Гарри Гаррисон - 50 in 50

"This a gun?" he asked.

Bruno did not bother to explain that he had been through this routine an uncountable number of times since the journey had begun. Patiently, he set the camera, explained how it operated, then shot a brief take. When he reran the tape the men pushed close to look at the tiny monitor screen.

"Hey, Granny, you on the tee-vee. You gonna be a big-time star, you hear!"

He had to replay it again for the old woman, who chuckled in appreciation before returning to the stove. The demonstration had cleared some of the tension from the air, for the first time, the newcomer relaxed and dropped into a chair. He was big and dark, dressed in patched and muddy army fatigues. He had a submachine gun slung over his shoulder and clips of cartridges hanging across his chest.

"You kin call me Chopper. Where you from?"

Bruno spread his hands wide. "From Europe, a consortium of the press…" He saw the quick frown and glower: damn his Oxford English. He tried again.

"I'm from Italy, way down in the south. I work for a newspaper. I write newspaper stories. We have a lot of papers over there, television stations too. We were informed that it might be able to send one man over here. Everyone got together to pick one man. I am the one they picked…"

"You sure nuff talk funny."

"I told you, I am from Italy."

"You say somfin now in that Italy talk."

"Buon giorno, signore. Voglio andare al—"

"He sure talk it, all right," one of the interested bystanders said.

Chopper nodded approval, as though this demonstration of alien ability had made an important point.

"You ready go now? We got some walkin' tuh do."

"Whenever you say." Bruno hurriedly stuffed everything back into the pack, after first wrapping it securely in a sheet of plastic. Walking would be no novelty. He had walked, rode muleback, traveled in a wagon, a truck, cars. Blindfolded most of the time.

They went out into the tiny yard, soaked and muddy chickens squawking out of their way. The early-afternoon sky was dark as evening and a perpetual fine rain was falling, drenching everything. But it was warm, even hot once they started walking, the air almost too humid to breathe.

Chopper led the way, but went only a few yards down the rutted, puddle-filled lane before turning off between the pine trees. Bruno concentrated only on keeping up with his apparently tireless guide, so he was just vaguely aware of the falling mist, the squish of damp pine needles under their feet, the black columns of the trees vanishing grayly into the fog on all sides. They walked for two hours without a break, before coming suddenly to an open field of stubble that disappeared into the mist before them. A bird sounded ahead and Chopper clutched Bruno and dragged him to the ground. Then he cupped his hand and repeated the same bird call. They lay there, until two men materialized out of the rain, their M-16 rifles pointing warily ahead.

"Let's go," Chopper said. "We here."

The two guards walked behind them as they worked their way around the edge of the field to a split-rail fence, heavily overgrown with vines and creepers. A man was lying there, peering through a gap between the rails. He wore heavy field boots and a rain-darkened rubber poncho. He had on an army steel helmet and, when he rolled over and sat up, seven gold stars in a circle were visible on it.

The supreme commander of all the American Armed Forces only had six.

"I understand that you have my letter.” the man said.

"Right here," Bruno answered, groping inside his jacket. "Then you must be the man who wrote it? Mau Mau…"

As Mau Mau examined the letter, Bruno examined him. A wide face, dark eyes, cappuccino-colored skin, an unexpressive mouth under a drooping black moustache. He took one glance at the letter, then tore it in half and stuffed the pieces into his pants pocket.

"You've come a long way — and it has taken a long time," he said.

Bruno nodded. "It was not easy. The immigration people are very difficult these days, and there was the paperwork. Then a legitimate reason had to be found for me to get far enough south to meet the contact."

Mau Mau looked him up and down carefully. "For a white man you're pretty dark.” he said.

"For a black man you're pretty light.” Bruno answered, then went on hurriedly when he saw that the other was not amused. "The Mediterranean, in the south where I come from, people are darker. Perhaps, who knows, that is why I was chosen…"

Mau Mau smiled and the lines of severity, the grimness vanished for a moment. "Sicily I bet. That's pretty near to Africa. Maybe you have a touch of the tarbrush…"

He broke off as a young Negro, barefooted and wearing ragged overalls and shirt, ran up, bent low behind the cover of the fence. He carried a new and efficient-looking army field telephone that trailed a glistening length of black wire. Mau Mau grabbed off the handset and listened.

"A truck coming," he announced. "With a jeep, maybe a hundred yards behind it."

They all ran, with Bruno hurrying after.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Can I take pictures?"

Mau Mau stopped so abruptly that Bruno almost collided with him. They stood close, Mau Mau almost a head taller, looking down at the reporter. "Yes, as long as I can see them afterwards."

"Absolutely, every foot of tape," he called after the man's departing back, then began to dig furiously in his pack. The camera and power pack were reasonably waterproof, and everything else was still dry inside the plastic. He followed the others after slipping a hood over the lens.

They were gathered in a small clump of silver birch trees that stood at the edge of a narrow stream. The water burbled past and ran through a culvert under a road. It was a paved road, narrow but well kept up, with a county marker at its edge. Bruno squinted but could not make out the number or even the state. There were more men here, all waiting tensely, looking down the road to the left where it vanished into the mist and falling rain. A growing whine of tires could be heard.

Everything happened quickly. The truck loomed up out of the mist, a big army truck with many wheels and a canvas top. It was going very fast. When it reached the culvert the ground and the road rose up in a roar of sound and a great flash of orange light. The front of the truck lifted off the road for an instant before it dropped back heavily, the front wheels falling into the gap where the culvert had been. A gun must have been fired — Bruno could not hear it for the roaring in his ears — because sudden holes punched their way across the white star on the metal door of the cab.

The jeep appeared out of the fog, skidding and twisting sideways as the driver braked on the wet road. It stopped, nuzzling up to the tilted rear of the truck, and a gun muzzle jabbed out from behind the front curtains, hammering out a spasm of rapid firing. There was answering fire from all sides — Bruno could hear better now — and the gun dropped to the pavement and a soldier's body slid after it.

"If you are alive — come out!" Mau Mau shouted. "You have five seconds or we blow you out. Hands empty when you come."

There was a silence, then the truck springs creaked and a rifle came over the tailgate and clattered onto the road. A soldier, a corporal, emerged and slowly climbed down. Something stirred in the back of the jeep, a pair of shiny boots protruded out from under the curtain, and an officer slid out onto the road. He had his left hand clutched about his right forearm. Blood ran down his fingers and dripped to the ground.

A sudden burst of rapid firing made Bruno jump and he swung the camera toward the rear of the truck. Chopper had jumped out and sprayed a clip into the canvas. Another man kicked the corporal in the back of the knees so he dropped to the ground. With quick efficienty he pulled the soldier's wrists behind his back and secured them with rapid twists of insulated wire. He did the same with his ankles then stuffed a rag into his mouth and sealed it there with more wire. The soldier, like a hog-tied animal, could only roll his eyes upward in fear.