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of the person, and lastly, he couldn’t think of anything more attractive or sensuous than a good steak, anyway. And if she wanted to regard him first as a piece of meat, that was okay by him.
    Who’d argued that with him? Oh yeah, that had been Lily. When she made love while reciting Buddhist chants. Great kid, Lily, but a complete nut. She’d dumped him. Maybe he shouldn’t have ventured the opinion that Buddha probably pushed a sanitation cart behind the sacred cows in old India.
    “Mr. George Barrett?” queried the girl. She had a nice voice, probably, but now she was trying to baby-talk him. Oh well.
    “Mr. Barrett?” she repeated.
    “Naw,” he replied, slipping smoothly into the other chair. He managed to kick her calf on the way in and she winced. “I’m President Kenyatta. I just like to travel this way incognito.”
    She looked exasperated. “Are you or aren’t you Mr. George Barrett, the white hunter?”
    “Are you buying?”
    “Drinks?”
    “I don’t mean cold cuts, lady.”
    “Oh, I’d be happy to, if you . . .”
    “Then I’m George Barrett, the white hunter. Or black hunter, or green, or yellow or pink or chartreuse. Personally, I prefer beige hunter. It’s kind of classy, and I think it’s sexier. Do you think it’s sexier?”
    “I—” She glanced upwards. Jumapili was still standing by the curtain, grinning.
    “Sam, one of Gunga’s Zombies.” He looked back at the girl. “And you, Mrs. . . .”
    “Miss. Hard! Isabel Hardi.”
    “Well, what do you drink, Miss Hardi? You do drink?” He looked at her expectantly.
    “Pink Lady’s, usually.” Jumapili made a face that was unreadable. “Sometimes Screwdrivers. But I’ll have whatever you’re having!” she added quickly.
    Barrett looked at her sharply, made an instant analysis. “Yeah. Okay Sam. One regular Zombie and one,” he glanced back at her, “half strength.” She looked rebellious but said nothing.
    Sam bowed obsequiously and disappeared. Barrett turned to the girl and leaned back in his chair.
    “You know,” he mused idly, “Gunga’s the only witch doctor bartender in Africa.” He picked at his nails—out of habit. Like everything else, they’d been scrubbed clean in the hospital. In fact, he hadn’t been this clean since he was six years old. It felt peculiar.
    “Jumapili—Sam—likes to tell about the first time he asked Gunga if he could make a Zombie. Gunga said ‘sure, yes.’ Now first thing, he’d need a fresh corpse, then—”
    The girl looked at him expectantly for a moment, then broke into unbabyish laughter. Barrett chuckled along with her.
    “But ‘Zombie’ is a West Indian term, out of West Africa,” she finally gasped out.
    “Yeah, I know, but it makes a good story. Besides,” he continued evenly, “it happens to be true.”
    She stopped laughing and stared at him. “That’s a joke, isn’t it. Isn’t it?” He didn’t reply, only smiled questioningly at her.
    Neither of them added anything consequential until the drinks arrived.
    “To your health, Mr. Barrett.” He raised his own glass.
    “Afya to you, Izzy.” He downed three straight swallows of the powerful brew. “Well, go on, drink up!”
    She hesitated, then took the glass firmly in hand. Ignoring the skewered pineapple, she took a careful sip. After she finished choking and gasping, and seeing that Barrett only smiled back at her, she took another, defiantly. Much to her surprise, this one went down with no trouble.
    Barrett would have been content to sit and let her buy him drinks all day, only his damnable curiosity finally got the better of him. It was not a particularly useful trait for a wilderness guide and hunter to have, but he seemed to be stuck with it. Anyhow, she was obviously uncertain as to how to begin. If he wanted information he’d have to get things rolling on his own.
    “Well, Miss Hardi?”
    “Please,” she replied, “I’d like you to call me Isabel.”
    And darned if she didn’t bat her