As he watched the heat-covered landscape unfold, his thoughts took an inward turn, dwelt briefly on the dream that still preoccupied him. At the end of a moment, he smiled; now he had it. The train that went always faster was merely an epitome of life itself. The unsureness about the no and theyes was the inevitable attitude one had if one tried to consider the value of that life, and the hesitation was automatically resolved by one’s involuntary decision to refuse participation in it. He wondered why it had upset him; it was a simple, classic dream. The connections were all clear in his head. Their particular meaning with regard to his own life scarcely mattered. For in order to avoid having to deal with relative values, he had long since come to deny all purpose to the phenomenon of existence—it was more expedient and comforting.

He was pleased to have solved his little problem. He looked around the countryside; they were still climbing, but they had gone over the first crest. About them now were barren, rounded hills, without details to give them scale. And on every side was the same uneven, hard line of the horizon, with the blinding white sky behind. Mrs. Lyle was saying: “Oh, they’re a foul tribe. A rotten lot, I can tell you.” “I’ll kill this woman yet,” he thought savagely. As the gradient lessened and the car added speed, the fleeting illusion of a breeze was created, but when the road curved upward again and they resumed the slow ascent, he realized that the air was motionless.

“There’s a sort of belvedere up ahead, according to the map,” said Eric. “We ought to have a superb view.”

“Do you think we should stop?” Mrs. Lyle inquired anxiously. “We must be at Boussif for tea.”

The vantage point proved to be a slightly perceptible widening of the road at a spot where the latter made a hairpin curve. Some boulders which had rolled down from the cliff on the inner side made the passage even more hazardous. The drop from the edge was sheer, and the view inland was spectacular and hostile.

Eric stopped the car for a moment, but no one got out. The rest of the drive was through stony territory, too parched to shelter even the locusts, yet now and then Port caught a glimpse in the distance of a mud-walled hamlet, the color of the hills, fenced round about with cactus and thorny shrubs. A silence fell upon the three, and there was nothing to hear but the steady roaring of the motor.

When they came in sight of Boussif with its modern white concrete minaret, Mrs. Lyle said: “Eric, I want you to attend to the rooms. I shall go directly to the kitchen and set about showing them how to make tea.” To Port she said, holding up her handbag: “I always carry the tea here in my bag with me when we’re on a voyage. Otherwise I should have to wait forever while that wretched boy attended to the automobile and the luggage. I believe there’s nothing at all to see in Boussif, so we shall be spared going into the streets.”

“Derb Ech Chergui,” said Port. And as she turned to look at him in astonishment, “I was just reading a sign,” he said reassuringly. The long main street was empty, cooking in the afternoon sun, whose strength seemed doubled by the fact that over the mountains ahead to the south still hung the massive dark clouds that had been there since the early morning.

X

It was a very old train. From the low ceiling in the corridor of their carriage hung a row of kerosene lamps that swung violently back and forth in unison as the ancient vehicle rocked along. When they had been about to pull out of the station, Kit, in the usual desperation she felt at the beginning of a train ride, had jumped down, run over to the newsstand, and bought several French magazines, getting back aboard just as they were starting up. Now, in the indistinct mixture of fading daylight and the yellow glow cast by the dim lamps, she held them on her lap and opened one after the other, trying to see what was in them. The only one she could see at all was full of photographs: Cine Pour Tous.

They had the compartment to themselves. Tunner sat opposite her.

“You can’t read in this light,” he said.

“I’m just looking at pictures.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll excuse me, won’t you? In a minute I won’t even be able to do this much. I’m a little nervous on trains.”

“Go right ahead,” he said.

They had brought a cold supper with them, put up by the hotel. From time to time Tunner eyed the basket speculatively. Finally she looked up and caught him at it. “Tunner! Don’t tell me you’re hungry!” she cried.

“Only my tapeworm.”

“You’re revolting.” She lifted the basket, glad to be able to engage in any manual activity. One by one she pulled out the thick sandwiches, separately wrapped in flimsy paper napkins.

“I told them not to give us any of that lousy Spanish ham. It’s raw, and you can really get worms from it. I’m sure some of these are made of it, though. I think I can smell it. They always think you’re talking just to hear the sound of your voice.”

“I’ll eat the ham if there is any,” said Tunner. “It’s good stuff, if I remember.”

“Oh, it tastes all right.” She brought out a package of hard-boiled eggs, wrapped with some very oily black olives. The train shrieked and plunged into a tunnel. Kit hastily put the eggs into the basket and looked apprehensively at the window. She could see the outline of her face reflected in the glass, pitilessly illumined by the feeble glare from overhead. The stench of coal smoke increased each second; she could feel it constricting her lungs.

“Phew!” Tunner choked.

She sat still, waiting. If the accident were going to come, it would probably be either in a tunnel or on a trestle. “If I could only be sure it would happen tonight,” she thought. “I could relax. But the uncertainty. You never know, so you always wait.”

Presently they emerged, breathed again. Outside, over the miles of indistinct rocky land, the mountains loomed, jet-black. Above their sharp crests what little light was left in the sky came from between heavy threatening clouds.

“How about those eggs?”

“Oh!” She handed him the whole package.

“I don’t want ’em all!”

“You must eat them,” she said, making a great effort to be present, to take part in the little life going on inside the creaking wooden walls of the car. “I only want some fruit. And a sandwich.”

But she found the bread hard and dry; she had difficulty chewing it. Tunner was busy leaning over, dragging out one of his valises from under the seat. She slipped the uneaten sandwich into the space between her seat and the window.

He sat up, his face triumphant, holding a large dark bottle; he fished in his pocket a moment, and brought out a corkscrew.

“What is it?”

“You guess,” he said grinning.

“Not-champagne!”

“The first time.”

In her nervousness she reached out and clasped his head in her two hands, kissing him noisily on the forehead.

“You darling!” she cried. “You’re marvelous!”

He tugged at the cork; there was a pop. A haggard woman in black passed along the corridor and stared in at them. Holding the bottle in his hand, Tunner rose and drew the shades. Kit watched him, thinking: “He’s very different from Port. Port would never have done this.”

And as he poured it out into the plastic traveling cups, she continued to debate with herself. “But it means nothing except that he spent the money. It’s something bought, that’s all. Still, being willing to spend the money. . . . And having thought of it, more than anything.”

They touched cups in a toast. There was no familiar clink-only a dead paper-like sound. “Here’s to Africa,” said Tunner, suddenly bashful. He had meant to say: “Here’s to tonight.”

“Yes.”

She looked at the bottle where he had set it on the floor. Characteristically, she decided at once that it was the magic object which was going to save her, that through its power she might escape the disaster. She drained her cup. He refilled it.