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  vehicles and weapons at many times their actual value. I am a

  desperate man. I must accept your offer and the price you demand."

  Gareth relaxed slightly and glanced at Jake.

  "I must even accept your condition that payment be made in British

  sterling." Gareth smiled now. "My dear fellow-" he began, but again

  the Prince silenced him with a raised hand.

  "In turn I impose only one condition. It is vital to my acceptance of

  your offer. You and your partner, Mr. Barton, will be responsible for

  the delivery of all these weapons into the territory of

  Ethiopia. Payment will be made only when you hand over the shipment to

  me or my agent within the borders of his Imperial Majesty, hail

  Selassie."

  "Good God, man," exploded Gareth. "that involves smuggling them

  through hundreds of miles of hostile territory. That's ridiculous!"

  "Ridiculous, Major Swales? I think not. Your merchandise is of no

  value to me or to you in Dares Salaam. I am your only customer nobody

  else in the entire world would be foolish enough to buy it from you. On

  the other hand, any attempt that I should make to import it into my

  homeland would certainly be frustrated. I am being watched carefully

  by agents of all the major powers. I know I shall be searched the

  moment that I land at Jibuti. Lying here, the merchandise has no

  value." He" paused and glanced from Gareth to Jake. Jake rubbed his

  jaw thoughtfully.

  "I see your point, Your Excellency."

  "You are a reasonable man, Mr.

  Barton," said the Prince, and then returned his attention to Gareth,

  and repeated his last statement. "Lying here it has no value. In

  Ethiopia, it is worth fifteen thousand British sovereigns to you. The

  choice is yours. Abandon it or get it into Ethiopia."

  "I am appalled," said Gareth solemnly, as he paced back and forth.

  "I mean, after all the fellow is an old Etonian.

  God, I can hardly believe that he would welsh on our agreement.

  It's absolutely frightful. I mean, I trusted him." Jake was sprawled

  on the couch in Madame Cecile's private room. He had shed his

  dinner-jacket, and perched on his knee there was a plump young lady

  with a cap of brassy blonde hair. She was dressed in a flimsy daffodil

  coloured dress, the skirts of which had pulled up to show bright blue

  garters around her ripe thighs. Jake was weighing one of her ample

  breasts in his hand with all the concentration of a housewife choosing

  tomatoes from a greengrocers tray. The girl giggled and wriggled

  provocatively into his lap.

  "Damn it, Jake, listen to me. "I am listening," said Jake.

  "The man was positively insulting," protested Gareth, and then seemed

  for a moment to lose his concentration as Jake's companion unbuttoned

  the bodice of her wispy dress.

  "By Jove, Jake, they are rather delicious, what?" and they both

  regarded the display with interest.

  "You've got your own, "Jake muttered.

  "You're right," agreed Gareth, and turned to the junoesque female who

  waited patiently for him on the other couch.

  Her glossy black hair was piled upon her head in an elaborate nest of

  curls and plaits, and she had large, intense, toffee-coloured eyes in a

  face whose paleness was emphasized by the vividly painted crimson lips.

  She pouted at Gareth, and draped one arm languidly around his

  shoulders.

  "Are you sure neither of them understands English?" Gareth called,

  as he entered into the practised embrace of the white arms.

  "Portuguese, both of them," Jake assured him. "But you'd better test

  them."

  "Very well." Gareth thought a moment. "Girls, I must warn you that we

  aren't paying for your company not a penny. This is for love alone."

  Neither of their expressions changed, and the enfolding movements of

  sinuous limbs continued without pause.

  "That settles it," Gareth opined. "We can talk."

  "At a time like this?"

  "We've only got until morning to decide what we are going to do." Jake

  made a muffled remark and Gareth admonished him, "I can't hear a

  word."

  "That gullible old Ethiop of yours has us over a barrel"

  repeated Jake with sardonic relish. Before he could reply, vivid

  lips,

  pouting and red as ripened fruit, closed over Gareth's. There was

  silence for a while until Gareth wrested himself loose and his head

  popped up mustache in disarray and stained with lipstick.

  "Jake, what the hell are we going to do?" And Jake told him in

  nautical language which left no room for misunderstanding precisely

  what he was about to do.

  "don't mean that, I mean what are we going to tell old Toffee tomorrow?

  Are we going to deliver the goods?" Gareth's companion reached up,

  took him in a head lock and drew his mouth down again.

  "Jake, for God's sake, concentrate on the problem," he pleaded as he

  was engulfed.

  "I am, I am!" Jake assured him, rolling his eyes sideways to meet

  Gareth's, but without interrupting his efforts with the plump blonde.

  "How the hell do we get four armoured cars ashore on a hostile coast,

  just for a start then how do we run them two hundred miles to the

  Ethiopian border?" Gareth lamented, speaking out of the unemployed

  corner of his mouth, and then something caught his attention. He

  pulled free and raised himself on one elbow. "I say, your companion

  isn't a blonde after all. Extraordinary." Jake glanced sideways and

  grinned.

  "And yours seems to be Scottish she's wearing a sporran, by God."

  "Jake, we've got to make a decision. Do we go or don't we?"

  "Action first, decisions later. Let's engage the targets."

  "Right," Gareth agreed, realizing the futility of discussion at this

  moment. "Driver advance."

  "Gunner. Traverse right. Steady. On. Independent rapid fire."

  "Shoot!" cried Gareth, and the conversation languished.

  It was half an hour before it was resumed, with the two of them in

  shirt sleeves, braces dangling and black ties discarded, poring over a

  large-scale map of the East African coast that Madame Cecile had

  produced.

  "There's a thousand miles of unguarded coast line." Gareth traced the

  great horn of Africa in the light of the Petromax lamp and then ran his

  finger inland. "And this is marked as semi-desert all the way to the

  border. We aren't likely to run into a crowd."

  "It's a hell of a way to make a living, "said Jake.

  "Are we going then?" Gareth looked up.

  "You know we are."

  "Yes," Gareth laughed. "I know we are.

  Fifteen thousand sovereigns say we have to." ij Mikhael received their

  decision with a curt nod and then asked, "Have you planned yet how you

  will accomplish this task? Perhaps I can be of assistance, I know the

  coast well and most of the routes to the interior." He gestured for

  one of his advisers to spread a map upon the stateroom table. Jake ran

  his finger across it, as he spoke.

  "We thought to hire a shallowdraughted vessel here in Dares

  Salaam, and make a landing somewhere in this area.

  Then to load the cas
es on the cars, and, carrying our own fuel,

  run directly inland to some prearranged rendezvous with your people."

  "Yes," agreed the Prince. "The basic idea is right. But I should

  avoid British territory. They maintain a very intensive patrol system

  to discourage the export of slaves from their territory to the East.

  No, keep clear of British Somaliland. The French territory is more

  suitable." They plunged into the planning of the expedition, both Jake

  and Gareth realizing swiftly how lightly they had discounted the

  difficulties that faced them, and how valuable was the Prince's

  advice.

  "Your landing will be one of the critical stages. There is a tidal

  fall of almost twenty feet on this coast and an unfavorable shelving of

  the bottom. However, at this point about forty miles north of Jibuti

  there is an ancient harbour called Month. It's not marked on the

  chart. It was one of the centres of the slave trade before its

  abolition, like Zanzibar and Mozambique Island. It was stormed and

  sacked by a British force in 1842. The port is without fresh water and

  since then it has been deserted. Yet it has a deep-water channel and a

  good approach to the shore. This would be a suitable place to land the

  vehicles an awkward task without good wharfage and overhead cranes."

  Gareth was scribbling notes on a sheet of Union Castle notepaper,

  while

  Jake leaned attentively over the chart.

  "What about patrols in this area?" he asked, and the Prince

  shrugged.

  "There is a battalion of the Ugion ttrang&e at Jibuti and they send an

  occasional camel patrol through this area.

  The odds are much against an encounter."

  "Those are the kind of odds I like," muttered Gareth.

  "Once we are ashore what then?" The Prince touched the map.

  "You should then move parallel with the border of Italian Eritrea - a

  southwesterly heading until you encounter the swamp area where the

  Awash River sinks into the desert. Then turn directly westwards and

  you will cross the French Somali border and enter the Danakil country

  of Ethiopia. I will arrange to meet your column here-" He turned to

  his group of elderly advisers and asked a question. Immediately an

  animated and high-volume discussion broke out, at the end of which

  the

  Prince turned back to them with a smile.

  "We seem to be in general agreement that the rendezvous should be at

  the Wells of Chaldi here." He showed them the map again. "As you can

  see, it is well within Ethiopian territory. This will suit my

  Government as well for the cars will be used in the defence of the

  Sardi Gorge and the road to Dessie in the event of an Italian offensive

  in that direction-" The Prince was interrupted by one of his advisers

  and he listened for a few minutes before nodding in agreement and

  turning back to the two white men. "It has been suggested that as your

  journey from Month to the Wells of Chaldi will be through trackless

  desert country some areas of which would be impassable to wheeled

  vehicles we should provide you with a guide who knows the area-"

  "That's more like it, "Jake growled with relief.

  "That's absolutely splendid, Toffee," agreed Gareth.

  "Very well. The young man I have chosen is a relative of mine, a

  nephew. He speaks English well, having also spent three years at

  school in England, and he knows the area through which you will be

  travelling, as he has often hunted the lion there as a guest of a chief

  in French territory." He spoke to one of the advisers in Amharic, and

  the man nodded and left the cabin. "I have sent for him now. His name

  is Gregorius Maryam." When he came, Gregorius was a young man probably

  in his early twenties. However, he was almost as tall as his uncle

  with the warrior's fierce dark eyes and eagle features but his skin was

  smooth and hairless as a girl's, the colour of pale honey. He also was

  dressed in Western European fashion, and his expression was intense and

  intelligent.

  His uncle spoke to him quietly in Amharic and he nodded, then turned to

  meet Jake and Gareth.

  "My uncle has explained what is required of me and I am honoured to be

  of service." Gregorius's voice was clear and eager.

  "Can you drive a motor car?" Jake asked unexpectedly, and

  Gregorius smiled and nodded.

  "Indeed, sir. I have my own Morgan sports car in Addis Ababa."

  "That's great." Jake returned the smile. "But you'll find an armoured

  car a rougher ride."

  "Gregorius will pack what he needs for the journey, and join you

  immediately. As you know, this ship sails at noon," observed the

  Prince, and the young Ethiopian nobleman bowed to his uncle and left

  the cabin.

  "You now owe me a favour, Major Swales, and I request repayment

  immediately." Lij Mikhael turned back to Gareth, whose complacency

  evaporated immediately, to be replaced by an expression of mild

  alarm.

  Gareth had developed a healthy respect for the Prince's ability to

  drive a bargain.

  "Now listen here, old chap-" he began to protest, but the Prince went

  on as though there had been no interruption.

  "One of the few weapons that my country has to exploit is the

  conscience of the civilized world-"

  "I wouldn't give you much change for that," observed Jake.

  "No," agreed the Prince sadly. "Not a very effective weapon as yet.

  But if we can only inform the world of the injustices and unprovoked

  aggression which we suffer then we can force the democratic nations to

  come to our support.

  We need popular support we must reach the people. If the common

  peoples are informed of our lot, they will force their own governments

  to take action."

  "It's a pretty thought," Gareth agreed.

  "Travelling with me now is one of the most highly thought of and

  influential journalists in America. Someone who has the ear of

  hundreds of thousands of readers across the United States of America,

  and the rest of the English-speaking world as well. A person of

  liberal conscience, a champion of the oppressed." The Prince paused.

  "However,

  this person's reputation has preceded us. The Italians realize that

  their case might be damaged if the truth is written by a journalist of

  this calibre and they have taken measures to prevent this happening.

  We have today heard by radio that transit of English, French and

  Italian territories will be refused, and' that this ally of ours will

  be denied access to Ethiopia. They do not only embargo weapons but

  they prevent our friends from giving us succour."

  "No," said Gareth. "I've got enough trouble that I must act as a taxi

  service for the entire press corps of the world.

  I'll be damned if I will-"

  "Can he drive a motor car? "Jake interrupted "We are still short of a

  driver for the last car."

  "If I

  know journalists, all he can drive is a whisky bottle," grunted Gareth

  gloomily.

  "If he can drive we'd save the wages of hiring another driver,"

  Jake pointed out, and Gareth's gloom lighten
ed a little.

  "That's true if he can drive."

  "Let us find out," suggested the

  Prince, and spoke quietly to one of his men who slipped out of the

  cabin. Gareth took advantage of the pause to take the Prince's arm and

  draw him aside from the main group.

  "I have drawn up an estimate of the additional expenses we will

  encounter the hire of a ship and that sort of thing it stretches the

  old finances. I wonder if you could see your way clear to making a

  gesture of good faith just a small advance. A few hundred guineas."

  "Major Swales, I have made the gesture already by giving my nephew into

  your care."

  "Not that I don't appreciate that-" Gareth was about to enlarge his

  argument, but he was prevented from doing so by the opening of the

  cabin door and the entry of the journalist. Gareth Swales straightened

  up and touched the knot of his tie. His smile broke across the cabin

  like the early morning sun.

  Jake Barton had slumped down into one of the chairs beside the chart

  table and was about to light a cheroot, the match flaring in the cup of

  his hands, but he did not complete the movement. The match burned on

  forgotten, as he stared at the newcomer.

  "Gentlemen," said the Prince. "I have the honour to introduce

  Miss Victoria Camberwell, a distinguished member of the American press

  and a good friend of my country." Vicky Camberwell was not yet thirty

  years of age, and she was also an unusually attractive and nubile young

  woman. She had learned long ago that youth and feminine beauty were

  not assets in her chosen career and she tried, with little success, to

  disguise both.

  She adopted a severe, almost mannish, dress. A military-style shirt

  with cloth epaulets and button-down breast pockets that were pushed out

  by the large but shapely breasts. Her skirt was tailored in the same

  cream linen with more button down pockets on the thighs, and clasped at

  the slim waist with a leather belt and heavy snake's buckle.

  Her shoes were of the lace-up type that women call "sensible."

  On her long lovely legs they looked almost frivolous.

  Her hair was drawn severely back to expose a long swan neck. The hair

  was fine and silken, sun-bleached, in places, almost white and shaded

  over her high broad forehead to the colour of wheat and autumn

  leaves.

  Gareth recovered first. "Miss Camberwell, of course. I know your