searching for a needle in a hay-stack. No one knew which of the
thousand gullies he had ascended and no one could track camel-pads or
flat rubber soles over bare solid rock, even if given the
starting-point. No--he had got to die of thirst, starvation, and
vultures, barring miracles of luck--and he had _never_ had any good
luck--for luck existed, undoubtedly, in spite of mealy-mouthed
platitude-makers and twaddle about everything being pre-arranged and
ordained with care and deliberation by a kind paternal Providence.

And what luck he had had--all his life! Born fated!

Had he fainted again or slept? And could he hear the tinkle of ice
against the sides of a tall thin tumbler of lemonade, or was it the
sound of a waterfall of clear, cold water close by? Were the servants
asleep, or was the drink he had ordered being prepared?... No--he was
dying in agony on a red-hot rock, surrounded by vultures and probably
watched by foxes, jackals and hyenas. And a few yards away were the
rifle that would have put him out of his misery, and the water-bottle
that would have alleviated his pain--to the extent, at any rate, of
enabling him to think clearly and perhaps scribble a few words in
blood or something, somehow, for Lucille ... Lucille! Would the
All-Merciful let him see her once again for a moment in return for an
extra thousand years of Hell or whatever it was that unhappy mortals
got as a continuation of the joys of this gay world? Could he possibly
induce the vultures to carry him home--if he pledged himself to feed
them and support their progeny? They could each have a house in the
compound. It would pay them far better than eating him now. Did they
understand Pushtoo or was it Persian? Certainly not Hindustani and
Urdu. People who came shooting alone in the desert and mountains,
where vultures abounded, should learn to talk Vulture and pass the