Fernández wore the look of the calculatedly mad. “Marketing.”

“You’re crazy, all of you. Not that it matters. There ain’t no treasure here.”

“Shut up, old woman!” Da Rimini snapped at her.

Ashwood glared. “Don’t call me an old woman, she-weed. If my hands weren’t tied …”

Though Da Rimini had twenty years and plenty of pounds on Ashwood, Carter didn’t think he’d care to bet against his companion in a fair fight.

The Amazon, however, wasn’t interested in a fight of any kind. Not while her associates wielded automatic weapons.

“You can’t kill all of us,” Ashwood insisted.

Da Rimini feigned astonishment. “Why not? No one will find you out here. After we bury you the ants and other scavengers will reduce you to bones inside a week.”

“You know,” Carter said tersely, “you were a lousy date.”

She ignored him as she began unpacking their supplies. “You don’ mind if we use your tools, do you? They are just lying here doin’ nothing.” She hefted a flashlight and pick while Blanco Fernández unfolded a collapsible shovel.

“Incaworld!” A startled Manco whirled and aimed the muzzle of his gun in the direction of the unexpected shriek. Everyone else turned to look.

“Fabulous concept, truly real. Visionary!” A figure stepped out of the trees.

Carter slumped. Evidently a callous God intended to visit one final ignominy upon him.

“Wonderful idea!” Trang Ho advanced, holding her microcassette recorder out in front of her. She was barely sweating. “Marvelous!”

Da Rimini noted Carter’s reaction. “Who is this … person?” she asked warily.

“Her name’s Trang Ho,” Carter muttered. “She’s a free-lance journalist … and I use the term advisedly.”

Ignoring the AK-47, Ho thrust the recorder at Manco Fernández’s face. “Sir, would you tell my readers more about your fantastic plans!”

The gun muzzle dipped. “You are really interested, aren’t you?”

“Of course. You give me information, I give you a story.”

Fernández’s reply was interrupted by Da Rimini, who was studying the jungle from which the diminutive Vietnamese had emerged. “Where’s your guide? Where’s the rest of your party?”

“Oh, I came alone,” Trang Ho informed her cheerfully.

Manco eyed her in disbelief. “You followed us by yourself?”

“I always work alone.” She started slipping off her modest pack. “Excuse me. This is getting heavy.”

“How did you track us?” Blanco asked.

“Are you kidding, man? I’ll track a story anywhere. Besides, it was like following a bulldozer. And my people were raised in the fetid, steaming jungles of Southeast Asia.”

“Yeah, but you were raised in Canoga Park,” Carter reminded her.

“Well,” she said defensively, “L.A.’s kind of a jungle.”

“You want to help publicize our plans?” Manco inquired uncertainly.

“All that I can. In return for exclusive publication rights, of course.”

Ashwood raised her voice. “While you were taking notes did you happen to hear that these people plan to kill all of us?”

“Do you think I’d miss anything as dramatic as that?” Ho was clearly insulted. “That has nothing to do with me. With a little rewriting it will only add punch to my articles.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Carter began, trying to rise.

Da Rimini was studying the latest arrival to what was becoming a very crowded lost city. “You mean this, don’ you?”

“Certainly. As Jason Carter can attest, I have no morals whatsoever and my employers have less.” She smiled exuberantly. “If we did, our business wouldn’t exist.” She turned to Carter. “I am sorry, but look at it this way: think of the press you’ll get. People will forget all the lousy pictures you’ve made in the rush to immortalize you. I’ll personally see to it that whoever they cast in the film version of your life is a better actor than you are.”

“You’re not just going to watch them shoot us,” he declared uneasily.

“Of course I am. They have two very large automatic weapons. I have a little knife. What else can I do?”

“Then you’ll report them if you make it back to Lima,” Ashwood said.

“Why should I? You’ll already be dead. It would be a waste of a great story.”

“Justice would be served,” Fewick pointed out.

“I’m not in the business of serving justice,” Ho informed him. “I’m a reporter, for Buddha’s sake! If I were anything less than a total pragmatist I never would have been able to lift myself out of the stinking, crowded L.A. Vietnamese ghetto.”

“I heard that your father was vice-president of a major bank,” Carter said.

“Details.” She turned back to Manco. “I think your Incaworld is a terrific idea.”

No one had noticed that the three Indians, disgusted with what was taking place and disliking a crowd, had quietly picked up their few belongings and slipped away into the selva.

While Trang Ho followed Blanco Fernández and Da Rimini toward the nearest opening in the wall, Manco found himself a resting place and relaxed, cradling his rifle in his lap. Carter found himself watching the jungle. By this time he half expected someone to emerge in Trang Ho’s wake, but the passing hours brought forth only bird noises and the rustling sounds made by secretive, unseen creatures.

“I wonder if that big tom of yours hurt Macha,” he said.

“Moe’s not a vicious animal.” Fewick regarded the verdure. “Is yours spayed?”

“I’ve no idea, but I’d doubt it.”

“I never had the heart to have Moe neutered, so it is possible they are enjoying this sojourn more than we.”

“Anybody got any suggestions?” Ashwood murmured softly so that Manco Fernández would not overhear.

“There was a palo santo not far back along our trail,” Igor told them. “If one stood with his back to the tree, the ants would come out and eat through the ropes. Unfortunately they might also eat much of one’s hands before weakening the ropes sufficiently for one to break free.”