3: Foden
FODEN came out of the scrub and stood on the track that ran down the hill, widening as it went, presently turning itself into the dirt road to Suera. After a moment he began to walk again. He was limping and so he walked slowly. He stopped suddenly, sat down and began to curse. His language was terrible. He explored the uttermost recesses of blasphemy, but very quietly and with a certain concentration, giving due attention to the pronunciation of each word.
Although the humidity of the evening had turned into the coolness of a Moroccan night, Foden was covered with sweat. His drill trousers were torn and filthy. His shirt stuck to his body. His face and arms were burnt almost black. His fair tousled hair stuck to the sides of his head. The dust on his face was streaked where the
