Cry Wolf

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 lightened 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 ma

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

work. Your column is syndicated in the Observer." She looked at him

without expression, remarkably immune to the celebrated Swales smile.

Her eyes, he noticed, were serious and level, sage green in colour, but

shot with speckles of tawny gold.

Jake's match burned his fingers and he swore. She turned to him and he

stood up quickly.

"I didn't expect a woman."

"You don't like women?" Her voice was pitched low and had a husky tone

that raised goose bumps on Jake's forearms.

"Some of my favourite people are women." He saw that she was tall,

reaching almost to his shoulder, and that her body had a poised

athletic carriage. She held her head at a haughty angle which

emphasized the strong independent line of mouth and jaw.

"In fact, I can't think of anyone I like more." And she smiled for the

first time. It had surprising warmth, and Jake saw that her front

teeth were slightly uneven one pushed out of line with the other. He

stared at it fascinated for a moment, then he looked up into the

appraising green eyes.

"Do you drive a car?" he asked seriously, and her smile turned to

surprised laughter.

"I do." said Vicky, laughing. "I also ride a horse and a bicycle,

I can ski, pilot an aeroplane, play snooker and bridge, sing, dance and

play the piano."

"That will do," Jake laughed with her. "That will do just fine." Vicky

turned back to the Prince. "What is all this about,

Lij Mikhael?" she asked. "Just what do these two gentlemen have to do

with our plans?" The towering purple hull of the Du

swung slowly across the back-drop of palm trees and the high sun-gilded

ranges of cumulus cloud, as she pulled her anchors and came around for

the harbour entrance.

At the rail of the upper deck, the tall figure of the Prince was

flanked by the white-robed figures of his staff, and as the ship

increased speed and kicked up a white sparkling bow wave, he lifted an

arm in a gesture of farewell.

Swiftly, the shape of the liner dwindled away into the limitless

eastern ocean as she made her offing before turning northwards once

more.

The four figures on the wharf lingered after it had disappeared,

staring out at the horizon whose long sweep was uninterrupted except by

the tiny white triangular sails of the fishing fleet coming in off the

banks.

Jake spoke first. "We'll have to find digs for Miss Camberwell. And

at the thought, both he and Gareth made a grab for her single battered

portmanteau and the typewriter in its leather case.

"Spin you for it," suggested Gareth, and an East African shilling

appeared in his hand.

"Tails,"decided Jake.

"Rough luck, old son," Gareth commiserated, and returned the coin to

his pocket. "I'll take care of Miss Camberwell-" he went on, " then

I'll start looking for a ship to take us up coast. In the meantime, I

suggest you have another look at those cars." As he spoke,

he hailed a ricksha from the row which waited at the head of the

wharf.

"Remember, Jake, it was one thing driving them down to the harbour but

an altogether different matter driving them through two hundred miles

of desert. You'd best make sure we don't have to walk home, he

advised, and handed Vicky Camberwell into the ricksha. "Driver,