counter.

"Give me a couple more minutes. Let me finish my drink." Mike

Haig glanced behind him into the lounge and saw the interested group of

civilians who were craning to see into the bar-room. He closed the door

and walked across to stand opposite Hendry.

"Two minutes, Hendry," he agreed in an unfriendly tone, then out with

you."

"You're not a bad guy, Mike. You and I rubbed each other up wrong. I

tell you something, I'm sorry about us." "Drink up!" said

Mike. Without turning Wally reached backwards and took a bottle of

Remy Martin cognac off the shelf. He pulled the cork with his teeth,

selected a brandy balloon with his free hand and poured a little of the

oily amber fluid into it.

"Keep me company, Mike," he said and slid the glass across the counter

towards Haig. First without expression, and then with his face seeming

to crumble, older and tired-looking. Mike Haig stared at the glass. He

moistened his lips again, With a physical wrench he pulled

his eyes away from the glass.

"Damn you, Hendry." His voice unnaturally low. "God damn you to hell."

He hit out at the glass, spinning it off the counter to shatter against

the far wall.

"Did I do something wrong, Mike?" asked Hendry softly.

"Just offered you a drink, that's all." The smell of spilt brandy arose,

sharp, fruity with the warmth of the grape, and Mike moistened his lips

again.

The saliva jetting from under his tongue, and the deep yearning aching

want in his stomach spreading outwards slowly, numbing him.

"Damn you," he whispered. "Oh, damn you, damn you," pleading now as

Hendry filled another glass.

"How long has it been, Mike? A year, two years? Try a little, just a

mouthful. Remember the lift it gives you. Come on, boy.

You're tired, you've worked hard. Just one - there you are. just have

this one with me." Mike wiped his mouth with the back of his hand,

sweating now across the forehead and on his upper lip, tiny jewels of

sweat squeezed out of the skin by the craving of his body.

"Come on, boy." Wally's voice hoarse with excitement; teasing,

wheedling, tempting.

Mike's hand closed round the tumbler, moving of its own volition,

lifting it towards lips that were suddenly slack and trembling, his eyes

filled with mingled loathing and desire.

"Just this one," whispered Hendry. "Just this one." Mike gulped

it with a sudden savage flick of his arm, one swallow and the glass was

empty. He held it with both hands, his head bowed over it.

"I hate you. My God, I hate you." He spoke to Hendry, and to himself,

and to the empty glass.

"That's my boy!" crowed Wally. "That's the lad! Come on, let me fill you

up." ruce went in through the front door of the hotel with

Shermaine trying to keep pace with him. There were a dozen or so people

in the lobby, and an air of tension amongst them. Boussier was

one of them and he came quickly to Bruce.

"I'm sorry, Captain, I could not stop them. That one, that one with the

red hair, he was violent. He had his gun and I think he was ready to use

it."

"What are you talking about?" Bruce asked him, but before Boussier could

answer there was the bellow of Hendry's laughter from behind the door at

the far end of the lobby; the door to the bar-room.

"They are in there," Boussier told him. "They have been there for the

past hour."

"Goddarn it to hell," swore Bruce. "Now of all times.

Oh, goddam that bloody animal." He almost ran across the room and threw

open the double doors. Hendry was standing against the far wall with a

tumbler in one hand and his rifle in the other. He was holding the rifle

by the pistol grip and waving vague circles in the air with it.

Mike Haig was building a pyramid of glasses on the bar counter.

He was just placing the final glass on the pile.

"Hello, Bruce, old cock, old man, old fruit," he greeted Bruce, and

waved in an exaggerated manner. "Just in time, you can have a couple of

shots as well. But Wally's first, he gets first shot. Must abide by the

rules, no cheating, strictly democratic affair, everyone has equal

rights. Rank doesn't count. That's right, isn't it Wally?"

Haig's features had blurred; it was as though he were melting, losing

his shape.

His lips were loose and flabby, his jowls hung pendulously as an old

woman's breasts, and his eyes were moist.

He picked up a glass from beside the pyramid, but this glass was nearly

full and a bottle of Remy Martin cognac stood beside it.

"A very fine old brandy, absolutely exquisite." The last two words

didn't come out right, so he repeated them carefully. Then he grinned

loosely at Bruce and his eyes weren't quite in focus.

"Get out of the way, Mike," said Hendry, and raised the rifle

one-handed, aiming at the pile of glasses.

"Every time she bucks, she bounces, hooted Haig, and every time she

bounces you win a coconut. Let her rip, old fruit."

"Hendry, stop that," snapped Bruce.

"Go and get mucked," answered Hendry and fired. The rifle kicked back

over his shoulder and he fell against the wall. The pyramid of glasses

exploded in a shower of fragments and the room was filled with the roar

of the rifle.

"Give the gentleman a coconut!" crowed Mike.

Bruce crossed the room with three quick strides and pulled the rifle out

of Hendry's hand.

"All right, you drunken ape. That's enough."

"Go and muck yourself," growled Hendry. He was massaging his wrist; the

rifle had twisted it.

"Captain Curry," said Haig from behind the bar, "you heard what my

friend said. You go and muck yourself sideways to sleep."

"Shut up, Haig."

"This time I'll fix you, Curry," Hendry growled. "You've been on my back

too long - now I'm going to shake you off!"

"Kindly descend from my friend's back, Captain Curry," chimed in Mike

Haig. "He's not a howdah elephant, he's my blood brother. I will not

allow you to persecute him."

"Come on, Curry. Come on there!" said Wally.

"That's it, Wally. muck him up." Haig filled his glass again as he

spoke. "Don't let him ride you."

"Come on then, Curry." "You're drunk," said Bruce.

"Come on then; don't talk, man. Or do I have to start it?"

"No, you don't have to start it," Bruce assured him, and lifted the

rifle butt-first under his chin, swinging it up hard.

Hendry's head jerked and he staggered back against the wall.

Bruce looked at his eyes; they were glazed over. That will hold him, he

decided; that's taken the fight out of him.

He caught Hendry by the shoulder and threw him into one of the chairs. I

must get to Haig before he absorbs any more of that liquor, he thought,

I can't waste time sending for Ruffy and I can't leave this thing behind

me while I work on Haig.

"Shermaine," he called. She was standing in the doorway and she came to

his side. "Can you use a pistol?" She nodded. Bruce unclipped his Smith

& Wesson from its lanyard and handed it to her.

"Shoot this man if he tries to leave that chair. Stand here where he