ONE Against billowing white clouds, the blue Learjet ap- peared to be but a misplaced speck of sky as it jetted an arrow-straight line above the forest. In its sumptuous interior was a single passenger, a young man who was plainly a branco, one of the whites, and just as obviously of the moneyed class. Garbed in a suit of unbleached silk shantung, he was tall and rather roughhewn, with heavy dark brows, somewhat unruly dark hair, and blue eyes that could dark and stormy in anger; his face was both aristocratic and sensual. He sat close to a window surveying the vista below. Viewed from five thousand feet, the world seemed to be an endless green ocean stretching in every direction. Beyond imagination, beyond human com- prehension. The only tangible evidence of solid ground was a tenuous day-red scratch bisecting the impenetrable density. The red scratch vanished suddenly, engulfed by the forest, and the young man turned and called to the pilot. \"Tio, the highway seems to have ended. How much farther will it have to go to reach my land?\" The pilot shrugged. \"I would guess about a hun- dred more kilometers.\" \"Then it should be only a few more weeks before it gets there.~ \"It could be many more weeks. Maybe many months. The jungle is not friendly to civilizados.\" Baul de Carvalho laughed. \"You re a pessimist, Pio, llke my old man. Maybe that s why he keeps you around.\" Pio, a lean young moreno, half Indian and half
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