“Excuse me, Oswald,” murmured Dalton. “I’d like to borrow something of yours but I’m sure you won’t mind.”
The reed flute was in a long case devoted to Earthly specimens. Unhesitatingly Dalton smashed the glass.
Brazil is a vast country, and it cost much trouble and time and expense before Dalton caught up with Thwaite in a forlorn riverbank town along the line where civilization hesitates on the shore of that vast sea of vegetation called the mato. Night had just fallen when Dalton arrived. He found Thwaite alone in a lighted room of the single drab hotel—alone and very busy.
The archeologist was shaggily unshaven. He looked up and said something that might have been a greeting devoid of surprise. Dalton grimaced apologetically, set down his suitcase and pried the wax plugs out of his ears, explaining with a gesture that included the world outside, where the tree frogs sang deafeningly in the hot stirring darkness of the near forest.
“How do you stand it?” he asked.
Thwaite’s lips drew back from his teeth. “I’m fighting it,” he said shortly, picking up his work again. On the bed where he sat were scattered steel cartridge clips. He was going through them with a small file, carefully cutting a deep cross in the soft nose of every bullet. Nearby a heavy-caliber rifle leaned against a wardrobe. Other things were in evidence—boots, canteens, knapsacks, the tough clothing a man needs in the mato.
“You’re looking for it.”
Thwaite’s eyes burned feverishly. “Yes. Do you think I’m crazy?”