 Tarzan of the Apes. Brought to you from out the pages of Edgar Wright's followers' adventurous book. I need to help you. The second you go, there wasn't a soul in sight. Now the villagers are lying with black hundreds out there and getting dangerously close. I kill you, I don't like you. Don't shoot! Don't shoot, please! I'm not going to be shot at without putting up some sort of resistance. I have not shot at you yet, but did you so much as raise the driver. A hundred poisons down of us will find a mark in your body. I think you would better follow your pen and down those that bite. We follow down those that bite. See where we are now. I failed to see what blame can be laid to down those ladies. If you will leave me to do the talking, it may be very uncomfortable. We may all be killed, but I know that my way is the only way. Well, it's quite so. We wanted to come into the village, Clayton. And that's where we are. Yes, here we are. Submitting to capture the hands of these savages without even putting up a decent son. Be reasonable, Clayton. We didn't start out with the intention of engaging in a war with the native tribe. All we want is change. All right, all right. These fighters are getting far too close for comfort. Well, I must admit that I don't like their spirit. This is not inaction. The way they cloned in from all sides, so slowly, so inexorably, it looks rather final. Our only chance, or to rescue members of what they are and to save our lives is to do whatever they ask. Do not resist. Don't look for our hopeless. Doesn't sound no. He looks that way, Mr. Le Paule, but again, they will think twice before they deliberately attack the authority of their French unit. That fellow in the lead will be the chief of something. No one seems to be actually in command. I'm going to talk to him. He's the headman, but not the chief of the tribe. Jumbo! Jumbo! Kabaka, Menge, Agoles, Batamor! Jumbo, Puella. Separe, Puella, Lomor, Menta. Mkuba, Agoles, Nadawel. Mbondo, Bardo, Hidok, huh? Follow my example. Put down your rifles. But look here! Where's your kite on? Are we all too suffer because you cannot obey orders? Put down your rifle. Follow me to the second hut. We are more or less prisoners. Follow you and submit to the furthering thing, because they are being found, I suppose. I think not. I don't think they need to bind us. They outnumber us a hundred to one. We have our rifles. What more could they want? Right, Philander. But Dardo seems to know this. All we have to do is to make sure that everything will turn out all right. Then, perhaps, M. Clayton has a suggestion of value. A time when my suggestion was a value has passed. I would have put it out. Then, my impetuous friend, your head, my head. The heads of all of us would soon be adorning those so sharp-looking spikes of the stockade. And, M. Clayton, we would not have rescued Miss Jay. Well, what's the difference? Here we are being hurried into a dirty hut, and we haven't found Jay. True. We have not found the young lady. But I think, once the countryman adores named Jay's, that's something that is buried through, while there is life, there is hope. Then, we could be of no assistance to them or their shame. But alive, we cannot tell. We may be able to help. They are certainly being lax about guarding us. I'm saying, hey, find a way down, though. But what did you say? And what did the headman say to you? I merely greeted him. And before I could tell him what we had come for, he said, the white man's guard, you have come to look for, is not here. What have you said? Then, Jay must be here. The very fact that he meant to lose to me, my friend, that we have blundered and she is not here. In memory, if Jay had been here, the headman would have said nothing, nothing at all. He would have waited for the chief to come back. But if Jay hasn't been here, how can they even know of her existence? And that we're searching for her. It may well be one of those things, my friend, that we civilized people do not understand. Darn! Or, for all we know, some of these blacks may have been watching you at the hut for some time. The sun shining between the serrated ranks of giant trees fills the jungle depths with pools of liquid gold. The stream winding its way to the waterhole deems like the surface of a mirror. The hard bright blue of the sky is softened by the leafy fringe network of twisted branch and fine leaves that form the jungle's canopy brook. Therefore, the occasional call of an animal to its mate or the frightened yelp of some smaller beast that stumbles unawares on Numa or Sheeta, the jungle is quiet. On the leafy platform in the trees, Jane Porter and Tarzan watch Sabor the lioness combing the birds out of her cub's fluffy coat. It's hard to believe that tonight that same lioness will terrify the jungle with her roaring that some poor brook will have to be killed for her meal. Meal? Meal? A meal, white skin, is food. Food. White skin, hungry, eat food. Many food, meal. One food, eat. Many food, some food, meal. Yes, white skin, you do learn quickly. At this rate, we will be able to talk without difficulty in a very short time. Time? Time? Short time. Short time, quickly. Quickly, short time. White skin, go. Come back, short time. Come back, quick. Exactly, that's right. Tarzan motions Jane to be quiet. He leans over the edge of the platform, listening. Jane tries to listen, but the ape man's acute hearing his gene sense of smell tell him of something approaching, something that Jane cannot hear. At the crackling of brush Tarzan gains more emotions to Jane. This time he points and Jane sees far on the other side of the glade a huge black warrior. One of the party attacks by Tarzan when he rescued Philander. Tarzan leans closer to Jane. White skin, arrows. Not many. Gomen, Gany, many arrows. Tarzan has no word for cake, but Jane understands that he intends to take some from the black. Now the warrior is below them. Without a sound, Tarzan drops full on the startled black shoulders. The black screen of the Tarzan lands upon his back. Tarzan slips and he's on one of the warriors. She imported his head back. The black catches a glimpse of Tarzan's face. The strangled screen dies and he shows as he recognizes the forest devil feared by his brothers at the crowd. Tarzan pulls the quiver of arrows from the man's back, throws it behind him on the ground. He grips the black about the middle, raises him high above his head. A slight tensing of the muscles. He's going to hurl the black against the pole of the tree. Tarzan holds the black above his head as though he were a baby ape. Undecided, he looks up at Jane. No kill, White skin. No, no, no kill. No kill, Gomangani. No kill. Tarzan does not understand. Why should Jane not want him to kill the black? The black torture and kill their enemies, even their own people. The blacks are worse than Yuma or Sabre. Only the Gomangani torture before they kill. Again, he looks up at Jane. No kill. It's all very puzzling, but Jane does not want the Gomangani killed, so Tarzan lowers the black to the ground and stands watching him. The black warrior, his teeth shattering too frightened even to scream, crashes off through the brush in desperate flight. Tarzan bends down, picks up the quiver of arrows and swings himself effortlessly back to the platform. White skin. No kill, man. Black man. Man? Man? Yes, White skin. You, White skin, man. Me, Jane, woman. White skin, man. Jane, woman. Man, no kill, man. Man, no kill, woman. And Tarzan learns in speech that he is a man, something that he had learned in writing long ago. But Tarzan is unable to associate the word man with the little bugs, as he thinks, of printed letters that spell on paper M-A-N. In Mechanical Crawl, Professor Porter, Clayton, Darno and Philander are seated on the ground inside the hut that is there present. There's nothing a moment ago, Darno, but trouble. Sir, you mean my friend about the blacks knowing the reason for our search? Yes. I must admit that I too am somewhat at a loss to understand how these blacks could know that we are searching for Jane if they had not seen her. It is just one of those inexplainable things, Monsieur. They may not ever have seen Jane, but by means of their mysterious tongue of magic, they would be able to describe her quite clearly, would be able to tell you how she was captured. And if given the proper encouragement, we'll tell us where she is. But how, Darno, how do they do it? That I do not know. Socery, thought transfer, telepathy, all suggestions are nothing but guess what? They know the secret, and they keep it. But it's absolutely unreasonable to suppose that uneducated, illiterate, mutt-dog marriages can do such a thing. As Monsieur Frico says, it is unreasonable. But nevertheless, it is true. Without doubt, we will learn from these people the whereabouts of Miss Jane. That is, always provided that they do not kill us first. Of course, that is a provision one cannot quite prove sight of. I am not one who would call a timid man, but the uncertainty of not knowing what will happen next is extremely exhausting. Listen, what's going to happen now? Can you make it to the attack? I want to hear what is being said. Mr. Maduro, Mr. Maduro, Mr. Maduro, please make the call. Go now. Sure, he says he saw the white devil of the breed and he has a white woman with him. So, examine this young black magic girl. Mr. Maduro, please make the call.