them would

 have dared. He has aimed a spear at the heart of the white tyrant, and

 though the blow failed, now all the world knows that it was struck. Not

 only in this land, but beyond the sea, all the world knows now who is

 the leader of our people." 'That is true,' Hendrick nodded. 'His name is

 on every man's lips." 'We must save him, Hendrick my brother. We must

 do everything we can to save him.

 Hendrick rose and went to the small cupboard in the corner. He dragged

 it aside to reveal the door of an ancient Chatwood safe built into the

 wall behind it.

 When he opened the green steel door, the safe was packed with wads of

 banknotes.

 'This belongs to Moses. It is his share. Take what you need,' said

 Hendrick Tabaka.

 The Supreme Court of the Cape Province of South Africa stands on one

 side of the gardens that Jan van Riebeeck, the first governor of the

 Cape, laid out in the 1650s to provision the ships of the Dutch East

 India Company. On the opposite side of the beautiful gardens stand the

 houses of parliament that Moses Gama had attempted to destroy. So he

 was to be tried within a quarter of a mile of the scene of the crime of

 which he stood accused.

 The case aroused the most intense international interest and the film

 crews and journalists began flying into Cape Town a.week before it was

 set down to commence.

 Vicky Gama arrived by train after the thousand-mile journey down the

 continent from the Witwatersrand. She travelled with the white lawyer

 whowould defend Moses and more than fifty of the more radical members of

 the African National Congress, most of them, like herself, under thirty

 years of age, and many of them secret members of Moses Gama's Umkhonto

 we Sizwe military wing of the party. Amongst these was Vicky's half

 brother, Joseph Dinizulu, now a young man of almost twenty-one studying

 to be a lawyer at the black university of Fort Hare. The money given to

 Vicky by Hendrick Tabaka paid for all of them.

 Molly Broadhurst met them at the Cape Town station. Vicky, Joseph and

 the defence lawyer would be staying at her home in Pinelands during the

 trial, and she had arranged accommodation for all the others in the

 black townships of Longa and Guguletu.

 Desmotid Blake and Michael Courtney flew down together from Johannesburg

 on the commercial flight, and while Desmond put a severe strain on the

 bar service, Michael pored over the notebook in which he was roughing

 out a schedule of all the research into the history of the ANC and the

 background of Moses Gama and his tribe that he felt they would need.

 Centaine Courtney-Malcomess was at the airport to meet the flight.

 Much to Michael's embarrassment, she had two servants to carry Michael's

 single valise out to the daffodil-yellow Daimler that, as usual, she was

 driving herself. Since Tara had left, Centaine had once more taken over

 the running of Weltevreden.

 'The paper has booked rooms for us at the Atlantic Hotel, Nana.

 Michael protested, after he had dutifully embraced his grandmothei 'It's

 very convenient for the law courts and the national library."

 'Nonsense,' said Centaine firmly. 'The Atlantic is a bug-run am

 Weltevreden is your home." 'Father said I wouldn't be welcome back."

 'Your father has missed you even more than I have." Shasa sat Michael

 beside him at dinner, and even Isabella wa,.

 almost totally excluded from their conversation. Shasa was so impressed

 by his youngest son's sudden new maturity that the followin morning he

 instructed his broker to purchase another hundred thousand shares in the

 holding company that owned the Golden Ci0 Mail.

 Manfred and Heidi dined at Weltevreden the evening before the trial

 began and while they drank pre-prandial cocktails Manfred expressed the

 concern that Shasa and Centaine shared.

 'What the prosecution and the court must avoid is allowing the

 proceedings to deteriorate into a trial not of a murderer and a

 terrorist, but of our social system and our way of life. The vultures

 of the international press are already assembled, eager to show us in

 the worst possible light, and as usual to distort and misrepresent our

 policy of apartheid. I only wish we had some control over the courts

 and the press." 'You know I can't agree with you on that one." Shasa

 shifted in his chair. 'The complete independence of our press and the

 impartiality of our judicial system gives us credibility in the eyes of

 the rest of the world." 'Don't lecture me. I am a lawyer,' Manfred

 pointed out stiffly.

 It was strange how despite their enforced and mutually beneficial

 relationship, they were never truly friends and antagonism was always

 ready to surface between them. Now it took some little time for the

 tension to ease, and for them to adopt once more an outward show of

 cordiality. Only then 'could Manfred tell Shasa, 'We have finally

 agreed with the prosecution not to raise in court the matter of your

 wife's involvement with the accused. Apart from the difficulty of

 beginning extradition proceedings with Britain - she would almost

 certainly ask for political asylum - there is the consideration of her

 relationship with Gama. Black man and white woman--' Manfred's

 expression was one of deep disgust. 'It is repugnant to all decent

 principles. Raising the subject would not further the prosecution, but

 would simply give the yellow press something more to drool over. No, it

 will do none of us any good at all." Manfred put special emphasis on

 this last sentence. It was all that needed to be said, but Shasa did

 not let it pass.

 'I owe you a great deal - for my son, Sean, and now my wife." 'Ja, you

 owe me a great deal,' Manfred nodded. 'Perhaps I will kT you for

 something in return one day." as hope so,' said Shasa. I do not like

 having outstanding debts." Outside the Supreme Court both pavements were

 filled with people.

 They were standing shoulder to shoulder and overflowing into the street,

 complicating the efforts of the traffic wardens and impeding the flow of

 traffic until it was reduced to a crawl.

 A newspaper poster, 'GUY FAWKES KILLER TRIAL BEGINS TODAY', hung

 drunkenly from one of the lampposts until it was knocked down by the

 push of the crowd and trodden underfoot.

 The throng was thickest at the colonnaded entrance to the Supreme Court

 and each time one of the players in the drama arrived, the journalists

 and photographers surged forward. The state prosecutor smiled and waved

 to them like a film star, but most of the others, intimidated by the

 crowds and the exploding flash bulbs and shouted questions, scurried for

 the entrance and the protection of the police guards.

 Only minutes before the court was due to go into session, a chartered

 bus turned into the slow-moving stream of traffic and came down towards

 the entrance. The sound of singing grew louder as it approached, the

 lovely haunting chorus of African voices rising and sinking and weaving

 the intricate tapestry of sound that thrilled the ears and raised the

 gooseflesh on the skins of the listeners.

 When the bus finally halted in front of the Supreme Court, a young Zulu

 woman stepped down into the street. She wore a flowing caftan of green

 and yellow and black, the colours of the African National Congress, and

 her head was bound in a turban of the same colours.

 Her pregnancy had given Vicky a fullness of body that enhanced her

 natural fine looks. There was no trace left of the shy little country

 girl. She carried her head high, and moved with all the confidence and

 style of an African Evita.

 The press cameramen recognized instantly that they were being presented

 with an unusual opportunity and they rushed forward with their equipment

 to capture her dark beauty, and the sound of her voice as she sang the

 thrilling hymn to freedom. 'Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika - God Save Africa."

 Behind her, holding hands, and singing, came all the others, some of

 them white like Molly Broadhurst and some of them Indians and coloured

 like Miriam and Ben Afrika, but most of them pure African.

 They streamed up the steps into the court house to fill the section of

 the gallery of the courtroom reserved for non-whites and to overflows

 into the corridors outside.

 The rest of the court was packed with the press and the curious.

 while a separate section had been set aside for observers from the

 diplomatic corps. Every one of the embassies was represented.

 At every entrance to the court were police guards wearing sidearms, and

 four policemen of warrant officer rank were drawn up around the dock.

 The prisoner was a killer and a dangerous revolutionary. They were

 taking no chances.

 Yet when he stepped up into the dock, Moses Gama seemed none of these

 things. He had lost weight during his imprisonment, but this merely

 enhanced his great height and the wide angularity of his shoulders. His

 cheeks were hollow, and the bones of his face and forehead were more

 prominent, but he stood proudly as ever with his chin up and that dark

 messianic glow in his eyes.

 His presence was so overpowering that he seemed to take possession of

 the room; the gasp and hum of curiosity as he stood before them was

 subdued by an almost tangible sense of awe. In the back of the gallery

 Vicky Dinizulu sprang to her feet and began to sing, and those around

 her came in with the chorus. As he listened to her beautiful ringing

 voice, Moses Gama inclined his head slightly, but he did not smile or

 give any other sign of recognition.

 Vicky's freedom song was interrupted by a cry of 'Stilte in die hof/

 Opstaan! Silence in the court! Stand up!" The judge-president of the

 Cape, wearing the scarlet robes which indicated that this was a criminal

 trial, took his seat on the bench beneath the carved canopy.

 Justice Andr Villiers was a big man with a famboyant courtroom style. He

 had a reputation for being a connoisseur of food, good wine and pretty

 girls. He was also noted for handing down savage sentences for crimes

 of violence.

 Now he slumped massively on the bench and glowered around his court as

 the charge sheet was rad, but his gaze checked momentarily as it reached

 each female, the length of the pause proportional to the prettiness of

 the recipient. On Kitty Godolphin he spent at least two seconds and

 when she smiled her angelic little-girl smile at him, he hooded his eyes

 slightly before passing on.

 There were four main charges on the sheet against Moses Gama, two of

 attempted murder, and one each of high treason and murder.

 Every one of these was a capital offence but Moses Gama showed no

 emotion as he listened to them read out.

 Judge Villiers broke the expectant silence that followed the reading.

 'How do you plead to these charges?" Moses leaned forward, both clenched

 fists on the rail of the dock and his voice was low and full of scorn,

 but it carried to every corner of the crowded court.

 'Verwoerd and his brutal government should be in this dock,' he said. 'I

 plead not guilty." Moses sat down and did not raise his eyes while the

 judge enquired who appeared for the crown, and the prosecutor introduced

 himself to the court, but when Mr Justice Villiers asked: 'Who appears

 for the defence?" before the advocate whom Vicky and Hendrick Tabaka had

 retained could reply, Moses sprang to his feet again.

 'I do,' he cried. 'I am on trial here for the aspirations of the

 African people. No other can speak for me. I am the leader of my

 people, I will answer for myself and for them." There was such

 consternation in the court now, such uproar that for a few moments the

 judge, pounded his gavel in vain, demanding silence, and when it was at

 last obtained, he threatened them.

 'If there is another such demonstration of contempt for this court, I

 will not hesitate to have it cleared." He turned back to Moses Gama to

 reason with him and try to persuade him to accept legal representation,

 but Moses forestalled him.

 'I wish to move immediately that you, Judge Villiers, recuse yourself

 from this case,' he challenged, and the scarlet-robed judge blinked and

 was for a moment stunned into silence.

 Then he smiled grimly at the prisoner's effrontery and asked, 'On what

 grounds do you make this application?" 'On the grounds that you, as a

 white judge, are incapable of being impartial and fair to me, a black

 man, forced to submit to the immoral laws of a parliament in which I

 have no representation." The judge shook his head, half in exasperation

 and half in admiration. 'I am going to deny your application for

 recusal,' he said. 'And I am going to urge you to accept the very able

 services of the counsel who has been appointed to represent you." 'I

 accept neither his services, nor the competence of this court to condemn

 me. For all the world knows that is what you propose. I accept only

 the verdict of my poor enslaved people and of the free nations out

 there. Let them and history decide my innocence or guilt." The press

 were electrified, some of them so enchanted that they made no effort to

 write down his words. None of them would ever forget them. For Michael

 Courtney sitting in the back row of the press section, it was a

 revelation. He had lived with Africans all his life, his family

 employed them by the tens of thousands, but until this moment he had

 never met a black man of such dignity and aweinspiring presence.

 Judge Villiers sagged down in his seat. He always maintained hi place

 firmly in the centre-stage of his court, overshadowin everybody in it

 with the ruthless authority of a born actor. Here hid sensed he had met

 an equal. The entire attention of everybody in th court was captivated

 by Moses Gama.

 'Very well,' Judge Villiers said at last. 'Mr Prosecutor, you ma

 proceed to present the case for the crown." The prosecutor was a master

 of his profession and he had all infallible case. He worked it up with

 meticulous attention to detail with logic and with skill.

 One at a time he submitted his exhibits to the court. The wirinl and

 the electrical detonator, the Tokarev pistol and spare magazines

 Although it was considered too dangerous to allow the blocks o plastic

 explosives and the detonators into the courtroom, photo graphs were

 submitted and accepted. The altar chest was too larg to bring into

 court, and again photographs were accepted by Judg Villiers. Then there

 were the gruesome photographs of Shasa's office with Blaine's covered

 body against the bookcases and his blooc splashed over the carpet, and

 the wreckage of broken furniture and scattered papers. Centaine turned

 her face away as the photograph, were handed in and Shasa squeezed her

 arm and tried to shield bel from the curious glances.

 After all the exhibits had been tabled, the prosecutor called his first

 witness. 'I call the honourable Minister of Mines and Industry Mr Shasa

 Courtney." Shasa was on the witness stand for the rest of that day and

 all of the following morning, describing in detail how he had discovered

 and thwarted the bombing.

 The prosecutor took him back to his first childhood meeting with Moses

 Gama, and as Shasa described their relationship, Moses raised his head

 and for the first time since he had taken the stand looked d!rectly into

 Shasa's face. In vain Shasa searched for the slightest trace of that

 sympathy they lad once shared, but there was none.

 Moses Gama's stare was baleful and unwavering.

 When at last the prosecutor had finished with Shasa, he turned to the

 accused. 'Your witness,' he said, and Justice Villiers roused himself.

 'Do you wish to cross-examine the witness?" Moses shook his head and

 looked away, but the judge insisted.

 'This will be your last opportunity to query or refute the witness's

 evidence. I urge you to make full use of it." Moses crossed his arms

 over his chest, and closed his eyes as though in sleep, and from the

 non-white section of the court there were hoots of laughter and the

 stamping of feet.

 Justice Villiers raised his voice, 'I will not warn you again,' and

 there was silence in the face of his anger.

 Over the next four days the prosecutor placed his witnesses on the

 stand.

 Tricia, Shasa's secretary, explained how Moses had gained entrance to

 the office suite in the guise of a chauffeur and how on the day of the

 murder Moses had seized and bound her. How she had watched him fire the

 fatal shot that killed Colonel Malcomess.

 'Do you wish to cross-examine the witness'?." Judge Villiers asked, and

 once again Moses shook his head.

 Manfred De La Rey gave his evidence and described how he had found Moses

 Gama with the pistol in his hand and Blaine Malcomess lying on the floor

 dying. How he had heard him cry, 'You! You!" and saw him deliberately

 fire the pistol at Shasa Courtney.

 Do you wish to cross-examine the witness'?." the judge asked, and this

 time Moses did not even look up.

 An electrical engineer described the captured equipment and identified

 the transmitter as being of Russian origin. An explosives expert told

 the court of the destructive power of the plastic explosives placed

 beneath the government benches.

 en my opinion it would have been sufficient to destroy totally the

 entire chamber and the adjoining rooms. It would certainly have killed

 every person in the main chamber, and most of those in the lobby and the

 surrounding offices." After each witness had finished his evidence Moses

 again refused to cross-examine. At the end of the fourth day the crown

 had presented its case, and Judge Villiers adjourned the court with one

 last appeal to the prisoner.

 'When the court reconvenes on Monday, you will be required to answer the

 charges against you. I must once more impress upon you the grave nature

 of the accusations, and point out to you that your very life is at

 stake. Yet again I urge you to accept the services of legal counsel."

 Moses Gama smiled at him with contempt.

 Dinner at Weltevreden that evening was a sombre affair. The only one

 who was unaffected by the day's events was Garry, who had flown down in

 the Mosquito from the Silver River Mine for the weekend.

 While the rest of the family sat in silence, each of them brooding on

 the events of these last days and their own particular part in them,

 Garry was enthusiastically selling to Centaine and Shasa his latest plan

 for reducing costs at the mine.

 'Accidents cost us money in lost production. I'll admit that in the

 last two years our safety record has been about average for the industry

 as a whole, but if we could cut down our fatalities to one per hundred

 thousand shifts or better, we could reduce our overall production costs

 by over twelve percent. That is twenty million pounds a year. On top

 of that we would get the added bonus of worker satisfaction and

 cooperation. I have put all the figures through the computer." Garry's

 eyes behind his spectacles glittered as he mentioned that piece of

 equipment. Shasa had reports from Dave Abrahams and the general manager

 of the Silver River that Garry sometimes sat all night at one of the

 terminals of the new IBM computer that the company had at last

 installed.

 'The lad knows his way around the machine as well, if not better, than

 any of our full-time operators. He can almost make it sit up and

 whistle God Save the Queen"." David Abrahams had not attempted to

 conceal his admiration and Shasa had remarked deprecatingly, to conceal

 his paternal pride, 'That will be a redundant accomplishment by next

 year, when we become a republic." Oh, Garry, you are being an utter

 bore,' Isabella interrupted him at last. 'All that business about

 tonnages and penny weights - at the dinner table, what's more. No

 wonder you can't find a girlfriend." For once I think Bella is right,'

 Centane said quietly from the end of the table. 'That's enough for one

 night, Garry. I just cannot concentrate at the moment. I think this

 has been one of the worst weeks of my entire life, having to watch that

 monster, with Blaine's blood on his hands, sitting there defying us and

 making a mockery of our system of justice.

 He threatens to tear down the whole structure of government, to plunge

 us all into anarchy and the same savagery of Africa which rent the land

 before we whites arrived. Then he smirks at us from the dock.

 I hate him. I have never hated anything or anybody as much as I hate

 him. I pray each night that the hang him." Unexpectedly it was Michael

 who replied. 'Yes, we hate him, Nana. We hate him because we are

 afraid of him, and we are afraid of him because we do not understand him

 or his people." They all stared at him in astonishment.

 'Of course we understand him,' Centaine said. 'We have lived in Africa

 all our lives. We understand them as nobody else does." 'I don't think

 so, Nana. I think if we had truly understood and listened to what this

 man had to say, Blaine would be alive today. I think he could have been

 an ally and not our deadly enemy. I think Moses Gama could have been a

 useful and highly respected citizen, and not a prisoner on trial for his

 life." 'What strange ideas you have picked up on that newspaper of

 yours! He murdered your grandfather,' Centaine said, and shot a glance

 down the table at Shasa. Shasa interpreted it fluently and it meant,

 'We have another problem on our hands here,' but Michael was going on

 obliviously.

 'Moses Gama will die on the gallows - I think we all know that.

 But his words and his ideas will live on. I know now why I had to be a

 journalist. I know what I have to do. I have to explain those ideas to

 the people of this land, to show them that they are just and fair, and

 not dangerous at all. In those ideas are the hopes for our survival as

 a nation." It is a good thing I sent the servants out,' Centaine

 interrupted him. 'I never thought to hear words like those spoken in

 the diningroom of Weltevreden." Vicky Gama waited for over an hour in

 the visitors' room at Roeland Street prison while the warders examined

 the contents of the package she had brought for Moses and made up their

 minds whether or not to allow her to hand it to the prisoner.

 'It is only clothing,' Vicky pointed out reasonably.

 'These aren't ordinary clothes,' the senior warden protested.

 They are the traditional robes of my husband's tribe. He is entitled to

 wear them." In the end the prison governor was called in to arbitrate

 and when he finally gave his permission, Vicky complained, 'Your men

 have been deliberately rude and obstructive to me." He smiled at her

 sarcastically. 'I wonder how you will treat us, madam, if you and your

 brothers in the ANC ever seize power. I wonder if you will allow us

 even the courtesy of a trial or whether you will slaughter us in the

 streets, as your husband tried to do." When Vicky was at last allowed to

 hand the parcel to Moses under the watchful eye of four warders, he

 asked her, 'Whose idea was this?" 'It was mine but Hendrick paid for the

 skins and his wives sewed them." 'You are a clever woman,' Moses

 commended her, 'and a dutiful wife." 'You, my lord, are a great chief,

 and it is fitting that you should wear the robes of your office." Moses

 held up. the full-length cloak of leopard skins, heavy and glossy

 golden, studded with the sable rosettes.

 'You have understood,' he nodded. 'You have seen the necessity of using

 the white man's courtroom as a stage from which to shout our craving for

 freedom to the world." Vicky lowered her eyes and her voice. 'My lord,

 you must not die.

 If you die, then the great part of our dream of freedom dies with you.

 Will you not defend yourself, for my sake and for the sake of our

 people?" 'No, I will not die,' he assured her. 'The great nations of

 the world will not let that happen. Britain has already made her

 position clear and America cannot afford to let them execute me. Her

 own nation is wracked by the struggle of the American coloured people -

 she cannot afford to let me go to my death." 'I do not trust the

 altruism of great nations,' Vicky said softly.

 'Then trust in their own self-interest,' Moses Gama told her. 'And trust

 in me." When Moses Gama rose before the court in the golden and black

 robes of leopard skin, he seemed a reincarnation of one of the ancient

 black kings. He riveted them.

 'I call no witnesses,' Gama told them gravely. 'All I will do is to

 make a statement from the dock. That is as far as I am prepared to

 cooperate in this mockery of justice." 'My lord,' the prosecutor was on

 his feet immediately. 'I must point out to the court--' 'Thank you!"

 Judge Villiers interrupted him in frigid tones. 'I do not need to be

 told how to conduct this trial,' and the prosecutor sank back into his

 seat, still making inarticulate sounds of protest.

 Heavily the scarlet-robed justice turned his attention back to Moses

 Gama.

 'What counsel for the prosecution is trying to tell me is that I should

 make it clear to you that if you do not enter the witness stand and take

 the oath, if you do ndt submit to cross-examination, then what you have

 to say will have little relevance to the proceedings." 'An oath to your

 white man's God, in this courtroom with a white judge and a white

 prosecutor, with white prosecution witnesses and white policemen at the

 doors. I do not deign to submit to that kind of justice." Judge

 Villiers shook his head with a woeful expression and turned both his

 hands palms up. 'Very well, you have been warned of the consequences.

 Proceed with your statement." Moses Gama was silent for a long time, and

 then he began softly.

 'There was once a small boy who wandered with joy through a beautiful

 land, who drank from the sweet clear rivers, who listened with pleasure

 to the song of the bird and studied the antics of the springbok and

 pangolin and all the marvelous wild things, a small boy who tended his

 father's herds, and sat at night by the fire and listened to the tales

 of the great heroes of his people, of Bambata and Sekhukhuni and mighty

 Chaka.

 This boy believed himself to be one of a peaceful people who owned the

 land on which they lived and were free to move wherever they wished in

 confidence and joy. Then one day when the boy was nine years of age a

 curious being came to the kraal at which the boy lived, a creature with

 a red face and a lordly manner, and the boy saw that the people were

 afraid, even his father and his grandfather who were chieftains of the

 tribe, were afraid as the boy had never seen them afraid before." There

 was no sound nor movement in the crowded courtroom as, Moses Gama

 described his loss of innocence and how he had learned the bitter truths

 of his existence. He described his bewilderment as the universe he knew

 was proved an illusion. He told them of his first journey into the

 outside world, where he learned that as a man with a black skin there

 were places where his existence was circumscribed and limited.

 When he went to the white man's towns, he found that he could not walk

 the streets after curfew without a pass, that he could not live outside

 the areas that had been set aside for his people on the outskirts of

 that town, but most important to him he found that he could not attend

 the white man's schools. He learned that in nearly every public

 building there was a separate entrance for him to use, that there were

 skills he was not allowed to acquire, and that in almost every way he

 was considered different and inferior, condemned by the pigmentation of

 his skin, always to remain on the bottom rung of existence.

 Yet he knew that he was a man like other men, with the same hopes and

 desires. He knew that his heart beat as fiercely and that his body was

 as strong, and his brain was as bright and quick as any other. He

 decided that the way to rise above the station in life that had been

 allotted him was to use that brain rather than employ his body like a

 beast of burden as most of his people were forced to do.

 He turned to the white maws books and was astonished to find that the

 heroes of his people were described as savages and cattlethieves and

 treacherous rebels. That even the most sympathetic and charitable of

 the authors he read referred to his people as children, unable to reason

 or think for themselves, children who must be sternly protected but

 prevented from taking part in the decisions which governed their lives.

 He described to them how at last he had realized that it was all some

 monstrous lie. That he was not different, that because his ski: was

 black he was not unclean or contaminated or childlike. He knew then for

 what purpose he had been put upon this earth.

 'I came to know that the struggle against injustice was my life,' he

 said simply. 'I knew that I had to make the white men who ruled me and

 my people understand." He explained how each of his attempts to get the

 white men to listen had failed. How all his people's efforts had

 resulted only in more savage and draconian laws, in fiercer oppressions.

 'In the end I had to accept that there was only one course left to me.

 That was to take up arms and to strike at the head of the serpent whose

 venom was poisoning and destroying my people." He was silent and his

 audience who had listened in complete and rigid silence for most of the

 morning, sighed and stirred, but as soon as Moses Gama spread his arms

 they were completely attentive once more.

 'Every man has a right and a sacred duty to protect his family and his

 nation from the tyrant, to fight against injustice and slavery.

 When he does so he becomes a warrior and not a criminal. I challenge

 this judge and this white man's court to treat me as a soldier and a

 prisoner of war. For that is what I am." Moses Gama drew his leopard

 skins about him and sat down, leaving them all shaken and silenced.

 Judge Villiers had sat through the entire address with his chin couched

 in his hand, his eyes hooded with concentration, but-now he let his hand

 drop and he leaned forward to glower at the prisoner.

 'You claim to be the leader of your people." 'I do,' Moses replied.

 'A leader is chosen or elected. How were you chosen?" 'When an

 oppressed people has no voice, then their leaders come forward of their

 own accord to speak for them,' Moses told him.

 'So you are a self-proclaimed leader,' the judge said quietly. 'And your

 decision to declare war on our society was taken alone. Is that

 correct?" 'We are involved in a colonial war of liberation,' Moses Gama

 replied. 'Like our brothers in Algeria and Kenya." 'You approved of the

 methods of the Mau Mau then?" Judge Villiers asked.

 'Their cause was just - their methods, vhatever they ,might have been,

 were therefore just." 'The end justifies the means - any means?" 'The

 struggle for liberation is all, in the name of liberty any deed is

 sanctified." 'The slaughter and mutilation of innocents, of women and

 children. These are also justified?" bIf one innocent should die that a

 thousand might go free, then it is justified." Tell me, Moses Gama, do

 you believe in democracy - in the concept of 'One man, one vote"?" I

 believe that every man should have one vote to elect the leaders of the

 nation." 'And after the leaders are chosen, what should happen?" I

 believe that the people should submit to the wisdom of their chosen

 leaders." 'A one-party state - with a president for life?" 'That is the

 African way,' Moses Gama agreed.

 'It is also the way of the Marxists,' Judge Villiers observed drily.

 'Tell me, Moses Gama, what makes a black totalitarian government

 superior to a white totalitarian government?" 'The wishes of the

 majority of the people." 'And the sanction of your people, of which only

 you are aware, makes you a holy crusader - above the laws of civilized

 man?" In this land there are no such laws, for the men who make the laws

 are barbarians,' said Moses Gama softly, and Judge Villiers had no more

 questions to put to him.

 Twenty-four hours later Mr Justice Andr Villiers delivered his judgement

 to a hushed and expectant court.

 'The basis of the case brought by the crown against the accused rests

 upon the consideration of how an individual reacts to what he perceives

 as an injustice. It raises the question of the individual's right or

 duty to resist those laws which he considers unjust or evil. I have had

 to consider what loyalty a person owes to a government, which was

 elected by a process from which he was totally excluded, a government

 which has furthermore embarked upon a programme of legislation that will

 deliberately alienate that person from most of the major rights,

 privileges and benefits of the society of which he is a member --' For

 almost an hour Judge Villiers enlarged on and examined this proposition,

 then he summed up. 'I have therefore reached the conclusion that no

 duty of loyalty exists towards a state in which the individual is denied

 the basic democratic right of representation. Accordingly, on the charge

 of high treason I find the accused not guilty." There was a throaty roar

 from the body of the court and in the non-white section of the gallery

 they were dancing and singing. For almost a full minute Judge Villiers

 watched them, and those member of the court who knew him well were

 amazed by his forbearance But the judge's features were crumpled with an

 unusual compassion and terrible sadness as he took up his gavel to

 quieten them.

 In the silence he spoke again. 'I come now to the other charges against

 the accused. Those of murder and attempted murder. The crown has, with

 the help of the most eminent and trustworthy witnesses, made out a case

 which the accused has not attempted to challenge. I accept that the

 accused placed a large body of explosive in the assembly chamber of the

 South African parliament with the intention of detonating that charge

 during a speech by the prime minister and thereby inflicting the

 greatest possible damage and death. I accept also that when his plot

 was discovered, he slew Colonel Blaine Malcomess and immediately

 thereafter attempted to murder Minister Courtney." The judge paused and

 turned his head towards Moses Gama who sat impassively in the dock,

 still wearing his leopard-skin robes of chieftainship.

 'The accused has offered the defence that he is a soldier in a war of

 liberation and is therefore not subject to the civil law. While I have

 already e4pressed my sympathy for and understanding of the accused's

 aspirations and those of the black people whom he claims to represent, I

 cannot entertain his demand that he be treated as a prisoner of war. He

 is a private individual who, while fully aware of the consequences of

 his actions, set out on the dark road of violence, determined to inflict

 the greatest possible destruction in the most indiscriminate fashion. It

 is therefore without any hesitation whatsoever that I find the accused

 guilty of murder and two charges of attempted murder." There was no

 sound in the courtroom as Judge Villiers went on softly, 'The prisoner

 will rise for sentence." Slowly Moses Gama came to his full height and

 he regarded Judge Villiers with an imperial stare.

 'Is there anything you wish to say before sentence is passed upon you?"

 the judge asked.

 'This is not justice. We both know that - and history will record it

 SO." 'Is there anything further you wish to say?" When Moses shook his

 head, Judge Villiers intoned, 'Having found you guilty on the three main

 charges, I have carefully considered whether any extenuating

 circumstances exist in your case - and at last having determined that

 there are none, I have no alternative but to impose upon you the maximum

 penalty which the law decrees.

 On all the remaining charges, taken jointly and severally, I sentence

 you, Moses Gama, to death by hanging." The silence persisted for a

 moment longer and then from the rear of the court a woman's voice rose

 in keening ululation, the harrowing wall of African mourning. It was

 taken up immediately by all the other black women in the courtroom and

 Judge Villiers made no attempt to silence it.

 In the dock Moses Gama raised a clenched fist above his head.

 'Amandla." he roared, and his people answered him with a single voice:

 'Ngan'ethu/ Mayibuye! Afrika!" Manfred De La Rey sat high in the

 grandstand, in one of the special boxes reserved for the most important

 spectators. Every single seat in the stand had been sold weeks before

 and the standing areas around the field were crammed to capacity. This

 great concourse of humanity had assembled to watch one of the major

 events of the sporting calendar, the clash between the Western Province

 and Northern Transvaal rugby football teams. At stake was the Currie

 Cup, a trophy for which every province of South Africa competed annually

 in a knock-out tournament. The fanatical partisanship which this

 contest evoked went far beyond that of mere sporting competition.

 Manfred smiled sardonically as he looked around him. The Englishman

 Macmillan had said that theirs was the first of the African

 nationalisms. If that was correct, then this was one of their most

 important tribal rituals, one that united and reaffirmed the Afrikaners

 as a cohesive entity. No.outsider could grasp the significance of the

 game of rugby football in their culture. True it had been developed at

 a British public school qlmost one hundred and fifty years ago, but

 then, Manfred thought wryly, it was too good for the rooinekke and it

 took an Afrikaner to understand the game and play it to its full

 potential.

 Then again to call it a game was the same as calling politics or war, a

 game. It was more, a thousand times more. To sit here amongst his own,

 to be a part of this immense spirit of Afrikanerdom, gave him the same

 sort of religious awe that he felt when he stood within the congregation

 of the Dutch Reformed Church, or when he was part of the throng that

 gathered before the massive Voortrekker Monument that stood on the hills

 above the city of Pretoria. On the day of the Covenant with God, his

 people gathered there each year to celebrate the victory that the

 Almighty had given them over the Zulu King Dingaan at the battle of

 Blood River.

 As was fitting on such an occasion as this, Manfred wore his green

 blazer piped in gold with the flying Springbok emblem on the pocket and

 the legend 'Boxing 1936' below it. No matter that the buttons could no

 longer fasten across his dignified girth, he wore it with pride.

 His pride was infinitely magnified when he looked down on the field. The

 turf was scared by the frosts of early winter but the highveld sunlight

 gave everything a lucid quality so that Manfred could make out every

 detail of his son's beloved features as he stood out near the centre of

 the field.

 Lothar De La Rey's magnificent torso was not obscured by the blue

 woollen jersey that he wore, rather it was emphasized by the thin stuff,

 so that the lean hard muscle in his belly and chest stood proud.

 His bare legs were sturdy, but at the same time long and shapely, and

 the cap of close-cropped hair, coppery blond, burned like fire in the

 bright highveld sunshine.

 Slowly Lothar bowed his head, as though to pray, and a hush fell over

 the packed grandstand. There was no breath of sound from even one of

 the forty thousand throats, and Lothar's dark brows clenched in complete

 concentration.

 Slowly he lifted his arms, spreading them like the wings of a falcon on

 the edge of flight, until they were at the level of his shoulders, a

 strangely graceful gesture, and he raised his body on tiptoe so that the

 great muscles of his thighs tightened and changed shape -and then he

 began to run.

 He ran with the bounding motion of that hunting cat, the cheetah,

 lifting his knees high and driving his whole body forward. Behind him

 the turf was scarred by the power of his studded boots, and in the

 immense silence of the arena his grunting breaths, timed to the long

 elastic strides, carried to where Manfred sat.

 The leather ball, shiny brown and ovate, was balanced on one point, and

 as Lothar bore down on where it stood on the green turf, his pace

 quickened yet his body remained in perfect balance. The kick was a

 continuation of that long driving stride, his right leg whipped straight

 at the exact instant that his toe struck the ball and his weight was so

 far forward that his leg swung on up in an arcing parabola until his

 foot, with his toe extended like that of a ballet dancer, was high above

 his head, while both his arms were flung forward to maintain that

 graceful balance. The ball was grossly deformed by the brutal impact of

 the kick, but in flight it snapped back into shape, and rose in a flat

 hard trajectory towards the two tall white goalposts at the end of the

 field. It neither tumbled nor wobbled, but flew with a stable motion,

 as steady in the air as a flighted arrow.

 However, a hoarse and anxious sigh went up from the watchers, as they

 realized that it was aimed too far to the right. Although the power of

 that mighty right leg had driven it high above the level of the cross

 bar, it was going to miss the goalposts on the right and Manfred came to

 his feet with forty thousand others and groaned in helpless agony.

 A miss would mean ignominious defeat, but if the ball passed between the

 white uprights, it would be victory, sweet and famous, by a single

 point.

 The ball rose higher still, up out of the sheltered arena, and it caught

 the wind. Lothar had studied the flags on the roof of the grandstand

 before he began his run, and now the wind swung the ball in gently, but

 not enough, oh, sweet God, not nearly enough.

 Then gradually the ball lostimpetus and power as it reached the zenith

 of its trajectory, and as it slowed, so the wind took charge, curving it

 ever more sharply to the left, and Manfred's groan turned to a roar of

 delight as it fell through the very centre of the goalposts, grazing the

 white cross bar, and the referee's shrill long-drawn-out whistle

 signalled the end of the match.

 Beside Manfred, his boyhood friend, Roelf Stander, was pounding his back

 in congratulation.

 'Man, I tell you, he is going to be a Springbok for sure, just like his

 Pa." On the field Lothar was surrounded by his team mates who were

 fighting for a chance to embrace him, while from the stands a wave of

 spectators was sweeping across the field to lionize him.

 'Come, let's go down to the dressing-room." Manfred took his companion's

 arm, but it was not that easy. They were stopped every few paces by the

 well-wishers and Manfred smiled and shook their hands and accepted their

 congratulations. Although this was part of his life, and his very soul

 fed on the adulation and enormous respect which every one of them, even

 the richest and most famous of them, showed towards him, yet today it

 irked Manfred to be kept from his son.

 When at last they reached the dressing-room, the crowd that filled the

 corridor outside opened miraculously before them, and where others were

 turned away, they were respectfully ushered through into the steamy

 noisy room that stank of sweaty clothing and stale urine and hot

 masculine bodies.

 Lothar was in the centre of the crowd of naked young men, singing and

 wrestling in rough camaraderie, but when he saw his father he broke away

 and came to him immediately, dressed only in a pair of grass-stained

 shorts with his magnificent young body glossy with sweat and a brown

 beer bottle clutched in one hand. His face was rapturous with pride and

 the sense of his own achievement.

 'My son --' Manfred held out his right hand and Lothar seized it

 joyously." 'My son --' Manfred repeated, but his voice failed him and

 his vision misted over with pride. He jerked his son's hand, pulling

 him against his own chest, and held him hard, hugging him unashamedly,

 even while Lothar's sweat stained his shirt and his team mates howled

 with delight.

 The three of them, Manfred, Roelf Stander and Lothar, drove home in the

 new ministerial Cadillac. They were happy as schoolboys, grinning and

 joshing each other and singing the bawdy old rugby songs. When they

 stopped at the traffic lights before entering the main traffic stream at

 Jan Smuts Drive that would take them the thirty miles across the grassy

 undulating highveld to Pretoria, there were two small black urchins

 darting and dodging perilously amongst the vehicles, and one of them

 peered through the side window of the Cadillac at Manfred, grinning

 cockily and holding up a copy of the Mail from the bundle of newspapers

 he carried under his arm.

 Manfred was about to dismiss him with an impatient gesture, for the Mail

 was an English rag. Then he saw the headlines: 'Appeal Fails: Guy

 Fawkes Killer to Hang' and he rolled down his side window and flipped

 the child a coin.

 He passed the paper to RoeIf Stander with the terse command, 'Read it to

 me!" and drove on.

 This morning the appeal of Moses Gama against his conviction for murder

 and attempted murder by the Cape division of the Supreme Court was

 dismissed by a full bench of the Appellate Division in Bloemfontein and

 the date set for the execution by hanging was confirmed.

 'Ja, goed." Although Manfred scowled with concentration as he listened,

 his relief was intense. Over the months the media and the public had

 come to accept the Gama case as something intimately linked to Manfred

 De La Rey. The fact that he had personally made the arrest and that he

 was minister of police had combined so that the prosecution of the case

 had become in the public imagination, a measure of the strength and

 efficiency of the police force and of Manfred's kragdadigheid, his own

 personal power.

 More than any other quality the Afrikaner Volk demanded strength and

 determination in its leaders. This case, with its terrifying message of

 black peril and bloody revolution, had invoked the most intense feelings

 of insecurity throughout the land. People wanted to be reassured that

 their safety and the security of the state were in strong hands.

 Manfred, with his sure political instincts, had realized that the dice

 of his future were being cast.

 Unfortunately, there had been a complication in what should have been a

 straightforward matter of justice and swift retribution. The fact that

 the judge of the Supreme court had dismissed the charge of high treason

 and had made some controversial and ill-considered remarks about the

 individual's duty of loyalty to a state in which he was denied direct

 representation had been taken up by the foreign press and the case had

 captured the attention of left-wing liberals and Bolsheviks around the

 western world. In America the bearded hippies and commie university

 students had formed 'Save Moses Gama' committees and had picketed the

 White House and the South African embassy in Washington, while even in

 England there had been demonstrations in Trafalgar Square outside South

 Africa House by communist-inspired and -financed gangs of black

 expatriates and some white riff-raft. The British prime minister had

 summoned the South African high commissioner for consultations and

 President Eisenhower had instructed his ambassador in Pretoria to call

 upon Hendrik Verwoerd and appeal for mercy for the condemned man.

 The South African government had stood firm in its rejection of these

 appeals. Their position was that the matter was one for the judiciary

 and that they would not interfere with the course of justice.

 However, their lordships of the Appellate Division were occasionally

 known to indulge in unwise demonstrations of compassion or obscure legal

 dialectic, in fits of independent thinking which accorded ill with the

 hard task of the police and the aspirations of the Afrikaner Volk.

 This time, mercifully, they had been spared one of their lordships'

 quirky decisions and in that little green-painted room in Pretoria

 Central Prison the noose now waited for Moses Gama, and he would crash

 through the trap to the eternity into which he had planned to send the

 leaders of the nation.

 'Ja, goed/Now read the editorial!" Manfred ordered Roelf Stander.

 The Golden Cia' Mail was one of the English language newspapers, and

 even for that section of the press the views it held were liberal.

 Manfred would never have bought it for preference, but having done so he

 was now prepared to dilute his grim satisfaction at the appeal court's

 verdict, with the irritation of listening to the left-wing erudition of

 the Mai/'s editorial staff.

 Roelf Stander rustled the news sheet and cleared his throat.

 'A Martyr is Born,' he read, and Manfred gave a growl of anger.

 When Moses Gama dies at the end of the hangman's rope, he will become

 the most significant martyr in the history of the black African struggle

 for liberation.

 Moses Gama's elevation will not be on account of his moving eloquence

 nor from the awe-inspiring power of his presence. Rather it will be for

 the simple reason that he has posed a question so grave and so fateful

 that by its very nature the answer to it can never be given by a single

 national court of law. The answer rests instead in the heart of mankind

 itself. For that question is aimed at the very foundation of man's

 existence upon this earth. Simply stated, it is this: is a man who is

 deprived of any peaceful or lawful means of asserting his basic human

 rights justified in turning, in the last resort, to violence?

 Manfred snorted. 'Enough of that. I should not have bothered to have

 you read it out. It is so predictable. If the black savages cut the

 throats of our children and eat their raw livers, there would still be

 those rooinekke who would chastize us for not having provided salt for

 the feast! We will not listen to any more of that. Turn to the sports

 page. Let us hear what they have to say about Lothie and his manne,

 though I doubt that those souties can tell the difference between a

 stick of biltong and a rugby ball." When the Cadillac pulled up the long

 drive to Manfred's official residence in the elite suburb of Waterkloof,

 there was a large gathering of family and friends at the swimming-pool

 at the far end of the wide green lawns and the younger ones came running

 to meet them and to embrace Lothar as soon as he stepped out of the

 Cadillac.

 'We listened on the radio,' they cried, as they clamoured for a turn to

 hug and kiss him. 'Oh Lothie, you were wonderful." Each of his sisters

 took one of his arms, while their friends and the Stander girls crowded

 as close as they could to him as they escorted him down to the pool

 where the older women waited to congratulate him.

 Lothar went to his mother first, and while they embraced Manfred watched

 them with an indulgent smile of pride. What a fine-looking family he

 had. Heidi was still a magnificent woman and no man could ask for a

 more dutiful wife. Not once in all the years had he ever regretted his

 choice.

 'My friends, my family, all my loved ones,' Manfred raised his voice,

 and they turned to him and fell into silent expectation.

 .... Ma_rtfred.. a. colJ_,." . iek. c ..a. no, t l-ie.V r

 u-'"ceptible to oratory and fine words for they were constantly exposed

 to them, from pulpit and political platform, from the cradle to the

 grave.

 'When I look at this young man who is my son, at this fine young South

 African, and those of our young people like him, then I know that I need

 not worry for the future of our Volk,' Manfred proclaimed in the

 sonorous tones to which his listeners responded instinctively, and they

 applauded and cried 'Haar, boot!" each time he paused.

 Amongst the listeners there was one at least who was not entirely

 captivated by his artistry. Although Sarah Stander smiled and nodded,

 she could feel her stomach churn and her throat burn with the acid of

 her rejected love.

 Sitting in this lovely garden, watching the man she had loved beyond

 life itself, the man to whom she would have dedicated every moment of

 her existence; the man to whom she had given her girlish body and the

 tender blossom of her virginity, the man whose seed she had taken

 joyously into her womb, that ancient, now rancid passion changed its

 shape and texture to become hard and bitter hatred. She listened to

 Manfred extolling his wife, and she knew that she should have been that

 woman, those praises should have been for her alone. She should have

 been at his side to share his triumphs and his achievements.

 She watched Manfred embrace Lothar and with his arm around his

 shoulders, commend his firstborn to them all, smiling with pride as he

 recited his virtues, and Sarah Stander hated them both, father and son,

 for Lothar De La Rey was not his firstborn.

 She turned her head and saw Jakobus standing on the periphery, shy and

 self-effacing, but every bit as handsome as the big goldenheaded

 athlete. Jakobus, her own son, had the dark brows and pale

 topaz-coloured eyes of the De La Reys. If Manfred were not blind, he

 would see that. Jakobus was as tall as Lothar, but was not possessed of

 his half-brother's raw-boned frame and layers of rippling muscle. He had

 an appealing fragility of body, and his features were not so dashingly

 masculine. Instead, he had the face of a poet, sensitive and gentle.

 Sarah's own expression went dreamy and soft as she remembered his

 conception. She had been little more than a child, but her love had

 been that of a mature woman, as she crept through the silent old house

 to the room in which Manfred slept. She had loved him all her life, but

 in the morning he was leaving, sailing away to a far-off land, to

 Germany as a member of the Olympic team, and she had been troubled for

 weeks with a deep premonition of losing him for ever. She had wanted in

 some way to ensure against that insupportable loss, to try to make

 certain of his return, so she had given him everything that she had, her

 heart and her soul and her barely matured body, trusting him to return

 them to her.

 Instead he had met the German woman and had married her.

 Sarah could still vividly recall the cablegram from Germany that had

 announced his dreadful betrayal, and her own devastation when she read

 the fateful words. Part of her had shrivelled and died on that day,

 part of her soul had been missing ever since.

 Manfred De La Rey was still speaking, and he had them laughing now with

 some silly joke, but he looked towards her and saw that she was serious.

 Perhaps he read something of her thoughts in her eyes for his own gaze

 flicked across to where Jakobus stood and then back to her and for an

 instant she sensed an unusual emotion regret or guilt - within him.

 She wondered not for the first time if he knew about Jakobus.

 Surely he must at least have suspected it. Her marriage to Roelf had

 been so hasty, so unheralded, and the birth of Kobus had followed so

 swiftly. Then the physical resemblance of son to father was so strong,

 surely Manfred knew it.

 Roelf knew, of course. He had loved her without hope until Manfred

 rejected her, and he had used her pregnancy to gain her consent. Since

 then he had been a good and dutiful husband and his love and concernTor

 her had never faltered - but he was not Manfred De La Rey. He was not,

 nor could he ever be, a man as Manfred De La Rey was a man. He had

 never had Manfred's force and power, his drive and personality and

 ruthlessness, and she could never love him as she loved Manfred.

 Yes, she admitted to herself, I have always loved Manfred, and I will

 love him to the end of my life, but my hatred of him is as strong as my

 love and with time it will grow stronger still. It is all that I have

 to sustain me.

 Manfred was ending his speech now, talking about Lothar's promotion. Of

 course, Sarah thought bitterly, his promotion would not have been so

 rapid if his father had not been the minister of police and he had not

 had such skill with a rugby ball. Her own Kobus could expect no such

 preferment. Everything he achieved would be with his own talent and by

 his own efforts. She and Roelf could do little for him. Roelf's

 influence was minimal, and even the university fees for Jakobus'

 education were a serious drain on their family finances. She had been

 forced to face the fact that Roelf would never go much further than he

 was now. His entry into legal practice had been a mistake and a

 failure. By the time he he accepted that fact and returned to the

 academic life as a lecturer in law, he had lost so much seniority that

 it would be many years, if ever, before he was given the chair of law.

 No there was not much they could do to help Kobus - but then, of course,

 none of the family, not even Kobus himself, knew what he wanted from

 life. He was a brilliant student, but he totally lacked direction or

 purpose, and he had always been a secretive lad. It was so difficult to

 draw him out. Once or twice Sarah had succeeded in doing so, but she

 had been frightened by the strange and radical views he expressed.

 Perhaps it was best not to explore her son's mind too deeply, she

 thought, and smiled across at him just as, at last, Manfred stopped

 singing his own son's praises.

 Jakobus came to her side now. 'Can I get you another orange juice,

 Mama? Your glass is empty." 'No, thank you, Kobus. Stay with me for a

 while. I see so little of you these days." The men had charged their

 beer tankards and led by Manfred trooped towards the barbecue fires on

 the far side of the pool. Amid laughter and raillery Manfred and Lothar

 were tying candy-striped aprons around their waists and arming

 themselves with long-handled forks.

 On a side table there was a huge array of platters piled with raw meat,

 lamb chops and sosaties on long skewers, German sausages and great thick

 steaks, enough to feed an army of starving giants and, Sarah calculated

 sourly, costing almost her husband's monthly salary.

 Since Manfred and his one-armed demented father had mysteriously

 acquired shares in that fishing company in South West Africa, he had

 become not only famous and powerful, but enormously rich as well. Heidi

 had a mink coat now and Manfred had purchased a large farm in the rich

 maize-producing belt of the Orange Free State.

 It was every Afrikaner's dream to own a farm, and Sarah felt her envy

 flare as she thought about it. All that should have been hers.

 She had been deprived of what was rightly hers by that German whore. The

 word shocked her, but she repeated it silently - whore!

 He was mine, whore, and you stole him from me.

 Jakobus was talking to her, but she found it difficult to follow what he

 was saying. Her attention kept stealing back to Manfred De La Rey.

 Every time his great laugh boomed out she felt her heart contract and

 she watched him from the corners of her eyes.

 Manfred was holding court; even dressed in that silly apron and with a

 cooking fork in his hand, he was still the focus of all attention and

 respect. Every few minutes more guests arrived to join the gathering,

 most of them important and powerful men, but all of them gathered

 slavishly around Manfred and deferred to him.

 'We should understand why he did it,' Jakobus was saying, and Sarah

 forced herself to concentrate on her son. 'Who did it, dear?" she asked

 vaguely.

 'Mama, you haven't been listening to a word,' Jakobus smiled gently.

 'You really are a little scatterbrain sometimes." Sarah always felt

 vaguely uncomfortable when he spoke to her in such a familiar fashion,

 none of her friends' children would show such disrespect, even in fun.

 'I was talking about Moses Gama,' Jakobus went on, and at the mention of

 that name everybody within earshot turned towards the two of them.

 'They are going to hang that black thunder, at last,' somebody said, and

 everybody agreed immediately.

 'Ja, about time." 'We have to teach them a lesson - you show mercy to a

 kaffir and he takes it as weakness." 'Only one thing they understand --'

 'I think it will be a mistake to hang him,' Jakobus said clearly, and

 there was a stunned silence.

 'Kobie! Kobie!" Sarah tugged at her son's arm. 'Not now, darling.

 People don't like that sort of talk,' 'That is because they never hear

 it - and they don't understand it,' Jakobus explained reasonably, but

 some of them turned away deliberately while a middle-aged cousin of

 Manfred's said truculently, 'Come on, Sarie, can't you stop your brat

 talking like a commie." 'Please, Kobie,' she used the diminutive as a

 special appeal, 'for my sake." Manfred De La Rey had become aware of the

 disturbance and the flare of hostility amongst his guests, and now he

 looked across the fires on which the steaks were sizzling and he

 frowned.

 'Don't you see, Mama, we have to talk about it. If we don't, people

 will never hear any other point of view. None of them even read the

 English newspapers--' 'Kobie, you will anger your uncle Manie,' Sarah

 pleaded. 'Please stop it now." 'We Afrikaners are cut off in this

 little make-believe world of ours.

 We think that if we make enough laws the black people will cease to

 exist, except as our servants --' Manfred had come across from the fires

 now, and his face was dark with anger.

 'Jakobus Stander,' he rumbled softly. 'Your father and your mother are

 my oldest and dearest friends, but do not trespass on the hospitality of

 this house. I will not have wild and treasonable ideas bandied about in

 front of my family and friends. Behave yourself, or leave immediately."

 For a moment it seemed the boy might defy him. Then he dropped his gaze

 and mumbled, 'I'm sorry, Oom Manie." But when Manfred turned and strode

 back to the barbecue fire, he said just loud enough for Sarah to hear,

 'You see, they won't listen. They don't want to hear. They are afraid

 of the truth. How can you make a blind man see?" Manfred De La Rey was

 still inwardly seething with anger at the youth's ill-manners, but

 outwardly he was his usual bluff self as he resumed his self-imposed

 duties over the cooking fires, and led the jovial banter of his male

 guests. Gradually his irritation subsided, and he had almost put aside

 Moses Gama and the long shadow that he had thrown over them all, when

 his youngest daughter came running down from the long low ranch-type

 house. 'Papa, Papa, there is a telephone call for you." 'I can't come

 now, skatjie,' Manfred called. 'We don't want our guests to starve.

 Take a message." 'It's Oom Dame,' his daughter insisted, 'and he says he

 must talk to you now. It's very important." Manfred sighed and grumbled

 good-naturedly as he untied his apron, and handed his fork to RoeIf

 Stander. 'Don't let them burn!" and he strode up to the house.

 'Ja.t' he barked into the telephone.

 'I don't like to disturb you, Manie." 'Then why do you do it9." Manfred

 demanded. Dame Leroux was a senior police general, and one of his most

 able officers. 'It's this man Gama." Let the black bastard hang. That

 is what he wants." 'No! He wants to do a deal." 'Send someone else to

 speak to him, I do not want to waste my time." 'He will only talk to

 you, and we believe he has something important he will be able to tell

 you." Manfred thought for a moment. His instinct was to dismiss the

 request out of hand, but he let reason dictate to him.

 'All right,' he agreed heavily. 'I will meet him." There would also be

 a perverse pleasure in confronting a vanquished foe. 'But he is going

 to hang - nothing will stop that,' he warned quietly.

 The prison authority had confiscated the leopard-skin robes of

 chieftainship, and Moses Gama wore the prison-issue suiting of coarse

 unbleached calico.

 The long unremitting strain of awaiting the outcome of his appeal had

 told heavily. For the first time Vicky noticed the frosting of white in

 his cap of dark crinkling hair, and his features were gaunt, his eyes

 sunken in dark bruised-looking hollows. Her compassion for him

 threatened to overwhelm her, and she wished that she could reach out and

 touch him, but the steel mesh screen separated them.

 'This is the last time I am allowed to visit you,' she whispered, 'and

 they will only let me stay for fifteen minutes." 'That will be long

 enough, for there is not much to say, now that the sentence has been

 confirmed." 'Oh, Moses, we were wrong to believe that the British and

 the Americans would save you." 'They tried,' he said quietly.

 'But they did not try very hard, and now what will I do withou you. What

 will the child I am carrying do without a father?" 'You are a daughter

 of Zulu, you will be strong." 'I will try, Moses my husband,' she

 whispered. 'But what of you: people? They are also children without a

 father. What will becom of them?" She saw the old fierce fire burn in

 his eyes. She had feared it hoc been for ever extinguished, and she

 felt a brief and bitter joy tr know it was still alight.

 'The others will seek to take your place now. Those of the Congres who

 hate and envy you. When you die they will use your sacrifice t( serve

 their own ambitions." She saw that she had reached him again, and that

 he was angry She sought to inflame his anger to give him reason and

 strength tr go on living.

 'If you die, your enemies will use your dead body as a stepping.

 stone to climb to the place you have left empty." 'Why do you torment

 me, woman?" he asked.

 'Because I do not want you to die, because I want you to live - lo me,

 for our child, and for your people." 'That cannot be,' he said.

 'The hard Boers will not yield, not even to the demands of the great

 powers. Unless you can find wings fol me to fly over these walls, then

 I must go to my fate. There is nc other way." 'There is a way,' Vicky

 told him. 'There is a way for you to survive - and for you to put down

 the enemy who seek to usurp your place as the leader of the black

 nations." He stared at her as she went on.

 'When the day comes that we sweep the Boers into the sea, and open the

 doors of the prisons, you will emerge to take your rightful place at the

 head of the revolution." 'What is this way, woman? What is this hope

 that you hold out to me?" He listened without expression as she

 propounded it to him, and when she had finished, he said gravely, 'It is

 true that the lioness is fiercer and crueller than the lion." 'Will you

 do it, my lord - not for your own sake, but for all us weak ones who

 need you so?" 'I will think on it,' he conceded.

 There is so little time,' she warned The black ministerial Cadillac was

 delayed only briefly at the gates to the prison for they were expecting

 Manfred De La Rey. As the steel gates swung open, the driver

 accelerated through into the main courtyard and turned into the parking

 slot that had been kept free.

 The prison commissioner and two of his senior staff were waiting, and

 they hurried forward as soon as Manfred climbed out of the rear door.

 Briefly Manfred shook hands with the commissioner and said, 'I wish to

 see the prisoner immediately." Of course, Minister, it has been

 arranged. He is waiting for you." 'Lead the way." Manfred's heavy

 footfalls echoed along the dreary green-painted corridors, while the

 senior warders scurried ahead to unlock the interleading doors of each

 section and relock them as Manfred and the prison commissioner passed

 through. It was a long walk, but they came at last to the condemned

 block.

 'How many awaiting execution?" Manfred demanded.

 'Eleven,' the commissioner replied. The figure was not unusually high,

 Manfred reflected. Africa is a violent land and the gallows play a

 central role in the administration of justice.

 'I do not want to be overheard, even by those soon to die." et has been

 arranged,' the commissioner assured him. 'Gama is being kept separate

 from the others." The warders opened one last steel door and at the end

 of a short passage was a barred cell. Manfred went through but when the

 commissioner would have followed, Manfred stopped him.

 'Wait here!" he ordered. 'Lock the door after me and open it again only

 when I ring." As the door clanged shut Manfred walked on to the end of

 the passage.

 The cell was small, seven foot by seven, and almost bare. There was a

 toilet bowl against the side wall and a single iron bunk fixed to the

 opposite wall. Moses Gama sat on the edge of the bunk and he looked up

 at Manfred. Then slowly he came to his feet and crossed the cell to

 face him through the green-painted bars.

 Neither man spoke. They stared at each other. Though only the bars

 separated them, they were a universe and an eternity apart.

 Though their gazes locked, there was no contact between their minds, and

 the hostility was a barrier between them more obdurate and

 irreconcilable than the steel bars.

 'Yes?" Manfred asked at last. The temptation to gloat over a vanquished

 adversary was strong, but he withstood it. 'You asked to see me?" q

 have a proposal to put to you,' Moses Gama said.

 'You wish to bargain for your life?" Manfred corrected him, and when

 Moses was silent, he smiled. 'So it seems that you are no different

 from other men, Moses Gama. You are neither a saint nor even the noble

 martyr that some say you are. You are no better than other men, no

 better than any of us. In the end your loyalty is to yourself alone.

 You are weak as other men are weak, and like them, you are afraid." 'Do

 you wish to listen to my proposal?" Moses asked, without a sign of

 having heard the taunts.

 'I will hear what you have to say,' Manfred agreed. 'That is why I came

 here." 'I will deliver them to you,' Moses said, and Manfred understood

 immediately.

 'By "them" you mean those who also claim to be the leaders of your

 people? The ones who compete with your own claim to that position?"

 Moses nodded and Manfred chuckled and shook his head with admiration.

 'I will give you the names and the evidence. I will give you the times

 and the places." Moses was still expressionless. 'You have

 underestimated the threat that they are to you, you have underestimated

 the support they can muster, here and abroad. I will give you that

 knowledge." 'And in return?" Manfred asked.

 'My freedom,' said Moses simply.

 'Magtig!" The blasphemy was a measure of Manfred's astonishment. 'You

 have the effrontery of a white man." He turned away so that Moses could

 not see his face while he considered the magnitude of the offer.

 Moses Gama was wrong. Manfred was fully aware of the threat, and he had

 a broad knowledge of the extent and the ramifications of the conspiracy.

 He understood that the world he knew was under terrible siege. The

 Englishman had spoken of the winds of changethey were blowing not only

 upon the African continent, but across the world. Everything he held

 dear, from the existence of his family to that of his Volk and the

 safety of the land that God had delivered unto them, was under attack by

 the forces of darkness.

 Here he was being offered the opportunity to deal those forces a telling

 blow. He knew then what his duty was.

 'I cannot give you your freedom,' he said quietly. 'That "is too much -

 but you knew that when you demanded it, didn't you?" Moses did not

 answer him, and Manfred went on, 'This is the bargain I will offer you.

 I will give you your life. A reprieve, but you will never leave prison

 again. That is the best I can do." The silence went on so long that

 Manfred thought he had refused and he began to turn away when Moses

 spoke again. 'I accept." Manfred turned back to him, not allowing his

 triumph to show.

 'I will want all the names, all the evidence,' he insisted.

 'You will have it all,' Moses assured him. 'When I have my reprieve."

 'No,' Manfred said quietly. 'I set the terms. You will have your

 reprieve when you have earned it. Until then you will get only a stay

 of execution. Even for that I will need you to name a name so that I

 can convince my compatriots of the wisdom of our bargain." Moses was

 silent, glowering at him through the bars.

 'Give me a name,' Manfred insisted. 'Give me something to take to the

 prime minister." 'I will do better than that,' Moses agreed. 'I will

 give you two names. Heed them well. They are - Mandela and Rivonia."

 Michael Courtney was in the city room of the Mail when the news that the

 Appellate Division had denied Moses Gama's appeal and confirmed the date

 of his execution, came clattering out on the tape.

 He let the paper strip run through his fingers, reading it with total

 concentration, and when the message ended, he went to his desk and sat

 in front of his typewriter.

 He lit a cigarette and sat quietly, staring out of the window over the

 tops of the scraggly trees in Joubert Park. He had a pile of work in

 his basket and a dozen reference books on his desk. Desmond Blake had

 slipped out of the office to go down to the George to top up his gin

 tank and left Michael to finish the article on the American elections.

 Eisenhower was nearing the end of his final term and the editor wanted a

 pen portrait of the presidential candidates. Michael was working on his

 biographical notes of John Kennedy, but having difficulty choosing the

 salient facts from the vast amount that had been written about the young

 Democratic candidate, apart from those that everybody knew, that he was

 a Catholic and a New Dealer and that he had been born in 1917.

 America seemed very far away that morning, and the election of an

 American president inconsequential in comparison with what he had just

 read on the tape.

 As part of his self-education and training, Michael made a practice each

 day of selecting an item of important news and writing a

 two-thousand-word mock editorial upon it. These exercises were for his

 own sake, the results private and jealously guarded. He showed them to

 no one, especially not Desmond Blake whose biting sarcasm and whose

 willingness to plagiarize Michael had learned to fear. He kept these

 articles in a folder in the locked bottom drawer of his desk.

 Usually Michael worked on these exercises in his own time, staying on

 for an hour or so in the evening or sitting up late at night in the

 little bed-sitter he rented in Hillbrow, pecking them out on his rickety

 old secondhand Remington.

 However, this morning he had been' so moved by the failure of Gama's

 appeal that he could not concentrate on the Kennedy story.

 The image of the imperial-looking black man in his leopard-skin robes

 kept recurring before Michael's eyes, and his words kept echoing in

 Michael's ears.

 Suddenly he reached forward and ripped the half-completed page out of

 his machine. Then he swiftly rolled a clean sheet into it. He didn't

 have to think, his fingers flew across the keys, and the words sprang up

 before his eyes: 'A Martyr is Born." He rolled the cigarette to the side

 of his mouth and squinted against the spiral of blue smoke, and the

 words came in short staccato bursts. He did not have to search for

 facts or dates or figures. They were all there, crisp and bright in his

 head. He never paused. He never had to weigh one word against another.

 The precise word was there on the page almost of its own volition.

 When he finished it half an hour later, he knew that it was the best

 thing he had ever written. He read it through once, shaken by the power

 of his own words, and then he stood up. He felt restless and nervous.

 The effort of creation rather than calming or exhausting him had excited

 him. He had to get outside.

 He left the sheet in the typewriter and took his jacket off the back of

 his chair. The sub glanced up at him enquiringly.

 'Going to find Des,' he called. In the newsroom there was a conspiracy

 to protect Desmond Blake from himself and the gin bottle and the sub

 nodded agreement and returned to his work.

 Once he was out of the buildfng, Michael walked fast, pushing his way

 through the crowds on the sidewalks, stepping out hard with both hands

 thrust into his pockets. He didn't look where he was going, but it

 didn't surprise him when at last he found himself in the main concourse

 of the Johannesburg railway station.

 He fetched a paper cup of coffee from the kiosk near the ticket office

 and took it to his usual seat on one of the benches. He lit a cigarette

 and raised his eyes towards the domed glass ceiling. The Pierneef

 murals were placed so high that very few of the thousands of commuters

 who passed through the concourse each day ever noticed them.

 For Michael they were the essence of the continent, a distillation of

 all of Africa's immensity and infinite beauty. Like a celestial choir,

 they sang aloud all that he was trying to convey in clumsy stumbling

 sentences. He felt at peace when at last he left the massive stone

 building.

 He found Des Blake on his usual stool at the end of the bar counter at

 the George.

 'Are you your brother's keeper?" Des Blake enquired loftily, but his

 words were slurred. It took a great deal of gin to make Des Blake slur.

 'The sub is asking for you,' Michael lied.

 He wondered why he felt any concern for the man, or why any of them

 bothered to protect him - but then one of the other senior journalists

 had given him the answer to that. 'He was once a great newspaperman,

 and we have to look after our own." Des was having difficulty fitting a

 cigarette into his ivory holder.

 Michael did it for him, and as he held a match he said, 'Come on, Mr

 Blake. They are waiting for you." 'Courtney, I think I should warn you

 now. You haven't got what it takes, I'm afraid. You'll never cut the

 mustard, boy. You are just a poor little rich man's son. You'll never

 be a newspaperman's anus." 'Come along, Mr Blake,' said Michael wearily,

 and took his arm to help him down off the stool.

 The first thing Michael noticed when he reached his desk again was that

 the sheet of paper was missing from his typewriter. It was only in the

 last few months, since he had been assigned to work with Des Blake, that

 he had been given his own desk and machine, and he was fiercely jealous

 and protective of them.

 The idea of anyone fiddling with his typewriter, let alone taking work

 out of it, infuriated him. He looked around him furiously, seeking a

 target for his anger, but every single person in the long, crowded noisy

 room was senior to him. The effort it cost him to contain his outrage

 left him shaking. He lit another cigarettes, the last one in his pack,

 and even in his agitation he realized that that made it twenty since

 breakfast.

 'Courtney!" the sub called across to him, raising his voice above the

 rattle of typewriters. 'You took your time. Mr Herbstein wants you in

 his office right away." Michael's rage subsided miraculously. He had

 never been in the editor's office before, Mr Herbstein had once said

 good morning to him in the lift but that was all.

 The walk down the newsroom seemed the longest of his life, and though

 nobody even glanced up as he passed, Michael was certain that they were

 secretly sniggering at him and gloating on his dilemma.

 He knocked on the frosted-glass panel of the editor's door and there was

 a bellow from inside.

 Timidly Michael pushed the door open and peered round it. Leon

 Herbstein was on the telephone, a burly man in a sloppy hand-knitted

 cardigan with thick horn-rimmed spectacles and a shock of thick curly

 hair shot through with strands of grey. Impatiently he waved Michael

 into the room and then ignored him while he finished his conversation on

 the telephone.

 At last he slammed down the receiver and swivelled his chair to regard

 the young man who was standing uneasily in front of his desk.

 Ten days before, Leon Herbstein had received a quite unexpected

 invitation to a luncheon in the executive dining-room of the Courtney

 Mining and Finance Company's new head office building. There had been

 ten other guests present, all of them leaders of commerce and industry,

 but Herbstein had found himself in the right hand seat beside his host.

 Leon Herbstein had never had any great admiration for Shasa Courtney. He

 was suspicious of vast wealth, and the two Courtneys - mother and son -

 had a formidable reputation for shrewd and ruthless busirless practices.

 Then again, Shasa Courtney had forsaken the United Party of which Leon

 Herbstein was an ardent supporter, and had gone across to the

 Nationalists. Leon Herbstein had never forgotten the violent

 anti-semitism which had attended the birth of the National Party, and he

 considered the policy of apartheM as simply another manifestation of the

 same grotesque racial bigotry.

 As far as he was concerned, Shasa Courtney was one of the enemy.

 However, he sat down at his luncheon table quite unprepared for the

 man's easy and insidious charm and his quick and subtle mind. Shasa

 devoted most of his attention to Leon Herbstein, and by the end of the

 meal the editor had considerably moderated his feelings towards the

 Courtneys. At least he was convinced that Shasa Courtney truly had the

 best interests of all the people at heart, that he was especially

 concerned with improving the lot of the black and underprivileged

 sections, and that he was wielding an important moderating influence in

 the high councils of the National Party.

 In addition, he left the Courtney building with a heightened respect for

 Shasa Courtney's subtlety. Not once had Shasa mentioned the fact that

 he and his companies now owned 42 percent of the stock of Associated

 Newspapers of South Africa or that his son was employed as a junior

 journalist on the Mail. It hadn't been necessary, both men had been

 acutely aware of these facts while they talked.

 Up to that time Leon Herbstein had felt a natural antagonism towards

 Michael Courtney. Placing him in the care of Des Blake had been all the

 preference he had shown to the lad. However, after that luncheon he had

 begun to study him with more attention. It didn't take an old dog long

 to attribute the improvement in much of the copy that Des Blake had been

 turning out recently to the groundwork that Michael Courtney was doing

 for him. From then onwards whenever he passed Michael's desk, Herbstein

 made a point of quickly and surreptitiously checking what work was in

 his machine or in the copy basket.

 Herbstein had the journalist's trick of being able to assimilate a full

 typed sheet at a single glance, and he was grimly amused to notice how

 often Des Blake's column was based on the draft by his young assistant,

 and how often the original was better than the final copy.

 Now he studied Michael'closely as he stood awkwardly before his desk.

 Despite the fact that he had cropped his hair in one of those appalling

 brush cuts that the youth were affecting these days and wore a vividly

 patterned bow tie, he was a likable-looking lad, with a strong

 determined jawline and clear intelligent eyes. Perhaps he was too thin

 for his height, and a little gawky, but he had quite noticeably matured

 and gained in self-assurance during the short period he had been at the

 Mail.

 Suddenly Leon realized that he was being cruel, and that his scrutiny

 was subjecting the lad to unnecessary agony. He picked up the sheet of

 typescript that lay in front of him, and slid it across his untidy desk.

 'Did you write that?" he demanded gruffly, and Michael snatched up the

 sheet protectively.

 'I didn't mean anybody to read it,' he whispered, and then remembered

 who he was talking to and threw in a lame, 'sir." 'Strange." Leon

 Herbstein shook his head. 'I always believed we were in the business of

 writing so that others could read." 'I was just practising." Michael

 held the sheet behind his back.

 'I made some corrections,' Herbstein told him, and Michael jerked the

 page out from behind him and scanned it anxiously.

 'Your third paragraph is redundant, and "scar" is a better word than

 "cicatrice" - otherwise we'll run it as you wrote it." 'I don't

 understand, sir,' Michael blurted.

 'You've saved me the trouble of writing tomorrow's editorial." Herbstein

 reached across and took the page from Michael's limp fingers, tossed it

 into his out basket and then concentrated all his attention on his own

 work.

 Michael stood gaping at the top of his head. It took him ten seconds to

 realize that he had been dismissed and he backed towards the door and

 closed it carefully behind him. His legs just carried him

 !iFi to his desk, and then collapsed under him. He sat down heavily in

 his swivel chair and reached for his cigarette pack. It was empty and

 he crumpled it and dropped it into his wastepaper basket.

 Only then did the full significance of what had happened hit him and he

 felt cold and slightly nauseated.

 'The editorial,' he whispered, and his hands began to tremble.

 Across the desk Desmond Blake belched softly and demanded, 'Where are

 the notes on that American what's-'is-name fellow?" 'I haven't finished

 it yet, Mr Blake." 'Listen, kid. I warned you. You'll have to extract

 your digit from your fundamental orifice if you want to get anywhere

 around here." Michael set his alarm clock for five o'clock the next

 morning and went downstairs with his raincoat over his pyjamas. He was

 waiting on the street corner with the newspaper urchins when the bundles

 of newsprint were tossed on to the pavement from the back of the Mail's

 delivery van.

 He ran back up the stairs clutching a copy of the paper and locked the

 door to his bed-sitter.  It took all his courage to open it at the

 editorial page. He was actually shaking with terror that Mr Herbstein

 might have changed his mind, or that it was all some monstrous practical

 joke.

 There under the Mail's crest at the very top of the editorial page was

 his headline: 'A MARTYR IS BOR'.

 He read it through quickly, and then started again and read it aloud,

 mouthing each word, rolling it over his tongue like a noble and precious

 wine. He propped the paper, open at the editorial, beside the mirror

 while he shaved, and then carried it down to the Greek fast-food car

 where he had his breakfast each morning and showed it to Mr Costa, who

 called his wife out of the kitchen.

 'Hey, Michael, you a big shot now." Mrs Costa embraced him, smelling of

 fried bacon and garlic. 'You a big shot newspaperman now." She let him

 use the telephone in the back room and he gave the operator the number

 at Weltevreden. Centaine answered on the second ring.

 'Mickey!" she cried delightedly. 'Where are you? Are you in Cape

 Town?" He calmed her down and then read it to her. There was a long

 silence. 'The editorial, Mickey. You aren't making this up, are you?

 I'll never forgive you if you are." Once he had reassured her, Centaine

 told him, 'I can't remember ever being so excited about anything in

 years. I'm going to call your father, you must tell him yourself."

 Shasa came on the line, and Michael read it to him. 'You wrote that?"

 Shasa asked. 'Pretty hot stuff, Mickey. Of course I don't agree with

 your conclusions - Gama must hang. However, you almost convinced me

 otherwise, but we can debate that when next we are together. In the

 meantime, congratulations, my boy. Perhaps you did make the right

 decision after all." Michael found that he was a minor celebrity in the

 newsroom, even the sub stopped by his desk to congratulate him and

 discuss the article for a few moments, and the pretty little blonde on

 the reception desk who had never before been aware of his existence,

 smiled and greeted him by name.

 'Listen, kid,' said Desmond Blake. 'One little fart doesn't make a

 whole sewage farm. In future I don't want you pushing copy over my

 head. Every bit of shit you write comes across my desk, get it?" 'I'm

 sorry, Mr Blake. I didn't--' 'Yeah! Yeah! I know, you didn't mean it.

 Just don't go getting a big head. Remember whose assistant you are."

 The news of Moses Gama's reprieve threw the newsroom into a state of

 pandemonium that didn't subside for almost a week. Michael was drawn in

 and some of his days ended at midnight when the presses began their run,

 and began when the first papers hit the streets the next morning.

 However, he found that the excitement seemed to release limitless

 reserves of energy in him and he never felt tired. He learned to work

 quickly and accurately and his way with words gradually assumed a

 deftness and polish that was apparent even to himselfi Two weeks after

 the reprieve the editor called him into his office.

 He had learned not to knock, any waste of time irritated Leon Herbstein

 and made him bellow aggressively. Michael went straight on in, but he

 had not yet entirely mastered the pose of world-weary cynicism which he

 knew was the hallmark of the veteran journalist, and he was all radiant

 eagerness as he asked, 'Yes, Mr Herbstein?" 'Okay, Mickey, I've got

 something for you." Every time Mr Herbstein used his Christian name,

 Michael still thrilled with delicious shock.

 'We are getting a lot of requests from readers and overseas

 correspondence. With all the interest in the Gama case, people want to

 know more about the black political movements. They want to know the

 difference between the Pan Africanist Congress and the African National

 Congress, they want to know who's who - who the hell are Tambo and

 Sisulu, Mandela and Moses Gama and what do they stand for? All that

 sort of stuff. You seem to be interested in black politics and enjoy

 digging around in the archives - besides I can't spare one of my top men

 on this sort of background stuff. So get on with it." Herbstein

 switched his attention back to the work on his desk, but Michael by now

 had sufficient confidence to stand hi: ground.

 'Am I still working under Mr Blake?" he asked. He had learned b this

 time if you called him 'sir' it just made Leon Herbstein mad.

 Herbstein shook his head but did not even look up. 'You are or your

 own. Send everything to me. No hurry, any time in the nex five minutes

 will do nicely." Michael soon discovered that the Mail's archives were

 inadequate, and served merely to initiate him into the complexity and

 daunting size of the project he had been set. However, from them he was

 a!

 least able to draw up a list of the various black political groups and

 related associations such as the officially unrecognized black trade

 unions, and from there to compile a list of their own leaders and

 officials.

 He cleared one wall of his bed-sitting room and put up a board on which

 he pinned all this information, using different-coloured cards for each

 grouping and press photographs of the principal black leaders.

 All this achieved was to convince him of how little was known about the

 black movements by even the most well-informed of the white section of

 the nation.

 The public library added very little to his understanding. Most of the

 books on the subject had been written ten or more years before and

 simply traced the African National Congress from those distant days of

 its inception in 1912 and the names mentioned were all of men now dead

 or in their dotage.

 Then he had his first inspiration. One of the Mail's sister

 publications under the banner of Associated Newspapers of South Africa

 was a weekly magazine called Assegai after the broad-bladed war spear

 that the impis of Chaka the Zulu conqueror had wielded. The magazine

 was aimed at the educated and more affluent section of the black

 community. Its editorial policy was dictated by the white directors of

 Associated Newspapers but amongst the articles and photographs of

 African football stars and torch singers, of black American athletes and

 film actors, an occasional article slipped through of a fiercely radical

 slant.

 Michael borrowed a company car and went out to see the editor of Assegai

 in the vast black location of Drake's Farm. The editor was a graduate

 of the black university of Fort Hare, a Xhosa named Solomon Nduli. He

 was polite but cool, and they had chatted for half an hour before a

 barbed remark let Michael know that he had been recognized as a spy for

 the security police, and that he would learn nothing of value.

 A week later the Mail published the first of Michael's articles in its

 Saturday magazine edition. It was a comparison of the two leading

 African political organizations: the Pan Africanist Congress which was a

 jealously exclusive body to which only pure-blooded African blacks were

 admitted and whose views were extremely radical, and the much larger

 African National Congress which, although predominantly black, also

 included whites and Asians and mixed blood members such as the Cape

 coloureds, and whose objectives were essentially conciliatory.

 The article was accurate, obviously carefully researched, but, most

 important, the tone was sympathetic, and it carried the by-line 'by

 Michael Courtney'.

 The following day Solomon Nduli called Michael at the offices of the

 Mail, and suggested another meeting. His first words when they shook

 hands were, 'I'm sorry. I think I misjudged you. What do you want to

 know?" Solomon took Michael into a strange world that he had never

 realized existed - the world of the black townships. He arranged for

 him to meet Robert Sobukwe, and Michael was appalled by the depth of the

 resentblent the black leader of the Pan Africanist Congress expressed,

 particularly for the pass laws, by his enormous impatience to effect an

 upheaval of the entire society, and by the thinly veiled violence in the

 man.

 'I will try to arrange for you to meet Mandela,' Solomon promised,

 'although, as you know, he is underground now, and wanted by the police.

 But there are others you must talk to." He took Michael to Baragwanath

 Hospital and introduced him to the wife of Moses Gama, the lovely young

 Zulu woman he had seen at the trial in Cape Town. Victoria was heavily

 pregnant, but with a calm dignity that impressed Michael deeply until he

 sensed the same terrible resentment and latent violence in her that he

 had found in Robert Sobukwe.

 The next day Solomon took him back to Drake's Farm to meet a man named

 Hendrick Tabaka, a man who seemed to own most of the small businesses in

 the location and looked like a heavyweight wrestler with a head like a

 cannonball crisscrossed with scars.

 He appeared to Michael to represent the opposite end of the black

 protest consciousness. 'I have my family and my business,' he told

 Michael, 'and I will protect them from anybody, black or white." And

 Michael was reminded of a view that his father had often expressed, but

 to which Michael had not given much consideration before this. 'We must

 give' the black people a piece of the pie,' Shasa Courtney had said.

 'Give them something of their own. The truly dangerous man is one with

 nothing to lose." Michael gave the second article in the series the

 title 'Rage' and in it he tried to describe the deep and bitter

 resentment that he had encountered on his journeys into the half-world

 of the townships. Iended the article with the words: Despite this deep

 sense of outrage, I never found the least indication hatred towards the

 white person as an individual by any of the bla leaders with whom I was

 able to speak. Their resentment seemed ton to be directed only at the

 Nationalist government's policy of aparthe while the vast treasure of

 mutual goodwill built up over three hundrc years between the races seems

 to be entirely undiminished by it.

 He delivered the article to Leon Herbstein on the Thursday an found

 himself immediately embroiled in an editorial review of it th lasted

 until almost eight o'clock that evening. Leon Herbstein calle in his

 assistant and his deputy editor, and their views were divide between

 publishing with only minor alterations and not publishin at all, for

 fear of bringing down the wrath of the publications contrc board, the

 government censors who had the power to ban the Ma and put it out of

 business.

 'But it's all true,' Michael protested. 'I have substantiated ever

 single fact I have quoted. It's true and it's important - that is all

 that really matters." And the three older journalists looked at him

 pityingly.

 'All right, Mickey,' Leon Herbstein dismissed him at last. 'Yo can go

 on home. I will let you know the final decision in due course.

 As Michael moved dispiritedly towards the door, the deputy edito nodded

 at him. 'Publish or not, Mickey, it is a damned good effort You can be

 proud of it." When Michael got back to his apartment he found' somebody

 sitting on a canvas holdall outside his front door. Only when the

 person stood up did he recognize the massively developed shoulders.

 the glinting steel-rimmed spectacles and spiky hairstyle.

 'Garry,' he shouted joyously, and rushed to embrace his elder brother.

 x They sat side by side on the bed and talked excitedly, interrupting

 each other and laughing and exclaiming at each other's news.

 'What are you doing in Jo'burg?" Michael demanded at last.

 'I've come up from Silver River just for the weekend. I want to get at

 the new computer main frame in head office, and there are a few things I

 want to check at the land surveyor's office. So I thought, what the

 hell - why spend money on a hotel when Mickey has a flat? So I brought

 my sleeping-bag. Can I doss on your floor?" 'The bed pulls out into a

 double,' Mickey told him happily. 'You don't have to sleep on the

 floor." They went down to Costa's restaurant and Garry bought a pack of

 chicken curry and half a dozen Cokes. They ate the food out of the

 pack, sharing a spoon to save washing up, and they talked until long

 after midnight. They had always been very close to each other.

 Even though he was younger, Michael had been a staunch ally during those

 dreadful childhood years of Garry's bed-wetting and stuttering and

 Sean's casually savage bullying. Then again Michael had not truly

 realized how lonely he had been in this strange city until this moment,

 and now there were so many nostalgic memories and so much unrequited

 need for affection to assuage, so many subjects of earth-shattering

 importance to discuss. They sat up into the small hours dealing with

 money and work and sex and the rest of it.

 Garry was stunned to learn that Michael earned thirty-seven pounds ten

 shillings a month.

 'How much does this kennel cost you a month?" he demanded.

 'Twenty pounds,' Michael told him.

 'That leaves you seventeen pounds ten a month to eat and exist.

 They should be arrested for slave labour." 'It's not as bad as that -

 Pater gives me an allowance to make do.

 How much do you earn, Garry?" Michael demanded, and Garry looked guilty.

 'I get my board and lodging and all my meals at the mine, single

 quarters, and I am paid a hundred a month as an executive trainee." 'Son

 of a gun!" Michael was deeply impressed. 'What do you do with all

 that?" It was Garry's turn to look amazed. 'Save it, of course. I've

 got over two thousand in the bank already." 'But what are you going to

 do with all that?" Michael insisted.

 'What are you going to spend it on?" 'Money isn't for spending,' Garry

 explained. 'Money is for saving - that is, if you want to be rich."

 'And you want to be rich?" Michael asked.

 'What else is there?" Garry was genuinely puzzled by the question.

 'What about doing an important job the best way you can? Isn't that

 something to strive for, even better than getting rich." 'Oh sure!" said

 Garry with vast relief. 'But then, of course, you won't get rich unless

 you do just that." It was almost two in the morning when Michael at last

 switched off the bedside lamp and they settled down nose to toes, until

 Garry asked in the darkness the question he had not been able to ask

 until then.

 'Mickey, have you heard from Mater at all?" Michael was silent for so

 long that he went on impetuously. 'I have tried to speak to Dad about

 her, but he just clams up and won't say a word. Same with Nana, except

 she went a little further.

 She said "Don't mention that woman's name in Weltevreden again.

 She was responsible for Blaine's murder." I thought you might know where

 she is." 'She's in London,' Michael said softly. 'She writes to me

 every week." 'When is she coming back, Mickey?" 'Never,' Michael said.

 'She and Pater are getting a divorce." 'Why, Mickey, what happened that

 she had to leave like that, without even saying goodbye?" 'I don't know.

 She won't say. I wrote and asked her, but she wouldn't tell me." Garry

 thought he had gone to sleep, but after a long silence Michael said so

 softly that he barely caught the words, 'I miss her, Garry. Oh God, how

 much I miss her." The too,' said Garry dutifully, but each week that

 passed was so filled with excitement and new experience that for Garry

 her memory had already faded and blurred.

 The next morning Leon Herbstein called Mickey into his office.

 'Okay, Mickey,' he said. 'We are going to run the "Rage" article as you

 wrote it." Only then did Michael realize how important that decision had

 been to him. For the rest of that day his jubilation was tempered by

 that reflection. Why was his feeling of relief so powerful?

 Was it the personal achievement, the thought of seeing his name in print

 again? It was part of that, he was honest with himself, but there was

 something else even deeper and more substantial. The truth. He had

 written the truth and the truth had prevailed. He had been exonerated.

 Michael went down early the next morning and brought a copy of the Mail

 up to the bed-sitter. He woke Garry up and read the 'Rage' feature to

 him. Garry had only come in a few hours before dawn. He had spent most

 of the night in the computer room at the new Courtney Mining building in

 Diagonal Street. David Abrahams, on Shasa's discreet suggestion, had

 arranged for him to have a free hand with the equipment when it wasn9t

 being used on company business.

 This morning Garry was red-eyed with exhaustion and his jowls were

 covered with a dense dark pelt of new beard. However, he sat up in his

 pyjamas and listened with attention while Michael read to him, and when

 he had finished Garry put on his spectacles and sat solemnly reading it

 through for himself while Michael brewed coffee on the gas-ring in the

 corner.

 It's funny, isn't it,' Garry said at last. 'How we just take them for

 granted. They are there, working the shifts at the Silver River or

 harvesting the grapes at Weltevreden, or waiting on table. But you never

 think of them as actually having feelings and desires and thoughts the

 same as we do - not until you read something like this." 'Thank you,

 Garry,' Michael said softly.

 'What for?" 'That's the greatest compliment anybody has ever paid me,'

 Michael said.

 He saw very little more of Garry that weekend. Garry spent the Saturday

 morning at the deeds registry until that office closed at noon and then

 went on up to the Courtney building to take over the computer as soon as

 the company programmers went off for their weekend.

 He let himself back into the flat at three the next morning and' climbed

 into the bottom end of Michael's bed. When they both awoke late on the

 Sunday morning, Michael suggested, 'Let's go out to Zoo Lake. It's a

 hot day and the girls will be out in their sundresses." He offered the

 bait deliberately for he was desperate for Garry's company, lonely and

 suffering from a sense of anti-climax after all the worry and

 uncertainty previous to the printing of the 'Rage' article and the

 subsequent apparent lack of any reaction to it.

 'Hey, Mickey, I'd love to come with you -but I want to do something on

 the computer. It's Sunday, I'll have it to myself all day." Garry

 looked mysterious and self-satisfied. 'You see, I'm on to something,

 Mickey. Something incredible, and I can't stop now." Alone Michael

 caught the bus out to Zoo Lake. He spent the day sitting on the lawns

 reading and watching the girls. It only made him feel even more lonely

 and insignificant. When he got back to his dreary little flatlet,

 Garry's bag was gone and there was a message written with soap on his

 shaving mirror: 'Going back to Silver River.

 Might see you next weekend. G." When Michael walked into the Mail's

 offices on the Monday morning he found that those members of the

 newspaper's staff who had arrived ahead of him were gathered in a silent

 nervous cluster in the middle of the newsroom while half a dozen

 strangers were going through the filing cabinets and rifling the papers

 and books on the desks. They had already assembled a dozen large

 cardboard cartons of various papers, and these were stacked in the aisle

 between the desks.

 'What is happening?" Michael asked innocently, and his sub gave him a

 warning glance as he explained.

 'These are police officers of the security branch." 'Who are you?" The

 plain-clothes officer who was in charge of the detail came across to

 Michael, and when he gave his name the officer checked his list.

 'Ah, yes - you are the one we want. Come with me." He led Michael down

 to Leon Herbstein's office and went in without knocking.

 There was another stranger with Herbstein. 'Yes, what is it?" he

 snapped, and the security policeman answered diffidently.

 i!~

 'This is the one, Captain." The stranger frowned at Michael, but before

 he could speak Leon Herbstein interrupted quickly.

 'It's all right, Michael. The police have come to serve a banning order

 on the Saturday edition with the "Rage" article in it, and they have a

 warrant to search the offices. They also want to talk to you, but it's

 nothing to worry about." 'Don't be too sure of that,' said the police

 captain heavily. 'Are you the one who wrote that piece of commie

 propaganda?" 'I wrote the "Rage" article,' Michael said clearly, but

 Leon Herbstein cut in.

 'However, as the editor of the Golden City Mail it was my decision to

 print it, and I accept full responsibility for the article." The captain

 ignored him and studied Michael for a moment before going on. 'Man, you

 are just a kid. What do you know, anyway?" 'I object to that, Captain,'

 Herbstein told him angrily. 'Mr Courtney is an accredited journalist

 --' 'Ja,' the captain nodded, 'I expect that he is." But he went on

 addressing Michael, 'What about you? Do you object to coming down to

 Marshall Square police headquarters to help us with our investigations?"

 Michael glanced at Herbstein and he said immediately, 'You don't have to

 go, Michael. They don't have a warrant for your arrest." 'What do you

 want from me, Captain?" Michael hedged.

 'We want to know who told you all that treasonable stuff you wrote

 about." 'I can't disclose my sources,' Michael said quietly.

 'I can always get a warrant if you refuse to cooperate,' the captain

 warned him ominously.

 'I'll come with you,' Michael agreed. 'But I won't disclose my sources.

 That's not ethical." 'I'll be down there with a lawyer right away,

 Michael,' Herbstein promised. 'You don't have to worry, the Mail will

 back you all the way." 'All right. Let's go,' said the police captain.

 Leon Herbstein accompanied Michael down the newsroom and as they passed

 the cartons of impounded literature the captain observed gloatingly,

 'Man, you've got a pile of banned stuff there, Karl Marx and Trotsky

 even - that's really poisonous rubbish." 'It's research material,' said

 Leon Herbstein.

 'Ja, try telling that to the magistrate,' the captain chortled.

 As soon as the doors of the elevator closed on the captain and Michael,

 Herbstein trotted heavily back to his office and snatched up the

 telephone.

 'I want an urgent call to Mr Shasa Courtney in Cape Town. Try his home

 at Weltevreden, his office in Centaine House and his ministerial office

 at the houses of parliament." He got through to Shasa in his

 parliamentary suite and Shasa listened in silence while Herbstein

 explained to him what had happened.

 'All right,' Shasa said crisply at the end of it. 'You get the

 Associated Newspapers lawyers down to Marshall Square immediately, then

 ring David Abrahams at Courtney Mining and tell him what has happened.

 Tell him I want a massive reaction, everything we have got. Tell him

 also that I will be flying up immediately in the company jet. I want a

 limousine at the airport to meet me, and I will go to see the minister

 of police at the Union Buildings in Pretoria the minute I arrive." Even

 Leon Herbstein, who had seen it all before, was impressed by the

 mobilization of the vast resources of the Courtney empire.

 At ten o'clock that evening Michael Courtney was released from

 interrogation on the direct orders of the minister of police and when he

 walked out of the front entrance of Marshall Square headquarters he was

 flanked by half a dozen lawyers of formidable reputation who had been

 retained by Courtney Mining and Associated Newspapers.

 At the Pavement Shasa Courtney was waiting in the back seat of the black

 Cadillac limousine. As Michael climbed in beside him, he said grimly,

 'It is possible, Mickey, to be a bit too bloody clever for your own

 good. Just what the hell are you trying to do? Burn down everything we

 have worked for all our lives?" 'What I wrote was the truth. I thought

 you, of all people, would understand, Pater." 'What you wrote, my boy,

 is incitement. Taken by the wrong people and used on simple ignorant

 black folk, your words could help to open a Pandora's box of horrors. I

 want no more of that sort of thing from you, do you hear me, Michael?"

 'I hear you, Pater,' Michael said softly. 'But I can't promise to obey

 you. I'm sorry, but I have to live with my own conscience." 'You are as

 bad as your bloody mother,' said Shasa. He had sworn twice in as many

 minutes, the first time in his life that Michael had ever heard his

 father use coarse language. That and the mention of his mother, also the

 first time Shasa had done so since she left, silenced Michael

 completely. They drove without speaking to the Carlton Hotel. Shasa

 only spoke again when they were in his permanent suite.

 'All right, Mickey,' he said with resignation. 'I take that back.

 I can't demand that you live your life on my terms. Follow your

 conscience, if you must, but don't expect me to come rushing in to save

 you from the consequences of your actions every time." 'I have never

 expected that, sir,' Michael said carefully. 'And I won't in future

 either." He paused and swallowed hard. 'But all the same, sir, I want

 to thank you for what you did. You have always been so good to me." 'Oh

 Mickey, Mickey!" Shasa cried, shaking his head sorrowfully.

 'If only I could give you the experience I earned with so much pain.

 If only you didn't have to make exactly the same mistakes I made at your

 age." 'I am always grateful for your advice, Pater,' Michael tried to

 placate him.

 'All right then, here's a piece for nothing,' Shasa told him. 'When you

 meet an invincible enemy you don't rush headlong at him, swinging with

 both fists. That way you merely get your head broken.

 What you do is you sneak around behind him and kick him in the backside,

 then run like hell." 'I'll remember that, sir,' Michael grinned, and

 Shasa put his arm around ,his shoulders. 'I know you smoke like a bush

 fire, but can I offer you a drink, my boy?" 'I'll have a beer, sir." The

 next day Michael drove out to visit Solomon Nduli at Drake's Farm. He

 wanted to have his views on the 'Rage' article, and tell him of the

 consequences he had suffered at Marshall Square.

 That was not necessary. Solomon Nduli somehow knew every detail of his

 detention and interrogation and Michael found he was a celebrity in the

 offices of Assegai magazine. Nearly every one of the black journalists

 and magazine staff wanted to shake his hand and congratulate him on the

 article.

 As soon as they were alone in his office, Solomon told him excitedly,

 'Nelson Mandela has read your piece and he wants to meet you." 'But heis

 wanted by the police - he's on the run." 'After what you wrote, he

 trusts you,' Solomon said, 'and so does Robert Sobukwe. He also wants to

 see you again." Then he noticed Michael's expression, and the excitement

 went out of him as he asked quietly, 'Unless you think it's too

 dangerous for you." Michael hesitated only a moment. 'No, of course not.

 I want to meet them both. Very much." Solomon Nduli said nothing. He

 simply reached across the desk and clasped Michael's shoulder. It was

 strange what a pleasurable sensation that grip gave Michael, the first

 comradely gesture he had ever received from a black man.

 Shasa banked the HS 125 twin-engined jet to give himself a better view

 of the Silver River Mine a thousand feet below.

 The headgear was of modern design, not the traditional scaffolding of

 steel girders with the great steel wheels of the haulage exposed. It was

 instead a graceful unbroken tower of concrete, tall as a tenstorey

 building, and around it the other buildings of the mine complex, the

 crushing works and uranium extraction plant and the gold refinery, had

 been laid out with equal aesthetic consideration.

 The administration block was surrounded by green lawns and flowering

 gardens, and beyond that there were an eighteen-hole golf course, a

 cricket pitch and a rugby field for the white miners. An Olympic-size

 swimming-pool adjoined the mine club and single quarters. On the

 opposite side of the property stood the compound for the black

 mineworkers. Here again Shasa had ordered that the traditional rows of

 barracks be replaced by neat cottages for the senior black staff and the

 bachelor quarters were spacious and pleasant, more like motels than

 institutions to house and feed the five thousand tribesmen who had been

 recruited from as far afield as Nyasaland in the north and Portuguese

 Mozambique in the east. There were also soccer fields and cinemas and a

 shopping complex for the black employees, and between the buildings were

 green lawns and trees.

 The Silver River was a wet mine and each day millions of gallons of

 water were pumped out of the deep workings and these were used to

 beautify the property. Shasa had reason to be proud.

 Although the main shaft had intersected the gold-bearing reef at great

 depth - more than a mile below the surface - still the ore was so rich

 that it could be brought to the surface for enormous profit.

 What's more, the price could not be pegged at $35 per ounce for much

 longer. Shasa was convinced that it would double and even treble.

 'Our guardian angel,' Shasa smiled to himself as he levelled the wings

 of the HS 125, and began his preparations for the landing.

 'Of all the blessings that have been heaped upon this land, gold is the

 greatest. It has stood us through the bad times, and made the good

 times glorious. It is our treasure and more, for when all else fails,

 when our enemies and the fates conspire to bring us down, gold glows

 with its bright particular lustre to protect us. A guardian angel

 indeed." Although the company pilot in the right-hand seat watched

 critically, for Shasa had only converted to jets within the last twelve

 months, Shasa brought the swift machine in to the long blue tarmac strip

 with casual ease. The HS 125 was painted in silver and blue with the

 stylized diamond logo on the fuselage, just as the old Mosquito had

 been. It was a magnificent machine. With its seating for eight

 passengers and its blazing speed, it was infinitely more practical than

 the Mosquito, but Shasa still occasionally mourned her loss. He had

 flown over five thousand hours in the old Mosquito before at last

 donating her to the airforce museum, where, restored to her combat

 camouflage and armaments, she was one of the prime exhibits.

 Shasa rolled the glistening new jet down to the hangar at the far end of

 the strip, and reception committee was out to meet him headed by the

 general manager of the Silver River, all of them holding their ears

 against the shrill wall of the engines.

 The general manager shook Shasa's hand and said immediately, 'Your son

 asked me to apologize that he wasn't able to meet you, Mr Courtney.

 He is underground at the moment, but asked me to tell you he will come

 up to the guest house as soon as he gets off shift." The general

 manager, emboldened by Shasa's smile of paternal approval, risked a

 pleasantry. 'It must run in the family, but it's difficult to get the

 little blighter to stop working, we almost have to tie him down." There

 were two guest houses, one for other important visitors to the mine, and

 this one set aside exclusively for Shasa and Centaine.

 It was so sybaritic and had cost so much that embarrassing questions had

 been put to Shasa at the annual general meeting of the company by a

 group of dissident shareholders. Shasa was totally unrepentant. 'How

 can I work properly if I'm not allowed at least some basic comforts? A

 roof over my head - is that too much to ask?" The guest house had its

 own squash court and heated indoor pool, cinema, conference room,

 kitchens and wine cellar. The design was by one of Frank Lloyd Wright's

 most brilliant pupils and Hicks had come out from London to do the

 interior. It housed the overflow of Shasa's art collection and Persian

 carpets from Weltevreden, and the mature trees in the landscaped garden

 had been selected from all over the country to be replanted'here. Shasa

 felt very much at home in this little pied-a-terre.

 The underground engineer and the chief electrical engineer were already

 waiting in the conference room and Shasa went straight in and was at

 work within ten minutes of landing the jet. By eight o'clock that

 evening he had exhausted his engineers and he let them go. Garry was

 waiting next door in Shasa's private study, filling in the time playing

 with the computer terminal, but he leapt up as Shasa ú walked in.

 'Dad, I'm so glad I've found you. I've been trying to catch up with you

 for days - I'm running out of time." He was stuttering again.

 These days he only did that when he was wildly over-excited.

 'Slow down, Garry. Take a deep breath,' Shasa advised him, but the

 words kept tumbling out, and Garry seized his father's hand and led him

 to the computer to illustrate what he was trying to put across.

 'You know what Nana has always said, and what you are always telling me

 about land being the only lasting asset, well--' Garry's powerful

 spatulate fingers rippled over the computer keys. Shasa watched with

 curiosity as Garry presented his case, but when he realized what the boy

 was driving at, he quickly lost interest and concentration.

 However, he listened to it all before he asked quietly, 'So you have

 paid for the option with your own money?" 'I have it signed, here!"

 Garry brandished the document. 'It cost me all my savings, over two

 thousand pounds just for a one-week option." 'Let me recap, then,' Shasa

 suggested. 'You have spent two thousand pounds to acquire a one-week

 option on a section of agricultural ground on the northern outskirts of

 Johannesburg which you intend to develop as a residential township,

 complete with a shopping complex, theatres, cinemas and all the

 trimmings--' 'There is at least twenty million pounds of profit in the

 development - at the very least." Garry manipulated the computer

 keyboard and pointed to the rippling green figures. 'Just look at that,

 Dad!" 'Garry! Garry!" Shasa sighed. 'I think you have just lost your

 two thousand pounds, but the experience will be worth it in the long

 run.

 Of course, there is twenty million profit in it. Everybody knows that,

 and everybody wants a piece of that action. It's just for that reason

 that there is such strict control on township development. It takes at

 least five years to get government approval for a new township, and

 there are hundreds of pitfalls along the way. It's a highly complex and

 specialized field of investment, and the outlay is enormous millions of

 pounds at risk. Don't you see, Garry? Your piece of land is probably

 not the best available, there will be a dozen other projects ahead of

 yours and township development just isn't one of the areas which we deal

 in--' Shasa broke off and stared at his son. Garry was flapping his

 hands and stuttering so badly that Shasa had to warn him again, 'Big

 breath." Garry gasped and his barrelchest expanded until his shirt

 buttons strained. It came out quite clearly.

 'I already have approval,' he said.

 'That takes years - I've explained." Shasa was brusque. He began to

 rise. 'We should change for dinner. Come on." 'Dad, you don't

 understand,' Garry insisted. 'Approval has already been granted." Shasa

 sat down slowly. 'What did you say?" he asked quietly.

 'Township approval was granted in 1891 by the Volksraad of the old

 Transvaal republic. It was signed by President Kruger himself, but it

 is still perfectly legal and binding. It was just forgotten, that is

 all." 'I don't believe it." Shasa shook his head. 'How on earth did you

 get on to this, Garry?" 'I was reading a couple of old books about the

 early days of the Witwatersrand and the gold-mines. I thought that if I

 was going to learn mining, the very least I could do was bone up on the

 history of the industry,' Garry explained. 'And in one of the books

 there was a mention of one of the old Rand lords and his grandiose idea

 of building a paradise city for the very rich away from the coarse and

 rowdy centre of Johannesburg. The author mentioned that he had actually

 bought a six-thousand-acre farm and had it surveyed and that approval

 had been granted by the Volksraad, and then the whole idea had been

 abandoned." 'What did you do then?" 'I went to the archives and looked

 up the proceedings of the Volksraad for the years 1889 to 1891 and there

 it was - the approval.

 Then I researched the title deeds of the property at the deeds registry

 and went out to the farm itself. It's called Baviaansfontein and it's

 owned by two brothers, both in their seventies. Nice old fellows, we

 got on well and they showed me their horses and cattle, and invited me

 to lunch. They thought the option was a big joke, but when I showed

 them my two thousand pounds, they had never seen so much money in one

 pile in their lives." Garry grinned. 'Here are copies of the title

 deeds and the original township approval." Garry handed them to his

 father and Shasa read through slowly, even moving his lips like a

 semi-literate so as to savour every word of the ancient documents.

 'When does your option expire?" he asked at last, without looking up.

 'Noon on Thursday. We will have to act fast." 'Did you take out the

 option in the name of Courtney Mining?" Shasa asked.

 No. In my own name, but of course, I did it for you and the company."

 'You thought this out alone,' Shasa said carefully. 'You researched it

 yourself, dug up the original approval, negotiated the option with the

 owners, paid for it with two thousand of your own hard-earned cash. You

 did all the work and took all the risks and now you want to hand it over

 to someone else. That isn't very bright, is it? 'I don't want to hand

 it over to just anybody - to you, Dad.

 Everything I do is for you, you know that." 'Well, that changes as of

 now,' said Shasa briskly. 'I will personally lend you the two hundred

 thousand purchase price and we will fly up to Johannesburg first thing

 tomorrow to clinch the deal. Once you own the land, Courtney Mining

 will begin negotiating with you the terms of a joint venture to develop

 it." The negotiations started tough, and then as Garry got his first

 taste of blood, they grew tougher.

 'My God, I've sired a monster,' Shasa complained, to hide his pride in

 his offspring's bargaining technique. 'Come on, son, leave something in

 it for us." To mollify his father a little Garry announced a change in

 the name of the property. In future it would be known as Shasaville.

 When they at last signed the final agreement, Shasa opened a bottle of

 champagne and said, 'Congratulations, my boy." That approbation was

 worth more to Garry than all the townships and every grain of gold on

 the Witwatersrand.

 Lothar De La Rey was one of the youngest police captains on the force,

 and this was not entirely on account of his father's position and

 influence. From the time he had been awarded the sword of honour at

 police college, he had distinguished himself in every field that was

 considered important by the higher command. He had studied for and

 passed all his promotion examinations with distinction. A great

 emphasis was placed on athletic endeavour and rugby football was the

 major sport in the police curriculum. It was now almost certain that

 Lothar would be chosen as an international during the forthcoming tour

 by the New Zealand All Blacks. He was well liked both by his senior

 officers and his peers, and his service record was embellished by an

 unbroken string of excellent ratings. Added to this he had shown an

 unusual aptitude for police work. Neither the plodding monotony of

 investigation nor the routine of patrol wearied him, and in those sudden

 eruptions of dangerous and violent action, Lothar had displayed

 resourcefulness and courage.

 He had four citations on his service record, all of them for successful

 confrontation with dangerous criminals. He was also the holder of the

 police medal for gallantry, which he had been awarded after he had shot

 and killed two notorious drug dealers during a foot-chase through the

 black township at night, and a single-handed shoot-out from which he had

 emerged unscathed.

 Added to all this was the assessment by his superiors that while himself

 amenable to discipline, he had the qualities of command and leadership

 highly developed. Both these were very much Afrikaner characteristics.

 During the North African campaign against Rommel, General Montgomery,

 when told that there was a shortage of officer material, had replied,

 'Nonsense, we've got thousands of South Africans. Each of them is a

 natural leader - from childhood they are accustomed to giving orders to

 the natives." Lothar had been stationed at the Sharpeville police

 station since graduating from police college and had come to know the

 area intimately. Gradually he had built up his own network of

 informers, the basis of all good police work, and through these

 prostitutes and shebeen owners and petty criminals, he was able to

 anticipate much of the serious crime and to identify the organizers and

 perpetrators even before the offence was committed.

 The higher command of the police force was well aware that the young

 police captain with illustrious family connections was in a large

 measure responsible for the fact that the police in the Sharpeville

 location had over the past few years built up a reputation of being one

 of the most vigorous and active units in the heavily populated

 industrial triangle that lies between Johannesburg, Pretoria and

 Vereeniging.

 In comparison to greater Soweto, Alexandra or even Drake's Farm,

 Sharpeville was a small black township. It housed a mere forty thousand

 or so of all ages, and yet the police raids for illicit liquor and pass

 offenders were almost daily routine, and the lists of arrests and

 convictions by which the efficiency of any station is judged were out of

 all proportion to its size. Much of this industry and dedication to

 duty was quite correctly attributed to the energy of the young

 second-in-command.

 Sharpeville is an adjunct to the town of Vereeniging where in 1902

 the British Commander Lord Kitchener and the leaders of the Boer

 commandos negotiated the peace treaty which brought to an end the

 long-drawn-out and tragic South African war. Vereeniging is situated on

 the Vaal river fifty miles south of Johannesburg and its reasons for

 existing are the coal and iron deposits which are exploited by Iscor,

 the giant state-owned Iron and Steel Corporation.

 At the turn of the century the black workers in the steel industry were

 originally housed in the Top Location, but as conditions there became

 totally inadequate and outmoded, a new location was set aside for them

 in the early 1940s and named after John Sharpe, the mayor for the time

 being of the town of Vereeniging. As the new dwellings in Sharpeville

 became available, the population was moved down from Top Location, and

 although the rents were as high as œ2 7s 6d per month, the

 translocations were effected gradually and peaceably.

 Sharpeville was, in fact, a model township, and though the cottages were

 the usual box shape, they were all serviced with water-borne sewerage

 and electricity, and there were all the other amenities including a

 cinema, shopping areas and sports facilities, together with their very

 own police station.

 In the midst of one of the most comprehensive pieces of social

 engineering of the twentieth century - which was the policy of apartheid

 in practice - Sharpeville was a remarkable area of calm.

 All around, hundreds of thousands of people were being moved and

 regimented and reclassified in accordance with those monumental slabs of

 legislation, the Group Areas Act and the Population Registration Act.

 All around the fledgeling leaders of black consciousness and liberation

 were preaching and exhorting and organizing, but Sharpeville seemed

 untouched by it all. The white city fathers of Vereeniging pointed out

 with quite justifiable satisfaction that the communist agitators had

 been given short shrift in the Sharpeville location and that their black

 people were law-abiding and peaceful.

 The figures for serious crime were amongst the lowest in the

 industrialized ction of the Transvaal, and offenders were taken care of

 with commendable expedition. Even the rent-defaulters were evicted from

 the location in summary fashion, and the local police force was always

 cooperative and conscientious.

 When the law was extended to make it obligatory for black women to carry

 passes, as well as their menfolk, and when throughout most of the

 country this innovation was strenuously resisted, the ladies of

 Sharpeville presented themselves at the police station in such numbers

 and in such cooperative spirit that most of them had to be turned away

 with the injunction to 'come back later'.

 In early March of 1960 Lothar De La Rey drove his official LandRover

 through this stable and law-abiding community, following the wide road

 across the open space in front of the police station. The cluster of

 police buildings, in the same austere and utilitarian design as the

 others in the location, were surrounded by a wire mesh fence about eight

 feet high, but the main gates were standing open and unguarded.

 Lothar drove through and parked the Land-Rover below the flagpole on

 which the orange, blue and white national flag floated on a breeze that

 carried the faint chemical stink of the blast furnaces at the ISCOR

 plant. In the charge office he was immediately the centre of attention

 as his men came to congratulate him on the kick that had won the Currie

 Cup.

 'Green and gold next,' the duty sergeant predicted as he shook Lothar's

 hand, referring to the colours of the national rugby team jersey.

 Lothar accepted their admiration with just the right degree of modesty,

 and then put an end to this breach of discipline and routine.

 'All right, back to work everybody,' he ordered, and went to check the

 charge book. Where a charge office in Soweto might expect to have three

 or four murders and a dozen or so rape cases, there had not been a

 single 'schedule one' crime committed in Sharpeville during the previous

 twenty-four hours and Lothar nodded with satisfaction and went through

 to report to his station commander.

 In the doorway he came to attention and saluted, and the older man

 nodded and indicated the chair opposite him. 'Come in, Lothie. Sit

 down!" He rocked his chair on to its back legs and watched Lothar as he

 removed his uniform cap and gloves.

 'Bakgat game on Friday,' he congratulated him. 'Thank you for the

 tickets. Hell, man, that last kick of yours!" He felt a stab of envy as

 he examined his number two. Liewe land!

 Beloved Land, but he looked like a soldier, so tall and straight! The

 commander glanced down at his own slack guts, and then back at the way

 the lad wore his uniform on those wide shoulders. You had only to look

 at him to see his class. It had taken the commander until the age of

 forty to gain the rank of captain, and he was resigned to the fact that

 he would go on pension at the same rank - but this one. No what! He

 would probably be a general before he was forty.

 'Well, Lothie,' he said heavily. 'I'm going to miss you." He smiled at

 the gleam in those alert but strangely pale yellow eyes. 'Ja, my young

 friend,' he nodded, 'your transfer - you leave us at the end of May."

 Lothar leaned back in his chair and smiled. He suspected that his own

 father had been instrumental in keeping him so long on this station, but

 although it had been increasingly irksome to waste time in this little

 backwater, his father knew best and Lothar was grateful for the

 experience he had gained here. He knew that a policeman only really

 learns his job on the beat, and he had put in his time. He knew he was

 a good policeman, and he had proved it to them all.

 Anybody who might be tempted to attribute his future promotions to his

 father's influence had only to look at his service record. It was all

 there. He had paid his dues in full, but now it was time to move on.

 'Where are they sending me, sir?" 'You lucky young dog." The commander

 shook his head with mock envy. 'You are going to CID headquarters at

 Marshall Square." It was the plum. The most sought-after, the most

 prestigious posting that any young officer could hope for. CID

 headquarters was right at the very nerve centre and heart of the entire

 force. Lothar knew that from there it would be swift and sure. He

 would have his general's stars while he was still a young man, and with

 them the maturity and reputation to make his entry into politics smooth

 and certain. He could retire from the force on the pension of a

 general, and devote the rest of his life to his country and his Volk. He

 had it all planned. Each step was clear to Lothar. When Dr Verwoerd

 went, he knew that his father would be a strong contender to take over

 the premiership. Perhaps one day there would be a second minister of

 police with the name of De La Rey, and after that another De La Rey at

 the head of the nation. He knew what he wanted, what road he had to

 follow, and he knew also that his feet were securely upon that road.

 'You are being given your chance, Lothie,' the commander echoed his own

 thoughts. 'If you take it, you will go far - very far." 'However far it

 is, sir, I will always remember the help and encouragement you have

 given me here at Sharpeville." 'Enough of that. You have a couple of

 months before you go." The commander was suddenly embarrassed. Neither

 of them were men who readily displayed their emotions. 'Let's get down

 to work.

 What about the raid tonight? How many men are you going to use?" Lothar

 had the headlights of the Land-Rover switched off, and he drove slowly

 for the four-cylinder petrol engine had a distinctive beat that his

 quarry would pick up at a distance if the vehicle was driven hard.

 There wasa sergeant beside him, and five constables in the rear of the

 Land-Rover, all of them armed with riot batons. In addition, the

 sergeant had an automatic twelve-gauge Greener shotgun and Lothar wore

 his sidearm on his Sam Browne belt. They were lightly armed, for this

 was merely a liquor raid.

 Sale of alcohol to blacks was strictly controlled, and was restricted to

 the brewing of the traditional cereal-based beer by state-controlled

 beer-halls. The consumption of spirits and wines by blacks was

 forbidden, but this prohibition caused illicit shebeens to flourish.

 The profits were too high to be passed by. The liquor was either stolen

 or purchased from white bottle stores or manufactured by the shebeen

 owners themselves. These home brews were powerful concoctions known

 generally as skokiaan, and according to the recipe of the individual

 distiller, could contain anything from methylated spirits to the corpses

 of poisonous snakes and aborted infants. It was not uncommon for the

 customers of the shebeens to end up permanently blinded, or demented, or

 occasionally dead.

 Tonight Lothar's team was setting out to raid a newly established

 shebeen which had been in business for only a few weeks. Lothar's

 information was that it was controlled by a black gang called 'The

 Buffaloes'.

 Of course, Lothar was fully aware of the size and scope of the

 Buffaloes' operations. They were without doubt the largest and most

 powerful underworld association on the Witwatersrand. It was not known

 who headed the gang but there had been hints that it was connected to

 the African Mineworkers' Union and to one of the black political

 organizations. Certainly it was most active on the gold-mining

 properties closer to Johannesburg, and in the large black townships such

 as Soweto and Drake's Farm.

 Until now they had not been bothered by the Buffaloes here in

 Sharpeville, and for this reason the setting up of a controlled shebeen

 was alarming. It might herald a determined infiltration of the area

 which would almost certainly I'e followed by a campaign to politicize

 the local black population, with the resulting protest rallies and

 boycotts of the bus line and white-owned businesses, and all the other

 trouble whipped up by the agitators of the African National Congress and

 the newly formed Pan Africanist Congress.

 Lothar was determined to crush it before it spread like a bush fire

 through his whole area. Above the soft burble of the engine, out there

 in the darkness he heard a sharp double fluted whistle and almost

 immediately it was repeated at a distance, down near the end of the

 avenue of quiet cottages.

 'Magtig!" Lothar swore softly but bitterly. 'They've spotted us!" The

 whistles were the warnings of the shebeen lookouts.

 He switched on the headlights and gunned the Land-Rover. They went

 hurtling down the narrow street.

 The shebeen was at the end of the block, in the last cottage hard up

 against the boundary fence with a stretch of open veld beyond.

 As the headlights swept across the front of the cottage, he saw half a

 dozen dark figures pelting away from it, and others were fighting each

 other to get out of the front door and leaping from the windows.

 Lothar swung the Land-Rover up over the pavement, through the tiny

 garden, and braked it into a deliberate and skilfully executed

 broadside, blocking the front door.

 'Let's go!" he yelled, and his men flung the doors open and sprang out.

 They grabbed the bewildered shebeen drinkers who were trapped between

 the Land-Rover and the cottage wall. As one of them began to resist, he

 dropped to a practised swing of a riot baton and the limp body was

 bundled into the back of the vehicle.

 Lothar sprinted around the side of the cottage, and caught a woman in

 his arms as she jumped through the window. He turned her upside down in

 the air and held onto one ankle as he reached out and seized the arm of

 the next man through the window. In a single swift motion he handcuffed

 the two of them together, wrist to ankle, and left them floundering and

 falling over each other like a pair of trussed hens.

 Lothar reached the back door of the cottage, and made his first mistake.

 He seized the handle and jerked the door open. The man had been waiting

 on the inside, poised and ready, and as the door began to open he hurled

 his full weight upon it and the edge of it crashed into Lothar's chest.

 The wind was driven from his lungs, and hissed up his throat as he went

 over backwards down the steps, sprawling on the hard sun-baked earth,

 and the man leaped clean over him.

 Lothar caught a glimpse of him against the light, and saw that he was

 young and well built, lithe and .quick as a black cat. Then he was

 racing away into the darkness, heading for the boundary fence that

 backed up to the cottage.

 Lothar rolled over on to his knees and came to his feet. Even with the

 start the fugitive had, there was nobody who could outrun Lothar in a

 fair match. He was at the peak of fitness, after months of rigorous

 training for the Currie Cup match and the national trials, but as he

 started forward the agony of his empty lungs made him double over and

 wheeze for breath.

 Ahead of him the fleeing figure ducked through a hole in the mesh of the

 fence, and Lotbar fell to his knees and snapped open the holster at his

 side. Three months before, he had been runner-up in the police pistol

 championships at Bloemfontein, but now his aim was unsteidy with agony

 and the dark figure was merging with the night, quartering away from

 him. Lothar fired twice but after each long bright muzzle flash there

 was no thumping impact of bullet into flesh and the runner was swallowed

 up by darkness. Lothar slid the weapon back into his holster, and

 fought to fill his lungs - his humiliation was more painful than his

 injury. Lothar was unaccustomed to failure.

 He forced himself to get to his feet. None of his men should see him

 grovelling, and after only a minute, and even though his lungs were

 still on fire, he went back and dragged his two captives to their feet

 with unnecessary violence. The woman was stark naked.

 Obviously she had been entertaining a client in the back bedroom, but

 now she was wailing tragically.

 'Shut your mouth, you black cow,' he told her, and shoved her through

 the back door of the cottage.

 The kitchen had been used as the bar. There were cases of liquor

 stacked to the ceiling, and the table was piled with a high pyramid of

 empty tumblers.

 In the front room the floor was covered with broken glass and spilled

 liquor, evidence of the haste with which it had been vacated, and Lothar

 wondered how so many customers had fitted into a room that size. He had

 seen at least twenty escape into the night.

 He shoved the naked prostitute towards one of his black constables.

 'Take care of her,' he ordered, and the man grinned lasciviously and

 tweaked one of her tawny melon-round breasts.

 'None of that,' Lothar warned him. He was still angry at the one who

 had got away, and the constable saw his face and sobered. He led the

 woman through into the bedroom to find her clothing.

 Lothar's other men were coming in, each of them leading two or three

 sorry-looking captives.

 'Check their passes,' Lothar ordered, and turned to his sergeant.

 'All right, Cronje, let's get rid of this stuff." Lothar watched as the

 cases of liquor were carried out and stacked in front of the cottage.

 Two of his constables opened them and smashed the bottles against the

 edge of the kerb. The sweet fruity smell of cheap brandy filled the

 night and the gutter ran with the amber-brown liquid.

 When the last bottle had been destroyed, Lothar nodded at his sergeant.

 'Right, Cronje, take them up to the station." And while the prisoners

 were loaded into the two police trucks that had followed his Land-Rover,

 Lothar went back into the cottage to check that his men had not

 overlooked anything of importance.

 In the back room with its tumbled bed and stained sheets, he opened the

 single cupboard and distastefully used the point of his riot baton to

 rummage through it.

 Beneath the pile of clothing at the bottom of the cupboard was a small

 cardboard carton. Lotlar pulled it out and tore open the lid. It was

 filled with a neat stack of single-leaf pamphlets, and idly he glanced

 at the top one until its impact struck him. He snatched up the sheet

 and turned it to the light from the bare bulb in the ceiling.

 'This is the Poqo of which it is said, "Take up your spear in your right

 hand, my beloved people, for the foreigners are looting your land"' Poqo

 was the military branch of the Pan Africanist Congress. The word Poqo

 meant pure and untainted, for none other than pureblooded African Bantu

 could become members, and Lothar knew it for an organization of young

 fanatics already responsible for a number of vicious and brutal murders.

 In the little town of Paarl in the Cape, Poqo had marched hundreds

 strong upon the police station and when driven back had vented their

 fury upon the civilian population, massacring two white women, one a

 girl of seventeen years.

 In the Transkei they had attacked a road-party encampment and murdered

 the white supervisor and his family in the most atrocious manner. Lothar

 had seen the police photographs and his skin crawled at the memory. Poqo

 was a name to fear and Lothat read the rest of the pamphlet with full

 attention.

 On Monday we are going to face the police. All the people of

 Sharpeville will be as one on that day. No man or woman will go to his

 place of work. No man or woman will leave the township by bus or train

 or taxi. All the people will gather as one and march to the police

 station.

 We are going to protest at the pass law which is a terrible burden, too

 heavy for us to carry. We will make the white police fear us.

 Any man or woman who does not march with us on Monday will be hunted

 down. On that day all the people will be as one.

 Poqo has said this thing. Hear it and obey it.

 Lothar read the crudely printed pamphlet through again, and then he

 murmured, 'So it has come at last." He picked out the sentence which had

 offended him most, 'We will make the white police fear us,' and he read

 it aloud.

 So! We will see about that!" And he shouted for his sergeant to take

 the carton of subversive leaflets out to the truck.

 There was an inevitability in Raleigh Tabaka's life. The great river of

 his existence carried him along with it so that he was powerless to

 break free f it or even swim against the current.

 His mother, as one of the most adept of the tribal sangomas of Xhosa had

 first instilled in him the deep awareness of his African self. She had

 showed him the mysteries and the secrets, and read the future for him in

 the casting of the bones.

 'One day you will lead your people, Raleigh Tabaka,' she prophesied.

 'You will become one of the great chiefs of Xhosa and your name will be

 spoken with those of Makana and Ndlame - all these things I see in the

 bones." When his father, Hendrick Tabaka, sent him and his twin brother

 , Wellington across the border to the multi-racial school in Swaziland,

 his Africanism had been confirmed and underscored, for his fellow pupils

 had been the sons of chiefs and black leaders from countries like

 Basutoland and Bechuanaland. These were countries where black tribes

 ruled themselves, free of the white man's heavy paternal fluences, and

 he listened with awe as they spoke of how their families lived on equal

 terms with the whites around them.

 This came as a total revelation to Raleigh. In his existence the whites

 were a breed apart, to be feared and avoided, for they wielded an

 unchallenged power over him and all his people.

 At Waterford he learned that this was not the law of the universe.

 There were white pupils, and although it was at first strange, he ate at

 the same table as they did, from the same plates and with the same

 utensils, and slept in a bed alongside them in the school dormitory, and

 sat on the toilet seat still warm from a white boy's bottom and vacated

 it to another little white boy waiting impatiently outside the door for

 him to finish. In his own country none of these things were allowed,

 and when he went home for the holidays he read the notices with his eyes

 wide open - the notices that said 'Whites Only Blankes Alleenlik'. From

 the windows of the train he saw the beautiful farms and the fat cattle

 that the white men owned, and the bare eroded earth of the tribal

 reservations, and when he reached home at Drake's Farm he saw that his

 father's house, which he remembered as a palace, was in reality a hovel

 - and the resentment began to gnaw at his soul and the wounds it left

 festered.

 Before Raleigh left to go to school, his Uncle Moses Gama used to visit

 his father. From infancy he had been in awe of his uncle, for power

 burned from him like one of those great veld fires which consumed the

 land and towered into the heavens in a column of dense smoke and ash and

 sparks.

 Even though Moses Gama had been absent from Drake's Farm for so many

 years, his memory had never been allowed to grow dim, and Hendrick had

 read aloud to the family the letters that he had received from him in

 distant lands.

 So when at last Raleigh matriculated and left Waterford to return to

 Drake's Farm and begin work in his father's businesses, he announced

 that he wanted to take 'his place in the ranks of the young warriors.

 'After you have been to initiation camp,' his father promised him, 'I

 will introduce you to Umkhonto we Sizwe." Raleigh's initiation set the

 final stamp on his special sense of Africanism. With his brother

 Wellington and six other young men of his initiation class, he left

 Drake's Farm and travelled by train in the bare third-class carriage to

 the little magisterial town of Queenstown which was the centre of the

 Xhosa tribal territories.

 It had all been arranged by his mother, and the elders of the tribe met

 them at Queenstown station. In a rickety old truck they were driven out

 to a kraal on the banks of the great Fish river and delivered into the

 care of the tribal custodian, an old man whose duty it was to preserve

 and safeguard the history and customs of the tribe.

 Ndlame, the old man, ordered them to strip off their clothing and to

 hand over all the possessions they had brought with them. These were

 thrown on a bonfire on the river bank, as a symbol of childhood left

 behind them. He took them naked into the river to bathe, and, then

 still glistening wet, he led them up the far bank to the circumcision

 hut where the tribal witchdoctors waited.

 When the other initiates hung back fearfully, Raleigh went boldly to the

 head of the column and was the first to stoop through the low entrance

 to the hut. The interior was thick with smoke from the dung fire and

 the witchdoctors, in their skins and feathers and fantastic headdresses,

 were weird and terrifying figures.

 Raleigh was smitten with terror, for the pain which he had dreaded all

 his childhood and for the forces of the supernatural which lurked in the

 gloomy recesses of the hut, yet he forced himself to run forward and

 leap over the smouldering fire.

 As he landed on the far side the witchdoctors sprang upon him and forced

 him into a kneeling position, holding his head so he was forced to watch

 as one of them seized his penis and drew out the rubbery collar of his

 foreskin to its full length. In ancient times the circumciser would

 have used a hand-forged blade, but now it was a Gillette razor blade.

 As they intoned the invocation to the tribal gods, Raleigh's foreskin

 was cut away, leaving his glans soft and pink and vulnerable.

 His blood spattered on to the dung floor between his knees, but he

 uttered not a sound.

 Ndlame helped him rise, 'and he staggered out into the sunlight and fell

 upon the river bank, riding the terrible burning pain, but the shriek of

 the other boys and the sounds of their wild struggles carried clearly to

 where he lay. He recognized his brother Wellingtons cries of pain as

 the shrillest and loudest of them all.

 Raleigh knew that their foreskins would be gathered up by the

 witchdoctors, salted and dried and added to the tribal totem. A part of

 them would remain for ever with the custodians and no matter how far

 they wandered, the witchdoctors could call them back with the foreskin

 curse.

 When all the other initiates had suffered the ' ú ' clrcumclser s knife,

 Ndlame led them down to the water's edge and showed them how to wash and

 bind their wounds with medicinal leaves and herbs, and to strap their

 penis against their stomachs. 'For if the Mamba looks dowm he will

 bleed again,' he warned them.

 They smeared their bodies with a mixture of clay and ash. Even the hair

 on their heads was crusted with the dead white ritual paint, so that

 they looked like albino ghosts. Their only clothing was skirts of grass

 and they built their huts in the deepest and most secret parts of the

 forest, for no woman might look upon them. They prepared their own

 food, plain maize cakes without any relish, and meat was forbidden them

 during the three moons of the initiation. Their only possession was

 their food bowl of clay.

 One of the boys developed an infection of his circumcision wound, the

 stinking green pus ran from it like milk from a cow's teat, and the

 fever consumed him so his skin was almost painfully hot to the touch.

 The herbs and potions that Ndlame applied were of no avail.

 He died on the fourth day and they buried him in the forest and Ndlame

 took his food bowl away. It would be thrown through the front door of

 his mother's hut by one of the witchdoctors, without a word being

 spoken, and she would know that her son had not been acceptable to the

 tribal gods.

 Each day from before dawn's light until after sunset, Ndlame gave them

 instruction and taught them their duties as members of the tribe, as

 husbands and as fathers. They learned to endure pain and hardship with

 stoicism. They learned discipline and duty to their tribe, the ways of

 the wild animals and plants, how to survive in the wilderness, and how

 to please their wives and raise their children.

 When the wounds of the circumcision blade had healed, Ndlame bound up

 their members each night in the special knot called the Red Dog, to

 prevent them spilling their seed in the sacred initiation huts. Each

 morning Ndlame inspected the knots carefully to ensure that they had not

 been loosened to enjoy the forbidden pleasure of masturbation.

 When the three moons had passed, Ndlame led them back to the river and

 they washed away the white initiation clay and anointed their bodies

 with a mixture of fat and red ochre, and Ndlame gave them each a red

 blanket, symbol of manhood, with which they covered themselves. In

 procession, singing the manhood songs which they had practised, they

 went to where the tribe waited at the edge of the forest.

 Their parents had gifts for them, clothing and new shoes and money, and

 the girls giggled and ogled them boldly, for they were men now and able

 at last to take a wife, as many wives as they could afford, for the

 lobola, the marriage fee, was heavy.

 The two brothers, accompanied by their mother, journeyed back to Drake's

 Farm, Wellington to take leave of their father, for he was going on to

 take holy orders, and Raleigh to remain at his father's side, to learn

 the multifarious facets of Hendrick Tabaka's business activities and

 eventually to take the helm and become the comfort and mainstay of

 Hendrick's old age.

 These were fascinating and disturbing months and years for Raleigh.

 Until this time he had never guessed at his father's wealth and power,

 but gradually it was revealed to him. The pages in the ledger turned

 for him one at a time. He learned of his father's general dealer

 stores, and the butcheries and bakeries in all the black townships

 spread throughout the great industrial triangle of the Transvaal that

 was based on the gold-mines and the iron-deposits and the coal fields.

 Then he went on to learn about the cattle herds and rural general

 dealer's stores in the tribal reservations owned by his father and cared

 for by his myriad brothers, about the shebeens and the whores that

 operated behind the front of legitimate business, and finally he learned

 about the Buffaloes, that ubiquitous and shadowy association of many men

 from all the various tribes, whose chief was his own father.

 He realized at last just how rich and powerful his father was, and yet

 how because he was a black man, he could not display his importance and

 could wield his power only covertly and clandestinely.

 Raleigh felt his anger stir, as it did whenever he saw those signs

 'Whites Only - Blankes AileenIlk' and saw the white men pass in their

 shiny automobiles, or when he stood outside the universities and

 hospitals which were closed to him.

 He spoke to his father about these things that troubled him and Hendrick

 Tabaka chuckled and shook his head.  'Rage makes a man sick, my son. It

 spoils his appetite for life and keeps him from sleep at night. We

 cannot change our world, so we must look for the good things in life and

 enjoy those to the full. The white man is strong, you cannot imagine

 how strong, you have not seen even the strength of his little finger. If

 you take up the spear against him, he will destroy you and all the good

 things we have - and if the gods and the lightnings intervened and by

 chance you destroyed the white man, think hat would follow him. There

 woukt come a darkness and a time without law and protection that would

 be a hundred times worse than the white man's oppressions. We would be

 consumed by the rage of our own people, and we would not have even the

 consolation of these few sweet things. If you open your ears and your

 eyes, my son, you will hear how the young people call us collaborators

 and how they talk of a redistribution of wealth, and you will see the

 envy in their eyes. The dream you have, my son, is a dangerous dream."

 'And yet I must dream it, my father,' said Raleigh, and then, one

 unforgettable day, his uncle, Moses Gama, returned from foreign lands

 and took him to meet other young men who shared the same dream.

 So, during the day Raleigh worked at his father's business and in the

 evenings he met with the other young comrades of Umkhonto we Sizwe.

 At first they only talked, but the words were sweeter and headier than

 the smoke of the dagga pipes of the old men.

 Then Raleigh joined the comrades who were enforcing the decrees of the

 African National Congress, the boycotts and the strikes and the work

 stoppages. He went to Evaton location with a small task force to

 enforce the bus boycott and they attacked the black workers in the bus

 queues who were trying to get to their places of employment or who were

 going to shop for their families, and they beat them with sjamboks, the

 long leather quirts, and with their fightingsticks.

 On the first day of the attacks, Raleigh was determined to demonstrate

 his zeal to his comrades and he used his fighting-stick with all the

 skill which he had learned as a child in faction fights with the boys of

 the other tribes.

 There was a woman in the queue for the bus who defied Raleigh's order to

 go home, and she spat at him and his comrades and called them tsotsies

 and skelms, gangsters and rogues. She was a woman in middle age, large

 and matronly, with cheeks so plump and shiny that they looked as though

 they had been rubbed up with black shoe polish, and with such a queenly

 manner that at first the young comrades of Umkhonto we Sizwe were

 abashed by her scorn and might have withdrawn.

 Then Raleigh saw that this was his opportunity to prove his ardour and

 he leaped forward and confronted the women. 'Go home, old woman,' he

 warned her. 'We are no longer dogs to eat the white man's shit." 'You

 are a little uncircumcised boy with filth on your tongue,' she began,

 but Raleigh would not let her continue. He swung the long supple

 fighting-stick, and it split her shiny black cheek as cleanly as the cut

 of an axe, so for an instant Raleigh saw the bone gleam in the depths of

 the wound before the swift crimson flood obscured it.

 The big woman screamed and fell to her knees, and Raleigh felt a strange

 sensation of power and lurpose, a euphoria of patriotic duty.

 For a moment the woman kneeling before him became the focus of all his

 frustration and his rage.

 The woman saw it in his eyes and held up both arms over her head to ward

 off the next blow. Raleigh struck again, with all his strength and

 skill, using his wrist so that the fighting-stick whined in the air and

 the blow landed on the woman's elbow. Her arms were wreathed in layers

 of deep fat. It hung in dewlaps from her upper arms and in bracelets

 about her wrists, but it could not cushion the power behind that

 whistling stick. The joint of her elbow shattered, and her forearm

 dropped and twisted at an impossible angle as it hung helplessly at her

 side.

 The woman screamed again, this time the sound was so filled with outrage

 and agony that it goaded the other young warriors and they fell upon the

 bus passengers with such fury that the terminus was strewn with the

 wailing and sobbing injured and the concrete floor was washed sticky

 red.

 When the ambulances came with sirens wailing to collect the casualties,

 the comrades of Umkhonto we Sizwe pelted them with stones and half

 bricks and Raleigh led a small group of the bolder ones who ran out into

 the street and turned one of the stranded ambulances on its side, and

 when the petrol poured from the tank, Raleigh lit a match and tossed it

 on to the spread pool.

 The explosive ignition singed his eyelashes and burned away the front of

 his hair, but that evening when they got back to Drake's Farm, Raleigh

 was the hero of the band of warriors, and they gave him the praise-name

 of Cheza which means 'the burner'.

 As Raleigh was accepted into the middle ranks of the Youth League of the

 ANC and Umkhonto we Sizwe, so he gradually understood the cross-currents

 of power within them and the internal politics of the rival groups of

 moderates and radicals - those who thought that freedom could be

 negotiated and those who believed that it must be won with the blade of

 the spear, those who thought that the treasures so patiently built up

 over the years - the mines and the factories and the railways - should

 be preserved and those who believed that it should all be destroyed and

 rebuilt again in the name of freedom by the pure ones.

 Raleigh found himself inclining more and more towards the purists, the

 hard fighting men, the exclusive Bantu elite, and when he heard the name

 Poqo for the first time, he thrilled to the sound and sense of it.

 It described exactly his own feelings and desires - the pure, the only

 ones.

 He was present in the house in Drake's Farm when Moses Gama spoke to

 them and promised them that the long wait was almost at an end.

 'I will take this land by its heels and set it upon its head." Moses

 Gama told the group of intense loyal young warriors. 'I will give you a

 deed, a sign that every man and woman will understand instantly.

 It will bring the tribes into the streets in their millions and their

 rage will be a beautiful thing, so pure and strong that nobody, not even

 the hard Boers, will be able to resist." Soon Raleigh came to sense in

 Moses Gama a divinity that set him above all other humans, and he was

 filled with a religious love for him and a deep and utter commitment.

 When the news reached Raleigh that Moses Gama had been caught by the

 white police as he was on the point of blowing up the houses of

 parliament and destroying all the evil contained in that iniquitous

 institution, Raleigh was almost prostrated by his grief, and yet set on

 fire by Moses Gama's courage and example.

 Over the weeks and months that followed, Raleigh was exasperated and

 angered by the calls for moderation from the high councils of the ANC,

 and by the dispirited and meek acceptance of Moses Gama's imprisonment

 and trial. He wanted to vent his wrath upon the world, and when the Pan

 Africanist Congress broke away from the ANC Raleigh followed where his

 heart led.

 Robert Sobukwe, the leader of the Pan Africanist Congress, sent for him.

 'I have heard good words of you,' he told Raleigh. 'And I know the man

 who is your uncle, the father of us all who languishes in the white

 man's prison. It is our duty - for we are the pure ones to bring our

 message to every black man in the land. There is much work to do, and

 this is the task I have set for you alone, Raleigh Tabaka." He led

 Raleigh to a large-scale map of the Transvaal. 'This area has been left

 untouched by the ANC." He placed his hand over the sweep of townships

 and coalfields and industry around the town of Vereeniging. 'This is

 where I want you to begin the work." Within a week Raleigh had

 conditioned his father to the idea that he should move to the

 Vereeniging area to take charge of the family interests there, the three

 stores in Evaton and the butchery and bakery in Sharpeville, and his

 father liked the idea the more he thought about it, and he agreed.

 'I will give you the names of the men who command the Buffaloes down

 there. We can begin moving the shebeens into the Sharpeville area. So

 far we have not put our cattle to graze on those pastures, and the grass

 there is tall and green." Raleigh moved slowly at first. He was a

 stranger in Sharpeville and he had to consolidate his position. However,

 he was a strong and comely young man, and he spoke fluently all the

 major languages of the townships. This was not an unusual achievement,

 there were many who spoke all the four related languages of the Nguni

 group of peoples, the Zulus, the Xhosas, the Swazi and the Ndebele,

 which make up almost seventy percent of the black tribes of South Africa

 and whose speech is characterized by elaborate clicking and clucking

 sounds.

 Many others, like Raleigh, were also conversant with the other two

 languages which are spoken by almost the entire remainder of the black

 population, the Sotho and the Tswana.

 Language was no barrier, and Raleigh had the additional advantage of

 being placed in charge of his father's business interest in the area,

 and therefore was accorded almost immediate recognition and respect.

 Sooner or later every single resident of Sharpeville would come to

 either Tabaka's bakery or butcher shop and be impressed by the

 articulate and sympathetic young man who listened to their worries and

 troubles and extended them credit to buy the white bread and fizzy

 drinks and tobacco; these were the staple diet of the townships where

 much of the old way of life was abandoned and forgotten, where the

 soured milk and maize meal were difficult to procure and where rickets

 made the children lethargic, bent their bones and turned their hair fine

 and wispy and dyed a peculiar bronze colour.

 They told Raleigh their little troubles, like the cost of renting the

 township houses and the hardship of commuting such distances to their

 place of work that it was necessary to rise long before the sun.

 And then they told Raleigh their greater worries, of being evicted from

 their homes and of the harassment by the police who were always raiding

 for liquor and pass offences and prostitution and to enforce the influx

 control laws. But always it came down to the passes, the little

 booklets that ruled their lives. The police always were there to ask

 'Where is your pass? Show me your pass book." The dornpas, they called

 them, 'the damned pass', in which were stamped all their details of

 birth and residence and right to reside; no black person could get a job

 unless he or she produced the damned pass book.

 From all the people who came to the shops, Raleigh chose the young vital

 ones, the brave ones with rage in their hearts, and they met discreetly

 at first in the storeroom at the back of the bakery, sitting on the

 bread baskets and the piles of flour bags, talking the night through.

 Then they moved more openly, speaking to the older people and the

 children in the schools, going about as disciples to teach and explain.

 Raleigh used the funds of the butchery to buy a secondhand duplicator,

 and he typed the pamphlets on the pink wax sheets and r/n them' off.on

 the machine.

 They were crude little pamphlets, with botchy typing errors and obvious

 corrections and each one began with the salutation, 'This is /'we of

 which it is said--' and ended with the stern injunction, 'P, qe has said

 this thing. Hear it and obey it." The young men whom Raleigh had

 recruited distributed these and read them to those who could not read

 for themselves.

 At first Raleigh allowed only men to come to the meetings in the back

 room of the bakery store, for they were purists and it was the

 traditional role of the men to herd the cattle and hunt the game and

 defend the tribe, while the women thatched the huts and tilled the earth

 for maize and sorghum and carried the children on their backs.

 Then the word was passed down from the high command of Peqt and PAC that

 the women were also part of the struggle. So Raleigh spoke with his

 young men and one evening a girl came to their Friday-night meeting in

 the bakery storeroom.

 She was a Xhosa and she was tall and strong with beautiful swelling

 buttocks and the round sweet face like one of the wild veld flowers.

 While Raleigh spoke she listened silently. She did not move or fidget

 or interrupt and her huge dark eyes never left Raleigh's face.

 Raleigh felt that he was inspired that night, and though he never looked

 directly at the girl and seemed to address himself to the young

 warriors, it was to her he spoke and his voice was deep and sure and his

 own words reverberated in his skull and he listened to them with the

 same wonder as the others did.

 When he finished speaking at last, they all sat in silence for a long

 time and then one of the young men turned to the girl and said, 'Amelia

 --' that was the first time ever that Raleigh heard her name, 'Amelia,

 will you sing for us?" She did not simper or hang her head or make

 modest protestations.

 She simply opened her mouth, and sound poured out of her, glorious sound

 that made the skin on Raleigh's forearms and at the back of his neck

 tingle.

 He watched her mouth while she sang. Her lips were soft and broad,

 shaped like two leaves of the wild peach tree, with a dark iridescence

 that shaded to soft pink on the inside of her mouth, and when she

 reached for an impossibly sweet high note, he saw that her teeth were

 perfect white as bone that had lain for a season in the veld, polished

 by the wind and bleached by the African sun.

 The words of the song were strange to him, but like the voice that sang

 them, they thrilled Raleigh: 'When the roll of heroes is called, Will my

 name be on it?

 I dream of that day when ! will Sit with Moses Gama, And we will talk

 of the passing of the Boers." She went away with the young men who had

 brought her, and that night Raleigh dreamed of her. She stood beside

 the pool in the great Fish river in which he had washed away the white

 clay paint of his childhood and she wore the short beaded kilt and her

 breasts and her legs were bare. Her legs were long and her breasts were

 round and hard as black marble and she smiled at him with those even

 white teeth, and when Raleigh awoke his seed was splashed upon the

 blanket which covered him.

 Three days later she came to the bakery to buy bread and Raleigh saw her

 through the peephole above his desk through which he could watch all

 that was happening in the ant of the store and he went through to the

 counter and greeted her gravely. 'I see you, Amelia." She smiled at him

 and replied, 'I see you also, Raleigh Tabaka,' and it seemed that she

 sang his name, for she gave it a music that he had never heard in it

 before.

 She purchased two loaves of white bread, but Raleigh lingered over the

 sale, wrapping each loaf carefully and counting the pennies of her

 change as though they were gold sovereigns.

 'What is your full name?" he asked her.

 'I am called Amelia Sigela." 'Where is your father's kraal, Amelia

 Sigela?" 'My father is dead, and I live with my father's sister." She

 was a teacher at the Sharpeville primary school and she was twenty years

 old. When she left with her bread wrapped in newspaper and her buttocks

 swinging and jostling each other beneath the yellow European-style

 skirt, Raleigh returned to his desk in the cubicle of his office and sat

 for a long time staring at the wall.

 On Friday Amelia Sigela came again to the meeting in the back room of

 the bakery and at the end she sang for them once more.

 This time Raleigh knew the words and he sang with her. He had a good

 deep baritone but she gilded it and wreathed it in the glory of her

 startling soprano and when the meeting broke up, Raleigh walked back

 with her through the dark streets to her aunt's house in the avenue

 beyond the school.

 They lingered at the door and he touched her arm. It was warm and silky

 beneath his fingers. On the Sunday when he took the train back to

 Drake's Farm to make his weekly report to his father, he told his mother

 about Amelia Sigela and the two of them went through to the sacred room

 where his mother kept the family gods.

 His mother sacrificed a black chicken and spoke to the carved idols,

 particularly ro the totem of Raleigh's maternal great-grandfather, and

 he replied in a voice that only Raleigh's mother could hear. She

 listened gravely, nodding at what he said, and later while they ate the

 sacrificial chicken with rice and herbs, she promised, 'I will speak to

 your father on your behalf." The following Friday after the meeting,

 Raleigh walked home with Amelia again, but this time as they passed the

 school where she taught, he drew her into the shadow of the buildings

 and they stood against the wall very close together. She made no

 attempt to pull away when he stroked her cheek, so he told her: 'My

 father is sending an emissary to your aunt to agree a marriage price."

 Amelia was silent and he went on, 'However, I will ask him not to do so,

 if you do not wish it." 'I wish it very much,' she whispered, and slowly

 and voluptuously she rubbed herself against him like a cat.

 The lobola, the marriage price, was twenty head of cattle, worth a great

 deal of money, and Hendrick Tabaka told his son, 'You must work for it,

 just like other young men are forced to do." It would take Raleigh three

 years to accumulate enough to buy the cattle, but when he told Amelia,

 she smiled and told him, 'Each day will make me want you more. Think

 then how great will be my want after three years, and think how sweet

 will be that moment when the wanting is assuaged." Every afternoon, when

 school was out, Amelia came to the bakery and quite naturally she took

 to working behind the counter selling the bread and the round brown

 buns. Then when Raleigh closed the shop, she cooked his evening meal

 for him and when he had eaten, they walked back to her aunt's house

 together.

  

 Amelia slept in a tiny room hardly bigger than a closet, across the

 passage from her aunt. They left the interleading doors open and

 Raleigh lay on Amelia's bed with her and under the blanket they played

 the sweet games that custom and tribal law sanctioned all engaged

 couples to play. Raleigh was allowed to explore delicately and with his

 fingertips hunt for the little pink bud of flesh hidden between soft

 furry lips that old Ndlame had told him about at initiation camp. The

 Xhosa girls are not circumcised like the women of some of the other

 tribes, but they are taught the arts of pleasing men, and when he could

 stand it no longer, she took him and held him between her crossed

 thighs, avoiding only the final penetration that was reserved by tribal

 lore for their wedding night, and skilfully she milked him of his seed.

 Strangely, it seemed that every time she did this, rather than depleting

 him, she replenished the well of his love for her until it was

 overflowing.

 Then the time came when Raleigh judged it expedient to begin

 infiltrating the Buffaloes into the township. With Hendrick Tabaka's

 blessing and under Raleigh's supervision, they opened their first

 shebeen in a cottage at the far end of the township, hard up against the

 boundary fence.

 The shebeen was run by two of the Buffaloes from Drake's Farm who had

 done this type of work for Hendrick Tabaka before. They knew all the

 little tricks like adulterating the liquor to make it go further and

 having one or two girls in the back room for the men that liquor had

 made amorous.

 However, Raleigh warned them about the local police force who had an

 ugly reputation, and about one of the white officers in particular, a

 man with pale predatory eyes that had given him his nickname 'Ngwi' the

 leopard. He was a hard cruel man who had shot to death four men in the

 time he had been in Sharpeville, two of them members of the Buffaloes

 who had been supplying the township with dagga.

 At first they were cautious and wary, vetting their customers carefully

 and placing lookouts on all approaches to the shebeen, but then as the

 weeks passed, with business improving each night, they relaxed a little.

 There was very little competition. Other shebeens had been closed down

 swiftly, and the customers were so thirsty that the Buffaloes could

 charge three and four times the usual rate.

 Raleigh brought the liquor stocks into the township in his little blue

 Ford pick-up, the crates hidden beneath sacks of flour and sheep

 carcasses. He spent as little time as possible at the shebeen, for

 every minute was dangerous. He would drop off the supplies, collect the

 empty bottles and the cash and be gone within a half an hour. He never

 drove the pick-up directly to the front door of the cottage, but parked

 it in the dark veld beyond the boundary fence and the two Buffaloes

 would come through the hole in the wire mesh and help him carry the

 crates of cheap brandy.

 After a while Raleigh realized that the shebeen offered another good

 distribution point for the Poqo pamphlets that he printed on the

 duplicator. He usually kept a stock of these in the cottage and the two

 Buffaloes who ran the shebeen and the girls who worked in the back room

 had orders to give one to each of their customers.

 In early March, not long after the glad tidings of Moses Gama's reprieve

 and the mitigation-of his death sentence to life

 imprisonment;-Sobukwe-sent for--Raleigh_-The-rendezvous was in a house

 in the vast black township of Soweto. It was not one of the boxlike

 flat-roofed cottages, but was rather a large modern bungalow situated in

 the elite section of the township known as 'Beverly Hills'.

 It had a tiled roof, its own swimming-pool, garaging for two vehicles

 and large plate-glass windows overlooking the pool.

 When Raleigh arrived in the blue pick-up, he found that he was not the

 only invited guest and there were a dozen or so other vehicles parked

 along the kerb. Sobukwe had invited all his middle-ranking field

 officers to this briefing and over forty of them crowded into the

 sitting-room of the bungalow.

 'Comrades,' Sobukwe addressed them. 'We are ready to flex our muscles.

 You have worked hard and it is time to gather in some of the fruits of

 your labours. In all the places where the Pan Africanist Congress is

 strong - not only here on the Witwatersrand but across the country - we

 are going to make the white police fear our power.

 We are going to hold a mass protest demonstration against the pass laws

 --' Listening to Sobukwe speak, Raleigh was reminded of the power and

 personality of his own imprisbned uncle, Moses Gama, and he was proud to

 be part of this magnificent company. As Sobukwe unfolded his plans

 Raleigh made a silent but fervent resolution that at Sharpeville, the

 area for which he was responsible, the demonstration would be impressive

 and solid.

 He related every detail of the meeting, and every word that Sobukwe had

 spoken, to Amelia. Her lovely round face seemed to glow with excitement

 as she listened and she helped him print the sheets announcing the

 demonstration and to pack them into the old liquor cartons in lots of

 five hundred.

 On the Friday before the planned demonstration, Raleigh ran a shipment

 of liquor down to the Buffaloes' shebeen, and he took a carton of

 pamphlets with him. The Buffaloes were waiting for him in the darkness

 beside the track, and one of them flashed a torch to guide the pick-up

 into the scraggy patch of black wattle, and they unloaded the liquor and

 trudged across to the township fence.

 In the cottage Raleigh counted the empty bottles and the full ones and

 checked these figures against the cash in the canvas bank bag. It

 tallied and he gave a brief word of commendation to the two Buffaloes,

 and looked into the front room which was packed with cheerful noisy

 drinkers.

 Then when the door to the nearest bedroom opened and a big Basuto

 iron-worker came out, grinning and buttoning the front of his blue

 overalls, Raleigh squeezed past him into the back room. The girl was

 straightening the sheets on the bed. She was bending over with her back

 to Raleigh and she was naked, but she looked over her shoulder and

 smiled when she recognized him. Raleigh was popular with all the girls.

 She had the money ready for him, and Raleigh counted it in front of her.

 There was no means of checking her, but over the years Hendrick Tabaka

 had developed an instinct for a cheating girl, and when Raleigh

 delivered the money to him he would know if she were holding out.

 Raleigh gave her a box of paaphlets and she sat beside him on the bed

 while he read one of them to her.

 'I will be there on Monday,' she promised. 'And I will tell all my men

 these things and give them each a paper." She placed the box in the

 bottom of the cupboard and then came back to Raleigh and took his hand.

 'Stay a little while,' she invited him. 'I will straighten your back

 for you." She was a pretty plump little thing and Raleigh was tempted.

 Amelia was a traditional Nguni maiden, and she did not suffer the curse

 of western-style jealousy. In fact, she had urged him to accept the

 offers of the other girls. 'If I am not allowed to sharpen your spear,

 let the joy-girls keep it bright for the time when I am at last allowed

 to feel its kiss." 'Come,' the girl urged Raleigh now, and stroked him

 through the cloth of his trousers. 'See how the cobra awakes,' she

 laughed. 'Let me wring his neck!" Raleigh took one step back towards

 the bed, laughing with her then suddenly he froze and the laugh was cut

 off abruptly. Out in the darkness he had heard the whistle of the

 lookouts.

 'Police,' he snapped. 'The leopard--' and there was the sudden

 distinctive rumble of a Land-Rover being driven hard and headlights

 flashed across the cheap curtaining that covered the window.

 Raleigh sprang to the door. In the front room the drinkers were

 fighting to escape through the door and windows, and the table, covered

 with glasses and empty bottles, was overturned and glass shattered.

 Raleigh shouldered panic-stricken bodies out of his way and reached the

 kitchen door. It was locked but he opened it with his own key and

 slipped through, locking it again behind him.

 He switched off the lights and stole across to the back door and placed

 his hand on the door knob. He would not make the mistake of running out

 into the yard. The leopard was notoriously quick with his pistol.

 Raleigh waited in the darkness, and he heard the screams and the

 scuffling, the crack of the riot batons on flesh and bone and the

 grunting of the men who swung them and he steeled himselfi Just beyond

 the door, he heard light running footsteps and suddenly the door handle

 was seized from the far side and violently twisted. As the man on the

 outside tried to pull the door open, Raleigh held it, and the other man

 heaved and swore, leaning back on it with all his weight.

 Raleigh let the handle go, and reversed his resistance, throwing his

 body against the cheap pine door so that it burst open. He felt it

 crash into human flesh and he had a glimpse of the brown-uniformed

 figure hurtling backwards down the stairs. Then he used his own

 momentum to leap up and outwards, clearing the police officer like a

 steeplechaser, and he went bounding away towards the hole in the mesh

 fence.

 As he ducked through it he glanced back and saw the police officer on

 his knees. Though his features were contracted and swollen with pain

 and anger, Raleigh recognized him. It was Ngwi, the killer of men, and

 the blue service revolver glinted in his hand as it cleared the holster

 at his side.

 Fear sped Raleigh's feet as he darted away into the darkness, but he

 jinked and twisted as he ran. Something passed close to his head with a

 snapping report that hurt his eardrums and made him flinch his head

 wildly and he jinked again. Behind him was another thudding report but

 he did not hear the second bullet and he saw the dark shape of the Ford

 ahead of him.

 He tumbled into the front seat and started the engine. Without

 switching on the headlights he bumped over the verge on to the track and

 accelerated away into the darkness.

 He found that he still had the canvas bag of money clutched in his left

 hand, and his relief was intense. His father would be incensed at the

 loss of the liquor stocks, but his anger would have been multiplied many

 times if Raleigh had lost the money as well.

 Solomon Nduli telephoned Michael Courtney at his desk in the newsroom.

 'I have something for you,' he told Michael. 'Can you come out to the

 Assegai offices right away." 'It's after five already,' Michael

 protested, 'and it's Friday night. I won't be able to get a pass to

 enter the township." 'Come,' Solomon insisted. 'I will wait for you at

 the main gate." He was as good as his promise, a tall gangly figure in

 steel-rimmed glasses, waiting under the street lamp near the main gates,

 and as soon as he slipped into the front seat of the company car,

 Michael passed him his cigarette pack.

 'Light one for me, as well,' he told Solomon. 'I brought some sardine

 and onion sandwiches and a couple of bottles of beer. They are on the

 back seat." There was no public place in Johannesburg, or in the entire

 land for that matter, where two men of different colour could sit and

 drink or eat together. Michael drove slowly and aimlessly through the

 streets while they ate and talked.

 'The PAC are planning their first big act since they broke away from the

 ANC,' Solomon told Michael through a mouthful of sardine and onion. 'In

 some areas they have built up strong support.

 In the Cape and the rural tribal areas, even in some parts of the

 Transvaal. They have pulled in all the young militants who are unhappy

 with the pacifism of the old men. They want to follow Moses Gama's

 example, and take on the Nationalists in a head-on fight." 'That's

 crazy,' Michael said. 'You can't fight sten guns and Saracen armoured

 cars with half bricks." 'Yes, it's crazy, but then some of the young

 people would prefer to die on their feet than live on their knees." They

 were together for an hour, talking all that time, and then at last

 Michael drove him back to the main gates of Drake's Farm.

 'So that's it then, my friend." Solomon opened the car door. 'If you

 want the best story on Monday, I would suggest you go down to the

 Vereeniging area. The PAC and Poqo have made that their stronghold on

 the Witwatersrand." 'Evaton?" Michael asked.

 'Yes, Evaton will be one of the places to watch,' Solomon Nduli agreed.

 'But the PAC have a new man in Sharpeville." 'Sharpeville?" Michael

 asked. 'Where is that? I've never heard of it?

 'Only twelve miles from Evaton." 'I'll find it on my road map." 'You

 might think it worth the trouble to go there,' Solomon encouraged

 Michael. 'This PAC organizer in Sharpeville is one of the party's young

 lions. He will put on a good show, you can count on that." Manfred De

 La Rey asked quietly. 'So, how many reinforcements can we spare for the

 stations in the Vaal area?" General Dame Leroux shook his head and

 smoothed back the wings of silver hair at his temples with both hands.

 'We have only three days to move in reinforcements from the outlying

 areas and most of those will be needed in the Cape. It will mean

 stripping the outlying stations and leaving them very vulnerable." 'How

 many?" Manfred insisted.

 'Five or six hundred men for the Vaal,' Dame Leroux said with obvious

 reluctance.

 'That will not be enough,' Manfred growled. 'So we will reinforce all

 stations lightly, but hold most of our forces in mobile reserve and

 react swiftly to the first hint of trouble." He turned his full

 attention to the map that covered the operations table in the control

 room of police headquarters in Marshall Square. 'Which are the main

 danger centres on the Vaal?" 'Evaton,' Dame Leroux replied without

 hesitation. 'It's always one of the trouble spots, and then Van Der

 Bijl Park." 'What about Sharpeville?" Manfred asked, and held up the

 crudely printed pamphlet that he had tightly rolled in his right hand.

 'What about this?" The general did not reply immediately, but he

 pretended to study the operations map as he composed his reply. He was

 well aware that the subversive pamphlets had been discovered by Captain

 Lothar De La Rey, and he knew how the minister felt about his son.

 Indeed Dame Leroux shared the general high opinion of Lothar, so he did

 not want to belittle him in any way or to offend his minister.

 'There may well be disturbances in the Sharpeville area,' he conceded.

 'But it is a small township and has always been very peaceful. We can

 expect our men there to behave well and I do not see any immediate

 danger. I suggest we send twenty or thirty men to reinforce

 Sharpeville, and concentrate our main efforts on the larger townships

 with violent histories of boycotts and strikes." 'Very well,' Manfred

 agreed at last. 'But I want you to maintain at least forty percent of

 our reinforcements in reserve, so that they can be moved quickly to any

 area that flares up unexpectedly." 'What about arms?" Dame Leroux asked.

 'I am about to authorize the issue of automatic weapons to all units."

 He turned the statement into a query and Manfred nodded.

 'Ja, we must be ready for the worst. There is a feeling amongst our

 enemies that we are on the verge of capitulation. Even our own people

 are becoming frightened and confused." His voice dropped, but his tone

 was fiercer and more determined. 'We have to change that. We have to

 crush these people who wish to tear down and destroy all we stand for

 and give this land over to bloodshed and anarchy." The centres of

 support for the PAC were widely scattered across the land, from the

 eastern tribal areas of the Ciskei and the Transkei to the southern part

 of the great industrial triangle along the Vaal river, and a thousand

 miles south of that in the black township of Longa and Nyanga that

 housed the greater part of the migrant worker force that serviced the

 mother city of Cape Town.

 In all these areas Sunday 20 March 1960 was a day of feverish effort and

 planning, and of a peculiar expectancy. It was as though everybody at

 last believed that this new decade would be one of immense change.

 The radicals were filled With hid feeling of infinite hope, however

 irrational, and with a certainty that the Nationalist government was on

 the verge of collapse. They felt that the world was with them, that the

 age of colonialism had blown away on the winds of change, and that after

 a decade of massive political mobilization by the black leaders, the

 time of liberation was at last at hand. All it needed now was one last

 shove, and the walls of apartheid would crash to earth, crushing under

 them the evil architect Verwoerd and his builders who had raised them

 up.

 Raleigh Tabaka felt that marvelous euphoria as he and his men moved

 through the township, going from cottage to cottage with the same

 message: 'Tomorrow we will be as one people. No one will go to work.

 There will be no buses and those who try to walk to the town will be met

 by the Poqo on the road. The names of all who defy the PAC will be

 taken and they will be punished. Tomorrow we are going to make the

 white police fear us." They worked all that day, and by evening every

 person, man and woman, in the township had been warned to stay away from

 work and to assemble in the open space near the new police station early

 on the Monday morning.

 'We are going to make the white police fear us. We want everybody to be

 there. If you do not come, we will find you." Amelia had worked as hard

 and unremittingly as Raleigh had done, but like him she was still fresh,

 unwearied and excited as they ate a quick and simple meal in the back

 room of the bakery.

 'Tomorrow we will see the sun of freedom rise,' Raleigh told her as he

 wiped his bowl with a crust of bread. 'But we cannot afford to sleep.

 There is still much work to do this night." Then he took her hand and

 told her, 'Our children will be born free, and we will live our life

 together like men, not like animals." And he led her out into the

 darkening township to continue the preparations for the great day that

 lay ahead.

 They met in groups on the street corners, all the eager young ones, and

 Raleigh and Amelia moved amongst them delegating their duties for the

 morrow, selecting those who would picket the road leading from

 Sharpeville to Vereeniging.

 'You will let no one pass. Nobody must leave the township,' Raleigh

 told them. 'All the people must be as one when we march on the police

 station tomorrow morning." 'You must tell the people not to fear,'

 Raleigh urged them. 'Tell them that the white police cannot touch them

 and that there will be a most important speech from the white government

 concerning the abolition of the pass laws. Tell the people they must be

 joyful and unafraid and that they must sing the freedom songs that PAC

 has taught them." After midnight Raleigh assembled his most loyal and

 reliable men, ncluding the two Buffaloes from the shebeen, and they went

 to the homes of all the black bus drivers and taxi drivers in the

 township and pulled them from their beds.

 'Nobody will leave Sharpeville tomorrow,' they told them. 'But we do

 not trust you not to obey your white bosses. We will guard you until

 the march begins. Instead of driving your buses and taxis tomorrow and

 taking our people away, you will march with them to the police station.

 We will see to it that you do. Come with us now." As the false dawn

 flushed the eastern sky, Raleigh himself scaled a telephone pole at the

 boundary fence and cut the wires. When he slid down again he laughed,

 as he told Amelia, 'Now our friend th leopard will not find it so easy

 to call in other police to help him." Captain Lothar De La Rey parked

 his Land-Rover and left it in a sanitary lane in a patch of shadow out

 of the street lights and he moved quietly to the corner and stood alone.

 He listened to the night. In the years he had served at Sharpeville he

 had learned to judge the pulse and the mood of the township. He let his

 feelings and his instincts take over from reason, and almost immediately

 he was aware of the feral excitement and sense of expectation which had

 the township in its grip. It was quiet until you listened, as Lothar

 was listening now. He heard the dogs. They were restless, some close,

 others at a distance, yapping and barking, and there was an urgency in

 them. They were seeing and scenting groups and single figures in the

 shadows. Men hurrying on secret errands.

 Then he heard the other sounds, soft as insect sounds in the night.

 The whistle of lookouts on the watch for his patrols and the recognition

 signals of the street gangs. In one of the dark cottages nearby a man

 coughed nervously, unable to sleep, and in another a child whimpered

 fretfully and was instantly hushed by a woman's soft voice.

 Lothar moved quietly through the shadows, listening and watching. Even

 without the warning of the pamphlets, he would have known that tonight

 the township was awake and strung up.

 Lothar was not an imaginative or romantic young man, but as he scouted

 the dark streets he suddenly had a clear mental picture of his ancestors

 performing this same dire task. He saw them bearded and dressed in drab

 homespun, armed with the long muzzle-loaders, leaving the security of

 the laagered wagons, going out alone into the African night to scout for

 the enemy, the swartgevaar, the black danger. Spying out the bivouac

 where the black impis lay upon their war shields, waiting for the dawn

 to rush in upon the wagons. His nerves crawled at those atavistic

 memories, and he seemed to hear the battle chant of the tribes in the

 night and the drumming of assegai on rawhide shield, the stamp of bare

 feet and the crash of war rattles on wrist and ankle as they came in

 upon the wagons for the dawn attack.

 In his imagination the cry of the restless infant in tile nearby cottage

 became the death screams of the little Boer children at Weenen, where

 the black impis had come sweeping down from the hills to massacre all in

 the Boer encampment.

 He shivered in the night as he realized that though so much had changed,

 as much had remained the same. The black danger was still there,

 growing each day stronger and more ominous. He had seen the confident

 challenging look of the young bucks as they swaggered through the

 streets and heard the warlike names they had adopted, the Spear of the

 Nation and the Pure Ones. Tonight, more than ever, he was aware of the

 danger and he knew where his duty lay.

 He went back to the Land-Rover and drove slowly through the streets.

 Time and again he glimpsed small groups of dark figures, but when he

 turned the spotlight upon them, they melted away into the night.

 Everywhere he went he heard the warning whistles out there in the

 darkness, and his nerves tightened and tingled. When he met his own

 tbot-patrolling constables, they also were nervous and ill-at-ease.

 When the dawn turned the eastern sky pale yellow and dimmed out the

 street lamps, he drove back through the streets. At this time in the

 morning they should have been filled with hurrying commuters, but now

 they were empty and silent.

 Lothar reached the bus terminus, and it too was almost deserted.

 Only a few young men in small groups lounged at the railings. There were

 no buses, and the pickets stared at the police Land-Rover openly and

 insolently as Lothar drove slowly past.

 As he skirted the boundary fence, passing close to the main gates, he

 exclaimed suddenly and braked the Land-Rover. From one of the telephone

 poles the cables trailed limply to the earth. Lothar left the vehicle

 and went to examine the damage. He lifted the loose end of the dangling

 copper wire, and saw immediately that it had been cut cleanly. He let

 it drop and walked slowly back to the LandRover.

 Before he climbed into the driver's seat, he glanced at his wristwatch.

 It was ten minutes past five o'clock. Officially he would be off duty

 at six, but he would not leave his post today. He knew his duty. He

 knew it would be a long and dangerous day and he steeled himself to meet

 it.

 That Monday morning, 21 March 1960, a thousand miles away in the Cape

 townships of Longa and Nyanga the crowds began assembling. It was

 raining. That cold drizzling Cape north-wester blew from the sea,

 dampening the ardour of the majority, but by 6

 a.m. there was a crowd of almost ten thousand gathered outside the

 Longa bachelor quarters, ready to begin the march on the police station.

 The police anticipated them. During the weekend they had been heavily

 reinforced and all officers and senior warrant officers issue with sten

 guns. Now a Saracen armoured car in drab green battl paint entered the

 head of the wide road in which the crowd ha assembled, and a police

 officer addressed them over the Ioudspeake system. He told them that

 all public meetings had been banned an, that a march on the police

 station would be treated as an attack.

 The black leaders came forward and negotiated with the police and at

 last agreed to disperse the crowd, but warned that nobod, would go to

 work that day and there would be another mass meetini at 6 p.m. that

 evening. When the evening meeting began to assemble the police arrived

 in Saracen armoured cars, and ordered the crowt to disperse. When they

 stood their ground, the police baton-chargec them. The crowd retaliated

 by stoning the police and in a mass rushec forward to attack them. The

 police commander gave the commanc to fire and the sten guns buzzed in

 automatic fire and the crowd fled leaving two of their number dead upon

 the field.

 From then on weeks of rioting and stoning and marches racked the Cape

 peninsula, culminating in a massed march of tens of thousands of blacks.

 This time they reached the police headquarters at Caledon Square, but

 dispersed quietly after their leaders had been promised an interview

 with the minister of justice. When the leaders arrived for this

 interview, they were arrested on orders of Manfred De La Rey, the

 minister of police, and because police reserves had by this time been

 stretched almost to breaking point, soldiers and sailors of the defence

 force were rushed in to supplement the local police units and within

 three days the black townships were cordoned off securely.

 In the Cape the struggle was over.

 In Van Der Bijl Park ten miles from Vereeniging and in Evaton, both

 notorious centres of radical and violent black political resistance, the

 crowds began to gather at first light on Monday 21 March.

 By nine o'clock the marchers, thousands strong, set out in procession

 for their local police stations. However, they did not get very far.

 Here, as in the Cape, the police had been reinforced and the Saracen

 armoured cars met them on the road and the loud-bailers boomed out the

 orders to disperse. The orderly columns of marchers bogged down in the

 quicksands of uncertainty and ineffectual leadership and the police

 vehicles moved down on them ponderously, forcing them back, and finally

 broke up their formations with baton charges.

 Then abruptly the sky was filled with a terrible rushing sound and every

 black face was turned upwards. A flight of Sabre jet fighter aircraft

 of 'the South Aicon airforce flashed overhead, only a hundred feet above

 the heads of the crowd. They had never seen modern jet fighters in such

 low-level flight and the sight and the sound of the mighty engines was

 unnerving. The crowds began to break up, and their leaders lost heart.

 The demonstrations were over almost before they had begun.

 Robert Sobukwe himself marched to Orlando police station in great

 Soweto. It was five miles from his house in Mofolo, and although small

 groups of men joined him along the way, they were less than a hundred

 strong when they reached the police station and offered themselves for

 arrest under the pass laws.

 In most other centres there were no marches, and no arrests. At

 Hercules police station in Pretoria six men arrived passless and

 demanded to be arrested. A jocular police officer obligingly took their

 names and then sent them home.

 In most of the Transvaal it was undramatic and anti-climactic but then

 there was Sharpeville.

 Raleigh Tabaka had not slept all night, he had not even lain down to

 rest but had been on his feet exhorting and encouraging and organizing.

 Now at six o'clock in the morning he was at the bus depot. The gates

 were still locked, and in the yard the long ungainly vehicles stood in

 silent rows while a group of three anxious-looking supervisors waited

 inside the gates for the drivers to arrive. The buses should have

 commenced their first run at 4.30 a.m. and by now there was no

 possibility that they could honour their schedules.

 From the direction of the township a single figure jogged down the

 deserted road and behind the depot gate the bus company supervisors

 brightened and moved forward to open the gate for him.

 The man hurrying towards them wore the brown peaked driver's cap, with

 the brass insignia of the bus company on the headband.

 Ha, Raleigh said grimly. 'We have missed one of them,' and he signalled

 his men to intercept the black-leg driver.

 The driver saw the young men ahead of him and he stopped abruptly.

 Raleigh sauntered up to him smiling and asked, 'Where are you going, my

 uncleT The man did not reply but glanced around him nervously.

 'You were not going to drive your bus, were you?" Raleigh insisted.

 'You have heard the words of PAC of which all men have taken heed have

 you not?" 'I have children to feed,' the man muttered sullenly. 'And I

 have worked twenty-five years without missing a day." Raleigh shook his

 head sorrowfully. 'You are a fool, old man. !

 forgive you for that - you cannot be blamed for the worm in your skull

 that has devoured your brains. But you are also a traitor to your

 people. For this I cannot forgive you." And he nodded to his young men.

 They seized the driver and dragged him into the bushes beside the road.

 The driver fought back, but they were young and strong and many in

 number and he went down screaming under the blows and after a while,

 when he was quiet, they left him lying in the dusty dry grass.

 Raleigh felt no pity or remorse as he walked away. The man was a

 traitor, and he should count himself fortunate if he survived his

 punishment to tell his children of his treachery.

 At the bus terminus Raleigh's pickets assured him that only a few

 commuters had attempted to defy the boycott, but they had scurried away

 as soon as they had seen the waiting pickets.

 'Besides,' one of them told Raleigh, 'not a single bus has arrived."

 'You have all begun this day well. Now let us move on to greet the sun

 of our freedom as it dawns." They gathered in the other pickets as they

 marched, and Amelia was waiting with her children and the other school

 staff at the corner of the school yard. She saw Raleigh and ran

 laughing to join him.

 The children giggled and shrieked with excitement, delighted with this

 unexpected release from the drudgery of the schoolroom, and they skipped

 behind Raleigh and his young pickets as they went on.

 From each cottage they passed the people swarmed out and when they saw

 the laughing children, they were infected by the gaiety and excitement.

 Amongst them by now there were grey heads, and young mothers with their

 infants strapped to their backs, older women in aprons leading a child

 on each hand, and men in the overalls of the steel company or the more

 formal attire of clerks and messengers and shop assistants, and the

 black petty civil servants who assisted in the administration of the

 apartheid laws. Soon the road behind Raleigh and his comrades was a

 river of humanity.

 As they approached the open common ground they saw that there was

 already a huge concourse of people gathered there, and from every road

 leading on to the common more came swarming each minute.

 'Five thousand?" Raleigh asked Amelia, and she squeezed his hand and

 danced with excitement.

 'More,' she said. 'There must be more, ten thousand - even fifteen

 thousand. Oh, Raleigh, I am so proud and happy. Look at our people -

 isn't it a fine sight to see them all here?" She turned and looked up at

 him adoringly. 'And I am so proud of you, Raleigh. Without you these

 poor people would never realize their misery, would never have the will

 to do anything to change their lot, but look at them now." As Raleigh

 moved forward the people recognized him and made way for him, and they

 shouted his name and called him 'brother' and 'comrade'.

 At the end of the open common was a pile of old bricks and builders'

 rubble and Raleigh made his way towards it, and when he reached it he

 climbed up on top of it and raised his arms for silence.

 'My people, I bring you the word of Robert Sobukwe who is the father of

 PAC, and he charges you thus - Remember, Moses Gama!

 Remember all the pain and hardships of your empty lives! Remember the

 poverty and the oppression!" A roar went up from them and they raised

 their clenched fists or gave the thumbs-up sign and they shouted

 'Amandla' and 'Gama'. It was some time before Raleigh could speak

 again, but he told them, 'We are going to burn our passes." He

 brandished his own booklet as he went on. 'We are going to make fires

 and burn the dompas. Then we are going to march as one people to the

 police station and ask them to arrest us. Then Robert Sobukwe will come

 to speak for us--' this was a momentary inspiration of Raleigh's, and he

 went on happily, 'then the police will see that we are men, and they

 will fear us. Never again will they force us to show the dompas, and we

 will be free men as our ancestors were free men before the white man

 came to this land." He almost believed it as he said it. It all seemed

 so logical and simple.

 So they lit the fires, dozens of them across the common, starting them

 with dry grass and crumpled sheets of newspaper, and then they clustered

 around them and threw their pass books into the flames. The women began

 swaying their hips and shuffling their feet, and the men danced with

 them and the children scampered around between their legs and they all

 sang the freedom songs.

 It was past eight o'clock before the marshals could get them moving, and

 then the mass of humanity began to uncoil like a huge serpent and crawl

 away towards the police station.

 Michael Courtney had watched the Evaton demonstration fizzle out

 ignominiously, and from a public telephone booth he phoned the Van Der

 Bijl Park police station to learn that after a police batoncharge on the

 marchers, all was now quiet there also. When he tried to telephone the

 Sharpeville police he could not get through, although he wasted almost

 ten shillings in the coin slot and spent forty frustrating minutes in

 the telephone booth. In the end he gave up in disgust and went back to

 the small Morris station wagon which Nana had given him for his last

 birthday present.

 He set off back towards Johannesburg, steeling himself for Leon

 Herbstein's sarcasm. 'So you got a fine story of the riot that didn't

 take place. Congratulations, Mickey, I knew I could rely on you."

 Michael grimaced and lit another cigarette to console himself, but as he

 reached the junction with the main road he saw the sign Wereeniging 10

 miles' and a smaller sign below it 'Sharpeville Township', and instead

 of turning towards Johannesburg, he turned south and the Morris buzzed

 merrily down the strangely open and uncrowded roadway.

 Lothar De La Rey kept a toilet kit in his desk, complete with razor and

 toothbrush. When he got back to the station he washed and shaved in the

 hand basin in the men's toilet and he felt refreshed, although the sense

 of ominous disquiet that he had experienced during his night patrol

 still remained with him.

 The sergeant at the charge office saluted him as he entered.

 'Good morning, sir, are you signing off duty?" but Lotbar shook his

 head.

 Has the kommandant come on duty yet?" 'He came in ten minutes ago."

 'Have you had any telephone calls.since midnight, sergeant?" 'Now you

 come to mention it, sir, no, we haven't. That's funny, isn't it?" 'Not

 so funny - the lines have been cut. You should have seen that in the

 station log,' Lothar snapped at him and went through to the station

 commandefts office. ' He listened gravely to Lothar's report. 'Ja,

 Lothie. You did good work. I'm not happy about this business. I've

 had a bad feeling ever since you found those damned pamphlets. They

 should have given us more men here, not just twenty raw recruits. They

 should have given us experienced men, instead of sending them to Evaton

 and the other stations." I have called in the foot patrols,' Lothar told

 him crisply. He did not want to listen to complaints about the

 decisions of his superiors.

 He knew there were good reasons for everything. 'I suggest we hold all

 our men here at the station. Concentrate our forces." 'Ja, I agree,'

 said the commander.

 'What about weapons? Should I open the armoury?" 'Ja, Lothie. I think

 you can go ahead." 'And I'd like to talk to the men before I go out on

 patrol again." 'All right, Lothie. You tell them we have everything in

 hand. They must just obey orders and it will be all right." Lothar

 saluted and strode back into the charge office.

 'Sergeant, I want an issue of arms to all white members." 'Sten guns?"

 The man looked surprised.

 'And four spare magazines per man,' Lotbar nodded. 'I will sign the

 order into the station log." The sergeant handed him the keys and

 together they went through to the strong room, unlocked and swung open

 the heavy steel Chubb door. The sten guns stood in their racks against

 the side wall. Cheap little weapons of pressed steel manufacture, they

 looked like toys, but the 9 men parabellum cartridges they fired would

 kill a man as efficiently as the finest crafted Purdey or square-bridged

 Mauser.

 The reinforcements were almost entirely from the police college,

 fresh-faced and crew-cut, eager boys who looked up at the decorated

 captain with awe as he told them, 'We are expecting trouble. That's why

 you are here. You have been issued stens - that alone is a

 responsibility that each of you must take seriously. Wait for orders,

 do not act without them. But once you have them, respond swiftly." He

 took one of his constables with him, and drove down to the main township

 gates with his sten gun on the seat beside him. It was well after six

 o'clock by then, but the streets were still quiet. He passed fewer than

 fifty people, all of them hurrying in the same direction. The post

 office repair truck was waiting at the gate, and Lothar escorted it down

 to where the telephone wires had been severed. He waited while a

 linesman scaled the pole and spliced the wires, and then he escorted the

 truck back to the gates. Before he reached the broad avenue that led up

 to the station gates, Lothar pulled to the side of the road and switched

 off the engine.

 The constable in the back seat shifted in his seat and began to say

 something, but Lotbar snapped at him, 'Quiet!" and the man froze.

 They sat in silence for several seconds, before Lothar frowned.

 There was a sound like the sea heard from afar, a gentle susurration and

 he opened the door of the Land-Rover and stepped out.

 The whisper was like the wind in- tall grass, and there was a faint

 vibration that he seemed to feel in the soles of his feet.

 Lotbar jumped back into the Land-Rover and drove swiftly to the next

 road junction, and turned down it towards the open commonage and the

 school. The sound grew until he could hear it above the beat of the

 engine. He turned the next corner and tramped so hard on the brakes

 that the Land-Rover shuddered and skidded to a halt.

 Ahead of him from side to side the road was blocked solid with humanity.

 They were shoulder to shoulder, rank upon rank, thousand upon thousands,

 and when they saw the police vehicle ahead of them a great shout of

 'Amandla' went up, and they surged forward.

 For a moment Lothar was paralysed by shock. He was not one of those

 unusual creatures who never felt fear. He had known fear intimately, on

 the clamorous field when standing to meet the concerted rush of muscled

 bodies across the turf as well as in the silent streets of the township

 as he hunted dangerous unscrupulous men in the night. He had conquered

 those fears and found a strange exhilaration in the feat. But this was

 a new thing.

 This was not human, this was a monster he faced now. A creature with

 ten thousand throats and twenty thousand legs, a sprawling insensate

 monster that roared a meaningless word and had no ears to hear nor mind

 to reason. It was the mob and Lothar was afraid.

 His instinct was to swing the Land-Rover around and race back to the

 security of the station. In fact, he had already slammed the gear lever

 into reverse before he had control of himself.

 He left the engine running and opened the side door, and the constable

 in the back seat blasphemed and his voice was thick with terror.

 'Sodding Christ, let's get out of here." It served to steel Lothar, and

 he felt contempt for his own weakness. As he had done so many times

 before, he strangled his fear and climbed onto the bonnet of the

 Land-Rover.

 Deliberately he had left the sten gun on the front seat and he did not

 even unbutton the holster on his belt. A single firearm was useless

 against this sprawling monster.

 He held up his arms and shouted, 'Stop! You people must go back. That

 is a police order." But his words were drowned in the multitudinous

 voice of the monster, and it came on apace. The men in the front rank

 started to run towards him and those behind shouted and pressed forward

 faster.

 'Go back,' Lothar roared, but there was not the slightest check in the

 ranks and they were close now. He could see the expressions on the

 faces of the men in front, they were grinning, but Lothar knew how

 swiftly the African mood can change, how close below the smiles lies the

 violence of the African heart. He knew he could not stop them, they

 were too close, too excited, and he was aware that his presence had

 inflamed them, the mere sight of his uniform was enough.

 He jumped down and into the cab, reversed the Land-Rover and then

 accelerated forward, swinging the wheel into a full lock, and he pulled

 away as the leaders were within arm's reach.

 He pushed the accelerator flat against the floorboards. It was almost

 two miles back to the station. As he made a quick calculation on how

 long it would take the march to reach it, he was already rehearsing the

 orders he would give and working out additional precautions to secure

 the station.

 Suddenly there was another vehicle in the road ahead of him. He had not

 expected that, and as he swerved to avoid it he saw it was a Morris with

 lacquered wooden struts supporting the station wagon body. The driver

 was a young white man.

 Lothar slowed and pulled his side window open. 'Where the hell do you

 think you're going?" he shouted, and the driver leaned out of the window

 and smiled politely. 'Good morning, Captain?

 'Have you got a permit to be here?" Yes, do you want to see it?" 'No,

 hell,' Lothar told him. 'The permit is cancelled. You are ordered to

 leave the township immediately, do you hear?" ryes, Captain, I hear."

 'There might be trouble,' Lothar insisted. 'You are in danger. I order

 you to leave immediately for your own safety." 'Right away,' Michael

 Courtney agreed, and Lothar accelerated away swiftly.

 Michael watched him in the rear-view mirror until he was out of sight,

 and then he lit a cigarette and drove sedately on in the direction from

 which the police vehicle had come in such desperate haste. The police

 captain's agitation had confirmed that he was heading in the right

 direction and Michael smiled with satisfaction as he heard the distant

 sounds of many voices.

 At the end of the avenue he turned towards the sound, and then pulled in

 to the side of the road and switched off the engine. He sat behind the

 wheel and stared ahead at the huge crowd that poured down the street

 towards him. He was unafraid, detached- an observer not a participant -

 and as the crowd came on he wastudying it avidly, anxious not to miss a

 single detail, already lorn3igg the sentences to describe it and

 scribbling them in his notebook.

 'Young people in the vanguard, many children amongst them, all of them

 smiling and laughing and singing --' They saw Michael in the parked

 Morris and they called to him and gave him the thumbs-up signal.

 'The good will of these people always amazes me,' he wrote. 'Their

 cheerfulness and the lack of personal antipathy towards us ruling whites

 --' There was a handsome young man in the van of the march, he walked a

 few paces ahead of the rest. He had a long confident stride so the girl

 beside him had to skip to keep up with him. She held his hand and her

 teeth were even and very white in her lovely dark moon face. She smiled

 at Michael and waved as she passed him.

 The crowd split and flowed past on each side of the parked Morris.

 Some of the children paused to press their faces against the windows,

 peering in at Michael, and when he grinned and pulled a face at them

 they shrieked with laughter and scampered on. One or two of the

 marchers slapped the roof of the Morris with open palms, but it was

 rather a cheerful greeting than a hostile act and they scarcely paused

 but marched on after the young leaders.

 For many minutes the crowd flowed past and then only the stragglers, the

 latecomers, cripples and the elderly with stiff hampered gait were going

 by, and Michael started the engine of the Morris and U-turned across the

 street.

 In low gear he followed the crowd at a walking pace, driving with one

 hand while he scribbled notes in the open pad on his lap.

 'Estimate between six and seven thousand at this stage, but others

 joining all the time. Old man on crutches with his wife supporting him,

 a toddler dressed only in a short vest showing his little bum. A woman

 with a portable radio balanced on her head playing rock 'n' roll music

 as she dances along. Many peasant types, probably illegals, still

 wearing blankets and barefooted. The singing is beautifully harmonized.

 Also many well-dressed and obviously educated types,/ some wearing

 government uniforms, postmen and bus drivers, and workers in overalls of

 the steel and coal companies. For once, a call has gone out that has

 reached all of them; not just the politicized minority. A sense of

 excited and no'I've expectation that is palpalhie. Now the song changes

 - beginning at the head of the march, but the others pick it up swiftly.

 They are all singing, doleful and tragic, not necessary to understand

 the words. This is a lament --' At the head of the march Amelia sang

 with such fervour that the tears burst spontaneously from her huge dark

 eyes and glistened down her cheeks: The road is long Our burden is heavy

 How long must we go on -The mood of gaiety changed, and the music of

 many thousand voices soared in a great anguished cry.

 How long must we suffer?

 How long? How long?

 Amelia held hard to Raleigh's hand and sang with all her being and her

 very soul, and they turned the last corner. Ahead of them at the end of

 the long avenue was the diamond-meshed fence that surrounded the police

 station.

 Then in the hard china blue of the highveld sky above the

 corrugated-iron roof of the police station, a cluster of tiny dark

 specks appeared. At first they seemed to be a flock of birds, but they

 swelled in size with miraculous speed as they approached, shining in the

 early rays of the morning sun with a silent menace.

 The head of the march stopped and those behind pressed up behind and

 then halted also. All their faces turned up towards the menacing

 machines that bore down upon them, with gaping shark mouths and

 outstretched pinions, so swiftly that they outran their own engine

 noise.

 The leading Sabre jet dropped lower still, skimming the roof of the

 police station and the rest of the formation followed it down.

 The singing faltered into silence, and was followed by the first walls

 of terror and uncertainty. One after another the great airborne

 machines hurtled over their heads. It seemed they were low enough to

 reach up and touch, and the ear-splitting whine of their engines was a

 physical assault that drove the people to their knees. Some of them

 crouched in the dusty roadway, others threw themselves flat and covered

 their heads, while still others turned and tried to run back, but they

 were blocked by the ranks behind them and the march disintegrated into a

 confused struggling mass. The men were shouting and the women wailed

 and some of the children were shrieking and weeping with terror.

 The silver jets climbed out and banked steeply, coming around in

 formation for the net pass; their engines screamed and the shock waves

 of their passingm_mbled across the sky.

 Raleigh and Amelia were amongst the few who had stood their ground, and

 now Raleigh shouted, 'Do not be afraid, my friends.

 They cannot harm you." Amelia took her lead from him and she called to

 her children, 'They will not hurt you, my little ones. They are pretty

 as birds. Just look how they shine in the sun!" And the children

 stifled their terror and a few of them giggled uncertainly.

 'Here they come again!" Raleigh shouted. 'Wave to them like this." And

 he cavorted and laughed, and the other young people quickly imitated him

 and the people began to laugh with them. This time as the machines

 thundered over their heads, only a few of the old women fell over and

 grovelled in the road, but most of them merely cringed and flinched and

 then laughed uproariously with relief when the machines were past.

 Under the urging of Raleigh and his marshals, the march began slowly to

 disentangle itself and move forward again, and when the jet fighters

 made their third pass, they looked up and waved at th, helmeted heads

 under the transparent canopies. This time the aircraf did not bank and

 come around. Instead they winged away into th, blue and the terrible

 sound of their engines dwindled and the peopl began to sing again and to

 embrace each other as they marched celebrating their courage and their

 victory.

 Today you will all be free,' Raleigh shouted, and those close enougt to

 hear him believed him, and turned to shout to those farther back 'Today

 we will all be free!" Ahead of them the gates of the police station yard

 were closed or locked, but they saw the ranks of men drawn up beyond the

 wit The uniforms were dark khaki and the morning sun sparkled on the

 badges and on the ugly stubby blue weapons that the white police

 carried.

 Lothar De La Rey stood on the front steps leading up to the charge

 office, under the lamp with the words 'Police - Polisie' engraved upon

 the blue glass and steeled himself not to duck as the formation of jet

 fighters flashed low over the station roof.

 He watched the distant mob pulse and contract like some giant black

 amoeba as the aircraft harassed them, and then regain its shape and come

 on steadily. He heard the singing swell up in chorus and he could make

 out the features of those in the front ranks.

 The sergeant beside him swore softly. 'My God, just look at those black

 bastards, there must be thousands of them,' and Lothar recognized in the

 man's tone his own horror and trepidation.

 What they were looking upon was the nightmare of the Afrikaner people

 that had recurred for almost two centuries, ever since their ancestors

 moving up slowly from the south through a lovely land populated only by

 wild game had met suddenly upon the banks of the great Fish river the

 cohorts, of this dark multitude.

 He felt his nerves crawl like poisonous insects upon his skin as the

 tribal memories of his people assaulted him. Here they were once more,

 the tiny handful of white men at the barricades, and there before them

 was the black barbaric host. It was as it had always been, but the

 horror of his situation was not in the least diluted by the knowledge

 that it had all happened before. Rather it was made more poignant, and

 the natural reaction of defence more compelling.

 However, the fear and loathing in the sergeant's voice braced Lothar

 against his own weakness, and he tore his gaze from the approaching

 horde and looked to his own men. He saw how pale they were, how deathly

 still they stood and how very young so many of them were - but then it

 was the Afrikaner tradition that the boys had always taken their places

 at the laager barricades even before they were as tall as the long

 muzzle-loading weapons they carried.

 Lothar forced himself to move, to walk slowly down the line in front of

 his men, making certain that no trace of his own fear was evident in

 expression or gesture.

 'They don't mean trouble,' he said, 'they have their women and children

 with them. The Bantu always hide the women if they mean to fight." His

 voice was level and without emotion. 'The reinforcements are on their

 way,' he told them. 'We will have three hundred men here within the

 hour. Just stay calm and obey orders." He smiled encouragement at a

 cadet whose eyes were too big for his pale face, whose ears stuck out

 from under his cap, and who chewed his lower lip nervously as he stared

 out through the wire. 'You haven't been given orders to load, .long.

 Get that magazine off your weapon,' he ordered quietly and the boy

 unclipped the long straight magazine from the side of his sten gun

 without once taking his eyes from the singing, dancing horde in front of

 them.

 Lothar walked back down the line with a deliberate tread, not once

 glancing at the oncoming mob, nodding encouragement at each of his men

 as he came level or distracting them with a quiet word.

 But once he reached his post on the station steps again he could no

 longer, contain himself and he turned to face the gate and only with

 difficultyprevented himself exclaiming out loud.

 They filieLthe entire roadway from side to side and end to end and still

 they came on, more and more of them pouring out of the side road like a

 Karoo river in flash flood.

 'Stay at your posts, men,' he called. 'Do nothing without orders!" And

 they stood stolidly in the bright morning sunlight while the leaders of

 the march reached the locked gates and pressed against them, gripping

 the wire and peering through the mesh, chanting and grinning as behind

 them the rest of the huge unwieldy column spread out along the

 perimeter. Like water contained by a dam wall, compressed by their own

 multitudes, they were building up rank upon rank until they completely

 surrounded the station yard, hemming in the small party of uniformed

 men. And still they came on, those at the back joining the dense throng

 at the main gates until the station was a tiny rectangular island in a

 noisy restless black sea.

 Then the men at the gates called for silence and gradually the chanting

 and laughter and general uproar died away.

 We want to speak with your officers,' called a young black man in the

 front rank at the closed gates. He had his fingers hooked through the

 mesh and the crowd behind him pushed him so hard against the wire that

 the high gates shook and trembled.

 The station commander came out of the charge office, and as he went down

 the steps Lothar fell in a pace behind him.  Together they crossed the

 yard and halted in front of the gate.

 'This is an illegal gathering,' the commander addressed the young man

 who had called out to them. 'You must disperse immediately." He was

 speaking in Afrikaans.

 'It is much worse than that, officer,' the young man smiled at him

 happily. He was replying in English, a calculated provocation.

 'You see, none of us are carrying our pass books. We have burned them."

 'What is your name, you?" the commander demanded in Afrikaans.

 'My name is Raleigh Tabaka and I am the branch secretary of the Pan

 Africanist Congress, and I demand that you arrest me and all these

 others,' Raleigh told him in fluent English. 'Open the gates,

 policeman, and take us into your prison cells." 'I am going to give you

 five minutes to disperse,' the commander told him menacingly.

 'Orwhat?" Raleigh Tabaka asked. 'What will you do if we do not obey

 you?" and behind him the crowd began to chant. 'Arrest us! We have

 burned the dompas. Arrest us!" There was an interruption and a burst of

 ironic cheers and hooted laughter from the rear of the crowd, and Lothar

 jumped up on the bonnet of the nearest police Land-Rover to see over

 their heads.

 A small convoy of three troop carriers filled with uniformed constables

 had driven out of the side road and was now slowly forcing its way

 through the crowd. The densely packed ranks gave way only reluctantly

 before the tall covered trucks, but Lothar felt a rush of relief.

 He jumped down from the Land-Rover and ordered a squad of his men to the

 gates. As the convoy came on the people beat upon the steel sides of

 the trucks with their bare fists and jeered and hooted and gave the ANC

 salute. A fine mist of dust rose around the trucks and the thousands of

 milling shuffling feet of the crowd.

 Lothar's men forced the gates open against the pressure of black bodies

 and as the trucks drove through, they swung them shut, and hurriedly

 locked them again as the crowd surged forward against them.

 Lothar left the commander to haggle and bluster with the leaders of the

 crowd and he went to deploy the reinforcements along the perimeter of

 the yard. The new men were all armed and Lothar posted the older more

 steady-looking of them on top of trucks from where they had a sweeping

 field of fire over all four sides of the fence.

 'Stay calm,' he kept repeating. 'Everything is under control. Just obey

 your orders." He hurried back to the gateway as soon as he had placed

 the reinforcements, and the commander was still arguing with the black

 leaders through the wire.

 'We will not leave here until either you arrest us, or the pass laws are

 abolished." 'Don't be stupid, man,' the commander snapped. 'You know

 neither of those things is possible." 'Then we will stay,' Raleigh

 Tabaka told him and the crowd behind him chanted: 'Arrest us! Arrest us!

 Now!" 'I have placed the new men in position,' Lothar reported in a low

 voice. 'We have nearly two hundred now." 'God grant it will be enough

 if they turn nasty,' the commander muttered and glanced uneasily along

 the lille of uniformed men. It seemed puny and insignificant against

 the mass that confronted them through the wire.

 'I have argued with you long enough." He t/urned back to the men behind

 the gate. 'You must take these people away now. That is a police

 order." 'We stay,' Raleigh Tabaka told him pleasantly.

 As the morning wore on, so the heat increased and Lothar could feel the

 tension and the fear in his men rising with the heat and the thirst the

 dust and the chanting. Every few minutes a disturbance in the ci owd

 made it eddy and push like a whirlpool in the flow of a river, and each

 time the fence shook and swayed and the white men fingered their guns

 and fidgeted in the baking sun. Twice more during the morning

 reinforcements arrived and the crowd let them through until there were

 almost three hundred armed police in the compound.

 But instead of dispersing, the crowd continued to grow as every last

 person who had hidden away in the township cottages, expecting trouble,

 finally succumbed to curiosity and crept out to join the multitude.

 After each new arrival of trucks there was another round of argument and

 futile orders to disperse, and in the heat and the impatience of

 waiting, the mood of the crowd gradually changed. There were no more

 smiles and the singing had a different tone to it as they began to hum

 the fierce fighting songs. Rumours flashed through the throng - Robert

 Sobukwe was coming to speak to them, -›erwoerd had ordered the passes to

 be abolished and Moses Gama to be released from jail, and they cheered

 and sang and then growled and surged back and forth as each rumour was

 denied.

 The sun made its noon, blazing down upon them, and the smell of the

 crowd was the musky African odour, alien and yet dreadfully familiar.

 The white men who had stood to arms all that morning were reaching the

 point of nervous exhaustion and each time the crowd surged against the

 frail wire fence they made little jumpy movements and one or two of them

 without orders loaded their sten guns and lifted them into the high port

 position. Lothar noticed this and went down the line, ordering them to

 unload and uncock their weapons.

 'We have to do something soon, sir,' he told his commander. 'We can't

 go on like this - someone or something is going to snap." It was in the

 air, strong as the odour of hot African bodies, and Lothar felt it in

 himself. He had not slept that night, and he was haggard and he felt

 brittle and jagged as a blade of obsidian.

 'What do you suggest, De La Rey?" the commander barked irritably, justas

 edgy and tense. 'We must do something, you say. da, I agree - but w_

 'We should take the ringleaders out of the mob." Lothar pointed at

 Raleigh Tabaka who was still at the gate. It was almost five hours

 since he had taken up his station there. 'That black swine there is

 holding them together. If we pick him and the other ringleaders out,

 the rest of them will soon lose interest." 'What is the time?" the

 commander asked, and although it seemed irrelevant, Lothar glanced at

 his watch. 'Almost one o'clock." 'There must be more reinforcements on

 the way,' the commander said. 'We will wait another fifteen minutes and

 then we will do as you suggest." 'Look there,' Lothar snapped and

 pointed to the left.

 Some of the younger men in the crowd had armed themselves with stones

 and bricks, and from the rear other missiles, chunks of paving slab and

 rocks, were being passed over the heads of the crowd to those in the

 front ranks.

 'Ja, we have to break this UlS now,' the commander agreed, 'or else

 there will be serious trouble." Lothar turned and called a curt order to

 the constables nearest him.

 'You men, load your weapons and move up to the gate with me." He saw

 that some of the other men further down the line had taken his words as

 a general order to load, and there was the snicker of metal on metal as

 the magazines were clamped on to the sten guns and the cocking handles

 jerked back. Lothar debated with himself for a moment whether he should

 countermand, but time was vital.

 He knew he had to get the leaders out of the crowd, for violence was

 only seconds away. Some of the black youths in front of the crowd were

 already shaking the mesh and heaving against it.

 With his men behind him he marched to the gate and pointed at Raleigh

 Tabaka. 'You,' he shouted. 'I want to speak to you." He reached

 through the square opening beside the gate lock and seized the front of

 Raleigh's shirt.

 q want you out of there,' he snarle& and Raleigh pulled back against his

 grip, jostling the men behind him.

 Amelia screamed and clawed at Lothar's wrist. 'Leave him! You must not

 hurt him." The young men around them saw what was happening and hurled

 themselves against the wire.

 'deeY they cried, that long, deep, drawn-out war cry that no Nguni

 warrior can resist. It made their blood smoke with the fighting

 madness, and it was taken up as others echoed them. 'dee/' The section

 of the crowd behind where Raleigh struggled with Lothar De La Rey heaved

 forward, throwing themselves upon the fence, humming the war cry, and

 the fence buckled and began to . topple.

 'Get back!" Lothar shouted at his men, but the back ranks of the crowd

 surged forward to see what was happening in front - and the fence went.

 It came crashing over, and though Lothar jumped back, one of the metal

 posts hit him a glancing blow and he was knocked to his knees. The crowd

 was no longer contained, and the ranks behind pushed those in front so

 they came bursting into the yard, trampling over Lothar as he struggled

 to get to his feet.

 From one side a brick came sailing out of the crowd in a high parabok It

 struck the windscreen of one of the parked trucks, and shattered At in a

 shower of diamond-bright chips.

 The women were screaming, and falling under the feet of those who were

 borne forward by the pressure from behind, and men were fighting to get

 back behind the wire as others thrust them forward, uttering that

 murderous war cry 'Jee. that brought on the madness.

 Lothar was sprawmd under the rushing tide, struggling to regain his

 feet, while a hail of stones and bricks came over the wire. Lothar

 rolled to his feet, and only because he was a superb athlete he kept his

 balance as the rush of frenzied bodies carried him backwards.

 There was a loud and jarring sound close behind him that Lothar did not

 at first recognize. It sounded as though a steel rod had been drawn

 rapidly across a sheet of corrugated iron. Then he heard the other

 terrible sounds, the multiple impact of bullets into living flesh, like

 ripe mdons bursting open from blows with a heavy club, and he shouted,

 'No! Oh good Christ, no!" But the sten guns rushed and tore the air

 with a sound like sheets of silk being ripped through, drowning out his

 despairing protest, and he wanted to shout again, 'Cease fire!" but his

 throat had closed and he was suffocating with horror and terror.

 He made another strenuous effort to give the order, and his throat

 strained to enunciate the words, but no sound came and his hands moved

 without his conscious Volition, lifting the sten gun from his side,

 jerking back the cocking handle to feed a round into the breech.

 In front of him the crowd was breaking and turning, the pressure of

 human bodies against him was relieved, so he could mount the machine

 pistol to waist height.

 He tried to stop himself, but it was all a nightmare over which he had

 no control, the weapon in his hands shuddered and buzzed like a chain

 saw. In a few fleeting seconds the magazine of thirty rounds was empty,

 but Lothar had traversed the sten gun like a reaper swinging a scythe,

 and now the bloody harvest lay before him in the dust twitching and

 kicking and moaning.

 Only then did he realize fully what he had done, and his voice returned.

 'Cease fire!" he screamed and struck out at the men around him to

 reinforce the order. 'Cease fire! Stop it! Stop it!" Some of the

 younger recruits were reloading to fire again, and he ran amongst them

 striking out with the empty sten to prevent them.

 A man on the roof of one of the troop carriers lifted his weapon and

 fired another burst and Lothar leapt on to the cab and knocked up the

 barrel so that the last spray of bullets went high into the dusty air.

 From his vantage point on the cab of the truck, Lothar looked out over

 the sagging fence across the open ground where the dead and the wounded

 lay, and his spirit quailed.

 Oh, God forgive me. What have we done?" he choked. 'Oh, what have we

 done?" In the middle of the morning Michael Courtney took a chance, for

 there seemed to be a lull in the activity around the police station. It

 was, of course, difficult to make out exactly what was happening. He

 could see only the backs of the rear ranks of the crowd, and over their

 heads the top of the wire fence and the iron roof of the station.

 However, the situation seemed for the moment to be quiet and apart from

 a little desultory singing the crowd was passive and patient.

 He jumped into the Morris and drove back down the avenue to the primary

 school. The buildings were deserted, and without any qualms he tried

 the door which was marked 'Headmaster' and it was unlocked. There was a

 telephone on the cheap deal desk. He got through to the Mail offices on

 the first try, and Leon Herbstein was in his office.

 q've got a story,' Michael said, and read out his copy. When he

 finished he told Leon, 'If I were you, I'd send a staff photographer

 down here. There is a good chance of some dramatic pictures." 'Give me

 the directions how to find you." Leon acquiesced immediately, and

 Michael drove back to the police station just as another convoy of

 police reinforcements pushed through the crowd and entered the station

 gates.

 The morning wore on and Michael ran out of cigarettes, a minor tragedy.

 He was also hot and thirsty and wondered what it was like standing in

 that mob out there, hour after hour.

 He could sense the mood of the crowd changing. They were no longer

 cheerful and expectant. There was a sense of frustration, of having

 been cheated and duped for Sobukwe had not arrived, nor had the white

 police made the promised announcement to abolish the dompas.

 The singing started again, but in a harsh and aggressive tone. There

 were scuffles and disturbances in the crowd, and over their heads

 Michael saw the armed police take up positions on the cabs of the trucks

 parked beyond the wire.

 The staffphotographer from the Mail arrived, a young black journali(t

 who was able to enter the township without a permit. He parked his

 small brown Humber beside the Morris and Michael cadge a cigarette from

 him and then quickly briefed him on what was happening, and sent him

 forward to mingle with the back rows of the crowd and get to work.

 A little after noon, some of the youths broke away from the crowd and

 began to search the verges of the road and the nearest gardens for

 missiles. They pulled up the bricks that bordered the flower-beds and

 broke chunks off the concrete paving slabs, then hurried back to join

 the crowd, carrying those crude weapons. This was an ominous

 development, and Michael climbed up on the bonnet of his beloved Morris,

 careless of the paintwork which he usually cherished and polished every

 morning.

 Although he was over a hundred and fifty yards from the station gate, he

 now had a better view over the heads of the crowd, and he watched the

 growing agitation and restlessness until the police on the vehicle cabs,

 the only ones he could see, raised and began loading and cocking their

 weapons. They were obviously responding to an order and Michael felt a

 peculiar little chill of anxiety.

 Suddenly there was a violent disturbance in the densest part of the

 crowd directly in front of the main gates. The mass of people surged

 and heaved and there was an uproar of protesting shouts and cries.

 Those in the rear of the crowd, closest to where Michael stood, pushed

 forward to see what was going on, and suddenly there was a metallic

 rending sound.

 Michael saw the tops of the gates begin to move, toppling and bending

 under the strain, and as Ihey went over, there was a scattered volley of

 thrown rocks and bricks, and then like the waters of a broken dam, the

 crowd rushed forward.

 Michael had never heard the sound of submachine-gun fire before.

 So he did not recognize it, but he had heard a bullet striking flesh

 during that childhood safari on which his father had taken the brothers.

 The sound was unmistakable, a meaty thumping, almost like a housewife

 beating a dusty carpet. However, he couldn't believe it, not until he

 saw the policemen on the cabs of the vehicles. Even in hid;s horror he

 noticed how the weapons they held jumped and spurted tiny petals of fire

 an instant before the sound reached him.

 The crowd broke and ran at the first buzzing bursts of fire. They

 spread out like ripples across a pond, streaming back past where Michael

 stood, and incredibly some of them were laughing, as though they had not

 realized what was happening, as though it were all some silly game.

 In front of the broken gates the bodies were strewn most thickly, nearly

 all of them face down and with their heads pointing outwards, in the

 direction they were running as they were struck down, but there were

 others farther out and the guns were still clamouring and people were

 still falling right beside where Michael stood, and the area around the

 police station was clear, so that through the dust he could see the

 figures of the uniformed police beyond the sagging wire. Some of them

 were reloading and others were still firing.

 Michael heard the flitting sound of bullets passing close beside his

 head, but he was too mesmerized and shocked to duck or even to flinch.

 Twenty paces away a young couple ran back past him. He recognized them

 as the pair who had headed the procession earlier, the tall good-looking

 lad and the pretty moon-faced girl. They were still holding hands, the

 boy dragging the girl along with him, but as they passed Michael the

 girl broke free and doubled back to where a child was standing

 bewildered and lost amongst the carnage.

 As the girl stooped to pick up the child, the bullets hit her. She was

 thrown back abruptly as though she had reached the end of an invisible

 leash, but she stayed on her feet for a few seconds longer, and Michael

 saw the bullets come out through her back at the level of her lowest

 ribs. For a brief moment they raised little tented peaks in the cloth

 of her blouse, and then erupted in pink smoky puffs of blood and tissue.

 The girl pirouetted and began to sag. As she turned, Michael saw the

 two entry wounds in her chest, dark studs on the white cloth, and she

 collapsed on to her knees.

 Her companion ran back to try and support her, but she slipped through

 his hands and fell forward on her face. The boy dropped down beside her

 and lifted her in his arms, and Michael saw his expression. He had never

 before seen such desolation and human suffering in another being.

 Raleigh held Amelia in his arms. Her head drooped against his shoulder

 like that of a sleepy child and he could feel her blood soaking into his

 clothing. It was hot as spilled coffee and it smelled sickly sweet in

 the heat.

 Raleigh groped in his pocket and found his handkerchiefi Gently he wiped

 the dust from her cheeks and from the corners of her mouth, for she had

 fallen with her face against the earth.

 He was crooning to her softly, 'Wake up, my little moon. Let me hear

 yours sweet voice --' Heees were open and he turned her head slightly to

 look into them. 'It is me, Amelia, it is Raleigh - don't you see me?"

 But even as he stared into her widely distended pupils a milky sheen

 spread over them, dulling out their dark beauty.

 H, hugged her harder, pressing her unresisting head against his chest

 and he began to rock her, humming softly to her as though she were an

 infant, and he looked out across the field.

 The bodies were strewn about like overripe fruit fallen from the bough.

 Some of them were moving, an arm straightened or a hand unclenched, an

 old man began to crawl past where Raleigh knelt, dragging a shattered

 leg behind him.

 Then the police officers were coming out through the sagging gates.

 They wandered about the field in a dazed uncertain manner, still

 carrying their empty weapons dangling from limp hands, stopping to kneel

 briefly beside one of the bodies, and then standing again and walking

 on.

 One of them approached. As he came closer Raleigh recognized the blond

 captain who had seized him at the gate. He had lost his cap and the top

 button was missing from his tunic. His crew-cut hair was darkened with

 sweat, and droplets of sweat stood on his waxen pale forehead. He

 stopped a few paces off and looked at Raleigh.

 Although his hair was blond, his eyebrows were dark and thick and his

 eyes were yellow as those of a leopard. Raleigh knew then box he had

 earned his nickname. Those pale eyes were underscored wit[ smudges of

 fatigue and horror, dark as old bruises, and his lips wer dry and

 cracked.

 They stared at each other - the black man kneeling in the dus with the

 dead woman in his arms and the uniformed white man wit the empty sten

 gun in his hands.

 'I didn't mean it to happen --' said Lothar De La Rey and hi, voice

 croaked, 'I'm sorry." Raleigh did not answer, gave no sign of having

 heard or understood and Lothar turned away and walked back, picking his

 wa) amongst the dead and the maimed, back into the laager of wire mesh.

 The blood on Raleighs clothing began to cool, and when he touched

 Amelia's cheek again he felt the warmth going out of it also. Gently he

 closed her eyelids, and then he unbuttoned the front of her blouse.

 There was very little bleeding from the two entry wounds. They were

 just below her pointed virgin breasts, small dark mouths in her smooth

 amber-coloured skin, set only inches apart.

 Raleigh ran two fingers of his right hand into those bloody mouths, and

 there was residual warmth in her torn flesh.

 'With my fingers in your dead body,' he whispered. 'With the fingers of

 my right hand in your wounds, I swear an oath, my love.

 You will be avenged. I swear it on our love, upon my life and upon your

 death. You will be avenged." In the days of anxiety and turmoil

 following the massacre of Sharpeville, Verwoerd and his minister of

 police acted with resolution and strength.

 A state of emergency was declared in almost half of South Africa's

 magisterial districts. Both the PAC and ANC were banned and those of

 their supporters suspected of incitement and intimidation were arrested

 and detained under the emergency regulations. Some estimates put the

 figure of detainees as high as eighteen thousand.

 In early April at the meeting of the full cabinet to discuss the

 emergency, Shasa Courtney risked his political future by rising to

 address a plea to Dr Verwoerd for the abolition of the pass book system.

 He had prepared his speech with care, and the genuine concern he felt

 for the importance of the subject made him even more than usually

 eloquent. As he spoke he became gradually aware that he was winning the

 support of some of the other senior members of the cabinet.

 'In a single stroke we will be removing the main cause of black

 dissatisfaction, and depriving the revolutionary agitators of their most

 valuable weapon,' he pointed out.

 Three other senior ministers followed Shasa, each voicing their support

 for the abolition of the dompas, but from the top of the long table

 Verwoerd glowered at them, becoming every minute more angry until at

 last he jumped to his feet.

 'The idea is completely out of the question. The reference books are

 there for an essential purpose: to control the influx of blacks into the

 urban areas." Within a few minutes he had brutally bludgeoned the

 proposal to death, and made it clear that to try to resurrect it would

 be political suicide for any member of the cabinet, no matter how

 senior.

 Within days Dr Hendrik Verwoerd was himself on the brink of the chasm.

 He visited Johannesburg to open the Rand Easter Show.

 He made a reassuring speech to the huge audience that filled the arena

 of the country's largest agricultural and industrial show, and as he sat

 down to thunderous applause, a white man of insignificant appearance

 made his way between the tiers of seats and in full view of everybody

 drew a pistol and holding it to Dr Verwoerd's head fired two shots.

 With blood pouring down his face Verwoerd collapsed, and security guards

 overpowered his assailant. Both bullets, fired at point-b3-/tnk range,

 had penetrated the prime minister's skull, and yet his most remarkable

 tenacity and will to survive combined with the expert medical attention

 he received, saved him.

 In -ittle more than a month he had left hospital and had once more ken

 up his duties as the head of state. The assassination attempt seemed to

 have been without motive or reason, and the assailant was judged insane

 and placed in an asylum. By the time Dr Verwoerd had fully recovered

 from the attempt on his life calm had been restored to the country as a

 whole, and Manfred De La Rey's police were in total control once more.

 Naturally the reaction of the international community towards the

 slaughter and the subsequent measures to regain control was heavily

 critical. America led the rest in her condemnations, and within months

 had instituted an embargo on the sale of arms to South Africa. More

 damaging than the reaction of foreign governments was the crash on the

 Johannesburg stock exchange, the collapse of property values and the

 attempted flight of capital out of the country.

 Strict exchange-control regulations were swiftly imposed to forestall

 this.

 Manfred De La Rey had come out of it all with his power and ú position

 greatly enhanced. He had acted the way his people expected him to, with

 strength and forthright determination. There wasn doubt at all now that

 he was one of the senior members of th cabinet and in the direct line of

 succession to Hendrik Verwoerd. H had smashed the Pan Africanist

 Congress and the ANC. Thei leaders were in total disarray and all of

 them were in hiding or ha, fled the country.

 With the safety of the state secured, Dr Verwoerd could atlas turn his

 full attention to the momentous business of realizing th golden dream of

 Afrikanerdom - the Republic.

 The referendum was held in October 1960, and so great were th, feelings,

 for and against, engendered by the prospect of breakin with the British

 crown that there was a ninety percent poll. Cun ningly, Verwoerd had

 decreed that a simple majority, and not th usual two-thirds majority,

 would suffice, and on the day he got hi..

 majority: 850,000 to 775,000. The Afrikaner response was an hysteri of

 joy, of speeches and wild rejoicing.

 In March the following year Verwoerd and his entourage went to London to

 attend the conference of the Commonwealth prim ministers. He came out of

 the meeting to tell the world, 'In the ligh of opinions expressed by

 other member governments of the Commonwealth regarding South Africa's

 race policies, and in the light all future plans regarding the race

 policies of the South Africar government, I told the other prime

 ministers that I was withdrawin my country's application for continued

 membership of the Commonwealth after attaining the status of a

 republic." From Pretoria Manfred De La Rey cabled Verwoerd, 'You have

 preserved the dignity and pride of your country, and the nation owes you

 eternal gratitude." Verwoerd returned home to the adulation and hero

 worship of his people.

 In the heady euphoria, very few, even amongst the English-speaking

 opposition, realized just how many doors Verwoerd had locked and barred

 behind him and just how cold and bleak the winds that Macmillan had

 predicted would blow across the southern tip of Africa in the coming

 years.

 With the Republic safely launched Verwoerd could at last select his

 praetorian guard to protect it and hold it strong. Erasmus, the

 erstwhile minister of justice who had acted neither as ruthlessly nor as

 resolutely as was expected during the emergency, was packed off as the

 ambassador of the new Republic to Rome, and Verwoerd presented two new

 ministers to his cabinet.

 The new minister of defence was the member for the constituency of

 George in the Cape, P. W. Botha, while Erasmus's replacement as

 minister of justice was Balthazar Johannes Vorster. Shasa Courtney knew

 Vorster well, and as he listened to him make his first address to the

 cabinet, he reflected how much like Manfred De La Rey the man was.

 They were almost the same age and, like Manfred, Vorster had been a

 member of the extreme right-wing anti-Smuts pro-Nazi Ossewa Brandwag

 during the war. Whereas it was generally accepted that Manfred had

 remained in Germany during the war years although he was very mysterious

 and secretive about that period of his life - John Vorster had been

 interned in Smuts' Koffiefontein concentration camp for the duration.

 Both Vorster and De La Rey had been educated at Stellenbosch University,

 the citadel of Afrikanerdom, and their political careers had run closely

 parallel courses. Although Manfred had won his seat in parliament in

 the historic 1948 elections, John Vorster in the same elections had

 gained the distinction of being the only candidate in South African

 history to lose by a mere two votes. Later, in 1953, he vindicated

 himself by winning the same Brakpan seat with a majority of seven

 hundred.

 Now that the two of them were seated at the long table in the cabinet

 room, their physical resemblance was striking. They were both

 heavy/.rugged-looking men, with bulldog features, both

 obduratg,41nflinching and tough, the epitome of the hard Boer.

 Vorster confirmed this for Shasa as he began to speak, leaning forward

 aggressively, confident and articulate. 'I believe we are in a fight to

 the death with the forces of communism, and that we cannot defeat suI

 ersion or thwart revolution by closely observing the Queensberly rules.

 We have to put aside the old precepts of habeas corpus, and arm

 ourselves with new legislation that will enable us to preempt the enemy,

 to pick out their leaders and put them away where they can do little

 harm. This is not a new concept, gentlemen." Vorster smiled down the

 table and Shasa was struck by the way in which his dour features lit up

 with that impish smile.

 'You all know where I spent the war years, without the benefit of trial.

 Let me tell you right now - it worked. It kept me out of mischief and

 that's what I intend to do with those who would destroy this land - keep

 them out of mischief. I want power to detain any person whom I know to

 be an enemy of the state, without trial, for a period of up to ninety

 days." It was a masterly performance and Shasa felt some trepidation in

 having to follow it, especially when he could not be so sanguine in his

 own view of the future.

 'At the moment I have two major concerns,' he told his colleagues

 seriouslyú 'The first is the arms embargo placed upon us by the Arnel

 cans. I believe that other countries are soon going to bow to Arnel can

 pressure and extend the embargo. One day we might even ha the

 ridiculous situation where Great Britain will refuse to sell us t arms

 we need for our own defenceú' Some of the others at the tab fidgeted and

 looked incredulousú Shasa assured them: 'We conn( afford to

 underestimate this hysteria of America for what they ca civil rights.

 Remember that they sent troops to help force blacks mt white schools."

 The memory of that appalled them all and there wet no further signs of

 disbelief as Shasa went on. 'A nation who can d that will do anythingú

 My aim is to make this country totally sell sufficient in conventional

 armaments within five years?"ú

 'Is that possible. Verwoerd asked sharply.

 'I believe so." Shasa noddedú 'Fortunately, this eventuality has bee

 anticipatedú You yourself warned me of the possibility of an arm embargo

 when you appointed me, Prime Ministerú' Verwoerd nodded and Shasa

 repeated, 'This is my aim; self sufficient in conventional weapons in

 five years --' Shasa pause( dramaticallyú 'And nuclear capableú in ten

 yearsú' This was stretching their credulity and there were interjections

 ant sharp questions, so that Shasa held up his hands and spoke firmly.

 'I am deadly serious, gentlemen. We can do it! Given certain circum.

 stances." 'Money,' said Hendrik Verwoerd, and Shasa noddedú 'Yes, Prime

 Minister, money. Which brings me to my second majoi considerationú'

 Shasa drew a deep breath, and steeled himself to broach an unpalatable

 truth. 'Since the Sharpeville shootings, we have had a crippling flight

 of capital from the country. Cecil Rhodes was wont to say that the Jews

 were his birds of good omen. When the Jews came, an enterprise or a

 country was assured of success, and when the Jews left you could expect

 the worstú Well the sad truth, gentlemen, is that our Jews are leaving.

 We have to entice them to stay and bring back those who have already

 left." Again there was restlessness around the table. The National Party

 had been conceived on that wave of anti-semitism between the world wars,

 and although it had abated since then, traces of it still existed.

 'These are the facts, gentlemen." Shasa ignored their discomfortú 'Since

 Sharpeville, the value of property has collapsed to half what it was

 before the shooting, and the stock market is at its lowest since the

 dark days of Dunkirk. The businessmen and investors of the world are

 convinced that this government is tottering and on the point of

 capitulating to the forces of communism and darknessú They see us as

 being engulfed in despondency and anarchy, with black mobs burning and

 looting and white civilization about to go up in flames." They laughed

 derisively and John Vorster made a bitter interjection.

 'I have just explained what steps we will take." 'Yes." Shasa cut him

 off quickly. 'We know that the foreign view is distorted. We know that

 we still have a strong and stable government, that the country is

 prosperous and productive and that the vast majority of our people, both

 black and white, are lawabiding and content. We know that we have our

 guardian angel, gold, to protect us. But we have to convince the rest

 of the world." 'Do you think that's possible, man."?" Manfred asked

 quickly.

 'Yes, with a full-scale and concerted campaign to give the truth of the

 situation to the businessmen of the world,' Shasa said. 'I have

 recruited most of our own leaders in industry and commerce to assist.

 We will go out at our own expense to explain the truth. We will invite

 them here -journalists, businessmen and friends - to see for themselves

 how tranquil and how under control the country truly is, and just how

 rich are the opportunities.

 Sfiasa spoke for another thirty minutes and when he ended, his own

 fervour and sincerity had exhausted him; but then he saw how he had

 finally convinced his colleagues and he knew the results were worth the

 effort. He was convinced that-from the horror of Sharpeville he could

 mount a fresh endeavour that would carry them to greater heights of

 prosperity and strength.

 Shasa had always been resilient, with extraordinary recuperative powers.

 ,:en in his airforce days, when he brought the squadron in from a sortie

 over the Italian lines and the others had sat around the mess, stunned

 and shattered by the experience, he had been the first to recover and to

 start the repartee and boisterous horse-play. Shasa left the cabinet

 room drained and exhausted but by the time he had driven the vintage SS

 Jaguar around the mountain and through the Anreith gate of Weltevreden,

 he was sitting up straight in the bucket seat, feeling confident and

 jaunty again.

 The harvest was long past and the labourers were in the vineyards

 pruning the vines. Shasa parked the Jaguar and went down between the

 rows of bare leafless plants to talk to them and give them

 encouragement. Many of these men and women had been on Weltevreden

 since Shasa had been a child, and the younger ones had been born here.

 Shasa looked upon them as an extension of his family and they in turn

 regarded him as their patriarch. He spent half an hour with them

 listening to their small problems and worries, and settling most with a

 few words of assurance, then he broke off and left them abruptly as a

 figure on horseback came down the far side of the vineyard at full

 gallop.

 From the corner of the stone wall Shasa watched Isabella gather her

 mount, and he stiflened as he realized what she was going to do.

 The mare was not yet fully schooled and Shasa had never trusted her

 temperament. The wall was of yellow Table Mountain sandstone, five foot

 high.

 'No, Bella!" he whispered. 'No, baby!" But she turned the mare and

 drove her at the wall, and the horse reacted gamely. Her quarters

 bunched and the great muscles rippled below the glossy hide. Isabella

 lifted her and they went up.

 Shasa held his breath, but even in his suspense he could appreciate what

 a magnificent sight they made, horse and rider, thoroughbreds both - the

 mare with her forelegs folded up under her chest and her ears pricked

 forward, soaring away from the earth, and Isabella leaning back in the

 saddle, her back arched and her young body supple and lovely, long legs

 and fine thrusting breasts, red mouth laughing and her hair flying free,

 sparkling with ruby lights in the late yellow sunlight.

 Then they were over and Shasa exhaled sharply. Isabella swung the mare

 down to where he stood at the corner.

 'You promised to ride with me, Pater,' she scolded him. Shasa's

 instinct was to reprimand her for that jump, but he prevented himself.

 He knew she would probably respond by pulling the mare's head around and

 taking the jump again from this side. He wondered just when he had lost

 control of her, and then grinned ruefully as he answered himself.

 'About ten minutes after she was born." The mare was dancing in a circle

 and Isabella flung her hair back with a toss of her head.

 'I waited almost an hour for you,' she said.

 'Affairs of state --' Shasa began.

 'That's no excuse, Pater. A promise is a promise." 'It's still not too

 late,' he pointed out, and she laughed as she challenged him.

 'I'll race that old banger of yours down to the stables!" And she booted

 the mare into a gallop.

 'Not fair,' he called after her. 'You have too much start,' but she

 turned in the saddle and stuck her tongue out at him. He ran to the

 Jag, but she cut across north field and was dismounted by the time he

 drove into the stableyard.

 She tossed her reins to a groom and ran to embrace him. Isabella had a

 variety of kisses, but this type, lingering and loving, with a little

 bit of ear-nuzzling at the end, was reserved for when she badly wanted

 something from him, something that she knew he was going to try to

 refuse.

 While he pulled on his riding boots she sat close beside him on the

 bench and told him a funny story about her sociology professor at

 varsity.

 'This huge shaggy St Bernard wandered into the lecture theatre and Prof.

 Jacobs was quick as a flash. Better that the dogs should come to

 learning, he said, than learning should go to the dogs." She was a

 natural mimic. As they left the saddle room, she hugged his arm.

 'Oh, Daddy, if only I could find a boy like you, but they're all so

 utterly dreary." 'Long may they remain that way,' he wished fervently.

 He made a cup with his hands for her to mount, but she laughed at him

 and sprang to the saddle easily on those long lovely legs.

 'Come on, slowcoach. It'll be dark soon." Shasa enjoyed being alone

 with her. She enchanted him with her mercurial changes of mood and

 subject. She had a quick mind and quirky sense of humour, to go with

 her extraordinary face and body, but Ste alarmed him when she showed

 flashes of that restless refusal to coneentrate for long on a single

 topic. Sean had been like that, needing constant stimulation to hold

 his interest, easily bored by anything that could not keep the same

 breathless pace that he set.

 Shasa was amazed that Isabella had lasted out a year of university

 studies, but he was resigned to the fact that she wasn't going to

 graduate. Every time they discussed it, she was more disparaging of the

 academic life. Make-believe, she called it. Kids' stuff. And when he

 reed, 'Well, Bella, you are still a kid', she bridled at him. 'Oh,

 Daddy, you don't understand!" 'Don't I? Don't you think I was your age

 once?" 'I suppose so - but that was in biblical times, for God's sake."

 'Ladies don't swear,' he remonstrated automatically.

 She attracted admirers in slavish droves, and treated them with callous

 indifference for a while and then dropped them with almost feline

 cruelty, and all the time the restlessness in her was more apparent.

 'I should have been stricter with her right from the beginning,' he

 decided grimly, and then grinned. 'What the hell, she's my only

 indulgence - and she'll be gone soon enough." 'Do you know that when you

 smile like that you are the sexiest man in the world?" she interrupted

 his thoughts.

 'What do you know about sexiness, young lady?" he demanded gruffly to

 cover his gratification, and she tossed her head at him.

 'Wouldn't you like to know?" 'No thank you,' he refused hastily. 'I'd

 probably have a hernia on the Spot." 'My poor old Daddy." She edged the

 mare over until their knees touched and she leaned across to hug him.

 'All right, Bella,' he smiled. 'You'd better tell me what you want.

 Your heavy artillery has demolished my defences entirely." 'Oh, Daddy,

 you make me seem so scheming. I'll race you down to the polo grounds."

 He let her lead, holding his stallion's nose just behind her stirrup all

 the way down the hill. Nonetheless, she was flushed with triumph as she

 pulled in the mare and turned back to him. 'I had a letter from Mater,'

 she said.

 For a moment Shasa didn't realize what she had said, then his smile iced

 over and he glanced at his gold Rolex wristwatch.

 'We'd better be getting back." 'I want to talk about my mother. We

 haven't talked about her since the divorce." 'There isn't anything to

 discuss. She's out of our lives." 'No." Isabella shook her head. 'She

 wants to see me - me and Mickey.

 She wants us to go to London and visit her." 'No,' he said fiercely.

 'She's my mother." 'She signed away all claim to that title." 'I want to

 see her - she wants to see me." 'We'll talk about it some other time."

 'I want to talk about it now. Why won't you let me go?" 'Your mother

 did things which put her beyond the pale. She would exert an influence

 of evil upon you." 'Nobody influences me - unless I want them to,' she

 said. 'And what did mother do anyway? Nobody has ever explained that."

 'She committed an act of calculated treachery. She betrayed us all -

 her husband, her father, her family, her children and her country." 'I

 don't believe it." Isabella shook her head. 'Mater was always so

 concerned for everybody." 'I cannot, and will not, give you all the

 details, Bella. Just believe me when I tell you that if I had not

 spirited her out of the country, she would have stood trial as an

 accessory to the murder of her own father and for the crime of high

 treason." They rode up to the stables in silence, but as they entered

 the yard and dismounted, IsabelIa said quietly, 'She should have the

 chance to explain it to me herself." 'I can forbid you to go, Bella, you

 are still a minor. But you know I won't do that. I'll simply ask you

 not to go to London to see that woman." 'I'm sorry, Daddy. Mickey is

 going, and I am going with him." She saw his expression, and went to him

 quickly. 'Please try to understand. I love you, but I love her too. I

 have to go." They drove up to the house in the Jaguar without speaking

 again, but as he parked the car and switched off the ignition, Shasa

 asked, 'When?" 'We haven't decided yet." 'I tell you what. We'll go

 together some time and perhaps we could go on to Switzerland for a

 week's skiing or Italy to do some sight-seeing. We might even stop in

 Paris to get you a new frock.

 Lord knows, you are short of clothes." 'My dear father, you are a crafty

 old dog, aren't you?" They were still laughing as they went arm in arm

 up the front steps of Weltevreden. Centaine came out of her study door

 across the lobby. When she saw them she snatched the gold-rimmed

 reading glasses off her nose - she hated even the family to see her

 wearing them - and she demanded, 'What are you two so merry about? Bella

 is wearig her triumphant expression. What has she talked you into this

 time Centaine\didn't wait for an answer, but pointed to the huge

 banana-shaped package almost ten foot long, wrapped in thick layers of

 brown hessian, that lay in the middle of the chequered marble floor.

 'Shasa, this arrived for you this morning and it has been cluttering up

 the house all day. Please get rid of it, whatever it is." Centaine had

 lived on alone at Rhodes Hill for almost a year after Blair's death

 before Shasa had been able to persuade her to close the L ,use up and

 return to Weltevreden. Now she ran a strict routine to which they were

 all expected to conform.

 'Now what on earth is this?" Shasa tentatively attempted to lift one end

 of the long package, and then grunted. 'It's made of lead, whatever it

 is." 'Hold on, Pater,' Garry called from the top of the staircase.

 'You'll bust something." He came bounding down the stairs, three at a

 time.

 'I'll do that for you - where do you want it?" 'The gun room will do.

 Thanks, Garry." Garry enjoyed showing off his strength and he lifted the

 heavy package easily, and manoeuvred it down the passageway, then

 through the gun-room door and laid it on the lion skin in front of the

 fireplace.

 'Do you want me to open it?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer

 went to work on it.

 Isabella perched on the desk, determined not to miss anything, and none

 of them spoke until Garry had stripped away the last sheet of hessian

 and stood back.

 'It's magnificent,' Shasa breathed. 'I have never seen anythi quite

 like that in my life before." It was a single tusk of curved ivor almost

 ten foot long, as thick as a pretty girl's waist at one end or tapering

 to a blunt point at the other.

 'It must weigh almost a hundred and fifty pounds,' Garry sail 'But just

 look at the workmanship." Shasa knew that the ivory workers of Zanzibar

 were the only from who could do something like this. The entire length

 of the tusk ha been carved with hunting scenes of exquisite detail and

 the fine execution.

 'It's beautiful." Even Isabella was impressed. 'Who sent it to you'

 'There is an envelope --' Shasa pointed to the litter of discarde,

 wrappings, and Garry picked it out and passed it to him.

 The envelope contained a single sheet of notepaper.

 In camp on the Tona rive Dear Dad, Kenya.

 Happy birthday - I'll be thinking of you on the day. This is my best

 jumb to date - 146 lbs. before the carving.

 Why don't you come hunting with me?

 Love, Sean With the note in one hand, Shasa squatted beside the tusk ant

 stroked the creamy smooth surface. The carvings depicted a herd all

 elephant, hundreds of them in a single herd. From old bulls and

 breeding cows to tiny calves, they fled in a long spiral frieze around

 the ivory shaft, diminishing in elegant perspective towards the point.

 The herd was harassed and attacked by hunters along its length,

 beginning with men in lionskins armed with bows and poisoned arrows, or

 with broad-bladed elephant spears; towards the end of this primeval

 cavalcade the hu0ters were on horseback and wielding modern firearms.

 The path of the herd was strewn with great fallen carcasses, and it was

 beautiful and real and tragic.

 However, it was neither the beauty nor the tragedy that thickened

 Shasa's voice as he said, 'Will you two leave me alone, please." He did

 not look around at them, he did not want them to see his face.

 For once Isabella did not argue, but took Garry's hand and led him from

 the room.

 'He hasn't forgotten my birthday,' Shasa murmured, as he stroked the

 ivory. 'Not once since he left." He coughed and stood up abruptly,

 jerked the handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose loudly

 and then wiped his eyes.

 'And I haven't even written to him, I haven't even replied to one of his

 letters." He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and went to

 stand at the window, staring out over the lawns where the peacocks

 strutted. 'The stupid cruel thing is that he has always been my

 favourite of the three of them. Oh God, I'd give anything to see him

 again." The rain was icy grey, drifting like smoke over the thick

 forests of bamboo that cloaked the crests of the Aberdare Mountains.

 The four of them moved in single file with the Ndorobo tracker on the

 point, following the spoor in the forest earth that beneath the litter

 of 'fallen bamboo leaves was the colour and consistency of molten

 chocolate.

 .Sen Courtney took the second position, covering the tracker and

 poisedto make any quick decision. He was the youngest of the three

 white Then but command had quite naturally devolved upon him.

 Nobody had contested it.

 The third man in the line, Alistair Sparks, was the youngest son of a

 Kenyan settler family. Although he possessed enormous powers of

 endurance, was a fine natural shot and a consummate bushman, he was lazy

 and evasive and needed to be pushed to exercise all his skills to the

 full.

 Raymond Harris was on the drag at number four. He was almost fifty

 years old, full of malaria and gin, but in his time had been one of the

 l-gendary white hunters of East Africa. He had taught Sean everyth lg

 he knew, until the pupil had excelled the master. Now Raymond was

 content to bring up the rear and let Sean and Matatu, the tracker, get

 them into position for the kill.

 Matatu was naked except for his filthy tattered loincloth and the rain

 made tiny rivulets down his glossy black hide. He worked the spoor with

 the same instinct and superhuman sense of sight, smell and hearing, as

 one of the wild animals of the forest. They had been following these

 tracks for two days already, stopping only when the light failed

 completely each night, and taking up the chase again with the first

 flush of dawn.

 The spoor was running sweet and hot. Sean was probably as good a

 tracker as a white man could be and he judged that they were only four

 or five hours behind and gaining swiftly. The quarry had angled up the

 steep slope of this nameless peak, heading to cross the ridge just below

 the main crest. Sean caught glimpses of the top through the dense vault

 of bamboo over their heads and the blown streamers of misty rain.

 Suddenly Matatu stopped dead, and Sean popped his tongue to warn the

 others and froze with his thumb on the safety-catch of the big

 double-barrelled Gibbs.

 After a moment Matatu turned abruptly aside, dropping the spoor, and

 went sliding as swiftly and silently as a dark serpent down the slope,

 away from the line and direction of the quarry.

 Five years before, when Sean had first taken Matatu into his service, he

 might have protested and tried to force him to stay with the run of the

 spoor, but now he followed without argument, and although he was going

 at his best hunting speed, he just managed to hold the tracker in sight.

 Sean was dressed in a cloak of colobus monkey skins and he wore Somali

 sandals of elephant hide on his feet and a shaggy cap of monkey skin

 covered his obviously Caucasian hair. His arms, legs and face were

 blackened with a mixture of rancid hippo fat and soot, and he had not

 bathed in two weeks. He looked and smelled like the men he was hunting.

 There were five Mau Mau in the band that they were pursuing, all of them

 members of the notorious gang run by the self-styled General Kimathi.

 Five days previously they had attacked one of the coffee shambas near

 Nyeri in the foothills of the mountain range. They had disembowelled

 the white overseer and stuffed his severed genitals into his mouth, and

 they had chopped off his wife's limbs with the heavy-bladed pangas,

 beginning at wrist and ankle and working gradually towards the trunk of

 her body, until they hacked through the great joints in her shoulders

 and groin.

 Sean and his group of scouts had reached the shamba almost twelve hours

 after the gang had fled. They had left the Land-Rover and taken the

 spoor on foot.

 Matatu took them directly down the slope. The narrow river at the

 bottom was a tumultuous silver torrent. Sean stripped off his furs and

 sandals and went into it naked. The cold chilled his bones until they

 ached and the roaring water swirled over his head but he carried the

 line across and then brought the others safely over.

 Matatu was the last across, carrying Sean's clothing and his rifle, and

 immediately he was off again, like a wraith of the forest. Sean followed

 him with the agony of cold shuddering through his body and the sodden

 furs a heavy burden to add to the rifle and his pack.

 A herd of buffalo crashed away through the forest ahead of them, and the

 bovine stink lingered in their nostrils long after they were gone. Once

 Sean had a glimpse of a huge antelope, ginger red with vertical white

 stripes down its heavy body and a head of magnificent spiral horns. It

 was a bongo. He would have charged one of his rich American clients

 $1000 for a shot at that rarest and most elusive of all antelopes, but

 it ghosted away into the bamboo and Matatu led them on without apparent

 purpose or direction, the spoor three hours cold behind them.

 Then Matatu skirted one of the rare forest clearings and stopped again.

 He glanced back over his naked shoulder and grinned at Sean with the

 patent adoration of a hunting dog who acknowledges the most important

 being in its universe.

 Sean stepped up beside him and looked down at the spoor. He would never

 know how Matatu did it. He had tried to make him explain, but the

 wizened little gnome had merely laughed with embarrassment and hung his

 head. It was a kind of magic that went beyond the mere art of

 observation and deduction. What Matatu had just done was to drop the

 spoor when it was sweet and hot, and go off at an improbable tangent,

 running blind through trackless bambOo and over wild peaks, to meet the

 spoor again with the unerringinstinct of a migrating swallow, having cut

 the corner and gained threhours on the quarry.

 Sean squeezed his shoulder and little Ndorobo wriggled his whole body

 with pleasure.

 They were less than an hour behind the gang now, but the rain and the

 mist were bringing on the night prematurely. Sean signalled Matatu on.

 Not one of them had spoken a single word all that day.

 The men they were chasing were becoming careless. In the beginning they

 had anti-tracked and covered spoor, doubled and jinked so cunningly that

 even Matatu had puzzled to unravel the sign and get away on the run of

 it - but now they were feeling confident and secure.

 Ttry had broken off the succulent bamboo shoots to chew as they march d,

 leaving glaring wounds on the plants, and they had trodden deeply,

 heeling with fatigue, leaving sign that Matatu could follow like a

 tarmac road. One of the fugitives had even defecated on the track, not

 bothering to cover his faeces, and they were still steaming with his

 body warmth. Matatu grinned at Sean over his shoulder and made the

 fluttery hand signal which said 'Very close'.

 Sean eased open the action of the double-barrelled Gibbs, without

 allowing the sidelock to click. He slid the brass-cased cartridges out

 of the breeches, and replaced them with two Others from the leather

 ammunition pouch beneath his monkey-skin cape. The .577 cartridges were

 thicker than a man's thumb and the clumsy, blunt-nosed bullet heads were

 jacleted in copper and capped with soft blue lead so they could mushroom

 through living tissue, tearing open a wide channel and inficting

 terrible damage. This little ritual of changing his cartridges was one

 of Sean's superstitions - he always did it just before he closed with

 dangerous game. He closed the rifle as gently and silently as he had

 opened it and glanced back at the two men behind him.

 The whites of Alistair's eyes gleamed in his blackened face. He carried

 the Bren gun. Sean had not been able to wean him from it.

 Despite its unwieldy long barrel and great weight, Alistair loved the

 automatic weapon. 'When I'm after Mickey Mouse I like to be able to

 turn the air blue with lead,' he explained with that lazy grin.

 'Nobody is going to get a chance to stuff my knockers down my throat,

 matey!" At the rear Ray Harris gave Sean the thumbs-up signal, but the

 sweat and rain had cut pale runnels through the soot and fat on his

 face, and even through the camouflage Sean could see how haggard he was

 with fear and fatigue. 'The old man is getting past it,' Sean thought

 dispassionately. 'Have to put him out to grass soon." Ray carried the

 Stirling sub-machine-gun. Sean suspected it was because he could no

 longer manage the weight of a more substantial weapon. 'In the bamboo

 it's point blank." Ray excused his choice, and Sean had not bothered to

 argue or to point out that the tiny 9 men bullets would be deflected by

 the frailest twig, and smothered in the dense vegetation of the

 Aberdares - while the big .600 grain slug from his own Gibbs would

 plough straight through branch and stem and still blow the guts out of

 the Mickey Mouse on the other side, while the stubby 20-inch barrels

 were perfect for close work in the bamboo, and he could swing them

 without risking hooking up in the brush.

 Sean clicked his tongue softly and Matatu went away on the spoor in that

 soft-footed, ungainly lope which he could keep up day and night without

 tiring.  They crossed another heavily bambooed ridge and in the valley

 beyond Matatu stopped again. It was so dark by now that Sean had to

 move up beside him, and go down on one knee to examine the sign.

 It took him almost a minute to make sense of it, even after Matatu had

 pointed out the other set of tracks coming in from the right.

 Sean gestured Ray to move up and laid his lips to his ear. 'They have

 joined another party of Mickey Mice - probably from the base camp.

 Eight of them, three women, so we have thirteen in a bunch now. A

 lovely lucky number." But as he spoke the light was going, and the rain

 started-again, spilling softly out of the purple-black sky. Within five

 hundred yards Matatu stopped for the last time and Sean could just make

 out the pale palm of his right hand as he made the wash-out signal.

 Night had blanketed the spoor.

 The white men each found a treetrunk to prop themselves against,

 spreading out in a defensive circle facing outwards. Sean took Matatu

 under the monkey-skin cloak with him as though he were a tired gun dog.

 The little man's skinny body was as cold and wet as a trout taken from a

 mountain stream and he smelled of herbs and leaf mould and wild things.

 They ate the hard salted dry buffalo meat and cold maize cakes from

 their belt pouches and slept fitfully in each other's warmth while the

 raindrops pattered down on the fur over their heads.

 Matatu touched Sean's cheek and he was instantly awake in the utter

 darkness, slipping the safety-catch of the Gibbs that lay across his

 lap. He sat rigid, listening and alert.

 Beside him Matatu snuffled the air and after a moment Sean did the same.

 'Woodsmoke?" he whispered, and both of them came to their feet. In the

 darkness, Sean moved to where Alistair and Ray were lying and got them

 up. They went forward in the night, holding the belt of the man ahead

 to keep in contact. The whiffs of smoke were intermittent but stronger.

 It took..almost two hours for Matatu to locate the Mau Mau

 encampmefitprecisely, using his sense of smell and hearing, and at the

 end the fnt glow of a patch of camp-fire coals. Although the bamboo

 dripp{d all around, they could hear them - a soft cough, a strangled

 snore, the gabble of a woman in a nightmare - and Sean and Matatu moved

 them into position.

 It took another hour; but in the utter darkness before the true dawn,

 Alistair was lying up the slope, forty feet from the dying camp fire.

 Raymond was amongst the rocks on the bank of the stream on the far side,

 and Sean lay with Matatu in the dense scrub beside the path that led

 into the camp.

 Sean had the barrel of the Gibbs across his left forearm and his right

 hand on the pistol grip with the safety-catch under his thumb.

 He had spr ,d the fur cloak over both himself and Matatu, but neither of

 teen even drowsed. They were keyed up to the finest pitch.

 Sean could feel the little Ndorobo trembling with eagerness where their

 bodies touched. He was like a bird dog with the scent of the grouse in

 his nostrils.

 The dawn came stealthily. First Sean realized that he could see his own

 hand on the rifle in front of his face, and then the short thick barrels

 appeared before his eyes. He looked beyond them and made out a tendril

 of smoke from the fire rising out of the Stygian forest towards the

 lighter pitch of darkness that was the sky through the canopy of bamboo.

 The light came on more swiftly, and he saw that there were two crude

 shelters, one on each side of the fire, low lean-tos not more than waist

 high, and he thought he saw a movement in one of them, perhaps a

 recumbent figure rolling over and pulling up a skin blanket over his

 head, Again somebody coughed, a thick phlegmy sound. The camp was

 waking. Sean glanced up the slope and then down into the stream bed. He

 could see the soft sheen of the water-polished boulders - but nothing of

 the other two hunters.

 The light hardened. Sean closed his eyes for a moment and then opened

 them again. He could see sharply the support of the roof of the nearest

 shelter, and dimly beyond it a human shape wrapped in a fur blanket.

 'Shooting light in two minutes,' he thought. The others would know it

 also. All three of them had waited like this in countless dawns beside

 the rotting carcass of pig or antelope for the leopard to come to the

 bait. They could judge that magical moment when the sights were crisp

 enough to make the sure killing shot. This dawn they would wait for

 Sean before they came in with the Bren and the Stirling.

 Again Sean closed his eyes and when he opened them again the figure in

 the nearest shelter was sitting up and looking towards him.

 For a gut-swooping instant he thought he had been spotted and he almost

 fired. Then he checked himself as the head turned away from him.

 Abruptly the figure threw the fur blanket aside and stood up, crouching

 under the low roof of the shelter.

 Sean saw it was a woman, one of the Mau Mau camp followers, but for Sean

 just as cruel and depraved as any of her menfolk. She stepped out into

 the open beside the dead fire wearing only a short kilt of some pale

 material. Her breasts were high and pointed and her skin smooth and

 glossy as newly mined anthracite in the soft dawn light.

 She came directly towards where Sean lay, and though her gait was still

 clumsy and unsteady with sleep, he saw that she was young and comely. A

 few more paces and she would stumble over him, but then she stopped

 again and yawned and her teeth were very white, gleaming in the soft

 grey light.

 She lifted her kilt around her waist and squatted facing Sean, spreading

 her knees and bowing her head slightly to watch herself as she began to

 urinate. Her water splashed noisily and the sharp ammoniacal tang of it

 made Sean's nostrils flare.

 She was so close that he did not have to lift the Gibbs to his shoulder.

 He shot her in the stomach. The heavy rifle bounded in his grip and the

 bullet picked the girl up and while she was in the air it broke her in

 half, blowing a hole through her spine into which her own head would

 have fitted, and she folded up, loose and floppy as a suit of discarded

 clothing as she fell back onto the muddy forest floor.

 Sean fired the second barrel as one of the other Mau Mau bolted out of

 the nearest shelter. The Gibbs made a sound like the slamming of a

 great steel door, and the man was hurled back into the shelter with half

 his chest torn away.

 Sean had two more cartridges held between the fingers of his left hand,

 and as he opened the breech of the Gibbs the spent brass cases pinged

 away over his shoulder and he slid the fresh cartridges into the empty

 breeches and closed the rifle again in the same movement.

 The Bren and the Stirling were firing now. Their muzzle flashes were

 bright and pretty as fairy lights in the gloom, twinkling and sparkling,

 and the bullets wentfrip!frip!frip! amongst the leaves and sang shrilly

 as they ricocheted into the forest.

 Sean shot again and the Gibbs canhoned down another naked figure,

 knocking him flat against the soft earth as though he had been run down

 by a locomotive. And again he shot, but this one was a snap shot and

 the Mau Mau jinked just as the Gibbs thundered.

 The bullet hit him in the shoulder joint and blew his right arm off so

 it hungby a taller of torn flesh and flapped against his side as he spun

 around. Raymond's Stirling buzzed and cut him down.

 Sean re10aded and shot left and right, clean kills with each barrel and

 by the 'time he had reloaded again the camp was silent, and the Bren and

 the Stirling had ceased firing.

 Nothing moved. All three men were deadly natural shots, and the range

 was point blank. Sean waited a full five minutes. Only a fool walked

 directly up to dangerous game no matter how dead it appeared to be. Then

 he rose cautiously to his knees with the rifle at high port across his

 chest.

 The last Mau Mau broke. He had been feigning dead in the far shelter,

 and he had judged his moment finely, waiting until the attacker relaxed

 and began to move. He flushed like a jack rabbit and shot into the

 bamboo on the far side of the clearing. Alistair's Bren was blanketed

 by the wall of the nearest shelter but he fired nevertheless and the

 bullets futilely thrashed the hut. From the river bank Ray had a

 clearer shot, but he was a fraction of a second slow, the cold had

 brought out the malaria in his blood and his hand shook. The bamboo

 absorbed the light 9 men bullets as though he had fired into a haystack.

 For the first ten paces the running Mau Mau was screened from Sean's

 view by the wall of the nearest hut, and then Sean caught only a

 flickering glimpse of him as he dived into the bamboo, but already Sean

 was on him, swinging the stubby double barrels as though he were taking

 a right-hand passing shot on a driven francolin. Although he could no

 longer see his quarry in the dense bamboo, he continued his swing on the

 line of the man's run, instinctively leading him. The Gibbs gave its

 angry bellow and red flame blazed from the muzzle.

 The huge bullet smashed into the wall of bamboo, and at Sean's side

 Matatu shouted gleefully, 'Pigat Hit!" as he heard the bullet tell

 distinctly on living flesh.

 'Take the blood spoor!" Sean commanded and the little Ndorobo loped

 across the clearing. But it was not necessary: the Mau Mau lay where he

 had dropped. The bullet had ploughed through bamboo, leaf and stem,

 without being deflected an inch from its track.

 Ray and Alistair came into the camp, weapons ready, and picked over the

 bodies. One of the other Mau Mau women was still breathing, though

 bloody bubbles seethed on her lips, and Ray shot her in the temple with

 the Sten.

 'Make sure none of them got away,' Sean ordered Matatu in Swahili.

 The little Ndorobo made a quick circuit of the encampment to check for

 out-going spoor, and then came back grinning. 'All here." He gloated.

 'All dead." Sean tossed the Gibbs to him and drew the ivory-handled

 hunting-knife from the sheath on his belt.

 'Damn it, laddie,' Ray Harris protested as Sean walked back to where the

 body of the first girl lay. 'You are the bloody end, man." He had seen

 Sean do this before and although Ray Harris was a hard, callous man who

 for thirty years had made his living out of blood and gunfire, still he

 gagged as Sean squatted over the corpse and stropped the blade on the

 palm of his hand.

 'You are getting soft, old man." Sean grinned at him. 'You know they

 make beautiful tobacco pouches,' he said, and took the dead girl's

 breast in his hand, pulling the skin taut for the stroke of the knife

 blade.

 Shasa found Garry in the boardroom. He was always there twenty minutes

 before any of the other directors arrived, arranging his piles of

 computer print-out sheets and ,other notes around him and going over his

 facts and figures for one last time before the meeting began.

 Shasa and Centaine had argued before appointing Garry to the boarA of

 Courtney Mining.

 'You can ruin a pony by pushing him too hard too soon." 'We aren't

 talking about a polo pony,' Centaine had replied tartly.

 'And it's not a case of pushing. He's got the bit between his teeth, to

 continue your chosen metaphor, Shasa, and if we try and hold him back we

 will either discourage him or drive him out on his own.

 Now is the time to give him a bit of slack rein." 'But you made me wait

 much longer." 'You were a late-blooming rose, and the war and all that

 business held you up. At Garry's age you were still flying Hurricanes

 and chasing around Abyssinia." So Garry had gone on the board, and like

 everything else in his life he had taken it very seriously indeed. Now

 he looked up as his father confronted him down the length of the

 boardroom.

 'I heard you have been borrowing money on your own bat,' Shasa accused.

 Garry removed his spectacles, polished them diligently, held them up to

 the light and then replaced them on his large Courtney nose, all to gain

 time in which to compose his reply.

 'Only one person knows about that. The manager of the Adderly Street

 branch of Standard Bank. He could lose his job if he blabbed about my

 personal business." 'You forget that both Nana and I are on the board of

 the Standard Bank. All loans of over a million pounds come up before us

 for approval." 1Rand,' Garry corrected his father pedantically. 'Two

 million rand - the pound is history." /'Thanks,' Shasa said grimly.

 'I'll try to move with the times. Now how about this two million rand

 you have borrowed?" 'A straightforward transaction, Dad. I put up my

 shares in the Shasaville township as collateral, and the bank lent me

 two million rand." 'What are you going to do with it? That's a small

 fortune." Shasa was one of the few men in the country who would qualify

 that amount with that particular adjective, and Garry looked mildly

 relieved.

 'As a matter of fact, I have used half a million to buy up fiftyone per

 ent of the issued shareholding of Alpha Centauri Estates, and loaned the

 company another half million to get it out of trouble." 'Alpha

 Centauri?" Shasa looked mystified.

 The company owns some of the prime property on the Witwatersrand and

 here in the Cape Peninsula. It was worth almost twenty-six million

 before the crash at Sharpeville." 'And now it's worth zero,' Shasa

 suggested, and before Garry could protest. 'What have you done with the

 other million?" 'Gold shares - Anglos and Vaal Reefs. At the fire sale

 prices I paid for them they are returning almost twenty-six percent. The

 dividends will pay the interest on the entire bank loan." Shasa sat down

 in his seat at the head of the boardroom table and studiec his son

 carefully. He should have been conditioned by now, but Garry still

 managed to surprise Shasa. It was an imaginative but neatly logical

 coup, and if it had not been his own son, Shasa would have been

 impressed. As it was, he felt duty bound to find flaws in it.

 'What about your Shasaville shares - you are taking an awful chance."

 Garry looked puzzled. 'I don't have to explain it to you, Pater.

  

 You taught me. Shasaville is tied up. We can't sell or develop

 aggressively until land values recover, so I've used my shares to take

 full advantage of the crash." 'What if land values never recover?" Shasa

 demanded relentlessly.

 'If they don't, it will mean the country is finished anyway. I will

 lose my share of nothing which is nothing. If they do recover, I will

 be in profit twenty or thirty million." Shasa picked at that for a while

 and then changed his angle of attack. 'Why didn't you come to me to

 borrow the money, instead of going behind my back?" Garry grinned at him

 and tried to smooth down the crest of wiry black hair that stuck up on

 his crown. 'Because you would have given me a list of five hundred

 reasons why not, just as you are doing now. Besides, I wanted to do

 this one on my own. I wanted to prove to you that I'm not a kid any

 more." Shasa twiddled the gold pen on the pad in front of him and when

 he could think of no other criticism, he grumbled, 'You don't want to

 get too damned clever for your own good. There is a line between good

 business sense and outright gambling." 'How do you tell the difference?"

 Garry asked. For a moment Shasa thought he was being facetious and then

 he realized that as usual Garry was deadly serious. He was leaning

 forward eagerly waiting for his father to explain, and he really wanted

 to know.

 Shasa was saved by the entry of the other senior directors: Centaine on

 the arm of Dr Twenty-man-Jones and David Abrahams arguing amiably but

 respectfully with his father, and thankfully he let the subject drop.

 Once or twice during the meeting he glanced down the table at Garry, who

 was following all the discussion with a rapt expression, the light from

 the picture window reflecting a miniature image of the crest of Table

 Mountain in the lenses of his spectacles.

 When all the business on the agenda had been completed and Centaine had

 started to rise to lead them through to the executive diningroom, Shasa

 arrested them.

 'Madame Courtney and gentlemen, one additional piece of business. Mr

 Garry Courtney and I have been discussing the general state of the

 property market. We both feel that property and equities are very much

 undervalued at the moment and that the company should take advantage of

 this fact, but I'd like him to tell you in his own words and to put

 forward certain proposals. Would you oblige us please, Mr Courtney?" It

 was Shasa's own way of giving the lad a jolt and cutting him back a

 little. In the six months since his elevation, Garry had never been

 called upon to address the full board and now Shasa dropped it on him

 without warning and sat back with vindictive relish in his wing-backed

 leather chairman's throne and folded his arms.

 At the bottom of the table Garry blushed furiously, and glanced

 longingly at the stinkwood door, his only escape, before giving the

 traditional salutation to his fellow directors.

 'MaMa-dame Courtney and ge-ge-gentlemen." He stopped and threw his

 father a pitiful look of appeal, but when he received a stern

 uncompromising frown in return, he took a deep breath and launched into

 it. He stumbled once or twice, but when first Abe Abrahams and then

 Centaine shot cutting questions at him, he forgot about his stutter and

 talked for forty-five minutes.

 At the end they were silent for a while, and then David Abrahams said,

 'I should like to propose that we appoint Mr Garrick Courtney to prepare

 a list of specific proposals to follow up the presentation that he has

 just made to this meeting, and to report back to us at an extraordinary

 meeting early next week, at a time convenient to all members of the

 board." Centaine seconded, and it was adopted unanimously, and then

 David Abrahams ended, 'I should like the minutes to record the board's

 gratitude to Mr Courtney for his lucid address and to thank him for

 bringing these considerations to the board's attention." The glow of

 achievement and recognition lasted Garry all the way down in the

 elevator to the basement garage where his MG stood in his private

 parking bay beside Shasa's Jaguar. It stayed with him all the way down

 Adderley Street to the lonely skyscraper of the Sanlam buildi g which

 stood on the open ground of the foreshore that had been reclaimed from

 the sea. Even going up in the lift to the twentieth floor of the Sanlam

 building he still felt tall and important and decisive. Only when he

 entered the reception area of Gantry, Carmichael and Associates did the

 vital glow begin to fade, and his stiff van Heusen collar bit painfully

 into the corded muscles of his bull neck.

 The two pretty young girls at the desk showed him the full amount of

 deference due to one of the partnership's important clients, but by this

 time Garry was too nervous to take advantage of the chair he was offered

 and he wandered around the lobby pretending to admire the tall vases of

 proteas while surreptitiously checking his image in the floor-to-ceiling

 mirrors behind the floral display.

 He had paid forty guineas off the peg for the double-breasted suit in

 his favourite Prince of Wales check, but the swell of his chest muscles

 made the lapels flare unevenly and the material rucked up around his

 biceps. He yanked at the cuffs in an attempt to smootl the sleeves, and

 then abandoned that effort and instead concentrated on trying to press

 his hair flat with the heel of his palm. He started guiltily as he saw

 in the mirror the door to the partners' sanctum open and Holly

 Carmichael come striding into the reception lobby.

 As Garry turned to face her, all his recent bravado and confidence

 collapsed around him and he gawked at her. It was impossible but she

 was even more poised and chic than the vivid image of her he had carried

 with him since their last meeting.

 Today she was wearing a blue and white striped Chanel suit with a

 pleated skirt that swirled around her calves, allowing just a flash of

 her perfect rounded knees as she came towards him. Her lightly tanned

 legs in sheer nylon had the patina of polished ivory, and her ankles and

 her wrists in the cuffs of the Chanel suit were elegantly turned, her

 feet and hands narrow and yet perfectly proportioned to her long willowy

 limbs.

 She was smiling and Garry felt the same sensuous vertigo that he

 sometimes experienced after bench pressing five times his own bodyweight

 of iron. Her teeth were opalescent, and as her mouth formed his name

 and smiled, he watched it with breathless fascination.

 She was as tall as he was, but he knew he could lift her with one hand

 and he quivered at the almost sacrilegious thought of taking this divine

 creature in his hands.

 'Mr Courthey, I hope we haven't kept you waiting." She took his arm, and

 led him towards her office. He felt like a performing bear on a chain

 beside her grace and lightness. The light touch of her fingers on his

 arm burned like a branding iron.

 Her hair was streaked with a shading of all the colours of blond from

 platinum to dark burnt honey, and it fell in a lustrous cascade to just

 above the padded shoulders of the Chanel suit, and every time she moved

 her head he caught the perfunce of those shining tresses and his stomach

 muscles contracted.

 Her fingers were still on his 1)iceps and she was talking directly into

 his face, still smiling. Her breath smelled like a flower and her mouth

 was so beautiful and soft and red that he felt guilty looking at it, as

 though he were spying on some secret and intimate part of her body. He

 tore his eyes from her mouth and raised them to her eyes. His heart

 jumped against his ribs like a maniac in a padded cell for one eye was

 sky blue and the other violet flecked with gold. It gave her face a

 striking asymmetry, not exactly a squint but a disconcerting myopic

 imbalance and Garry's legs felt as weak as if he had run ten miles.

 'I have something for you at last,' Holly Carmichael said, and led him

 into her office.

 The long room reflected her own extraordinary style, which had attracted

 Garry to her work long before he had met her. He had first seen an

 example of it in the Institute of Architects Year-book. Holly

 Carmichael had won the 1961 award of the Institute for a beach house on

 the dunes overlooking Plettenburg Bay that she had designed as a holiday

 home for one of the Witwatersrand insurance ' magnates. She used wood

 and stone and material in a blend that was at the same time modern and

 classical, that married space and shape in a natural harmony that

 excited the eye and yet gave solace to the soul.

 Her office was decorated in soft mulberry and ethereal blue, functional

 and yet both restful and unmistakably feminine. The delicate pastel

 drawings on all four walls were her own work.

 In the centre of the floor on a low table stood a miniature-scale

 reproduction of the Shasaville estate, as she visualized it after

 development was complete. Holly led Garry to it and stood back while he

 circled it slowly, studying it from every angle. Sloe watched the

 change come over him.

 All the gawkiness was gone. Even the shape of his body seemed to

 change. It was imbued with the same kind of massive grace as that of

 the bull in the arena tensing for the charge.

 Holly researched the background of all her clients, in order to better

 anticipate their requirements. With this one she had taken special

 care. The word in the marketplace was that, despite appearances,

 Garrick Courtney was a formidable presence and had already demonstrated

 his acumen and courage by procuring the Shasaville title and a

 controlling interest in Alpha Centauri Estates.

 Her accountant had drawn up an approximate list of his assets whic

 included, along with his property interests, considerable equity in ble

 chip gold companies and the Courtney mining shares which he had acquired

 from his family wheffhe was appointed to the board of that company.

 More significant was the prevailing view that both Centaine and Shasa

 Courtney had given up on his brothers, and decided that Garrick Courtney

 was their hope for the future. He was the heir apparent to the Courtney

 millions and nobody knew the sum total of those - two hundred million,

 five hundred million - not inconceivably a billion rand. Holly

 Carmichael shivered slightly at the thought.

 As she watched him now she saw not a large bumbling young man in

 steel-rimmed spectacles, who made an expensive suit of fine wool look

 like a bag of laundry, and whose hair stood up in a startled tuft at the

 crown. She saw power.

 Power fascinated Holly Carmichael, power in all its forms - wealth,

 reputation, influence and physical power. She shivered slightly as she

 recalled the feel of the muscle under his sleeve.

 Holly was thirty-two years of age, almost ten years senior to him, and

 her divorce would count heavily against her. Both Centaine and Shasa

 Courtney were conservative and old-fashioned.

 'They'll have to be good to stop me,' she told herself. 'I get what I

 want - and this is what I want, but it's not going to be a push-over."

 Then she considered the effect she had on Garry Courtney. She knew he

 was besotted with her. The first part would be easy. Without any effort

 at all she had already enmeshed him, she could enslave him as readily.

 After that would come the difficult part. She thought of Centaine

 Courtney and all she had heard about her, and she shivered again, this

 time with neither pleasure nor excitement.

 Garry stopped in front of her. Although their eyes were on a level, he

 now seemed to tower over her as he glowered at her. A moment before she

 had felt herself perfectly in control, now suddenly she was uncertain.

 'I've seen what you can do when you really try,' he said. 'I want you

 to try for me. I don't want second best. I don't want this." Holly

 stared at him in amazement. She had not even contemplated his

 rejection, certainly not in such brutal terms. Her shock persisted a

 moment longer and then was replaced with anger.

 'If that is your estimate of my work, Mr Courtney, I suggest you find

 yourself another architect,' she told him in a cold fury and he didn't

 even flinch.

  

 'Come here,' he ordered. 'Look at it from this angle. You've stuck

 that roof on the shopping centre without any regard to the view from the

 houses on this slope of the hill. And look here. You could have used

 the fairways of the golf course to enhance the aspect of these flagship

 properties instead of shutting them off the way you have." He had taken

 hold of her arm, and though she knew he was not extending even a small

 part of his strength, still the potential she could feel in his fingers

 frightened her a little. She no longer felt confident and patronizing

 as he pointed out the flaws in her design. While he spoke she knew that

 he was right. Instinctively she had been aware of the defects he was

 now exposing, but she had not taken the trouble to find the solutions to

 them. She had not expected somebody so young and inexperienced to be so

 discriminating - she had treated him like a doting boy who would acqept

 any. thing she offered.  Her anger was directed at herself as much as

 at him.

 He finished his criticism at last and she said softly, 'I'll return your

 deposit and we can tear up the contract." 'You signed the contract and

 accepted the deposit, Mrs Carmichael. Now I want you to deliver. I

 want something beautiful and startling and right. I want something that

 only you can give me." She had no answer, and his manner changed, he

 became peculiarly gentle and solicitous.

 'I didn't mean to insult you. I think at the least you are the very

 best, and I want you to prove me right - please." She turned away from

 him and went to her drawing-board at the end of the room, slipped out of

 her jacket and tossed it over the desk and picked up one of her pencils.

 With the pencil poised over the blank sheet, she said, 'It seems that

 I've got a lot of lost ground to make up. Here we go --' and she drew

 the first bold decisive line across the sheet. 'At least we know now

 what we don't want. Let's find out what we do want. Let's start with

 the shopping centre." He came to stand behind her and watched in silence

 for almost twenty minutes before she glanced back at him with the violet

 eye glinting through the veil of shining blond hair. She didn't have to

 ask the question.

 'Yes,' he nodded.

 'Don't go away,' she said. 'When you are near I can feel your mood and

 judge your response." He took off his jacket and threw it beside hers

 over the desk top, and he stood beside her in his shirtsleeves with his

 hands thrust into his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched. He

 remained absolutely still, his concentration monumental, and yet his

 presence seemed to inspire her to tap the mystical springs of her

 talent. At lz she saw in her mind how it should have been and she began

 to roagh it out, her pencil flying and flicking over the sheet.

 When the day faded, he went to close the curtains and switch on the

 overhead lights. It was after eight when she at last threw down her

 pencil and turned to him. 'That's the feeling I want to give it.

 You were right - the first attempt wasn't worthy." 'Yes, I was right in

 one other respect. You are the very best." He picked up his jacket and

 shrugged it over his massive shoulders, and she felt a tingle of dismay.

 She didn't want him to go yet, she knew when he did she would feel

 exhausted and spent. The effort of creation had drained her resources.

 'You can't send me home to begin cooking at this hour,' she said.

 'That would be the sadistic act of a truly cruel taskmaster." Suddenly

 all his confidence evaporated, and he blushed and mumbled something

 inaudible. She knew she would have to take charge from here.

 'The least you can do is feed the slave. How about offering me dinner,

 Mr Courtney?" She created her usual stir of masculine interest as she

 preceded Garry into the restaurant, and she was glad he had noticed. She

 was surprised by the aplomb with which he discussed the wine list with

 the maœtre until she remembered that Weltevreden was one of the leading

 wineries of the Cape of Good Hope.

 During dinner their conversation was serious, and she was relieved not

 to have to endure the usual banalities of a first date. They discussed

 the Sharpeville crisis and its implications, social and economic, and

 she' was amazed at the depth of his political insight until she

 remembered that his father was a minister in Verwoerd's cabinet. He had

 a ringside seat.

 'If it wasn't for that Prince of Wales check suit and those ghastly

 steel-framed spectacles,' she thought, 'and the crest of hair that makes

 him look like Woody Woodpecker--' When he asked her to dance she had

 misgivings. They were the only couple on the tiny circular floor, and

 there were a dozen people in the room she knew. However, the moment he

 put his arm around her waist she relaxed. Despite his bulk he was agile

 and light on his feet with an excellent sense of timing, and she began

 to enjoy herself, until abruptly his dancing style changed and he held

 her differently. For a while she was puzzled. She attempted to

 maintain the close contact of hips which had enabled her to anticipate

 his moves, and only then she became aware of his arousal. She was at

 first amused and then despite herself intrigued. Like the rest of him

 it was massive and hard. She played a little game of brushing lightly

 against him and withdrawing, all the while chatting casually and

 feigning total ignorance of his predicament.

 Afterwards he drove her in the MG to where her own car was parked.

 She hadn't ridden in an open sports car since her varsity days and the

 wind in her hair gave her a nostalgic thrill.

 He insisted on following her Mercedes back to Bantry Bay to see her

 safely home and they said goodnight on the pavement outside her

 apartment block. She considered inviting him up for coffee, but her

 sure instinct warned her to protect the shining image of her that he so

 obviously had conceived.

 Instead she told him, 'I,11 have some more drawings for you to look at

 by the end of next week." This time she put everything of her talent

 into the preliminary sketches, and she knew they were good. He came to

 her office again and they worked over them until late and then dined

 together. It was Thursday night and the restaurant was half empty. They

 had the dance floor to themselves and this time she worked her hips

 lightly and cunningly against him as they moved.

 When she said goodnight outside her apartment block, she asked, 'I

 suppose you will be at the Met on Saturday?" The Metropolitan Handicap

 was the premier race on the Cape turf calendar.

 'I don't race,' Garry replied reluctantly. 'We are polo people, and

 Nana, my grandmother, doesn't approve of me --' he stopped himself as he

 realized how callow that sounded, and he ended, 'well, somehow I've just

 never got around to racing." 'Well, it's about time you did,' she said

 firmly. 'And I need a partner for Saturday - that's if you don't

 object." Garry sang all the way home to Weltevreden, bellowing happily

 into the rushing night air as he drove the MG through the curves and

 dips of the mountain road.

 It took Garry a while to understand that the actual racing was not the

 main attraction of the meeting. It was secondary to the fashion show

 and the complicated social interaction of the racegoers.

 Amongst the bizarre and outrageous creations that some of the women

 wore, Holly's floating blue silk and the wide-brimmed hat with a single

 real pink rose on the brim were elegant and understated, but drew

 envious glances from the other women. Garry discovered that he knew

 nearly everybody in the members' enclosure; many of them were friends of

 his family, and Holly introduced him to those he did not know. They all

 reacted to the Courtney name, and Holly was subtly attentive, drawing

 him into conversation with these strangers until he felt at ease.

 They made a remarkable couple, 'Beauty and the Beast', as one of the

 unkind wags suggested, and a buzz of gossip followed them around the

 ring: 'Holly has been out cradle-snatching', and 'Centaine will have her

 burned at the stake'.

 Garry was totally oblivious to the stir they were creating, and once the

 horses were brought into the ring for the first race, he was in his

 element. Horses were part of the life at Weltevreden. Shasa had

 carried him on the saddle before he could walk, and he had a natural eye

 for horseflesh.

 The first race was a maiden handicap, and the betting was wide open as

 none of these two-year-olds had raced before. Garry singled out a black

 colt in the parade. 'I like his chest and legs,' he told Holly and she

 checked his number on the card.

 'Rhapsody,' she said. 'There has never been a good horse with an ugly

 name - and he's trained by Miller and ridden by Tiger Wright." 'I don't

 know about that, but I do ,know that he is in peak condition and he

 wants to work,' Garry told her. 'Just look at him sweating already."

 'Let's have a bet on him,' Holly suggested, and Garry looked dubious.

 The family strictures against gambling echoed in his ears, but he didn't

 want to offend Holly or appear childish in her eyes.

 'What do I do?" he asked.

 'You see those gangsters standing up there?" She pointed at the line of

 bookmakers. 'You pick any one of them, give him your money and say,

 "Rhapsody to win." She handed Gerry a ten-rand note. 'Let's dib ten

 each." Garry was appalled. Ten rand was a great deal of money. It was

 one thing to borrow two million on a legitimate business scheme, but

 quite another thing to hand ten to a stranger in a loud suit with a

 cigar. Reluctantly he produced his wallet.

 Rhapsody was in the ruck at the turn, but as they came clear of the

 bend, Tiger Wright steered him wide and then asked him to run.

 The colt jumped away and caught the leaders in front of the stand where

 Holly was hopping up and down and holding her hat on with one hand. He

 was two lengths clear at the post and Holly threw both arms around

 Garry's neck and kissed him in front of ten thousand beady eyes.

 As Garry handed over her share of their winnings, she said, 'Oh,

 wouldn't it be fun to own one's very own racehorse." He phoned her

 apartment at six o'clock the following morning.

 'Garry?" she mumbled. 'It's Sunday. You can't do this to me - not at

 six o'clock." 'This time I've got something to show you,' he said, and

 his enthusiasm was so infectious that she agreed weakly. 'Give me an

 hour to wake up properly." He drove her down to the curving beach of

 False Bay beyond Muizenberg and parked at the top of the dunes. Forty

 horses with their apprentice jockeys and grooms were cantering along the

 edge of soft white sand or wading bareback in the curling green surfi

 Garry led her down to the group of four men who were supervising the

 training and introduced her.

 'This is Mr Miller." The trainer and his assistants looked at Holly

 approvingly. She wore a pink scarf around her forehead but her thick

 blond hair fell freely down the back of her neck and the short marine

 peajacket emphasized the length and shape of her legs in the ski pants

 and calf boots.

 The trainer whistled to one of his apprentices and only when he turned

 the colt out of the circle of horses did Holly recognize it.

 'Rhapsody,' she cried.

 'Congratulations, Mrs Carmichael,' the trainer said. 'He's going to do

 us all proud." 'I don't understand." She was bewildered.

 'Well,' Garry explained, 'you said it would be fun to own your own

 horse, and it is your birthday on the twelfth of next month.

 Happy birthday." She stared at him in confusion, wondering how he knew

 that date and how she was going to tell him that she couldn't possibly

 accept such an extravagant gift. But Garry was so rosy with

 self-satisfaction, waiting to be thanked and applauded, that she

 thought, 'And why not -just this once! The hell with conventions!" She

 kissed him for the second time, while the others stood around and

 grinned knowingly.

 In the MG on the way home she told him. 'Garry, I cannot possibly

 accept Rhapsody. It's much too generous of you." His disappointment was

 transparent and pathetic. 'But,' she went on, 'I could accept half of

 him. You keep the other half and we will race him together, as

 partners. We could even register our own racing colours." She was

 amazed at her own genius. A living creature owned jointly would cement

 the bond between them. 'Let all the Courtneys rant and rave. This one

 is mine,' she promised herselfi When they reached her apartment, she

 told him, 'Park there, next to the Mercedes." And she took his arm and

 led him to the elevator.

 Like her office, the apartment was an expression of her artistry and

 sense of form and colour. The balcony was high above the rocks, and the

 surf crashed and sucked back and forth below them so that it seemed they

 stood on the prow of an ocean liner.

 Holly brought a bottle of champagne and two tulip glasses from the

 kitchen. 'Open it!" she ordered and held the glasses while he spilled

 the creaming wine into them.

 'Here's to Rhapsody,' she gave him the toast.

 While she made a huge bowl of salad for their brunch, she instructed him

 in the art of mixing a dressing for it.

 They drank the rest of the champagne with the salad and then sprawled on

 the thick carpet of her living-room floor, surrounded by books of silk

 samples as they discussed their racing colours, and finally decided on a

 vivid fuchsia pink.

 'It will look beautiful against Rhapsody's glossy black skin." She

 looked up at him. He was kneeling beside her, and her instinct told her

 that this was the precise moment.

 She rolled slowly on to her back and hooded those hi-coloured eyes

 invitingly, but still he hesitated and she had to reach up with one hand

 and draw his head down to hers, and then his strength shocked her.

 She felt helpless as an infant in his embrace, but after a while when

 she was certain that he would not hurt her, she began to enjoy the

 sensation of physical helplessness in the storm of his kisses and let

 him take control for a while until she sensed that he needed guidance

 once again.

 She bit him on the cheek and when he released her and started back in

 surprise and consternation, she broke from his grip and darted to the

 bedroom door. As she looked back he was still kneeling in the centre of

 the floor, staring after her in confusion, and she laughed and left the

 door open.

 He came in like a bull at the cape, but she stopped him dead with

 another kiss and, holding his mouth with hers, unbuttoned his shirt and

 slipped her hand into the opening. She was unprepared for the thick

 pelt of springing dark hair that covered his chest, and her own reaction

 to it. All her other men had been smooth and soft. She believed that

 was her preference, but now her sexual arousal was instantaneous and her

 loins swam with excitement.

 She dominated him with her lips and fingertips, not allowing him to move

 while she undressed him and then, as the last of his clothing fell

 around his ankles, she exclaimed aloud, 'Oh dear God!" and then caught

 his wrist to prevent him covering himself with his hands.

 None of her other men had been like this, and for a moment she felt

 uncertain of her ability to cope with him. Then her wanting overwhelmed

 any doubts and she led him to the bed. She made him lie there while she

 undressed in front of him, and every time he tried to cover himself she

 ordered him. 'No! I like to look at you." He was so different, all

 muscle and hair: his concave belly was rippled with muscle like the sand

 on a wind-swept beach and his limbs were clad in muscle. She wanted to

 begin, but she wanted even more to ensure that this would be something

 that he would never forget, that would make him hers for all his life.

 'Don't move,' she whispered, and naked she stooped over him.

 She let her breasts swing forward and her nipples just brush the curls

 on his chest, and she touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of his

 eye and then ran it down slowly to his mouth.

 'I have never done this before,' he whispered hoarsely. 'I don't know

 how." 'Shh, my darling, don't talk,' she whispered into his mouth, but

 the idea of his virginity elated her.

 'He's mine,' she told herself triumphantly. 'After today he will be

 mine for ever!" And she ran her tongue down across his chin, down over

 his throat, until she felt him thrust up hard and thick between her

 dangling breasts and then she reached down and took him in both hands.

 It was darkening in the room when at last they lay exhausted.

 Outside the sun had sunk into the Atlantic and left the evening sky

 infuriated by its going. Garry lay with his cheek cushioned on her

 breasts. Like an unweaned child he could not get enough of them.

 Holly was proud of her bosom and his fascination with it amused and

 flattered her. She smiled contentedly as he nuzzled against her.

 His spectacles lay on the bedside table and she studied his face in the

 half light. She liked the big virile nose and the determined line of

 his jaw, but the steel-framed spectacles had to go, she decided, those

 and the Prince of Wales checks which emphasized the squatness of his

 body. On Monday her first concern would be to find out from Ian Gantry,

 her partner, the name of his personal tailor. She had already chosen

 the pattern - crisp grey or distinguished blue, with a vertical chalk

 stripe that would make him taller and slimmer. His reconstruction would

 be one of her most challenging and rewarding projects and she looked

 forward to it.

 'You are wonderful,' Garry murmured. 'I've never met anybody like you

 in my life." Holly smiled again and stroked his thick dark hair. It

 sprang up under her fingers.

 'You've got a double crown,' she told him softly. 'That means you are

 lucky and brave." 'I didn't know that,' he said, which was not

 surprising, as Holly had invented it as she said it.

 'Oh yes,' she assured him. 'But it also means that we have to grow our

 hair a little fuller over the crown, otherwise it will stand up in a

 tuft like this." 'I didn't know that either." Garry reached up and felt

 his tuft.

 try that, but you'll have to tell me how long to let it grow - I don't

 want to look like a hippy." 'Of course." 'You are wonderful,' he

 repeated. 'I mean, totally wonderful." 'The woman is obviously a

 gold-digger,' Centaine said firmly.

 'We can't be sure of that, Mater,' Shasa demurred. 'I have heard that

 she is a damned good architect." 'That has absolutely nothing to do with

 it. She is old enough to be his mother. She is after one thing, and

 one thing only. We'll have to put a stop to this immediately. Otherwise

 it could get out of hand.

 It's the talk of the town, all my friends are gloating. They were at

 Kelvin Grove on Saturday, smooching all over the dance floor." 'Oh, I

 think it will blow over,' Shasa suggested. 'Just so long as we take no

 notice." 'Garry hasn't slept at Weltevreden for a week. The woman is as

 blatant and shameless --' Centaine broke off and shook her head.

 'You'll have to speak to her." The?" Shasa raised an eyebrow.

 'You are good with females. I'd be sure to lose my temper withe hussy."

 Shasa sighed, although secretly he welcomed the excuse to have look at

 this Holly Carmichael. He couldn't imagine what Garry taste in women

 would be. The lad had never given any indicatio before. Shasa imagined

 sensible shoes and horn-rimmed glasses, f and fortyish, serious and

 erudite - and he shuddered. 'All righ Mater, I'll warn her off, and if

 that doesn't work we can always sen Garry down to the vet to be fixed."

 'I wish you wouldn't joke about something as worrying as this said

 Centaine severely Although Holly had been expecting it for almost a

 month, whe the call finally came the shock of it was unmitigated. Shasa

 Courtne had addressed the Businesswomen's Club the previous year, so sh,

 recognized his voice instantly, and was glad that it was he rathe than

 Centaine Courtney she had to content with.

 'Mrs Carmichael, my son Garry has shown me some of your preliminary

 sketches for the Shasaville township. As you know, Court.

 they Mining and Finance are considerable shareholders in the project

 Although Garry is responsible for the development, I hoped we coulc meet

 to exchange a few ideas." She had suggested her own office, but Shasa

 neatly thwarted her attempt to choose the field of battle and sent a

 chauffeur to bring her out to Weltevreden in the Rolls. She realized

 that she was being deliberately placed in surroundings which were

 intended to overpower her, and show her up in the splendour of a world

 in which there was no place for her. So she went to endless pains with

 her dress and appearance, and as she was ushered into Shasa Courtney's

 study she saw him start and knew that first blood was hers. She made the

 room with all its treasures seem as though it had been designed around

 her, and Shasa Courtney's cool supercilious smile faded as he came to

 take her hand.

 'What a magnificent Turner,' she said. 'I always think he must have

 been an early riser. The sunlight only has that golden lustre in the

 early morning." His expression changed again as he realized there was

 depth below her striking exterior.

 They circled the room, ostensibly admiring the other paintings, fencing

 elegantly, testing each other for weakness and finding none, until Shasa

 deliberately broke the pattern with a direct personal compliment to

 fluster her.

 'You have the most remarkable eyes,' he said, and watched her keenly to

 see how she would react. She counter-attacked instantly.

 'Garrycalls !hem amethyst and sapphire." She had wrongfooted him neauy.

 He naa expected her to avoid that name until he raised it.

 'Yes, I understand the two of you have been working closely." He went to

 the ivory-inlaid table on which glasses and decanters had been set out.

 'May I offer you one of our sherries? We are very proud of them." He

 brought her the glass and looked into those extraordinary eyes.

 'The little devil,' he thought ruefully. 'He has done it again. Who

 would have expected Garry to come up with something like this!" She

 sipped the wine. 'I like it,' she said. 'It's dry as flint without any

 astringency." He inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the accuracy

 of her judgment.

 'I can see that it would be fruitless to attempt to obfuscate. I didn't

 ask you here to discuss the Shasaville project." 'That's good,' shesaid.

 'Because I didn't even bother to bring the latest drawings." He laughed

 delightedly. 'Let's sit down and get comfortable." She chose the Louis

 Quatorze chair with Aubusson embroidered upholstery because she had seen

 the twin to it in the Victoria and Albert Museum, and she crossed one

 ankle over the other and watched him struggle to get his eyes back up

 again.

 'I had fully intended to buy you off,' he said. 'I realize, after

 having met you, that would have been a mistake." She said nothing, but

 watched him over the rim of the glass, and her foot swung like a

 metronome, with the same ominous rhythm.

 'I wondered what price to set,' he went on. 'And the figure of one

 hundred thousand came to mind." The foot kept swinging and despite

 himself Shasa glanced down at her calf and exquisitely turned ankle.

 'Of course, that was ludicrous,' he went on, still watching her foot in

 the Italian leather court shoe. 'I realize now that I should have

 considered at least half a million." He was trying to find her price,

 and he looked back at her face, searching for the first glint of

 avarice, but it was hard to concentrate.

 Sapphire and amethyst, forsooth, Garry's hormones must be boiling out of

 his ears - and Shasa felt a stab of envy.

 'Naturally, I was thinking in pounds sterling. I haven't adjusted to

 this rand business yet." 'How fortunate, Mr Courtney,' she said, 'that

 you decided not to insult us both. This way we can be friends. I'd

 prefer that." All right, that didn't work out the way he had planned. He

 set down his sherry glass. 'Garry is still a child,' he changed tack.

 She shook her head. 'He's a man. It just needed somebody to convince

 him of that. It wasn't difficult to do." 'He doesn't know his own

 mind." 'He is one of the most definite and determined men I have ever

 met. He knows exactly what he wants and he will do anything to ge it."

 She waited a moment to let the challenge contained in thost words become

 clearer, then she repeated softly, 'Anything." 'Yes,' he agreed softly.

 'That's a Courtney family trait. We will dc anything to get what we

 want - or to destroy anything that stands ir our way." He paused, just

 as she had done and then repeated quietly 'Anything." 'You had three

 sons, Shasa Courthey. You have one left. Are yoL willing to take that

 chance?" He reared back in his chair and stared at her. She was

 unprepared for the agony that she saw in his expression and for a moment

 she thought she had gone too far. Then he subsided slowly. 'You fight

 hard and dirty,' he acknowledged sadly.

 'When it is worthwhile." She knew it was dangerous with an opponent of

 this calibre, but she felt sorry for him. 'And for me this is

 worthwhile." 'For you, yes, I can see that - but for Garry?" 'I think I

 owe you complete honesty. At the beginning it was a little bit of

 daring. I was intrigued by his youth - that in itself can be

 devastatingly appealing. And by the other obvious attractions which you

 have hinted at." 'The Courtney empire and his place in it." 'Yes. I

 would have been less than human if that hadn't interested me. That's

 the way it started, but almost immediately it began to change." 'In what

 way?" 'I began to understand his enormous potential, and my own

 influence in developing it fully. Haven't you noticed any change in him

 in the three months since we have been together? Can you truly tell me

 my influence on him has been detrimental?" Despite himself Shasa smiled.

 'The pinstripe suits and the hornrimmed glasses. They are a vast

 improvement, I'll admit." 'Those are only the unimpoœtant outward signs

 of the important inward changes. In three months Garry has become a

 mature and confident man, he has discovered many of his own strengths

 and talents and virtues, not the least of which is a warm and loving

 disposition. With my help he will discover all the others." 'So you see

 yourself in the role of architect still, building a marble palace out of

 clay bricks." 'Don't mock him." She was angry, protective and defensive

 as a lioness. 'He is probably the best of all the Courtneys and I am

 probably the best thing that will ever happen to him in his life." He

 stared at her, and exclaimed with wonder as it dawned upon him. 'You

 love him - you really love him." 'So you understand at last." She stood

 up and turned towards the door.

 'Holly,' he said, and the unexpected use of her first name arrested her.

 She wavered, still pale with anger, and he went on softly, 'I didn't

 understand, forgive me. I think Garry is a fortunate young man to have

 found you." He held out his hand. 'You said we might be friends - is

 that still possible?"

 Table Bay is wide open to the north-westerly gales that bore in off the

 wintry grey Atlantic. The ferry took the short steep seas on her bows

 and lurched over the crests, throwing the spray as high as the stubby

 masthead.

 It was the first time Vicky had ever been at sea and the motion

 terrified her as nothing on earth had ever done. She clutched the child

 to her, and stared straight ahead, but it was difficult to maintain her

 balance on the hard wooden bench, and thick spray dashed against the

 porthole and poured over the glass in a wavering mirage that distorted

 her view. The island looked like some dreadful creature swimming to

 meet them, and she recalled all the legends of her tribe of the monsters

 that came out of the sea and devoured any human being found upon the

 shore.

 She was glad that Joseph was with her. Her half-brother had grown into

 a fine young man. He reminded her of the faded photograph of her

 grandfather, Mbejane Dinizulu, that her mother kept on the wall of her

 hut. Joseph had the same broad forehead and wide-spread eyes, and

 although his nose was not flattened but high-bridged, his clean-shaven

 chin was rounded and full.

 He had just completed his law degree at the black University of Fort

 Hare, but before he underwent his consecration into the hereditary role

 of Zulu chieftainship, Vicky had prevailed upon him to accompany her

 upon the long journey down the length of the subcontinent. As soon as

 he returned to the district of Ladyburg in Zululand, he would begin his

 training for the chieftainship. This was not the initiation to which

 the young men of the Xhosa and the other tribes were forced to submit.

 Joseph would not suffer the brutal mutilation of ritual circumcision.

 King Chaka had abolished that custom. He had not tolerated the time

 that his young warriors wasted in recuperation, which could better be

 spent in military training.

 Joseph stood beside Vicky, balancing easily to the ferry's agitated

 plunges, and he placed his hand upon her shoulder to reassure her.

 'Not much longer,' he murmured. 'We will soon be there." Vicky shook

 her head vehemently, and clutched her son more securely to her bosom.

 The cold sweat broke out upon her forehea, and waves of nausea assailed

 her, but she fought them back.

 'I am the daughter of a chief,' she told herself. 'And the wife of

 king. I will not surrender to womanly weakness." The ferry ran out of

 the gale into the calm waters in the lee of t island, and Vicky drew a

 long ragged breath and stood up. Her le were unsteady, and Joseph

 helped her to the rail.

 They stood side by side and stared at the bleak and infamous si houette

 of Robben Island. The name derived from the Dutch war for seal, and the

 colonies of these animals that the first explorers ha discovered upon

 its barren rocks.

 When the fishing and sealing industries based upon the islan failed, it

 was used as a leper colony and a place of banishment fc political

 prisoners, most of them black. Even Makana, the prophe and warrior, who

 had led the first Xhosa onslaughts against th white settlers cross the

 great Fish river had been sent here after hi capture, and here he had

 died in 1820, drowned in the roaring sea that beat upon the island as he

 tried to escape. For fifty years hi people had refused to believe he

 was dead, and to this day his nam was a rallying cry for the tribe.

 One hundred and forty-three years later, there was another prophe and

 warrior imprisoned upon the island, and Vicky stared out acros the

 narrowing strip of water at the low square unlovely structure the new

 high-security prison for dangerous political prisoners when Moses Gama

 was now incarcerated. After his stay of execution Moses had remained on

 death row at Pretoria Central Prison lo almost two years, until finally

 mitigation of the death sentence to life imprisonment at hard labour had

 been officially granted by the stat president and he had been

 transferred to the island. Moses wa, allowed one visit every six

 months, and Vicky was bringing his son to see him.

 The journey had not been easy, for Vicky herself was the subject of a

 banning order. She had shown herself an enemy of the state by her

 appearances at Moses' trial, dressed in the colours of the African

 National Congress, and her inflammatory utterances which were widely

 reported by the news media.

 Even to leave the township of Drake's Farm to which the banning order

 confined her, she had to obtain a travel permit from the local

 magistrate. This document set out precisely the terms upon which she

 was allowed to travel, the exact time which she was required to leave

 her cottage, the route and means of transport she must take, the

 duration of her visit to her husband and the route she must take upon

 her return journey.

 The ferry manoeuvred in towards the jetty and there were uniformed

 warders to seize the mooring ropes as they were thrown across. Joseph

 took the boy's hand from her and with his free hand helped Vicky across

 the narrow gap. They stood together on the wooden boards of the jetty

 and looked around uncertainly. The warders ignored them as they went on

 with the business of docking and unloading the ferry.

 It was ten minutes before one of them called across to them, 'All right,

 come this way,' and they followed him up the paved road towards the

 security block.

 The first glimpse that Vicky had of her husband after six months

 appalled her.

 'You are so thin,' she cried.

 'I have not been eating very well." He sat down on the stool facing her

 through the mesh of the screen. They had developed a cryptic code

 during the four visits she had been allowed at Pretoria Central, and not

 eating well meant that he was on another hunger strike.

 He smiled at her and his face was skull-like so that his lips had

 retracted and his teeth were too big for his face. When he placed his

 hands on the shelf in front of him his wrists protruded from the cuffs

 of his khaki prison uniform and they were bone covered with a thin layer

 of skin.

 'Let me see my son,' he said, and she drew Matthew to her.

 'Greet your father,' she told the boy, and he stared solemnly at Moses

 through the grille. The gaunt stranger on the other side of the wire

 had never picked him up or held him on his lap, had never kissed or

 fondled him, had never even touched him. The mesh was always between

 them.

 A warder sat beside Moses to see that the visiting rules were strictly

 observed. The time allowed was one hour, sixty minutes exactly, and

 only family matters could be discussed - no news of the day, no

 discussion of prison conditions and especially nothing with a political

 flavour to it.

 One hour of family matters, but they used their code. 'I am sure that

 my appetite will return once I have news of the family,' Moses to1d her,

 'on paper." So she knew that he was hunger-striking to be allowed to

 read the newspapers. Therefore he would not have heard the news about

 Nelson Mandela.

 'The elders have asked Gundwane to visit them,' she told him.

 Gundwane was their code name for Mandela. It meant 'cane rat' and the

 elders were the authorities. He nodded to show that he understood that

 Mandela had at last been arrested, and he smiled tautly.

 The information he had given to Manfred De La Rey had been used

 effectively.

 'How are the family members on the farm?" he asked.

 'All is well, and they are planting their crops,' Vicky told him, and he

 understood that the Umkhonto we Sizwe teams working out of Puck's Hill

 had begun their campaign of terror bombings. 'Perhaps you will all be

 reunited sooner than we think,' she suggested.

 'Let us hope so,' Moses agreed. A reunion would mean that the Puck's

 Hill team would join him here on the island, or take the shorter road to

 the gallows.

 The hour passed too swiftly, and the warder was standing up.

 'Time up. Say your goodbyes." 'I leave my heart with you, my husband,'

 Vicky told him, and watched the warder lead him away. He did not look

 back at her, and his gait dragged like that of an exhausted old man.

 'It is only the starvation,' she told Joseph as they walked back to the

 ferry. 'He is still courageous as a lion, but weak from lack of food."

 'He is finished,' Joseph contradicted her quietly. 'The Boers have

 beaten him. He will never breathe the air of freedom again. He will

 never see the outside of his prison again." 'For all of us, born black,

 this whole country is a prison,' Vicky said fiercely, and Joseph did not

 reply until they were once more aboard the ferry and running back before

 the gale, towards the flattopped mountain whose lower slopes were

 flecked with white walls and shining glass.

 'Moses Gama chose the wrong road,' Joseph said. 'He tried to assault

 the walls of the white fortress. He tried to burn it down, not

 realizing that even if he had succeeded all he would have inherited

 would have been ashes." 'And you, Joseph Dinizulu,' Vicky flashed at him

 scornfully, 'you are wiser?" 'Perhaps not, but at least I will learn

 from the mistakes of Moses Gama and Nelson Mandela. I will not spend my

 life rotting in a white man's prison." 'How will you assault the white

 man's fortress, my clever little brother?" 'I will cross the lowered

 drawbridge,' he said. 'I will go in through the open gates, and one day

 the castle and its treasures will be mine, even if I have to share a

 little of them with the white man. No, my angry little sister, I will

 not destroy those treasures with bombs and flames. I will inherit

 them." 'You are mad, Joseph Dinizulu." She stared at him, and he smiled

 complacently at her.

 'We shall see who is mad and who is sane,' he said. 'But remember this,

 little sister, that without the white man we would still be living in

 grass huts. Look to the north and see the misery of those countries

 :whites. No, my sister, I will keep the w. bite ae will work for me,

 not I for him." son." Hendrick Tabaka leaned forward and P ....

 Raleigh's shoulder. 'Your anger will destroy you. Your enemy oo

 strong. See what has happened to Moses Gama, my own brother. See what

 is the fate of Nelson Mandela.

 They went out to fight the lion with bare hands." 'Others are still

 fighting,' Raleigh pointed out. 'The warriors of Umkhonto we Sizwe are

 still fighting. Every day we hear of their brave deeds. Every day their

 bombs explode." 'They are throwing pebbles at a mountain,' Hendrick said

 sadly.

 'Every time they explode a little bomb against the pylon of a power

 line, Vorster and De La Rey arm another thousand police and write

 another hundred banning orders." Hendrick shook his head. 'Forget your

 anger, my son, there is a fine life for you at my side. If you follow

 Moses Gama and Mandela, you will end the way they have ended - but I can

 offer you wealth and power. Take a wife, Raleigh, a good fat wife and

 give her many sons, forget the madness and take your place at my side."

 'I had a wife, my father, and I left her at Sharpeville,' Raleigh said.

 'But before I left her, I made a vow. With my fingers deep in her

 bloody wounds, I made a vow." 'Vows are easy to make,' Hendrick

 whispered, and Raleigh saw how age had played like a blowtorch across

 his features, withering and searing and melting the bold lines of his

 cheekbones and jaw.

 'But vows are difficult to live with. Your brother Wellington has also

 made a vow to the white man's god. He will live like a eunuch for the

 rest of his life, without ever knowing the comfort of a woman's body. I

 fear for you, Raleigh, fruit of my loins. I fear that your own vow will

 be a heavy burden for all your life." He sighed again. 'But since I

 cannot persuade you, what can I do to ease the rocky pathway for you?"

 'You know that many of the young people are leaving this country?"

 Raleigh asked.

 'Not only the young ones,' Hendrick nodded. 'Some of the high command

 have gone also. Oliver Tambo has fled and Mbeki and Joe Modise with

 many others." 'They have gone to set the first phase of the revolution

 afoot." Raleigh's eyes began to shine with excitement. 'Lenin himself

 taught us that we cannot move immediately to the communist revolution.

 We must achieve the phase of national liberation first. We have to

 create a broad front of liberals and churchmen and students and workers

 under the leadership of the vanguard party. Oliver Tambc has gone to

 create that vanguard party - the anti-apartheid movemenl in exile - and

 I want to be part of that spearhead of the revolution.

 'You wish to leave the country of your birth?" Hendrick stared all him

 in bewilderment. 'You wish to leave me and your family?" 'It is my

 duty, Father. If the evils of this system are ever to be destroyed, we

 will need the help of that world out there, of all the united nations of

 the world." 'You are dreaming, my son,' Hendrick told him. 'Already

 that world, in which you place so much trust and hope, has forgotten

 Sharpeville. Once again money from the foreign nations, from America

 and Britain and France, is pouring into this country. Every day the

 country prospers --' 'America has refused to supply arms." 'Yes,'

 Hendrick chuckled ruefully. 'And the Boers are making their own. You

 cannot win, my son, so stay with me." 'I must go, my Father. Forgive

 me, but I have no choice. I must go, but I need your help." 'What do

 you want me to do?" 'There is a man, a white man, who is helping the

 young ones to escape." Hendrick nodded. 'Joe Cicero." 'I want to meet

 him, Father." 'It will take a little time, for he is a secret man, this

 Joe Cicero." It took almost two weeks. They met on a municipal bus that

 Raleigh boarded at the central depot in Vereeniging. He wore a blue

 beret, as he had been instructed, and sat in the second row of seats

 from the back.

 The man who took the seat directly behind him lit a cigarette and as the

 bus pulled away, said softly, 'Raleigh Tabaka." Raleigh turned to look

 into a pair of eyes like puddles of spilled engine oil.

 'Do not look at me,' Joe Cicero said. 'But listen carefully to what I

 tell you --' Three weeks later Raleigh Tabaka, carrying a duffel bag and

 authentic seaman's papers, went up the gangplank of a Dutch freighter

 that was carrying a cargo of wool to the port of Liverpool. He never saw

 the continent disappear below the watery horizon for he was already

 below decks at work in the ship's engine room.

 Scan did the deal at breakfast on the last day of the safari. The

 client owned seventeen large leather tanneries in as many different

 states and half the real estate in Tucson, Arizona. His name was Ed

 Liner and he was seventy-two years of age.

 'Son, I don't know why I want to buy myself a safari company.

 I'm getting a little long in the tooth for this big game stuff,' he

 grumbled.

 'That's bullshit, Ed,' Sean told him. 'You nearly walked me off my feet

 after that big jumbo, and the trackers all call you Bwana One-Shot." Ed

 Liner looked pleased with himselfú He was a wiry little man with a ruff

 of snowy hair around his brown-freckled pate. 'Give me the facts

 again,' he invited. 'One last time." Sean had been working on him for

 three weeks, since the first day of the safari, and he knew Ed had the

 figures by heart, but he repeated them now.

 'The concession is five hundred square miles, with a forty-mile frontage

 on the south bank of Lake Kariba --' As he listened, Ed Liner stroked

 his wife as though he were caressing a pet kitten.

 She was his third wife and she was just two years younger than Sean, but

 fifty years younger than her husband. She had been a dancer at the

 Golden Egg in Vegas, and she had a dancer's legs and carriage, with big

 innocent blue eyes and a curling cloud of blond hair.

 She watched Sean with a vicious little curl to her cupid-bow lips as he

 made his pitch. Sean had been working on her just as assiduously as he

 had on her husband, thus far with as little success.

 'All you've got, honey,' she had told Sean, 'is a pretty face and a

 hungry dick. The woods are full of those. Daddy Eddie has got fifty

 million bucks. It's no contest, sonny boy." The camp table was set

 under a magnificent wild fig tree on the banks of the Mara river. It

 was a bright African morning. The plain beyond the river was golden

 with winter grass, and studded with flat-topped acacia trees. The herds

 of wildebeest were dark shadows on the gold and a giraffe was feeding

 from the upper branches of the nearest acacia, his long graceful neck

 swaying against the brittle blue of the sky, his hide paved with bold

 rectangles of red brown. From up-river there came the bellowing

 sardonic laughter of a bull hippo, while from the branches of the fig

 tree above them the golden weaver birds dangled upside down from their

 woven basket nests, fluttering and shrilling to entice the drab brown

 females to move in and take up residence. Legend had it that both

 Hemingway and Ruark had camped at this very spot and breakfasted beneath

 this same wild fig.

 'What do you think, Sugar Sticks. Ed Liner ran his bony brown fingers

 down the inside of his wife's thighú She wore wide-legged khaki culottes

 and from where Sean sat he could see a little re, blond pubic curl

 peeking out from under the elastic of her panties 'Do you think we

 should give old Sean here a half million bucks t set up our very own

 safari outfit down in the Zambezi valley o Rhodesia?" 'You know best,

 Daddy Eddie,' she affected a cute little-girl voice and she batted her

 long eyelashes at him and turned so that he: bosom strained the buttons

 of her khaki shirt.

 'Just think of it,' Sean invited. 'Your very own hunting concession to

 do with as you want." He watched her carefully as he went on 'You could

 shoot the full quota all yourself if you wanted, as many animals as you

 wanted." Despite her curls and pouting lips, Lan Liner had as vicious a

 sadistic streak as any man Sean had ever hunted with. While Ed had

 chosen only to take the lion and elephant that he had paid for, Lana had

 killed every single animal she was entitled to.

 and then had killed those her husband had refused.

 She was a passable shot, and derived as much pleasure from cutting down

 one of the dainty little Thompson's gazelle with her .300 Weatherby

 magnum as she had when she dropped her black-maned Masai lion with a

 perfect heart shot. He had seen the sexual radiance in her immediately

 after each kill, heard her rapid breathing and seen the pulse beat in

 her throat with excitement, and his philanderer's instinct had assured

 him that Lana Liner was vulnerable to him only in those few minutes

 after she had seen the bullet strike and the blood flash.

 'As much hunting as you want, whenever you want it,' Sean tempted her,

 and saw the excitement in her baby blue eyes.

 She ran the tip of her, tongue over her scarlet lips and said in her

 breathless little-girl voice, 'Why don't you buy it for my rthday, Daddy

 Eddie." 'Goddamm!" Ed laughed. 'Why not! Okay, son, you've got

 yourself a deal. We'll call it Lana Safaris. I'll get my lawyers to

 draw up the papers soon as we get home to Tucson." Sean clapped his

 hands, and shouted at the kitchen tent. 'Maramba! Letta champagne

 hapa. Pacey! Pacey!" and the camp waiter in his long white kanza and

 red pill-box fez brought the green bottle on its silver tray, dewed with

 cold from the refrigerator.

 They drank the wine and laughed in the morning sunlight, and shook hands

 and discussed the new venture until the gunbearer brought the hunting

 car around with the rifles in the racks and Matatu, the Ndorobo tracker,

 perched up on the back and grinning like a monkey.

 'I've had enough,' Ed said. 'Guess I'll get packed up and ready to meet

 the charter plane when it comes in this afternoon." Then he saw the pout

 of disappointment on Lana's red lips. 'You go off with Sean, Sugar

 Sticks,' he told her. 'Have a good hunt, but don't be late back.

 The charter flight is due to arrive at three, and we must get back to

 Nairobi before dark." Sean drove with Lana in the seat beside him. He

 had cut the sleeves out of his shirt to leave his upper arms bare, and

 they were sleek and glossy with muscle. Dark chest hair curled out of

 the vee neck of the shirt, and he wore his shining dark hair in a

 page-boy almost to his shoulders, but bound up around the forehead with

 a patterned silk bandana to keep it out of his eyes.

 When he grinned at her, he was almost impossibly handsome, but there was

 a vindictive twist to his smile as he said, 'Ready for a bit of sport,

 sport?" And she said. 'Just as long as I get to do the shooting, sonny

 boy." They followed the track along the river bank, heading back towards

 the hills. The Land-Rover was stripped and the windshield removed, and

 Matatu and the gunbearer in the raised back seat scanned the edges of

 the riverine bush and searched the track for sign of passage during the

 night.

 Alarmed by the engine beat, a bushbuck family came dancing up the bank

 from the river, heading for the dense cover with the ewe and the lamb

 leading, and the ram, striped and spotted with cream on a dark chocolate

 ground, his corkscrew horns held high.

 'I want him,' Lana cried and reached over her shoulder for the

 Weatherby.

 'Leave him,' Sean snapped. 'He won't go fifteen inches and you've got a

 better trophy already." She pouted at him sulkily, and he ignored her as

 the bushbuck scampered into the bush. Sean hit four-wheel drive and

 angled the Land-Rover down the bank of one of the Mara's tributaries,

 splashed and jolted through water as deep as the hubs and then roared up

 the far bank.

 A small herd of Burchell's zebra cantered away ahead of them, stiff

 black manes erect, their vivid stripes shaded to nondescript grey at a

 distance, uttering their abrupt honking bark. Lana eyed them hungrily,

 but she had already shot the twenty zebra allowed on both her and Ed's

 licences.

 The track swung back towards the river and through trees they had a view

 across the wide plains. The Masai Mara, which meant the great spotted

 place of the Masai, and the grassland were blotched with herds of game

 and clumps of acacia.

 'Bwana,' Matatu cried, and at the same instant Scan saw the sign.

 He braked the Land-Rover and with Matatu beside him went to examine the

 splashes of khaki-green dung and the huge round bovine prints in the

 soft earth of the track. The dung was loose and wet and Matatu thrust

 his forefnger into one of the pats to test for hod heat.

 'They drank at the river an hour before dawn,' he said.

 Sean walked back to the Land-Rover and stood close to Lana.

 almost touching her as he said, 'Three old bulls. They crossed three

 hours ago, but they are feeding and we could catch them within an hour.

 I think they are the same three we saw the day before yesterday." They

 had spotted the dark shapes in the dusk, from the opposite bank of the

 wide Mara river, but with insufficient daylight left for them to circle

 upstream to the ford and take up the chase. 'If they are the same old

 mud bulls, one of them is a fifty-incher, and there aren't many of them

 that size around any more. Do you want to have a go?" She jumped down

 from the Land-Rover, and reached for the Weatherby in the gun rack.

 'Not that popgun, Sugar Sticks,' Sean warned her. 'Those are big mean

 old buff out there. Take Ed's Winchester." The .458 threw a bullet more

 than twice as heavy as the 200-grain Nosier that the Weatherby fired.

 'I shoot better with my own piece than with Ed's cannon,' Lana said.

 'And only Ed is allowed to call me Sugar Sticks." 'Ed is paying me a

 thousand dollars a day for the best advice on Harley Street. Take the

 .458, and is it all right if I call you Treacle Pins, then?" 'You can go

 screw, sonny boy,' Lana said and her baby voice gave the obscenity a

 strangely lascivious twist.

 'That' exactly what I had in mind, Treacle Pins, but let's go kill a

 buff first." She tossed the Weatherby to her gunbearer, and strode away

 from him with her hard round buttocks oscillating in the khaki culottes.

 'Just like the cheeks of a squirrel chewing a nut,' Sean thought

 happily, and took the big double-barrelled Gibbs down from the rack.

 The spoor was gross, three big bull buffalo weighing over a ton each and

 scarring the earth with brazen hooves and grazing as they went. Matatu

 wanted to run away with it, but Sean checked him. He didn't want to

 bring Lana up to the chase shaking and panting with fatigue, so they

 went out on it at an extended walk, going hard but keeping within the

 girl's capabilities.

 In the open acacia forest they reached the spot where the bulls had

 ceased feeding and bunched up, then struck determinedly towards the blue

 silhouette of distant hills, and Sean explained to Lana in a whisper,

 'This is where they were when the sun rose. As soon as it was light,

 they headed for the thick stuff. I know where they will lie up, we'll

 catch them with another half hour." Around them the forest closed in,

 and acacia gave way to the dense claustrophobic thorn and green jess.

 Visibility ahead dropped to a hundred and then fifty feet, and they had

 to crouch beneath the interlacing branches. The heat built up, and the

 dappled light was deceptive, filling the forest with strange shapes and

 menacing shadow. The stink of the buffalo seemed to steam around them

 in the heat, a rank gamy smell, and they found the flattened beds and

 smeared yellow dung where the bulls had lain down for the first time,

 and then stood up and moved on.

 Ahead of them Matatu made the open-handed sign for 'Very close', and

 Sean opened the breech of the Gibbs and changed the big brass .577

 Kynoch cartridges for two others from his bullet pouch. He kept the

 original pair between the fingers of his left hand, ready for an instant

 reload. He could fire those four cartridges in half the time it would

 take even the most skilled rifleman to fire four from a magazine rifle.

 It was so silent and still in the jess that they could hear each other

 breathe, and the blood pounding in their own ears.

 Suddenly there was a clatter, and they all froze. Sean recognized the

 sound. Somewhere just ahead of them a buffalo had shaken his great

 black head to drive away the plaguing flies, and one of his curved horns

 had struck a branch. Sean sank on to his knees signalling Lana to come

 up beside him, and together they crawled forward.

 Suddenly and unexpectedly they came to a hole in the jess, a tiny

 clearing twenty paces across, and the earth was trodden like a cattle

 kraal and littered with pancakes of old black dung.

 They lay on the edge of the clearing and peered across into the tangled

 vegetation on the far side. The sunlight into the clearing dazzled

 them, and the shadow beyond it was confused and obscure.

 Then the bull shook his head again, and Sean saw them. They were lying

 in a bunch, a mountainous mass of blackness in the shadows, and their

 heads overlapped so that the heavy bosses and curls of horn formed an

 inextricable puzzle. Though they were less than thirty paces away, it

 was impossible to separate one animal from the others, or one set of

 horns from the bunch.

 Slowly Sean turned his head and laid his lips against Lana's ear. 'I am

 going to get them up,' he whispered. 'Be ready to take the shot as I

 call it." She was sweating and trembling. He could smell her fear and

 excitement, and it excited him also. He felt his loins thicken and

 stiffen, and for a moment he savoured the sensation, pressing his hips

 against the earth as though he had her body under him. Then

 deliberately he knocked the brass cartridges in his left hand against

 the steel barreb of the Gibbs. The sharp metallic sound was shocking in

 the silence.

 Across the clearing the three bulls lumbered to their feet, and faced

 the sound. Their heads were lifted, drooling wet muzzles held high and

 the bosses of rough horn, black as ironstone, joined above theiI vicious

 piggy little eyes, the tips curving down and up again to the wide

 points, and their ears flared like trumpets.

 'The middle one,' Sean said softly. 'Rake him through the chest." He

 stiflened in anticipation of her shot, and then glanced sideways.

 The barrel of the Weatherby was describing small erratic circles as Lana

 tried to hold her aim, and it flashed upon Sean that she had forgotten

 to change the power of her variable telescopic sight. She was looking

 at a bull buffalo from thirty paces through a lens of ten

 multiplications. It was like looking at a battleship through a

 microscope: all she was seeing was a black shapeless mass.

 'Don't shoot!" he whispered urgently but the Weatherby erupted in a long

 blazing muzzle-flash across the clearing, and the big bull lurched and

 tossed his head, grunting to the strike of shot. Sean saw the dried mud

 puff from his scabby black skin, low down in the joint of. his right

 shoulder, and as the bull spun away into the jess, Sean swung the Gibbs

 on him to take the back-up shot. But one of the other buffalo turned

 across the wounded animal, screening him for the instant that it took

 for him to crash away into the jess, and Sean lifted the Gibbs without

 firing.

 They lay side by side and listened to the thunderous rush of bodies

 dwindle into the jess.

 'I couldn't see clearly,' Lana said in her childish piping treble.

 'You had the scope on full power, you dilly bitch." 'But I hit him!"

 'Yes, Treacle Breeches, you hit him - more's the pity. You broke his

 right front leg." Sean stood up and whistled for Matatu. In a few quick

 words of Swahili he explained the predicament, and the little Ndorobo

 looked at Lana reproachfully.

 'Stay here with your gunbearer,' Sean ordered Lana. 'We'll go and

 finish the business." Tm going with you." Lana shook her head.

 'This is what I'm paid for,' Sean told her. 'Cleaning up the mess.

 Stay here and let me do my job." 'No,' she said. 'It's my buff. I'll

 finish it." 'I haven't got time to argue,' Sean said bitterly. 'Come on

 then, but do as you are told,' And he waved Matatu forward to pick up

 the blood spoor.

 There were bone splinters and hair where the bull had stood.

 'You smashed the big bone,' Sean told her. 'It's a racing certainty

 that the bullet broke up. At that range it was probably still going

 3500 foot per second when it hit - even a Nosier bullet can't stand

 that." The bull was bleeding profusely. Bright blood had sprayed the

 jess as he blundered through, and blood had formed a dark gelatinous

 puddle where he stood for the first time to listen for his pursuers.

 The other two bulls had deserted him and Sean grunted with satisfaction.

 That would prevent confusion, shooting at the wrong animal in the

 mix-up.

 Lana kept close beside him. She had removed the scope from the

 Weatherby and left it with the gunbearer, and now she carried the rifle

 at high port across her chest.

 Abruptly they stepped into another narrow clearing, and Matatu squeaked

 and bolted back between Sean and the girl as the bull broke from the far

 side of the clearing and came down on them in a bizarre crabbing

 sideways gait. His nose was up, and the long mournful droop of his

 horns gave him a funereal menace. His broken leg flapped loosely,

 hampering his gait, so he rocked and plunged, and bright blood was

 forced in a spurting stream from the wound by the movement.

 'Shoot!" said Sean. 'Aim at his nose!" But without looking at her he

 sensed her terror, and her first movement as she turned to run.

 'Come on, you yellow bitch. Stand and shoot it out,' he snarled at her.

 'This is what you wanted - now do it." The Weatherby whiplashed, and

 flame and thunder tore across the clearing. The buffalo flinched to the

 shot, and black flinty chips flew from the boss of his horns.

 'High!" Sean called. 'Shoot him on the nose. 'And she shot again, and

 hit the horn a second time and the bull kept coming.

 'Shoot!" Sean called, watching the great armoured head over the express

 sights of the Gibbs. 'Come on, bitch, kill him!" 'I can't,' she

 screamed. 'He's too close!" The bull filled all their existence, a

 mountain of black hide and muscle and lethal horn, so close that at last

 he dropped his head to toss and gore them, to rip and trample and crush

 them under the anvil of his crenellated boss.

 As the massive horns went down, Sean shot him through the brain and the

 bull rolled forward over his own head. Sean pulled Lana out from under

 the flying hooves as the bull somersaulted. She had dropped the rifle

 and now she clung to him helplessly, shaking, her red mouth slack and

 smeared with terror.

 'Matatu!" Sean called quietly, holding her to his chest, and the little

 Ndorobo reappeared at his side like a genie. 'Take the gunbearer with

 you,' Sean ordered. 'Go back to the Land-Rover and bring it back here,

 but do not hurry." Matatu grinned lewdly and ducked his head. He had an

 enormou respect for his Bwana's virility and he knew what Sean was going

 t do. He only wondered that it had taken so long for the Bwana t,

 straighten this pale albino creature's back for her. He disappearel

 into the jess like a black shadow and Sean turned the girl's face up to

 his own and thrust his tongue deeply into the wet red wound o her mouth.

 She moaned and clung to him, and with his free hand he unbucklec her

 belt and jerked down the culottes. They fell in a tangle arount her

 ankles and she kicked them away. He hooked his thumbs mt( the waistband

 of her panties and tore them off her, then he pusher her down on top of

 the hot and bleeding carcass of the buffalo. She fell with her legs

 sprawled open and the muscles of the dead anima were still twitching and

 contracting from the brain shot, and the sweet coppery smell of blood

 mingled with the rank wild stink of game and dust.

 Sean stood over her and tore open the front of his breeches and she

 looked up at him with the terror still clouding her eyes.

 'Oh you bastard,' she sobbed. 'You filthy rotten bastard." Sean dropped

 on his knees between her long loose limbs and cupped his hands under her

 hard little buttocks. As he lifted her lower body he saw that her

 fluffy blond mount was already as sodden as the fur of a drowned kitten.

 They drove back to camp with the body of the dead bull crammed into the

 back of the Land-Rover, the great horned head dangling over the side,

 and Matatu and the gunbearer perched upon it, singing the hunter's song.

 Lana never said a word all the way back. Ed Liner was waiting for them

 under the dining tent, but his welcoming grin faded as Lana threw her

 torn panties on the table in front of him and piped in her little-girl

 voice, 'You know what, naughty old Sean did, Daddy Eddie?

 He raped your little girl, that's what he did - he held her down and

 stuck his big dirty thing into her." Sean saw the fury and the hatred in

 the old man's faded eyes, and he groaned inwardly. 'The bitch,' he

 thought. 'The sneaky little bitch.

 You loved it. You screamed for more." Half an hour later Lana and Ed

 were in the red and silver Beechcraft Baron when it took off from the

 narrow bush strip. As it banked away on course for Nairobi, Sean

 glanced down at his own trouser front.

 'Well okay, King Kong,' he murmured. 'I hope you are satisfied, that

 just cost us fifty thousand dollars an inch." He turned back to the

 Land-Rover still shaking his head sadly as he picked up the bundle of

 mail that the pilot of the Beechcraft had brought down from the office

 in Nairobi. There was a yellow cable envelope on top of the pile and he

 opened it first.

 'I am marrying Holly Carmichael on 5th August. Please be my best man.

 Love. Garry." Sean read it through twice, and Lana and Ed Liner were

 forgotten.

 'I'd love to see what kind of bag would marry Garry,' he chuckled.

 'Pity I can't go home --' he broke off and thought about it. 'But why

 not! Why the hell not! Living dangerously is half the fun." Shasa

 Courtney sat at his desk in the st_udy at Weltevreden, studying the

 Turner on the opposite wall as he composed the next paragraph in his

 mind.

 He was drafting his Chairman's Report for the cabinet select committee

 of Armscor. The armaments company had been set up by special act of

 parliament, and the strict secrecy of its operations was ensured by that

 act.

 When President Eisenhower had initiated the arms embargo against South

 Africa as a punitive reaction to the Sharpeville massacre and the racial

 policies of the Verwoerd government, the country's annual expenditure on

 weapons manufacture had been a mere œ300,000. Four years later they had

 an annual budget of half a billion.

 'Dear old Ike did us a big favour." Shasa smiled now. 'The law of

 unforeseen consequences in action again, sanctions always backfire.

 Now our biggest worry is to find a testing ground for our own atomic

 bomb." He addressed himself once more to that section of his report, and

 wrote: Taking into consideration the foregoing, I am of the opinion that

 we should adopt the third option, i.e. underground testing. With this

 in view, the corporation has already conducted investigations to

 determine the most suitable geological areas. (See attached geological

 survey reports.) The shot holes will be drilled by a commercial diamond

 drilling company to a depth of four thousand feet to obviate

 contamination of the underground water supplies.

 There was a knock on the door and Shasa looked up in angry disbelief.

 The entire household knew that he was not to be disturbed, and there was

 no reason nor excuse for this intrusion.

 'Who is it?" he barked, and the door was opened without his permission.

 For a moment he did not recognize the person who stepped into the study.

 The long hair and deep tan, the flamboyant costume - the gilet of kudu

 skin, and the bright silk scarf knotted at the throat, the mosquito

 boots and cartridge belt were all unfamiliar. Shasa stood up

 uncertainly.

 'Sean?" he asked. 'No, I don't believe this is happening." He wanted to

 be angry and outraged. 'Damn it, Sean, I warned you never--' but he

 could_not go on, his joy was too ' - ú intense ana his voice petere--&

 out.

 'Hello Dad." Sean came striding towards him, and he was taller and more

 handsome and self-assured than Shasa remembered. Shasa abhorred all

 manner of theatrics and affectation of dress, but Sean wore his costume

 with such panache that it appeared natural and correct.

 'What the hell are you doing here?" Shasa found his voice at last, but

 there was no rancour in his question.

 'I came as soon as I got Garry's cable." 'Garry cabled you?" 'Best man -

 he wanted me to be his best man, and I didn't even have a chance to

 change." He stopped in front of Shasa, and for a moment they studied

 each other.

 'You are looking good, Pater,' Sean smiled, and his teeth were white as

 bone against the tan.

 'Sean, my boy." Shasa lifted his hands, and Sean seized him in a bear

 hug.

 'I thought about you every single day--' Sean's voice was tight and his

 cheek was pressed to Shasa's cheek. 'God, how I missed you, Dad." Shasa

 knew instinctively that it was a lie, but he was delighted that Sean had

 bothered to tell the lie.

 'I've missed you, too, my boy,' he whispered. 'Not every day, but often

 enough to hurt like hell. Welcome back to Weltevreden." And Sean kissed

 him. They had not lissed since Sean was a child, that sort of

 sentimental display was not Shasa's usual style, but now the pleasure of

 it was almost unbearable.

 Sean sat t Centame s right hand at dinner that evening. His dinner a '

 ' jacket was a little tight around the chest and smelled of moth balls,

 but the servants, overjoyed to have him home, had pressed razor edges

 into the crease of his trousers and steamed out the silk lapels. He had

 shampooed his hair, and oddly the thick glossy locks seemed to enhance

 rather than detract from his over-powering masculinity.

 Isabella, taken by surprise like everybody else, had come drifting

 downstairs, dressed for dinner with her shoulders and back bare, but her

 cool and distant poise had evaporated as she saw Sean. She squealed and

 rushed at him.

 'It's been so boring since you went away!" She wouldn't let go of his

 arm until they went in to dinner, and even now she leaned forward to

 watch his lips as he talked, her forgotten soup cooling, avid to take in

 every word. When Shasa at the end of the table made a remark about

 Kenyan barbers and Sean's hair style, she rushed to her eldest brother's

 defence.

 'I love his hair like that. You are so antediluvian sometimes, Papa.

 He's beautiful. I swear if Sean ever cuts a single hair on his

 beautiful head, I will take vows of silence and chastity on the spot."

 'A consummation devoutly to be prayed for,' murmured her father.

 Centaine, although less effusive, was as delighted as any of them to

 have Sean home again. Of course, she knew every detail of the

 circumstances in which he had left. She and Shasa were the only ones in

 the family who did, but that had been almost six years ago, and things

 could change in that time. It was difficult to believe that anybody who

 looked like that, even more beautiful than her own beloved Shasa, and

 who was possessed of such charm and natural grace, could be entirely

 bad. She consoled herself that although he had made a few mistakes when

 he was a child, he was now a man.

 Centaine had seldom seen more of a man, and she listened as attentively

 as the rest of them to his stories and laughed as merrily at his

 sallies.

 Garry kept repeating, 'I didn't really believe you'd come. I sent that

 cable on an impulse. I wasn't even sure of your address." And then to

 Holly, who was sitting beside Sean at the long table, 'Isn't he

 wonderful, Holly - isn't he everything I told you?" Holly smiled and

 murmured polite agreement, and twisted slightly in her chair to prevent

 Sean pointing up the story he was telling by placing his hand on her

 thigh again. She glanced around the table, and caught Michael's eye. He

 was the only one who was not following Sean's tale with total

 concentration. Holly had only met Michael for the first time the

 previous day, when he arrived from Johannesburg for the wedding, but the

 two of them had found an immediate rapport, which had swiftly deepened

 as Holly had discovered Michael's protective concern and affection for

 Garry.

 Now Michael raised an eyebrow at Holly, and smiled an apology at her. He

 had seen his elder brother looking at her, he had seen through Sean's

 devices to attract her attention, and had even seen her start and pale

 as Sean touched her beneath the table. He would talk to Sean after

 dinner, and quietly warn him off, for Garry himself would never see what

 was happening. He was too besotted by his ú elder brother's return. It

 was up to Michael - it had always been his duty to protect Garry from

 Sean. In the meantime he smiled reassu once at Holly, and Sean

 intercepted the look and interpreted it acc rately. He showed no

 reaction. His expression was frank and ape and his voice sparkling and

 full of humour as he finished the stoi and the others all laughed, all

 except Michael and Holly.

 'You are so funny,' Isabella sang. 'I just hate you for being m

 brother. If only I could find another boy who looked like you."

 'There's not one of them good enough for you, Bella,' Sean saic but he

 was watching Michael, and as the laughter subsided, he asked, lightly,

 'And so, Mickey, how is life on that commie newspaper c yours? Is it

 true that you are going to change its name to the ANt Times, or is it

 the Mandela Mail or the Moses Gama Gazette?" Michael laid down his knife

 and fork and met Sean's gaz squarely.

 'The policy of the Golden City Mail is to defend the helpless, t(

 attempt to secure a decent dignified existence for all, and to tell th

 truth as we see it - at any cost." 'I don't know about that, Mickey,'

 Sean grinned at him. 'But couple of times out there in the bush I've

 wished that I had a copy all the Golden City Mail with me - yes, sir,

 every time I run out of toilel paper, I wish I had your column right

 there." 'Sean!" Shasa said sharply, and his indulgent expression faded

 for the first time since Sean's arrival. 'There are ladies present."

 'Nana." Sean turned to Centaine. 'You have read Mickey's column,

 haven't you? Don't tell me you agree with those bright pink sentiments

 of his?" 'That's enough,' Shasa said sternly. 'This is a reunion and a

 celebration." 'I'm sorry, Pater." Sean was mock contrite. 'You are

 right. Let's talk about fun things. Let me tell Mickey about the Mau

 Mau in Kenya, and what they did to the white kids. Then he can tell me

 about his commie ANC friends here, and what he wants them to do to our

 kids." 'Sean, that's not fair,' Michael said softly. 'I am not a

 communist, and I have never advocated communism or the use of force--'

 'That's not what you wrote in yesterday's edition. I had the great and

 glorious privilege of reading your column on the plane down from

 Jo'burg." 'What I actually wrote, Sean, was that Vorster and De La Rey

 between them are making the mistake of labelling as communist everything

 that our black population sees as desirable - civil rights, universal

 franchise, trade unions and black political organizations such as the

 ANC. By naming these as communist-inspired they are making the idea of

 communism highly attractive to our blacks." 'We've just got a black

 government in Kenya, with a convicted terrorist and murderer as the new

 head of state. That's why I'm getting out and moving to Rhodesia. And

 here is my own beloved brother paving the way for another black Marxist

 government of rabble-rousers and bomb-throwers right here in the good

 old Republic. Tell me, which of the terrorists do you fancy for

 president, Mickey, Mandela or Moses Gama?" 'I won't warn either of you

 again,' Shasa told them ominously. 'I will not abide politics at the

 dinner table." 'Daddy is right,' Isabella joined in. 'You are both

 being so utterly dreary - and just when I was beginning to really enjoy

 myself." 'And that's enough from the peanut gallery also,' Centaine

 picked out Isabella. 'Eat your food please, Mademoiselle, you are all

 skin and bones as it is." But she was studying Sean.

 'He has been home six hours and already we are all at each other's

 throats,' she thought. 'He still has a talent for controversy. We must

 be wary of him - I wonder why he really came home." She found out very

 soon after dinner, when Sean asked to see her and Shasa in the gun room.

 After Shasa had poured a tiny glass of Chartreuse for her, and balloon

 'snifters of Hennessy for Sean and himself, they all settled down in the

 leather chairs. The men went through the ritual of preparing their

 cigars, cutting the tips and warming and finally lighting them with the

 cedarwood tapers.

 'All right, Sean,' Shasa said. 'What did you want to talk to us about?"

 'You know how we discussed the safari business, Pater, just before I

 left?" Shasa noticed how he showed no contrition as he mentioned his

 enforced departure. 'Well, I've had six years of experience now, and I

 won't offend you with false modesty. I'm one of the top hunters in the

 business. I've a list of over fifty clients who want to hunt with me

 again. I have their telephone numbers, you can ring them and ask them."

 'All right, I will,' Shasa said. 'But go on." 'Ian Smith's government

 in Rhodesia is developing the safari business there. One of the

 concessions they are putting up for auction in two months' time is a

 plum." Shasa and Centaine listened in attentive silence, and when Sean

 finished almost an hour later, they exchanged a significant glance. They

 understood each other perfectly after thirty years of working so

 closely, and they did not have to speak to agree that Sean had made a

 virtuoso performance. He was a good salesman, and his figures added up

 to the promise of rich profits, but Shasa saw the little shadow at the

 back of his mother's dark eyes.

 'Just one thing perturbs me a little, Sean. After all these years you

 come breezing in again - and the first thing you do is ask for half

 million dollars." Sean stood up and strolled across the gun room. The

 carved tus hung above the stone fireplace, the central position in the

 roan pride of place amongst all Shasa's own hunting trophies.

 Sean studied it for a moment, and then turned back slowly to fac them.

 'You never wrote to me once in all those years, Pater. That's a right,

 I understand why. But don't accuse me of not caring. I thougI about

 you and Nana every day I was away." It was cleverly done. H did not

 mention the tusk on the wall, and Centaine could have swor there were

 genuine tears just at the back of his marvellously gree clear eyes. She

 felt her doubts soften and begin to dissolve.

 'My God, how can any woman resist him,' she thought. 'Even hi own

 grandmother!" She looked across at Shasa and was amazed t, see that Sean

 had shamed him. Neatly and adroitly he had shiftel guilt and Shasa had

 to cough and clear his throat before he couh speak.

 'I must admit it sounds interesting,' he said gruffly. 'But you'l have

 to speak to Garry." 'Garry?" Sean asked in surprise.

 'Garry is the director in charge of new projects and investments, Shasa

 told him and Sean smiled.

 He had just knocked together two of the toughest, shrewdest head in the

 business. Garry would be a piece of cake.

 Holly Carmichael's father was the Presbyterian minister of a smal parish

 in Scotland, and he and his wife flew out to Africa quite determined to

 see their daughter decently married, and to pay lo the privilege.

 x Centaine took him for a ride around the estate and explained kindly

 that only by being very selective could she restrict her guest list to

 under a thousand. 'Those are just family friends, and our most

 important business and political associates. Of course it does not

 include the workers here on Weltevreden or the employees of Courtney

 Mining and Finance who will be accorded their own separate festivities."

 The Reverend Carmichael looked stricken.

 'Madam, I love my daughter - but a clergyman's stipend--' 'I don't

 really like to mention it,' Centaine went on smoothly, 'but it is

 Holly's second marriage - and you have already done your duty with the

 first. I would be grateful if you would consent to perform the

 ceremony, and let me take care of the other small details." With one

 deft stroke Centaine had procured a clergyman to marry her grandson, for

 despite veiled offers to install stained-glass windows and restore

 church roofs, both the local Church of England and Anglican priests had

 refused to perform the offices. At the same time she had achieved a

 free hand with the wedding arrangements.

 'It will be,' she promised herself, 'the wedding of the decade." The old

 slave church on the estate had been rethatched and restored for the

 occasion, and the bougainvillaea blossom of exactly the shade that Holly

 had chosen for her dress was flown down from the eastern Transvaal in

 the company aircraft to decorate it. The rest of the ceremony and the

 following celebrations were arranged on the same scale and with similar

 attention to detail with all the resources of Weltevreden and the

 Courtney group of companies to carry them through.

 The church could seat only 150, and twenty of those were the coloured

 family retainers from the estate who had known and cared for Garry since

 the day of his birth. The other thousand guests waited in the marquee

 on the polo field and the ceremony was relayed to them over the public

 address system.

 The road down the hill from the church to the polo field was lined with

 the other estate workers whose seniority and length of service were

 insufficient to procure them a seat in the church. They had stripped

 Centaine's rose garden of blooms and they showered Garry and his new

 bride with rose petals as they led the procession down the hill in the

 open carriage, and the women danced and sang and tried to touch Holly

 for luck as she went by.

 In his grey topper Garry stood taller than Holly and his bulk of

 shoulder and chest made her seem light as a cloud of pink mist beside

 him, so lovely that the guests gasped and hummed with admiration as he

 brought her into the marquee on his arm.

 The best man's speech was one of the highlights of the afternoon.

 Sean had them roaring and squealing with laughter and clapping his most

 amusing sallies, although Holly frowned and reached for Garry's hand

 under the table when Sean made oblique references to Garry's stutter and

 his Charles Atlas course.

 Sean was the first to dance with Holly after she and Garry had circled

 the floor in the wedding waltz. He held her close as they turned

 together and murmured, 'Silly girl, you could have had the pick of the

 litter, but, never fear, it's still not too late." 'I did and it is,'

 she replied, and her smile was cold and thorny.

 'Now why donit you go off and give my bridesmaids the benefit of your

 charms. The poor things are panting like puppy dogs." Sean turned the

 rebuff with a light laugh and handed her over to Michael for the rest of

 the dance. While he snapped his fingers at one of the waiters to bring

 him another glass of champagne, he surveyed the tent from the vantage

 point of the raised dais, picking out the interesting females, making

 his selections not only on the basis of their looks but on their

 apparent availability. Those who sensed his scrutiny and blushed or

 simpered or boldly returned his regard went immediately to the head of

 his list.

 In passing he noticed that Isabella had finally got around Nana, and was

 wearing one of those mini-skirts that were all the rage. The hem

 finished just below the creases of her cheeky little buttocks, and with

 the impartial eye of the connoisseur he saw that her legs were quite

 extraordinary, and that every man, no matter what his age, glanced down

 at them as she circled the dance floor.

 Thinking of Nana, he looked around for her quickly. Her seat at the

 high table was empty. Then he found her. She was near the back of the

 tent, sitting at a table with a big burly man who had his back turned to

 Sean. They were in earnest conversation, and his grandmother's

 intensity interested him. He knew that Centaine never wasted effort on

 the trivialities. The man must be important. As he thought that, the

 man turned slighty and Sean recognized him. His heart skipped guiltily.

 It was the minister of police, Manfred De La Rey. He was the one who

 had quashed the charges against Sean, in return for his guarantee to

 leave the country and never return.

 Sean's instinct was to slip away without drawing De La Rey's attention

 to himself and then he grinned at his own stupidity. He had just stood

 up and made a dashing speech in front of them all.

 'How's that for drawing attention?" he thought, and then grinned again

 at his own daring. 'Living dangerously is half the fun,' he reminded

 himself, and jumped down off the dais without spilling a drop of

 champagne and deliberately sauntered across the tent towards his

 grandmother and her companion.

 Centaine saw him coming and placed her hand on Manfred's sleeve.

 'Careful, here he come now." It had just taken all her influence, a

 recital of all the debts and secrets between them, to protect Sean, and

 now here was the impudent young devil flaunting himself in front of

 Manfred.

 She tried to warn him off with a frown, but Sean stooped and kissed her

 cheek. 'You are a genius, Nana, there has never been a party like this.

 The planning and the eye to detail - we are all proud of you!" He hugged

 her and though she pushed him off haughtily saying, 'Now don't be a big

 booby,' her frown was displaced by the ghost of a smile. 'Damn it, he's

 got the cheek of all the Courtneys,' she thought proudly, and then

 turned to Manfred.

 'You don't know my grandson. Sean, this is Minister De La Rey." 'I've

 heard of you,' Manfred growled without offering to shake hands. 'I've

 heard a great deal about you." And with relief Centaine turned to the

 couple who were returning to the table from the dance floor. 'And this

 is Mrs De La Rey and her son Lothar - all old friends of the family.

 Heidi, may I present my grandson Sean." Sean bowed over her hand, and

 Heidi considered him thoughtfully and said in her lisping German accent.

 'He is the only one of your grandchildren I have not met, Centaine. A

 fine boy." Sean turned to Lothar and held out his hand. 'Hello. I'm

 Sean and if I didn't know who you were, I'd be the only one in the

 country.

 Your play against the Lions on the last tour was magical, that boot of

 yours is worth a million rand." The two young men sat down on a pair of

 empty chairs and were immediately engrossed in a discussion of rugby

 football and the recent visit of the British team. Although she

 continued her conversation with Manfred, Centaine watched her two

 grandsons covertly. Apart from their youth and self-assurance, they

 were so different in appearance, one blond and Germanic, the other dark

 and romantic, yet she sensed that they were in other ways very similar.

 Strong men, untroubled by unnecessary scruples, men who knew what they

 wanted and how to go about getting it. Perhaps they inherited that from

 her, she smiled to herself, and perhaps like her they were hard and

 unrelenting adversaries, prepared to destroy anything that stood in

 their way.

 Centaine had the trick of listening to two conversations at once and she

 heard Lothar De La Rey say, 'Mind you, I've heard about you also and

 what you did in Kenya. Didn't you get a citation for the George Cross

 for cleaning up the last of the Mau Mau gangs?" Sean laughed. 'My

 timing was wrong. The Brits couldn't give me a gong for shooting Mickey

 Mice at the same time as they were handing the country over to Kenyatta.

 Not really cricket, you know, old boy. But how did you find out about

 that?" 'It's my job to know these things,' Lothar told him, and Sean

 nodded.

 'Yes, of course, you are in the police. Aren't you a major or

 something?" 'As of last week, a colonel in the bureau for state

 security." ongratulaUons.

 'You know, anything you could tell us about Mau Mau will be useful. I

 mean the real first-hand stuff about anti-terrorist work.

 You see, I think we might have the same problem here one of these days."

 'Well, the worst was over by the time I got there, but yes, of course -

 anything I can do. I'm going back up north in a fe weeks, to Rhodesia.

 But if I can help--' 'Rhodesia." Lothar dropped his voice so that

 Centaine couldn longer hear. 'That's interesting. We'd like to know

 what's going o there also. Yes, I think it is vital that we get

 together before yo leave. A man like you in place could be of really

 crucial help to us -Lothar broke off. His expression changed and he

 stood up huJ riedly, looking over Sean's shoulders.

 Following his gaze Sean looked around and Isabella stood clos behind

 him. She draped one hand languidly over Sean's shouldeJ and leaned one

 hip against him, but she was watching Lothar.

 'This is Bella, my baby sister,' Sean told Lothar, and Isabell murmured,

 'Not such a baby any more, big brother." She had nc taken her eyes off

 Lothar's face.

 She had first noticed him in the church during the ceremony and

 recognized him immediately. He was one of the most famous athlete in

 the country, a national heart-throb. Sean's conversation with bin had

 given her the opportunity she had been waiting for.

 Despite the fact that her voice was cool and her manner aloof am

 distant, Sean felt her tremble against him and he grinned inwardly 'Your

 ovaries are going off like fire crackers, little sister." But hid, said,

 'Why don't you sit down and bring a little sunlight into ou drab

 existence, Bella?" She ignored him and spoke directly to Lothar. 'Do

 you spend all your time dressed up in a rugby jersey, pushing people

 around ir scrums and kicking little balls? Or somewhere along the line

 did yot learn to dance, Lothar De La Rey?" 'Ouch!" Sean murmured. Even

 for a Courtney, that was pretty direct. And Lothar inclined his head

 and asked gravely, 'May I have the pleasure of this dance, Isabella

 Courtney?" They made one circuit of the floor without speaking and then

 Lothar said, 'If you were my woman, I would not allow you to wear a

 skirt like that." 'Why? Don't you like my legs?" she asked.

 'I like your legs very much indeed,' he replied. 'But if you were my

 woman, I would not like other men to look at them the way they are doing

 now." 'You are a prude, Lothar De La Rey." 'Perhaps, Isabella Courtney,

 but I believe there is a time and a place for everything." She pushed a

 little closer to him and thought happily to herself, 'So let's find that

 time and place, you big gorgeous hunk of brawn." Morosely Manfred

 watched his son on the dance floor and his wife leaned across and echoed

 his thoughts.

 'That hussy is throwing herself at Lothie. Just look at her, showing

 everything she has. I wish I could go and pull her away from him-' 'I

 wouldn't do that, skat,' Manfred advised soberly. 'Nothing could make

 her more attractive to him than our disapproval. But don't worry,

 Heidi. We have brought him up the right way. He might have a little

 man's sport with her, but that's not the kind of girl he will bring

 home." He stood up heavily. 'Trust our boy, Heidi. But now you must

 forgive me. I must talk to Shasa Courtney - it's very important." Shasa

 in full morning dress, a white carnation in his buttonhole, the black

 patch over one eye and a long black cheroot between his teeth was in

 deep conversation with the groom, but when he saw Manfred approaching

 and recognized the seriousness of his mien, he slapped Garry's shoulder

 lightly and said, 'I think it's a good bet,' but you listen to what Sean

 has to say. Make up your own mind, then come and discuss it with me,'

 and then he left Garry and came to meet Manfred.

 'We must talk - privately,' Manfred greeted him.

 'Now?" Shasa looked incredulous, but Manfred insisted.

 'It will not take long." 'Let's go up to the house." Shasa took his arm,

 and chatting amiably led him to the exit, as though they were going off

 to the men's room together. As soon as they were outside the marquee,

 they headed for the carpark behind the grandstand.

 Manfred prowled around Shasa's gun room, restlessly peering at the

 framed photographs of hunting safaris, at the mounted animal heads and

 the racks of sporting rifles and shotguns in their glass fronted

 cabinet, while Shasa slouched in one of the armchairs and ú watched him

 patiently, letting him take his time, puffing on the black cheroot.

 'Is this room secure? We cannot be overheard?" Manfred asked, and Shasa

 nodded.

 'Perfectly secure. I do much of my private business here - besides

 which, the house is deserted. Every last servant is down at the polo

 field." 'Ja, nee, goed!" Manfred came to take the armchair facing Shasa.

 'You cannot go off to England as you planned,' he said, and Shasa

 laughed.

 'Why on earth not?" 'I will tell you why." Manfred assured him, but made

 no attempt to do so. Instead he asked, 'Did you ever see a film called

 The Manchurian Candidate?" He pronounced it in the Afrikaans fashion

 'ri-lien'.

 For a moment Shasa was surprised by the irrelevance of the question.

 Then he replied, 'No, I didn't get around to the movie, but ] did read

 the book by Richard Condon. Rather enjoyed it, to tell the truth." 'Do

 you remember the story-line?" 'Yes. It was about a plot to assassinate

 one of the American presidential candidates." 'That's right,' Manfred

 nodded. 'The assassin was hypnotized and programmed to respond to the

 sight of a playing card, one of the aces, I think." 'Ace of spades,'

 Shasa agreed. 'The death card. He would respond like an automaton to

 any command he received after he had seen the ace. In a hypnotic trance

 he was ordered to carry out the assassination." 'Do you think the idea

 was credible? Do you think a man could be completely subjected to the

 hypnotic suggestion of another?" 'I don't know,' Shasa admitted. 'The

 Koreans and the Russians are supposed to have perfected the technique of

 brainwashing. Perhaps it is possible, in special circumstances, with a

 particularly susceptible subject - I don't know." Manfred sat in silence

 for so long that Shasa began to fidget.

 Then he spoke curtly, 'Our jobs are in danger,' he said, and Shasa went

 very still. 'Ja." Manfred nodded heavily. 'Verwoerd is thinking of

 reshuffling the cabinet. You and I will be sacked." 'You have done a

 difficult job,' Shasa said softly. 'And you have done it as well as was

 humanly possible. The storm is over, the country is calm and stable."

 Manfred sighed. 'Ja, you also. In a few short years since Sharpeville,

 you have helped rally the economy. Foreign investment is pouring in,

 thanks to your efforts. The value of property is higher than it was

 before the crisis. You have done an excellent job building up the

 armaments industry. Very soon our own atomic bomb - but we are going to

 be sacked. Myinformation is always reliable." 'Why?" Shasa asked, and

 Manfred shrugged.

 'Verwoerd took two bullets in the head. Who knows what damage that

 caused." 'He shows no signs of any permanent damage. He is just as

 logical, rational and decisive after the operation to remove the

 bullets." 'Do you think so?" Manfred asked. 'Do you think his obsession

 with race is logical and rational?" 'Verwoerd was always obsessed with

 racial matters." 'No, my friend, that is not so,' Manfred contradicted

 him. 'He didn't want the ministry of Bantu affairs when Malan first

 offered it to him. Race meant nothing to him. He was concerned only

 with the growth and survival of Afrikaner nationalism." 'He certainly

 threw himself into it body and soul, when he did take the job,' Shasa

 smiled.

 'Ja, that's true, but then he saw apartheM as uplifting to the blacks, a

 chance to conduct their own affairs, and become masters of their own

 destiny. He saw it as exactly similar to the partition of India and

 Pakistan. He was concerned with racial differences, but he was not a

 racist. Not in the beginning." 'Perhaps." Shasa was dubious.

 'Since those bullets in the head he has changed,' Manfred said.

 'Before that he was strong-willed and certain of his own infallibility,

 but since then he will brook not the slightest criticism or even a hint

 that anything he says or does might be wrong. Race has become an

 obsession, to the point of lunacy - this business with the coloured

 English cricketer, what is his name again?" 'Basil D'Oliveira - and he

 is South African. He plays for England because he can't play for South

 Africa." 'Ja, it's madness. Now Verwoerd even refuses to have a black

 servant to tend him. He would not attend the film version of Othello

 because Laurence Olivier had painted his face black. He has lost all

 sense of proportion. He is going to undo all the hard painstaking work

 we have done to restore calm and prosperity. He is going to destroy

 this country - and he is going to destroy us personally, you and me,

 because we have stood up to some of his wilder excesses in cabinet. You

 even suggested he permanently abolish the pass laws he has never

 forgiven you for that. He calls you a liberal." 'All right, but I can't

 believe he would take the ministry of police away from you." 'That is

 what he plans. He wants to give it all to John Vorster combine justice

 and police into a single portfolio and call it "Law and Order", or some

 such other title." Shasa stood up and went to the cabinet at the end of

 the room.

 He poured two large cognacs and Manfred did not protest when he placed

 one of them on the table at his elbow.

 'You know, Shasa, for a long time now I have had a dream. I've never

 told anybody about it, not even Heidi, but I will tell you. I dreamed

 that one day I would be the prime minister, and that 'you, Shasa

 Courtney, would be the state president of this country of ours.

 The two of us, Englishman and Afrikaner, side by side as South

 Africans." They sat quietly and thought about it, and Shasa found

 himself becoming angry at being cheated of that honour. Then Manfred

 went off at another tangent.

 'Do you know that even though the Americans are refusing to sell us

 arms, we still cooperate very closely with their CIA on all matters of

 intelligence that affect our mutual interests in southern Africa?"

 Manfred asked, and although Shasa could not fathom this new change of

 direction, he nodded.

 'Yes, of course, I know that." 'The Americans have just interrogated a

 Russian defector in west Berlin. They passed on some of the

 intelligence to us. There is a Manchurian Candidate in place, and his

 target is Verwoerd." Shasa gaped at him. 'Who is the assassin?" 'No."

 Manfred held up his hands. 'They don't know. Even though the Russian

 was highly placed, he did not know. All he could tell the Americans was

 that the assassin has access to the prime minister, and he will be used

 soon, very soon." He picked up the cognac glass, and swirled the oily

 brown liquid around the crystal bowl. 'There was one other small clue.

 The assassin has a history of mental illness, and he is a foreigner, not

 born in this country." 'With that information it should be possible to

 identify him,' Shasa mused. 'You could check every single person who

 has access to the P.M." 'Perhaps,' Manfred agreed. 'But what we must

 decide - here in secret, just the two of us - is do we really want to

 find the Manchurian Candidate and stop him. Would it be in the best

 interest of our country to prevent the assassination?" Shasa spilled the

 cognac down the lapels of his morning jacket, but he did not seem to

 notice. Aghast, he was staring at Manfred.

 After a long pause, he set down his glass, drew a silk handkerchief from

 his inner pocket and began to mop the spilled liquor.

 'Who else knows about this?" he asked, concentrating on his cleaning,

 not looking up.

 'One of my senior officers. He is the liaison with the military attach

 at the American embassy, who is the CIA man here." 'No one else?" 'Only

 me - and now you." 'Your officer is trustworthy?" 'Completely." At last

 Shasa looked up. 'Yes, now I see why I should cancel my trip to London.

 If something should happen to Verwoerd, it would be essential for me to

 be here when his successor is chosen." He lifted his glass in a salute,

 and after a moment Manfred returned the gesture. They drank the silent

 toast, watching each other's eyes over the rims of the crystal glasses.

 There were only two couples left on the dance floor, and except for the

 band and the servants who were cleaning up and stacking the chairs, the

 marquee was empty.

 At last the coloured band-master descended from the stand and approached

 Sean diffidently. 'Master, it's after two o'clock already." Sean glared

 at him over the head of the girl he was dancing with, and the man

 quailed. 'Please, Master, we've been playing since lunchtime, nearly

 fourteen hours." Sean's thunderous expression changed dramatically into

 that radiant boyish smile of his. 'Off you go then! You have been just

 great - and this is for you and your boys." He tucked a crumpled wad of

 banknotes into the band-leader's top pocket, and called to the other

 couple.

 'Come on, gang. We are off to Navvies." Isabella had her face pressed

 to Lothar's shirt front, but she looked up brightly.

 'Oh goody!" she cried. 'I've never been there. Nana says it's sordid

 and disreputable. Let's go!" Sean had borrowed Garry's MG and Isabella

 raced him in her new Alfa Romeo, and managed to keep up with him through

 the curves of the mountain drive. They were neck and neck as they tore

 down Buitenkant Street to the notorious Navigator's Den in the Bo-kaap

 area near the docks.

 Sean had purloined two bottles of whisky from the bar in the marquee,

 and his partner was draped around his neck.

 'Let's carouse,' he suggested, and pushed his way through the cluster of

 seamen and prostitutes who crowded the entrance to the nightclub.

 The interior was so dark that they could only barely make out the band,

 and the music was so loud that they had to sit close and yell at each

 other.

 'You are a marvelous brother,' Isabella shouted and leaned across to

 kiss Sean. 'You don't preach to me." 'It's your life, Bella baby, you

 enjoy it - and call me if anybody tries to stop you." She perched on

 Lothar's knee and nuzzled his neck. Sean's partner had collapsed, and

 he laid her out full length on the padded bench, with her head in his

 lap, while he and Lothar sat with their shoulders touching and talked

 seriously. The music blanketed their voices, so that from farther than

 a few feet nobody could overhear them.

 'Do you know that you still have a rather prominent billing in the

 police files?" Lothar asked.

 'It does not come as any great surprise,' Sean admitted.

 'You don't mind taking a chance, do you?" Lothar smiled. 'I like your

 nerve." 'From what I know and see, I'd say that you are a fairly

 nerveles customer yourself,' Sean grinned back at him.

 'I could make sure that your file disappeared,' Lothar offered.

 'In exchange for a little something or other, no doubt?" 'Naturally,'

 Lothar agreed. 'You get nothing for nothing." 'And all you get for a

 pinch of dung is a cloud of flies,' Seal laughed, and refilled the

 whisky glasses. 'What do you want fran me?" 'If you were to act as an

 intelligence agent for the bureau for stat.

 security - our man in Rhodesia - we might forget about your littl

 indiscretions." 'Why not?" Sean agreed instantly. 'Anything for a laugh

 and livin dangerously is half the fun." 'Do stop being so boring, you

 two,' Isabella cried, strokin Lothar's cheek. 'Come and dance with me."

 Sean's partner sat up groggily and blurted, 'I'm going to be sick/

 'Emergency,' said Sean. He hauled her to her feet and hustled heJ

 through to the tiny women's room.

 There were two other females fussing over the single wash han basin, and

 they squealed demurely.

 'Don't worry about us, ladies." Sean pushed his partner into the cubicle

 and aimed her at the toilet bowl. Noisily she got shot of who!

 was troubling her and then straightened up and grinned at him shakily.

 Tenderly he wiped her mouth with a wad of toilet paper.

 'How are you feeling?" 'I feel better now." 'Good, let's go somewhere

 and ball." 'Okay,' she said, perking up miraculously. 'That's what I've

 been waiting for the whole evening." Sean stopped beside Lothar and

 Isabella on the crowded floor.

 'We are cutting out of here - something just came up, if you will pardon

 the expression." 'I'll call you at Weltevreden' some time tomorrow,'

 Lothar said.

 'Just to arrange the details." 'Don't make it too early,' Sean advised

 and grinned at his sister.

 'See you later, Bella Bunny." 'For God's sake, don't say "Be good!"'

 Isabella pleaded.

 'Perish the thought." Sean picked up his partner and carried her down

 the stairs.

 Isabella made one more circuit of the floor, just to let Sean get clear,

 then she murmured, 'That's enough dancing for one night let's go."

 Lothar had never seen a woman drive with Isabella's skill and flair. He

 relaxed in the passenger seat and watched her. Despite the long day and

 its excesses, she was still dewy fresh as a rosepetal and her eyes were

 clear and sparkling.

 She was the first English girl he had ever been with, and her free and

 forthright manner at once appalled and intrigued him. With their strict

 Calvinist upbringing Afrikaner girls would never make themselves so

 available or behave with such abandon. Yet although she shocked him

 more than a little, she was without any doubt the most strikingly lovely

 girl he had ever met.

 Isabella drove straight through the intersection of Paradise Road and

 Rhodes Drive.

 'You've missed the turn to Weltevreden,' he pointed out, and she gave

 him a brief impish grin.

 'That's not where we are going. From here you are in my hands, Lothar

 De La Rey." They followed the coastal road from Muizenberg around the

 bay, through the deserted streets of Simonstown, the British naval base,

 and then on towards the tip of the continent.

 Where the road skirted a high cliff above the sea, Isabella pulled the

 Alfa off the road and cut the engine.

 'Come on,' she ordered, took his hand and led him to the edge of the

 cliff. The dawn was turning the eastern sky to lemon and orange, and

 far beneath them the cliffs were folded upon themselves to form a

 sheltered bay. 'It's so beautiful here,' Isabella whispered. 'One of

 my favourite places." 'Where are we?" Lothar asked.

 'It's called Smitswinkel Bay,' she told him, and led him by the hand to

 the start of the steep pathway that descended the cliff.

 At the bottom a narrow horse-shoe of silver sand surrounded the bay, and

 above the beach a few locked and shuttered shacks were crammed against

 the foot of the cliff. The dawn light filtered down, soft and pearly,

 and the waters of the bay glowed with the misty sheen of moonstones.

 Isabella kicked off her shoes and walked down to the water's edge, and

 then without looking round at him she slipped her dress off her

 shoulders and let it drop to the sand. Beneath it she wore only a pair

 of silk and lace panties. For a long moment she stood staring out

 across the bay and her back was long and shaped like the neck of a

 lovely vase, the beads of her spine just showed beneath skin that was

 pale and lustrous as mother-of-pearl. Then she stooped to pull the

 panties down to her ankles, and stepped out of them.

 She was naked and Lothar's breathing caught in his throat as he watched

 her walk slowly down to the water's edge, her hips rolling in time to

 the lazy pulse of the ocean. She walked out until she was waist-deep

 and she lowered herself until only her head was above the surface. Then

 she turned and looked back at him. The challenge and the invitation

 were as clear as if she had called them aloud.

 Lothar undressed as unhurriedly as she had done. Naked, he walked into

 the bay and she rose to meet him, the waters streaming from her bare

 shoulders down her breasts, and she lifted her arms and placed them

 around his neck.

 She teased him with her tongue, letting him explore the warmth and

 softness of her mouth, and she gave a little purring chuckle as she felt

 how much he wanted her.

 The sound goaded him and he lifted her in his arms and carried her out

 beyond her depth. She was forced to cling to him, and her body was

 weightless. He handled her like a doll and she offered no resistance.

 His strength seemed limitless - it made her feel helpless and

 vulnerable, but she was grateful for his patience. To hurry now would

 spoil it all. She wanted this to be something far beyond the frenzied

 groping and often painful thrusting that was all she had been offered by

 the three or four college lads she had allowed this far.

 She learned quickly that he could tease as well as she could, and he let

 her float around him, light as the buoyant kelp in the gentle swell of

 the ocean while he stood foursquare and refused to make the final

 assault. In the end it was she who succumbed to impatience.

 In contrast to the cool water that eddied around her, he was like a

 flaming brand buried deep in her body. She could not believe the

 hardness and the heat, and she cried aloud with incredible delight.

 None of the others had been anything like this. From now on this was

 all that counted, this was what she had been searching for all along.

 Still clinging together they waded ashore, and by now it was full

 morning. They bundled up their clothes and still naked she led him to

 the last shack in the row. While she searched for the key in her purse,

 he asked, 'Who does this belong to?" 'It's one of Daddy's hiding places.

 I only discovered it quite by chance and he doesn't know tlat I have a

 key." She got the door open and led him into the single room.

 'Towels,' she said, and opened one of the cupboards. They made a game

 out of drying each other, but the light-hearted mood changed quickly to

 serious intent, and she dragged him to the bunk against the wall.

 'Where I come from the man does the asking,' he chuckled.

 'You are an old-fashioned chauvinist prude,' she told him.

 As she clambered up onto the bunk he saw that her bottom was still

 bright pink from the cold waters of the bay; he found that peculiarly

 endearing and he was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of tenderness

 towards her.

 'You are so gentle,' she whispered. 'So strong and yet so gentle." It

 was mid-morning before they felt hungry, and dressed only in one of her

 father's old fishing jerseys, Isabella raided the larder for their

 breakfast.

 'How do you fancy smoked oysters and asparagus with your baked beans?"

 'Won't your father miss you?" he asked as he opened the cans.

 'Oh, Daddy is a push-over. He will believe anything I tell him. It's my

 grandmother we have to watch out for, but I've arranged with one of my

 girlfriends to cover for us." 'Ah, so you knew where we were going to

 end up?" he asked.

 'Of course." She rolled her eyes at him. 'Didn't you?" They sat

 cross-legged on the bunk with the plates on their laps and Isabella

 tasted the mixture. 'It's ghastly,' she gave her opinion, 'if I wasn't

 starving I wouldn't touch it." 'Of course, you will see your mother

 while you are in London?" he asked, and the loaded spoon stopped

 half-way to Isabella's mouth.

 'How did you know I was going to London - and how did you know my mother

 was there?" 'I probably know more about your mother than you do,' Lothar

 told her, and she replaced the spoon on her plate and stared at him.

 'For instance?" she challenged.

 'Well, for instance, your mother is a rabid enemy of this country.

 She is a member of the banned ANC and of the anti-apartheid group.

 She associates regularly with members of the South African Communist

 Party. In London she runs a safe house for political refugees and

 escaped terrorists." 'My mother?" Isabella shook her head.

 'Your mother was deeply implicated in the plot to blow up the houses of

 parliament and assassinate most of the members of the House, including

 the prime minister - and your father and my father." Isabella was still

 shaking her head, but he went on expressionlessly, watching her with

 those golden leopard eyes.

 'She was directly responsible for the death of her own father, your

 grandfather, Colonel Blaine Malcomess. She was an accomplice of Moses

 Gama who is now serving a life sentence for terrorism and murder, and if

 she had not escaped she would probably be in jail with him." 'No,' said

 Isabella softly. 'I don't believe it." She was amazed and distressed by

 the change in him. Minutes before he had been so gentle, now he was

 hard and cruel, wounding her with words as he went on, 'For instance,

 did you know that your mother was Moses Gama's lover, and that she bore

 him a son? Your ?. i half-brother is an attractive coffee colour."

 'No!" Isabella recoiled, shaking her head in disbelief.

 'How do you know all this?" 'From the signed confession of Moses Gama,

 the man himself. I can arrange for you to see a copy, but that is not

 really necessary.

 You will almost certainly meet your bastard half-brother in London.

 He is living there with your mother. His name is Benjamin Afrika."

 Isabella jumped up and carried her plate to the kitchenette. She dumped

 the food into the garbage bin and without looking around, she asked,

 'Why are you telling me all this?" 'So that you will know your duty." 'I

 don't understand." She still would not look at him.

 'We believe your mother and her associates are planning some sort of

 violent action against this country. We are not sure what it is.

 Any information on their activities would be invaluable." Isabella

 turned slowly and stared at him. Her face was pale and stricken.

 'You want me to spy on my own mother?" 'We simply would like to know the

 names of the people you meet in her company while you are in London."

 She was not listening. She cut in on what he was saying.

 'You planned this. You picked me out, not because you thought I was

 attractive or sweet or desirable. You deliberately set out to seduce

 me, just for this." 'You are beautiful, not attractive. You are

 magnificent, not sweet,' he said.

 'And you are a bastard, a ruthless heartless bastard." He stood up and

 went to where his clothes hung behind the door.

 'What are you going to do?" she demanded.

 'Get dressed and go,' he told her.

 'Why?" 'You called me a bastard." 'You are." Her eyes were glutted with

 tears. 'An irresistible bastard.

 Don't go, Lothar, please don't go." Isabella was relieved when her

 father told her that he was unable to fly to London with her and

 Michael. Meeting her mother again after all these years, and after what

 Lothar had told her, would be difficult enough, without her father there

 to complicate matters and confuse her feelings. She had, indeed, tried

 to beg off going to London herself.

 She wanted to, be close to Lothar, but he had been the one who insisted

 she make the trip.

 'I will be back in Johannesburg and we wouldn't see much of each other

 anyway,' he told her. 'And besides that you have your duty and you have

 given me your word." 'I know Daddy would give me a PR job with the

 company in Jo'burg. I could get a flat and we could see lots of each

 other, I mean lots and lots!" 'When you come back from London,' he

 promised.

 There were representatives from South Africa House and the London office

 of Courthey Mining to meet Isabella and Michael at Heathrow and a

 company limousine to take them to the Dorchester.

 'Pater always overdoes it by a mile,' Michael remarked, embarrassed by

 the reception. 'We could have taken a taxi." 'No point in being a

 Courtney, unless you get to enjoy it,' Isabella disagreed.

 When Isabella was shown up to her suite which looked out over Hyde Park,

 there was an enormous bouquet of flowers waiting for her with a note:

 Sorry I can't be with you, darling. Next time we will paint the town

 bright scarlet together.

 Your old Dad.

 Even before the porter had brought her bags up, Isabella dialled the

 number that Tara had given her and she was answered on the third ring.

 'This is the Lord Kitchener Hotel, may I help you?" It was strangely

 nostalgic to be greeted by an African accent in a strange city.

 'May I speak to Mrs Malcomess, please?" In her letter Tara had warned

 her that she had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce.

 'Hello, Mater." Isabella tried to sound natural when Tara came on the

 line, but Tara's delight was unrestrained.

 'Oh Bella darling, where are you? Is Mickey with you? How soon can you

 get here? You have got the address, haven't you? It's so easy to

 find." Isabella tried to match Michael's enthusiasm and excitement as

 they drove through the streets of London and the taxi-driver pointed out

 the landmarks they passed, but she was in a funk at the prospect of

 seeing her mother again.

 It was one of those rather seedy little tourist hotels in a side street

 off the Cromwell Road. Only part of the neon sign Was lit. 'The Ord

 Kitch', it flashed in electric blue, and on the glass of the front doo

 were plastered the emblems of the AA and Routiers and a blaze o credit

 card stickers.

 Tara rushed out through the glass doors while they were stil paying off

 the taxi. She embraced Michael first, which gave Isabell a few moments

 to study her mother.

 She had put on weight, her backside in the faded blue jeans wa: huge,

 and her bosom hung shapelessly in the baggy man's sweater.

 'She's an old bag." Isabella was appalled. Even though Tara hoc never

 gone to any pains with her appearance, she had always had or air of

 freshness and neatness. But now her hair had turned grey, ant she had

 obviously made a half-hearted attempt to henna it back to it original

 colour, and then given up. The grey was streaked brassy ginger and

 violent mulberry red, and it was twisted up into a careless, bun at the

 nape of her neck from which parti-coloured wisps hoc escaped.

 Her features had sagged almost to obscure the bone structure whicl: had

 been one of her most striking assets, and through i her eyes were still

 large and bright the skin around them had creased and bagged.

 At last she released Michael, and turned to Isabella.

 'My darling little girl, I would hardly have recognized you. What a

 lovely young woman you have become." They embraced. Isabella recalled

 how her mother had smelled, it was one of her pleasant childhood

 memories, but this woman smelled of some cheap and flowery perfume, of

 cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage, and - Isabella could barely credit

 her own senses - of underclothing that had been worn too long without

 changing.

 She broke off the embrace, but Tara kept hold of her arm, and with

 Michael on the other side of her led them into the Lord Kitchener Hotel.

 The receptionist was a black lad, and Isabella recognized his voice as

 the one who had answered her phone call.

 'Phineas is from Cape Town also,' Tara introduced them. 'He is one of

 our other runaways. He left after the troubles in sixty-one and, like

 the rest of us, he won't be going home yet. Now let me show you around

 the Lardy --' she laughed. 'That's what my permanent guests call it,

 the Lardy. I thought of changing the name, it's so colonial and Empire

 --' Tara chattered on happily, as she led them around the hotel. The

 carpets in the passages were threadbare, and the rooms had washbasins,

 but shared the toilet and bathroom at the end of each passage.

 Tara introduced them to any of her guests they met in the corridors or

 public rooms. 'These are my son and daughter from Cape Town,' and they

 shook hands with German and French tourists who spoke no English,

 Pakistanis and Chinese, black Kenyans and coloured South Africans.

 'Where are you staying?" Tara wanted to know.

 'At the Dorchester." 'Of course." Tara rolled her eyes. 'Fifty guineas

 a day, paid for by the sweat of the workers in the Courtney mines. That

 is what your father would have chosen. Why don't you and Mickey move in

 here?

 I have two nice rooms on the top floor free at the moment. You would

 meet so many interesing people, and we'd see so much more of each

 other." Isabella shuddered at the thought of sharing the toilet at the

 end of the passage and jumped in before Michael could agree.

 'Daddy would be furious, he has prepaid for us - and now we know our

 way, it's only a short taxi ride." 'Taxis,' Tara sniffed. 'Why not take

 the bus or the underground like any ordinary person?" Isabella stared at

 her speechlessly. Didn't she understand that they weren't ordinary

 people? They were Courtheys. She was about to say so, when Michael

 sensed her intention and intervened smoothly.

 'Of course you are quite right. You'll have to tell us what number bus

 to take and where to get off, Mater." 'Mickey darling, please don't call

 me Mater any longer. It's so terribly bourgeois. Call me either Mummy

 or Tara, but not that." 'All right. It will be a little bit strange at

 first, but okay. I'll call you Tara." 'It's almost lunch time,' Tara

 announced blithely. 'I asked cook to make a bread and butter pudding, I

 know it's one of your favourites, Mickey." 'I'm not awfully hungry,

 Mater -- Tara,' Isabella announced. 'And it must be jet-lag or

 something, but --' Michael pinched her sharply. 'That's lovely, Tara.

 We'd love to stay for lunch." 'I just have to look into the kitchen -

 make sure it's all under control - come along." As they entered the

 kitchen a child came running to Tara. He must have been helping the

 Irish cook, for his hands were white with flour to the elbows. Tara

 hugged him, happily heedless of the flour that rubbed off on her

 sweater.

 A mat of short woolly curls covered his pate, and his skin was a clear

 light toffee colour. His eyes were huge and dark, and he had appealing

 gamine features. He reminded Isabella of any one of the dozens of

 children of the estate workers on Weltevreden. She smiled at him, and

 he gave back a cocky but friendly grin.

 'This is Benjamin,' Tara said. 'And these, Benjamin, are your

 ! ',!!i brother and sister - Mickey and Isabella." Isabella stared at

 the child. She had tried to discount and for all that Lothar had told

 her, and in some measure she had succeede But now it all came rushing

 back, the words roaring in her ears ll flood waters.

 'Your half brother is an attractive coffee colour,' Lothar had to her

 and she wanted to scream, 'How could you, Mater, how cou you do this to

 us?" But Michael had recovered from his obvious su prise, and now he

 held out his hand towards the child and said, 'Hi there, Ben. It's fine

 that we are brothers - but how about yc and me being friends also?"

 'Hey, man - I like that,' Benjamin agreed instantly. To add Isabella's

 dismay and confusion, he spoke in a broad south Londc accent.

 Isabella spoke barely a dozen words during lunch. The pea sou was

 thickened with flour that had not cooked through and it stuc to the roof

 of her mouth. The boiled silverside lay limply in its ov watery gravy,

 and the cabbage was cooked pink.

 They sat at the table with Phineas, the receptionist, and five oth of

 Tara's guests, all black South African expatriates, and the boisteJ ous

 conversation was almost entirely conducted in left-wing jargo The

 government of which Isabella's beloved father was a minist was always

 referred to as the 'racist regime' and Michael joine cheerfully in the

 discussion about the redistribution of wealth an the return of the land

 to those who worked it after the revolutioz had succeeded and the

 People's Democratic Republic of Azania ha.

 been established. Isabella wanted to scream at him, 'Damn you Mickey,

 they are talking about Weltevreden and the Silver Rive Mine. These are

 terrorists and revolutionaries - and their sole purpose is to destroy us

 and our world." When the bread-and-butter pudding was served, she could

 take i no longer.

 'I'm sorry, Tara,' she whispered. 'I have a splitting headache, an I

 simply have to get back to the Dorchester and lie down." She wa so pale

 and discomforted that Tara made only a token protest and genuine noises

 of concern. Isabella refused to let Michael escort her 'I won't spoil

 your fun. You haven't seen Mater - Tara - in ages. I'l just grab a

 taxi." Perhaps it really was fatigue that had weakened her, but in the

 cal: she found herself weeping with chagrin and shame and fury.

 'Damn her! Damn her to hell,' she whispered. 'She has disgraced and

 dishonoured all of us, Daddy and Nana and me and all the family." As

 soon as she reached her room she locked her door, threw herself on the

 bed and reached for the telephone.

 'Exchange, I want to put a call through to Johannesburg in South

 Africa--' She read the number out of her address book.

 The delay was less than half an hour and then a marvellously homey

 Afrikaans accent said, 'This is police headquarters, bureau for state

 security." 'I want to speak to Colonel Lothar De La Rey." 'De La Rey."

 Despite the thousands of miles that separated them, his voice was crisp

 and clear, and in her imagination she saw him again naked on the beach

 in the dawn, like a statue of a Greek athlete but with those glowing

 golden eyes, and she whispered, 'Oh God Lothie, I've missed you. I want

 to come home. I hate it here." He spoke quietly, reassuring and

 consoling her, and when she had calmed he ordered her, 'Tell me about

 it." 'You were right. Everything you said was true - even to her little

 brown bastard, and the people are all revolutionaries and terrorists.

 What do you want me to do, Lothie? I'll do anything you tell me." 'I

 want you to stay there, and stick it out for the full two weeks.

 You can telephone me every day, but you must stay on. Promise me,

 Bella." 'All right - but, God, I miss you and home." 'Listen, Bella. I

 want you to go to South Africa House the first opportunity you have.

 Don't let anybody know, not even your brother Michael. Ask for Colonel

 Van Vuuren, the military attach.

 He will show you photographs and ask you to identify the people you

 meet." 'All right, Lothie - but I've told you twice already how much I

 miss you, while you, you swine, haven't said a word." 'I have thought

 about you every day since you left,' Lothar said.

 'You're beautiful and funny and you make me laugh." 'Don't stop,'

 Isabella pleaded. 'Just keep talking like that." Adrian Van Vuuren was

 a burly avuncular man, who looked more like a friendly Free State farmer

 than a secret service man. He took her up to the ambassador's office

 and introduced her to His Excellency who knew Shasa well and they

 chatted for a few minutes.

 His Excellency invited Isabella to the races at Ascot the coming

 Saturday but Colonel Van Vuuren intervened apologetically.

 'Miss Courtney is doing a little job for us at present, Your Excellency.

 It might not be wise to make too much public display of her connections

 to the embassy." 'Very well,' the ambassador agreed reluctantly, 'But

 you will come to lunch with us, Miss Courtney - not often we have such a

 pretty girl at our gatherings." Van Vuuren gave her the short tour of

 the embassy and its a treasures, which ended in his office on the third

 floor. 'Now, my dear, we have some work for you." A pile of albums was

 stacked on his desk, each full of head-an shoulder photographs of men

 and women. They sat side by side or Van Vuuren flicked through the

 pages, picking out the mug shots the people she had met at the Lord

 Kitchener Hotel.

 'You make it easier for us by knowing their names,' Van Vuurc remarked,

 and turned to a photograph of Phineas, the hotel recei tionist.

 'Yes, that's him,' Isabella confirmed, and Van Vuuren looked u his

 details in a separate ledger. 'Phineas Mophoso. Born 194 Member of

 PAC. Convicted of public violence 16 May 1961. Violate bail

 conditions. Illegal emigration late 1961. Present location believe

 U.K." 'Small fry,' Van Vuuren grunted, 'but small fry often shoal wit

 big fish." He offered to provide an embassy car to drive Isabella bac to

 the Dorchester.

 'Thank you, but I'll walk." She had been alone at Fortnum & Masons and

 when she got bac to the hotel Michael was frantic with worry.

 'For heaven's sake, Mickey. I'm not a baby. I can look arte myself. I

 just felt like exploring on my own." 'Mater is giving a party for us at

 the Lord Kitchener this evenin She wants us there before six." 'You mean

 Tara, not Mater - and the Lardy, not the Lord Ki!

 chener. Don't be so bourgeois and colonial, Mickey darling." At least

 fifty people crowded into the residents' lounge of the Lord for Tara's

 party, and she provided unlimited quantities of draugh bitter and

 Spanish red wine to wash down the Irish cook's unforgett able snacks.

 Michael entered into the spirit of the occasion. He wa at all times the

 centre of an arguing gesticulating group. Isabell backed herself into a

 corner ai the lounge and with a remote and ic' hauteur discouraged any

 familiar approach from the other guests while at the same time

 memorizing their names and faces as Tan introduced them.

 After the first hour the smoky claustrophobic atmosphere, and th volume

 of conversation lubricated by Tara's Spanish plonk, became oppressive

 and Isabella's eyes felt gritty and a dull ache started ir her temples.

 Tara had disappeared and Michael was still enjoyin himselfi 'That's my

 patriotic duty for tonight,' she decided, and sidled to.

 wards the door taking care not to alert Michael to her departure.

 As she passed the deserted reception desk, she heard voices from behind

 the osted glass door of Tara's tiny office, and she had an attack of

 conscience.

 'I can't just go off without thanking Mater,' she decided. 'It was an

 awful party, but she went to a lot of trouble and I am one of the guests

 of honour." She slipped behind the desk, and was about to tap on the

 panel of the door when she heard her mother say, 'But, comrade, I didn't

 expect you to arrive tonight." The words were commonplace, but the tone

 in which Tara said them was not. She was more than agitated she was

 afraid, deadly afraid.

 A man's voice replied, but it was so low and hoarse that Isabella could

 not catch the words, and then Tara said, 'But they are my own children.

 It's perfectly safe." This time the man's reply was sharper.

 'Nothing is ever safe,' he said. 'They are also your husband's

 children, and your husband is a member of the fascist racist regime. We

 will leave now and return later after they have gone." Isabella acted

 instinctively. She darted back into the lobby and out through the glass

 front doors of the hotel. The narrow street was lined with parked

 vehicles, one of them a dark delivery van tall enough to screen her. She

 hid behind it.

 After a few minutes, two men followed her out of the front entrance of

 the hotel. They both wore dark raincoats but their heads were bare.

 They set off briskly, walking side by side towards the Cromwell Road and

 as they came level with where she leaned against the side of the van,

 the street light lit their faces.

 The man nearest to her was black, with a strong, resolute face, broad

 nose and thick African lips. His companion was white and much older.

 His flesh was pale as putty and had the same soft amorphous look. His

 hair was black and lank and lifeless. It hung on to his forehead, and

 his eyes were dark and fathomless as pools of coal tar - and Isabella

 understood why her mother had been afraid. This was a man who inspired

 fear.

 Colonel Van Vuuren sat beside her at his desk with the pile of albums in

 front of them. 'He is a white man. That makes life a lot easier for

 all of us,' he said as he selected one of the albums.

 'These are all white,' he explained. 'We have got them all in here.

 Even the ones safely behind bars, like Brain Fischer." She found his

 photograph on the third page.

 'That's the one." 'Are you sure?" Van Vuuren asked. 'It's not a very

 good photo." It must have been taken as he was climbing into a vehicle,

 for the background was a city street. He was glancing back, most of his

 body obscured by the open door of the vehicle, and movement ha blurred

 his features slightly.

 'Yes. That's him all right,' Isabella repeated. 'I could never mistaN

 those eyes." Van Vuuren referred to the separate ledger. 'The

 photograph w taken in East Berlin by the American CIA two years ago. He

 is wily bird, that's the only picture we have. His name is Joe Cicer(

 He is the secretary general of the South African Communist Par!

 and a colonel in the Russian KGB. He is a chief of staff of tl:

 military wing of the banned ANC, the Umkhonto we Sizwe." Va Vuuren

 smiled. 'And so, my dear, the big fish has arrived. Now w must try and

 identify his companion. That will not be so easy." It took almost two

 hours. Isabella paged through the alburr slowly. When she finished one

 pile, Van Vuuren's assistent broug in another armful of albums and she

 began again. Van Vuuren st patiently beside her, sending out for coffee

 and encouraging her with a smile and a word when she flagged.

 'Yes." Isabella straightened up at last. 'This is the one." 'You have

 been wonderful. Thank you." Van Vuuren reached fc the ledger and turned

 to the curriculum vitae of the man in th photograph.

 'Raleigh Tabaka,' he read out. 'Secretary of the Vaal branch PAC and

 member of Poqo. Organizer of the attack on the Sharpeviii police

 station. Disappeared three years ago, before he could b detained. Since

 then there have been rumours that he was seen i: training camps in

 Morocco and East Germany. He is rated as trained and dangerous

 terrorist. Two big fish together. Now, if w could just find what they

 are up to!" Tara Courtney waited up long after her party had broken up.

 Th last guests had staggered through the glass doors, and Michael ha(

 kissed her goodnight and gone off to try and pick up a late cruisinl

 taxi in the Cromwell Road.

 Since first she had met him, Joe Cicero had been associated will danger

 and suffering and loss. There was always an aura of myster'.

 and a passionless evil surrounding him. He terrified her. The ma] with

 him she had met for the first time that night. Joe Cicero ha(

 introduced him only as Raleigh, but Tara's heart had gone out t( him

 immediately. Although he was much younger, he reminded he so strongly

 of her own Moses. He had the same smouldering intensit,.

 and compelling presence, the same dark majesty of bearing an( command.

 i They came back a little after two in the morning, and Tara let them in

 and led them through to her own bedroom in the back area of the hotel.

 'Raleigh will stay with you for the next two or three weeks. Then he

 will return to South Africa. You will provide everything he asks for,

 particularly the information." 'Yes, omrade, Tara whispered. Although

 she was the registered C owner and licensed proprietress of the hotel,

 the money for the purchase had been provided by Joe Cicero and she took

 her orders directly from him.

 'Raleigh is the nephew of Moses Gama,' Joe said, watching her carefully

 with those expressionless black eyes as she turned to the younger man.

 'Oh Raleigh, I didn't realize. It is almost as though we are one

 family. Moses is the father of my son, Benjamin." 'Yes,' Raleigh

 answered. 'I know that. This is the reason that I am able to give you

 the object of my mission to South Africa. Your dedication is proven and

 unquestioned. I am going back to Africa to free your husband and my

 uncle, Moses Gama, from the prison of the fascist racist Verwoerd regime

 to lead the democratic revolution of our people." Her joy dawned slowly

 with her understanding. Then she went to Raleigh Tabaka and as she

 embraced him she was weeping with happiness.

 'I will give anything to help you succeed,' she whispered through her

 tears. 'Even my life." Jakobus Stander had only two classes on a Friday

 morning, and the last one ended at 11.30. He left the grounds of the

 University of the Witwatersrand immediately afterwards and caught the

 bus down to Hillbrow. It was a ride of only fifteen minutes and he

 reached his flat a little after midday.

 The suitcase was still on the low coffee table where he had placed it

 the night before, after he had finished working on it. It was a cheap

 brown case made of imitation leather with a pressed metal lock.

 He stood staring at it with pale topaz-coloured eyes. Except for the

 eyes, he was an unremarkable young man. Although he was tall, he was

 too thin and the grey flannel trousers hung loosely around his waist.

 His hair was long, flecked with dandruff, hanging over the back of his

 collar, and the elbows of his baggy brown corduroy jacket were patched

 with leather. Rather than a tie he wore a turtle-neck jersey with the

 collar rolled over. It was the self-consciously shabl uniform of the

 left-wing intellectual, adopted by even the Profess, of the Department

 of Sociology in which Jakobus was a senior le turer.

 Without removing the jacket, he sat down on the narrow bed ai stared at

 the suitcase.

 'I am one of the only ones left,' he thought. 'It's all up to me no

 They have taken Baruch and Randy and Berny - I am all alone." There had

 been less than fifty of them even in the best times.

 small band of true patriots, champions of the proletariat, almost of

 them white and young, members of the young liberals or studen and

 faculty members involved in radical student politics at the Enl

 lish-speaking universities of Cape Town and the Witwatersran, Kobus had

 been the only Afrikaner in their ranks.

 At first they had called themselves the National Committee ( Liberation,

 and their methods had been more sophisticated th Umkhonto we Sizwe and

 the Rivonia group. They had used dynami and electrical timing devices,

 and their successes had been many an heartening. They had destroyed

 power substations and railw switching systems, even a reservoir dam, and

 in the triumphal mood of those early days they had restyled themselves

 the Africa Resistance Movement.

 In the end they had been destroyed in exactly the same manner Mandela

 and his Rivonia group, by the inefficiency of their aw security and the

 inability of the members who were captured by t security police to

 withstand interrogation.

 He was one of the only ones left, but he knew that his hours ( freedom

 were numbered. The security police had taken Berny tw days ago and by

 now he would have talked. Berny was not made ( heroic stuff, a small

 pale and nervous creature, too soft-hearted fc the cause. Jakobus had

 argued against his recruitment, but that wa too late now. The bureau for

 state security had Berny, and Bern knew his name. There was very little

 time left, but still he procrastir ated. He looked at his wristwatch.

 It was almost one o'clock. Hi mother would be home by now, preparing

 his father's lunch. H lifted the telephone.

 Sarah Stander stood over the kitchen stove. She felt tired an(

 dispirited, but she seemed always to be tired these days. The telephone

 rang and she turned down the hot plate of the stove, and wipe( her hands

 on her apron as she went through to her husband's stud> The room was

 lined with shelves of dusty law books that had one been a promise of

 hope to her, a symbol of success and advancemenl but now seemed rather

 to be the fetters that bound Roelf and her iJ penury and mediocrity.

 She lifted the phone. 'Hello. This is Mevrou Stander." 'Mama,' Jakobus

 replied, and she gave a little coo of joy.

 'My boy - where are you?" But at his reply her spirits plunged again.

 'In the flat in Johannesburg, Mama." That was a thousand miles away, and

 her longing to see him devastated her. 'I hoped you were--' 'Mama,' he

 cut her off. 'I had to speak to you. I had to explain.

 Something terrible is going to happen. I wanted to tell you - I don't

 want you to be angry with me, I don't want you to hate me." 'Never!" she

 cried. 'I love you too much, my boy --' 'I don't want Papa and you to

 feel bad. What I do is not your fault. Please understand and forgive

 me." 'Kobus, my son, what is it? I don't understand what you are

 saying." 'I can't tell you, Mama. Soon you will understand. I love you

 and Papa - please remember that." 'Kobus,' she cried. 'Kobus!" but the

 earpiece clicked and then there was only the hum of a broken connection.

 Frantically she rang the exchange and asked to be reconnected but it

 took fifteen minutes before the operator called her back. 'There is no

 reply from your Johannesburg number." Sarah was distraught. She roamed

 around her kitchen, the midday meal forgotten, twisting her apron in her

 fingers, trying desperately to think of some way of reaching her son.

 When her husband came in through the front door she rushed down the

 passageway and threw her arms around his neck, and she gabbled out her

 fears.

 'Manie!" RoeIf said. 'I will telephone him. He can send one of his men

 around to Kobus's flat." 'Why didn't I think of that?" Sarah sobbed.

 The secretary in Manfred's ministry told them he was not available and

 would not be in again until Monday morning.

 'What will we do now?" Roelf was as worried as she was.

 'Lothie." Sarah brightened. 'He is in the police in Johannesburg.

 Ring Lothie, he will know what to do." Jakobus Stander broke the

 connection to his mother, and jumped to his feet. He knew he must act

 quickly and decisively now. Already he had wasted too much time, they

 would be coming for him soon.

 He picked up the suitcase and left the flat, locking the door behind

 him. He rode down in the lift, still holding the heavy suitcase, even

 though the handle cut into his fingers. There were two girls in the

 lift with him. They ignored him and chattered to each other all the w

 down. He watched them surreptitiously. 'It may be you, he through 'It

 could be anybody." The girls barged out of the lift ahead of him, and he

 follow slowly, walking lopsidedly because of the weight of the brown su

 case.

 He caught the bus at the corner and took the seat nearest t door,

 placing the suitcase on the seat beside him, but retaining 1

 grip on the handle all the way.

 The bus stopped outside the side entrance of the Johannesbu railway

 station, and Jakobus was the first passenger to alight. Lu ging the

 suitcase, he started towards the station entrance, and th, his steps

 began to drag and his mouth went dry with terror. The was a constable

 of the railway police at the entrance, and as Jakob hesitated he looked

 directly at him. Jakobus wanted to drop t] suitcase and run back to the

 bus which was pulling away behiI him, but the.press of other passengers

 bore him forward like a de leaf in a stream.

 He did not want to catch the constable's eye. He trudged forwa head

 bowed, concentrating on the heels of the fat woman in whi shoes just

 ahead of him. He looked up as he came level with tl station portals,

 and the constable was walking away from him, hid hands clasped lightly

 behind his back. Jakobus's legs felt rubbel and his relief was so

 intense that he thought he was going to be il He fought down his nausea

 and kept on going with the stream commuters.

 At the centre of the concourse under the high arched skylight glass

 there was a goldfish pond surrounded by wooden benches. A though most

 of the benches were crowded with travellers snatching few minutes' rest

 between trains or awaiting the arrival of friend..

 there was room for Jakobus at the end of one of them.

 He sat down and placed the suitcase between his feet. He wa sweating

 heavily and he had difficulty in breathing. Waves of nause kept welling

 up from the pit of his guts and there was a bitter sic taste at the back

 of his throat.

 He wiped his face with his handkerchief and kept swallowing bar.

 until gradually he had control of himself again. Then he lookel around

 him. The other benches were still crowded. In the centre o the one

 facing him there was a mother with two daughters. Th youngest one was

 still in napkins, she sat on her mother's lap with dummy in her mouth.

 The elder girl had skinny sun-browned leg: and arms and frilly

 petticoats under her short skirt. She leaner against her mother's side

 and sucked a lollipop on a stick. Her moutt was dyed bright red by the

 sticky candy.

 All around Jakobus passed a continual stream of humanity, coming and

 going down the broad staircase that led up to the street.

 Like columns of ants, they spread out to reach the separate platforms,

 and the loudspeakers boomed out information on arriving and departing

 trains, and the hiss and huff of escaping steam from the locomotives

 echoed against the high arches of glass above where Jakobus sat.

 He looked down at the suitcase between his feet. He had drilled a

 needle hole through the imitation leather. A strand of piano wire

 emerged from the aperture, and he had fixed a brass curtain ring to the

 end of it, and taped the ring to the brown leather beside the handle.

 Now he picked at the tape with hi fingernail and peeled it away.

 He stuck his forefinger through the brass ring and gently pulled the

 wire taut. There was a muted click from the interior of the suitcase

 and he started guiltily and looked around him again. The little girl

 with the lollipop stuck in her cheek had been watching him.

 She gave him a sticky smile and shyly cuddled closer to her mother's

 side.

 Using his heels and the back of his legs, Jakobus pushed the suitcase

 slowly under the bench on which he was seated. Then he stood up and

 walked briskly across to the men's toilets on the far side of the

 concourse. He stood in front of one of the porcelain urinals and

 checked his wristwatch. It was ten minutes after two. He zipped up his

 fly and walked out of the men's room.

 The mother and the two little girls were still sitting where he had left

 them, and the brown suitcase lay under the bench opposite. As he passed

 the child recognized him and smiled again. He did not return the smile

 but went up the staircase into the street. He walked down to the

 Langham Hotel at the corner and went into the men's bar. He ordered a

 cold Castle beer and drank it slowly, standing at the bar, checking his

 wristwatch every few minutes. He wondered if the mother and the two

 little girls had left, or if they were still sitting on the bench.

 The ferocity of the explosion shocked him. He was almost a block away

 but it knocked over his glass and the dregs of the beer ran across the

 bar top. There was consternation throughout the bar room. Men were

 swearing with surprise and astonishment and rushing to the door.

 Jakobus followed them out into the street. The traffic had stopped, and

 people were swarming out of the buildings to block the pavements. From

 the station entrance a cloud of dust and smoke billowed and through it

 staggered vague shadowy figures, powdered with dust, their clothing

 hanging off them in rags. Somewhere a woman began to scream, and all

 around him there were shouted questions.

 'What is it? What happened?" Jakobus turned and walked away. He heard

 the sirens of the police cars and the fire engines coming closer, but he

 did not look back.

 'No, Tanhie Sarie, I haven't seen Kobus since we last met at

 Waterkloof." Lothar De La Rey tried to be patient. The Standers were

 old friends of his parents, and he had spent many happy childhood

 holidays at the cottage on the Stander farm at the seaside.

 That was before Oom RoeIf Stander had been forced to sell the farm.

 'Yes, yes Tannie. I know, but Kobus and I live in different worlds now

 - I know how worried you must be. Yes, of course." Lothar was taking

 the call in his private office in the headquarters complex of Marshall

 Square, and he glanced at his wristwatch as he listened to Sarah

 Stander's plaintive voice. It was just before two o'clock.

 'What time was it when he telephoned you?" Lothar asked, and listened to

 her reply. 'That was an hour ago. Where did he say he was speaking

 from? All right, Tannie, what is his address in Hillbrow?" He scribbled

 it on the pad in front of him. 'Now tell me, Tannie, what was it

 exactly he said. Something terrible and you must forgive him? Yes, that

 doesn't sound very good, I agree. Suicide?

 No, Tannie Sarie, I'm sure he didn't mean that, but I will send one of

 my men to check his flat, why don't you ring the university in the

 meantime?" One of the other telephones on his desk squealed and he

 ignored it. 'What did they say at the university?" he asked. 'All

 right, Tannie, I will telephone you and Oom Roeif just as soon as I have

 any news." By now all three of his telephones were shrilling, and

 Captain Lourens, his assistant, was signalling him frantically from the

 door of his office.

 'Yes, I understand, Tannie Sarie. Yes, I promise I will telephone you.

 But I must ring off now." Lothar replaced the receiver and looked up at

 Lourens.

 'da, what is it, man?" 'An explosion at the main railway station. It

 looks like another bomb." Lothar jumped to his feet and snatched up his

 jacket. 'Casualties?" he demanded.

 'There are bodies and blood all over the place." 'The bloody swines,'

 Lothar said bitterly.

 The street was cordoned off. They left the police car at the barrier

 and Lothar, who was in plain clothes, showed his identification and the

 sergeant saluted him. There were five ambulances parked outside the

 station entrance with their lights flashing.

 At the head of the staircase leading down into the main concourse Lothar

 paused. The damage was terrible. The glass in the arched skylights had

 been blown out and it coated the marble floors, glittering like a field

 of ice crystals.

 The restaurant had been turned into a first-aid station and the

 white-jacketed doctors and ambulance crews were at work. The

 stretcher-bearers were carrying their grisly loads up the staircase to

 the waiting vehicles.

 The officer in charge of the investigation was a major from Marshall

 Square. He had his men searching the wreckage already, working

 methodically in an. extended line across the concourse. He recognized

 Lothar and beckoned to him. The glass crunched under Lothar's feet as

 he crossed to join him.

 'How many dead?" he asked without any preamble.

 'We have been incredibly lucky, Colonel. About forty injured, mostly by

 flying glass, but only one dead." He reached down and pulled back the

 plastic sheet that was spread at his feet.

 Under it lay a little girl in a short dress with a frilly lace

 petticoat.

 Both her legs and one arm had been blown away, and the dress was soaked

 with her blood.

 'Her mother lost both eyes, and her little sister will lose one arm,'

 the major said, and Lothar saw that the child's face was miraculously

 unscathed. She seemed to be sleeping. Her mouth was bright red with

 sticky sugar and in her remaining hand she still clutched the stick of a

 half-eaten lollipop.

 'Lourens,' Lothar said quietly to his assistant. 'Ring Records. Use the

 telephone in the restaurant. Tell them I want a computer run on my desk

 when I get back to the square. I want the name of every known white

 radical on the list. It had to be a white man in this section of the

 station." He watched Lourens cross the concourse and then he looked down

 at the tiny body under the plastic sheet.

 'I'm going to get the bastard who did this,' he whispered. 'This one

 isn't going to get away." His staff were waiting for him when he got

 back to the office forty minutes later. They had already vetted the

 computerized list and checked the names of those in detention, in exile

 or those whose whereabouts could be assumed to be outside the

 Witwatersrand area.

 There remained 396 suspects unaccounted for. They were listed in

 alphabetical order and it was almost four o'clock before they had worked

 down to the 'S' section. As Lothar folded over the last sheet of the

 print-out the name seemed to leap from the page at him: STANDER, JAKOBUS

 PETRUS In the same moment Sarah Stander's plaintive voice echoed in his

 ears.

 'Stander,' he said crisply. 'This one is a new addition." He had last

 checked the list twenty-four hours before. It was one of the most

 important tools of his trade, the names upon it so familiar that he

 could conjure up each face clearly in his mind's eye. Kobus' name had

 not been there on his last reading.

 Captain Lourens picked up the internal telephone to Records, and spoke

 to the files clerk on the section, then he turned back to Lothar as he

 hung up the receiver.

 'Stander's name comes from the interrogation of a member of the African

 Resistance Movement. Bernard Fisher. He was arrested on the fifth, two

 days ago. Stander is a lecturer at Wits University." 'I know who he

 is." Lothar strode out of the operations room into his private office

 and ripped the top sheet off his notepad. 'And I know where he is." He

 drew the .38 police special from his shoulder holster and checked the

 load as he gave his orders. 'I want four units of the flying squad and

 a break-in team with flak jackets and shotguns - and I want photographs

 of the bomb victims, the girl --' The flat was on the fifth floor at the

 end of a long open gallery.

 Lothar placed men on every stairwell and both fire escapes, at the lift

 station and in the main lobby. He and Lourens went up with the break-in

 team, and they all moved stealthily into position.

 With the police special cocked in his right hand, his back against the

 wall, clear of the door, he reached out and rang the bell.

 There was no reply. He rang again, and they waited tensely. The

 silence drew out. Lothar reached out to ring a third time, when there

 were light hesitant footsteps beyond the glass panel door.

 'Who is it?" a breathless voice called.

 'Kobus - it's me, Lothie." 'Liewe Here! Sweet God!" and the sound of

 running footsteps receded into the flat.

 'Go!" said Lothar and the hammer man from the break-in team stepped up

 to the door with the ten-pound sledgehammer. The lock burst open at the

 first stroke and the door crashed back against its hinges.

 Lothar was the first one in. The lounge was deserted and he ran

 straight through into the bedroom.

 Behind him Lourens shouted, 'Pasop! Look out! He might be armed,' But

 Lothar wanted to stop him reaching a window and jumping.

 The bathroom door was locked and he heard running water beyond it.

 He took the door with his shoulder, and the panel splintered. His own

 momentum carried him on into the bathroom.

 Jakobus was leaning over the wash basin, shaking tablets from a bottle

 into the palm of his hand and cramming them into his mouth.

 His cheeks bulged, and he was gagging and swallowing.

 Lothar brought the barrel of the revolver down on the wrist that held

 the bottle, and the bottle shattered into the basin. He caught Jakobus

 by his long hair and forced him to his knees. He wedged open his jaws

 with thumb and forefinger and with the fingers of his other hand hooked

 the crushed damp porridge of tablets out of his mouth.

 'I want an ambulance team with a stomach pump up here,' he yelled at

 Lourens. 'And get an analysis of that bottle - its label and contents."

 Jakobus was struggling and Lothar hit him open-handed, back and across

  

 the face. Jakobus whimpered and subsided, and Lothar thrust his

 forefinger deeply down his throat.

 Gasping and chokirg and retching, Jakobus started struggling again, but

 Lothar held him easily. He worked his forefinger around in his throat,

 keeping on even when hot vomit spurted up over his hand. Satisfied at

 last he let Jakobus lie in a puddle of his own vomit while he rinsed his

 hands in the basin.

 He dried his hands and seized Jakobus by the back of his shirt. He

 hauled him to his feet, dragged him through into the lounge and flung

 him into one of the armchairs.

 Lourens and the forensic team were already working over the apartment.

 'Did you get the photographs?" Lothar asked, and Lourens handed him a

 buff envelope.

 Jakobus sat huddled in the chaii'. His shirt was fouled with vomit, and

 his nose and eyes were red and running. The corner of his mouth was

 torn where Lothar had forced it open, and he was trembling violently.

 Lothar sorted through the contents of the envelope and then he laid a

 glossy black and white print on the coffee table in front of Jakobus.

 Jakobus stared at it. It was a photograph of the truncated body of the

 child, nestled in a pool of her own blood with the lollipop in her hand.

 He began to weep. He sobbed and choked and turned his head away. Lothar

 moved around behind his chair and caught the back of his neck, forced

 his head back. 'Look at it!" he ordered.

 'I didn't mean it,' Jakobus whispered brokenly. 'I didn't mean it to

 happen." The cold white fury faded from Lothar's brain, and he releas

 Jakobus's head and stepped back from him uncertainly. Those we the

 words he had used. 'I didn't mean it to happen." The exact war he had

 used as he had stood over the black boy with the dead gir head cradled

 in his lap and the raw wounds running red into tl dust of Sharpeville.

 Suddenly Lothar felt weary and sickened. He wanted to go aw by himself.

 Lourens could take over from here, but he braced himself to fight off

 the despair.

 He laid his hand on Jakobus's shoulder, and the touch wE strangely

 gentle and compassionate.

 'Ja, Kobus, we never mean it to happen - but still they die. Now is

 your turn, Kobus, your turn to die. Come, let's go." The arrest was

 made six hours after the bomb blast, and even th, English press was

 fulsome in its praise of the efficiency of the polic investigation.

 Every front page across the nation carried photograph, of Colonel Lothar

 De La Rey.

 Six weeks later in the Johannesburg Supreme Court, Jakobus Stander

 pleaded guilty to the charge of murder and was sentenced to death. Two

 weeks later his appeal was denied by the Appellate Division in

 Bloemfontein and sentence of death was confirmed. Lothar De La Rey's

 promotion to brigadier was announced within days of the Appellate

 Division's decision.

 Raleigh Tabaka arrived in Cape Town while the Stander trial was still in

 progress. He came back the way he had left, as a crewman on a

 Liberian-registered tramp steamer.

 His papers, although issued in the name of Goodwill Mhlazini, were

 genuine and he passed quickly through customs and immigration-and with

 his bag over his shoulder walked up the foreshore to the main Cape Town

 railway station.

 When he reached the Witwatersrand the following evening, he caught the

 bus out to Drake's Farm and went to the cottage where Victoria Gama was

 staying. Vicky opened the door and she had the child by the hand. There

 was the smell of cooking from the little kitchenette in the back.

 She started violently as she saw him. alelgh, come in quickly." 'R '

 She drew him into the cottage and bolted the door.

 'You shouldn't have come here. You know that I am banned.

 They watch this place,' she told him as she went quickly to the windows

 and drew the curtains. Then she came back to where he stood in the

 centre of the room and studied him.

 'You have changed,' she said softly. 'You are a man now." The training

 and the discipline of the camps had left their mark. He stood straight

 and alert, and he seemed to exude an intensity and a force that reminded

 her of Moses Gama.

 'He has become one of the lions,' she thought, and she asked, 'Why have

 you come here, Raleigh, and how can I help you?" 'I have come to free

 Moses Gama from the prison of the Boers and I will tell you how you can

 help me." Victoria gave a little cry of joy, and clutched the child

 closer to her. 'Tell me what to do,' she pleaded.

 He would not stay to eat the evening meal with Victoria, would not even

 sit down on one of the cheap deal chairs.

 'When is your next visit to Moses?" he asked in a low but powerful

 voice.

 'In eight days' time,' Victoria told him, and he nodded.

 'Yes I knew it was soon. That was part of our planning. Now, here is

 what you must do --' When the prison launch ran out from Cape Town

 harbour, carrying Victoria and the child to exercise their six-monthly

 visiting rights, Raleigh Tabaka was on the deck of one of the crayfish

 trawlers that was moored alongside the repair wharf in the outer

 harbour. Raleigh was dressed like one of the trawlermen in a blue

 jersey, yellow plastic overalls and sea boots. He pretended to be

 working on the pile of crayfish pots on the foredeck, but he studied the

 ferry as it passed close alongside before it made the turn out through

 the entrance to the breakwater. He made out Victoria's regal figure in

 the stern. She was wearing her caftan in yellow, green and black, the

 colours of the ANC which always infuriated the jailers.

 When the ferry had cleared the harbour and was set on course towards the

 low whale-backed profile of Robben Island far out in the bay, Raleigh

 walked back along the deck of the eighty-foot trawler to the wheelhouse.

 The skipper of the trawler was a burly coloured man, dressed like

 Raleigh in jersey and waterproofs. Raleigh had met his son at the Lord

 Kitchener Hotel in London, an activist who had taken part in the Longa

 uprising and had fled the country immediately afterwards.

 'Thank you, comrade,' Raleigh said, and the skipper came to the door of

 the wheelhouse and took the black pipe from between his even white

 teeth.

 'Did you find out what you wanted?" 'Yes, comrade." 'When will you need

 me for the next part?" 'Within ten days." Raleigh replied.

 'You must give me at least twenty-four hours' warning. I have t get a

 permit from the fisheries department to work in the bay." Raleigh

 nodded. 'I have planned for that." He turned his head t( look forward

 towards the trawler's bows. 'Is your boat stron enough?" he asked.

 'You let me worry about that,' the skipper chuckled. 'A boat that can

 live in the South Atlantic winter gales is strong enough for any.

 thing." He handed Raleigh the small canvas airline bag that containec

 his street clothes. 'We will meet again soon then, my friend?" 'You can

 be sure of that, comrade,' Raleigh said quietly and wenl up the

 gangplank on to the wharf.

 Raleigh changed out of his trawlerman's gear in the public toilet near

 the harbour gates, and then went across to the carpark behind the

 customs house. Ramsami's old Toyota was parked up against the fence,

 and Raleigh climbed into the back seat.

 Sammy Ramsami looked up from the copy of The Cape Times he was reading.

 He was a good-looking young Hindu lawyer who specialized in political

 cases. For the previous four years he had represented Vicky Gama in her

 never-ending legal battle with authority, and he had accompanied her

 from the Transvaal on this visit to her husband.

 'Did you get what you wanted?" he asked, and Raleigh grunted

 noncommittally.

 'I don't want to know what this is all about,' Sammy Ramsami said, and

 Raleigh smiled coldly.

 'Don't worry, comrade, you will not be burdened with that knowledge."

 They did not speak again, not for the next four hours while they waited

 for Vicky to return from the island. She came at last, tall and stately

 in her brilliant caftn and turban, the child beside her, and the

 coloured stevedores working on the dock recognized her and cheered her

 as she passed.

 She came to the Toyota and climbed into the front seat with the child on

 her lap.

 'He is on another hunger strike,' she said. 'He has lost so much weight

 he looks like a skeleton." 'That will make our work a lot easier,' said

 Sammy Ramsami and started the Toyota.

 At nine o'clock the next morning Ramsami presented an urgent application

 to the Supreme Court for an order that a private physician be allowed

 access to the prisoner Moses Gama, and as grounds to support his

 application he presented the sworn affidavits of Victoria Dinizulu Gama

 and the local representative of the International Red Cross as to the

 deterioration in the prisoner's physical and mental condition.

 The judge in chambers issued an order calling on the minister of justice

 to show cause within twenty-four hours why the access order should not

 be granted. The state attorney general opposed the application

 strenuously, but after listening to Mr Samuel Ramsami's submission, the

 judge granted the order.

 The physician named in the order was Dr Chetty Abrahamji, the same man

 who had delivered Tara Courtney's son. He was a consulting physician at

 Groote Schuur Hospital. In company with the government district

 physician, Dr Abrahamji made the ferry trip out to Robben Island-where

 for three hours he examined the prisoner in the prison clinic.

 At the end of the examination he told the State doctor, 'I don't like

 this at all. The patient is very much under weight, complaining of

 indigestion and chronic constipation. I don't have to spell out what

 those presentations suggest." 'Those symptoms have been caused by the

 fact that the prisoner has been on a hunger strike. In fact I have been

 considering attempting to force-feed." 'No, Doctor,' Abrahamji

 interrupted him. 'I see the symptoms as much more significant. I am

 ordering a Cat Scan." 'There are no facilities available for a Cat Scan

 on the island." 'Then he will have to be moved to Groote Schuur for the

 examination." Once again the state attorney general opposed the order

 for the prisoner to be moved from Robben Island to Groote Schuur

 Hospital, but the jdge was influenced by Dr Abrahamji's written report

 and impressed by his verbal evidence and once again granted the order.

 Moses Gama was brought to the mainland amid the strictest conditions of

 secrecy and security. No previous warning of the move was given to any

 person outside those directly involved, to prevent the organization of

 any form of demonstration by liberal political bodies, and to frustrate

 the intense desire of the press to obtain a photograph of this patriarch

 of black aspirations.

 It was necessary, however, to give Dr Abrahamji twenty-four hours'

 advance notice to enable him to reserve the use of the test equipment at

 the hospital, and the police moved into the area of the hospital the

 evening before the transfer. They cleared the corridors and rooms

 through which the prisoner would move of all but essential hospital

 staff, and searched them for explosives or any indication of illegal

 preparations.

 From the public telephone booth in the main hospital administration

 block Dr Abrahamji rang Raleigh Tabaka at Molly Broadhurst's house in

 Pinelands.

 'I am expecting company at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon,' he said

 simply.

 'Your guest must not leave you until after nightfall,' Raleigh replied.

 'That can be arranged,' Abrahamji agreed, and hung up.

 The prison ferry came in through the harbour entrance at one o'clock in

 the afternoon. The deadlights of the cabin portholes were closed, and

 there were armed prison warders on deck, fore and aft, and their

 vigilance was apparent, even from where Raleigh was working on the

 foredeck of the trawler.

 The ferry sailed across the harbour to 'A' berth, its usual mooring.

 There was an armoured prison van waiting on the dock, with four

 motor-cycle police in uniform and a grey police Land-Rover.

 Through the riot screens on the cab of the Land-Rover Raleigh could make

 out the shape of helmets and the short thick barrels of automatic

 shotguns held at port arms.

 As the ferry touched the wharf, the prison van reversed up and the rear

 doors swung open. The armed warders seated on the padded benches in the

 body of the truck jumped down to meet the prisoner.

 Raleigh had just a glimpse of a tall gaunt figure in plain prison khaki

 uniform as he was hustled up the gangplank and into the waiting van, but

 even across the width of the harbour basin he could see that Moses

 Gama's hair was now pure silvery white, and that he was manacled at the

 wrists and that heavy leg-irons hampered his gait.

 The doors of the van slammed shut. The motor-cycle escort closed in

 formation around it and the Land-Rover followed closely behind it as it

 sped away towards the main dock gates.

 Raleigh left the trawler and Molly Broadhurst was waiting for him beyond

 the main gates. They drove up the lower slopes of Table Mountain to

 where the hospitar stood, a massive complex of white walls and red clay

 tiles below the stone pines and open meadows of Rhodes Estate and the

 tall grey rock buttresses of the mountain itself. Raleigh made a careful

 note of the time required for the journey from the docks to the

 hospital.

 They drove slowly up the busy road to the main entrance of the hospital.

 The police Land-Rover, motor-cycles and armoured van were lined up in

 the public carpark beyond the entrance to the outpatients section. The

 warders had doffed their riot helmets and were standing around the

 vehicles in relaxed attitudes.

 'How will Abrahamji keep him there until dark?" Molly wanted to know.

 'I did not ask,' Raleigh replied. 'I expect he will keep on demanding

 further tests, or will deliberately sabotage the machinery - I don't

 know." Raleigh turned the car in a circle in front of the main entrance

 and they drove back down the hill.

 'You are sure there is no other way to leave the hospital grounds?"

 Raleigh asked.

 'Quite sure,' Molly replied. 'The van must pass here. Drop me at the

 bus stop. It will be a long wait and at least I will have a bench to

 sit on." Raleigh pulled into the kerb. 'You have the number of the

 telephone on the dock, and coins?" She nodded.

 'Where is your nearest telephone from here?" he insisted.

 'I have checked it all carefully. There is a public phone booth at the

 corner." She pointed. 'It will take two minutes for me to reach it, and

 if it is out of order or occupied, there is another telephone in the car

 across the street. I have already made friends with the proprietor."

 R-tleigh left her at the bus stop and drove back to the centre of town.

 He left Molly's car in the side street they had agreed upon so that it

 would not be found at the docks or anywhere in the vicinity and he

 walked back down the Heerengracht showing his seaman's papers at the

 gate.

 The skipper of the trawler was in the wheelhouse and he handed Raleigh a

 mug of heavily sweetened coffee which he sipped as they went over the

 final arrangements.

 'Are my men ready?" Raleigh asked as he stood up, and the skipper

 shrugged. 'That is your business, not mine." They were in the bottom of

 the trawler's deep hold where the heat in the unventilated space was

 oppressive. Robert and Changi were stripped to vests and jogging

 shorts. They jumped up as Raleigh came down the ladder.

 'So far it goes well,' Raleigh assured them. They were old companions

 from the PAC Poqo days, and Changi had been at Sharpeville on the

 terrible day that Amelia died. 'Are you ready?" Raleigh asked him.

 'We can check,' Changi suggested. 'Once more will not hurt us." The

 inflatable Zodiac boat that stood on the floor of the hold was the

 17-foot 6-inch model that could carry ten adults with ease. The

 fifty-horsepower Evinrude outboard motor could push it at thirty knots.

 The cover of the engine had been painted matt black.

 The rig had been stolen by Robert and Changi working together from the

 yard of a boat dealer two days before, and could not be traced back to

 any of them.

 'The engine?" Raleigh demanded.

 'Robert has checked and serviced it." 'I even changed the gear-box oil,'

 Robert agreed. 'She runs beauti fully." 'Tanks?" 'Both full,' Robert

 said. 'We have a range of a hundred miles o better." 'Wet suits?"

 'Check,' Changi said. 'And thermal blankets for the leader." 'Tools?"

 Raleigh asked, and Changi opened the padded flotatioz bag and laid out

 the tools on the deck, checking each as Raleigt called them from his

 list.

 'Good,' Raleigh agreed at last. 'You can rest now. Nothing mar to do."

 Raleigh climbed up out of the hold. It was still too early. H glanced

 at his wristwatch. Not yet four o'clock, but he left the trawleJ and

 went down the dock to the public telephone booth at the end.

 He telephoned directory enquiries and asked for a fictitious number in

 Johannesburg, just to make certain the line was in order.

 Then he sat on the edge of the wharf with his legs dangling and watched

 the seagulls squabbling over the offal and refuse that floated on the

 harbour waters.

 It was fully dark by seven-forty but it was another twenty minutes

 before the telephone in the booth rang and Raleigh jumped up.

 'They are on their way." Molly's voice was soft and muffled.

 'Thank you, comrade,' Raleigh said. 'Go home now." He hurried back down

 the wharf and the trawler skipper had seen him coming. As Raleigh

 jumped down on to the dock the two deckhands threw off the lines. The

 big caterpillar motor blustered and the trawler surged away from the

 dock and headed out through the entrance.

 Raleigh swarmed down into the hold where Robert and Changi were already

 in their wet suits." They had Raleigh's suit laid out for him and they

 helped him into it.

 'Ready?" one of the deckhands called down from above.

 'Send it down,' Raleigh shouted back, and they watched the arm of the

 derrick swing out over the hold, silhouetted against the stars, and the

 line came down from the boom.

 The three of them worked swiftly, hooking the Zodiac on, but before they

 had finished, the beat of the trawler's engine died away and the motion

 of the hull in the water changed as the vessel's way died and she began

 to drift.

 Raleigh led them up the ladder on to the deck. The night was moonless,

 but the stars were bright and clear. The light breeze was from the

 south-east, so there was unlikely to be a change in this fair weather.

 All the trawler's navigational lights and the lights in the wheelhouse

 were extinguished.

 Cape Town was ablaze with lights. The mountain was floodlit, a great

 ghostly silver hulk under the stars, while behind them the lights on

 Robben Island twinkled low on the black sea. Raleigh judged that they

 were about half-way between the city and the island.

 The skipper was waiting for him on deck.

 'We must move fast now,' he said.

 Robert and Changi climbed into the Zodiac. Their wet suits were black,

 the rubber sides of the boat were black and the engine cover of the

 Evinrude was black. They would be almost invisible on the black waters.

 'Thank you, comrade,' Raleigh said and offered the skipper his hand.

 'Amandla!" said the skipper as he gripped it. 'Power!" and Raleigh took

 his place in the bows of the Zodiac.

 The winch clattered and the Zodiac rose swaying, swung out over the

 side, and then fell swiftly to the surface of the water.

 'Start up,' Raleigh instructed, and Robert whipped the starter cord and

 the engine fired and caught with the first pull.

 'Cast off,' Raleigh ordered, and Changi unhooked the line from the boom,

 while Robert manoeuvred the Zodiac alongside the trawler and tied on to

 the light line from the rail. He let the engine idle for five minutes

 to warm it thoroughly and then cut it.

 The two vessels lay silently linked together and the minutes passed

 torturously.

 Suddenly the skipper called down. 'I have them in sight." 'Are you

 certain?" Raleigh cupped his hands around his mouth to reply.

 'I've seen that ferry every day of my life." The skipper was leaning

 over the rail. 'Start your motor and cast off." The Evinrude roared

 into life and the Zodiac dropped back astern of the trawler. Now Raleigh

 could make out the ferry. It was coming almost directly towards them,

 both the green and red navigational lights showed.

 The trawler moved forward, a wash of white water churning out from under

 her stern. She was still completely blacked out, and her speed built up

 rapidly. The skipper had assured Raleigh that she was capable of

 fourteen knots. She turned in a wide arc across the black surface and

 headed straight for the approaching ferry at speed.

 Robert ran the Zodiac out to one side, and dropped back slightly,

 shearing off two hundred feet from the larger vessel.

 The ferry held its course. Clearly it hadn't spotted the darkened ship

 bearing down out of the night. Raleigh stood up in the bows of the

 Zodiac steadying himself with two turns of the painter around his wrist

 and he watched the two vessels come together. The ferry was half the

 length of the steel-hulled trawler and it lay much lower in the water.

 At the very last moment somebody on board the ferry shouted and then the

 bows of the trawler crashed into her, taking her just forward of the

 beam. Raleigh had warned the skipper not to damage the cabin and risk

 harming the occupants.

 The trawler checked and the bows rose high as she trod the smaller

 vessel down, and then the ferry rolled over in a flurry of foam and

 breaking water. The trawler drove over her, broke free of her swamped

 hull, and went dashing away into the darkness. Within a hundred yards

 she had disappeared.

 'The chains will pull him under,' Raleigh shouted. 'Work quickly!" He

 fitted his face plate over his mouth and nose.

 Robert sent the Zodiac roaring alongside the sinking ferry. She had

 turned turtle and her bottom was painted with orange antifouling. Her

 lights were still burning beneath the water and there were three or four

 swimming warders thrashing around, trying to get a grip on the sides.

 Raleigh and Changi, each carrying a short jemmy bar, slid over the side

 and dived under the trawler's submerged transom.

 Raleigh jammed the point of the jemmy into the lock of the cabin door

 and with a single heave tore it away. The door slid back and a burst of

 trapped air exploded in silver bubbles around his head.

 The cabin was flooded, but the lights were still burning, lighting the

 interior like a goldfish bowl, and a confusion of bodies, clad in the

 serge uniform of the prison service, were struggling and kicking and

 swirling around the cabin. Amongst them Raleigh picked out the khaki

 cotton drill tunic of a prisoner. He seized a handful of it and pulled

 Moses Gama clear.

 Changi took Moses Gama's other arm and they swam him between them out

 from under the heaving transom and up to the surface. It had taken less

 than sixty seconds since the trawler had rammed, and Robert gunned the

 Zodiac up to them the moment they surfaced. He reached down and caught

 hold of Moses Gama's arm, the two men in the water heaved from under him

 and he rolled over the side of the Zodiac on to the floor boards.

 Raleigh and Changi seized the loops of rope on the Zodiac's side to pull

 themselves up and the moment they were on board Robert gunned the

 Evinrude and they shot away from the foundering vessel.

 The splashing and cries of distress faded behind them as Robert turned

 the Zodiac back towards the shore. The long deserted stretch of

 Woodstock beach showed as a pale line of sand and surf in the starlight

 ahead.

 Raleigh stripped off his face plate and leaned solicitously over the

 figure on the deck. He lifted him into a sitting position, and Moses

 Gama coughed painfully.

 'I see you, my uncle,' Raleigh said softly.

 'Raleigh?" Moses' voice was rough with the salt water he had swallowed.

 'Is it you, Raleigh?" 'We will be ashore in ten minutes, my uncle."

 Raleigh tucked one of the thermal blankets around Moses' shoulders. 'All

 the plans for your escape have been carefully laid. Everything's ready

 for you, my uncle. Soon now you will be where nobody can touch you."

 Robert ran the rubber inflatable in through the surf at full throttle

 and they shot up the sand, clear of the water. As they came to a

 standstill, they lifted Moses Gama out of the Zodiac and ran with him up

 the beach, carrying him between them so his chained feet barely touched

 the sand.

 There was a small closed van parked amongst the dunes and , Raleigh

 jerked the rear doors open and they lifted Moses into the back and laid

 him on the mattress that covered the floorboards.

 Changi jumped in beside him and Raleigh slammed the rear doors closed.

 Robert would take the Zodiac out and sink it.

 Raleigh stripped off the jacket of his wet suit. The key to the van was

 on a loop of nylon line around his neck. He opened the driver's door

 and slid behind the wheel. The van was facing back along the track. The

 track joined the road that skirted the industrial area of Paarden Eiland

 and Raleigh drove sedately along it, towards the black township of

 Longa.

 The official Cape Town residence of the minister of police was one of

 those clustered around the prime minister's residence at Groote Schuur.

 The cumbersome physical division of the legislative and excutive arms of

 government between the cities of Cape Town and Pretoria made for costly

 duplications. During the annual session of parliament in Cape Town all

 the ministers and the entire diplomatic corps were forced to move down

 from Pretoria a thousand miles to the north, and official residences had

 to be maintained in both cities at enormous expense.

 Manfred De La Rey's ministerial residence was an elegant Edwardian

 mansion set in acres of its own private lawns and gardens.

 As RoeIf Stander parked his shabby little secondhand Morris in front of

 this imposing building, it seemed oddly out of place.

 Sarah Stander had been desperately trying to arrange a private 'meeting

 with Manfred ever since her son had been convicted and sentenced to

 death. However, Manfred had been in Pretoria, or at his ranch in the

 Free State or opening a memorial to the women who had died in the

 British concentration camps during the Boer war, or addressing the

 National Party caucus, and therefore unable to see her.

 Sarah had persisted, telephoning his office at parliament every day,

 telephoning Heidi at home and pleading with her, until at last Manfred

 had agreed to see her at seven o'clock in the morning before he left for

 parliament.

 Sarah and Roelf had driven in the Morris from Stellenbosch, leaving

 before sun-up so as not to be late for the appointment. When the

 coloured butler showed them through to the dining-room, Manfred and

 Heidi were seated at the breakfast table.

 Heidi sprang up and came to kiss Sarah's cheek.

 'I am sorry we have not seen you for so long, Sarie." 'Yes,' Sarah

 agreed bitterly. 'I also am sorry - but as you explained to me, Manie

 has been too busy for us." Manfred stood up from the head of the table.

 He was in his shirtsleeves and the linen table napkin was tucked into

 the top of his dark suit trousers.

 'Roelf,' he smiled, and they shook hands like old friends.

 'Thank you for agreeing to see us, Manie,' Roelf said humbly. 'I know

 how busy you are these days." The years had not been kind to Roelf

 Stander, he had greyed and shrunk and Manfred felt a secret satisfaction

 as he studied him.

 'Sit down, Roelf." Manfred led him to a place at the breakfast table.

 'Heidi has ordered breakfast for you - will you start with porridge?" He

 seated Roelf and then reluctantly turned back to Sarah. She was still

 standing beside Heidi." 'Hello Sarie,' he said. She had been such a

 pretty little thing. They had grown from childhood together. There

 were still the remains of that girlhood beauty in her eyes and the shape

 of her face. The memory of the love they had once shared rushed back to

 him, and he felt the sweet nostalgic yearning for his youth. He had a

 vivid image of her lying naked on a bed of pine needles in the forest

 high up on the slopes of the Hottentots Holland mountains on the day

 that they had become lovers.

 He searched in his heart for a vestige of what he had felt for her then,

 but he found none. Any love that once had flowered between them had

 been smothered by the knowledge of her treachery. For more than two

 decades he had delayed his revenge, contenting himself with slowly

 undermining and reducing this woman to her present state, waiting for

 exactly the right moment to extract the final retribution. It had come

 - and he savoured the moment.

 'Hello, Manie,' she whispered, and she thought, 'He has been so cruel.

 He has filled my life with pain that has been difficult to bear.

 Now all I ask from him is my son's life - surely he will not deny me

 that also." 'So, why have you come to see me?" Manie asked, and Heidi

 led Sarah to a seat at the table. She took the silver tea-pot from the

 coloured servant and told him, 'Thank you, Gamat, you can leave us now.

 Please close the door." And she poured steaming coffee into Sarah's cup.

 'Yes, Sarie,' she agreed. 'Tell us why you have come to see us." 'You

 know why I have come to you,' Sarah said. 'It is Kobus." A deathly

 stillness held them all over the slow passage of the seconds, and then

 Manfred sighed.

 'Ja,' he said. 'Kobus. Why do you come to me about Kobus?" ,x want you

 to help him, Manie." 'Kobus has been tried and convicted of a sickening

 act of senseless brutality,' Manfred said slowly. 'The highest court in

 the land has decreed that he must die on the gallows. How can I help

 Kobus?" 'The same way you helped that black terrorist, Moses Gama."

 Sarah was pale and the coffee cup clattered as she tried to set it down

 on the saucer. 'You saved his life - now save the life of my son." 'The

 state president exercised leniency in Gama's case--' 'No, Manie,' Sarah

 interrupted. 'It was you that changed it. I know - you have the power

 to save Kobus." 'No." He shook his head. 'I haven't got that sort of

 power. Kobus is a murderer. The worst kind of killer - one without

 compassion or remorse. I cannot help him." 'You can. I know you can,

 Manie. Please, I beg of you, save my son." 'I cannot." Manfred's

 expression set. His mouth hardened into a straight unrelenting line. 'I

 will not." 'You must, Manie. You have no choice - you must save him."

 'Why do you say that?" He was becoming angry. 'There is nothing I must

 do." 'You must save him, Manie, because he is your son also. He is the

 child of our love, Manie, you have no choice.

 You must save him." Manfred sprang to his feet and placed his hand

 protectively on Heidi's shoulder. 'You come into my house and insult me

 and my wife." His voice shook with the force of his anger. 'You come

 here with wild stories and accusations." RoeIf Stander had sat quietly

 through it all, but now he lifted hi head and spoke softly. 'It is true,

 Manie. Every word she tells you i true. I knew she was carrying your

 child when I married her. Sh told me frankly. You had deserted her -

 you had married Heidi am I loved her." 'You know it is true,' Sarah

 whispered. 'You have always known Manie. You cannot have looked into

 Kobus's eyes without knowing Both your sons have your yellow eyes,

 Manie, Lothar and Kobus both of them. You know he is your son." Manfred

 sank back on to his chair. In the silence Heidi reache( across and

 deliberately took his hand. That reassuring touch seemet to rally him.

 'Even if that were true, there is nothing I would do. No matte] whose

 son he is, justice must run its course. A life for a life. He mus pay

 the penalty for his deed." 'Manie, please. You must help us--' Sarah

 was weeping now, ant the tears at last spilled down her pale cheeks. She

 tried to thro herself at Manfred's feet, but Roelf caught her and held

 her. She struggled weakly in his arms, but he held her and looked all

 Manfred.

 'In the name of our friendship, Manie, everything we have done and

 shared - won't you help us?" he pleaded.

 'I am sorry for you, Roelf." Manfred stood up again. 'You must take

 your wife home now." Roelf drew Sarah gently towards the door, but

 before they reached it Sarah pulled out of his hands and faced Manfred

 again.

 'Why?" she cried in anguish. 'I know you can - why will you not help

 us?" 'Because of you White Sword failed,' he said softly. 'That is why

 I will not help you." She was struck dumb by the words, and Manfred

 turned to Roelfi 'Take her away now,' he ordered. 'I have finished with

 her at last." During the long journey back to Stellenbosch Sarah huddled

 in the passenger seat and sobbed brokenly. Only when Roelf parked the

 Morris outside their cottage did she straighten up, and her voice and

 her face were ruined with griefi 'I hate him,' she. repeated. 'Oh God,

 how I hate him." 'I spoke to David Abrahams this morning,' Isabella

 said, leaning forward in the saddle to pat the mare's neck so that her

 father couldn't see her face. 'He offered me a job at the Johannesburg

 office." 'Correction,' said Shasa.

 'You telephoned David and told him that Johannesburg needed a PRO at a

 salary of two thousand a month plus dress allowance plus five-day week

 and a company car - and I believe you even stipulated the make, Porsche

 911, wasn't it? David called me the minute you hung up." 'Oh Daddy,

 don't be so technical." Isabella tossed her head defiantly. 'You

 wouldn't want me to dress in rags and starve up there would you?" 'What

 I would want is for you to stay here where I can keep an eye on you."

 Shasa felt the leaden weight of impending loss in his chest as he looked

 at her. She was the spice of his life, and she had only been back from

 London a month or so. Now she wanted to be off again. His instinct was

 to fight to keep her, but Centaine had advised, 'Let them go gently, and

 there is a chance they will come back to you." 'It isn't Siberia or the

 Outer Hebrides, Daddy. Do be practical.

 It's just up the road." 'A thousand miles up the road,' Shasa agreed.

 'And much closer' to the rugby stadium at Loftus Versveld." 'I don't

 know what you mean." It was very seldom Shasa could catch her

 off-balance, and vindictively he relished her agitation.

 'Rugby football,' he explained. 'Great sweaty oafs beating their bony

 heads together." She recovered splendidly. 'Pater, if this has anything

 to do with Lothar De La Rey, I would just like to point out that he is

 one of the greatest athletes of our time and the youngest brigadier in

 the history of the police force - and that he means absolutely nothing

 to me at all." 'Your indifference is monumental. I am greatly

 relieved." 'Does that mean I can accept David's job offer?" Shasa sighed

 and the loneliness descended upon him like a winter's evening. 'How can

 I stop you, Bella?" She let out a triumphant squeal and leaned out of

 the saddle to wrap those long tanned arms around his neck, and Shasa's

 stallion danced under him with aristocratic affront.

 Isabella chattered merrily all the way back to the chfiteau.

 'One thing I forgot to mention to David was a lusing allowance.

 Flats are so awfully expensive in Joey's. I couldn't find anything

 suitable on the pittance he is paying me." Shasa shook his head with

 admiration.

 The grooms were waiting in the kitchen yard to take the horses, and

 still in their jodhpurs and riding boots they went through to the

 breakfast room with Isabella hanging lovingly on her father's arm.

 Centaine was at the sideboard, helping herself to scrambled eggs

 :: ill from the chafing dish. She was still in her gardening clothes

 and hid been amongst her roses since dawn. Now she looked at Isabella i

 quiringly - and Isabella gave her a happy wink.

 'Damn it,' Shasa intercepted the exchange. 'I've been set up. It's

 conspiracy." 'Of course, I told Nana first." Isabella hugged his arm. 'I

 alwa start at the top." 'When she was little I always threatened to hand

 her over to policeman if she was naughty,' Centaine said complacently as

 sl carried her plate to the breakfast table. 'I hope this policeman ca

 cope with her." 'He's not a policeman,' Isabella protested. 'He's a

 brigadier." Shasa ladled eggs and fried tomato on to his plate and went

 to hid place at the head of the table. The morning paper was folded

 neatly o his side plate, and he shook it open at the front page as he

 sat dowl The main news was the proposed meeting between the British prim

 minister, Harold Wilson, and Ian Smith to settle the Rhodesian issm Now

 he saw that the suggested venue was a British warship at se Israel and

 Jordan were still disputing the Hebron Valley, and closer t home the

 Robben Island ferry had capsized during the night with th certain loss

 of at least two lives, while eight others were missing.

 The telephone on the sideboard rang and Centaine looked up fror

 buttering her toast. 'That will be Garry,' she said. 'He rang twic

 while you were out riding." 'It's only eight o'clock in the morning,'

 Shasa protested, but hid, went to answer the telephone. 'Hello, Garry,

 where are you?" Garry sounded surprised. 'At the office, of course."

 'What's the problem?" 'Swimming-pools,' Garry answered. 'I have a

 chance to get th franchise for a new process of making cheap

 swimming-pools. It' called Gunite. Holly and I saw it when we were on

 honeymoon ir the States." 'Good Lord, only the ver2 rich can afford

 private swimming.

 pools,' Shasa protested.

 'Everybody will buy my swimming-pools - every home in the country will

 have one by the time I'm finished." Garry's enthusiasm was infectious.

 'It works, Pater. I've seen it, and the figures add up perfectly.

 Only trouble is I have to give an answer by noon today. Someone else is

 interested." 'How much?" Shasa asked.

 'Four million initially - that's for the franchise and plant. Another

 four million over two years for running costs, then we will be into

 profit." 'All right,' Shasa said. 'Go ahead." 'Thanks, Pater. Thanks

 for trusting me." 'Well you haven't let me down yet. How is Holly?"

 'She's fine. She's right here with me." 'At the office at eight in the

 morning?" Shasa laughed.

 'Of course." Again Garry sounded surprised. 'We are a team. The

 swimming-pools were her idea." 'Give her my love,' Shasa said and hung

 up.

 As he went back to his seat, Centaine said, 'It's the prime minister's

 budget vote this afternoon. I thought I'd drop in." 'It should be

 interesting,' Shasa agreed. 'I think Verwoerd is going to make a major

 policy speech about the country's international position. I have a

 committee meeting on armaments this morning, but why don't you meet me

 for lunch and you can listen to Doctor Henk's speech from the public

 gallery afterwards. I'll ask Tricia to get you a ticket." Ticia was

 waiting for him anxiously when an hour later Shasa walked into his

 parliamentary suite.

 'The minister of police wants to see you most urgently, Mr Courthey. He

 asked me to let him know the moment you arrived. He said he'd come to

 your office." 'Very well." Shasa glanced at his appointment book on her

 desk.

 'Let him know I'm here and then get a ticket for my mother for the

 public gallery this afternoon. Is there anything else?" 'Nothing

 important." Tricia picked up the in-house telephone to ring the minister

 of police's office and then paused. 'There has been a strange woman

 ringing you this morning. She called three times.

 She wouldn't give her name and she asked for Squadron Leader Courtney.

 Funny, isn't it?" 'All right, let me know if she calls again." Shasa was

 frowning as he went through to his own office. The use of his old

 airforce rank was strangely disquieting. He went to his desk and began

 work on the mail and the memoranda that Tricia had placed on his

 blotter, but almost immediately the buzzer rang on his intercom.

 'Minister De La Rey is here, sir." 'Ask him to come right in, Tricia."

 Shasa rose and went to meet Manfred, but as they shook hands he could

 see that Manfred was a worried man.

 'Did you read the news report about the sinking of the ferry?" Manfred

 did not even return his greeting but came immediately to business.

 'I noticed it, but didn't read it all." 'Moses Gama was on the boat when

 it sank,' Manfred said.

 'Good Lord." Shasa glanced involuntarily at the ivory and gold}: !!

 ,[

 leaf altar chest which still stood against the wall of his office.

 'Is hid safe?" 'He is missing,' Manfred said. 'He may have drowned, or

 he ma be alive. Either way we are in a very serious predicament."

 'Escaped?" Shasa asked.

 'One of the survivors, a prison officer, says that there were two

 vessels at the accident scene, a large ship without lights that collidec

 with the ferry and another smaller craft that arrived seconds artel the

 ferry capsized. In the darkness it was impossible to see any details It

 is a distinct possibility that Gama was spirited away." 'If he drowned,

 we will be accused of murdering him,' Shasa saic softly, 'with

 disastrous international repercussions." 'And if he is at large, we will

 face the possibility of a populm uprising of the blacks similar to Longa

 and Sharpeville." 'What are you doing about it?" Shasa asked.

 'The entire police force is on full alert. One of our best men, m) own

 son Lothar, is flying down from the Witwatersrand in an airforce jet to

 take charge of the investigation. He will land within the next few

 minutes. Navy divers are already attempting to salvage the wreckage of

 the ferry." For another ten minutes they discussed all the implications

 of the wreck, and then Manfred moved to the door.

 'I will keep you informed as we get further news." Shasa followed him

 into the outer office, and as they passed Tricia's desk she stood up.

 'Oh, Mr Courtney, that woman called again while you were with Minister

 De La Rey." Manfred and Shasa both paused, and Tricia went on, 'She

 asked for Squadron Leader Courtney again, sir, and when I told her you

 were in conference, she said she had news for you about White Sword. She

 said you'd understand." 'White Sword!" Shasa froze and stared at her.

 'Did she leave a number?" 'No, sir, but she said that )ou must meet her

 at the Cape Town railway station at five-thirty this afternoon. Platform

 four." 'How will I know who she is?" 'She says she knows you by sight.

 You are merely to wait on the platform, she will come to you." Shasa was

 so preoccupied with the message that he did not notice Manfred De La

 Rey's reaction to the code name 'White Sword'. All colour had drained

 from Manfred's craggy features, and his upper lip and jowls were covered

 by a sheen of perspiration. Without another word he turned and strode

 out into the corridor.

 The name 'White Sword' kept plaguing Shasa all though the Armscor

 meeting. They were discussing the new air-to-ground missiles for the

 airforce but Shasa found it difficult to concentrate. He was plagued by

 the memory of his grandfather, that good and gentle man whom Shasa had

 loved and who had been murdered by White Sword. His death had been one

 of the fiercest tragedies of his young life, and the rage that he had

 felt at the brutal killing came back to him afresh.

 'White Sword,' he thought. 'If I can find out who you are, even after

 all these years, you will pay, and the interest will be more onerous for

 the time the debt has stood." Manfred De La Rey went directly to his

 office at the end of the corridor after he had left Shasa. His

 secretary spoke to him as he passed her desk but he did not seem to hear

 her.

 He locked the door to his own office, but did not sit at the massive

 mahogany desk. He prowled the floor restlessly, his eyes unseeing and

 his heayy jaws chewing like a bulldog with a bone. He took the

 handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his chin and then paused

 to examine his face in the wall mirror behind his desk. He was so pale

 that his cheeks had a bluish sheen, and his eyes were savage as those of

 a wounded leopard caught in a trap.

 'White Sword,' he whispered aloud. It was twenty-five years since he

 had used that code name, but he remembered standing on the bridge of the

 German U-boat, coming in towards the land in darkness, with his hair and

 great bushy beard ded black, staring out at the signal fires on the

 beach where Roelf Stander waited for him.

 Roelf Stander had been with him through all the dangerous days and the

 wild endeavours. They had planned many of their operations in the

 kitchen of the Stander cottage in the little village of Stellenbosch. It

 was there in that kitchen that he had given them the details of the

 action that would be the signal for the glorious uprising of Afrikaner

 patriots. And at all those meetings Sarah Stander had been present, a

 quiet unobtrusive presence, serving coffee and food, never speaking -

 but listening. It was only many years later that Manfred had been able

 to guess at how well she had listened.

 In 1948, when the Afrikaners had at last won at the ballot box the power

 which they had failed to seize at the point of the sword, Manfred's hard

 and loyal work had been rewarded with a deputy minister's post in the

 department of justice.

 One of his first acts had been to send for the files of the unsolved

 attempt on the life of Jan Smuts, and the murder of Sir Garrick

 Courtney. Before he destroyed the files he read them through carefully,

 and he learned that they had been betrayed. There had been a traitor in

 their gallant band of patriots - a woman who had telephoned the Smuts

 police officers to warn them of the assassination.

 He had guessed at the woman's identity, but had never extracted his full

 retribution, waiting for the moment to ripen, savouring the thought of

 revenge over the decades, watching the traitor's misery, watching her

 growing old and bitter, while frustrating her husband's efforts to

 succeed in law and politics, in the guise of mentor and adviser,

 steering him into folly and disaster until Roelf Stander had lost all

 his sustenance, his property and his will to carry on. All that time

 Manfred had waited for the perfect moment for the final revenge stroke -

 and at last it had arrived. Sarah Stander had come to him to plead for

 the life of the bastard he had placed in her womb - and he had denied

 her. The pleasure of it had been exquisite, made more poignant by the

 years he had waited for it.

 Now the woman had turned vindictive. He had not anticipated that.

 He had expected the blow to break and destroy her. Only the greatest

 good fortune had given him forewarning of this new betrayal she planned.

 He turned from the mirror and sat down at his desk. He reached

 determinedly for the telephone and told his secretary, 'I want Colonel

 Bester in the bureau for state security." Bester was one of his most

 trusted officers.

 'Bester,' he barked. 'I want a detention order drawn up urgently.

 I will sign it myself, and I want it executed immediately." 'Yes,

 Minister. Can you give me the name of the detainee?" 'Sarah Stander,'

 Manfred said. 'Her address is 16 Eike Loan, Stellenbosch. If the

 arresting officers cannot find her there, she should be on platform four

 of the Cape Town railway station at five-thirty p.m. this afternoon.

 The woman must speak to no one before she is arrested - your men must

 make certain of that." As Manfred hung up he smiled grimly. Under the

 law he had the power to arrest and detain any persons for ninety days,

 and to hold that person completely incommunicado. A great deal could

 happen in ninety days. Things could change, a person might even die. It

 was all taken care of. The woman could cause no further trouble.

 The telephone on his desk rang, and Manfred snatched it up, expecting it

 to be Bester again. 'Yes, what is it?" 'Pa, it's me - Lothie." 'Yes,

 Lothie. Where are you?" 'Caledon Square. I landed twenty minutes ago,

 and I have taken over the investigation. There is news, Pa. The divers

 have found the ferry. There is no sign of the prisoner's body but the

 cabin door has been forced open. We must assume that he escaped. Worse

 than that, somebody engineered his escape." 'Find him,' Manfred said

 softly. 'You must find Moses Gama. If we don't, the consequences could

 be disastrous." 'I know,' Lothar said. 'We will find him. We have to

 find him." Centaine refused to eat the food in the parliamentary

 dining-room.

 'It's not that I am fussy, ch6ri, in the desert I ate live locusts and

 meat that had lain four days in the sun, but --' She and Shasa walked

 down through the gardens, across the top end of town to the Car Royal on

 Greenmarket Square, where the first oysters of the season had arrived

 from Knysna lagoon.

 Centaine sprinkled lemon juice and tabasco sauce, scooped a gently

 pulsating mouthful from the half shell and sighed with pleasure.

 'And now, ch6ri,' she dabbed the juice from her lips, 'tell me why yca

 are so far away that you do not laugh at even my best efforts." 'I'm

 sorry, Mater." Shasa signalled to the waiter to top up his champagne

 glass. 'I had a strange phone call this morning - and I haven't been

 able to concentrate on anything else. Do you remember White Sword?"

 'How can you ask?" Centaine laid down her fork. 'Sir Garry was more

 dear to me than my own father. Tell me all about it." They spoke of

 nothing else for the rest of the lunch, exploring together ancient

 memories of that terrible day on which a noble and generous man had

 died, a man who had been precious to them both.

 At last Shasa called for the bill. 'It's half past one already. We will

 have to hurry to reach the House before it begins. I don't want to miss

 any part of Verwoerd's speech." At sixty-six years of age Centaine was

 still active and agile, and Shasa was not forced to moderate his stride

 for her. They were still talking animatedly as they passed St George's

 Cathedral and turned into the gardens.

 Ahead of them two men sat on one of the park benches, and there was

 something about them that caught Shasa's attention even at a distance of

 a hundred yards. The taller of the pair was a swarthycomplexioned man

 who wore the uniform of a parliamentary messenger. He sat very stiffly

 upright and stared straight ahead of him with a fixed expression.

 The man beside him was also dark-haired but his face was colourless as

 putty, the dead black hair fell forward on to his forehead. He was

 leaning close to the parliamentary messenger, speaking into his ear as

 though imparting a secret, but the messenger's face was expressionless

 and he showed not the least reaction to the other man's words.

 As they came level with the bench, Shasa leaned forward to see

 ?"

 illi!

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 ;?

 past Centaine, and at less than five paces looked directly into tl pale

 face of the smaller of the men. His eyes were black and impla able as

 pools of liquid tar, but as Shasa studied him, the m deliberately turned

 his face away. Yet his lips kept moving, talkir so softly to the man in

 the parliamentary uniform that Shasa couJ not catch even a murmur of his

 voice.

 Centaine tugged at his sleeve. 'Chri, you are not listening to me 'I'm

 sorry, Mater,' Shasa apologized absentmindedly.

 'I wonder why this woman chose the railway station,' Centair repeated.

 'I suppose she feels safer in a public place,' Shasa hazarded, an

 glanced back over his shoulder. The two men were still on the benct but

 even in his preoccupation with other things, the passionle, malevolence

 that Shasa had seen in that tar-black gaze made hir shiver as though an

 icy wind had blown upon the back of his neck As they turned into the

 lane that led to the massive edifice of pm liament, Shasa felt suddenly

 confused and uncertain. There was to, much happening all around him

 over which he had no control. I was a sensation to which he was not

 accustomed.

 Joe Cicero whispered the formula soly, 'You can feel the worm ii your

 belly." 'Yes,' the man beside him replied, staring straight ahead.

 Only hi lips moved as he made the reply, 'I can feel the worm." 'The

 worm asks if you have the knife." 'Yes, I have the knife,' said the man.

 His father had been a Greek and he had been born illegitimate in

 Portuguese Mozambique of a Mulatto woman. His mixed blood was not

 apparent. It seemed merely as though he was of Mediterranean

 extraction. Only Europeans were employed as messengers in the South

 African parliament.

 'You can feel the worm in your belly,' Joe Cicero reinforced the man's

 conditioning.

 'Yes, I can feel the worm." Eight times in the past few years he had

 been in mental institutions.

 It was while he was in the last of these that he had been selected and

 the conditioning of his mind accomplished.

 'The worm asks if you know where to find the devil,' Joe Cicero told

 him. The man's name was Demetrio Tsafendas and he had been introduced

 into South Africa the previous year, once his conditioning was

 completed.

 'Yes,' said Tsafendas. 'I know where to find the devil." 'The worm in

 your belly orders you to go straight to where the devil is,' Joe Cicero

 said softly. 'The worm in your belly orders you to kill the devil."

 Tsafendas stood up. He moved like an automaton.

 'The worm orders you to go now!" Tsafendas started towards the

 parliament building with an even unhurried tread.

 Joe Cicero watched him go. It was done. All the pieces had been placed

 with great care. At last the first boulder had started to roll down the

 hillside. It would gather others as it built up speed and momenttim,

 goon it would be a mighty avalanche and the shape of the mountain would

 be changed for ever.

 Joe Cicero stood up and walked away.

 The first person Shasa saw as he and Centaine walked up the front steps

 to the parliament entrance was Kitty Godolphin and his heart surged with

 excitement and unexpected pleasure. He hadn't seen her since that

 illicit interlude in the south of France eighteen months before. Shasa

 had chartered a luxury yacht and they had cruised as far as Capri. When

 they parted, she had promised to write - but she never kept her

 promises, and here she was again with no warning, smiling that sweet

 girlish smile with the devilment in her eyes, coming to greet him as

 innocently and naturally as though their last kiss had been hours

 before.

 'What are you doing here?" he demanded without any preliminaries, and

 Kitty said to Centaine, 'Hello, Mrs Courtney. How did such a nice

 cultured lady ever end up with such an ill-mannered son?" Centaine

 laughed, she liked Kitty. Shasa thought that it was a case of kindred

 spirits. Kitty explained, 'I was in Rhodesia to get a profile on Ian

 Smithy before he meets Harold Wilson, and I made a side trip for the

 speech that Verwoerd is giving today, and of course to visit with you."

 They chatted for a few minutes, then Centaine excused herselfi 'I must

 get a good seat in the gallery." As she moved awiy Shasa asked Kitty

 softly, 'When can I see you?" 'This evening?" Kitty suggested.

 'Yes - oh no, damn it." He remembered his rendezvous with the

 White*Sword informer. 'Where are you staying?" 'The Nellie as usual."

 'Can I call you there later?" 'Sure,' she smiled. 'Unless I get any

 better offers." 'You little bitch! Why don't you marry me?" 'I'm too

 good for you, buster." It had become one of their stock jokes. 'But I

 don't mind an order of small beer and chips on the side.

 See you later:'

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 Shasa watched her climb the staircase towards the press galler) Over all

 the years he had known her, she seemed not to have aged day. She still

 had the body of a girl, and the light spring of youth iJ her step. He

 pushed back the sudden cold gloom of loneliness that threatened to

 engulf him and walked into the chamber.

 The benches were filling. Shasa saw that the prime minister was il his

 seat at the head of the government benches. He was talking t Frank

 Waring, the minister of sport, and the only other Englishmai in the

 cabinet.

 Verwoerd looked fit and vigorous. It seemed impossible that hid had

 taken two revolver bullets through his skull and had come bach with such

 power to dominate his own party and the entire chambeJ this way. He

 seemed to have an infinite capacity for survival and, oJ course, Shasa

 grinned cynically, the luck of the devil himself.

 Shasa started towards his own seat, and Manfred DeLa jumped up and came

 to intercept him.

 He seized Shasa's arm and leaned close to him. 'The divers have raised

 the ferry. Gama's body is not in it and the door to the cabin has been

 forced. It looks as though the bastard has got clean away.

 But we have every exit from the country guarded and my men will get him.

 He cannot get away. I think the prime minister is going to make the

 announcement of his disappearance during his speech this afternoon."

 Shasa and Manfred began walking towards their seats on the front bench,

 when somebody bumped so roughly against Shasa that he exclaimed and

 glanced around. It was the uniformed messenger that Shasa had noticed

 on the park bench.

 'Be careful, fellow,' Shasa snapped at him as he recovered his balance,

 but the man did not seem to hear.

 Although his expression was vacant and his eyes staring and unseeing,

 the-messenger walked with a quick determined step, brushing past Manfred

 and heading towards the opposition benches on the left side of the

 Speaker's throne.

 'Damned rude,' Shasa said, pausing to watch him.

 Suddenly the messenger seemed to change his mind, he veered across the

 chamber and hurried towards where Dr Verwoerd was sitting. The prime

 minister saw him coming and looked up expectantly, supposing that the

 man had a message for him. Nobody else in the chamber seemed to be

 taking any notice of the messenger's erratic behaviour, but Shasa was

 watching with puzzlement.

 As the messenger stood over Dr Verwoerd, he swept his dark uniform

 jacket open and Shasa saw the silver flash of steel. 'Good Christ!" he

 exclaimed. 'He's got a knife." The messenger lifted the blade and

 struck once, and strangely the prime minister was smiling, as though he

 did not realize what was happening. The blade came free and the silver

 was misted pink with blood.

 Shasa started forward, but Manfred still had hold of his arm. 'The

 Manchurian Candidate,' he hissed and Shasa froze.

 Standing over the prime minister, the assassin struck again and then

 again. With each blow the blood spurted down his white shirt front and

 Dr Verwoerd lifted his hands in a pathetic gesture of appeal.

 At last the men closest to him realized what was happening and they

 leapt upon the assailant. A knot of struggling men swarmed over him,

 but the man was fighting back with a kind of demonic strength.

 'Where is the Devil?" he shouted wildly. 'I'll get the Devil." They

 bore him to the green carpet and pinned him there.

 Dr Verwoerd still sat in his seat staring down at his own chest from

 which the bright flood poured. Then he pulled the lapels of his jacket

 closed as though to hide the terrible sight of his own blood, and with a

 sigh slid forward and crumpled on to the carpeted floor of the chamber.

 Shasa and Manfred De La Rey were in Shasa's parliamentary office when

 Tricia brought the news through.

 'Gentlemen, the party whip has just telephoned. Dr Verwoerd has been

 declared dead on arrival at the Volks Hospital." Shasa went to the

 liquor cabinet behind his desk and poured two glasses of cognac.

 They watched each other's eyes as they drank silently, and then Shasa

 lowered his glass and said, 'We must start at once to draw up a list of

 those we can rely on to support you. I think John Vorster is the man

 you will have to beat for the premiership, and his people will already

 be busy." They worked together through the afternoon preparing their

 lists, placing ticks and crosses and queries against the names.

 Telephoning, wheedling and extorting, arranging meetings, making

 promises and commitments, trading and compromising, and as the afternoon

 wore on a stream of important visitors, allies and potential allies,

 passed through Shasa's suite.

 While they worked, Shasa watched Manfred, and wondered again how fate

 had chosen such strange travelling companions as they were.

 It seemed that they had nothing in common except that one most vital

 trait - burning unrelenting ambition and hunger for power.

 Well, it was at their fingertips now, almost within their grasp, and

 Manfred was a man possessed. The effect of his enormous force of

 character was apparent on the men who came up to Shasa's office ji ii

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 suite. One by one they were swept along by it, and one by one they

 swore their allegiance to him.

 Slowly it dawned upon Shasa that it was no longer a possibilityor even a

 probability. They were going to win. He knew in his guts and his

 heart. It was theirs - the premiership and the presidency between them.

 They were going to win.

 In the heady excitement of it all the afternoon passed swiftly, the

 grandfather clock in the corner of Shasa's office chimed the hours

 softly, such a familiar sound that he hardly noticed it until it struck

 five and he started and jumped to his feet, confirming the time with his

 wristwatch.

 'It's five o'clock." He started towards the door.

 'Where are you going? I need you here,' Manfred called after him.

 'Come back, Shasa." 'I'll be back,' Shasa answered, and ran into the

 outer office.

 There were men waiting there, important men. They stood up to greet

 him, and Tricia called, 'Mr Courtney--' 'Not now." Shasa ran past them.

 'I'll be back soon." It would be quicker on foot than trying to take the

 Jaguar through the five o'clock rush-hour traffic, and Shasa began to

 run.

 He realized that the woman informer was so nervous and afraid that she

 would probably not linger at the rendezvous. He had to get there before

 the appointed time. As he ran he reviled himself for having forgotten

 such an important appointment, but it was all confusion and uncertainty.

 He raced down the sidewalk, crowded with office workers relieved of the

 tedium of their day who poured out of the buildings. Shasa pushed and

 shoved, and weaved and ducked. Some of those he barged into shouted

 angrily after him.

 He sprinted through the columns of slowly moving vehicles, and ran into

 the Adderley Street entrance of the railway station. The clock above

 the main concourse stood at five thirty-seven. He was already late, and

 platform four was at the far end of the building.

 Wildly he raced down the concourse, and barged on to the quay.

 He slowed to a hurried walk, and made his way down the platform,

 examining the faces of the commuters waiting there. They stared back at

 him incuriously, and he glanced up at the platform clock: five-forty.

 Ten minutes late. She had come and gone. He had missed her.

 He stood in the centre of the platform and looked despairingly around

 him, not certain what to do next. Overhead the public address system

 squawked, 'Train from Stellenbosch and the Cape Flats arriving Platform

 Four." That was it, of course. Shasa felt a vast relief. The train was

 late.

 She must be on the train, that was why she had chosen this place and

 time.

 Shasa craned his head anxiously as the carriages rumbled slowly into the

 platform and, with a squeal and hiss of vacuum brakes, came to a halt.

 The doors were thrown open and passengers spewed out of them, beginning

 to move in a solid column towards the platform exit.

 Shasa jumped up on the nearest bench, the better to see and to be seen.

 'Mr Courtney." A woman's voice. Her voice - he recognized it, even

 after all the years. 'Mr Courtney." He stood on tiptoe, trying to see

 over the heads of the passengers.

 'Mr Courtney!" There she was, caught up in the crowd, trying to push her

 way through to him, and waving frantically to attract his attention.

 He recognized her instantly. The shock immobilized him for a few

 seconds as he stared at her. It was the Stander woman, the one he had

 met briefly at Manfred's holiday cottage when he had flown there to make

 the cannery deal with him. That was years ago, but he remembered that

 she had called him Squadron Leader. He should have pieced it together

 at that time. How foolish and unperceptive he had been. Shasa was still

 standing on the bench staring at her, when suddenly something else

 caught his attention.

 Two men were roughly pushing their way through the crowds of passengers.

 Two big men in dark ill-fitting suits and the fedora hats that were

 somehow the mark of the plain-clothes security police.

 Clearly they were making for the Stander woman.

 At the same moment as Shasa, she saw the two detectives and her face

 went white with terror.

 'Mr Courtney!" she screamed. 'Quickly - they are after me." She broke

 out of the crowd and began to run towards Shasa. 'Hurry, please hurry."

 Shasa jumped down from the bench and ran to meet her, but there was an

 old woman carrying an armful of parcels in his way. He almost knocked

 her down, and in the moments it took to untangle himself, the two

 detective had caught up with Sarah Stander, and seized her from either

 side.

 'Please!" She gave a despairing scream, then with wild, improbable

 strength broke free of her captors, and ran the last few paces to Shasa.

 'Here!" She thrust an envelope into Shasa's hand. 'Here it is." The two

 security officers had recovered swiftly and bounded after her. One of

 them seized both her arms from behind and dragged her away. The other

 came to confront Shasa.

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 'We are police officers. We have a warrant for the arrest of the

 woman." He was panting with his efforts. 'She gave something to you. I

 saw it. You must hand it over to me." 'My good man!" Shasa drew himself

 up and gave the detective hi, most haughty stare. 'Do you have any idea

 just who you are speaking to?" 'Minister Courtney!" The man recognized

 him then, and his confusion was comic. 'I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know

 --' 'What is your name, rank and serial number?" Shasa snapped.

 'Lieutenant Van Outshoorn No. 138643." Instinctively the man stood to

 attention.

 'You can be sure you will hear more of this, Lieutenant,' Shasa warned

 him frostily. 'Now carry on with your other duties." Shasa turned on

 his heel and strode away down the platform, tucking the envelope into

 his inner pocket, leaving the detective staring after him in dismay.

 He did not open the envelope until he reached his office again.

 Tricia was still waiting for him.

 'I was so worried when you ran out like that,' she cried. Good, loyal

 Tricia.

 'It's all right,' he reassured her. 'It all worked out fine. Where is

 Minister De La Rey?" 'He left soon after you, sir. He said he would be

 at home at Groote Schuur. You could reach him there if you needed him."

 'Thank you, Tricia. You may go home now." Shasa went through to his own

 office and locked the door. 'He went to his desk and sat down in his

 studded leather chair. He took the envelope from his inner pocket and

 laid it in front of him on the desk blotter, and he studied it.

 It was of cheap coarse paper, and his name was written in a round

 girlish hand. The ink had smeared and run. 'Meneer Courtney." Shasa

 was suddenly relucta to touch it again. He had a premonition of some

 terrible revelation which would turn the even tenor of his existence

 into strife and turmoil.

 He picked up the Georgian silver paper knife from his desk set and

 tested the point with his thumb. He turned the envelope over and slid

 the point of the knife under the flap. The envelope contained a sheet

 of ruled notepaper with a single line of writing in the same girlish

 script.

 Shasa stared at it. There was no sense of shock. Deep in his

 subconscious he must have known the truth all along. It was the eyes,

 of course, the yellow topaz eyes of White Sword that had stared into his

 own on the day his grandfather died.

 There was not even a moment of doubt, no twinge of incredulity.

 He had even seen the scar, the ancient gun-shot wound in Manfred's body,

 the mark of the bullet he had fired at White Sword and every other

 detail fitted perfectly.

 'Manfred De La Rey is White Sword." From the moment they had first met

 that childhood day upon the fishing jetty at Walvis Bay, the fates had

 stalked them, driving them inexorably towards their destiny.

 'We were born to destroy each other,' Shasa said softly, and reached for

 the telephone.

 It rang three times before it was answered.

 'De La Rey." 'It's me,' Shasa said.

 'Ja. I have been waiting." Manfred's voice was weary and resigned, in

 bitter contrast to the powerful tones in which he had exhorted and

 rallied his supporters just a short while before. 'The woman reached

 y-)u. My men have informed me." 'The woman must be set free,' Shasa

 told him.

 'It has been done already. On my orders." 'We must meet." 'Ja. It is

 necessary." 'Where?" Shasa asked. 'When?" 'I will come to Weltevreden,'

 Manfred said, and Shasa was taken too much by surprise to respond. 'But

 there is one condition." 'What is your condition?" Shasa asked warily.

 'Your mother must be there when we meet." 'My mother?" This time Shasa

 could not contain his amazement.

 'Yes, your mother - Centaine Courtney." 'I don't understand - what has

 my mother got to do with this business?" 'Everything,' said Manfred

 heavily. 'She has everything to do with it." When Kitty Godolphin got

 back to her suite that evening, she was in a mood of jubilation. Under

 her direction, Hank's camera had captured the dramatic moments as the

 blood-stained body of Dr Verwoerd was carried from the chamber to the

 waiting ambulance, and she had recorded the panic and confusion, the

 spontaneous unrehearsed words and expressions of his friends and his

 bitter enemies.

 The moment she entered the suite, she booked a call through to her news

 editor at NABS in New York to warn him of the priceless footage she had

 obtained. Then she poured herself a gin and tonic ?, / and sat

 impatiently beside the telephone waiting for her call to come through.

 She lifted it as it rang.

 'Kitty Godolphin,' she said.

 'Miss Godolphin." A strange voice, speaking with a deep melodiou,

 African accent, greeted her. 'Moses Gama sends you his greetings."

 'Moses Gama is serving a life sentence in a high security prison,' Kitty

 replied brusquely. 'Don't waste my time, please." 'Last night Moses

 Gama was rescued by warriors of the Umkhonto we Sizwe from the Robben

 Island prison ferry,' said the voice, and Kitty felt the flesh of her

 cheeks and lips go numb with the shock of it. She had read the reports

 of the ferry sinking. 'Moses Gama is in a safe place. He wishes to

 speak to the world through you. If you agree to meet him, you will be

 allowed to use your camera to record his message." For a full three

 seconds she could not answer. Her voice had failed her but her mind was

 racing. 'This is the big one,' she thought. 'This is the one that

 comes only once in a lifetime of work and striving." She cleared her

 throat and said, 'I will come." 'A dark blue van will arrive at the

 ballroom entrance to the hotel in ten minutes from now. The driver will

 flick his lights twice. You are to enter the rear doors of the van

 immediately, without speaking to any person." The vehicle was a small

 Toyota delivery van, and Kitty and Hank with the sound and camera

 equipment were cramped in the interior so that it was difficult to move,

 but Kitty crawled forward until she could speak to the driver. 'Where

 are we going?" The driver glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. He

 was a young black man of striking appearance, not handsome but with a

 powerful African face.

 'We are going into the townships. There will be police patrols and

 road-blocks. The police are everywhere searching for Moses Gama.

 It will be dangerous, so you must do exactly as I tell you." For almost

 an hour they were in the van, driving through darkened back streets,

 sometimes stopping and waiting in silence until a, shadowy figure came

 out of the night to whisper a few words to the driver of the van, then

 going on again until at last they parked for the last time.

 'From here we walk,' their guide told them, and led them down the alleys

 and secret routes of the gangs and comrades, slipping past the rows of

 township cottages, twice hiding while police Land-Rovers cruised past,

 and finally entering the back door of one of the thousands of identical

 undistinguished cottages.

 Moses Gama sat at a table in the tiny back kitchen. Kitty recognized

 him instantly although his hair was now almost completely silver and his

 great frame was skeletally wasted. He wore a white open-neck shirt and

 dark blue slacks, and as he rose to greet her, she saw that though he

 had aged and his body was ravaged, the commanding presence and his

 messianic dark gaze were as powerful as when she had first met him.

 'I am grateful that you have come,' he told her gravely. 'But we have

 very little time. The fascist police follow closely as a pack of

 wolves. I have to leave here within a short while." Hank was already at

 work, setting up his camera and lights, and he nodded to Kitty. She saw

 that the gritty reality of the surroundings, the bare walls and plain

 unadorned wooden furniture would add drama to the setting, and Moses'

 silver hair and enfeebled condition would touch the hearts of her

 audience.

 She had prepared a few questions in her mind, but they were unnecessary.

 Moses Gama looked at the camera and spoke with a sincerity and depth

 that was devastating.

 'There are no prison walls thick enough to hold the longing of my people

 for freedom,' he said. 'There is no grave deep enough to keep the truth

 from you." He spoke for ten minutes and Kitty Godolphin who was old in

 experience and hardened in the ways of a naughty world was weeping

 unashamedly as he ended, 'The struggle is my life. The battle belongs

 to us. We will prevail, my people. Amandla! Ngawethu!" Kitty went to

 him and embraced him. 'You make me feel very humble,' she said.

 'You are a friend,' he replied. 'Go in peace, my daughter." 'Come."

 Raleigh Tabaka took Kitty's arm and led her away. 'You have stayed too

 long already. You must leave now. This man's name is Robert. He will

 lead you." Robert was waiting at the kitchen door of the cottage.

 'Follow me,' he ordered, and led them across the bare dusty backyard,

 through the shadows to the corner of the road. There he stopped

 unexpectedly.

 'What happens now?" Kitty asked in a whisper. 'Why are we waiting

 here?" 'Be patient,' Robert said. 'You will learn the reason soon."

 Suddenly Kitty was aware that they were not alone. There were others

 waiting like them in the shadows. She could hear them now, the murmur

 of voices, quiet but expectant. She could see them as her eyes adjusted

 to the night, many figures, in small groups, huddled beside the hedges

 or in the shelter of the buildings.

 Dozens, no hundreds of people, men and women, and every

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 moment their numbers increased as more came out of the night shadows,

 gathering round the cottage that contained Moses Gama, as though his

 presence was a beacon, a flame that, like moths, they could not resist.

 'What is happening?" Kitty asked softly.

 'You will see,' Robert replied. 'Have your camera ready." The people

 were beginning to leave the shadows, creeping closer to the cottage, and

 a voice called out 'Babo! Your children are here. Speak to us,

 Father." And another cried. 'Moses Gama, we are ready. Lead us!" And

 then they began to sing, softly at first, 'Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika - God

 save Africa!" and the voices joined and began to harmonize, those

 beautiful African voices, thrilling and wonderful.

 Then there was another sound, distant at first, but swiftly growing

 closer, the sobbing undulating wall of police sirens.

 'Have your camera ready,' said Robert again.

 As soon as the American woman and her cameraman had left the cottage,

 Moses Gama began to rise from the table. 'It is done,' he said. 'Now

 we can leave." 'Not yet, my uncle,' Raleigh Tabaka stopped him. 'There

 is something else that we must do first." 'It is dangerous to delay,'

 Moses insisted. 'We have been in this place too long. The police have

 informers everywhere." 'Yes, my uncle. The police informers are

 everywhere." Raleigh put a peculiar emphasis on his agreement. 'But

 before you go on to the place where the police cannot touch you, we must

 talk." Raleigh came to stand at the front of the table facing his uncle.

 'This was planned with great care. This afternoon the white monster

 Verwoerd was assassinated in the racist parliament." Moses started. 'You

 did not tell me this,' he protested, but Raleigh went on quietly.

 'The plan was that in the confusion after Verwoerd's assassination you

 would emerge to lead a spontaneous rising of our people." 'Why was I not

 told of this?" Moses asked fiercely.

 'Patience, my uncle. Hear me out. The men who planned this are from a

 cold bleak land in the north, they do not understand the African soul.

 They do not understand that our people will not rise until their mood is

 ready, until their rage is ripe. That time is not yet.

 It will take many more years of patient work to bring their rage to full

 fruit. Only then can we gather the harvest. The white police are still

 too strong. They would crush us by raising their little finger and the

 world would stand by and watch us die as they watched the rebellion in

 Hungary die." 'I do not understand,' Moses said. 'Why have you gone

 this far if you did not intend to travel to the end of the road.9' 'The

 revolution needs martyrs as well as leaders. The mood and temper of the

 world must be roused, for without them we can never succeed. Martyrs

 and leaders, my uncle." 'I am the chosen leader of our people,' Moses

 Gama said simply.

 'No, my uncle." Raleigh shook his head. 'You have proved unworthy. You

 have sold out your people. In exchange for your life, you delivered the

 revolution into the hands of the enemy. You gave Nelson Mandela and the

 heroes of Rivonia to the foe. Once I believed you were a god, but now I

 know that you are a traitor." Moses Gama stared at him silently.

 'I am glad you do not deny this, my uncle. Your guilt is proven beyond

 any doubt. By your action you have forfeited any claim to the

 leadership. Nelson Mandela alone has the greatness for that role.

 However, my uncle, the revolution needs martyrs." From the pocket of his

 jacket Raleigh Tabaka took something wrapped in a clean white cloth. He

 laid it on the table. Slowly he opened the bundle, taking care not to

 touch what it contained.

 They both stared at the revolver.

 'This pistol is police issue. Only hours ago it was stolen from a local

 police arsenal. The serial number is still on the police register.

 It is loaded with police-issue ammunition." Raleigh folded the cloth

 around the grip of the pistol. 'It still has the fingerprints of the

 police officers upon it,' he said.

 Carrying the pistol he went round the table to stand behind Moses Gama's

 chair and placed the muzzle of the pistol at the back of his neck.

 From outside the cottage they heard the singing begin.

 'God save Africa." Raleigh repeated the words. 'You are fortunate, my

 uncle. You have a chance to redeem yourself. You are going to a place

 where nobody can ever touch you again, and your name will live for ever,

 pure and unsullied. "The great martyr of Africa who died for his

 people."' Moses Gama did not move or speak, and Raleigh went on softly,

 'The people have been told you are here. They are gathered outside in

 their hundreds. They will bear witness to your greatness. Your name

 will live for ever." Then above the singing they heard the police sirens

 coming closer, wailing and sobbing.

 'The brutal fascist police have also been told that you are here,'

 Raleigh said softly.

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 The sound of the sirens built up and then there were the roar of

 engines, the squeal of brakes, the slamming of Land-Rover doors, the

 shouted commands, the pounding footsteps, and the crash of the front

 door being smashed in with sledgehammers.

 As Brigadier Lothar De La Rey led his men in through the front door of

 the cottage, Raleigh Tabaka said softly, 'Go in peace, my uncle,' and he

 shot Moses Gama in the back of the head.

 The heavy bullet threw Moses forward, his shattered head slammed face

 down upon the table, the contents of his skull and chips of white bone

 splattered against the wall and over the kitchen floor.

 Raleigh dropped the police pistol onto the table and slipped out into

 the dark yard. He joined the watching throng in the street outside,

 mingling with them, waiting with them until the covered body was carried

 out of the front door of the cottage on a stretcher. Then he shouted in

 a strong clear voice, 'The police have murdered our leader. They have

 killed Moses Gama." As the cry was taken up by a hundred other voices,

 and the women began the haunting ululation of mourning, Raleigh Tabaka

 turned and walked away into the darkness.

 A servant opened the front door of Weltevreden to Manfred De La Rey.

 'The master is expecting you,' he said respectfully. 'Please come with

 me." He led Manfred to the gun room and closed the double mahogany doors

 behind him.

 Manfred stood on the threshold. There was a log fire burning in the

 hearth of the stone fireplace and Shasa Courtney stood before it.

 He was wearing a dinner-jacket and black tie and a new black silk patch

 over his eye. He was tall and debonair with silver wings of hair at his

 temples, but his expression was merciless.

 Centaine Courtney sat at the desk below the gun racks. She also wore

 evening dress, a brocaded Chinese silk in her favourite shade of yellow

 with a necklace of magnificent yellow diamonds from the H'am Mine. Her

 arms and shoulders were bare and in the muted light her skin seemed

 flawless and smooth as a young girl's.

 'White Sword,' Shasa greeted him softly.

 'Ja,' Manfred nodded. 'But that was long ago - in another war." 'You

 killed an innocent man. A noble old man." 'The bullet was intended for

 another - for a traitor, an Afrikaner who had delivered his people to

 the British yoke." 'You were a terrorist then, as Gama and Mandela are

 terrorists now. Why should your punishment be any different from

 theirs?" 'Our cause was just - and God was on our side,' Manfred

 replied.

 'How many innocents have died for what other men call "just causes"? How

 many atrocities have been committed in God's name?" 'You cannot provoke

 me." Manfred shook his head. 'What I attempted was right and proper."

 'We shall see whether or not the courts of this land agree with you,'

 Shasa said, and looked across the room to Centaine. 'Please ring the

 number on the pad in front of you, Mater. Ask for Colonel Bothma of

 CID. I have already asked him to be available to come here." Centaine

 made no move, and her expression, as she studied Manfred De La Rey, was

 tragic.

 'Please do it, Mater,' Shasa insisted.

 'No,' Manfred intervened. 'She cannot do it - and nor can you." 'Why do

 you believe that?" 'Tell him, Mother,' said Manfred.

 Shasa frowned quickly and angrily, but Centaine held up her hand to stop

 him speaking.

 'It is true,' she whispered. 'Manfred is as much my son as you are,

 Shasa. I gave birth to him in the desert. Although his father took him

 still wet and blind from my child bed, although I did not see him again

 for almost thirteen years, .he is still my son." In the silence one of

 the logs in the fireplace fell in a soft shower of ash and it sounded

 like an avalanche.

 'Your grandfather has been dead for twenty years and more, Shasa. Do you

 want to break my heart by sending your brother to the gallows?" 'My duty

 - my honour,' Shasa faltered.

 'Manfred was as merciful once. Hehad it in his power to destroy your

 political career before it began. At my request and in the knowledge

 that you were brothers, he spared you." Centaine was speaking softly,

 but remorselessly. 'Can you do less?" 'But - he is only your bastard,'

 Shasa blurted.

 'You are my bastard also, Shasa. Your father was killed on our wedding

 day, before the ceremony. That was the fact that Manfred could have

 used to destroy you. He had you in his power - as he is now in your

 power. What will you do, Shasa?" Shasa turned away from her, and stood

 with his head bowed staring into the fireplace. When he spoke at last,

 his voice was racked with pain.

 'The friendship - the brotherhood even - all of it is an illusion,' he

 said. 'It is you, Mater, whom I must honour." No one replied to him,

 and he turned back to Manfred.

 'You will inform the caucus of the National Party that you are not

 available for the premiership and you will retire from public life he

 said quietly, and saw Manfred flinch and the ruination of hi dreams in

 the agony of his expression. 'That is the only punishmen I can inflict

 upon you, but perhaps it is more painful and lingerin than the gallows.

 Do you accept it?" 'You are destroying yourself at the same time,'

 Manfred told him 'Without me the presidency is beyond your grasp." 'That

 is my punishment,' Shasa agreed. 'I accept it. Do you accep yours?" 'I

 accept,' said Manfred De La Rey. He turned to the doubl, mahogany

 doors, flung them open and strode from the room.

 Shasa stared after him. Only when they heard his car pull awa, ú down

 the long driveway did he turn back to Centaine. She wE weeping as she

 had wept on the day that he brought her the news o Blaine Malcomess'

 death.

 'My son,' she whispered. 'My sons." And he went to comfor her.

 A week after the death of Dr Hendrik Verwoerd, the caucus of the

 National Party elected Balthazar Johannes Vorster to the premiership of

 South Africa.

 He owed his elevation to the awe-inspiring reputation that he had built

 for himself while he was minister of justice. He was a stron man in the

 mould of his predecessor and in his acceptance speech he stated boldly,

 'My role is to walk fearlessly along the road already pointed out by

 Hendrik Verwoerd." Three days after his election he sent for Shasa

 Courtney.

 'I wanted personally to thank you for your hard work and loyalty over

 the years, but now I think it is time for you to take a wellearned rest.

 I would like you to go as the South African ambassador to the Court of

 St James in London. I know that with you there South Africa House will

 be in good hands." It was the classic dismissal, but Shasa knew that the

 golden rule for politicians is never to refuse office.

 'Thank you, Prime Minister,' he replied.

 Thirty thousand mourners attended the funeral of Moses Gama in Drake's

 Farm township.

 Raleigh Tabaka organized the funeral and was the captain of the honour

 guard of Umkhonto we Sizwe that stood at the graveside and gave the ANC

 salute as the coffin was lowered into the earth.

 Vicky Dinizulu Gama, dressed in her flowing caftan of yellow and green

 and black, defied her banning order to make a speech to the mourners.

 Fierce and strikingly beautiful, she told them, 'We must devise a death

 for the collaborators and sell-outs, that is so grotesquely horrible

 that not one of our people will ever dare to turn traitor upon us." The

 sorrow of the multitudes was so terrible that when a young woman amongst

 them was pointed out as a police informer, they stripped her naked and

 whipped and beat her until she fell unconscious. Then they doused her

 with petrol and set her alight and kicked her while she burned.

 Afterwards the children urinated on her charred corpse. The police

 dispersed the mourners with tear gas and baton-charges.

 Kitty Godolphin filmed it all, and when the footage was cut in with the

 Moses Gama interview and the graphic footage from the scene of his

 brutal slaying by the police, it was amongst the most gripping and

 horrifying ever shown on American television.

 When Kitty Godolphin was promoted to head of NABS news, she became the

 highest-paid female editor in American television.

 Before taking up his post as ambassador in London, Shasa went on a

 four-week safari in the Zambezi valley with his eldest son. The

 Courtney Safaris hunting concession covered five hundred square miles of

 wonderful game-rich wilderness, and Matatu led Shasa to lion and buffalo

 and a magnificent old bull elephant.

 The Rhodesian bush war was becoming deadly earnest. Sean had been

 awarded the Silver Cross of Rhodesia for gallantry and around the camp

 fire he described how he had won it.

 'Matatu and I were following a big bull jumbo when we cut the spoor of

 twelve ZANU gooks. We dropped the jumbo and tracked the terrs. It was

 pissing with rain and the cloud was on the treetops so the fire force

 couldn't get in to back us up. The terrs were getting close to the

 Zambezi so we pushed up on them. The first warning we had that they had

 set an ambush for us was when we saw the fairy lights in the grass just

 ahead of us.

 'Matatu was leading and he took the first burst in the belly.

 That made me fairly bitter and I went after the gooks with the old .577.

 It was five miles to the river and they ran like the clappers of hell,

 but I polished off the last two in the water before they could reach the

 Zambian side. When I turned around, there was Matatu standing right

 behind me. The little bugger had backed me up for five miles with his

 tripes hanging out of the hole in his guts." ú Across the camp fire the

 little Ndorobo's face had brightened as he heard his name mentioned, and

 Sean told him in Swahili, 'Show the Bwana Makuba your new belly button."

 Obligingly Matatu hoisted his tattered shirt tails and displayed for

 Shasa the fearsome scars the AK 47 bullets had left on his stomach.

 'You are a stupid little bugger,' Sean told him severely, 'running

 around with a hole in your guts, instead of lying down and dying like

 you should have. You are bloody stupid, Matatu." Matatu's whole body

 wriggled with pleasure. 'Bleddy stupid bugger,' he agreed proudly. He

 knew that this was the highest accolade to which he could possibly

 aspire, uttered as it was by the godhead of his entire firmament.

 While Shasa was still packing his books and paintings for the journey to

 London, Garry and Holly moved into Weltevreden.

 'I'll be over there for at least three years,' Shasa said. 'And when I

 come back we can talk again, but I shall probably get myself a flat in

 town. On my own the old place is just too big for me." Holly was

 pregnant, and prevailed on Centaine to stay on to help her 'just until

 the baby is born'.

 'Holly is the only woman that Mater can stand within half a mile of her

 on a permanent basis,' Shasa remarked to Garry as the two ladies of

 Weltevreden began planning the redecoration of the nursery wing

 together.

 Isabella's love affair with Lothar De La Rey survived in stormy seas and

 wild winds during the monhs of the enquiry into the death of Moses Gama.

 The commission of enquiry exonerated Brigadier Lothar De La Rey with a

 verdict of 'No Guilt'. The local English-language as well as the

 international press jeered cynically at this verdict and an emergency

 meeting of the General Assembly of the United Nations passed a

 resolution calling for comprehensive mandatory sanctions on South

 Africa, which was predictably vetoed in the Security Council.

 However, amongst his own people, Lothar's reputation was greatly

 enhanced and the Afrikaans press lauded him as its chosen hero.

 Not a week after the commission made its findings public, Isabella woke

 in the bedroom of her luxurious Sandton flat to find Lothar already

 fully dressed, standing over the bed and watching her with an expression

 of such deep regret that she sat up quickly, fully awake, and let the

 pink satin sheets fall to her waist.

 'What is it, Lothie?" she cried. 'Why are you leaving so early? Why are

 you looking at me like that?" 'There will be a by-election in the

 Doornberg constituency. It's one of our safe seats. The party

 organizers have offered it to me, and I have accepted. I'm resigning my

 police commission and going into politics." 'Oh, that's wonderful,'

 Isabella cried, and reached out to him with both arms. 'I was reared on

 politics. We will make a great team, Lothie. I'll be an amazing help

 to you - you'll see!" Lothar lifted his eyes from her naked breasts, but

 made no move to touch her, and she let her arms drop. 'What is it?" Her

 expression changed.

 'I'm going back to my own people, Bella,' he said quietly. 'Back to my

 Volk and my God. I know what I want. I want one day to succeed where

 my father failed. I want the position he almost achieved, but I need a

 wife who is one of my own people. A good Afrikaner girl. I have

 already chosen her. I am going to her now. So we must say goodbye,

 Bella. Thank you. I will never forget you, but it is over now." 'Get

 out,' she said. 'Get out - and don't come back." He hesitated and her

 voice rose to a scream, 'Get out, you bastard.

 Get out!" He went to the bedroom door and closed it softly behind him,

 and Isabella snatched the water jug from the bedside table and hurled it

 at the door. It shattered and she threw herself face down on the bed

 and began to weep.

 She cried all that day, and at nightfall went into the bathroom and

 filled the bath with hot water. Lothar had left a packet of razor

 blades on the shelf next to her douche bag, and she unwrapped one of

 them slowly and held it up in front of her eyes. It looked terrifyingly

 evil, and the light glinted on the edge, but she lowered it until it

 touched the skin of her wrist. It stung like a scorpion and she jerked

 her wrist away.

 'No, Lothar De La Rey, I won't give you the satisfaction,' she Said

 angrily, and dropped the blade into the toilet bowl and went back into

 the bedroom. She picked up the phone.

 When she heard her father's voice, Isabella trembled with the shock of

 what she had almost done.

 'I want to come home, Daddy,' she whispered.

 'I'll send the jet for you,' Shasa said without hesitation. 'No, hell,

 I'll fly up to fetch you myself." She was waiting on the tarmac and she

 ran into his arms. Halfway back to Cape Town he touched her cheek and

 said, 'I'll need an official hostess at "Highveld"." That was the

 ambassador's residenc ú in London. 'I'm even prepared to renegotiate

 your salary." 'Oh Daddy,' she said. 'Why aren't all the men in the

 world like you!

 Jakobus Stander was hanged in the Pretoria Central prison. Sarah

 Stander and her husband were waiting outside when the death notice was

 posted on the main gates of the prison.

 The night that they returned to the cottage in Stellenbosch Sarah rose

 once Roelf was asleep and in the bathroom she took a massive overdose of

 barbiturates.

 She was dead in the bed beside him when Roelf Stander woke the following

 morning.

 Maned and Heidi went to live on their farm in the Free State where

 Manfred raised pedigree merino sheep.

 At the agricultural show in Bloemfontein Manfred won a blue ribbon for

 the champion ram on show three years in succession.

 Always fleshy, Manfred put on a great deal of weight, eating out of

 boredom more than appetite. Only Heidi knew how he chaffed at

 inactivity, how much he longed to walk once again the corridors of

 power, and how pointless and frustrating he felt his existence had

 become.

 He suffered his heart attack while wandering alone in the veld and

 shepherds found his body the next morning lying where he had fallen.

 Centaine flew up in the company jet to his funeral. She was the only

 member of the Courtney family present when Manfred was buried with full

 honours in Heroes Acre, surrounded by the graves of many other

 outstanding Afrikaners, including Dr Hendrik Verwoerd.

 When Shasa Courtney was driven back from Buckingham Palace in the

 ambassadorial limousine after presenting his credentials to Her Majesty

 Queen Elizabeth II, the streets were wet with the grey London drizzle.

 Despite the weather, the demonstrators were waiting for him in Trafalgar

 Square with their placards: 'The spirit of Moses Gama lives on' and

 'Apartheid is a crime against humanity." As Shasa alighted from the

 limousine in front of the embassy, the demonstrators tried to push

 forward, but a line of blue-uniformed London bobbies linked arms to hold

 them back.

 'Shasa Courtney!" Half-way across the sidewalk Shasa stopped dead in his

 tracks at the familiar voice, and he looked around.

 He did not recognize her at first, then he saw her in the front rank of

 the demonstration and he turned back. He struck a tall elegant figure

 in his court dress and top hat. He stopped in front of her and spoke to

 one of the constables.

 'Thank you, officer, but I know this lady, you may let her through."

 Then, as she ducked under the constable's outstretched arm, he greeted

 her, 'Hello, Tara." He found it difficult to believe how she had

 changed. She was a blowsy middle-aged drab, only her eyes were still

 beautiful as they blazed at him.

 'Moses Gama lives on. The monsters of apartheid can murder our heroes,

 but the battle is ours. In the end we will inherit the earth." Her

 voice was a screech.

 'Yes, Tara,' he replied. 'There are heroes and there are monsters, but

 most of us are ordinary mortals caught up in events too turbulent for

 any of us. Perhaps when the battle is over, all we will inherit will be

 the ashes of a once beautiful land." He turned away from her and walked

 into the entrance of the embassy without looking back.

 Author's Note . !

 Once again I have taken some small liberties with the timetables of

 history, in particular the dates on which the Umkhonto we Sizwe.and Poqo

 movements began, Nelson Mandela was acquitted in his first treason

 trial, and Harold Macmillan made his 'Winds of Change' speech.

 I hope that you, the reader, will forgive me for the sake of the

 narrative.

 Wilbur Smith The Courtney Novels:

 WHEN THE LION FEEDS 'Mr Smith is a natural story-teller..."

 (The Scotsman)

 THE SOUND OF THUNDER 'A violent sage-type story set in Boer War Africa

 and told with rigour and enthusiasm."

 (The London Standard)

 A SPARROW FALLS 'He packs humanity into a bag already overflowing with

 adventure, excitement, and realism." (Yorkshire Post)

 THE BURNING SHORE

 '... Courage, drama, love and revenge on land, sea and in the air

 towards the end of the first world war are blended in fine style. Mr

 Smith's research into events and places'is spot-on, as usual."

 (Bolton Evening News)

 POWER OF THE SWORD '... A stupendous story, written in the grand old

 manner, from the master of thoroughgoing adventure." (David Hughes, The

 Mail on Sunday)

 The Ballantyne Novels:

 A FALCON FLIES 'There is throughout Falcon Flies a genuine sense of

 excitement and wonder." (Sunday Telegraph)

 MEN OF MEN

 'A splendid read." (Financial Times)

 THE ANGELS WEEP

 '... action, adventure and romance..." (Yorkshire Post)

 THE LEOPARD HUNTS IN DARKNESS

 '... big, bold and bloody' (The Scotsman)

 Also by Wilbur Smith."

 THE DARK OF THE SUN 'If the phrase "a man's book" has any meaning, it

 describes this powerful savage story." (Books & Bookmen)

 SHOUT AT THE DEVIL

 'A fast and thrilling adventure." (Northern Echo)

 GOLD MINE

 '... violent action and informed technical detail...

 Mr Smith is at his liveliest and best." (The London Standard)

 THE DIAMOND HUNTERS

 'A gem of a suspense/adventure novel." (Mirror)

 THE SUNBIRD

 'A splendid panoramic piece of writing, with colourful characters woven

 into an enthralling plot." (Oxford Times)

 EAGLE IN THE SKY

 'Wilbur Smith ... rarely misses a trick ... Terribly competent."

 (Sunday Times)