He sprang into visibility as a flashlight in Dalton’s hand went on. A squat, swarthy man with rugged features, a caboclo, of white and Indian blood. He blinked expressionlessly at the light.
“Where is the American scientist?” demanded Dalton in Portuguese.
“Quem sabe? Foi-se.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Nao importa. O doutor é doido; nao ha-de-voltar,” said the man suddenly. “It doesn’t matter. The doctor is crazy—he won’t come back.”
“Answer me, damn it! Which way?”
The caboclo jerked his shoulders nervously and pointed.
“Come on!” said Dalton and scrambled ashore even as Joao was stopping the motor and making the boat fast beside the other. “He’s gone in after it!”
The forest was a black labyrinth. Its tangled darkness seemed to drink up the beam of the powerful flashlight Dalton had brought, its uneasy rustlings and animal-noises pressed in to swallow the sound of human movements for which he strained his ears, fearing to call out. He pushed forward recklessly, carried on by a sort of inertia of determination; behind him Joao followed, though he moved woodenly and muttered prayers under his breath.
Then somewhere very near a great voice croaked briefly and was silent—so close that it poured a wave of faintness over the hearer, seemed to send numbing electricity tingling along his motor nerves.