The Wilby Conspiracy Page #5

I want to get close up,|see if they stink of fear.

You got a light?

Car lighter conked out.

You're local, are you?

Capetown.

Commercial traveler?

That's right.

What, ladies' underwear?

- Oh, no, nothing like that.|- Good.

I'd hate for your Kaffir|to handle the merchandise.

Good me, spouting off already,|I haven't had one brandy wine yet.

You ought to give up smoking.

You're absolutely right. I've tried, can't.

- You want a fag?|- No, thank you.

Oh, God...

Mustn't keep you any longer.

Gotta get back to the farm,|Van and me.

See what these blacks have been up to.

You know what they're like,|these "shvartzer".

Thanks for the light.

- That man you were talking with?|- That farmer?

Policeman.

So is the other one standing|by the Mercedes, I can tell.

- How?|- How.

After 10 years in jail, how.

Then why didn't they arrest us?

I don't know.

Couldn't you perhaps,|just this once, be wrong?

No.

They smell of the Truth Room.

There they go, major.

To music.

Have the copter maintain visual contact.

I have visual contact.

They're busy tonight.

In a police state|the police are always busy.

That policeman was right,|never let a Kaffir drive your car.

You were driving the car.

I was?

Who is in the front?

Okay.

Oh, my God.

It is their calling card,|they left it for us in Colesburg.

Why don't they arrest us?

We will find out soon enough.

We must bury him...

...and not let the hyenas eat him.

Police?

Get rid of the tire marks.|Everybody dance on the tire marks.

This way, this way.|Over that side.

Some of you on that side, some on this,|all dance on the marks.

Ten years ago, when you were caught...

...who knew you were running the border?|- Wilby and me.

- What about your friend in Johannesburg?|- Him too, him too.

And?

And the driver. But none of us stood|to gain anything by informing.

- Not even the driver?|- Least of all.

Police killed him in the ambush.

- I don't know what to do with you.|- I know what to do.

Now, wait a minute.|Van, just a minute.

You people are constantly asking|for a voice in your own affairs. Right.

I want the chance to give it to you, so you|help me in deciding your punishment.

- What shall it be?|- I don't know, sir.

You don't know?|Well, what would be just punishment...

...for a man who shelters fugitives?|- And denies it to police.

Oh, yes, I'd forgotten that.|Thank you, Van.

- Well?|- Perhaps a fine, sir.

A fine? Good. How much?

- Fifty rands.|- Fifty rand! A traffic violation is 50 rand.

Come on, be logical, Oom Maseko.

- Is your crime the same as a traffic violation?|- No, sir.

- Is it worse?|- Yes, sir.

Yes. And how much worse?|Twice, thrice, four, five?

- Yes, sir.|- Yes, five times worse. That's 250 rand.

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