Текст книги "Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon"
Автор книги: Mark Hodder
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“You've attracted the attention of men in high places, Baker,” he said. His voice was sharp and precise, with a nasal twang. “Why?”
Burton saluted. He staggered.
“It's all right,” Aitken said. “Steady yourself. We're going over some hills.”
“I didn't realise we were moving,” Burton answered.
“The only time you'll feel it is on rough terrain, and even then not much. It's like being on an ocean liner. Answer the question.”
“I honestly haven't the vaguest idea why there's any interest in me at all, sir. I've been in a POW camp for two years.”
“And before that?”
“Civilian Observer Corps at Dar es Salaam and Tanga, then a guerrilla fighter until I was captured at Dut'humi.”
“Where were they taking you?”
“To the Lake Regions, but they didn't tell me why.”
“Sir,” Wells interjected. “Apparently one of the men we just shot dead was Lettow-Vorbeck.”
Burton watched as Aitken's Adam's apple bobbed reflexively. All the crew members turned and looked at the general. He cleared his throat, glared at them, and snapped, “Attend your stations!”
“There's something else, sir,” Wells added. “I think you might prefer to hear it in private.”
Aitken gazed at the little war correspondent for a moment, gave a brusque nod, then turned away and issued a sequence of orders to the bridge crew concerning the velocity and course of the ship. He returned his attention to Burton and Wells, jabbed a finger at them, and said, “You and you-follow me.”
They did so, trailing after him back out into the corridor and through a door into the captain's office. Aitken positioned himself behind a desk but remained standing with his hands held behind his back.
“What do you have to tell me, Wells?”
“I think it best that Baker explains, sir.”
“I don't give two bloody hoots who does the talking, just get on with it!”
Speaking slowly and clearly, Burton told him about Lettow-Vorbeck's A-Bomb.
Moments later, General Aitken collapsed into his chair.
Burton was confined to a cabin with Bertie Wells as his guard. He'd washed, thrown away his prison uniform, and dressed in clean, tick-free battle fatigues. A cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches had been provided.
“They've radioed ahead,” Wells told him. “And so have I.”
“And the city's being evacuated?”
“Evacuated? To where? There's no place to go. Tabora has been under siege for half a century, and all the rest of Africa is under German control. My guess is they'll try to get as many people as possible into underground bunkers. Whether that'll save them or not remains to be seen. If the spore cloud is dense enough, I don't suppose there'll be anywhere safe.”
“Yet we're going back?”
“To rescue the top brass.”
“And take them to-?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I suppose it's possible there's another British enclave somewhere, a place only the bigwigs know about. Or maybe we'll head into one of Africa's wildernesses and lay low while Crowley experiments on you.”
“I don't like the sound of that.” Burton took a bite out of a sandwich and frowned thoughtfully while he chewed and swallowed. “Who did you radio?”
“I sent a coded message to my editor, told him about the A-Bomb.”
“Will he be able to get to safety?”
“Probably not. As I say, the city is surrounded.”
“Then how do we get in? How does the Britanniacome and go?”
“We manage to keep a passage-we call it Hell's Run-open through the besieging German forces to the east of the city. The most ghastly fighting occurs along its borders, but Crowley and our mediums focus their efforts there and have so far prevented the Germans from closing the route.”
A siren started to blare.
“That's the call to battle stations!”
The door opened and an Askari stepped in. “You're both ordered to the bridge,” he said. “Tabora just radioed a message that's put the wind up Aitken. We're approaching the city now.”
“What message?” Wells asked as they followed the African out of the room.
“I don't know the details, Lieutenant.”
They passed along corridors and up stairs, with men rushing around them and the siren howling continuously. The moment they entered the bridge, Aitken rounded on Burton and snapped: “Baker, did Lettow-Vorbeck tell you anything about lurchers? Have the Germans regained control of them?”
“He pointed out a crowd of the plants,” Burton replied, “and said they're most numerous up near the Blood Jungle, but control? No, quite the opposite.”
“Well, that's damned strange. Tabora reports that thousands of them are approaching the city from the north.”
Burton and Wells looked at each other. The explorer shook his head and shrugged, baffled.
“We're currently racing straight down the middle of Hell's Run, well away from German peashooters,” Aitken said. “When was the last time you were here, Baker?”
“I've never been to Tabora, sir.”
“You haven't? Well, take a peek out of the window. We're almost there.”
Burton and Wells stepped over to the glass and looked out across the African landscape. The Britanniawas travelling at a tremendous speed over flat ground. To the north and south of her, black clouds humped up into the blue sky. Lightning flickered inside them. Puffs of smoke rose from the ground beneath. There were flashes. Tiny dots could be seen flying through the air.
“Those are the edges of Hell's Run,” Wells murmured. “As you can see, the Hun weathermen are at work. The storms are more or less constant, as is the fighting beneath them. Tabora is behind the hills you see ahead of us.”
As he examined the terrain, Burton was overcome by a sense of deja vu. He struggled for breath and clutched at Wells's arm.
The Britanniashot up a slope, over the crest of a hill, sank into the valley beyond, navigated up the next slope, and reached the second summit. Burton saw a wide plain stretched out below. Much of it was obscured by a blanket of dirty steam, which was particularly dark and opaque straight ahead, where, from out of the pall, there rose a tall rock topped with green vegetation.
“Kazeh!” Burton croaked. “Tabora is Kazeh!”
“Kazeh is under siege!”
Sir Richard Francis Burton, Algernon Swinburne, and Isabel Arundell had ridden back through the night to where Trounce and the expedition were bivouacked. All three of them were coated with dust and thoroughly exhausted, but there was no time to rest.
Burton fired his rifle into the air to rouse the camp and yelled: “Hopa! Hopa! Pakia!”
Trounce responded to the announcement with: “By the Prussians? Are there that many of them?”
“There's enough! We have to get moving! If they take the town, we won't be able to resupply for the next leg of the safari.”
“But what the blazes are they up to?”
“It's the key to central East Africa, William. Whoever controls Kazeh controls the region all the way from Lake Tanganyika to Zanzibar, and up to the Mountains of the Moon. My guess is they mean to drive the Arabs out and make of it a Prussian base of operations.”
Burton ordered Said bin Salim to have the porters take up their loads. Mirambo silently appeared beside him and asked, “Will the coming day be that in which we fight?”
“Yes. I bid thee prepare thy warriors, O Mirambo.”
“We are always prepared, muzungo mbaya.It is wise to be so when devils such as thee walk the land.”
The African stalked away.
Krishnamurthy, Spencer, Isabella Mayson, Sister Raghavendra, and Sidi Bombay gathered around the king's agent. He described to them the scene he'd witnessed.
Krishnamurthy asked, “Can we get into the town from the west?”
“Yes,” Burton replied. “If we follow the hills south, remaining on this side of them, then cross when-”
“No. We can't enter the town at all,” Isabel Arundell interrupted.
They all looked at her, surprised.
“It would be suicidal. I have a hundred and twenty fighters and another ninety or so on the way. Mirambo has two hundred boys. The Prussians already greatly outnumber us and there are a thousand more fast approaching. If we're in the town when they arrive, we'll be pinned down and we'll likely never get out again.”
Burton nodded thoughtfully. “You're the expert in guerrilla tactics,” he said, “and I'll bow to your expertise. What do you recommend?”
Isabel positioned herself directly in front of him and placed her hands on his shoulders. “The king made you his agent, Dick, and you have your orders. What is the distance from here to the Mountains of the Moon?”
“Something under two hundred miles.”
“Then go. Forget about resupplying in the town. You and your people take two horses each and the bare essentials in supplies. No porters. Nothing but what you can carry. Travel as fast as you can. It's a race, remember? I have no doubt that John Speke is already on his way.”
“And you?” Burton asked.
“Mirambo and I will lead our forces against the Prussians.”
William Trounce interjected: “But why, Isabel? If we're going to bypass the town, why risk yourselves in battle at all?”
Isabel stepped back and pulled the keffiyehfrom her head. The sickle moon had just risen over the horizon and its pale light illuminated her long blonde hair.
“Because despite these robes, I'm British, William. If what we saw at Mzizima, and what we are witnessing here at Kazeh, are the first skirmishes in a clash of empires, then it's my duty to defend that to which I belong-besides which, if we don't keep the Prussians occupied here, they'll be able to rapidly establish outposts all the way to the Mountains of the Moon, making it almost impossible for you to get there.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Isabella Mayson cleared her throat. “Richard,” she said, “if you don't mind, I think I would like to stay and join the Daughters of Al-Manat.”
“And I,” added Sister Raghavendra. “Besides, you'll probably travel more quickly as a smaller group.”
The explorer looked from one woman to the other, then his gaze went past Isabel and his eyes locked with Swinburne's, and even in the dim light, the poet could see in them a great depth of despair.
“I'm afraid Isabel is right,” the poet said quietly. “We can't allow Speke to reach the Eye of Naga before us. Equally, we can't let Kazeh fall to the Prussians. The only option is to split the expedition.”
Burton leaned his head back and considered the stars. Then he closed his eyes and said, “And you, William?”
Trounce stepped forward and spoke in a low, gruff voice: “Am I supposed to run off and leave women to fight?”
Isabella Mayson whirled around to face him. “Sir! The fact that I wrote a book about cookery and household management doesn't mean I'm incapable of putting a bullet through a man's head! Have you forgotten this-” She pulled back her hair to reveal the notch in her right ear. “I fought by your side at Dut'humi. Was I any less effective than you? Did I scream? Did I faint? Did I start knitting a shawl?”
“No, of course not! You're as brave as they come. But-”
“No buts! No medieval nonsense about honour and chivalry! There isn't time for such indulgence! We have a job to do! Yours is to accompany Sir Richard and to retrieve that diamond!”
“Well said!” Isabel Arundell put in.
They all looked at Burton, who was standing stock-still.
Gunfire rattled from the town.
The cough of a lion sounded from afar.
Pox, on Herbert Spencer's head, muttered something unintelligible, and Malady responded with a click of his beak.
“All right! Enough!” Burton snapped, opening his eyes. “Sadhvi, will you prepare for us a pack of remedies and treatments?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Take Algy with you and instruct him in their use. Maneesh-”
Krishnamurthy moved closer. “Yes?”
“I'm sorry, but I have to give you a very difficult mission. Sidi Bombay says an aggressive tribe called the Chwezi live among the Mountains of the Moon, so there's every chance that we won't make it out. It's imperative that the government learns what is happening here. For that reason, I'm going to entrust you with my journals and reports. I want you and Said and his men to trek all the way back to Zanzibar. I'm going to pay our remaining porters to accompany you as far as Ugogi. There, you can hire more. Once you reach the island, catch the first ship home and report to Palmerston.”
Krishnamurthy straightened his back and squared his shoulders. “You can rely on me, sir.”
“I don't doubt it, my friend.”
Burton next addressed Trounce and Bombay: “You two, Algy, Herbert, and I will depart at sun-up. Work with Isabella to get everything prepared. I'll join you presently. First though-” he took Isabel Arundell by the arm and steered her away, “-you and I need to talk.”
They walked a short distance, then stopped and stood, listening to the battle and watching dark shapes moving across the plain near the horizon.
“Elephants,” Isabel murmured.
“Yes.”
“You don't have to say anything, Dick. I'm familiar with your hopelessness when it comes to goodbyes.”
He took her hand. “Did you know that, had history never changed, this is the year we'd be celebrating our honeymoon?”
“How do you know that?”
“Countess Sabina. Palmerston's medium.”
“I ought to slap your face for reminding me that you broke our engagement.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I know. Do you think we'd have been happily married?”
“Yes.”
He was silent a moment, then: “Isabel, I–I-”
She waited patiently while he struggled to express himself.
“I'm filled with such regret I can barely stand it,” he said, his voice breaking. “I've done everything wrong. Everything! I should never have accepted the king's commission. I panicked. Speke had ruined my career and reputation. Then he put a bullet into his head and people said it was my fault!”
“Which is when Palmerston threw you a lifeline.”
“He did, but even with the situation as it was, I'm not certain I'd have accepted his offer had Spring Heeled Jack not assaulted me the night before.”
“There you have it, Dick. You regret a decision you made, but how much can you blame yourself when you were under the influence of such extraordinary circumstances? We all like to fool ourselves that we are independent and that our minds are our own, but the truth is we're always swayed by events.”
Burton smacked his right fist into his left palm. “Yes! That's exactly it! My decisions were made according to context. But have I ever properly understood it? Since the advent of Spring Heeled Jack, I feel like I've not had a firm grip on events at all. It's all slipped away from me. It feels to me as though things that should have occurred over a long stretch of history are all piling up at once-and it's too much! It's too confusing! Bismillah! I can sense time swirling through and around me like some sort of discordant noise. But-”
Burton paused and raised his hands to his head, pushing his fingertips into his scalp and massaging it through the hair, as if to somehow loosen blocked thoughts.
“What is it?”
“I have this feeling that time is-is-like a language! Damn it, Isabel! I have mastered more than thirty tongues. Why does this one elude me? Why can't I make any sense of it?”
Burton's eyes momentarily reflected the moonlight and Isabel saw in them the same torment Swinburne had spotted minutes ago.
He continued: “Tom Bendyshe, Shyamji Bhatti, Thomas Honesty-all dead; and we-we have pushed through pain and fever and discomfort to the point of utter exhaustion. That is the context in which I have to now judge my decisions, but I don't comprehend the significance of it! Surely there has to be one! Why can't I translate the language of these events?”
“I have never before known a man with your depth of intellect, Dick, but you're demanding too much of yourself. You haven't slept. You're overwrought. You're trying to do what no man-or woman-can do. The workings of time are obscure to us all. Your Countess Sabina, who has insight into so much more than the rest of us-does she understand it?”
“No. If anything, the more of it she observes, the more confused she gets.”
“Perhaps, then, it cannot be deciphered by the living, which is why meaning is assigned retrospectively, by those who inhabit the future. By historians.”
“Who weren't even a part of the events! Are future historians better placed to interpret the life of Al-Manat than you are? Of course not! But will their reading of your life make more sense than anything you can tell me now-or at any other point while you're alive? Yes, almost certainly.”
“Are you afraid of how history will judge you?”
“No. I'm afraid of how I'm judging history!”
Isabel gave a throaty chuckle.
Burton looked at her in surprise and asked, “What's so funny about that?”
“Oh, nothing, Dick-except I imagined that perhaps you took me aside to tell me that you love me. How silly of me! Why on earth didn't I realise it was for nothing more than a philosophical discussion!”
Burton looked at her, then looked down and directed a derisive snort at himself.
“I'm an idiot! Of course I love you, Isabel. From the moment I first laid eyes on you. And it gives me a strange kind of comfort to know that there's another history, and in it we are together, and not parted by-” He gestured around them. “This.”
“I always thought that if anything was going to come between us it would be Africa,” she said.
“But it wasn't,” Burton replied. “It was the Spring Heeled Jack business.”
“Yes.” Isabel sighed. “But I suspect that, somehow, those events, just like the River Nile, have their source here.”
The freshly risen sun turned the plain the colour of blood. From the summit of a hill, Burton, Swinburne, Trounce, Spencer, and Sidi Bombay looked down upon it and watched as the expedition divided into three. One group, led by Maneesh Krishnamurthy, was heading back in the direction they'd all come; another-the Daughters of Al-Manat-was riding away, along the base of the hills, intending to set up camp among the trees to the southeast of Kazeh; while the third-Mirambo and his men-was moving into the forest directly east of the town.
Burton, with a savage scowl on his face, muttered, “Come on,” pulled his horse around, and started along a trail that led northward. There were two horses, lightly loaded with baggage, roped behind his mount. Trounce had two more behind his. Swinburne's horse led the eighth animal, upon which Herbert Spencer was rather awkwardly propped, and the ninth horse was tethered behind that. The clockwork man wasn't heavy-his mount could easily carry him-but he'd only thus far ridden a mule sidesaddle, and wasn't used to the bigger beast.
Sidi Bombay's horse led no others, for the African frequently rode ahead to scout the route.
Traversing a long valley, they moved through the trees and, thanks to the scarcity of undergrowth and the canopy sheltering them from the sun, made rapid progress. They didn't stop to rest-nor did they speak-until they reached the edge of a savannah midway through the afternoon; and when they sat and shared unleavened bread and plantains, the conversation was desultory. Each man was preoccupied, listening to the distant gunfire, dwelling on those from whom they'd parted. Even the three screechers, Pox, Malady, and Swinburne, were subdued.
“We'll endure the heat and keep going,” Burton muttered.
They resumed their journey, shading themselves beneath umbrellas, guiding their horses over hard, dusty ground, watching as herds of impala and zebra scattered at their approach.
The rest of the day passed sluggishly, with the interminable landscape hardly changing. The climate had all four men so stupefied that they frequently slipped into a light sleep, only to be awakened by Spencer shouting: “The bloomin' horses are stoppin' again, Boss!”
Shortly before sunset, they erected their one small tent beside a stony outcrop, ate, then crawled under the canvas to sleep. Sidi Bombay wrapped himself in a blanket and slumbered under the stars. Spencer, having had his key inserted and wound, kept guard.
In the few seconds before exhaustion took him, Swinburne remembered the clockwork philosopher's book, and the phrase: Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.
He wondered how he'd come to forget about it; why he hadn't mentioned it to anyone; then he forgot about it again and went to sleep.
Sir Richard Francis Burton dreamt that he was slumbering alone, in the open, with unfamiliar stars wheeling above him. There was a slight scuffing to his left. He opened his eyes and turned his head and saw a tiny man, less than twelve inches high, with delicate lace-like wings growing from his shoulder blades. His forehead was decorated with an Indian bindi.
“I don't believe in fairies,” the explorer said, “and I've already looked upon your true form, K'k'thyima.”
He sat up, and blinked, and suddenly the fairy was much larger, and reptilian, and it had one or five or seven heads.
“Thou art possessed of a remarkable mind, O human. It perceives truth. It is adaptable. That is why we chose thee.”
Burton was suddenly shaken by a horribly familiar sensation: an awareness that his identity was divided, that there were two of him, ever at odds with each other. For the first time, though, he also sensed that some sort of physical truth lay between these opposing forces.
“Good!” the Naga hissed. “Still we sing, but soon it will end, and already thou hears the echo of our song.”
“What are you suggesting? That I'm sensing the future?”
The priest didn't answer. His head was singular. His head was multiple.
Burton tried to focus on the strange presence, but couldn't.
“I dreamt of you before,” he said. “You were in Kumari Kandam. This, though, is Africa, where the Naga are known as the Chitahurior the Shayturay.”
“I am K'k'thyima. I am here, I am in other places. I am nowhere, soft skin, for my people were made extinct by thine.”
“Yet the essence of you was imprinted on one of the Eyes; you lived on in that black diamond until it was shattered.”
Again, the Naga chose not to respond.
A flash drew Burton's eyes upward. He saw a shooting star, the brightest he'd ever witnessed. It blazed a trail across the sky, then suddenly divided into three streaks of light. They flew apart and faded. When he looked down, the Naga priest was gone.
He lay back and woke up.
“It's dawn, Boss. I can still hear shots from Kazeh.”
Herbert Spencer's head was poking through the entrance to the tent. It was wrapped in a keffiyehbut the scarf was pulled open at the front and the polymethylene suit beneath was visible, as were the three round openings that formed the philosopher's “face.” Through the glass of the uppermost one, Burton could see tiny cogs revolving. Spencer was otherwise motionless.
A moment passed.
“Was there something else, Herbert?”
“No, Boss. I'll help Mr. Bombay to load the horses.”
The philosopher withdrew.
Swinburne sat up. “I think I shall take lunch at the Athenaeum Club today, Richard, followed by a tipple at the Black Toad.”
“Are you awake, Algy?”
The poet peered around at the inside of the tent.
“Oh bugger it,” he said. “I am.”
Burton shook Trounce into consciousness and the three of them crawled into the open, ate a hasty breakfast, packed, and mounted their horses.
Burton groaned. “I'm running a fever.”
“I have some of Sadhvi's medicine,” Swinburne said.
“I'll take it when we next stop. Let's see how far we can get today. Keep your weapons close to hand-we don't know when we might run into Speke.”
They moved off.
Most of the day was spent crossing the savannah.
Vultures circled overhead.
The far-off sounds of battle faded behind them.
They entered a lush valley. Clusters of granite pushed through its slopes, and the grass grew so high that it brushed against the riders' legs.
“Wow! This is the place called Usagari,” Bombay advised. “Soon we will see villages.”
“Everyone move quietly,” Burton ordered. “We have to slip past as many as we can, else the few boxes of beads and coils of wire we're carrying will be gone in an instant.”
After fording a nullah, they rode up onto higher ground and saw plantations laid out on a gentle slope. Bombay led them along the edges of the cultivated fields, through forests and thick vegetation, and thus managed to pass four villages without being spotted. Then their luck ran out, and they were confronted by warriors who leaped about, brandishing their spears and striking grotesque poses that were designed to frighten but which sent Swinburne into fits of giggles.
After much whooping and shouting, Bombay finally established peaceful communication. The Britishers paid three boxes of beads and were given permission to stay at the village overnight. It was called Usenda, and its inhabitants proved much more friendly than their initial greeting had suggested. They shared their food and, to Swinburne's delight, a highly alcoholic beverage made from bananas, and gave over a dwelling for the explorers' use. It was a poor thing constructed of grass, infested with insects, and already claimed by a family of rats. Trounce was too exhausted to care, Swinburne was too drunk to notice, and Burton was so feverish by now that he passed out the moment he set foot in it. They all slept deeply, while Spencer stood sentry duty and Bombay stayed up late gossiping with the village elders.
When they departed the next day, the king's agent was slumped semi-aware in his saddle, so Trounce took the lead. He successfully steered them past seven villages and out of the farmed region onto uninhabited flatlands where gingerbread palms grew in abundance. It was easy going but took two days to traverse, during which time Burton swam in and out of consciousness. His companions, meanwhile, grew thoroughly sick of the unchanging scenery, which offered nothing to suggest that they might be making any progress.
At last, they came to the edge of a jungle and began to work their way through it, with Trounce and Spencer leading the way while Swinburne and Bombay guided the horses behind them. Burton remained mounted and insensible.
For what felt like hours, they fought with the undergrowth, until Spencer pushed a tangle of lianas out of their path and they suddenly found themselves face to face with a rhinoceros. It kicked the ground, snorted, and moved its head from side to side, squinting at them from its small, watery eyes.
They raised their rifles.
“Absolute silence, please, gentlemen,” Trounce whispered. “The slightest noise or movement could cause it to charge us.”
“Up your sooty funnel!” Pox screamed.
“Pig-jobber!” Malady squawked. “Cross-eyed slack-bellied stink trumpet!”
The rhino gave a prodigious belch, turned, and trotted away.
“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “Malady has been learning fast!”
“Humph!” Trounce responded. “Next time we're confronted by a wild beast, I won't bother to unsling my rifle. I'll just throw parakeets.”
It was close to nightfall by the time they broke free of the mess of vegetation and found a place to camp. Burton recovered his wits while the others slept, and he sat with Spencer, listening to the rasping utterances of lions and the chuckles and squeals of hyenas.
“How're you feelin'?” the philosopher asked.
“Weak. How about you?”
“Phew! I'll be glad when all this walkin' an' ridin' is over an' done with. It's playin' merry havoc with me gammy leg.”
“Your leg is just dented, Herbert.”
“Aye, but it aches somethin' terrible.”
“That's not possible.”
“Aye. Do you think, Boss, that I've lost some qualities that a man possesses only 'cos he's flesh?”
“What sort of qualities?”
“A conscience, for example; a self-generated moral standard by which a man judges his own actions. Old Darwin said it's the most important distinction between humankind an' other species.”
“And you think it's a characteristic of corporeality?”
“Aye, an evolution of a creature's instinct to preserve its own species. Compare us to the lower animals. What happens when a sow has a runt in her litter? She eats it. What happens if a bird hatches deformed? It's bloomin' well pecked to death. What do gazelles do with a lame member of the herd? They leave it to die, don't they? Humans are the dominant species 'cos we're heterogeneous, but to support all our individual specialisations, we have to suppress the natural desire to allow the weak an' inferior to fall by the wayside, as it were, 'cos how can we evaluate each other when reality demands somethin' different from every individual? A manual labourer might consider a bank clerk too physically weak; does that mean he should kill the blighter? The clerk might think the labourer too unintelligent; is that reason enough to deny him the means to live? In the wild, such judgements apply, but not in human society, so we have conscience to intercede, to inhibit the baser aspects of natural evolution an' raise it to a more sophisticated level. As I suggested to you once before, Boss, where mankind is concerned, survival of the fittest refers not to physical strength, but to the ability to adapt oneself to circumstances. The process wouldn't function were it not for conscience.”
Burton considered this, and there was silence between them for a good few minutes.
Spencer picked up a stone and threw it at a shadowy form-a hyena that had wandered too close.
“You're suggesting,” Burton finally said, “that conscience has evolved to suppress in us the instinct that drives animals to kill or abandon the defective, because each of us is only weak or strong depending on who's judging us and the criteria they employ?”
“Precisely. Without conscience we'd end up killin' each other willy-nilly until the whole species was gone.”
“So you associate it with the flesh because it ensures our species' physical survival?”
“Aye. It's an adaptation of an instinct what's inherent in the body.”
“And you suspect that your transference into this brass mechanism might have robbed you of your conscience?”
“I don't know whether it has or hasn't, Boss. I just wonder. I need to test it.”
They sat a little longer, then Burton was overcome by weariness and retired to the tent.
Travel the following morning proved the easiest since their arrival in Africa. The ground was firm, trees-baobabs-were widely spaced, and undergrowth was thinly distributed. Small flowers grew in abundance.
As they entered this district, Pox and Malady launched themselves from Spencer's shoulders and flew from tree to tree, rubbing their beaks together and insulting each other rapturously.
