At that moment, there was the sound of running feet on the trail leading into and across the little clearing. Tarzan glanced quickly in the direction of the noise and saw one of his Waziri approaching rapidly, bearing a cleft stick with a message in the tip. Numa whirled to face the approaching runner, and crouched to charge, tail lashing. Unsheathing his knife, the ape-man sprang to the back of Numa in the nick of time! Left arm under, the lion’s neck, steely thighs clamped firmly and with unbelievable strength about the lion’s barrel, Tarzan plunged the long blade time and time again into the side and neck of the beast, while it reared savagely, roaring and snarling. Almost, in his contempt for the old lion, he allowed it to escape his grasp, but with a final roar, the animal keeled over, withvast quantities of bloody froth spilling from its snapping jaws. Tarzan stabbed once again, to ensure the kill, and, with a mighty shudder, the lion died. Tarzan wiped his knife in its ragged mane, their, placing a foot on its back, threw back his head and gave the frightful and frightening cry of the bull ape. For a second only he stood there, then turned his head slowly, with still burning eyes, to stare with contempt at the Waziri, who was leaning against the tree, staring awestruck at Tarzan.

  “You are Amusi, eldest son of my chieftain, Basuli?”

  Teeth chattering, the native nodded. “Yes, lord.”

  Tarzan grunted in disgust. “Have you passed the rites of manhood?”

  “I have not yet killed my first lion, lord.”

  “Nor will you, Amusi, if you move so carelessly, so noisily through the jungle. It is far more likely that a lion will kill you! Give me the message, return to the compound, and tell your father what happened. Tell him Tarzan said you were to be punished for your carelessness. Tell him that you will do women’s work for a week.”

  “But-but-” Amusi knew you obeyed Tarzan in all things, on pain of much worse indignities than a week of women’s work. He glanced again at the ape-man’s stern visage, turned and trotted back up the trail, this time on silent feet. Tarzan smiled briefly at the disconsolate youth’s retreating figure. He was a fine boy, this Amusi, but, like all youngsters, apt to become overconfident, and overconfidence led to carelessness, and that, in the jungle, usually led to death.

  Dismissing the incident, the ape-man took the message from the cleft stick, and sat down upon the recumbent figure of Numa to read it. It was a rather lengthy cable, and he noted that it was addressed to Lord and Lady Greystoke, and that its having been opened meant that Lady Greystoke was aware of its contents.

  FREDDY KEYS-SMYTHE ASKS ME TO INTERVENE WITH YOU TO LEAD EXPEDITION TO KILIMANJARO IN SEARCH OF QUOTE YETI UNQUOTE POPULARLY KNOWN AS ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN STOP THERE WILL

  BE ONE WOMAN WITH GROUP SO PERHAPS MOTHER COULD ACCOMPANY STOP I HOPE YOU ACCEPT AS I PLAN TO JOIN WITH YOU A WEEK AFTER EXPEDITION SCHEDULED TO START AND AM HOMESICK STOP PARTY

  OF SIX WHICH INCLUDES PILOT AND COPILOT WILL LEAVE HERE AND ARRIVE YOUR LANDING STRIP AT COMPOUND TWO WEEKS AFTER RECEIVING YOUR CONSENT STOP ALL MY LOVE TO YOU BOTH

  It was signed “Jack,” and Tarzan felt a warm glow as he thought of the fine son Jane had given him. He re-read the cable thoughtfully, considering. There had been rumors of a strange, hairy tribe of men, or man-like creatures, which .lived somewhere high up on the mountain of Kilimanjaro, but until this moment, Tarzan had never considered seeking them out. He looked forward with little or no relish to guiding a group of people through the game country and the hostile tribes and the often waterless plains that lay between his holdings and Kilimanjaro, but he supposed it could be done. Folding the cable, he thrust it into his loincloth, leaped back up into the middle terrace, and, recovering his spear and his bow and quiver of arrows, sped off through the boughs and the creepers until he reached the thorn boma and his six fellow-vacationing Waziri followers. “I return to the compound,” he announced, as they looked up from their feast which they’d just finished scorching over a small fire. “Follow when you will.”

  Tarzan swung back up into the trees, this time to the upper terrace where the going was faster, and in a few hours dropped to the ground near his huge, sprawling bungalow. He looked about with interest. Everyone seemed to be industriously working. The women, that is. Waziri warriors scorned manual labor. He nodded with satisfaction, waved to Basuli, his chieftain, and trotted to the bungalow. Jane stopped him at the door.

  “Go take a shower, dear. You smell of blood and lion. I suppose you read the cable from Jack?”

  Tarzan grumbled. “A fine reception! ‘Go take a shower,’ indeed. Yes, I read the cable. You aren’t coming with the safari.”

  “Yes, dear. We’ll discuss it later. Now, your shower. I’ll have one of the boys lay out your things, and I’ll stir up a nice cold pitcher of fruit juice for you.”

  Tarzan stalked off in great dignity.

  And took his shower. Later in the day, Jane pointed out that the expedition would be a lengthy one, and that it was only fair that she, too, be allowed the pleasure of the company of her son. Jack. Also, there would be the Englishwoman on the safari, and she would dearly love to exchange some girl-talk, an opportunity which didn’t present itself every day, also that she was certainly better equipped and jungle-trained than the other woman, and that safeguarding one woman was just as much trouble, no more, than safeguarding two, and that …

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jane! All right. All right. We’ll cable our acceptance.”

  “I have, dear. Immediately I read Jack’s message.”

  Tarzan muttered under his breath and went outside to confer with Basuli. Women!

  Arthur Burke and Patricia Newhall sat in a quiet little restaurant, sipping an excellent brandy after an excellent dinner.

  “You know,” he sighed, “I shall miss you like the very devil, Pat. It promises to be quite a lengthy affair, this brainstorm of Freddy’s.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Glad I’m going to miss you, darling?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, demurely. “Glad it’s going to be lengthy. I’m going along, you see!”

  Burke choked on his brandy, reached hurriedly for his serviette. “You’re what?” he finally gasped out. “How in the world did you ever … why. Sir Edward was positively adamant about it.”

  “Yes, well, when I pointed out that you and I were engaged, he rather came round. After what appeared to be a mild case of apoplexy.”

  The reporter shook his head. “He knows?”

  “He does now. Welcome to the family, dear.”

  “Women!” Burke said. “Women. Will I ever understand ‘em!”

  Patricia chuckled. “I trust not, dear heart. It would take so much fun out of your life if you did!”

  Chapter 3

  THE EXPEDITION BEGINS

  THE Hon. Freddy Keys-Smythe took a long, last look at the stencil on the large box which was firmly secured to the winch of the steamer, checked the number against a list he held on a note-board and waved to the winch operator. Promptly, that worthy started the winch drum revolving with a clatter of steam. In a moment, the cargo net was suspended directly over the open hatch aft, and a pair of husky stevedores guided it carefully down into the hold. Freddy heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Well, chaps,” he said to a tanned, ready-for-any thing pair, “I fancy that does it. I’m sure there’s something we’ve overlooked, but I can’t imagine what it would be. Oh, well. It’s sure to turn up missing just when we need it most. Never known it to fail. Let’s have a little spot, eh? I never thought we’d get the expedition to this stage.”

  The trio walked briskly up the pier and turned into the “Tar and Spar,” a dockside pub well-known for its stout ale, strong rum and tasty chowders. Inside, it was cool and dim, with the comforting smell that appeals only to the masculine, and which takes some hundreds of years to impregnate itself into oak beams. They lined up at the bar, where the owner, a rascally-looking chap who might have stepped right off Bluebeard’s quarterdeck did his best-with notably poor success-to appear genial and friendly. What he thought to be a smile of welcome was a scowl to frighten the unknowing into a state of shock. Never mind. His uncouth exterior served only to conceal a heart as tender as the most solid granite.

  “Well, then, gents,” he rasped. “Are you all loaded, then?”

  “Right you are,” Freddy said, cheerfully. “Let’s have a round of drinks here. Rum would be appropriate, I believe. Right, Al? Charley? And have one yourself, landlord.”

  “Hardly a drink for gentry,” said the bartender. “I have some excellent Scots whisky. Here, I’ll stand for this round myself!”

  “Rum,” Freddy repeated, firmly. “Rum, the drink for adventurers. And then some chowder. Great, steaming bowls of it. And some crisp bread. And a bottle of a good, light, very white wine. Gad, I’m hungry for the first time in weeks. Is the chowder good tonight. Bates?”

  “Fair tear your heart out, sir,” that worthy replied. “One of the finest fish chowders you’ll ever smack a lip over.” He slapped down three mugs of rum, filled one for himself, raised it in a toast. “To your success, whatever it may be you’re after!”

  “Chug-a-lug!” Freddy replied, almost choking as the fiery liquid seemed to burn a path down his throat. He slammed his mug on the bar, eyes streaming. Al and Charley, pilot and copilot for the expedition, fared little better. The landlord drank his as if it were water.

  “Ah, gents, that’s the stuff, all right. Clears the gullet for a hearty meal. Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I’ll go shake up me missus and you’ll have your chowder in half a mo’.”

  Al chuckled. “Not too awfully mild, was it?”

  Freddy stared at him incredulously. “I didn’t know you were from Sussex.”

  The chowder came before the conversation went further, huge steaming bowls of it, and the trio sat at a rough deal table worn smooth by the passage of years, the rubbing of many elbows, spilled candlewax and beer. The bowls were wooden, the spoons were man-sized, and the bread was crisp and delicious. Bates brought over three frothing pints of ale. “Here’s the stuff you want, gents, with my chowder. None of that Frenchy wine. Honest British ale! Now eat and drink hearty. Give me a shout if you need more of anything. I’ll Just go along back in the kitchen and have a bit of the chowder meself.” He slumped away, and for the next ten minutes there was no sound except those made by three hungry, high-spirited men. Finally, with a sigh, the Hon. Freddy wiped his bowl clean with a scrap of bread, washed it down with the last of his pint and leaned back, satiated and well-content. In a moment, the other two followed suit.

  “Well, then, we’re off, is it?” asked the copilot, Charley.

  Keys-Smythe nodded, belching politely. “Yes. And I shan’t be sorry. I’ve had the devil of a time with that blighter Teemu, our Sherpa friend. Been evicted from rather scroungy lodgings three times in the past three days.”

  “Bad moral type? Drunk?”

  “Nothing like that. You see, these chaps live high in the Himalayas. Protect themselves from the cold by liberal latherings of rancfd yak butter. All very well and good in the snow, I daresay, but with central heating/’ and Freddy shuddered, “horrible.”

  “Um. I suppose he’ll stink the plane up quite a bit, too. Still, that’s all a part of it. We’re leaving day after tomorrow, correct?”

  “Yes, from Croyden. Al, I’ll leave it up to you to file the flight plans and of course you and Charley will be out there bright and early to meet and greet our arriving guests and their luggage. I’ve a couple of last minute thank-you calls to make, one to young Jack, Lord Greystoke’s son, and one on good old Sir Edward. Then I’ll round up dear Teemu, taxi outthere, and away we go. One suggestion: if you chaps require any last-minute personal gear, better get it while you can. There’ll be no stores where we’re going!”

  Spirits were high at the Greystoke estate in the jungle, Tarzan admitted to himself. Jane, busy with plans for entertaining their guests until their supplies had been packed in and the expedition could make up, had the. entire plantation in a pleasantly dizzying turmoil. Basuli and a few of his best hunters were sent out with instructions to bring back birds and beasts. The children were fishing, the women readying the guest houses and digging yams, picking the freshest from the very last bean crop, grinding kaffir corn so that Jane could make some of her famous corn bread. The late-growing vegetables in the garden were stripped from their vines. Fresh butter was being churned, rugs beaten, fresh mats woven. Only Tarzan had nothing to do, and found himself underfoot. He retreated to his study, meticulously oiling and cleaning the few rifles he owned, then went into Jack’s room, and cleaned his rifles and sidearms, and after that went back to his own study and closed the door firmly behind him. Here, at least, he wouldn’t be underfoot.

  He wished the expedition were leaving within the hour. He thought he’d never been so blasted tired of the excited chatter of females as they went about their tasks. Indeed, he wondered where they’d all come from.

  To make matters worse, he’d never heard of any of the members of the expedition team, male or female, with the lone exception of the Hon. Freddy Keys-Smythe who was a nice enough young fellow, he supposed-Tarzan had met him at a party in London a few years back -but something of an ass in Lord Greystoke’s considered opinion. No, if it weren’t that this silly safari in search of a probably nonexistent beast was going to enable him to see his son. Jack, for a long visit, he’d have been tempted, even at this late date, to call the whole thing off.

  And so the master of the Greystoke estates and holdings sat glumly in his study, reading back issues of “Punch” and other publications, until dinner was announced.

  He seated himself across from a rosy cheeked Jane, who immediately excused herself and bounced off into the kitchen to give some order or other. When she returned, all efficiency, Tarzan pointed to the table. “What’s this?”

  “The last of the roast boar, dear,” she said. “It’s delicious, cold. And there’s some excellent cheese. And cook has a lovely tart for you, afterwards. And that’s some lovely hot bread, from white flour, too, that a couple of the girls have been baking all day.”

  Tarzan threw down his napkin in disgust. “Ye gods, woman! Hat bread and cold pig meat! What kind of food is that to set before a man?”

  Jane looked pained. “I think it’s a very proper meal. Remember, we’ve been so busy cooking and cleaning all day that …”

  “That you didn’t have time to cook a proper dinner for me!”

  “John Clayton, don’t you dare raise your voice to me,” she told him. “It’s the best that could be done under the circumstances. Just remember, there are thousands of starving, underprivileged people who would sell their souls for a meal that good!”

  “Well, I’m neither starving nor underprivileged. Lady Greystoke.”

  With vast dignity, Tarzan rose from the table and stalked out the back door, leaving Jane in tears.

  Tarzan spent the night in the Waziri compound, swapping polite lies with the elders of the tribe while Basuli’s eldest wife prepared him a newly killed rack of topi. He would have preferred it raw, but out of deference to his host who, like all the Waziri, could not stand the sight of the great white ape tearing away at raw meat, allowed the woman to turn it three or four times on the spit. No matter, it was hardly warmed through. Much better than well-done, cold boar meat, certainly. Tarzan wolfed it down, and would have been completely happy except that lurking in the back of his mind was the knowledge that Jane was going to be inost upset and terribly mad in the morning.

  Fortunately for Tarzan, the plane bearing the safari team arrived earlier in the morning than anticipated, and Jane was so busy playing the hostess that she didn’t have time to berate her husband. But if the glances she shot his way from time to time were at all indicative, he would hear more about the matter when this new night fell.

  Chapter 4

  THE PLAN

  AFTER the introductions were made all around, Jane led Patricia Newhall away, the pair of them chatting brightly, and Lord Greystoke led the men to the cool, spacious veranda that surrounded the bungalow on three sides.

  “If any of you would care for a cold drink before luncheon,” Tarzan said, “I’ll just call one of the servants.”

  “Well, Lord Greystoke,” Arthur Burke answered, “I could do with a cold beer. Or is that possible? Lord, I’d no idea it was so hot here.”

  “Yes, of course.” Tarzan clapped his hands, and one of the girls who worked for Jane around the bungalow came to the porch. The men gave their orders, all except Teemu, the Sherpa, who gave a rather silly giggle at the sight of the young girl. She giggled in reply, then retreated in a panic under the stern eye of her employer. “What about this chap? Does he speak any English at all?”

  The Hon. Freddy Keys-Smythe shook his head. “A half-dozen words. Fortunately, I managed to acquire a fair smattering of his language.”

  “Strange-looking fellow. Mongolian type, yet not quite.”

  “Yes. No one seems to know, really. They’ve lived for what seems to have been several thousand years in the same general area, on the slopes of the Himalayas, with quite a concentration in the area about Mt. Everest. Inbred, of course. Each is related to the other. Crime is unknown among them, as are weapons. Remarkable survival instincts and abilities. What belongs to one belongs to all, loosely speaking.”

  “Ah. Sort of a commune?”

  “I don’t think that would quite describe it. Lord Greystoke. No, again it comes back to a matter of survival. They live in what one might term a sort of perpetual disaster area. Each man has his own home, his own wife, his own herd of yak, a scraggly vegetable patch. The greater part of each day is spent in simply surviving. In seeking out edible roots and berries, in moving the herds of yak to better grazing, in storing up food for the long, bitterly cold winters. When disaster strikes one of them, a snowslide or the like, it really strikes at them all, for who knows where it will strike next, you see? If a man loses his wife, his closest relative invites him to use his wife until such a time as there may be an eligible female. If a sudden blizzard wipes out a herd of yak belonging to one man, all the others in the community chip in, so to speak, a yak apiece, until he again has a herd. Their two most priceless possessions are children-who, by the way, are shamefully spoiled-and the yak.”