 Tarzan of the Eight brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Rice, Burroughs and Trancing Book. Weirdest thing I've ever heard. What do you suppose it can be? It is impossible to say, Mr. Clayton. Different tribes have different methods of producing such sounds. To me, at least it doesn't sound human. No, Philander, it is distinctly mechanical. The sort of compelling tool, don't you? Think, but yes, this is what it's all about. That is its purpose. To entice you away from your friends, to follow it, and then, voila, believe. Tarzan, you're acquainted with them, isn't it? What do you make of the noise? Two things, Mr. Clayton. First, that they know where we are. Second, that knowing where we are and not attacking us needs me to believe that we outnumber them. Or else, they would not use this sound. They would attack at once. There is logical explanation, but... But, Tarzan, what do we do? That thing, at first thought, we cannot go to sleep. That would be foolish. We cannot light a fire to make a mark of ourselves, but we must watch for the wild beast. But we can't stay here forever. We must do something. When these blacks find that we are not to be lured by their which doctor sounds and that we are watchful, they will go. And when they move, we shall follow. No matter how much the weird sound might appeal to my penchant for investigation, I should never voluntarily follow such sound. No, not you, Monsieur le professeur. But the uncultured blacks also have the penchant for investigation. But they lack the intelligence that says, stay where you are. Listen to them. A distinctly uncomfortable feeling this of unseen enemies. I may be wrong, Monsieur, but that to me signalizes their departure. And then what? We shall settle down for the night, and in the morning, we follow. But we have followed. We've caught up with them, in fact, and nothing came of it. What a mystery! You do not understand these primitive people as do I. If we were to attack them, they would, in turn, fight until the last man dropped. And then we should have no other way to discover mammoy's airport tells whereabouts, except to look, and look, and look for a cannibal village. Percept, I told, in this way, mon ami, we leave them unmolested, and they lead us where we want to go. Well, I hope you're right. I'm sure out of the time that has been... It is he! Speak! He's two of them up here! What is the matter, Pierre? Your men seem to be carrying something. A man! A black man! He seems to be in the last stages of exhaustion. Buona! Buona! Jumbo! Tundi! Tuba! Buona! Qui tu go? Buona! Tuba, baia sana! Oh, cabaca! Be at mange! Tuba! Shai! And you understand him, don't you? But yes, he says they, meeting his tribe, were badly treated by their white boss on the plantation and were on their way to their native ground. Ask him if he knows anything about... about dreams. I'm afraid, Monsieur la Professeur, there is no use asking him anything more. No, Professeur. He is dead. Well, I must have been tortured unmercifully. Look here! Where, Monsieur, is the answer to why I have to patrol this coastline? That is a sample of the white man's authority. He don't need to tell me that a white man did this. His skin is white, and he wields powerful political influence. Every so often some of these blacks rebel, just as this man's tribe evidently did. He said that they were on their way back to their trial, their village, thought that we might interfere with them, Well, Monsieur, you know as much about the rest as I do. Well, if we have to spend the night here, I propose that we at least make ourselves as comfortable as possible. But yes, par ici mes enfants! Make the fire, and we come! The jungle night closes in oppressive and sullen. The stifled wind, heavy with the sweetness of jungle flowers hovers in the denseness of the thicket, stirs lazily the leafy fullness of the tropic trees. On the little platform in the branches, bathed in brilliant moonlight, Jane Porter and Tarzan watch the stars one by one as they cup the velvet darkness of the sky. Both are silent, Jane thinking of her father and trying the next instant to thrust the thought into the background. Tarzan understanding feels that when the silence is broken, she must break it. I suppose I must get used to it. I can hardly realize it yet, but here, in this jungle, I must spend the rest of my life. Life? Life? Oh, it's too much for you, White Skin. Life for you is simple, primitive. For me it is, or rather was, quite a complicated affair. Affair? That's also too hard, White Skin. Your lessons must be along simpler lines. Look, White Skin. Jane takes Tarzan's grass rope, then the quiver with its arrows, the bow, and holding them one by one, she gives them their names as she points to them. Rope, White Skin. Rope. Rope? Rope? Rope? That's it, and now this is arrow. Arrow? Arrow? Arrow? Yes, and you shoot the arrow with the bow, bow. Bow? Bow. Bow, arrow, shoot, kill. Concise and expressing. Now, look. Look? Look? Look. Look is to, well, to look. And Jane, shooting the action to the word, shades her eyes with her hand and peers from side to side. Look. Look, see. Look, see. Look, see. That's right, White Skin. Look, see. Look. Look. Tarzan takes Jane by the arm, points down the jungle trail. Jane's eyes search the gloomy depths of the forest. Tarzan points to a clump of wild bull rushes bordering the low land where it falls away to the waterhole. A lion? Numa. Numa? Lion? Numa. Lion. Jane watches the king of beasts, and he's silently down the trail. Again Tarzan grips her arm, but points to the opposite end of the clearing. Cheetah, cheetah. Kill each quarter. It's a never, and a bullhorn. As Jane says the word, horde of the boar, sends Cheetah and Tarzan the opposite direction. Numa, feeling that the illusion is being bounced forward. Numa and Cheetah both intend on horde of the boar of not seeing one another. Jane wants to cover her eyes with her hand, but fascinated she watches. Cheetah gathers his slim muscular hordes under him. The brute slips curl back to long-spotted tail straightens. Cheetah springs. Numa stiffens his forelegs, braces his 20 bolts with a roar of the lion springs. Cheetah escapes into the underbrush. Cheetah's tearing working claws, digging into Numa's shoulders. Numa first saw this bullhorn, so his tremendous strength has been on keeping the leopard from getting its long claws under the skin. Oh, quick, clean the ribs. But a cat's jaw snaps again and again. They fall sideways. Now the leopard's on top. The male flies green with a hot voice, but overflowing with the land's 40 manes. Numa flashes out of his hind legs, one swift mighty blow of its claws sends the leopard staggering. Before Cheetah can recover, Numa lodges himself on the cat's back. The huge mouth opens, snaps shut when Cheetah's fine. The leopard drops where he stands. Dead. Numa kills Cheetah. Lion kills Cheetah. Yes, yes, I suppose it was fair since the leopard attacks first. As Jane Porter watches Numa king of the beasts with one disdainful look at his vanquished enemy, silently, majestically resumes his way. The wary will find some other prey. The Waterhole. Far off in the black depths of the jungle, Professor Porter, Philander, Clayton, Darlow and the party of sailors under his command await the daybreak. Are you asleep, Monsieur? I, for one, am not. I know, Lieutenant. Neither am I. One of my outposts just reported lights moving in the brush. Torch, as he said. And perhaps we'd better not go to sleep. If you can sleep, Monsieur, do so. We watch. But sleep with your rifles at your sides, and on any signal of alarm, do not move any more than to rise to your knees. Yes, very well, Lieutenant. You may depend upon me. Where is Philander? I don't hear his voice. He lay down beside me. He may be asleep. Philander? Philander? No matter what circumstances, Philander always could get to sleep. The number of times I... He's not here. What, Monsieur? You are sure? Here is where he lay down. Oh, damn! And why? Philander! Philander! Philander! I don't hear his voice. He may not fall asleep. He may not fall asleep. He may not fall asleep. Fine. Everyone. Listen. His voice is coming. This way! Come on!