The Dark of the Sun

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“I don’t like the idea,” announced Wally Hendry, and belched. He moved his tongue round his mouth getting the taste of it before he went on. “I think the whole idea stinks like a ten-day corpse.” He lay sprawled on one of the beds with a glass balanced on his naked chest

and he was sweating heavily in the Congo heat.

“Unfortunately your opinion doesn’t alter the fact that we are going.” Bruce Curry went on laying out his shaving tackle without looking up.

“You shoulda told them to keep it, told them we were staying here in Elisabethville, - why didn’t you tell them that, hey?” o Hendry picked up his glass and swallowed the contents.

“Because they pay me not to argue.” Bruce spoke without interest and looked at himself in the fly-spotted mirror above the washbasin.

The face that looked back was sundarkened with a cap of close-cropped black hair; soft hair that would be unruly and inclined to curl if it were longer.

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