"Which way does this river flow, Gaston?" I asked.
"That way," he said. "To Algiers—into the city."
"Can you swim?" I asked.
"Sure," Gaston replied. "I can swim good."
"OK," I said. "Strip and make a bundle of your clothes. Put whatever you don't want to get wet in the middle; strap the bundle to your shoulders with your belt."
We grunted and fumbled in the darkness.
I finished my packing and stepped down into the water. It was warm weather; that was a break. I still had the slug-gun on my wrist. I wanted it close to me.
I stepped out into the stream, pushed off as the bottom shelved. I paddled a few strokes to get clear of the reeds growing near the shore. All around was inky blackness, with only the brilliant stars overhead to relieve the emptiness.
"OK, Gaston?" I called.
I heard him splashing quietly.