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16

Every person, I think, questions his own courage from time to time. And for me that time is right now. I have on the desk, not far from where my hands address the keyboard, a videocassette. My responsibility is clear: I must take this cassette to the Twitchell Room, insert it into the VCR, and watch it.

But I cannot bring myself to do it.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning. As many people know by now, Corny Chard has been on an expedition to one of the very remote tributaries of the Amazon to witness the rituals of the Yomama tribe. Still “anthropologically untainted,” according to Corny, the Yomamas are reportedly the last group in the world still practicing cannibalism. Concern has been mounting, both here at the museum and among his family, because no one, until today, has heard anything in weeks. (As to his family, I think his daughters are more concerned than is his wife, the merry Jocelyn, who keeps saying that Corny will come to a bad end.)

This afternoon, just as I was about to descend to the Twitchell Room for the annual meeting of the Visiting Committee to the Skull Collection, a likable young man by the name of Henderson appeared in my doorway. I surmised that he brought me news of Professor Chard inasmuch as he wore the garments of a field scientist or nature guide — loose-fitting chino jacket, matching trousers with a lot of pockets, and a well-worn leather hat with a wide brim. He also carried a canvas duffel betokening rough usage in rough places.

He came in at my invitation, apologizing for not having phoned ahead, but indicating that the purpose of his visit might justify the forgoing of such civilities. I glanced at my watch and told him I had a meeting to attend, but could spare him a couple of minutes. He nodded and sat down in a manner that betrayed the diffidence of one still not at ease with the amenities of civilization.

“I’ve just flown in from Manaus,” he announced, as though apologizing for the state of his clothes. “I just came out of the bush.”

“And you have news of Corny?” I wondered aloud. “Professor Cornelius Chard?”

He smiled uncertainly. “I think so but I’m not sure. I was given a package by a man I know from the Rio Sangre area. The man’s Christian name is Fernando. He works as a jack-of-all-trades, you know, between the local tribes and the prospectors, loggers, anthropologists, and missionaries that make it into the area. He had this package for me. He kept saying, “Very important, very important. For Mr. Norman at museum.” Then he paused as though trying to think of how to word something. “He seemed very upset, scared even. He was very happy to be rid of it.”

He produced from one of his capacious jacket pockets a rectangular package roughly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “He said a Professor Chard promised him two hundred and fifty dollars if he could get it to you in America.” He handed the package across the desk to me.

“And you paid him?”

“I did.”

“I’ll make sure you get compensated,” I said, feeling the slight weight of the package with a premonition of excitement and dread.

He nodded his thanks.

“You have no idea what’s in it?”

He shook his head. “It might be a videotape of some kind.”

My hands just a little uncertain, I took scissors and snipped away the string and then carefully cut away a bit of what looked like duct tape. Young Henderson was right: Nestled in several layers of paper was a cassette from a video camera in wide use.

I called Doreen and asked her to get Mr. Henderson a check for $250. I glanced at the time. With relief I realized I couldn’t watch it then because of the meeting in the Twitchell Room. The equivocation of avoidance had begun. It deepened as, in assembling my papers for the committee meeting, I chatted with Henderson, learning about conditions in the region of the Rio Sangre. It did little to assuage my misgivings when he told me that the unrest there had turned violent with murders, maimings, and mutilations.

I asked about the Yomamas. He shook