The Bantus took the tail. They wanted no part of the head.
Nancy stayed close to the Burger Beret team as they muscled the head off the ground and tried to find a place to put it.
"The damn neck's too long," King said in exasperation.
"Why don't you just cut the head off?" Nancy suggested.
King looked up, a gleam in his eyes. Then it died. "What am I thinking? No, we can't do that!"
Nancy smiled. "Just testing your brain. It's working-just a little slow."
"How about a little credit for a job well done?"
"We're a long way from Port Chuma," Nancy shot back. "And if you're open to suggestions, I have one."
King looked around to see if there were any cameras recording the conversation. Finding none, he said, "Go ahead."
"The head might fit into the cab of the second locomotive."
King looked from Nancy to the locomotive. Then he stood up and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Hey, everybody, I had a brainstorm! We can fit the head into locomotive cab!"
Clambering down, he mumbled a grudging, "Thanks."
"Oh, don't mention it."
It took nearly every hand to maneuver the head in, but they did it.
"All right, everyone," King shouted, "space is tight so find a place to ride and we'll be off."
"There isn't room for everybody," Thorpe pointed out.
"Let the natives trot alongside the train."
"Be serious."
"Then leave them behind."
"You can't mean that!"
"No? Maybe next time they'll wear the sponsor's shirts with pride."
"If they stay, I stay," Thorpe said firmly.
"Then you stay. The check will be in the mail."
"If he stays, I stay," Nancy added.
King considered. What he would have said remained unspoken.
"Dr. Derringer, I can handle this from here," Thorpe said. "You stick with Old Jack. Maybe we'll meet up in the States."
Nancy hesitated. She glared daggers at King and took Thorpe's hand in a firm clasp.
"Good luck, Thorpe."
"Cheerio."
King snapped his fingers so hard they stung. "Wait! I almost forgot! Just in case, we've got to send a package ahead."
"Package?"
"A film package."
They called down the skycrane and passed off three video cassettes. The helicopter lifted into the blue sky and rattled off toward the east.
Then the locomotives were fired up. They were steam models. It took some time. Everyone helped shovel coal. Except Skip King. He found the most comfortable seat in the lone passenger car behind the cargo car and popped a beer he pulled from an ice chest.
All the locomotives started up at once.
Great iron wheels screeched as they attempted to revolve. Couplings clanked.
And bearing its monstrous cargo, the train began moving.
They got up to twenty-five miles an hour and held that speed for the remainder of the day. King was talking nonstop.
"I wonder who should publish the excerpts from my biography?" he wondered aloud as a blur of jungle ran past the windows. "Vanity Fair or-"
"Mad magazine," Nancy finished.
"Don't mind her, boys," King told the attentive Berets, "she's just post-menstrual. It'll pass."
When no one joined in his braying laughter, King took a cold sip and said. "Well, we've all had a rough day."
Less that thirty miles from Port Chuma, the engineer spotted the logs on the tracks and blew his whistle. He hit the air brakes.
It was a European-style engine. There was no cow catcher. Just a pair of spring-loaded rams mounted in the front of the lead boiler.
The brakes took. Screeching, the train slid that last hundred yards, to stop just shy of the barrier of logs.
"What it is?" King muttered. "Why'd we stop?"
The sound of gunfire gave him his first clue.
Out of the bush poured knots of black men in camouflage fatigues with green berets perched on their heads. They carried Skorpion machine pistols.
"Bandits!" King shouted. "Burger Berets, do your corporate duty!"