A Twist Of Sand

"There must be something darkly Freudian about conceiving a passion for a beetle," I said.

"Damn your cheap flippancy," she snapped. "When did you last speak decently to a woman?"

"I never do. It was one of the charges when they cashiered me."

She ignored this. "My father was one of the world's leading authorities on beetles," she said. "Without boring you with tales of hardship and being only one jump ahead of death for months on end, ahead of one opposing army or the next, he and I eventually got to the edge of the Gobi Desert. Mother, who was English, died long before that. He rediscovered Onymacris there. When at last we escaped from China, he died one night suddenly of a heart attack aboard a sampan near the Yangtse mouth. I didn't know about it till morning. The body was robbed by the coolies. His precious three beetles, which we'd kept alive when we thought we'd die of starvation ourselves, had been stamped flat. Just a couple of squashed things at the bottom of an old shoebox. A lifetime's work for science crushed out by some careless foot. I'm going to find Onymacris again — for science. I've got to. That's why I'm here."

"It must sound a pretty obvious question," I said. "But why not go back to the Gobi and get some more, if you're so keen?"

"First," she said a little didactically, and I could see now that she was a little older than her looks and figure would seem to indicate, "it's behind the Iron Curtain. Second, the place where we found them is now a prohibited area, anyway. Probably a sputnik launching site. An Iron Curtain behind an Iron Curtain. I know. I've tried."

"It seems a tough proposition." I agreed.

She came back shortly: "Onymacris is a tough proposition, Captain Peace. And I expect to find only tough circumstances where it is. That's what makes it so precious to science. It's not one of the things you find by chance on a Sunday afternoon walk. You've got to work for it. It's a tough proposition."

"Like this outfit," I said ironically.

She looked at me levelly. "Like this outfit, Captain Peace. Like yourself, Captain Peace. Like this coast, Captain Peace, which I am told you know so well. I'm after something tough, just like you, that's why I accepted Stein's invitation without hesitation. You can forget about the woman-comfort side of things. I thought I'd explain this clearly to you before you start showering your protective instincts on a helpless female."

"I don't see how you could be a doctor of science at Stockholm…" I began.

"Why not?" she flashed. "Every moment of my life I've slept, eaten, talked beetles. What's so strange about it? My father taught me everything — and more — a university ever could. A doctor's degree is a necessary appendage, that's all. It couldn't have been easier. A piece of cake." She lit another cigarette. She came back at me remorselessly.

"Why are you so cagey about this whole landing affair? Why don't you think it's safe?"

"Listen," I rapped out, fast losing patience, for she was so damnably sure of herself and her precious beetle. "Everyone loves this blasted beetle so much, you'd think it was pure gold. You'd think each one of us was acting within the law, when we're just as far outside it as could be. I'm putting you ashore — illegally — at an illegal spot on the ъ Skeleton Coast. You and Stein have absolutely no right to I be there. You yourself admit it isn't going to be easy. I say so too. I'm aiding and abetting a crime."

She looked at me cynically. "Stein will be paying you well enough."

I couldn't let it go.

"I'm doing this free, gratis and for nothing," I snapped. "I'm not getting a penny for this joyride."

"I don't believe a word of that," she retorted.

Her composure rattled me. What did a hint — or more — of the truth matter when it blackened Stein?

"I've been blackmailed into this trip," I said curtly.

"Blackmailed?" she said incredulously.

So Stein hadn't told her.

"Yes," I retorted. "I'm the sort of man you can blackmail — tough, self-centred, anything for personal gain. You said so yourself."

I had shaken her. I rubbed it home.

"You're dealing with tough people. I quote you again. You must expect these things."

She shook her head. "But…"

"There are no buts," I retorted. "If anyone gets word of this trip, you're in it as much as Stein or myself. If anyone is missing for a month from Walvis, or Windhoek — it's a small place — the police smell a rat, and they're very good at that. Or someone passes the word to Ohopoho that a white man — and a white woman — are in the Skeleton Coast."

"Where's Ohopoho?" she asked.

"It's a God-forsaken spot near the Ovambo border," I said. "It's the headquarters of the one official in the Skeleton Coast. There's an airstrip. He's got a radio-telephone. All he needs is a suspicious buzz and they'll send out a couple of jeeps and a truck to round you up without further ado."

She parried the thrust of my attack by switching her ground.