The Algernon Expeditions: The Mysterious Ore

Author's notes

Gentle Reader,

 
This is the report on our expedition into the African jungles of Somalia, in search of the expedition of Professor Hammond of Miskatonic University, Arkham, America. While this is of course not our first expedition, it is the first expedition to be documented in this way for the general public, and consists of the notes of several of our expedition members.

 
The cover illustration was made by Miss Lindsey Batdorf, who can be contacted over these modern speaking tubes at lindseybatdorf.com.

The front page was created by Miss Corinne Pritchard, whose contact address is at www.simplyunderstand.com

To ensure that our collective writings are fit for consumption by the general public, we have enjoyed the welcome aid of Mrs. Michelle Slee.

 
In the interest of public safety, and indeed to save some people embarrassment or legal trouble, certain names and events have been altered to protect the innocent. Please treat these documents as a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

 
But above all: Enjoy!

 
Yours,

 
Prof. Dr. Alan Wadcroft, Algernon University, Ipswich.

 
(Additional images by the following Flickr users: woolamaloo_gazette vithassan yoavlerman, used under Creative Commons license).

 

A letter from Africa

Prof. Dr. Alan Wadcroft - Prof. Dr. Margaret Enderby - The fate of the Hammond expedition - The letter from Africa - A mysterious mineral - In search of Hammond

 

"Much though it would excite the imagination of Mankind to live in a world inhabited by narwhales three to six hundred foot long, my analyses on bone strength, muscle mass, and required food (please find attached) quite rule this out. In summary, such a creature would need to spend roughly thirty hours per day eating, simply to sustain itself. There being only twenty-four hours in a day, we can confidently consign the existence of such a creature to the realm of fable."

 

-- Prof. Wadcroft, in a letter to Prof. Pierre Arronax of the Paris museum.

 
I hadn't seen Dr. Enderby for several weeks. This in itself was not unusual, since our specialisations are quite different. The most we saw of each other in those days was an occasional shared glance at one of those incredibly boring social functions at Algernon University in Ipswich. She is that comfortable kind of friend where you can not see each other for an eternity, and then meet and pick up where you left off. Dr. Margaret Enderby, widow of the world-famous crypto-zoologist Professor Gerald Enderby, was and is the leading authority on Neolithical hominids, as well as an accomplished expert on Newtonian physics, which shares little with my own specialisations of biology, alchemy and geography. We saw more of each other when Gerald was still alive. At University, sometime in the Neolithic era, Gerald was two beds over from mine in the dorm, and we often crammed for exams together, until we went our separate ways. The last time I saw Enderby, she wished to consult me on the specifics of some obscure reaction involving amino acids, and I was able to supply her with most of the needed information. Dr. Enderby is excellent company, and I was pleasantly surprised to see her entering my office.

"What ho, Wadcroft, what are you up to?" she said, in that cheerful blustering voice of hers that has her students hanging on her every word.

"I am just finishing a letter to one of my colleagues in Paris, to the effect that one of his theories is a load of bollocks."

Enderby laughed, sitting down in one of my chairs. "Making some poor Frenchie's life miserable? Honestly, Wadcroft. Some day, someone will do the same to you."

"I should bloody well hope so," I said. "Science progresses over the corpses of disproven theories. Today's profound truth and wisdom is tomorrow's discredited folly. But what brings you here? Do you need some creature identified?"

"Hah! I haven't needed anything identified since I shot that chupacabra that was the end of poor Gerald. A post-humous triumph for him. Scabrous coyotes my foot. No, I'm here for something else that's been hiding. Do you remember Hammond?"

"Hammond?"

It took me a few moments to remember the man. He was a Doctor of Geography at Miskatonic University in Arkham. What I remember most about him were his unending lamentations on how he was overlooked for some bizarre expedition to the Antarctic region. To my taste, he was slightly too enthusiastic in describing how that entire expedition was wiped out by some kind of cryptid indigenous to the region.

"Ah. Of course. What about him?"

"He was on an expedition into darkest Africa, searching for some mysterious mineral. Seemed to think it was the key to the future of Mankind."

"What kind of mineral?"

Enderby raised her hands. "Rock. Not really my department is it? He did send me a sample, so maybe you can shed some light on it. But anyway, Hammond and all of his expedition have vanished from the face of the Earth."

"That seems to happen fairly regularly to expeditions of theirs, doesn't it?"

"Oh do be quiet, Wadcroft," said Enderby, eyes gleaming. "You are just prejudiced against them because they study all these shadowy cults."

"And for perfectly good reasons," I said. "If there is one thing I simply cannot abide, it's make-believe and mumbo-jumbo. Things happen for perfectly good physiological reasons. Saying that this or that is done by the Power of the Ancient Gods, or some such nonsense, is simply giving up."

Enderby looked at me silently, with a slight smile on her face that suggested that I was wrong, and in a few moments I'd realise it.

"What if there really are Ancient Gods, Wadcroft?"

"If there are, then you may be sure that none of those eldritch documents they hold so dear has any bearing upon them. Hammond once showed me a transcript. Honestly. Rantings and ravings of madmen!"

Enderby grinned at me. "Well, I am happy to say that this expedition contained nothing occult. Good simple rock-bashing in the African jungles. Their last contact was a month ago, and then the dirigible couldn't find their camp anymore."

"Moved on, had they?"

"Hammond isn't stupid enough just to up sticks and bugger off. Something..." Enderby's dramatic pauses are a thing of beauty. "Must have happened to him."

This, of course, led to the question of what, exactly, might have befallen Hammond's expedition. The African jungle is a place of many dangers, but Hammond's university was well-funded, and its expeditions well fitted out.

"Any indication of what might have happened?"

"Not a shred of evidence," said Enderby. "The captain of the Boreas found their camp site, but all they found there was a chest full of undeveloped photographic plates and a store of rock samples. Which they sent to our colleagues in Cairo. They developed the photographs, and they declared themselves stumped. So they made prints of the plates and sent them to us."

Enderby reached in her bag, and pulled out an envelope, from which she produced a few photographs. She put them all on my desk and turned them over. They were images of the men at work, busily chopping away at the side of a mountain. No doubt the images had been intended for the newspapers, but their most prominent features were ghostly images, wisps of an unearthly smoke-like nature, surrounding the workers, who did not even seem to notice. I looked up at Enderby.

"Somebody spoiled the plates, allowing the light in."

"Pah! What sort of idiots do you think our colleagues in Cairo are? They swear that all the plates were received in good condition, and treated with all proper care and attention. They had the whole of Arkham looking on their fingers. They were hardly going to mess up evidence of this nature. So, Wadcroft, what do you think it is?"

I pulled out my pipe and reached in my desk drawer for some Canaster tobacco. Filling a pipe properly, so that it keeps burning till the last strand of tobacco, is not a thing to be done in haste. Pipes are a great gift to those of us who occasionally need to collect our thoughts.

"It would appear to be a phenomenon that is invisible to the eye, but not to the photographic plate."

"Professor Makhmoud of Cairo University writes that some superstitious souls might interprete these images as Djinns, or perhaps Ifrits."

"To add some local charm to what would otherwise be a rather dull nigh-insoluble mystery," I said. I pushed the photos back to Enderby. "Something must have gone wrong during the development process. I can think of no other explanation. There is a tent in this picture. The door is flapping in the wind, and yet, it does not seem to have any effect on these... wisps."

Enderby looked over her shoulder, then bent forward to me, with a conspiratory grin. "Ghosts and spirits do not drift away upon the wind, Wadcroft."

"Oh dash it, Margaret. I simply cannot believe you have come here to weary my ears with ghost-stories and unscientific nonsense. Do you really hold that Hammond and his companions have been abducted by ghosts?"

"No," said Enderby, to my intense relief. "I think that theories on supernatural agencies are best entertained after we have exhausted all the possibilities of human involvement. Either poor Hammond and his companions have ended up in the cooking pots of some of the natives, or sunk into some swamp, got lost in the rain forest, or... They have run into some competing expedition."

"Who then proceeded to murder them, hide the bodies and steal their equipment? That would be most uncollegial of them."

"Perhaps. But the consensus in Cairo was that Hammond was on to something. Something big. And at any rate, we cannot allow scientific expeditions to go missing without a trace!"

"What are you suggesting," I said. "That we should go looking for them? Can't the Arkham lot take care of their own?"

"Normally, they would," said Enderby, "But a significant number of them have popped into the House for the Bewildered for a while, owing to eldritch emanations from goodness only knows where. So they've asked us. We're much closer to Hammond's expedition anyway. The dirigible Boreas is moored at the docks in Ipswitch."

"And it can bloody well stay there," I said. "I have work to do here. The data from the Rammelsberg expedition in the Harz need to be collated. They think there is argentiferous ore there, and initial results suggest they may be right."

"What? Ordering rows of numbers and drawing pictures? You? That's what graduate students are there for, Wadcroft. Put away that pen and grab your pith helmet. You have an expedition to set up."

 

---

 
Of course, I did not drop everything there and then, and storm out of my office to darkest Africa. I hadn't had my supper yet, and there was also the trifle of organising a group of men to walk into the jungle that had so recently swallowed up a whole group of scientists. In order to get people to walk into such a jungle, one must take pains to ensure that these people have a better than average chance to walk out again. People are peculiar that way. Enderby had shown me the rock samples from the Hammond expedition, but they were singularly uninteresting. Some variety of pitchblende, not very common, but not as thrilling to the imagination as gold or silver or coal would have been. I therefore concluded that Hammond and company must have found something else to excite them. I must admit, my curiosity is easily tickled, and a stroll through one of Creation's most beautiful wildernesses drew me much more than months of bending over geological calculations. My undergraduates would, no doubt, thank me for the opportunity to take this labour off my hands when they reached the stage to fob the dull jobs off on others.

The first thing I did, was to meet with Captain Gaskin of the Boreas. One of the University's hansoms took me quickly to Ipswich Port. Several large steamers were moored at the docks, and the dirigible Boreas floated serenely some thirty foot above them, tethered fore and aft to two of the towers built for the purpose. I climbed the winding stairs, and walked through the corridor to the entrance. I showed my University badge to one of the airmen, and was taken to the cabin of Captain Gaskin. As I entered, he rose to shake my hand in that hearty, direct, and to my taste overly familiar way that all Americans have. I politely refused his offer of a cigar, can't stand the things, accepted a glass of whisky and soda for politeness' sake, then sat down to discuss Hammond's expedition.

"Got a bad feeling about this, Professor," he said. "When expeditions just up and go missing without leaving a clue, that usually means that something took 'em."

"You do seem to be terribly unlucky," I said. "What do you think is the nature of that 'Something', if I may ask?"

"Could be anything, anything," said the Captain. "I could tell you tales to freeze the blood in your veins."

"So could the esteemed Mr. Edgar Allen Poe," I said. "I have no use for guesses, I need data. Something to inform the choices I will have to make. What, in your opinion, happened to them?"

Captain Gaskin laughed, revealing bright polished teeth. "You will not guess, Professor, but you're asking me to? I cannot possibly say. You've seen the photographs, haven't you? And the inexplicable features on them?"

"I have, captain," I said. "I assume you mean the veils of smoke or some such, that can be seen on them."

"Yes, Professor," said Gaskin. "I think those shades may have some bearing upon the final fate of the expedition. The natives tell many stories. Stories of... other worlds, that their spirits could pass into, sometimes bringing back artifacts made of a metal that is not of this Earth."

I have to admit that this kind of drivel weighs heavily upon my patience. Ever since the honoured professor Mendeleev formulated his periodic table of the elements, there has been no such thing as an unknown element. Unseen, perhaps, or undiscovered, but the properties of all elements, we now know, are governed wholely by the weight and count of their particles. Some of my scepticism must have been written on my face. Captain Gaskin rose from his chair, and paced up and down his cabin.

"You don't believe me, Professor? Do you think that the whole of Creation can be captured in neat formulae and mathematical equations? I have seen things, Professor, that I dare you to explain. Things that would drive you insane if you saw them."

"Nonsense. If Science teaches us one thing, it is that Nature can only follow the laws set out from the beginning. For unexplained, seemingly inexplicable phenomena, the only correct emotion is one of joy, for if there were none, we would have finished the great book that lies before us, and weep as Alexander the Great did, seeing there were no more lands to conquer."

"That time will not come in our days, Professor," said Captain Gaskin. "The mysteries of Creation will outlive us all. But be that as it may. Our local people haven't found a trace of Hammond's doings. Professor Hammond would not simply walk off without leaving any clue as to where he was going, so I must assume that these photographs are just that. Have you studied them in detail?"

"I have, Captain," I said. "I can find no such clue. It will therefore be necessary to go to the locus and obtain more information. But tell me, Captain. Why do you come to us with this request? Surely, one of the London universities could serve you equally well?"

The Captain walked to the porthole and looked out, cigar all but forgotten in his hand behind him. The smoke slowly rose up. He looked over his shoulder.

"You'd say that, wouldn't you? All the London universities are better funded than you are, have more resources, so why come to the small university named after Charles Algernon Parsons?" The captain turned round, and looked at me, eyes filled with an angry light. "God-damned conflict of interest, that's what. All these fine folk in this great nation's capital are looking into the same things that we are. For all we know, they are responsible for the disappearance of Professor Hammond and his expedition. In short, we can't trust them. So we cast our net further abroad, and we have found nobody who has the jungle experience necessary to pull off an earnest search. Nobody except you, Professor. Perhaps, with a month's time, I could find someone else to go find Hammond, but we don't have that time. To put it bluntly, Professor, if you can't help us, Hammond is as good as dead. Will you help us?"

I positively detest being put on the block like this, especially if the reason for it is in-fighting and the unhealthy politics of competing universities. But such conviction was in the Captain's eyes that I could not ignore this request and sleep at night. A fellow scientist was in trouble. I was determined to prove to this man that not all British universities put their petty competitions before the lives and well-being of people dedicated ultimately to the same goal. I could no more have refused him than I could have refused to breathe the air. What a fool I was. I should have known better. Still, what is done, is done, and we can only learn from our mistakes after we make them. I rose to my feet and held out my hand to the Captain.

"Since there are no others who will," I said, "Algernon University will accept this task. Our masters can work out any issues of funding."

"The dirigible Boreas is at your disposal, Professor. I look forward to proving you wrong regarding the mysteries of this world, and others."

A simple matter of energy

Miss Alexandra Tennant - The lost brother - No place for a lady - The guest lecture - The gentle giant - The Beast of Algernon

 

Essential things to bring on a jungle expedition: Never walk into any survival situation without a means to produce fire. A flint and steel will work even when wet, and never run out, unlike sulphurous matches. A good strong knife, it goes without saying, is essential. Bring two sets of clothing, one dry set for sleeping, one wet for walking, and use them only for their designated purposes. A lady's feet being essential in getting her out of all kinds of trouble, invest in good running and climbing boots. If you must bring a man, make sure he has a generous amount of flesh on his bones and cannot run quite as fast as you can.

 

-- The young lady's adventuring guide, by A. L. Tennant.

 
As soon as I walked into Professor Wadcroft's office, I knew it had been a mistake to dress for the occasion in a blue dress with matching gloves and parasol. I was wearing the one corset I own, to be worn for convention's sake on occasions where diplomacy rather than action is called for. Carl refers to this as "disguising myself as a girl". You could almost see the old dinosaur's intelligence leaking from his skull, to be replaced with an unctuous, condescending manner. While I'm usually quite able to dispel any worries anyone might have as to my competence, I cannot do that wearing these self-inflicted torture devices. At least I was not wearing one of those ridiculous small hats that are all the rage these days. Why a lady of any intelligence would allow such a thing on her head is a mystery to me. The Gazette is suspiciously quiet on the subject.

I had presented my calling card to the porter, and the Professor made a show of studying it, then looking at me over the rim of his glasses.

"Miss Alexandra L. Tennant, I presume?"

"Yes, Professor. How do you do?"

"How do you do. How may I help you?"

I took a deep breath. Carl's very life might depend on whether I'd be able to persuade the professor to let me join him on his expedition. This was not a moment for pride.

"Sir, it has come to my attention that you are preparing an expedition into Africa, to search for the lost expedition of Professor James Hammond of Miskatonic University."

"Indeed I am, young lady," said Wadcroft. "Indeed I am. Why should this interest you?"

"My brother, Carl Tennant, is a member of Professor Hammond's expedition. He has disappeared with the others, and I must find him. To this end, I would request that you let me join your search."

Wadcroft's eyebrows made an honest bid for freedom, and only habit caused them to stay attached to his face.

"Miss Tennant, that is quite out of the question. We will be travelling to darkest Africa! We will be in constant danger, from the natives as well as from the harsh climate itself. This expedition is no place for a lady."

"Professor, I am fully aware of this. Carl and I have often accompanied our father, Lord Tennant, on his expeditions, since we were barely ten years old. I am familiar with the climate and circumstances of the African deserts and jungles. I assure you, I will be a useful addition to your expedition."

"I am sorry, Miss Tennant. We simply cannot afford to take you with us, simply as a cook. Every member of our expedition has specific knowledge, specific experience, essential to our very survival. To bring an unknown quantity such as yourself into the group would endanger us all."

The tribes that live in the deserts of Egypt, near the River Nile, have an interesting meditational technique that allows them to regulate their breathing under all circumstances. Upon learning of it, my father insisted that Carl and I familiarise ourselves with it. That day, it served me well, as I was angry enough to scream at the old fart, but by sheer force of will I prevented myself from doing that.

"That is good, Professor, since I have never been a cook. You have seen my calling card. Did you note, by any chance, the crosshair pattern on the shield?"

"I did, Miss Tennant. That sign is normally used by marksmen, or sharp shooters, as they prefer to be called. A family crest, I assume?"

"We prefer the term 'sniper', Professor. It is not a family crest, it is my own. I was third in my class when I qualified to use it. I am also a qualified mountain guide, ship's carpenter, navigator, and stevedore. I have accompanied my father on seven expeditions along the coast of Africa, at times venturing inlands for several months at a time. I daresay you will find I can handle myself in a jungle. I can also make myself understood to some extent in a half-dozen or so African languages. If it pleases you, Professor, I am at your service."

I turned down my eyes, looking at my hands folded in my lap, waiting for the Professor to overcome his prejudice. I could feel his eyes on me. How could such a pretty young thing be a hardened traveller?

There was a knock on the door, and someone opened it. A large woman walked in, holding a wooden board with many pieces of paper clipped to it.

"Get your signing hand warmed up, Wadcroft," she said. "It's going to be a long day for it... oh pardon me. I didn't realise you had company."

I got up, and looked at the woman. Evidently, Professor Wadcroft did not consider her to be a lady, as she was dressed in a jungle outfit, complete with a revolver at her side. I would probably have done well to accessorise in a similar fashion.

"Ah, Margaret," said Wadcroft. "Yes I do, but I think we have nearly finished our business. Professor Margaret Enderby? Miss Alexandra Tennant."

Prof. Enderby and I shook hands, and exchanged polite how do you do's. She held my hand a moment longer, frowning.

"Tennant... Tennant..." A look of recollection passed over her face. "You are Philip's little girl? Oh my, how you've grown! How is the old codger? Did he find the lost city of, um, Hooptyfloop?"

"Hnctplep, Ma'am," I said. "Yes, he did. Unfortunately he fell into the ruins five years ago and is presumed dead. His guides refused to enter the city to recover his body."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, my dear. Are you joining our little stroll, then? Wadcroft must have pulled a few strings to get you."

"I came on my own initiative, Ma'am. Carl is with the Hammond expedition."

"Splendid!" Professor Enderby patted my hand in an overly familiar fashion. "I'll get you the waivers and the disclaimers that mean if you die it's your own damn fault, and we can get this trip on the road."

"Now wait a minute, Margaret!" Wadcroft rose to his feet. "I hadn't agreed to take Miss Tennant."

"Don't be an arse, Wadcroft," said Enderby. "You don't 'take' an adventurer of Miss Tennant's calibre, you politely ask her to join you, and pay her what she asks for."

"My motives are not financial, Professor Enderby," I said. "I am only looking for my brother, dead or alive."

"Hah!" Enderby raised her hands in the air, pointed at Wadcroft. "You don't recognise talent when it falls into your lap, and you," she pointed at me with a stabbing finger. "You don't pick up some extra money when you can. I am surrounded by idiots!"

 

---

 
I spent the afternoon in a Simoom of paperwork, maps, and preparations. I didn't mind, because I would be going to Africa after all. I would find my brother Carl, dead or alive. I signed away my rights to complain if I happened to be left stranded in the desert, I signed away my rights to sue if I died of an impressively long list of tropical diseases, several of which I am sure only affect livestock. I pledged my loyalty to the Expedition Leader and acknowledged that his or her word would be final in any decision. I agreed that my share in any proceeds would go to the University. In short, with Carl looking over my shoulder and shaking his head, I became a slave to Algernon University in all but name. For the term of this expedition, not for life, I hasten to add, though considering where we were going, the difference might turn out to be academic. When finally there was no dotted line to be found that did not have my name on it, I dropped the paperwork on Prof. Wadcroft's desk. Then I accosted a passing student in the hallway, who allowed me the use of her dorm room to change into a more practical outfit. Every time I take off that damned corset I swear I'll burn it, and yet I never do.

This dorm room was like any other I've ever been in. Bunk beds, stone floor, cold in winter, hot in summer, simultaneously Hell on Earth and a Heaven of promises. It had a beautiful, large, solid mahogany table, so I took the opportunity to lay out all my personal equipment for the expedition. Three khaki outfits for use in desert or jungle, small supply of quinine, medicine to regulate the stools, plasters and bandages, light-weight parang style machete, climbing gear, all-environment suit, and so on. Finally, with the girl looking on wide-eyed, I opened the case of my main weapon, a heavily customised Mauser SR-220, nicknamed "Fräulein". It used to belong to a friend of my brother's, who had a very slight build. It came with Mauser's superb range and accuracy, and most of the customisations made it more transportable and easier to use. I checked it for dirt, assembled it.

"Miss?" The girl who'd shown me the dorm hesitated. "Is that... allowed?"

"Almost certainly not," I said. "Rules are for the obedience of fools, and the guidance of the wise."

"Are you in trouble?"

I looked at her, blonde plaits, ugly school uniform, and a worried look on a rather plain face, and still I imagined a glimmer of something else. Interest. Fascination. I walked over to the window and opened it. Then, I put a round in the magazine, clicked it in.

"When you're a sniper, you don't hang out of the window. You may as well paint a target on your chest and wave flags. You hide inside, like so."

I grabbed the pillows off two beds, put them at the foot end and rested my rifle on them.

"Come up here."

"Miss?"

"Nobody will ever know. Come. Lie down. Hold the rifle, look through the scope."

I put the girl's hand on the grip, finger on the trigger guard.

"This is a hair trigger. The rifle will fire if you so much as think of pressing it. That's why you put your finger there. Never move it until you are ready to kill."

I could hear the girl's breath, wavering. With a noise that sounded much louder than it really was, I pulled back the bolt and chambered the round. Then I took the safety off.

"Careful now. It's ready to fire."

"Miss? I'd prefer it if this thing weren't loaded."

My face was next to the girl's. She was only half a head shorter than I, and my rifle was exactly the right size for her. Her cheek was resting against the stock in exactly the same way mine normally was. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "There is no such thing as an unloaded weapon. All weapons, by definition, are loaded. That rule prevents accidents. Now look, and tell me what you see."

"People," said the girl. "Walking about."

"Do you see the man on the bench, smoking a pipe, reading a book?"

"Yes."

I saw the rifle move slightly as she aimed for him. I turned the dial to enlarge the image. "Put the crosshair between his eyes. Don't move your finger."

The girl was breathing too quickly for a good shot. I watched her wet her lips, concentrate. She'd be able to see the man breathe in the smoke from his pipe, blow it out, blink.

"That man now lives only by your leave. The power to end his life is in your finger. There is nothing he can do to stop you. Nothing at all. All you need to do is move your finger. He will be dead, and you will be a murderer."

"I... I don't want to."

"Good. It's easy to obey a rule that you couldn't break even if you wanted to. To obey a rule that you could break, without being found out, with the greatest of ease, to obey it because you find the rule good, that is the essence of being good."

I put the safety on, helped the girl down from the bed, unchambered the round, and disassembled my rifle. I put the parts back in their place in the chestnut wood case lined with dark blue velvet. The girl looked out of the window. The man knocked his pipe against the arm rest, put a bookmark in his book and walked away.

"Miss?"

"Yes?"

"That gun wasn't really ready to fire, was it?"

"It most certainly was."

"But if I'd tried to pull the trigger, you'd have stopped me, right?"

"No. I couldn't have."

"But you'd have knocked away the gun wouldn't you?"

"Rifle. And no. By doing that, I would merely have risked killing someone else. Imprecision is the cardinal sin for snipers."

"So..."

The girl's face was a sight to see, incredulity slowly melting away, the reality of the experience slowly asserting itself. The recognition of the power that had been in her hands only a moment ago. The look in her eyes changed, and an inward, unconscious smile was on her lips.

"I really could have killed him."

"Yes."

The girl looked into my eyes, searching.

"How many people have you killed?"

There is something in the eyes that changes after you take the life of another Human being. She had obviously noticed it. There were hopes for this girl.

"Eight. Ask a soldier, and he'll have to guess. We snipers know exactly. I have also not killed people, though I could have. Like you did just now. That is as much part of a sniper's work as killing is."

I packed my belongings in my trunk, clothes, equipment, pretty dress, potential death.

"Thank you for letting me change here," I said.

"Thank you for..." The girl laughed to herself, then looked up at me. "Thank you."

 

---

 
I walked into the hall, dragging my luggage, and Professor Enderby hailed me from the other side.

"Tally ho, Miss Tennant. Drop your things on the pile and follow me. We're going to pick up some special equipment."

I dropped my trunk in front of a functionary, who stuck an Algernon University label on it, marked it "Miss Alexandra Tennant, personal", and had a pair of University slaves put it on the stack marked Wadcroft Expedition as I signed for it. As we walked down a flight of stairs, we were joined by Professor Wadcroft.

"Ah. Miss Tennant," said Wadcroft. "We are going to meet someone. Before we do, please keep in mind that he is a little... odd. Most ladies find him somewhat intimidating, but I assure you he is the gentlest soul in the world."

We came to a door made out of steel, when most doors in the University were made of dark oak. Wadcroft turned the wheel in the middle, and opened it. A blast of noise greeted us, metal grinding on metal. A metallic smell was in the air. We were in a large hall, dimly lit by gas lights. It was filled with large machines made out of steel, like the very abode of Hephaestos. In front of one of the machines stood a giant. His arms looked as thick as my waist, albeit with corset, and he was wearing a safety mask and an apron. With infinite concentration, he was holding a piece of metal against a grinding wheel. A fountain of sparks hit the man's apron and his bare arms, but he did not seem to notice.

Wadcroft reached out and pulled a chain hanging from the ceiling next to the door. A bright flash of light illuminated the scene for a splintered moment. The giant took the piece of metal away from the wheel, then looked round at us. He put the metal bar on a work table next to the others, then raised his mask, revealing a thick beard and deep dark eyes. He walked towards us, looked at Wadcroft alone.

"Professor."

"Good day, Andrew, how are you doing?"

"Grinding the struts for a lifting platform," said the giant. "They have to fit at a thirty-degree angle and still support the whole. I over-dimensioned them by a factor of five."

"Very good, Andrew," said Wadcroft. "You've met Professor Enderby, haven't you?"

The giant turned his eyes to Professor Enderby without a word, then back to Wadcroft. Wadcroft pointed a hand at me.

"Let me introduce you to Miss Alexandra Tennant. Miss Tennant, please meet Andrew Parsons, the grandson of the famous Charles Algernon Parsons, after whom our University is named."

Despite the brute's appearance, I gave him a friendly smile, and held out my hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Parsons."

The man looked at my hand. Then, his gaze slowly went from my feet, up to my head. He made no attempt to take my hand. When he spoke, his voice was deep, as he rattled off a list of measurements.

"One hundred and seventy-four. Shoulders thirty-three. Hips thirty-five. Legs eighty-seven. Approximate weight..."

"Yes thank you Andrew," said Enderby. "The metric system is bad enough as it is. No need to apply it to guests."

The massive man bowed his head. "Yes, Professor."

While I cannot claim any great beauty, my proportions have been observed before, if not with as much precision. Those observers, though, were evidently hoping that I might invite them to study more closely. Nothing in this huge man's bearing betrayed any such intentions.

Enderby looked at me. "Don't let Andrew worry you, Miss Tennant. He is only remembering your sizes so he can fix you up with body armour, or fit you inside one of his contraptions."

"Indeed," said Wadcroft. "Andrew, please stop measuring up our guests, and apologise to Miss Tennant."

Andrew bowed his head, took off his glove and held his hand out to me. "I am sorry, Miss Tennant."

My hand disappeared in his, and he held it as if it were a piece of porcelain, which I suppose it might well be given his obvious strength. He would not meet my gaze. It seemed to me that the phrase 'I am sorry' had no meaning to him at all, but merely were words to say when someone was hurt or offended around him.

"Excellent," said Wadcroft. "Andrew, we are here because we need one of your devices. We need the Beast of Algernon."

"Yes, Professor," said Andrew. He turned round without another word, and walked over to a large set of double doors. He pushed them open and turned on the lights. In the middle of the room stood a monstrous creation of black metal, as large as a crofter's cottage. It looked like some sort of vehicle, but it had no wheels. Instead it ran on rails like a locomotive, but the rails were attached to the machine itself, so that it would lay a track for itself, then pick it up again once it had passed. At the top were three smoke-stacks. I looked at Andrew. His hand was on one of the rail tracks, and his eyes were glowing with something nearing love.

Wadcroft looked at me, and held out a hand to the vehicle. "Miss Tennant? This is the Beast of Algernon. This is our transport for the expedition."

Enderby looked round the room, frowning, as if something was bothering her.

"Wadcroft?"

"Yes?"

"How are we going to get it out?"

 

Airship to Egypt

Unleashing the Beast - Departure - A most vexing gentleman - Unscheduled disembarkation - Arrive on foot, leave on horseback

 

To tell you the truth, I never believed poor Gerald until he showed me a specimen of his first cryptid. It was a juvenile coatl, with a beautiful yellow plumage. The poor thing had run into one of the dirigible's propellers. Unfortunately, the state of the specimen was such that when Gerald brought it home, it was disdainfully dismissed as a fake, which is all too common to happen to a cryptozoologist. With so little data, pursuing the scientific method is an almost impossible task, and many cryptozoologists end up being brought low by alcohol. I suppose in that respect Gerald's fate was a good one, as nobody could deny that the bodies I brought home were a thoroughly exsanguinated husband and a somewhat perforated chupacabra.

 

-- Proving the negative wrong, by Prof. Margaret Enderby

 
When Andrew Parsons first produced the blueprints to his amazing vehicle, most engineers considered it a pipe dream, 'pipe' referring to the pipes used first by the Chinese to smoke the hallucinogenic substances introduced by the English in the Opium Wars as a way to weaken the Chinese Empire that was cheaper than actual warfare. Fortunately, as Andrew was our founder's grandson, and could make the parts using nothing but his bare hands, the faculty didn't complain too much. The obnoxious gits could crow to the Gazette that the grandson of Charles Algernon Parsons was working hard on the University's projects. As long as the sponsors would support him, they didn't care whether it was a better mousetrap or a clockwork man capable of destroying Mankind. As it turned out, it was neither. The Beast of Algernon was quite simply the best form of land transport ever made. It could travel on dry land, mud, ice, and on one occasion, a river. It was first used in our expedition searching for a batty bunch of American scientists who had managed to lose themselves in Africa.

Andrew, bless him, had never even stoked up its furnace until the day that Wadcroft came up with the wonderful idea to give the thing a bit of a spin. Andrew had made his calculations. They were sound. The machine would work. Another little thing that had escaped Andrew was that, having brought it in piece by piece, it would not fit through the doors. Or maybe Andrew never intended it to leave his workshop. It was there for no other reason than to be itself.

Fortunately, getting the Beast out of its lair was quite easy. Its impressive armour and its powerful steam turbines allowed it to exit with ease, door or no door. Fortunately, none of the walls through which it made its escape were load-bearing, and the repair crews, with an eye to the future, installed a very practical set of hangar doors in their place.

 

---

 
"So, Andrew," said Wadcroft, "How does one drive this machine?"

The Beast had come to a standstill in one of the fields surrounding the University. At that time, it was used by the Chair of Homoeopathy, and the Beast had rolled over most of their cultures of things that looked like diseases. Luckily, since their medicines' potency increases, the less of the original substance is in them, that did not matter much.

"By operating the controls," said Andrew.

For sheer thinking power, I can't imagine anyone being smarter than Andrew. There's a few mathematicians that could give him a run for his money, but to give you an idea, there is only one blueprint of the Beast. Andrew made it because they go with machines, nd as everything was correct, he didn't need to revise it. It's in one of the University vaults, and Andrew never even looks at it. Within Andrew's head, there is another Beast, and he can recall every single rivet on it. As long as he works on his own, that's not a problem. But as soon as he has to explain something, he's hopeless. It isn't that he won't answer. I've seen plenty of so-called scientists who'll sit on their inventions, claiming that nobody would understand it, normally hiding the fact that they're rubbish. But not Andrew. You can ask him anything, and he'll answer your question exactly. And that's the problem that was staring Wadcroft in the face.

"Yes, I understand that, but could you tell me what all these controls do?"

"Yes," said Andrew. He pointed at two massive handles next to his seat. "These handles set the ratio between the revolutions of the turbines and the movement of the tracks. Steam pressure is regulated with these controls. This dial regulates the power differential between turbine one and two. This set of controls sets the timing between the various strokes of the secondary propulsion units..."

Wadcroft's face was a picture, and I had to try hard not to burst out laughing. He was trying with all his might to remember what Andrew told him. He pointed at a large ring pull hanging from the ceiling.

"What does that one do?"

"It raises awareness of the vehicle's position."

"I see," said Wadcroft. He paused a moment. "How?"

Andrew reached up and pulled the ring. A very, very loud whistle blew, raising even the History students from their eternal slumber. Wadcroft gave Andrew a blank stare.

"The steam whistle."

"Yes, Professor."

Wadcroft looked at Andrew, who looked back at him with the calm expression he always has on his face, simply waiting for the next question, completely oblivious to the look in Wadcroft's eyes, which was one of weary patience, born from the knowledge that getting angry with Andrew was no use at all.

"How long would it take someone to learn how to drive this thing?"

Andrew's eyebrows knotted up in a deep frown. Underneath his beard his lips were moving. He nodded to himself.

"I can describe all the controls on the vehicle in eighteen minutes and thirty seconds."

Wadcroft took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. I stepped forward. Time for a bit of the woman's touch. "Andrew, is there anyone but you who knows how to drive this Beast?"

"I have not explained it to anyone," said Andrew.

"Right. Would you like to join us on our expedition? Drive your Beast for us?"

"No, Professor Enderby. I would much prefer to stay in my workshop. I have many projects."

"But this would allow you to see if your machine actually works!"

"I already know that," said Andrew. "I have checked all my calculations."

"Twice?" I said.

"No. Once."

"Then how can you be sure that you checked them properly?"

"The numbers on the first calculation were identical to those on the second calculation."

"But..." Here I felt Wadcroft's hand on my shoulder.

"Andrew, you are on the expedition. Please go and pack the things you'll need. Ask Miss Felicia to help you pack."

"As you wish, Professor." Andrew turned a few valves and the machine felt like it was resting. He climbed out of the hatch and walked through the holes in the wall.

"Well," I said, "It never hurts to have another pair of strong hands."

 

---

 
That afternoon, the dirigible Boreas made its appearance above the bell tower of Algernon university. Captain Gaskin had been given to understand that we would be packing some twenty-two metric tons of equipment. After some quick conversations with his navigator, he had told us that Boreas was up to the job, with the proviso that once the Beast was unloaded, Boreas would go up like a cork, and not come down again until adjustments could be made. This meant that we would travel the last few yards inside the Beast, in a vertical direction. This was put to Andrew, who made some mental calculations, then gave a brief nod.

There is something almost magical about a dirigible, the way such an enormous object simply hangs in the air, without anything to support it. We humans are conditioned to equate "Large" with "Heavy", and air, being invisible, we think to be lighter than anything. It takes a bit of mental gymnastics to realise that air is actually pretty damn heavy, and that a hydrogen-filled airship is, by volume, lighter than the air it floats in. I can easily explain the calculations to a classroom of students, but something in the ancestral hunter-gatherer hindbrain will still think that this is impossible. Part of any observer that afternoon simply knew that the massive object above Algernon University's bell tower would crash to the ground, taking out most of the buildings. With most of its envelopes pumped empty, the Boreas had a slightly hungry look as it lowered itself to the field where the Beast waited. Cables dropped down from Boreas' cargo bay, were attached to the Beast, and then Boreas settled on top of it like a hen on an egg. With a hiss of gas through the pipes, hydrogen was let into the envelopes, an additional few tons of ballast were released, and Boreas rose slowly into the air, held in place only by a pair of heavy manila cables, some ten feet above ground. We all climbed up the ladder, and more hydrogen was pumped into the envelopes. Boreas' propellers started to turn, and majestically, a one-hundred and twenty yards long flying machine pivoted on the spot, aiming to the South-east. Boreas' steam engines roared, and at a good speed of fifty knots, with a favourable tail-wind, we set off for Africa.

 
The dirigible Boreas, named after the Greek god of the North Wind, was purpose-built by Miskatonic University for supporting scientific expeditions in inhospitable places. It had room on board for about two dozen scientists, as many aeronauts, and a lot of their gear. Like all dirigibles, it looked like a giant floating cigar. I'm still waiting for one that uses red lights to make one end glow now and then, but the engineers who build these things are a dry, humourless bunch of gits who wouldn't see the point. Or perhaps the mere idea of the thing being on fire gives them the shudders. I suppose, with hydrogen being the most flammable gas in existence, they have a point there. There were compartments inside the hull as well: A modest infirmary, a records chamber, a few storerooms, an arsenal, and the galley. All the cooking equipment was fitted out to use steam produced by the steam engine that powered the main propeller. From the central space, claustrophobically small tubes led to the wing gondolas, and I pitied the poor sods who had to crawl through those tubes to keep the drive shafts greased.

Due to the danger in allowing open flames near a massive ball of hydrogen, smoking was not allowed anywhere on board, much to Wadcroft's annoyance, and all the gas lamps on board were a variation on the design of Davy's mining lamp. We were led to our cabins for the trip. I shared mine with young Miss Tennant, Wadcroft shared with Andrew. Once we'd settled in, and metaphorically powdered our noses, we went to the mess for a late dinner of sandwiches and soup, and then Miss Tennant and I grabbed gin-and-tonics (quinine being essential to jungle survival, you know, and gin being essential to enjoying life), sat down in comfortable seats, and looked out of the windows at the English Channel. We were travelling at an altitude of a few thousand feet, and we could see several ships, small as a child's toy. Wadcroft was having a vitally important discussion with the captain, and Andrew was admiring one of the engines, and probably redesigning it on the spot.

As we were following the ships far below, we were joined by an American gentleman, who greeted us with a polite smile and a nod of the head.

"Good evening ladies," he said. "I assume you are Professor Enderby and miss Alexandra Tennant?"

"You have the advantage of me, Sir," I said.

"I tend to," said the man. "Have the advantage of people, I mean. That is why I am on board this expedition. I am in acquisition and procurement."

Miss Tennant's cool eyes turned to me. "He looks like a James to me. A good solid name. Biblical. The third Apostle of Jesus after Peter and Andrew." She looked back to the sea and sipped her drink. "He got his head cut off by King Herod."

"Forgive me my rudeness," said the man. "By an amazing coincidence, you are right. My name is James Riley. I'm an attache to Miskatonic University. If there's anything you ladies want, I can probably get it for you."

"At a price?" said Miss Tennant.

"Of course not," said Riley. He walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a Bourbon. "You are doing our University a great service. We may be many things, but stingy we ain't. Whatever I can get for you, is yours."

"And what sort of things can you get for us, Mr. Riley?" I said.

Riley raised his glass first to me, then to Miss Tennant. "Anything, Professor. Anything at all. Given the circumstances, I very much doubt any request of mine would be turned down. Oranges from China. Finest silks. The latest fashions straight from Paris." Riley grinned at Miss Tennant. "The best sniper rifle money can buy."

"I already have that," said Miss Tennant. "Father did not hold with using second-rate equipment."

"I could get you the Remington 900P," said Riley. "I know someone in the Khartoum regiment who used to use it before they promoted him away to a desk job."

"I have tried it," said Miss Tennant. "It is almost a pound heavier than my current rifle and only has fifty yards more range. It's also the ugliest rifle I've ever laid eyes on."

"As for me," I said, "Haven't needed any fancy knickers since poor Gerald got it. Come to think of it, didn't have much use for them when he was still alive either. Can't think of anyone I'd show them to."

"Ah," said Riley. "But showing them is not the point. I can tell when a lady has nice underwear on, even if she's dressed from top to toe. She knows she is wearing it, and that shows in her confidence."

"Pray tell," said Miss Tennant, ice in a voice that hadn't been overly friendly to begin with. "What am I wearing under these clothes?"

Riley bent forward, and made a show of slowly examining Miss Tennant.

"Practical underwear. No frills. You don't need to prop up your confidence, Ma'am. You have your Mauser rifle, and the skills to use it. You know in the back of your head that if anyone don't give the proper respect, you can put a bullet through their brain." He grinned. "Am I right?"

Miss Tennant leaned back in her chair, smiling, eyes closed, as if Mr. James Riley of Miskatonic University had just disappeared like a ghost.

"You are half right."

 

---

 
There's only so much to see about the English Channel rolling away underneath you, and once it gets dark, even with the moonlight, it gets old pretty quickly. So Miss Tennant and I made our excuses and retired. Our cabin was small, but comfortable. For all we knew we could be on one of those sleeper trains that the Europeans like so much. It had a tiny wash basin with a mirror. The place was lit, like every place on board, with tiny bright gas lights. We changed into our pyjamas, and got ready for the night. As I stepped into bed with my worn-out copy of Ulysses, the lower bed as was the privilege of the eldest, Miss Tennant bent down and touched her toes. Then, she planted her hands firmly on the floor and raised her feet into the air. She lowered herself until her forehead touched the carpet, then pushed herself up again.

"Showoff."

Miss Tennant laughed. "Mother always said that there is something very wrong with a girl who can't at least touch her toes."

She lowered herself again, and without any hint that what she was doing might be difficult, pushed herself up again.

"I can't even see my toes," I said. "Not with my generous personality in the way."

Miss Tennant snorted with laughter, but disappointingly didn't collapse in a little heap. She kept up her acrobatics in a steady rhythm. I put down my book.

"You knew that man's name didn't you?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Read it on the log when I signed in," said Miss Tennant. She kept up her press-ups. "He was the last name on the list before ours."

"You don't like him, do you?"

Miss Tennant lowered herself, pushed herself up again, and said nothing. Her expression was cool, her emotions hidden away. To tell you the truth, I had doubts of my own about Mr. James Riley. I'd met men like him, in remote corners of the world, before I met Gerald. They would give you things, out of the kindness of their own hearts, and ask for nothing in return. Bollocks, I say! They might not ask for anything now, but once you'd come to rely on their generosity, they damn well would. Would you tell them to get stuffed if it meant having to wait in some Godless place for a week? Having to go hungry for a few days? Not knowing how you were going to get back to civilised places? Thank God I've never had to find out what would have bought me. But everybody has their limits. Miss Alexandra Tennant was clearly nothing if not fiercely independent, and it would take more than a nice rifle and a few well-crafted compliments to take that away from her.

She continued her exercises. The legs of her pyjamas had slid down, and I could see strong calf muscles, and a skin marked by many tiny scars, presumably from walking through thorny bushes, and older ones where she'd pulled off leeches before she'd learnt simply to let them finish and drop off. She showed no sign of stopping, and since I wouldn't get a wink until she did, I decided I might as well take some air.

"There isn't a lavatory in here, is there?"

Miss Tennant pointed her toe at the door. "It's at the end of the corridor."

"Good. I'll go and tell the French what I think of them."

"We are still over the Channel," Miss Tennant pointed out.

"Well, then they'll have to do without my opinion, can't hold it up just for their benefit. Pardon me?"

Miss Tennant flipped to her feet, then flipped over again and resumed her press-ups. I shook my head at her and and walked into the corridor. Of course, I walked the wrong way first, not towards the bow, but astern, where the Beast of Algernon was hanging, securely fastened with steel chains. The cargo hatch had been left open because the Beast didn't quite fit the cargo bay. If I really had wanted to relieve myself upon the French, then this would have been the place for it, but the last Anglo-French war was ages ago, and we've forgiven them for it, leaving only the crime of being French, which I'm afraid is unforgivable.

 
I opened the heavy door, to have a look at the machine that would be our home away from home for several months, like the carts of the Romani travelling people. A wise explorer does not call them Gypsies, because although there are several groups among them who use the term themselves, it's an exonym used mostly by the English, and not always in a friendly way. As I opened the heavy steel door, a blast of wind greeted me. The dark shape hung with its tracks in the air. I half imagined I could hear noises coming from within. Probably Andrew had found a new way to improve the efficiency of the steam turbines by a few more percent, and was making much needed changes. I stepped round to the gangplank the airmen had put up to it, to have a talk with him. Andrew is one of those people whose sheer genius with all things metal has come at the price of being completely unable to work with people. He can look at a face, and be totally oblivious as to whether the person is happy or sad. He does not understand the concept of wishing people harm, which, given his size, is a blessing.

I walked up the gangplank, and looked down. I simply had to laugh, as Andrew was on one of the bunk beds, fast asleep, snoring with a noise rivalling that of the engines.

"Bless you, Andrew," I said, and turned round.

I stopped dead. I definitely remembered hearing metallic noises. Andrew, despite appearances, is not made of metal. What, then, had been the noise? I closed my eyes, listening. My eyes opened wide. There it was again! Someone was banging bits of metal together. I looked in the direction of the sound, and saw a dark figure at one of the chains, with a hammer and chisel, no doubt planning to drop our vehicle into the Channel. He either didn't know or didn't care that Andrew was on board. Well, I wasn't about to let some bastard get away with that. I ran down the gangplank, too stoked to worry about the sheer drop below, and ran round the Beast, towards the chain.

"Hey you!" I shouted, "Stop that you bastard, there's someone in there!"

The man, a shifty little so-and-so, looked up, and saw me barreling down on him. I probably outweighed him two to one, so he decided to continue his evening somewhere else. He dropped his tools and ran the other way round the Beast.

"Andrew!"

Andrew had already woken up from my yelling. I do have a healthy pair of lungs if I say so myself. His head appeared out of the hatch, and he jumped up and walked down the gangplank. Our little metalworker friend was now caught between me and Andrew, who was looking at him with a confused frown on his face. There was only one way for the little man to go, and he took it. He took as much of a run-up as he could, and leaped on top of the Beast. At least, that was the plan. He misjudged his jump, scrabbled frantically at the smooth armour plate for purchase, slid down, and fell into the night with a scream I would rather not remember. Andrew and I looked down. There was nothing to see, and the wind thankfully made it impossible to hear.

"Good God," I said. "I just wanted to talk to the bugger. I didn't want him to die."

"He is alive, Professor."

"What?"

"We are travelling at an altitude of one thousand metres. It will take him twenty seconds to reach the sea."

I stared blankly at Andrew.

He gave a little nod. "Now, he is dead."

 

---

 
Captain Gaskin, as soon as he heard the news, called all hands on deck, and went through the entire roll. As it happened, nobody was missing, and nobody was able to recognise the poor sod from my description. That wasn't surprising, as I'd only seen him for a few moments. Gaskin was not pleased, and paced back and forth in front of the men, before dismissing them with a handwave.

"A god-damned stowaway. On my airship, ladies and gentlemen. How the hell did that little rat get on board? Did you check that contraption of yours before getting it on board? Well did you?"

Andrew gave a severe nod. "I was on the vehicle when it was raised into the cargo hold. There was nobody inside, and I was on top."

Captain Gaskin walked up to Andrew. "Are you really damn sure about that? Is there no place in that thing where a man could hide?"

Andrew considered a moment. "The right-hand side toolbox is large enough for a man his size to hide in. But I took a wrench from it, and the man was not there. There are no other places large enough."

Gaskin made an angry noise, and started pacing again. "Then how did he get on board?"

"Perhaps a spirit took him," said Wadcroft. "It has been known to happen."

"Very funny, Professor. But I don't see any cause for humour. Somebody wants this expedition to fail, Professor. If he'd dropped that twenty two point five tons of metal of yours off the ship, do you realise what would have happened? We'd have gone up like a damned rocket, when we're already at high pressure altitude. The emergency exhausts cannot cope with a pressure differential that large. The envelopes would have ruptured, and we'd be in a cloud of hydrogen. We'd have had to shut down all the lights in seconds, Professor. If we hadn't, if only one damned light kept burning, we'd be a ball of flame three thousand feet above sea level. We'd all have burnt to death on the way down. I do not find that situation one in which humor is appropriate, Professor." Gaskin glared at us. "And who says there ain't no traitors left on board? Who knows who they are? No, ladies and gentlemen, I do not see the humorous side of this at all."

 

Port Said by night

Sidelong glances - Arrival at Port Said - A change in personnel - Gustav Klemm and the Jäger - Master of Strange Powers

 

I have shipped on the Boreas as directed, and met the Algernon University expedition members. First impressions. Prof. Wadcroft is a pompous oaf, Prof. Enderby looks like something out of a Wagner opera, our driver Mr. Parsons is a simpleton with a single intense interest in machinery and very little else. Miss Alexandra Tennant is a sniper, and I have not yet determined whether her rifle or that tongue of hers is more deadly. She is convinced I'm after her skinny butt. No thanks lady, I've seen a lot better. More willing to please, too.

 

We have found a saboteur on board, who saw fit to disembark before we could question him, and is at this moment swimming towards France. Gaskin vouches for all of his crew, but I haven't found a man yet who doesn't want to be very rich. If whoever is plotting against us can put suicidal maniacs on board of our very own Boreas, Hammond must be on to something. If I'm any judge, our usual crew of brave explorers aren't going to cut it, and we need some more firepower. I'll have to have a word with our people in Port Said for some proper soldiers. All in all, this mission has the makings of one great big God-awful mess. Somebody owes me for sending me on it.

 

-- James Riley's expedition report

 
There is no possession more glorious for a man than another human being. To be the owner of his thoughts, will, desire, and make them subject to your own, is the essence of being master. You elevate yourself to more than an ordinary human. I have made it my business to own as many people as I possibly can. Not in the sense of slavery, because that means having to house, feed and water them, and that is simply too much work. Give them the illusion of freedom, and they will take care of that themselves. Just know that when you speak, a man will give you all that he possesses, do what you tell him. To be a master of men or women, is to understand what it is that drives them. The Bible gives us the seven deadly sins. In my business, three of these are more useful than any. Greed, lust, and pride. A man will do almost anything for money, or the touch of some soft naked flesh. But if you can manipulate him into thinking that he is less of a man if he does not do what you tell him to, he will run over hot coal for you. And then of course, there is fear. What you can't do by paying them, getting them laid or suckering them into it, you can scare them into doing. Mr. Andrew Parsons has his toolbox. Wadcroft and Enderby have those brilliant minds of theirs. Miss Tennant has her sniper rifle and the knowledge that the world owes her a living. Me, I've got my collection of human vices and frailties.

 
The thing is, what I have, others have. Someone had managed to sneak someone on board Boreas to relieve us of twenty tons of metal. He couldn't have been on board from Cairo, so it must have been either London, or Ipswich. That means either Gaskin is right, and the damned Redcoats want to get a clean shot at whatever it is that Hammond discovered, or our own dear friends from Arkham are having a little in-fight.

There's nothing more poisonous to morale in an expedition than the notion that there are traitors among us. The thought that not everyone can be trusted. For a bunch of amateurs, leastways. Me, I've worked with so many traitors that I'm more surprised if someone doesn't try to double-cross me. There is of course the school of thought that you can trust no one, but in my experience, you can usually trust everyone. The trick is to find out what their motivations are. Once you know that, you can trust anyone to act in their own best interest.

All things considered, we had a quick flight to Port Said. The Brits were huddled together, whispering at each other and looking at passing sailors. Of course, I got some sidelong glances as well. Christ Almighty, what were they thinking? That spies have little horns on their heads that you can see if the wind blows just right? Spies and traitors are perfectly normal people. I've been a traitor a few times so I know. Hell, I slept with a few, and I can recommend it. There's something about wanting to know your secrets that really puts the fire in a woman's loins. Just remember to feed them some misinformation afterwards, or alternatively, kill them. Shooting someone you've just been in bed with is one of those things that you can't explain. You've got to do it to know what it's like. The look in her eyes, pissed off at herself that she didn't manage to fool you, realising that she doesn't have you in her hand, and the fear, knowing there's nothing she can do, and it's all over... no. Words just don't do it justice. Spies are fair game. Everyone knows it. And as long as I'm smarter than the fools I'm up against, I wouldn't have it any other way.

 

---

 
As soon as we put down cables at Port Said, I grabbed Wadcroft by his neck and took him to town, hoping to get a half-dozen or so hired guns. The man nearly swallowed his moustache, but I easily convinced him that it was essential to protect the ladies on the expedition. There's plenty of guns in Port Said. You have a wide range of choice for your fearless fighters. You can walk into the maze that is the slums, and get a bunch of highly capable Soldiers of Fortune who'll be happy to lay down your life for them, at the small cost of all your valuables. They're cheap, and they'll fight like devils if they can see the gleam of gold in front of them, but you need to really, sometimes literally, beat it into them that trying to cut your throat won't get them anything. On the other side of the coin, you can go to the authorities and ask them for help. This has a few interesting side effects. To begin with, they want diplomatic amounts of money. Second, you can be sure that everyone, up to and including the Eskimos, knows where you're going and what you're doing.

"Come now, Riley," said Wadcroft. "There's no need to go for riff-raff and cut-throats. We're on official University business. Last time I looked, we were still on good terms with the Egyptians."

"Did you return King Tut, then?" I said. "And offer to repair the Sphynx for them?"

"Those were the French," said Wadcroft. "No skin off our noses what happened there. And Tutankhamen is an immensely important figure in Egyptian history. If it hadn't been for Mr. Carter and his explorers, he would still be lying in a hole in the ground."

"I kind of think that's their point. He'd be in Egyptian soil, rather than out in the National History Museum in jolly old London. The Egyptians can be a tad Oedipean at times."

Wadcroft frowned, clearly thinking I was stupid. "I'm afraid I don't follow you, dear chap. Oedipus is Greek, I think you'll find."

"They love their mummies."

This was enough to have Wadcroft chuckling to himself all the way to a tavern I knew, where the barman knew someone who knew someone whose brother's cousin might just have some connection with someone with guns. We ordered some of the local horse piss and sat down somewhere out of the way.

"So explain this to me, Mr. Riley. Why is it better to have villains like these..." He nodded his head at one of the patrons, as far as I could tell an honest merchant of tapestries. "To protect us from the other undesirables?"

I took a slow deep breath. "Professor, we're here to look for a bunch of damned foreigners, who disappeared looking for something so world-shatteringly important that it's worth killing all of them for, and us into the bargain. If we go to the authorities, they'll be all over our asses all the time, keeping us from going where we want to, and then we'll be lucky to find even a few grains of sand out of Hammond's boots, never mind the minerals he was looking for. And we want any proceeds from Hammond's brave deeds to end up in Arkham if you don't mind. So I want to be the one giving the orders."

"So why go here? These people look like they would kill for a lot less than a scientific breakthrough of Earth-shattering proportions. That nice watch in your pocket, for example."

"I got that from my mother," I said. "Maternal bonds are sacred to the Egyptian. No, I'm looking for someone in particular. I've been told that he comes to this bar specially because they have Schnapps."

"Schnapps?" Wadcroft made a noise like a horse. "Are you trying to get a bloody Hun to join us?"

"Prussian, actually."

Wadcroft's face was a picture. I made a mental note to challenge him to a game of poker sometime. With his skill at hiding his tells, I'd be able to read every single one of his cards and take the shirt off his back.

"I can guarantee you that he won't have any call to rat us out to the authorities. He's a mite unpopular with them. God only knows how he's keeping them from sticking him up against the wall. But I'm counting on him having his wallet in the right place."

"So what is this Kraut's name, then?"

"His name," I said, "Is Gustav Klemm. Also known as the Butcher of some little town in the ass-end of Egypt, population zero. When the Prussians surrendered, they sort of forgot he was still here. Say about him what you like, but he's the best strategist you're likely to meet this side of the Mediterranean. And he's got no honour at all. As long as you pay him what he asks for, he's yours. That's why I like him. I don't trust patriots, I don't trust religious fanatics, I don't trust people with God-damn principles, but greed, that I trust."

There was the noise of footsteps behind me, and a voice spoke with a Teutonic accent. "You are quite right. Few things are more trustworthy than the love of money. My good friend the barman tells me you are looking for Gustav Klemm?"

I turned round. Standing behind my chair was a man in his early fifties, hair turned white. He was dressed in a white suit, not of a military cut, but it looked like you could shoot him and he'd stand up in it. He was leaning on a cane. I was disappointed to see he didn't have an eye-patch or a monocle. Blue eyes looked at me, unblinking. Now here was a man I'd really not want to play poker with.

"I certainly am," I said. "Would you join us at our table Oberst Klemm?"

Klemm gave a little nod. He pulled out a chair, and hung his cane on the back of it in a way that suggested that where he had put it, that was its destiny. He sat down with his back to the wall.

"I have not been Oberst Klemm for many years. My home land found it most expedient simply to forget about me. I have done them the same courtesy. How may I be of service, Mr. Riley?"

"Meet my friend, Professor Wadcroft, from Algernon University in Ipswich."

Klemm gave Wadcroft a polite, precise nod. Wadcroft nodded back, but said nothing.

"He wants to go on a little trip into the African jungle, to reclaim some goods for Miskatonic University. He's worried that people might want to keep him from doing that. Your job would be to handle those people."

"How long would this trip last, Mr. Riley? I have certain formalities to take care of. If I were to let them lapse, it could become..." He searched for a word. "Unangenehm."

"No more than a month, Mr. Klemm," said Wadcroft. "We're looking for a lost expedition, and if we don't find them in that time, we must assume the worst."

"Ah." Klemm gave Wadcroft a little smile. "The Hammond expedition. They approached me for protection. Sadly, I was otherwise beschäftigt."

"Who did they get in bed with, Mr. Klemm?" I said.

"Nobody," said Klemm. "They purchased a store of weapons and ammunition." A sarcastic look was in his eyes. "Everyone knows that the natives will run as soon as a shot is fired. They are armed only with bows, arrows, blowpipes and pointed sticks. Shooting back is, of course, ausgeschlossen. Even if they do, the white man's Hochmut is ample defence from curare."

Wadcroft looked at Klemm through narrow eyes. "Do you think the natives got them?"

"If they did not, then I would consider it rather lax of them." Klemm's eyes gleamed at Wadcroft. "Perhaps they thought these strange pale people were their gods."

"The Arkham lot are famous for thinking they have found old Gods. Sometimes, I think the atheists will inherit the Earth."

"Everyone is an atheist, Professor Wadcroft. It is just that some people have one god that they have not renounced yet."

"Mr. Klemm," I said, wanting to keep theology out of this debate for now. "What do you have to offer us in the way of protection?"

"You are in luck, Mr. Riley. I have just concluded a piece of business, and I and my Jäger are able to take on another task. How many rifles would you want?"

"Our transport will hold a dozen people. We have room for five or six more."

"Who will be our Gegenständer?"

"We don't know. Best guess at this time is another university, after the same thing we're after. But we don't know that for sure. For all we know it's another one of those shadowy cults."

Gustav Klemm leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. His eyes turned from Wadcroft to me, and back.

"I do not like to go into battle without knowing who the enemy is, and what his capabilities are. I and five of my Jäger could protect you from a hundred tribesmen. A sniper could take us all before we even knew we were under attack."

"We will be well protected while we are travelling," said Wadcroft. "We have an ironclad transport. Safe from spears, and bullets as well. We will have nothing to fear from anything short of an artillery shell."

"Do you expect to conduct your search inside your vehicle, Herr Professor? I can tell you that disabling and destroying Panzer was one of the specialities of my sister unit. When I was fighting for my home land, I thought nothing of dying. Now that I am fighting for money, I must be alive at the end of the adventure to profit from it."

"Are you chickening out on me, Herr Oberst?" I said. "I hope retirement hasn't made you soft."

"Neither soft nor stupid," said Klemm. "What steps are you taking to learn more of our adversaries?"

"My agents are combing through both London and Khartoum. I await their reports." I didn't find it necessary to tell him that I wasn't expecting much of them, but who knows? One of the idiots might get lucky. "Also, I've been authorised to pay you twice your normal price. Half up front, half when we return."

Klemm looked at me for a long time, then at Wadcroft. He reached into his pocket and produced a card, which he gave to me. "Very well. You will transfer the sum to this account in Bern. You will promptly share with me any intelligence you obtain on our adversaries, and in tactical situations, I will give the orders. I expect them to be obeyed without question. I will gather five of my Jäger, and I will join you on board your dirigible at five thirty tomorrow morning, local time. Gentlemen, from that time, you are under the protection of Gustav Klemm."

Klemm got to his feet, picked up his cane, nodded at both of us and left. Wadcroft looked at his back, with a frown on his face.

"If my father, may he rest in peace, knew I was associating with a bloody Hun, he'd disown me. And shoot him."

"So where once we fought each other tooth and nail," I said, "We're now at peace with the old fire-eater. Who says the love of money is the root of all evil?"

I left my drink and took Wadcroft back to Boreas.

 

---

 
And that would have been it for the evening. I was heading for the drinks cabinet at the front of the ship, feeling pretty good about myself, having secured the best protection possible, when our sniper lady caught up with me.

"Miss Tennant, what an unexpected pleasure. What can I do you for?"

"Wadcroft needs you, in his cabin," said Miss Tennant.

"That's a mite disappointing. I was hoping for someone else's cabin."

Miss Tennant gave me a deliciously cold look of distaste, then turned round and walked away. I followed her.

"So why is Wadcroft keeping me away from a decent drink?" I said.

"We have an unexpected guest. He simply showed up in Wadcroft's cabin. You did pull up the ladder after you got here, didn't you?"

"Of course. where do you think I was born, in a barn?"

"I'd rather not speculate on what kind of place you were born in."

"On the banks of Lake Michican, Miss. Sweet home Chicago."

"Gangster city. Why am I not surprised?"

"I reckon there's very little that surprises you, Miss Tennant. Now who's our mystery guest?"

"Some Indian man. I didn't catch his name. He's annoying professor Wadcroft."

"I like him already."

 
I opened the door, to find Wadcroft and Enderby already there. At the table sat Andrew Parsons, but nobody was looking at him. By the porthole stood an imposing figure, arms crossed. He was tall, with an Indian look to him, wearing a white turban. He had dark eyes and a long dark beard. As we entered, he gave us a bow.

"James Riley. Alexandra Tennant. Peace be with you."

"And also with you," I said. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"Before you stands Nazeem. Nazeem has come to put himself at the disposal of Professor Wadcroft. Through long meditation and study, Nazeem has mastered the ancient arts of the Fakir. His master was Pir Mohammed Chhel, and others that it is not his liberty to name."

Oh God, that was just what we needed. A wandering magician to complete our happy family. You can find them here and there in the States, but most of them have moved to London. The English used them to great effect to really put the wind up the more superstitious of their Queen's new subjects. When the English became too uncivilised even for them to put up with, the less superstitious kicked them out. Just to be absolutely clear on this, they were frauds. They were, and are, extremely good at reading people's body language. They have memories like elephants, and the theatrical skills to repeat back at you what you've just said and make you believe they knew it all along. At that time, though, I was utterly convinced. Convinced, that is, that Nazeem was a spy. That didn't worry me. I can deal with spies. Like I said, they're the most fun people to be around. Most people would have told Nazeem to take a hike, and not to bother with the ladder, but I'm not most people. Anyway, what would be the use? Tell one spy to get lost, and another one takes his place.

"So Mr. Nazeem," I said. "What can you do?"

Nazeem bowed his head, then raised his arms and clapped his hands. A blue flame appeared round his right hand. As he moved his fingers, the flame played between them. Then, with a quick wave, it went out.

"This is but a small demonstration. The spirit of Fire is subject to the will of Nazeem. Also, it is given Nazeem to know the future, to know the thoughts of other men. His mind may influence objects both near and far."

Enderby laughed. "Do you do the rope trick as well? I love the rope trick. Must have seen it a hundred times in the theatre. Never figured out how he did it."

"Nazeem does not insult the Spirits with such cheap deceptions. The rope trick is simply that. A trick, to fool the ignorant."

Enderby smiled. "And nobody has actually seen it. Not out in the open, anyway. Lots of people heard of others who have seen it, but there are no reliable witnesses."

"Of course not," said Wadcroft. "The whole thing is a sham. What are you doing here, Mr. Nazeem?"

"Ten days ago, Nazeem was troubled by dark dreams. The Spirits were angry. One of their sacred places had been disturbed by white men, looking for wealth, power. They were taken to a place of judgement. Nazeem alone can take you to that place. Nazeem alone can speak to the spirits, and reclaim their lives. Without the intercession of Nazeem, they will die. This is certain."

"And how," I said. "Will Nazeem convince these Spirits not to make lunch of my countrymen?"

"The intentions of the Americans are pure. This, it was given Nazeem to know, and this is the message he will convey to the Spirits. The Spirits do not wish for these deaths, but they are bound by their word. Once Nazeem speaks to them, they will understand that they are not bound to bring death to the Americans."

"And why are you willing to do this? Do you have a price?"

"To do good deeds is its own reward. In the Afterlife, Nazeem will sit at the table of the Prophets for the deeds he has done."

That could mean one of several things. Nazeem could be a religious fanatic, but these people tend not to be. That's not as strange as it sounds. Fooling other people ain't that hard, but once you start fooling yourself, at some point the wheels will start falling off your wagon. Which left the other possibility. He'd already been bought, by money, fear, or some other way. No matter, I'd find out what it was. Now to persuade the rest to take him on.

"Would you excuse us for a moment, Nazeem? We need to discuss this among ourselves."

"Of course."

Nazeem bowed, and walked out.

 
"I don't trust him," said Miss Tennant.

"Nether do I," said Wadcroft. "Does the man really expect us to believe that he is some kind of wizard? Us?"

"You've got to admit," I said. "That fire trick was pretty neat. I'll bet science can't explain how he could just conjure flames out of thin air."

"Hah," said Wadcroft. "If you'd paid attention, Mr. Riley, you would have seen that he held his right hand under his arm all the time. A mixture of water and alcohol will burn with a blue flame, at a low enough temperature for the human skin to withstand for a few seconds. The flame was on, for... How long Andrew?"

"Eight seconds," said Andrew.

"Eight seconds, thank you. You will also note that he was wearing rings. He must have made a spark by knocking them together. Has Science explained enough, Mr. Riley? I think this man was sent to spy on us, and perhaps sabotage our mission."

"Excellent," I said. "So do I, in fact. So what better place for a spy to be than right under our noses? If we throw him off the ship, then they'll just send someone else. Besides, I like him. I say we let him join. At the very least, he can give some of the locals the fright of their lives. Without killing them like Oberst Klemm could. We Americans like to have some kind of option between running away, and going in guns blazing."

"I agree," said Enderby. "As long as we keep an eye on him, he could prove useful." She grinned. "At least he can do some nice magic tricks on long boring evenings."

"That's decided then," I said. "Nazeem stays."

 
Sometimes, you just have to tell people they agree with you. It works surprisingly often. We called Nazeem back in, introduced him to the Captain as a new expedition member, and put him in the bunk below mine. Nazeem was most grateful. Nazeem pledged us his undying loyalty. But mark my words, if Nazeem tries to pull anything funny, Nazeem will get a bullet between Nazeem's eyes.

 

Knowledge is power

Flight to Khartoum - Unreasonable resistance - The woman's touch will not help us here - Judicious application of explosives - How the professionals do it

 

It never ceases to amaze me how many people think that the Bible was written by the Creator Himself, or dictated word for word to the Apostles, with gentle taps on the fingers whenever they misspelt a word. This is clearly not the case. I can easily recall a half-dozen places where the Scriptures differ from objectively observed facts. It is an even greater mystery to me why this would diminish its worth in any way. Had the Apostles only known a fraction of what we have discovered through hard work, careful theorising, ruthless culling of all things untenable, then the Bible would have been an entirely different book. What we see are the facts, blurred and distorted by the very Human urge to embellish, and the also very Human ignorance. Whoever wrote the Bible was not in possession of all the facts that we now have, but they saw things that we can only speculate about. There is no shame in ignorance. Persisting in ignorance once new facts or insights become available, though, is an entirely different matter. And that is the crucial difference between the scientist and the dogmatist.

 

-- Prof. Alan Wadcroft, "Never the twain shall meet"

 
After our stay in Port Said, we set a course for the last place where Hammond and his expedition were last seen. They had used the city of Khartoum as a base of operations, and taken trips by boat down the White Nile. When their trips became longer, the dirigible Boreas had moored at Khartoum, to provide the expedition with supplies, and taken their scientific findings on board to be stored in the archives. I spent many hours during the trip in Boreas' archive room. I could find nothing in their documents that would explain their disappearance. They were looking for reserves of pitchblende, a mineral that has no known use whatsoever. But perhaps Prof. Hammond knew something about the substance that he had kept out of his field notes. I gave up trying to find anything in his notes, and went to talk to Captain Gaskin.

Gaskin kept to himself most of the time, when he wasn't needed. His crew was well able to keep a straight course to Khartoum. I knocked on his door.

"Enter."

I walked in. He pushed his journal to one side, and gestured at a chair opposite his own. The Captain's cabin was larger than mine, but still smaller than one would expect. One of the walls was completely covered with bookshelves, metal rods in place to keep the books from falling out in turbulent weather. He crushed out one of his cigars. Clearly, the prohibition against smoking on board did not extend to him.

"Professor Wadcroft. What can I do for you?"

"I've gone through all of Hammond's papers, Sir. I can find nothing that would explain why they have disappeared."

Gaskin laughed. "Running out of natural explanations?"

"Good grief, no. My working hypothesis is still human involvement. Either they were robbed and killed, or someone back in either London or Arkham did not want them to succeed, and took measures."

Gaskin nodded. "Hence the presence of a bunch of mercenaries on board my ship. I've heard of that man, Professor. His reputation is not good."

"Mr. Riley puts his faith in his greed. He has better reasons to shoot our enemies than he has to shoot us."

Gaskin leaned back in his chair. "And what about this magician? He doesn't look like one of your crowd at all."

"We think he's a spy. Who was it again that said, keep your friends close, but your enemies even closer? That's Mr. Riley's principle. I have to say his methods don't sit comfortably with my own."

"He's one of Miskatonic University's best... troubleshooters," said Gaskin. "In times of trouble, I can't imagine a better operative. But I'll grant you that in times without trouble, you want him as far away from you as you can get him. As for Mr. Nazeem, maybe he'll convince you somehow that Science doesn't have all the answers."

"Up to now, he hasn't," I said. "The villain probably climbed up the mooring cable to get here, and that little fire trick was a simple application of physics and alchemy."

"Do you still hold, then, that Science can explain anything? You are going to the right place to cure yourself of that notion, Professor."

"There are things that Science cannot explain, Captain. In some cases, we simply do not have access to required data. In other cases, the problem may well be beyond the capability of our greatest thinkers to solve, and we must simply give up. There are problems that we have proven insoluble, such as dividing an angle into three equals using compass and ruler. But apart from that, most problems will yield to the serious application of ingenuity and perseverence."

"And when they don't?" Gaskin looked at me with a bright eye.

"We give up," I said with a shrug. "We write down what we do know, explain the problem, and give it to a future scientist. What we don't do is make up all kind of supernatural explanations. Invoking spirits and ghosts is pandering to ignorance."

"What would you do if it turned out that spirits were really at play?"

"Catalog precisely what spirits they were, and try to find out all about them. But we won't find any spirits at Hammond's last known location, you can depend on that."

Gaskin nodded. "Actually, the place where we found the remains of Hammond's camp is not his last known location. He had deposited plans with the authorities in Khartoum before going out again. That was a week before we set out to find him. I suggest we obtain these plans. I am certain that your Mr. Nazeem will be able to find the Hammond expedition like the Shepherd finds a lost lamb, but on the off chance that he can't deliver, I'd like some facts." Gaskin looked at his clock, which by an elaborate mechanism showed exactly the same time as the one on the bridge. "We arrive at Khartoum in four hours."

 

---

 
Boreas slowly made its way to one of the mooring posts in Khartoum Airport, and nestled in between two other dirigibles. Cables were attached fore and aft, the ladder was extended, and Captain Gaskin and I made our way to the offices of Mr. Bouzid Moghadam, governor of Khartoum. We were shown to a waiting room, and offered the strong, black Arabic coffee. The Arabs are rightly famous for this drink, and despite being a tea-drinking Englishman, I could well appreciate it. A functionary walked in, and took us to the governor's office. Mr. Bouzid Moghadam was a short, deep brown-skinned man wearing gold rimmed spectacles and an impeccably starched white business suit. His English accent betrayed a stay of at least some years in London, or perhaps Oxford.

"Good afternoon, Gentlemen," said Mr. Moghadam. "How may I help you?"

"Good day to you, Sir," said Gaskin. "I am Captain Gaskin of the airship Boreas, and this is Professor Alan Wadcroft of Algernon University, Ipswich, England."

Mr. Moghadam gave us both a polite nod. Gaskin continued.

"We are here regarding the expedition of Professor Hammond, of Miskatonic University. I believe, Sir, that Professor Hammond deposited with you a trunk of papers containing his latest results, expedition notes, and plans where he intended to go next. We would like to reclaim it, so that we can pick up the search from his last known location."

Mr. Moghadam looked at Gaskin, almost like he was weighing him up as an adversary, which was strange.

"We have this trunk in our possession, yes. But I have to say that it is a fairly large model simply to contain some papers. What else does it contain?"

Gaskin shrugged. "I can't possibly say that, Sir. These trunks are used by all our expeditions. They have been designed to secure papers, maps, artefacts, rock samples and anything else that a scientific expedition can come up with."

Bouzid Moghadam leaned his elbows on his desk, and looked at Gaskin over his steepled fingers. "Artefacts. What... artefacts?"

Gaskin hesitated, a little taken aback. "I'm not sure I catch your drift, Sir."

"The English, and the Americans, have a long history of entering our country as honoured guests, and leaving again with certain objects that they describe as 'priceless artefacts'. They claim that they simply wish to study them, and return them later, until it turns out that many of these 'priceless artefacts' have had a price placed on them regardless, and they have not a shred of intention of ever returning them. We Arabs ironically have among your people a reputation for thievery, and we would describe such an object as 'loot'. We have had to move mountains to have the body of one of our kings returned to us, and it cost us dearly. We wish to make sure that none of our priceless artefacts are in that chest of yours."

Gaskin's face turned red, his eyes narrowed. "Are you calling us thieves, Mr. Moghadam?"

"No, Captain Gaskin. I am merely establishing that we have, as your lawyers call it, probable cause. The solution is simple. Open that trunk, and let us see what it contains. If it would turn out that your countrymen are not making off with our cultural heritage, then I will declare them the most honest of foreigners ever to enter our beloved country."

"Sir, since this is not my expedition trunk, University laws forbid me from opening it in the presence of third parties. We will take the trunk on board, open it, and then show you the contents."

Mr. Moghadam's spectacles gleamed at Gaskin. "You will do no such thing, Captain. Unless one of my trusted functionaries is present at this opening, the trunk will remain in our possession."

"And I've already told you, I'm not allowed to do that. That trunk is the property of Miskatonic University."

"I do not dispute that," said Mr. Moghadam. "But I wish to make sure that the same applies to anything inside that trunk."

"Good God, Sir," I said. "All that's in that trunk, unless I'm completely mistaken, are some rock samples, and the latest known location of our people. Completely worthless to any of you, but for Hammond and his people, their very lives may depend on it."

Bouzid Moghadam turned his eyes to me, and I was startled by the sheer animosity in his gaze. "Then, Professor, I sincerely hope that you are not completely mistaken. I have no interest in maps, pieces of rock, or scientific scribblings. But if I find out that even a single piece of our cultural heritage has found its way into that trunk, there will be severe consequences."

"I suggest you don't try to open it, Sir," said Gaskin. "It's been protected against tampering."

"We know," said Mr. Moghadam. "The last one of these trunks exploded when we tried to open it, and when the smoke cleared, the walls of the room were covered in blood and fragments of gold. You know my terms. If one of us is present at the opening, and if no contraband is inside, the entire trunk is yours, and good riddance."

Mr. Moghadam rang the bell for a functionary, and we were unceremoniously shown the door.

 

---

 
"You idiots!" James Riley glared at us. "The governor deigns to talk to you, and you go in there making demands?"

"We did no such thing," I said. "We politely asked for our trunk back, and the man all but accuses us of carrying off his national treasures. I didn't think that was very appropriate."

Riley laughed in our faces. "Oh my. All you do is enter a country looting and pillaging a few times, and the local darkies get all shirty about it. People can be so unreasonable."

"We didn't come in here looting and pillaging, Mr. Riley," said Gaskin. "Those were legitimate expeditions and you know it."

"How would you feel about a Sudanese expedition into America, if they dug up Abraham Lincoln so they could pick his skull apart with tweezers and write little pieces on the American habit of shooting their Presidents?"

"Don't be a damn fool, Riley. What would you have done?"

"Well, for one thing, I wouldn't have gone right up to the goddamn governor. I'd have gone to one of his flunkies, and opened up that trunk while he was watching."

"That's against the rules, Riley."

"So is pilfering stuff off the locals. If you're with some lowly nobody, you can give it back to them, agree with him what a bunch of thieving assholes some of these foreigners are, and get out with the things you actually need.

"We will go to the highest authority in this place," I said. "This is an outrage."

"You've already been to the highest authority. What are you going to do, pray? Mr. Bouzid Moghadam answers only to the Khalifa. Are you going to ask him? He loves you Limeys."

"Bugger that," I said. "Let's consider our options."

Gaskin reached out for his box of cigars. "Well, we do have a bunch of soldiers on board. Maybe..." He clipped the end off a cigar and lit a match, waiting for the sulphur to burn off before lighting his cigar with it. I looked at the captain, trying to read in his eyes whether he was joking or not.

"Surely, Captain, you are not considering..."

"That would be a mite unsubtle," said Riley. "And if you pardon me saying, confirm every prejudice held about Americans in this place."

The captain's cigar was now burning to his satisfaction, and blew out a large cloud of smoke.

"No, gentlemen, I'm not serious. So how are we getting those papers?"

I heaved a deep sigh. I was going over the conversation with the governor in my head, and to be honest, much as it pains me to admit it, Riley had a point. We couldn't count on Mr. Moghadam's sympathy anymore, if ever. What we needed was a change of personnel.

 

---

 
Margaret gave me a stern look. "So what you're saying is that you've widdled all over the carpet in Mr. Moghadam's office, and now you want me to go in and clean up your mess for you?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to put it like that, but..."

"I can see why you wouldn't. But that is the essence of it, isn't it?"

"I thought that perhaps a feminine touch could succeed where we have failed."

"Bollocks, Wadcroft. Did you look round while you were there? Then tell me, how many women have you seen?"

"Well, I wasn't paying attention, but-"

"I'll tell you, there aren't any. A woman in this place is someone you tell to do things. You don't listen to them."

"Hang on Margaret, Cleopatra was a woman, and she was Pharao. That's just one country to the North."

"She died thirty years BC. Killed herself when her husband did. She may have been Pharao, and you can bet she damn well pulled all the strings back then, but even she needed a man to do the actual ruling."

"So you're not willing even to give it a try?"

"No. Not that I wouldn't, but I haven't a snowball's chance in hell of achieving anything."

"Oh come on. It's not like you to throw in the towel like that, before even..."

"This is bloody Sudan. The word 'patriarchy' hasn't even been invented yet because they can't conceive of doing it any other way. What do you expect me to do, bring enlightenment to the country just so you can get your luggage out of customs?"

I gave Margaret a long look. "Would be nice if you could. Never mind. I'll go and have a word with Klemm. Maybe he knows how to crack the bureaucracy."

"And I'll just sit here and weave some bloody tapestries."

 

---

 
"Of course I know Herr Moghadam. I was stationed nearby for several months." Klemm's eyes wrinkled in a private smile. "I helped him to reach his current position, so to say."

"Then you did him a favour? Are you a friend of his? That would be splendid. Maybe you can make the man see sense."

"Not really. His predecessor was killed by my artillery in the rather ill-conceived attempt to re-take Khartoum from the Mahdi. I did not know it at the time, but he is not likely to be thankful for it."

"Ah," I said.

While artillery has a kind of simplicity to it, I wasn't quite ready yet to go that far. We didn't have any cannons, for a start. But be that as it may, I was rapidly running out of diplomatic options.

"What I suggest you do," said Klemm, "is simply to accede to Governor Moghadam's demands." He smiled. "That is, of course, if you are absolutely sure that no Kunstwerke or other valuables are in that trunk. How well are you and Professor Hammond acquainted?"

That, of course, was an excellent question. The rule against opening other people's strongboxes was made especially to avoid embarrassment if certain objects had, inexplicably, made their way inside. I didn't know Hammond all that well. To be honest, I didn't even like the man all that much. Klemm must have guessed what I was thinking.

"Where is your trunk at the moment?"

"The Governor didn't tell us. He is not so stupid that he would invite us to come and steal it."

"I agree. Herr Moghadam is not stupid at all. Let us see. He knows of the so-called anti-tampering device, so he is not likely to keep it in his home. There are several warehouses on the East bank of the White Nile that belong to him in one way or another. He would keep the device away from anything too expensive."

"Define 'too expensive'," I said.

"Stores of weapons and ammunition, obviously. Grain silos are highly prized. Art. Gold. His records."

"Or maybe he does not intend to open it, in which case he could keep it anywhere."

"There, you are right," said Klemm. "If you do not trust Hammond to keep his fingers off that which he does not own, less civil strategies are needed. But I feel I must warn you that for several reasons, it would be unwise for me to show my face in this city, or even to make it known that I am on board this Zeppelin. I regret that I am rather unpopular here."

"Oh? How come?"

"A few rather effective bombardments on targets that were... not entirely military, so to speak."

"Oh dear."

"Genau."

 

---

 
I walked into the observation lounge at the bows of the gondola, to find Margaret, Miss Tennant, Klemm, and Nazeem all there. Riley sat in one of the easy chairs, with a whisky-and-soda in his hand.

"Good evening, Professor. How goes the hunt?"

An obnoxious little smile was on his face. I needed him to sort out this mess, and he knew it. No use pretending otherwise, I hadn't gotten any further.

"It's completely buggered, my dear chap. I'm forced to admit that I, as you Yanks so charmingly put it, have carnal knowledge of the proverbial canine. Do you think you could have done better?"

"Bet your ass I could. Want to make a deal Professor? I won't try to turn base metals into gold, or mix up drinks that explode, and you keep away from diplomatic missions."

Now that was a bit unfair. How could I have known that something as simple as picking up a few papers could turn into an international incident? Still, it had. Only fools stick to their guns when they already know they are wrong.

"Come on, Mr. Riley. If you have any suggestions as to how we can free our papers from the clutches of the Egyptian bureaucracy, I'm more than willing to entertain them."

Riley put down his drink, and sat up in his chair.

"Right then. Do any of us know where that cotton-picking trunk is right now?"

Nobody spoke.

"Okay. Then that is the first thing to find out. I'm gonna need some local clothes, a lot of money from the war chest and a pretty young woman. If we can't find one, Miss Tennant will do, I reckon. Pretty girls make men less smart, and that's just what I need."

Miss Tennant gave Riley an icy look, but didn't seem to think that worthy of a reply. As for me, I hardly knew where to start.

"Are you going to put Miss Tennant in danger, Riley?" I said.

"I am going to take Miss Tennant to one of Mr. Moghadam's less well-paid assistants, and tell him a story to make a statue cry. Then, I will rattle my bag of gold in front of him. Miss Tennant's job will be to sit next to me, look sad but determined, and maybe allow a little tear to trickle down that purty little cheek. Think that sits comfortably with your high-strung ideals, Professor?"

It most certainly did not. Margaret was right. This part of the world can devour a woman whole if she's not careful. The idea of using her as a... a catalyst in some grubby deal, was repugnant to me. Even worse was the notion that young Miss Tennant might become an active ingredient in this unsavoury affair. I prepared to tell Mr. Riley what I thought of the arrangement, but Miss Tennant interrupted me.

"I'll do it."

I looked at her. "Are you sure about this? The danger..."

"Dishonour before death, Professor? This doesn't look very dangerous. We'll just be talking. Carl is out there, somewhere. If I have to sit in some grubby office blubbing for a bit to find out where he is, then I'll do it. I'm sure Mr. Riley will intervene should things progress beyond decency."

Riley laughed. It didn't sound nice. "I like you, girl. You got some fire in you."

"I don't like this, Mr. Riley," I said. "I don't like this at all."

"Nothing you did worked," said Riley. "Stand back and let the professionals handle it."

 
And that was that, of course. He was right. Riley, scoundrel that he was, was in his element here. I bit back the urge to tell Riley that there'd be dire consequences if anything happened to Miss Tennant. There was no point. I don't like feeling helpless, but there really wasn't anything I could do. He disappeared into the storeroom for some necessary equipment, not to mention a good sum of money, and Miss Tennant went to her room to change.

All the rest of us could do was wait.

 

The vices of peace, the virtues of war

What not to wear - In the den of the weasel - Persuasion - Breaking and entering - Down the White Nile

 

When travelling in inhospitable places, dangers can be classified as either environmental, natural, or man-made. Environmental hazards include prevailing weather, terrain, obstacles. One can prepare for these at home, by doing the research and availing oneself of the appropriate equipment. Natural hazards include wild animals, poisonous vegetation, air-borne diseases, insects. Even when prepared, one still needs to watch for these while travelling. Man-made dangers are worse, because they actively try to prevent one from noticing them, and will display considerable intelligence in doing so. To shield oneself from these, one needs to match that intelligence with one's own.

 
Woman-made dangers, I am proud to say, are the worst of all.

Do not bother trying to prepare for them. If you are in her sights, you are doomed.

 

-- Alexandra Tennant, The young lady's adventuring guide

 
I retired to my cabin to change into the only outfit I had that would be suitable to influence uncooperative civil servants. Since this was my blue dress and corset, I was less than enthusiastic. Nonetheless, I strapped myself into this device that, I am sure, is meant specifically to keep women from breathing properly. I found my small case of rouge, lip colour, eyebrow pencils, powder, nail varnish, and all the other things a woman needs to make herself suitable to the public gaze. I have seen other women apply these things at an incredible speed, like a veteran soldier straps on his armour and loads his weapon. I am not one of these women, since I seldom bother. I looked at myself in the mirror. Carl, I am sure, would have removed an imaginary hat, bowed deep, and offered me his arm, calling me 'Milady'. Carl was one of the few men I would suffer to call me that. He was also one of the few to call me Alex. Even Father always called me by my full name. I suppose he was the one who gave it to me.

As I stood in front of the small mirror, to see that all was in order, there was a loud knock on the door, a knock not expecting to be kept waiting. I opened the door to find Riley there. He looked me over once from top to bottom, then looked back into my eyes.

"Take that off," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You ain't coming with me dressed like that. I've got clothes for you. You go out into Kharthoum like that, you ain't coming home. People here like their women to dress decent."

"And are you implying that I am not? I'll have you know that in England..."

"We're not in England, even the London Underground don't reach here. You go out here with your hair in plain sight, your waist all tucked in, your tits and ass sticking out, and your face painted like that, men are going to think you're a whore, and treat you as such."

He gave me a bundle of dark cloth that turned out to be a long shapeless black dress, and a head scarf.

"Put this on. Wear the head scarf, leave off the veil, I want him to see how sad you look. This is what decent women wear here." He grinned in a most unpleasant way. "Unless you want them to rape you. This place. Woman gets raped in England, and everyone is all over her with sympathy and cups of tea while the lynch mob gets ready to cut the guy's balls off. Here? She gets a hundred lashes and then is put to death for having sex outside of marriage."

"You have obviously never been to England," I said. "If a woman is assaulted there, you cannot hear yourself for the men claiming that she probably asked for it. In connection with which, I am about to remove my clothes, so get the hell out of my cabin."

 
I slammed the door in front of him, and threw the dress on my bed. Then I removed my corset, so I could seethe properly. Insufferable man. I went to the sink and washed my face, looked at my reflection in the mirror. I opened my trunk, folded up and stowed the blue dress that apparently made me look like a prostitute. I got out my all-environment suit instead. The first time I put it on, I swore I would never take it off again. It is a skin-tight over-all suit, the colour of a moonless night. It keeps me warm even in the snow, and cool even in an African jungle. It is amazingly comfortable. I have worn it when climbing mountains, when walking through deserts, and once even while swimming. It didn't keep me dry, but when I got out of the Scottish loch I found myself in for reasons unnecessary to mention, it took only half an hour to dry. This suit was, is my armour. I always feel stronger, more capable, wearing it. Perhaps there was something in that fool Riley's comment on underwear, but frills don't inspire me.

I picked up the black dress and looked at it. It covered me from head to toe, and it had a hood and a veil. Only a woman's eyes would show when wearing it, to keep her away from the gaze of men, so they would not be tempted by her. I felt an old familiar anger, one that is with me at all times, in the background of my thoughts. I channel it in times of trouble, and it never fails to drive me. I put on the dress, pulled the hood over my hair and, just to see, put on the veil as well. I looked at myself in the mirror, shook my head, dropped the veil on the bed, and stepped out of my cabin door to join Riley.

 

---

 
Riley took me to one of the diplomatic areas of Khartoum, but instead of walking to the front of one of the large buildings, he went round the back, and knocked on a door that had the feeling about it of the artist's entrance of a theatre. It was opened by a woman wearing the same kind of dress I was wearing. Riley barked an order at her, and she turned round. The woman led us to one of the doors, knocked. A voice inside answered in Arabic. The woman walked away and Riley opened the door. I followed him into a small, untidy office where a fat man sat at a desk littered with papers. He put down his tea and grinned at Riley.

"Al salam wo alukom, Riley," said the man.

"Wo alukom al salam, Samir," said Riley. "Kaf al shogol?"

"Tamam al tamam," said the man named Samir.

I am fluent enough in Arabic to understand the pleasantries Riley was exchanging with this man, but they were speaking a local variant that I found hard to follow, and after a minute or so I gave up. I caught the word Achu meaning Brother, and Yumès for Mother. After that it turned into a meaningless wall of sound.

 
Carl was a few years older than I, and together we went through the evolutionary phases of being absolute horrors to each other, then the possessive where you take exception to anyone else tormenting your sibling, then on to an uneasy cease-fire, and finally uniting against the world. More or less at that time, Father's work turned from the theoretical to the practical, and he set out to chart West African settlements and architecture, hoping to prove that Africans had crossed the Atlantic before even the journey of Leif Eriksson, a theory that one of his elder colleagues had advanced, but had been unable to substantiate. Father and Mother pulled us out of school, put us on board of a ship bound for the Côte d'Ivoire, and continued our education under way. It is quite something to be taught adding up by a university professor, history from one of the leading experts, biology from none other than the 'least intelligent' of Charles Darwin's children, or as we called him, Uncle Leonard. The darker events of those days, the bloodshed, the wars, mostly passed us by as we sailed along the beautiful coast of Africa, that the Europeans and English had given names such as "Gold coast", "Ivory Coast", and more sinister, "Slave coast", after the goods that could be obtained there. Thankfully, those names have now been abandoned, but still, we should remember them.

It was an age of enlightenment as well as an age of turmoil. For a pair of children in their early teens, there could not be a greater adventure, and we travelled with Father and Mother for several years. As soon as we were able, Father gave us jobs to do. Carl was taught how to navigate and draw charts, an apprentice to the ship's navigator. I was taught the correct way to load and unload our ship, and soon could see without measuring where to put crates and barrels with the greatest efficiency. Both Carl and I learnt to perform repairs on our barque, both to the sails and to the woodwork. I vividly remember hanging over the sides in bosun's chairs painting the hull of the ship and heartily singing along with the sailors. The actual meaning of the songs went completely over our heads. To Carl and me, this was paradise.

The apple of knowledge of good and evil came to us on a trek into Angola, where our expedition was attacked by bandits. We managed to drive them off with superior firepower and sheer determination, but Mother received a gunshot wound. Despite our best efforts, the wound became infected, and she succumbed to fever a week later. Her bones lie in an unmarked grave somewhere along the Kasai river. We could not carry her body back to our ship, and we were still being pursued.

When our ship finally set sail to the South, Father stood at the railing, silent. The next morning he told us we would be travelling back to England on the next ship going our way. He explained to us that to put Carl or me in danger again would be more than his conscience would allow him.

We travelled back to England, and entered a respectable boarding school, until we were old enough to set out on our own. Carl soon followed in Father's footsteps, producing many accounts of the people along the East coast of Africa. I went with him as often as not, but this time not as a young girl, but as a fully-fledged explorer. At school, I had joined the rifle club and learnt to put a bullet into any object up to a mile away. I did not go with Carl on all his expeditions, only the ones that involved studying indigenous people. Geological expeditions such as Hammond's only bored me, and were usually among the least dangerous.

The events in Angola had robbed us of our naive good trust in our fellow humans. Carl and other members of the expedition would walk into a new village while I stayed back, ready with my rifle. Generally, Africans are kind, friendly, generous people. How many English people would invite total strangers, with unfamiliar faces, into their home and share their meals with them?

We ran into the other kind only twice. Once, I could scare them away by shooting out one of their lanterns. The other time, I had to kill a man who had Carl at gunpoint. It scared me how easy it was to pull the trigger and watch the man's head explode. I expected to feel remorse. I expected to break down in tears, but nothing of the sort ever happened. My greatest fear was that the man would pull the trigger in a muscle reflex and kill Carl. I felt a strange emotional detachment from the question whether he would have pulled the trigger, or not. Whether he needed to die. I thought he did, and that was that.

The Hammond expedition was supposed to be a boring one. Endless digging for various kinds of rock, little or no involvement with the locals. I would have been reduced to a simple guard. And now, the expedition had vanished. Spirited away into the African jungle. Though there was no way I could have known, I was not there to watch over my big brother. I was not looking over his shoulder, crosshairs on the face of the man who might or might not try to kill him. I might never see him again. Many expeditions have vanished without a trace in the uncharted wilderness of Africa, but why did it have to be his? And why was I not there to protect him?

 
I blinked, and focused on Riley and his friend. They were looking at me. For a moment, I wished I had put on the veil after all, but then I steeled myself and looked at the functionary. I knew better than to speak. He turned to Riley, and whispered something in his ear. Riley gave a small nod. I noticed his hand on the table, pushing a brown, thick envelope underneath a stack of papers. He looked at me, jerked his head in the direction of the door. In my role of meek female, I pulled my hood further over my face and got up. He put his hand on my back, as if pushing me out of the door. A few moments later, we were outside again.

"Well done, my girl, well done. You played the role of a bereaved sister very well. For a beginner."

I looked at him. "I was not acting," I said. "I really don't know where my brother is, and whether he is alive or dead."

"If you say so," said Riley. "But you aren't as feeble as you make yourself out to be. Give me some time, and I'll turn you into a first-class actor."

"That would no doubt get me many roles in the Ipswich Shakespearean Society."

"Oh damn those amateurs on the stage. If they mess up a job, they get peanuts thrown at them. If I mess up, I get shot. If I'm lucky. If I'd play Hamlet there, I'd scare the bejesus out of them."

"Oh I don't know," I said. "I rather fancy you in the role of Yorick."

Riley laughed. "High praise, Milady."

"You do know who Yorick is, don't you?"

"You said 'I rather fancy you', and then I stopped listening."

"My gorge rims at it," I said.

 

---

 
We walked down an alley, and went to a public bath house. We sat down at a table in a small tea house, watching the exit.

"We're looking for a woman in a dark dress," said Riley, a small smile on his face.

"Obviously," I said.

"But this woman will be accompanied by a short fat little man wearing a fez, and a purple suit. She'll be arriving in one of those showy carts. When she does, you will follow her into the bath house."

"Do I follow her into the bath?"

"You can if you want to. Some of those masseuses are very good at their jobs." The look in his eyes made my stomach turn. "But your job is to tell this woman that Riley wants a word with her. Tell her to meet me in the back of the tea room. Don't follow her in here, or she'll bolt."

I turned my eyes to the entrance of the bath house. "Who is she?"

"She is the young wife of Mr. Bouzid Moghadam's son. My friend Samir told me they have our trunk in their cellar. Our girl is going to leave a window open so we can get into Moghadam's mansion and get what we need."

"Why would she do a thing like that?"

Riley laughed quietly. "Because I can tell her husband that she has a desert rose tattooed on the inside of her thigh. He's not going to appreciate it if he ain't the only one to know that."

I frowned. "Tattoos are haram to a Muslim. Not done. How come she has one?"

"She became a Muslim to marry young Mr. Moghadam. You don't have to remove them if you already had them. Probably a sign of purity or some of that nonsense. Well, she ain't as pure as she likes to be anymore."

I felt a chill along my spine, looking at Riley's face. He frowned.

"Not me, you stupid girl. Got dragged into an alley by two guys. I happened by and heard her screaming. Lucky thing I did."

"Leapt to her rescue, did you?"

"Hell yeah. Shot them both. Cleaned the blood off her and covered her up. Cutthroats you can get a nickel a piece here, but diplomat's wives are... special."

"So unless she does what you say..."

"Yep," said Riley, "you're catching my drift. She'll be in the dog house. In the bowls."

"You are a loathsome toad," I said. "I'll have no part in this. Go find her yourself."

"Me? Go into a women's bath house? And besides." He lowered his voice. "You want to see your brother again, don't you? Then get on with it."

I glared at him, but he was right. He pointed across the street.

"There she is. Get going."

 
I followed the woman into the bath house. There were several large rectangular baths with steps to get in. Steam was rising from them, and I could smell traces of sulphur. These baths were probably fed by an underground spring. I watched the woman walk up to an unoccupied bath and disrobe. She was very beautiful, perhaps twenty-five years old, slender, with a deep brown skin and long black hair, which she wore in a thick plait. She took off a heavy gold necklace and gold bracelets, which she placed on a small table. Before she walked up the steps, and lowered herself into the bath, she looked round carefully, without taking much notice of me. She closed her eyes, and leaned back her head. I walked up behind her.

"Ma'am," I said, in Arabic. "Someone wishes to speak with you, in the tea house across the street. His name is Riley."

As I mentioned the name, she gasped, and hunched her shoulders in fear. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see me.

"Will you be there?" I said.

She nodded quickly, and I walked away. I swallowed away the bad taste in my mouth. We would not ask her to do anything to harm her family. All we wanted were the papers in the trunk. All I wanted was to find Carl. What had happened to her? What exactly had Riley done to her? There was no way to tell. I walked across the street, and nodded at Riley, who went inside to wait for Mrs. Moghadam. I sat down at another table, back to the street, and had another glass of tea. A little while later, I looked over my shoulder to see the woman walk into the tea house. Only a few minutes passed, and she came out again, found her servant with her cart and left. Riley walked up to my table.

"All set up. God, she's pretty isn't she? Maybe when this trip is done, I'll set myself up here for a while. See if she has a sister or something."

"Shut up," I said. "Are we done here?"

Riley briefly looked into my eyes, then looked away.

"Yeah. Let's get back to Boreas."

 

---

 
Captain Gaskin walked into the forward lounge carrying a wooden trunk bound with iron. He dropped it on the floor with a thud that made everyone wince, loaded as it was with explosives.

"As you can see, Ladies and Gentlemen, these trunks won't blow up if you just drop 'em."

He produced a key and unlocked the trunk. Then, he pointed at one of the rivets.

"Take a good look at that, Miss Tennant. Second from the top. Press it and hold it down until the lid is all the way open. If you don't..."

"Boom," I said.

"Exactly. One of Professor Pabodie's undergrads forgot it once. Only once. Now inside, there's an attache case that will contain the papers we need. I'm not expecting anything else in there. Once you're done, close it again. You re-arm the explosives by keeping that same rivet pressed down while you close the lid, but in the interest of not blowing up the Governor's mansion, I suggest you just close it." He handed me a key. "That'll open Hammond's trunk. Which rivet are you going to press?"

I pointed. "That one."

"Good. It's almost dark. Time to get going."

Nazeem stepped forward, bowed to us.

"You will have need of the powers of Nazeem. This, it was given me to know. Nazeem will go with you, and aid you as he can."

 
Before we left, Riley came to my cabin with a map of the mansion. I was to climb up the wall to an unused bedroom, down two flights of stairs, and the trunk would be in the cellar, waiting for me.

"Think you can do that? I'd come with, but I ain't as nimble as I used to be."

"I think I can," I said.

Riley handed me a small revolver. "Don't be afraid to use this. You don't want to get caught."

"Oh. Really?"

Riley looked at me with a cold look in his eyes. "You've got five bullets. Save the last one for yourself. Can't escape, bite down on that barrel and pull the trigger. I'm not kidding."

"Trust me, I am not planning on getting caught."

"Damn it, girl. If you get caught, they'll throw you into one of their cellars and torture you in ways so depraved they make even me sick. Then when they've wrung every bit of information and entertainment out of you, they'll either stone you to death in public or drown you in acid."

"You have a vivid imagination, Mr. Riley."

"I've seen them do it! They shackled her hands behind her back, because ropes dissolve too fast. Then they dropped her in a big urn filled with sulphuric acid. She stopped screaming after five minutes, stopped struggling after thirty. Stopped moving after an hour, and then they pushed her under with a metal pole to finish her. That happen to you, dive under and drink deep, is what their torturer told me."

"And you didn't lift a finger to help her," I said.

"Why? I caught her. Don't get caught. Don't get caught alive."

 

---

 
Mr. Moghadam's mansion was a bit away from the noise of the city, and it was huge. There was a high wall round it. I took a little run-up, and jumped up, grabbing the top of the wall with metal hooks, just in case these nice people had embedded broken glass in the top. I dropped a rope ladder down on the other side of the wall, then climbed down. I hid in the shadows cast by the light of the moon. A few moments later, Riley and Nazeem joined me. Riley turned to Nazeem.

"You stay back here and keep watch. The lady and I go up to the house. We'll be back in thirty minutes."

"As you wish," said Nazeem. He sat down with his back against the wall, and all but disappeared in the shadow.

Riley and I ran towards the mansion, then round a corner till we came to window that was almost completely closed. Riley jerked his head up. I gave him a nod, stretched, looked for handholds, then made my way up. The window opened easily and without a noise, and I made my way inside, closing the window behind me.

"Al salam wo alukom," said a female voice behind me.

I whirled round, groping for my revolver. I stopped. In a chair in the dark sat the wife of Mr. Moghadam's son.

"Aleikum Salam," I said, finally.

"You are very pretty," said the woman. "Are you Riley's whore?" She spoke English, with only a slight accent.

"I assure you. I'm not Riley's whore."

"Don't be offended," she said. "I am. What he says, I must do. Riley has many whores. Men and women."

"He's only helping me find my brother," I said.

In the dark, I could just see her smile. "He is very helpful, is he not? Soon, you will wonder how you ever got along without him. You are in grave danger."

"Are you going to raise the alarm?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't want you taken. You may know things that could hurt me. Beware of James Riley. He is not a good man."

"I know," I said.

"No, you don't," she said. "What is it that you want?"

"Hammond's expedition chest. It may lead us to my brother."

"Ah. It's in the basement. The cellar door is never locked. Take your papers, and get out of my home. May you find your brother safe and well. Family is important."

"Thank you," I said.

There were only a few oil lanterns casting a dim light throughout the house. I had expected guards, but I didn't see any. Nothing stirred. I found the cellar. The door was open, and inside, I found the chest. It all seemed too, too easy, but there was nothing to do but open it, get the papers, get out again. I unlocked the trunk, and opened it carefully. Inside were rock samples, and several small statues made of silver. I took one out, and looked at it a moment. It was a hunter figure with a long spear, stylised, beautifully made. Bastards, I thought. I opened the briefcase, took out the papers and put them inside my suit. I closed the trunk, and after a moment's hesitation, didn't lock it. They should be able to reclaim their property.

I walked up the stairs, and opened the cellar door, slipped out, and made for the bedroom through which I'd entered. As I was halfway up the stairs, I heard a sudden loud voice shouting at me in Arabic. I ran up the stairs, pulling out my revolver. If the man at the bottom of the stairs had a weapon, I was done for, but I made the top of the stairs. I ran into the bedroom through which I'd entered. The woman was gone, and I made a run for the window, when someone strong grabbed me from behind. I raised my revolver and fired into the air with a frightful bang. The man let go and leapt behind the bed. I vaulted through the window, and landed on the grass in the courtyard, rolled over once and was back on my feet. As I ran for the wall, there was a shot behind me and the vicious buzz of a bullet passing some two yards to my right. As I watched, Riley pulled out his own revolver, aimed, and fired several rounds. More people came running out of the house. I could hear Riley running behind me, but I reached Nazeem and the rope ladder first. I clambered up. Riley climbed up behind me. Nazeem's voice rang out.

"Go to the ship. Nazeem will delay our enemies, and join you there. Take the ladder and go."

I opened my mouth to argue, but Riley pulled up the ladder and dropped it on the floor.

"Come on, go! Boreas will leave when we're on board."

"What about Nazeem?" I said.

"Either he's dead or he's working for them. Run!"

 
Riley and I ran side by side through the streets of Khartoum to the harbour. Boreas had dropped one of its cables, and we had to run to catch the rope ladder. As I was half way up, I looked over my shoulder to see a dark figure running towards us, with a curious gait.

"Nazeem!" I shouted.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Riley.

Nazeem reached the ladder and with an enormous effort pulled himself up. In the streets behind, several men came running. Boreas' propellers started to spin, hydrogen hissed through the pipes and we were pulled aloft, and away. We all climbed up and were pulled inside by a dozen hands.

Nazeem lay flat on his back, his brown skin almost grey, breathing deep. He looked up.

"Nazeem has put forth all the strength of his spirit. He must rest now."

Riley looked at me. "Got the stuff?"

"Yes."

"Then Nazeem can have a nap."

 

---

 
I was sitting in the observation lounge, nursing a large gin and tonic with Professor Enderby. Beneath me, gleaming in the light of the moon, ran the White Nile. The papers I'd given Captain Gaskin did contain Hammond's last known location, some fifty miles east of a place called Kodok. Our next stop. We had looked behind us for a while, but we were not being pursued, and anyway, Boreas was faster than most dirigibles. I thought of the young woman back in Khartoum, and silently raised my glass to her.

"Be well," I said, quietly.

 

The flight of the watchmaker

The journey of Andrew Parsons - A new friend - Non-overlapping magisteria - Arrival at Kodok - The Beast unleashed

 

1. Any project must be blue-printed in full detail and approved by University staff before implementation. Any project requiring more than twenty tonnes of iron must be approved by the Chancellor.

 

1. It is permitted for other people's tools to be on workbenches at other than straight angles. It is not necessary to rearrange them in their owners' absence or without their owners' permission.

 

1. Protective gear, especially a face mask, is not acceptable attire outside of the workshop. Civilian clothes are not to have any tears or burn holes in them. Please consult Miss Felicia for appropriate clothing.

 

1. University domestic facilities such as the steam network and hot and cold running water are not for experiments, nor do they need to be re-engineered or improved.

 

1. Seemingly illogical arrangements in the world may be caused by patterns not yet revealed to us. Understanding comes before improvement.

 

-- A plaque in Andrew Parson's workshop.

 
Professor Alan Wadcroft asked me to come on his expedition to drive the Tracked Steam Transport Device Mk.1 outside. This was not in the Mk.1's original specifications. I determined a path of egress involving the fewest University walls and no supporting structures. The engine performed as specified, with the expected amount of high-energy coal. I wrote a letter of apology to the Chancellor for the damage to the walls and to Professor Brassica of Homoeopathy for the damage to her crops, using Miss Felicia's mimeographs.

We attached the Mk.1 to the airship Boreas. It developed two-hundred and sixty five thousand newtons of lift at ground level, which decreased with altitude to two hundred and twenty thousand due to receding air pressure. The Boreas engaged its propellers and set off in a south-easterly direction at a speed of ninety-three kilometres per hour, reckoned over the ground.

I met Mr. Riley, who talked to me for two minutes. He did not know why Boreas used reciprocating piston engines instead of the more efficient turbines.

I talked with Engineer MacDonald for about an hour. The engines used by Boreas were installed before steam turbines had reached their current reliability, and to install a turbine now would need considerable changes to the drive system's layout.

 

NOTE: In the interest of readability, I have taken the liberty of moving the next twelve pages or so to an appendix. From what I can see, the concepts discussed are of considerable interest to aviation engineers, but I would prefer to concentrate on events. As an aside, I believe Andrew has made a friend in Mr. MacDonald, which is not an everyday occurrence. -- Alan Wadcroft (editor).

 
I slept for about half an hour in Professor Wadcroft's cabin, until he woke me up and said he could not sleep because of the noise. I listened carefully, but could not hear a noise, except the wind and the sound of the Trevithick-based engines. Professor Wadcroft told me that the noise only occurred while I was sleeping, and stopped as I woke up. This seemed to me an improbable coincidence. Professor Wadcroft asked me to go sleep somewhere else, while he stayed in the cabin. This was not helpful since I cannot observe noises while I am asleep, and would need an observer awake to determine the origin of the noise. I will have to postpone research into these matters to a time when Professor Wadcroft is not trying to sleep.

I went to the Mk.1 and slept in the Nr.4 bunk. At five minutes past midnight, Professor Margaret Enderby woke me up by calling my name. I observed a man who was disassembling the port aft support for the Mk.1, which was not advisable as it would have compromised the position of the Mk.1 in Boreas' cargo hold. I walked down the gangway to discuss the matter with him, but he tried to leave by way of the Mk.1's hull. Due to a miscalculation, he fell down. Because of this, I have not learned from him why he was disassembling the support.

 

---

 
We arrived at Port Said, and Master Nazeem joined us on board. I do not understand Master Nazeem. He does not use the standard terms when describing natural phenomena. This makes it difficult to discuss the merits of his designs. He used the words "Spirit of Fire", for which there is no formal definition. If I am to work with Master Nazeem, I will need to provide him with a list of standardised units to use. If he does the same, we can draw up conversion tables. Master Nazeem claimed to have abilities that were very interesting, especially the ability to move objects with one's mind. That might well revolutionise the design of instrument controls, by removing the need of moving one's hands away from the primary controls.

 
Boreas arrived at Khartoum two hours before the estimated time, due to tail winds. At the port were several other dirigibles, most of them of an older model than Boreas, one of them employing sails for propulsion, which is not to current standards. I mentioned this to Professor Enderby. She told me that she would quite like to sail on a wind-powered dirigible. I argued that it would be impossible to estimate with any accuracy when one would arrive at a given destination, and she said that was the point. I assumed that was in the interest of finding order in seemingly random phenomena. Professor Enderby explained to me the importance of chaos and randomisation in Biology. Nature progresses by making many units, each different from the original in small and non-deterministic ways. It discards the inferior designs by a process of natural selection. I argued that would be very inefficient, leading to a great waste of resources. Professor Enderby argued that no resources are wasted, as the inferior models provide food for other animals. This is a cogent argument, though I still hold that with proper blueprinting, designs could be improved much faster.

 

---

 
Miss Alexandra Tennant, Mr. Riley, and Master Nazeem have returned from a small expedition, in a much depleted state. They have found the information they were looking for and Boreas is moving accordingly. I went to the engine room to see the engines moving at full speed. Engineer MacDonald told me that at this time, he was compromising between speed and not blowing up the engine, which is reasonable as Boreas would not move at all if the engines were out of order. The engines are very well maintained, well oiled, and kept in good repair. Engineer MacDonald said he wanted to see the engines of the Mk.1. I showed him the two-flow tapered design of the turbines, and the transmission assembly. He said that they were in the bloody stone age with their own engines. I haven't heard of this epoch, and must ask Professor Wadcroft. Engineer MacDonald left. I thought on the matter and drew up a design for a turbine engine for Boreas, which I filed under document number AP-2048-01. It requires only eighteen tonnes of iron and so I won't have to submit it to the Chancellor, which improves the chances of approval.

 
Due to an unexpected side-wind, which Boreas had to compensate for with a westerly course change, we arrived at Kodok some seven hours later than anticipated. Since we cannot predict the direction and speed of the wind, these imprecisions are difficult to avoid. Professor Wadcroft took me to the observation deck. Also present were Professor Enderby, Mr. Riley, Master Nazeem, Officer Klemm, six soldiers dressed in green whose names were not mentioned, and Miss Tennant. The Captain asked me if the Beast was ready, which is how some people refer to the Mk.1. I told him it was. The Captain explained that as soon as the Mk.1 was detached, it would be impossible for Boreas to remain below. They would need to fly to a high-altitude port to take on ballast, then fly back, which would take an estimated fourteen days. The Captain asked us if we could manage that long. Since the Mk.1 can operate for twenty days on a full bunker, I said yes.

We stowed on board supplies and equipment for all the people who would travel on the Mk.1. Captain Gaskin announced that we were now over the last known position of the Hammond expedition, and that it was time to unleash the Beast. The captain found a suitable landing area some ten kilometres north of the destination. All the expedition members now boarded the Mk.1.

Miss Tennant was the last to climb on board. One of the soldiers saw her climb down and spoke in a language I don't know. Miss Tennant answered in the same language. I asked her what she had said. She said, "Literally translated, I understand German, you pig-dog." Before I could ask her what the soldier had said, she went to the front section and told Mr. Riley that he was in her seat. Even though Professor Wadcroft had not assigned seats to specific crew members, Mr. Riley apologised and went to the rear section. I often have to apologise for things I don't understand, and I have wondered if that happens to other people as well. It does.

I sat down in the driver's seat, and activated the coal loading mechanism and the ignitor. Ten and a half minutes later, the pressure in the main and auxiliary boilers reached optimum value. Two minutes after that, a Boreas crew member said that we were now at an altitude of two yards, which is one metre, eighty-three centimetres. They released the supports and we landed on the tracks. Professor Wadcroft told me that people needed to be aware of the vehicle's position, so I sounded the steam whistle. Someone behind me commented in German, but nobody translated. Professor Wadcroft called out the heading. I turned the Mk.1 in the direction specified and set the transmission to the optimum speed for fuel efficiency.

 

---

 
The chronometer showed forty-two minutes, and the odometer twenty-four kilometres. Professor Wadcroft, who was on the hull of the Mk.1, often asked me to stop for observations. This was the ninth time. He pointed at the flag I had seen in the periscope four minutes ago and told me to make for it. Professor Enderby told me to keep an eighteen-metre distance so as not to spoil any data. Professor Wadcroft called down the top hatch, and said that we would be stopping here to examine the surroundings. At Officer Klemm's command, I opened the back hatch and all the soldiers disembarked. I put the Mk.1 in dormant state and put the periscope eyepiece back in its clamps. Miss Tennant was looking at me. She told me that it was good to know that the Beast was working properly. I agreed with her, because otherwise it would not have served any purpose to bring it. This made Professor Enderby laugh. I don't know why. Miss Tennant shook her head, put her hand on my shoulder and told me it was well done. She left the Mk.1.

I don't understand. Why do people say so many things that are already known?

 

Desired things left behind

Extrasensory perception - Song of fire and steel - Local expertise - The jungle by night

 

There is a hierarchy in the various sciences. The mathematicians look down on the physicists, the physicists look down on the alchemists, the alchemists look down on the biologists, the biologists look down on the anthropologists, and so on. In that hierarchy, hovering slightly above the homoeopaths and the paranormal scientists, is the cryptozoologist. Being the study of the unseen, the unknown, the creatures only hinted at in folk-tales, often told under the influence of a variety of mind-altering substances, it takes a special kind of man to keep up the bloody-minded conviction to keep searching. To ignore the fact that what you are looking for may simply not exist, ignore the disdain of your fellows, live with the accusations of deceit. I once asked Gerald, simply, "Why?" His answer was: "Well, I found you, didn't I?"

 

How can you argue with that?

 

-- Prof. Margaret Enderby, Proving the negative wrong

 
Boreas shot up like a cork in a bathtub and within seconds it had disappeared in the direction of the first port sufficiently high up to moor at it and take on ballast. I was sitting in the chair next to Andrew as he pushed the levers and the Beast of Algernon set itself in motion. I looked at his face, and saw nothing there. Most people I know would have looked proud to see that their creation did what was expected of it. Not Andrew. He already knew. I think Andrew is the most misunderstood man in the whole of Algernon University. There's the people who are scared of him because he is large, strong and could... no. A man of his strength could tear them limb from limb. Andrew could no more hurt anyone than he could tear off his own head. There's the people who think he's stupid, except for anything to do with machines. It's true that steel, heat, motion are his natural strengths, but I've seen him turn his mind to astronomy with the same uncompromising thorough diligence, and duplicate the work of Alexis Bouvard, who deduced the existence of the planet Neptune from anomalies in the orbits of other planets. There are the people who think he is a machine, mechanic, unfeeling, without emotion, but I've seen him work, enthralled, on what can only be described as poetry, set not in words, but in steel. Now and then, he tries to share what he feels, but nobody else shares his language.

 
It didn't take us long to find the marker left by Boreas the last time they were here. It was in a grassy clearing in the otherwise dense forest. Wadcroft stalked it like a tiger stalks a deer, and looked round for tracks, clues of where Hammond and his expedition might have gone. Klemm and his Prussian Jäger took up a defensive position on the perimeter. Nazeem strode regally to the centre of the clearing, raised his hands and closed his eyes, chanting the same words over and over again, turning on the spot. Theatrical git. Miss Tennant, energetic girl that she was, trotted here and there, sometimes kneeling to pick something up, look at it, then drop it. I leaned against the Beast and watched the activity. Mr. Riley walked up.

"Howdy Professor. Aren't you going to join in the search?"

"With so many people already on the job?" I said. "I'd just get in their way."

Riley laughed. He did have a nice laugh. "Who do you think will find something first?"

"Probably Alan," I said. "He once told me he'd been taught to read tracks by a Nottingham poacher."

"Our expedition leader has hidden depths. Still. Five dollars says our turbaned friend Nazeem is gonna be the first one to pipe up."

"Shouldn't you be looking with the rest of them? You are our master of acquisition, after all."

Riley shook his head. "Not my speciality, Professor. Give me a human being, and I'll tell you what he's gonna have for lunch next Tuesday. Footprints, broken twigs, bent blades of grass, not so much."

We were interrupted by Nazeem calling out and pointing. Miss Tennant looked up, ran in the direction Nazeem was pointing and within two minutes found a sign. An empty bag that had contained Oreo cookies, a typically American delicacy that only these days was making its way into civilised places.

"Turns out you're right," I said. "How many quid to the buck?"

"Pay me back sometime," said Riley, shaking his head, and laying on the country bumpkin accent in spades. "Who'd a' thunk it? You'd almost say he just knew."

"You still think he's working for the Enemy? Whoever that is? Wouldn't it have made more sense for him to send us into the Sahara?"

"Not yet," said Riley. "He's gaining our trust."

"Now that is your speciality," I said.

"Damn straight."

 
The paper bag, faded and crumpled by the humid winds, was passed from hand to hand. Maps were brought out, lines drawn. Klemm's soldiers, convinced that nobody was near, were now sent out to search in various directions with Nazeem, Wadcroft, and Miss Tennant. Wadcroft's party found more signs. A column of two dozen people does not pass through a jungle without leaving trails, even when a month has passed since they were made. The natives tend to leave nothing but footprints, but we colonial bogtrotters can't seem to walk for ten minutes without dropping something. Bloody untidy if you ask me. Back when Gerald and I were tramping through the forests, we took with us everything that we brought, except maybe for the odd bit of clothing. I wasn't sad to lose it, but I was sad not to find it back.

With all the tracks properly debated and analysed we went back on board the Beast, and trundled through the beautiful African jungle, no doubt scaring the willies out of the local fauna. Wadcroft was sitting proud on the top deck, armed with his massive Barr and Stroud binoculars. No German rubbish for him. Now and then, he would shout some course correction down the open hatch, and Andrew would turn this way and that.

I would have expected the Beast to be hot, loud and bone-jarring, but in fact the only noise it made was a fairly consistent hiss of steam through the pipes. The turbines made a faint deep whirring noise as they turned and the ride was susprisingly smooth. In the back, some of the soldiers were dozing. Oberst Klemm was sitting by the rear hatch, an almost bored look on his face. Riley was playing cards with two of the soldiers, and apparently on the losing phase meant to lull his opponents into a false sense of security till they felt confident to bet more money. It was hot, though. But there's always a silver lining. One of the advantages of having a roaring fire underneath you was that there was always boiling water. I'm not sure who put in the specification for a boiling hot water tap, but it was most welcome.

 
With a sudden jolt, the Beast came to a halt. There were some uncouth words and thumping noises from up top, and then Wadcroft poked his head down the hatch.

"Why have we stopped? Something the matter?"

Andrew didn't take off the visor connected to the periscope. His lips were moving silently.

"Andrew?"

He pushed up the visor. "Not enough data."

Wadcroft gaped. "We've run out of data?"

Andrew pointed. "I don't know the friction coefficient of the slope in front. I cannot tell if the Mk.1 will be able to negotiate that slope."

I stuck my head out of the top hatch.

"It does look kind of steep, Wadcroft," I said.

"Oh dear," said Miss Tennant, looking up from her journal. "Do you want us to get out and push, Andrew?"

Andrew turned round to Miss Tennant. "Twelve humans are not strong enough to push the Mk.1 up the slope," he said. Anyone else, I would have admired their deadpan delivery.

Riley came poking his head in from behind. "Something the matter?"

Andrew unstrapped himself and got out of the pilot's chair.

"I will investigate."

"Wait, wait, wait," said Riley, moving into the pilot's chair. He looked at the controls. "Which one of these gets us more pressure?"

Andrew pointed. "The valves set the base level. The foot pedals provide momentary extra thrust."

"Right. And these handles move the tracks, don't they?"

"Yes."

"Good," said Riley. He pulled down the visor. "Oh my. This is some pretty fancy optics you have here, Mr. Parsons. Well, here we go. Let's see what this thing can really do!"

He pushed forward the handles, and the Beast set itself in motion once more. We slowly tilted backwards as the slope became steeper and steeper till the clinometer showed eighty percent. The Beast groaned with the effort, slowed down.

"Come on, you piece of junk!" Riley rammed the handles forward and stamped down on both foot pedals. There was a loud hiss. The tracks slipped and slid, as the Beast crawled up the hill.

"Yeah! Move damn you, or I swear I'll turn you to scrap!"

After what seemed like one hell of a long time, the Beast reached the top of the hill and toppled forward, causing people in the back to be tossed about with much Teutonic-style swearing. Riley pushed up the visor with a big grin on his face.

"And that's how you do that, Mr. Parsons. Gotta have a bit of faith in your work."

I looked at Andrew. He was shaking, and his eyes were almost shooting fire as he glared at Riley.

"Wrong. Wrong, wrong, WRONG!"

"Oh come on, Parsons..."

Andrew bared his teeth. "The handles have a maximum setting! They do not go further forward! The machine has no ears! It cannot hear you when you shout at it! You go in without knowing! No data!"

"Well, it worked didn't it?"

"Um Mr. Riley," I said. "I suggest you get out of Andrew's chair. And don't get back in it."

Riley got out, still chuckling to himself with a magnificent disregard for life and limb. He looked at Miss Tennant.

"Oh come on, we got the biggest turbines right under our asses and we can't run up a little hill? Get outta here!"

Miss Tennant rolled her eyes and went back to writing her journal. Andrew got back in his seat, adjusted some of the controls and pushed the track handles forward to exactly the right position.

"Boys' toys," said Miss Tennant.

 

---

 
Wadcroft banged his fist on the top, and Andrew stopped the Beast. Wadcroft's head appeared in the hatch.

"Some kind of settlement. Tents, people walking round in the altogether, that sort of thing. Want to have a gander at it, Margaret?"

I clambered up top, and looked through Wadcroft's binoculars. The camp consisted of a dozen or so tents, of the kind that could be pitched or removed within the hour. A few goats were tethered to posts, gnawing on leaves. Goats are really the life-blood of many pre-technological civilisations. They're the supreme herd animal, hardy, small, and manageable. They'll eat anything that grows, they give milk, and they taste delicious when prepared by someone who knows what they're doing.

"Looks like a nomadic people," I said. "Hunter-gatherers. Don't see many of the men there, so they're probably out hunting."

"Do you think they might have seen Hammond's lot?"

I considered for a moment, looking through the binoculars. The camp was very orderly. There was one large tent with a few smaller tents round it, made of stakes and covered with leather. There was a common cooking area with a few fires. Animal skins were stretched on frames, strips of meat were hanging from wooden structures to dry. Women were sitting round fires preparing a meal. Men were tending to the fires. Children ran round with boundless energy, laughing, being yelled at by severe looking older women. It looked like a nice place to live.

"They've been here for a few months. Getting ready to up sticks in a few days, I'd say. Maybe they have."

"Do you think we ought to have a word with them?"

"Sure."

Miss Tennant came up through the hatch. "Are we going into that village?"

"I think we are," I said.

"Alright then," said Wadcroft. "Ahead slow, Andrew."

"No!" said Miss Tennant.

"Belay that!" I said.

Wadcroft frowned at this challenge to his authority.

"You don't roll a large metal beast into a peaceful village, Alan," I said. "You'll scare the willies out of everyone. We'll walk in looking like weary travellers."

"Right," said Miss Tennant. She disappeared below to re-appear a moment later with the case of her sniper rifle. I looked at her. She looked up at me.

"Just in case, Professor," she said.

"Don't be silly, girl. We have a whole team of soldiers with us. No, you are going in with me for a bit of extra charm." I grinned at her. "Oh and we'll all have to be naked or they won't trust us."

Miss Tennant only raised an eyebrow, but Alan's look was priceless.

"Just kidding!"

 
We did cause a bit of a stir when we walked into the village. The lookouts saw us, but because it was just me, Miss Tennant, Alan and Nazeem, they didn't think of us as a threat. The Elder walked up to us, and there was some mutual bowing and shaking of hands. None of us, not even Miss Tennant, could make out a word of what they were saying, so we fell back to that most universal of languages - smiling a lot and using your hands and feet. Facial expressions are truly a universal language. A happy Papua will have the same expression as a happy American, Chinaman, Englishman. Blind people who have never seen a smile will smile when they are happy. We can even read the emotions of animals like cats or dogs. It's just one of those things. I'm pleased to say there were happy faces all round. Alan and Nazeem went with the town elders for some deep discussions and what in these parts is the equivalent of a cold beer.

Miss Tennant and I were whisked off by the women into one of the tents. As soon as we were out of sight, we were helped out of our clothes, poked, prodded, and discussed excitedly. It was decided that the pale colour of our skins did not rub off, and while Miss Tennant had about the same proportions as most of the women in the camp, I was a bit on the heavy side. People pushed cups of steaming herbal tea into our hands, and asked us questions in their language, which we answered in English. I looked at Miss Tennant, but I needn't have worried. She seemed to take it all in her stride. Our clothes were passed from hand to hand, held up to the firelight and tried on by several of the women. I took off my wedding ring and gave it to one of the women to look at. It passed all round the tent, and then was returned to me. Miss Tennant was carrying a few family photos. They were studied with much interest, until one of the women took a breath, pointing at a picture of Miss Tennant's brother.

"Kal," she said. She waved one of the women over and showed her the picture. I watched her closely as she gently, almost reverently, touched the picture with her finger. She looked up at Miss Tennant.

"Kal."

Miss Tennant and the young woman looked into each other's eyes.

"Yes," said Miss Tennant. "Carl. My brother."

The woman slowly reached out and touched Miss Tennant's face. Miss Tennant pointed at the photos one of the other women was looking at, and got them back. She laid out photos on the floor.

"Mother. Father." She put the photos down, then took Carl's photo from the young woman and put it underneath those of her parents. She put her finger on the ground next to Carl's photo, then pointed at herself.

"Me. Carl is my brother."

The young woman looked, understood, smiled. Miss Tennant smiled back.

"Kal," said the young woman, her voice shaking.

"Yes, Carl."

At that, everyone started talking at once, and even if they had been speaking the Queen's English, we could not have understood them. The young woman drew closer to Miss Tennant, took her hand and put it on her own stomach. Miss Tennant's eyes grew large. The young woman grinned, white teeth shining in her dark face. She nodded happily.

I reached over and poked Miss Tennant's shoulder.

"You're going to be an auntie!"

 
Finally, we got our clothes back, and emerged from the tent. Nazeem was by the fire, performing feats of magic and illusion. The hunters had returned carrying goodness only knows what kind of animal, which they put on the fire and roasted with an incredible smell. Wadcroft walked over to us.

"Been talking to the village bigwig. Capital fellow, excellent brew. Must get the recipe. I saw he had a steel knife. Don't know if these people have advanced to steel yet, but I very much doubt that the Buck Knives company has set up a franchise here. I think we can safely say that Americans have passed through this place. Hard to say how long ago, though."

"Oh, somewhere between six weeks and two months, I'd say. One of the young ladies here recognised a photo of Mr. Carl Tennant."

"And when I see him," said Miss Tennant, "I'm going to have a few words to say to him."

 

---

 
We stayed for dinner, slept in a tent with one of the older women of the camp, and the next morning we introduced the villagers to English tea with goat's milk. We had already learnt from the villagers that Hammond's expedition had gone thataway. Miss Tennant gave the photo of Carl to her sister in law, hugged her, and then we went on our way, walking in the direction we'd been pointed. Half an hour later, the Beast rolled up behind us, Oberst Klemm sitting in Wadcroft's position on top.

"Guten Morgen, meine Damen und Herren," said Klemm. "I assume you have found from the natives where we go next?"

"We have," said Wadcroft. "We're going in an Easterly direction. Given that Hammond's lot were looking for pitchblende, for some reason, I think they might have gone to investigate the mountain range over there. That's what I would have done."

We all got on board. The Beast set itself in motion. Alexandra Tennant was sitting with her feet up on the dashboard, looking straight ahead. Andrew was sitting between us, head in the visor, completely focused on driving.

"Hey Alexandra."

"Hm?"

"What's eating you?"

"That brother of mine." Alexandra sighed. "Getting some poor girl in trouble. I'd never have thought he would do a thing like that."

"She's very attractive," I said. "He's not made out of wood and all that."

"Yeah. I suppose."

Alexandra fell quiet again for a while. Then, she smiled and looked at me.

"I've got family in Africa," she said. "Some little boy or girl in a camp that moves through the African jungle gets to call me 'Auntie'. How strange is that?"

 

Forgive us our trespasses

Imperfect company - Mr. John Smith - A restless night on the plains - Show of mercy

 

In any adventure, the time may come when there is no other alternative but to fight. This is usually seen as a failing in one's preparedness, but sometimes, we have no option.

 

There are women who say that a woman can be as strong as any man. Those women have never fought a man, and if ever they did, would most likely do badly. Men have more muscle than we have, and that's the long and short of it. Fortunately, there are many ways in which we can compensate for the difference in strength, with skill, courage, guile, and determination. Father had Carl and me learn several different kinds of martial arts. Carl favoured boxing, I favoured a style of Jiu-jitsu perfected in Brazil. We practiced together as a matter of course, and never went easy on each other. I have had to go to school with a black eye and a note from Father, Carl with his arm in a sling and a note from Mother. Carl was always stronger than I was, but in terms of fights lost or won, we were about evenly matched.

 

Mental attitude is the key to winning, even survival. Any unprepared person who suddenly finds a pair of hands on their throat will freeze. And then die. A prepared person will counter with a double punch to the solar plexus, then break the hold with a triangular punch upwards. A little fear heightens the reflexes and sharpens the focus. Too much of it paralyses. I would say that the key skill is to control one's fear.

 

Of course, a well-practiced Kimura arm lock helps as well.

 

-- Alexandra Tennant, The young lady's adventuring guide

 
We were on our way to the mountains that Wadcroft had pointed out. As there was nothing to see or do until we arrived, he had retired to one of the bunks down below. In his place, Officer Klemm now rode, and I sat next to him for a bit of fresh air. Also, to be honest, I was finding the constant looks of the soldiers on me a bit tedious. Did they have no women in Prussia? Were they away from home for so long that they needed to re-acquaint themselves with the phenomenon? At least Klemm seemed interested only in the strategic aspects of Africa's countryside. Where we were going, there was modest tree cover, but we hadn't found any dense jungle yet. I have no doubt that the Beast could have forced its way through, but it would have been a shame to damage the countryside. Even outside the Beast, it was hot and humid. This meant that perspiration had little chance to evaporate and cool one down, which can easily lead to heatstroke. My shirt was sticking to my skin. Pity any unwitting creature who wears something here that goes transparent when wet. Neither I nor Officer Klemm spoke until he raised himself, looking through the binoculars to our right. He bent down to call through the hatch.

"Herr Parsons, please halt the vehicle."

Andrew brought the Beast to a smooth stop. Strapped into his chair, with his head in the periscope visor, it almost seemed like he was a part of the machine he'd built mostly with his own hands. The Beast responded to his touch as if Andrew was the brain of a living creature of dark metal.

Margaret's head came up through the hatch. "Wotcha Klemm, what's up?"

"Another settlement, Frau Professor." Klemm handed her the binoculars. "I am not an anthropologist, but my guess is that this is not as friendly a place as the last."

Margaret looked at the village, adjusting the focus of the binoculars. I could see her wince.

"Not by a long shot. Many more warriors. The spears they are carrying are no good for hunting. Animals, that is."

"Genau," said Klemm. "Do you think we need to enter that village?"

Margaret lowered the binoculars, and tapped her fingers on the metal plate of the Beast a few times.

"We may do, I'll ask Alan."

Wadcroft was stirred from his bunk, climbed up top and took his turn with the binoculars. He frowned, then sniffed.

"We need the information from that village. They may have seen Hammond's lot like the previous one."

"Alan," said Margaret, "this is a job for the boys. If I or Miss Tennant set a foot in there, we're not likely to come out without trouble."

I looked at Margaret. She didn't look at all happy with the idea of entering. I tapped her shoulder.

"Now can I bring out my Mauser?"

"Jolly good idea," said Margaret.

Officer Klemm coughed. "We should approach from the West, with the sun behind us. That will make it harder for them to detect us, and will also be optimal for heliograph communications. The Panzer should be our base of operations. I suggest Herr Professor Wadcroft, Herr Riley and Herr Nazeem approach the village, with my Jäger following them under cover, ready to provide fire support against a mass attack while Fräulein Tennant stays at the Panzer and eliminates anyone who threatens the main group."

"Sounds like a plan, Klemm," said Wadcroft. "Let's get ready."

 
Ten minutes later, I was lying on a small hill with my rifle, watching Wadcroft, Riley and Nazeem marching off towards the village, proud and tall. Next to me, Margaret and Klemm were watching the progress of the two groups of three soldiers who were keeping careful cover. Presumably, earlier expeditions had given them a healthy respect for the sharp eyes of tribal lookouts. As it was, Wadcroft and his friends were spotted about half way to the village, about eleven hundred meters away. An easy shot for my Mauser, which had an effective range of half again as much. We had agreed that if any of the men would raise their hands in the air and grab their wrist, I would shoot the persons most likely to harm them. In the crosshairs, I could see Wadcroft waving his arms about, indicating first Riley, then Nazeem. There were some negotiations, and then a man approached the group. I adjusted the magnification on my scope. To my surprise, he was wearing a tweed waistcoat, complete with watch chain. Apart from that, he was dressed like the rest of the villagers, grass coloured skirts, spears, shields, and, I couldn't help noticing, some rather nicely muscled torsos.

As I was concentrating on possible threats, and drawing beads on warriors as they moved, I heard a sudden noise from Margaret.

"Oh bollocks. Alan, you idiot!"

I turned my scope back to our three adventurers just in time to see Wadcroft pointing his hand back at us, then making for us.

Klemm snarled. "Verdammt noch mal. The Professor is actually bringing them here. That is not what we have, have..." he struggled on a word. "Abgesprochen!"

Margaret jumped to her feet. "Alexandra, you keep them covered. Mr. Klemm? How quickly can you build a campfire?"

"I will find out," said Klemm, and started gathering sticks.

Margaret ran over to the Beast. "Andrew! Back up. Get behind tree cover and stay out of sight. Keep it as quiet as you can. Hang on!"

Margaret jumped on top of the Beast, disappeared inside, and came up with one of the tent bags. The periscope on top of the Beast turned round and it rolled backwards, out of sight. Almost as an afterthought, Margaret filled up the teapot and put it next to the place where Klemm was piling up dry sticks and setting them alight. I could smell the kerosene oil. I felt Margaret's hand on my shoulder.

"How far away are they?"

"Five hundred forty meters. Five hundred thirty five."

"Alright. Get up and put that gun in the tent."

I looked round, and saw to my surprise that Margaret had put up one of the shelters.

"That is... commendably quick," I said, hiding my rifle.

Margaret grinned wickedly. "If you're travelling in the wild with a gorgeous crypto-zoologist, sometimes you really need to pitch a tent now."

"That is an exceedingly useful skill," said Klemm dryly. "Would anyone like a cup of tea?"

 

---

 
Wadcroft arrived a few moments later, with Nazeem, Riley, and the strangely civilised African warrior, who introduced himself in perfect English as John Smith. Riley sidled up to me.

"Mind what you say. This guy is sharp. And our fearless leader just told him there were more of us."

Riley wandered off to get a mug of tea from Margaret, and to warn her as well. I looked at Klemm. Obviously, he didn't need the warning. He was sitting by the fire with an amicable smile on his face that conveyed nothing about what might be going on in his head, He saw me looking at him and gave an imperceptible nod.

Margaret turned to our new guest. "Mr. Smith? May I offer you some tea? Only Tetley's, but none the worse for that."

"Please, Ma'am," said Mr. Smith.

Margaret poured out tea, added milk, and handed it to him. He breathed in the fumes and tasted appreciatively. "I think that tea is the only thing I miss from England." He gave us a polite nod. "And of course, occasionally speaking the language."

"How did you come to be in England, Mr. Smith?" I asked.

"I must have been fourteen years old or so. I was living near the banks of the White Nile. French soldiers came. They had previously been attacked by cannibals, which must have affected their judgement, so that they could no longer tell one black man from another. My village was burnt to the ground, all men, women and children slaughtered. I hid among the dead bodies, until a platoon of English soldiers came, found me, and adopted me as the platoon mascot. I brought them much luck, as casualties among my platoon were rare. At the end of their tour, the Colonel, named Wordsworth, invited me to return with him to England, and I accepted. The Colonel's father, Lord Wordsworth, wished to prove that black children could do as well academically as white." Mr. Smith gave us all a look. "A worthy pursuit, as I'm sure you'll agree."

"Sometimes," said Wadcroft, "It is necessary to state the blindingly obvious. We have a few African students at Algernon. They are consistent high scorers."

"Indeed," said Mr. Smith. "So I studied. I learnt to speak English properly, I learnt my numbers, and then I studied law. The laws of your land are fascinating. Your Queen is the owner of all of England, Scotland, Wales. All those who live in those lands have their homes on loan from her. I simply could not believe that."

Wadcroft laughed. "Yes, I imagine. The notion of not actually owning your property must be confusing."

"No, that wasn't it. It was the notion that anyone could own a piece of the world. If I build a hut somewhere, and say 'This place is mine', an elephant can come by and walk right over my bits of wood and grass. I have clothes, but only because nobody dares take them from me, or is kind enough to let me keep them. I can only truly own what I can defend." Mr Smith pointed at Wadcroft. "Your civilisation has taken the weak, and made them strong."

"My days were long. I was not a solicitor, but only a clerk. I made the calculations, wrote the papers. I would start before sunrise, and work until sundown. I would eat, sleep and then it would start again. My masters were satisfied with my work, and gradually, I was given more important tasks. To me, this simply meant that the numbers were larger, and that there were more of them. My wages did not rise, but I thought nothing of it. My masters..." Mr Smith smiled. "My employers spoke highly of me. All seemed well, and I was given more and more work to do. Unfortunately, the number of hours in the day..." Mr. Smith pulled out his watch and wound it. "Does any of you have the time? I should really remember to wind this."

I pulled out my own watch. "A quarter past two Greenwich Mean Time. That means it's a quarter past five here."

"Thank you," said Mr. Smith, adjusting his watch. "Well then, in order to do the work alotted to me, it became necessary to increase my working hours, first to twelve, then finally to eighteen hours. My employers were delighted, but the body cannot stand such long days, ladies and gentlemen."

"That's preposterous," said Wadcroft. "There are laws against that. You were being exploited!"

"Indeed I was, Professor, but my specialities were probate and taxes. Employment law was, perhaps for less than honest reasons, kept away from me. And I lived for the praise of my employers. I was representing my race, and repaying the kindness of Lord Wordsworth for this opportunity. I was grateful."

Mr Smith gave Margaret a hopeful look, and held out his tea mug. Margaret refilled it.

"Thank you. Now after a few months of work, this idyll came to an end. With my mind deprived of sleep, I made a critical error. Forgot to carry the one on a long addition, something like that. A trivial mistake that nonetheless embarrassed my employers. The gentleman who oversaw my work had long since stopped checking my calculations in earnest, since all the times he spotted errors, the mistakes turned out to be his."

"Hah," said Margaret. "I have to tell Andrew about that."

Riley shot her a look. "How is Andrew, Professor? Still trying to calculate when the Moon is going to fall from the sky?"

Margaret blinked, realising that she'd misspoken, but recovered quickly. "Wearing out his slide rule at Algernon."

Mr. John Smith looked at Margaret, and continued. "My colleague then availed himself of the advantage that his lighter skin granted him, and pointed out to my employers that they had been fools to trust a Negro. The conversation then quickly deteriorated, and it ended with my wages being reduced significantly, until the loss would be made good. This did not bother me much, because Lord Wordsworth let me stay in one of the side buildings of his mansion. But I felt I had lost the respect of my employers, and since I was no longer in their favour, I found that the other clerks now felt free to target me with a variety of unsavoury remarks."

I looked at Mr. Smith's eyes. He seemed quiet, at ease, peaceful. But I imagined underneath all that a burning rage. How could there not be? Still, he had actively sought us out for a cup of tea and a chat. Were there people who had left a better impression on him than those at his place of work?

Mr Smith sipped his tea. "Unfortunately, even with my diminished reputation, I was not given any less work to do. This sad story, and my employment, ended with me asleep on my desk, having done two full consecutive days of work. I could simply not go on, and went to tell my employers. Now my mind may have been addled by lack of sleep, but as I closed the door, I heard one of them making a remark, and I quote. 'We are not allowed to whip them anymore.' It was then that I fully realised the extent of my idiocy in working for these people. Back here, if any man were to make a similar comment to me, he would feel the weight of my hand, and the thrust of my weapons. I tell you this in the full knowledge that I never will have to make good on that threat, because we do not say such things to each other. Cannot say them, in fact. So after that, I collected my savings and shipped myself on the next liner back to Africa."

"Hah. You should have come to us," said Wadcroft. "A man of your obvious abilities would have done well at Algernon University."

"Please describe to me what my day would have looked like."

Wadcroft laughed. "Well, my intern days, to tell you the truth, would have looked much like what you were describing. My personal record is a three-day stint measuring and compiling the thermal properties of the combustion of the grains of varieties of Fagopyrum esculentum or buckwheat. Which is an important task, given that we will have to feed many more people come the next millennium or so. After that came the fun part of working with chemicals so aggressively hypergolic that they will ignite even wet sand. Those were the days."

"Professor," said Mr. Smith, "what does a man need to lead a fulfilling life? A comfortable place to sit, a roof over his head, a full belly, and the company of his fellows. Most of those I had at Lord Wordsworth's manor, but to keep them, I could not enjoy them. When I returned to Africa, I could not find my family, but I joined this tribe. I kept this waistcoat, my watch, and the name that my benefactors had given me, as a reminder never to go back. This country is fertile, lush and rich. Today, I hunted with my brothers, and took three hours to find and bring down a pair of antelope, and another hour to prepare it. We can provide for our own tribe in four hours. After that, the day is mine to do with as I please."

"So, what do you do then?" I said.

John Smith sat back, put his mug on the ground and grinned broadly.

"We make love to our women, and we make war on our neighbors."

 

---

 
"We need to leave now," said Klemm. "There will be an attack tonight."

"Oh come on Klemm," said Wadcroft. "Surely you don't suspect Mr. Smith's intentions?"

"Thanks to him being here, he now knows that we are a lightly armed group of two women and four men. He knows that our possessions are well worth the risk, and he does not know that we have a Panzer in reserve, nor does he know of our Jäger, unless he recognised me as a commander. He has told us that men of his tribe have spoken with Herr Hammond, but he conveniently could not tell us which way they went, giving us no option but to stay here and wait till he asks his tribesmen. I am worried, Herr Professor. Very worried indeed. These people are cannibals, and I have no desire to be eaten."

"Well, they have been hunting. They don't need any meat."

Margaret stepped up. "Alan, the point of cannibalism is rarely to hunt up something good for the pot. Eating your enemies is a spiritual act, meant to take possession of their courage, their prowess." She scowled. "Usually, the genitals are the preferred bit. Want to risk it? Be my guest."

Andrew and the Jäger had joined us at the camp fire. One of them laughed and remarked in German that he would not mind someone only having a taste. I ignored him.

Professor Wadcroft made a few complicated noises. "Well alright then. But it's getting dark. That makes it pretty damn likely that we'll miss important clues."

"We don't need to travel far, Professor," said Klemm, "just far enough that these people do not find us. They can read tracks no more than we can in the dark."

Wadcroft sneered. "Do you think they'll miss tracks of our vehicle? People can fall into them, they're that deep."

"As long as they don't find us where they expect us," said Klemm, "our own Wachen can see them before they see us. Then the night can pass without bloodshed."

"You are against bloodshed? I seem to remember hearing otherwise."

"Unnecessary bloodshed, Herr Professor."

 
We all got on board the Beast, and Andrew stoked up the furnace. We made for a nearby hilltop, and pointed our best optical equipment at the place where we had left the fire burning, in an extra-high ring of wet stones. The woodsman in me cringed at the idea of leaving a burning fire behind, but all is fair in love and war. My rifle scope was not especially good in low light conditions, but still I could see the dark figures silhouetted against the firelight.

"Well," I said, "That settles that."

"They're not idiots," said Riley. "We'll have them on our necks before tomorrow."

"Well, then we need to make tracks," said Wadcroft. "Andrew? Head east. I would have liked to know where Hammond went, but I'll still wager that he went to have a look at those mountains. The position of this camp confirms it." Andrew set the Beast in motion, but at Wadcroft's suggestion only turned on the bright headlights after we reached the bottom of the hill. We rode on for several hours, until we came to a large plains, lit by the glorious light of the moon. The shadows of the mountains loomed ahead in the distance. Here, we would be able to see anyone coming towards us. We stopped, pitched a few tents, set a watch and went to an uneasy sleep.

 

---

 
I was asleep alone in a tent a few dozen yards away from the Beast. Margaret had chosen to sleep in one of the bunks inside, but I could not bring myself to disrobe, even partly, in full view of the soldiers. I was heartily sick of their company, truth be told, and longed for a bit of peace and quiet. Klemm had set a watch, and we could hear nothing but the soft sounds of the jungle, the wind, the song of crickets. I have often slept outdoors, in a tent, or even under the stars. The firmament, the Milky Way, the constellations, make for a spectacular view that is simply not available to city dwellers. Look at them long enough, and you will be struck by the fact that they are not moving, but it is you, and the small speck of dirt you are lying on, that is spinning in the celestial infinite. Nothing of the sort occurred to me that night, though, as I was tired.

 
I awoke with someone touching my leg. Startled, I turned round to find I was looking at a soldier's face. He put his finger on his lips.

"Sei still," said the soldier.

"Was ist los?" I asked.

"Nothing is wrong," he said. "Everything is alright."

"What the hell is going on?"

"You have been watching me," said the soldier. "I noticed. I am a trained observer."

"We've been sitting on each other's laps. Of course I've been watching you."

"Come now, Fräulein," said the soldier. "I know the look. I know what it is you want. And I am willing to give it to you."

"Piss off! Get out of my tent, or..."

"Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt," said the soldier. There was the soft noise, and the gleam of a knife.

That was a quote from Goethe's Erlkönig. An uncle of mine was fond of singing the English translation of Schubert's version of it. I knew well the next line. The time for reasoning, for talking, was over. I allowed my breath to quicken, to give the illusion of paralysed fear. The soldier raised his knife, to cut open the top of my pyjamas. That meant that the blunt side of the knife was towards my skin. There was one thing to do, and one moment to do it. With a quick movement of my hands. I gripped the man's hand and twisted. He cried out in pain, and rolled over. I followed him, and the knife fell out of his hand. I managed to grab it by a part that wasn't sharp, and rolled over backwards, out of the tent. He followed me outside, swearing under his breath. I faced him.

"Now I have the knife," I said. "Still inclined to use force?"

"HALT!"

Even I jumped up straight, so much authority was in this one Prussian syllable. The soldier stiffened, then stood to attention. Klemm walked up between us, turned to me, and wordlessly held out his hand. I gave him the knife. Hilt first. Klemm turned to his soldier.

"Explain yourself," he said.

"Herr Oberst, Ich..."

"In English!"

"I was... I was looking to see if the lady was alright, Herr Oberst. I heard... disquieting noises. Fräulein Tennant must have misunderstood my intentions... taken the knife from my belt... I..."

"Enough! Miss Tennant's clothes are torn and she has a cut on her breast. Do you suggest she did that herself? Schultz! Möller! Tie this man up and guard him. We will deal with this in the morning."

I looked down, and only now saw. Ironically, I had probably done it myself, but that did not change the situation. My assailant was tied up, made to sit somewhere near the Beast. Two of his fellow soldiers stood over him with rifles. Margaret walked up to me with the medical kit, put her arm round me and led me into the Beast.

"Everybody out," she said. "You too, Andrew."

Everybody left. I sat down on one of the benches and let Margaret take my pyjama off to clean my wound. The sharp sting of iodine made me gasp, and I started to shake. Margaret looked into my eyes.

"Are you alright?"

I closed my eyes a moment. "Yes," I said.

Margaret looked closer. "Like hell you are. Let me take care of this first."

The wound had bled, but it didn't warrant much more than a plaster. My beauty, such as it was, was not affected. Margaret gave me a fresh shirt, and put me in one of the bunks in a way that left me no way of protest. She opened her holster and took out her revolver, checked it to see it was loaded. Then she sat down on the bench next to my head and put her hand on my shoulder. No doubt Margaret knew exactly how many bullets she had. She hadn't fired her revolver even once, this or any previous, expedition. This was just a show for my benefit.

"You get some sleep now."

With the annoying pain nagging at me, and the surplus of adrenalin, I was sure that I would never be able to sleep. I was wrong. As soon as I closed my eyes, I was gone.

 

---

 
I woke up with the sun shining through the open hatch of the Beast. Margaret was sitting next to me, awake and alert. She pushed a mug of tea into my hand, cure for everything.

"I'm fine," I said.

"I didn't ask," said Margaret, "and I don't believe you."

I shook my head. "I'll live. What's happening?"

"Klemm is dealing with it," said Margaret.

"Oh this I have to see."

 
I stepped out of the beast. The soldier who had tried to assault me was standing to attention in front of Klemm and the other soldiers. I looked at their faces. They only glanced at me, then turned their eyes away. Klemm didn't even acknowledge me, and continued speaking to the soldier.

"You have left your post, in a combat situation, exposing us all to the possibility of attack. You did this in order to inflict your unwelcome presence upon a member of our expedition."

"Jawohl, Herr Oberst," said the soldier.

"Any man who does not know to keep his base instincts in check until they are needed does not belong in my Jäger. You are dismissed, and I order you to return to Khartoum immediately. About turn. Forward march!"

The soldier turned pale. I looked at him. There was no knife on his belt. He had no weapon. No means of defending himself. His hands were still tied behind his back. In the direction of Khartoum were people who had tried to kill us so they could eat us and ingest our fighting spirit. This was nothing less than a death warrant. If the natives didn't get him, or the wild animals, he would starve. I had a very good reason to hate this man intensely, but my hatred had not had time to coalesce. I half opened my mouth to say something, but honestly, what? This man had tried to... I could not bring myself to even think the word, and I kept my silence. I did not have a voice in this decision.

As I watched, the man turned about, hesitated a moment, then simply walked away across the plains, towards the lions, the cannibals, death. I glanced at the faces of the other soldiers. They were looking at him, not at me, with angry expressions. There was no mercy there. He had left his post. Klemm's face was hard as stone as he turned around and walked towards one of the tents, showing that for him, the matter was closed. I looked again at the soldier's disappearing back. He was walking at the standard one-hundred and twenty steps per minute, not looking back. I imagined lions looking up, suddenly taking an interest in this moving figure. The native warriors behind us. I imagined him collapsing, exhausted, dried out. As long as I live, I will never forget that moment. Would Klemm or one of the soldiers have stopped that soldier, having taught him a lesson he wouldn't forget? I think not. They might have, but I did not believe it then. I still do not believe it now, but the doubt will haunt me for the rest of my life.

This is what I did. I turned round. I stepped into the loading hatch of the Beast, and fetched my rifle. I assembled it, loaded it, and chambered a round. The soldier was now some seven hundred meters away. I adjusted my scope. I checked for windage. I aimed. I pulled the trigger. In my sight, I could see the man's head burst open, blood spraying. He fell to the ground. I disassembled my rifle, cleaned the barrel with a long brush, as one should do after every firing. Then I put it back in its case, snapped the locks closed, and stepped into the vehicle. As I turned my back, I heard the voice of one of the soldiers.

"Mensch! Das war ein Kopfschuß!"

May I be forgiven.

 

God speed, Professor Hammond

Going the distance - Devoted for life - The mountains of mild confusion - A glimmer of light - Breaking the philosopher's stone

 

I have sometimes debated very devout Christians, who maintain against all available evidence that the Earth is but a fraction of its actual age, that Man once walked with pre-historic reptiles, either riding them or being eaten by them, that the Earth was once surrounded by a mile-thick layer of ice that would have blocked all light from the surface before breaking up and plunging to the ground in boiling fragments, and that marsupials were propelled back from Mount Ararat to the Australian continent by volcanic eruptions, on a trajectory that would take them outside the Earth's atmosphere for several hours before landing in what reason suggests would be a bloody frozen smear on the ground, rather than a single pair of breeding animals capable of re-populating a continent barren of all life. One must marvel at the sheer devotion and the powers of concentration that allow these people to find in the wealth of scientific evidence those very few facts that confirm their beliefs, while ignoring the vast majority of the facts that do not. They call themselves Creation Scientists. Most members of our faculty, many of whom are God-fearing Christians, call them idiots, and treat them like the embarrassing relatives who have taken to wearing their underwear on their heads.

 

-- Prof. Alan Wadcroft, "Never the twain shall meet"

 
As we rode through the African jungle, having escaped the cannibals in he last village, a sombre mood had descended on the expedition, due to the unfortunate incident of the soldier who had shown indecent intentions towards Miss Alexandra Tennant, and left his watch post in order to do so. Whether this offence truly warranted execution by firing squad, is not something I would have liked to decide, but Klemm took matters into his own hand. Miss Tennant, though she was quiet, seemed to have come through the ordeal with only minor injuries.

The Beast of Algernon performed admirably in the harsh conditions, showing Andrew's remarkable engineering skills, as well as his expertise in driving. He seldom left the vehicle, preferring to drive, or sleep in the Nr. 4 bunk, which he claimed for his own. On the one occasion that he found someone already occupying it when it was time for him to sleep, Andrew gently picked him up and put him in the bunk above, much to the entertainment of the rest of the expedition. To say that Andrew is a creature of habit would be the ultimate understatement.

We rode on for about a week, meeting several more of the natives. Very few of them, I'm glad to say, were aggressive. On just one occasion, we had to retreat to the Beast quickly under the threat of spears. The rest of the natives greeted us with anything between indifference and enthusiastic hospitality that we responded to in kind. Miss Tennant's expertise in dealing with these people, and Margaret's anthropological knowledge, were invaluable in our negotiations. We had several photograps of expedition members to show them, and on two occasions Hammond and his explorers were recognised. My intuition that Hammond would make for the rock formation I had spotted from so far away was proven correct. Mr. Nazeem proved to be of much use in our dealings with the natives, being able to perform feats of magic that dazzled the uneducated. While I am certain that all of it was simple trickery, I must admit that I could not find a reasonable explanation for several of his feats. When left to himself, he would sit on top of the Beast, meditating. Occasionally, he would advise us to change course. On several occasions, we found some kind of trace of Hammond's expedition, such as broken or discarded items, camp fires put out, tent pegs left in the ground, or more worryingly, spent rifle cartridges. We did not find any bodies though, so we had to conclude that they had been able to fend off any attackers.

Every day, when possible, we would find a clear area and search the sky for a sign of Boreas. It had been twelve days since we parted ways, so they had a few more days to find us. If we saw them, we would use a heliograph to signal them. By night, if we would see Boreas' lights in the sky, we could use signal flares or the Aldis lamp. In any case, we had enough provisions on board to last us for three weeks, and we could always supplement our provisions by hunting or gathering edible plants.

 
On the twelfth day, we came upon a hut unlike those that the natives tended to build. In fact, it had a distinctly European look, was large enough for some two dozen people to sit in, and had a bell tower on one end. Margaret, who was on lookout duty at the time, stopped the Beast, and pointed.

"Is it Sunday, Wadcroft? Better put on your best pith helmet. It's a church!"

"Halleluiah," I said. "A sign of civilisation. We are saved!"

"Hope they're not Catholics," said Miss Tennant. "I'm no-nonsense C of E."

By now the procedure for approaching a settlement was well-rehearsed. We approached cautiously, watched over by Klemm and his soldiers. The shepherd of this unlikely flock turned out to be a Pentecostal Christian named Father Nathaniel. Upon seeing us, he cordially invited us into his church, even Nazeem, who looked uneasy. Perhaps the Spirits didn't like him fraternising with infidels - something like that. Father Nathaniel's church was simple, furnishings made out of wood, a skillfully carved crucifix, an altar fashioned from a large solid block of wood. The communion wine was made from local fruits, the wafers baked from yams. It was strange, in this hot, humid jungle, to be sitting in actual pews, singing the well-known hymns, praying the Lord's Prayer as though we would step outside to find ourselves back in Ipswich. I glanced at Miss Tennant, who was sitting next to Margaret, eyes closed, hands folded. I must confess that I am not a regular churchgoer, but every time I go, I emerge feeling fresh, having thought about things less concrete than data, figures, chemical reactions, and with the fleeting notion that I should do this more often.

 
The familiar rituals drew to an end, and Father Nathaniel joined us outside, moving from one to the other chatting, until he came to Andrew, who was sitting on a bench, a cup of tea in his massive hands, staring ahead of him, pieces of metal no doubt revolving in his mind.

"Good day my son," said Father Nathaniel. "I didn't see you at communion. Doesn't your church have this ritual? Are you a Quaker perhaps?"

I saw Andrew withdraw from the universe in his mind, to the here and now.

"I don't have a church," he said.

Father Nathaniel's eyes opened wider, and I moved a bit closer. Andrew and the ineffable don't mix well. Though he was baptised of course, his parents, may they rest in peace, stopped taking him to church, knowing that it would only confuse a soul like his, a creature of pure mechanics.

"Have you not accepted Jesus as your Lord and Saviour?"

"No Sir," said Andrew.

"Why not? Your immortal soul is in peril every moment you tarry."

"This year is ____," said Andrew. "People do not live that long, so I could not speak to him, nor enter into an agreement with him."

"But Jesus lives on even today! Unless you repent of your sins and accept Him, you may burn for eternity!"

"I wear protective clothing," said Andrew.

"There is no protective clothing in Hell, my child," said Father Nathaniel.

"That is against University Rules," said Andrew, with a finality that hit like a stroke of doom. "Protective clothing is mandatory in the forges."

Margaret noticed the tone of Father Nathaniel's voice, and wandered over.

"But..." I could see Father Nathaniel spinning up the apologist engines, so to speak. "You are obviously a man of science. How, without knowing the Maker, can you know anything?"

"By measuring, and calculating, and drawing, and building," said Andrew. "The Maker has not made himself known to me. I have not, so far, required his assistance. I have no evidence that he exists."

"Then let me prove it to you," said Father Nathaniel.

Now if there is one thing that really gets my hackles up, it's when someone sets out to prove the existence of a supernatural being by means of reason or physical evidence. It's impossible. Suggesting that we have, so to speak, found the Toe of God, and can elicit a celestial chuckle out of Him by tickling it, borders on the blasphemous. His existence was never meant to be proven, it was meant to be taken as, strangely, a matter of faith.

"Tell me," said Father Nathaniel. "Is it impossible for the God of the Bible to exist?"

"I have insufficient data," said Andrew. "I have not read the Bible."

"Then let me describe Him to you. He is all-powerful, knows all that is, has been or will be. He is all-merciful, all just, all good, and he made us all. It is written that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, and knowledge of the Holy One is understanding. Without God, we can know nothing."

Andrew nodded. "In that case, yes. It is impossible. An all-knowing being cannot be all-powerful, since he is powerless to affect what will be, as that is known already."

Father Nathaniel frowned. "Time does not mean to God what it means to you or me, my child. He exists outside of Time, and is not restricted. He knows what is, and what might be. Which of those is which is not ours to speculate about. Only God knows. The Bible teaches this."

Andrew frowned. "That does not affect the argument. If..."

"Let me ask you this. Out of all the knowledge in existence, how much do you posses?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I don't know, and cannot compare it to what I do know."

"Would you say that you have one hundredth of all knowledge? One thousandth?"

"The data I have are not sufficient to answer that question."

Father Nathaniel leaned forward, smiling. I was starting to dislike the Reverend more and more with each passing minute. It takes a special kind of man to travel to a place as far away as Africa, and tell the natives that they are wrong about all they believe. I believe the distance between them and sensible people is a good thing, but their proximity to unsuspecting natives? Less so.

"Could you be wrong about everything you claim to know, Andrew?"

Andrew considered a moment. "No."

"Really? Do you think everybody's reasoning is valid?"

"No, I don't," said Andrew. "People are sometimes wrong."

"So how do you know that you are not wrong? Can you trust the evidence of your eyes and ears?"

"Yes," said Andrew.

"I'll show you you can't," said Father Nathaniel.

He picked up a stick, drew a few lines in the sand. You've probably seen it. Two parallel lines with at their ends arrows pointing out and arrows pointing in. The eye is thus tricked into thinking that one is longer than the other.

"Which one of these lines is longer?"

Andrew looked, pointed. "That one."

"Ha! No it isn't. Both lines are the same length!"

Andrew shook his large head. "No they are not. The line closest to you is eight millimeters longer than the other."

"No, it only looks like that to you. The eye is fooled by the context of the arrow heads, proving that..."

Andrew gently took the Father's stick out of his hand, and held it up to the longer line, marking it with his thumb. Then, he held it next to the other line. There was an unmistakable gap between the end of the line and Andrew's blackened thumbnail. Andrew gave Father Nathaniel's stick back to him.

"Nevertheless, you can't be absolutely sure about anything, unless you receive the knowledge from the all-knowing God. God does not lie, and without him, our knowledge lacks a foundation."

Margaret gave Father Nathaniel a friendly smile, the one she usually uses to trick people into thinking she's harmless.

"There must be some kind of foundation, somewhere in the spirit of Man, Father."

"No, there is nothing," said Father Nathaniel. "If you don't base your knowledge on the fear of the Lord, you will inevitably be deceived, by your own ignorance or by the Evil One."

"How would you know?" said Margaret. "If the glory of God has not been revealed to you yet, then you can't know if any revelation comes from Him, or from the Devil."

"From the Bible," said Father Nathaniel. "The Bible is the Word of God, and so can you know the truth."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Even if you do receive your knowledge directly from the Almighty, how do you know you interprete it correctly? If I were to pray for the number of stars in the sky, I could not possibly contain the number in my mind."

Margaret laughed. "And how do you know you have the right Bible? There is a very old copy of the Scriptures that says 'Thou shalt commit adultery'. They're worth a mint! The poor bugger who wrote it got fined three-hundred quid and his license torn up."

"That is impossible," said Father Nathaniel. "God protects his Word, so that its truth and beauty are preserved. Who told you about this?"

"Seen it myself," said Margaret. "It's on display in the British Library."

"Are you sure of this? How can you be certain that this is not some kind of fake?"

"That's an excellent question," I said.

At this point, Miss Tennant walked up and coughed. "Father? May I trouble you for a confession?"

Father Nathaniel dropped his stick, and got up, smoothing his robes. "Of course, my child. Follow me."

"Saved by the bell," Margaret said as she watched them go.

"Pompous ass," I said.

Andrew frowned. "He has not completed his argument. Is there really someone who points out mistakes in people's calculations? That would be most useful."

"The short answer to that, Andrew, is no," I said. "There are many excellent reasons to believe in God, but none of them are scientific, and none of them involve Him pointing out mistakes in our homework."

 
Andrew had stoked up the furnaces, and the Beast stood trembling, eager for more miles to feed on. Miss Tennant came walking out of the church with an expression like stone on her face. Without a word, she climbed into the Beast, and took up her seat next to Andrew's. Margaret strapped herself into the other chair. She leaned over to Miss Tennant, touched her arm.

"Did he tell you anything useful, love?"

Miss Tennant looked round at Margaret.

"Platitudes," was her only word.

Just before we were about to go, Father Nathaniel came walking out of the church. He walked up to Andrew, who was inspecting one of the tracks, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Father?"

Father Nathaniel handed him a Bible. "Read this, my son, and all your questions will be answered."

"Thank you, Father," said Andrew. He climbed aboard, tucked the Bible into a corner of the controls and set the Beast in motion.

Margaret sat there, quietly laughing to herself.

"What's so funny?" I said.

"That man doesn't know what he's done, giving Andrew that Bible. He'll either end up destroying Christianity, or proving the existence of God up to five decimal places."

We all started laughing, quietly at first, then louder and louder. Really, it wasn't that funny a joke, but to us, it was irresistible. Even to Miss Tennant. Do you see what I mean by excellent reasons?

 

---

 
As the days drew on, the mountains drew nearer. It was still quite hot, but no longer as humid as it had been. Nazeem no longer sat on the roof of the Beast, but had moved his mat to the top of the cockpit. Often he would stare ahead with an intense look in his eyes, murmuring prayers, mantras or incantations. We hadn't met a living soul for days, and the larger trees had disappeared, giving way to thorny bushes. I didn't envy Hammond, having had to cross this inhospitable place on foot rather than on heavy iron tracks. As I was sitting in my usual lookout spot, under a parasol, Nazeem suddenly stood up.

"Halt!"

I nearly fell off the Beast, but Nazeem stood straight and tall, not even swaying. One of these days, I will make a large thesis on the man, explaining in great detail how he does what he does, but today was not that day. Nazeem leapt down to the ground, bent down, picked up a bit of dry, calcium-rich soil and rubbed it onto his forehead, and into his black beard. He started a chant in a very loud voice, and knelt to the ground, pressing his forehead to the yellowish earth. Riley stuck his head out of the hatch.

"Oh great, here we go. The spirits are angry and demand we turn back at once. Bets anyone?"

Nazeem turned round, anger on his face.

"You mock the Spirits of Earth, even as Nazeem implores them safe passage. Do you wish for the Earth to swallow us up?"

"God forbid, said Riley. Better implore some more, just to make sure."

"Unbeliever," said Nazeem. He returned to his chanting.

Riley looked down, disappeared inside, and was replaced by Margaret.

"What ho, Wadcroft? Is Master Nazeem having a vision? What do the spirits say?"

"Buggerall," I said. "To me anyway."

"Aren't we lucky to have Mr. Nazeem to talk to them on our behalf?"

As we watched, Nazeem's chants raised in a crescendo, then suddenly ceased. His kneeling body did not move for a few seconds. Then, he staggered to his feet, and walked unsteadily to the Beast. His face, smeared with light soil, looked weird and inhuman as he held onto the Beast for support.

"We may continue," he said, his voice shaking. "But Nazeem cannot lead you for a while. He has made a great spiritual sacrifice, and must rest."

"Well done, Master Nazeem," said Margaret. She handed him a bottle of water. "Get into one of the bunks. Not the number four."

Nazeem made a great show of climbing into the Beast, nearly falling down the hatch. He fell into one of the bunks and seemed to pass out. I looked at Riley, who silently clapped his hands.

"Right then", I said. "All ahead full Andrew."

We continued on. Thanks to Master Nazeem, we were not swallowed up by the ground. The mountains now seemed a lot taller, and I worried a bit about having to clamber up them at my age. The Beast is a magnificent piece of engineering, but vertical ascents are not what it does best. The landscape became steadily less hospitable. Now and then, we had to change course to avoid deep crevasses in the rocky ground. Once, we stopped and tried to measure how deep they were, which turned out to be over a hundred yards. The geologist in me itched to explore these fissures, but it was not the time. A sense of urgency had come over us. Hammond had not been seen or heard of for several months now, which was against University rules for an expedition. Despite the evidence, I was starting to doubt whether they really came this way.

Miss Alexandra was the first to spot it. She was sitting up top with my binoculars.

"I can see tents!" she shouted, pointing. "West by south west, about ten miles away."

The tents were set up in two neat rows of six, with one larger tent a little way away. In a spirit of national pride, someone had set up an American flag, but worryingly, it was flying at half mast. Miss Alexandra called down the hatch.

"Hurry up, Andrew, something's wrong."

In response, the Beast belched more smoke from its chimneys, and sped up. The wind picked up, and there was a weird, whistling sound in the air. The air was hot, like the draft out of a furnace. The Beast leapt forward, eating up the miles, rushing forward like a horse to the stables. A strange sense of urgency had descended on all of us, a sense of foreboding. At a barked order from Klemm, all the soldiers grabbed their weapons and readied themselves. Even Riley and Margaret quickly checked their revolvers.

Andrew was unshakable. He was moving the Beast at maximum speed, but without risking life and limb. As we approached the camp, we could see tents flapping in the wind, their doors open, sand covering the heavy canvas on the windward side. Inside the camp, nothing human stirred. It looked abandoned, but why would everybody leave and not take any of their equipment? I didn't like any of the obvious answers.

Like a metal storm, the Beast thundered into the camp, and came to a shuddering stop. The back hatch opened, and Klemm and his Jäger leapt out. They started to go from tent to tent, until they shouted out for their commander.

"Herr Oberst!"

Klemm marched forward, stiff and straight.

"What have you found?"

"Leichname"

Miss Tennant ran forward, her rifle on her back, into the tent. I followed her, somewhat slower. As I approached the tent, Miss Tennant came out again, a tight expression on her face. She ran to another tent, and entered it, only to come out again a few moments later. I looked inside the closest tent, and stopped. On the bunk beds were the dead bodies of expedition members. They were lying on their backs. Their faces were hideous with ulcers, and so were their hands, folded on their chests like they had been laid out that way. I heard a cry from Miss Tennant, near one of the other tents, and looked round.

"I can't find him!"

"Miss Tennant, please! Come here. We have to be careful..."

"Go to hell. I have to find him."

Miss Tennant tore open the door to another tent, and disappeared inside. She came out again only a few moments later.

"Where is he? Where is Carl? I have to find him!"

Margaret walked up to her. "Alexandra, calm yourself. We don't know what these poor people died of, and I don't want to join them."

"I need to find Carl," said Miss Tennant, and walked towards the largest tent.

"Hold! Do not enter that tent!"

Nazeem stood a little way off, hands crossed on his chest. His face looked pale, and he was shivering despite the heat.

"In that tent dwells a spirit beyond the experience of Nazeem. It is like to the Spirit of Fire, but it only burns, and does not warm. What is it that these people have disturbed? It took their lives, and its influence dwells within that tent. Do not enter, I beg of you!"

Riley came walking up. "God damn it Nazeem, cut it with the superstitious nonsense. You don't believe that yourself and you know it. Do you think we are idiots? What's in that tent that you don't want us to see, and more importantly..." Riley's eyes narrowed at Nazeem. "How do you know it's there?"

Riley stepped up to the tent and prepared to open it. Nazeem sprang forward, grabbed his arm and threw him back. Riley drew his revolver. At an order of Oberst Klemm, one of the soldiers sprang forward and stepped on Riley's arm, knocking his revolver out of his hand.

"If there is any violence to be done, meine Herrschafte, it will be I and my Jäger who do it."

I stepped forward and drew a deep breath. Time for a little shouting.

 
"Pestilence, War, Famine and Death! Why is Stupidity not among them? Master Nazeem, step back. Riley, don't be an arse and put away that gun. Everybody, calm down as befits members of the Scientific Society." I looked round. All round me, people were looking at me. I pointed at the tent.

"We don't know what is in that tent. Maybe it's the cause of all this death, maybe it's not. But we will find out, taking appropriate precautions. From the data we will gather, we will try to determine what has happened here, and what to do next. Margaret, you examine the bodies of the deceased. Miss Tennant, assist her. Klemm, take Nazeem and Riley and search the perimeter of this camp for any tracks. Maybe some of them went to find help. If they did, we may be able to find them. Andrew, fetch the environmental suit from the Beast. Stop running round like headless chickens when there's work to do. Now go!"

There was a momentary pause, where nobody moved. Then, everyone set off to do their alotted tasks. I've led several expeditions, and most of the time, my learned colleagues and friends will know what is expected of them without me having to tell them, with perhaps the occasional nudge in the right direction. But by God, if it becomes necessary to turn that nudge into a shove, then shove I will.

As Andrew lugged the heavy protective suit out of the Beast, there was a shout from the East of the camp, and I ran over to find out what the cause might be. The men were standing in a half-circle. As they opened their ranks for me, I saw three wooden crosses standing side by side. I did not know the names on two of them. The middle one bore the name of James Hammond.

 

---

 
In the failing light of the evening, against the background of the majestic mountains, we all paid our respects to the graves of the expedition members. Klemm and his Jäger had dug the graves for the other dead. With all the rituals seen to, I pulled on the environmental suit with the help of Andrew. This suit was almost like a diving suit, made from gutta-percha, a natural rubber that was getting quite hard to come by these days, with an independent air supply provided by hoses and a pump that Andrew would operate. The helm was made of light thin steel with large windows to the front and sides.

I closed the visor and signalled Andrew to start the pump. Hot dry air started to blow on the back of my head. I slowly opened the tent flap and walked in. Inside the heavy canvas, it was almost dark. The tent would have been large enough for twenty people to sit at tables. Various pieces of equipment were lined up at the sides. The tables were stacked with jars filled with a luminous kind of rock that bathed the interior of the tent in a greenish glow. To one side, I could see large containers with the pitchblende rocks, small lights in them. I vaguely remembered reports of glowing crystals coming from the University of Paris, but to be honest, I considered them curiosities and never gave them much heed. Obviously, Hammond had been more interested, dug a large quantity of them out of the side of the mountain, and here I was, bathed in their radiance. What Hammond saw in them, I could not begin to speculate, so I looked round the tables for any papers that might shed some light on the situation, no pun intended. In the far corner of the tent, I found Hammond's field notes, and a letter adressed in an unsteady hand to whom it might concern. I took both, and made my way out of the tent. The eerie glow was starting to unsettle me.

Once outside, I handed the papers to Margaret and started to peel off the environmental suit. Margaret was leafing through the journal with a dark expression on her face.

"Anything good, Margaret?" I said.

Margaret sniffed. "Twaddle. Hogwash and poppycock. Gibberish. This is not a scientist's journal, it's a horror novel." She looked up to me with a wry grin. "And those tend to have a juicy romance or two in them. This one doesn't even have an embarrased glance at anyone's bottom."

"Well, you're the biologist here," I said. "Hammond's a geologist. Rocks are famous for their lack of... goings-on."

Margaret shook her head. "Just look at this, and I quote. From the studies of Professor Pierce, I was able to determine the cause of aging as a gradual decrease in the frequencies at which our bodies resonate in the higher dimensions, as entropy takes its toll and energy becomes unavailable to the functioning mind to use. If we could only replenish these frequencies with fresh radiation from elements only hinted at in the writings of the Ancients... and so forth, and so on."

I shook my head. "I know all those words. I simply have never heard anyone use them in that particular way. Was Hammond looking for a cure for old age? Good grief."

Margaret glanced over at the fresh graves. "That would have been nice. I don't think it worked."

"What about the letter. Did you see that?"

"Here it is," said Margaret. "Got distracted by the interesting discourse."

Margaret held the letter out to me, but before I could take it, Miss Tennant snatched it out of her hand.

"That is Carl's handwriting!" Miss Tennant stared at the words on the page, swallowed, then started to read.

 

To whom it may concern,

 

This is the final report on what happened to the expedition of Professor James Hammond of Miskatonic University, Arkham, America. It is with sadness that I have to report that he has died in the pursuit of science, and has been buried near the mountains that he suspected held the key to a cure for the many maladies that plague Humanity. Whether he was right or wrong, we will never know. Pestilence has caught up with us, and many of our expedition are dead or dying. We do not know the details. Doctor Sigrid Saknussemm has kept comprehensive records, up to the point that she herself succumbed.

 

Our bearers have deserted us. Half the expedition members are dead, and many more are dying. I myself have noticed the first symptoms. If our experience is any guide, I have a week or two before I too fall victim to this new plague. If you, Reader, find this letter, then for God's sake turn back. This place is cursed.

 

I will attempt to reach civilisation, so that I may warn them not to return to this place. I have set off in a Westerly direction, and with God's help, I will find some soul to hear my story before I die.

 

May God protect you all.

 

(Signed) Carl Tennant.

 
Miss Tennant dropped her hand, and looked to the west. Then, she looked at me.

"Please Professor. Help me find him."

 

Surrounded by idiots

The joy of working with professionals - Missing, and shove your presumptions - The road to hell - Carl Tennant

 

We've found Hammond's camp, and it's in a sorry state. All the expedition members are dead, and there's a tent full of minerals that probably killed them. As far as I can see, there was a dust storm a while back and what better way to wait it out than gather up in a tent with the glowy rocks, close all the doors and sit there banging away at them to get the glowy stuff out? I haven't a clue what that stuff is, but to sit in a big circle huffing the dust that comes off seems to me like a perfect way to get infected with whatever is in those rocks. There is now a jar of the stuff in our transport, and I'm sleeping on the other side. I've been on Arkham expeditions before, and eldritch emanations from the ghost-world are usually a good sign that you're about to get hosed.

 

One person remains unaccounted-for: Carl Tennant, our friendly sniper's brother. He's wandered off to get help. No telling what state of mind he was in, but getting the hell away from that camp seems like a sign of sanity to me. We've now set off looking for him. His letter said he was sick already, so he's probably lying in a ditch right now. Still, as the Prof says, no man left behind, tally ho old bean.

 

Why do these Arkham expeditions always turn into such God-awful messes?

 

-- James T. Riley, expedition report.

 
God, I hate working with amateurs. They were actually starting to trust our mystic friend. Well, I liked him fine, but I didn't trust him further than I could comfortably throw him. That mumbo-jumbo act of his was starting to have an effect on the Brits. Does tea make your brain turn to mush?

To make things worse, one of our brave protectors decided to look for some entertainment with, of all people, sniper girl. I'll grant you, she's the only decent piece of ass on this expedition, but really? When I get in the sack with someone, I like them to be in a state of mind where they want to do nice things to me. Or kill me, but that's a whole different story. Miss Tennant was as cold as a fish, and all focused on finding that brother of hers. If she even had a libido, she was doing a damn fine job of hiding it. What the hell got into that stupid Hun to try it is beyond me. Well, there's nothing like a bullet in the head to get rid of stupid ideas, and she got that right.

Since Mr. Carl Tennant said in his letter that he was going West, we set out in that direction. Wadcroft and Enderby stayed at the camp with Klemm and the soldiers, to find out what the hell happened there. Nazeem had volunteered to come with us and 'beg the spirits to aid us in the search'. If he hadn't volunteered, I'd have dragged his sorry ass onto the vehicle anyway, because I wanted to have a private word with Master Nazeem. We steamed along happily all the afternoon until Nazeem gave a shout and pointed. When I stuck my head out of the hatch, Nazeem and Miss Alexandra were already on the ground, running. She bent down and picked up a rifle that was just lying on the ground. Damn it, people. You find a piece of evidence, and the first thing you do is mess with it? If the woman had kept her fingers off it, we could have seen the direction in which it fell, how deep it was buried, you know, useful things. But there's no arguing with people when they're in the state of mind Miss Tennant was in, and I couldn't slap her. I walked up to Miss Tennant. Nazeem was standing off to the side, chanting something mystical.

"What have you found?"

"This is Carl's rifle," said Miss Tennant. "I'd know it anywhere. It has his name on here. He'd never leave it behind."

I held out my hand, and she gave it to me. It was a more modern variety of the M4 Garand rifle. The boy had good taste in rifles. These things were the workhorse of the American army, up until the Colt automatics eclipsed them. I checked the magazine, and it had the standard eight rounds in. I sniffed the barrel. It had not been fired recently.

"What do you think happened?"

Miss Tennant was looking at me. Her expression was carefully kept clear of any emotion, but I could hear it in her voice. She wanted me to say that her brother was probably fine, he'd just dropped his rifle and forgot to pick it up again. Happens to anyone. To me, this spoke of despair. He would probably be in a state of mind where he no longer cared who might be after him, and trying to lose some weight so he could keep going for longer. I looked around. We were in sandy plains, with nothing much growing. American deserts at least have cactuses that you can chop open for water, but nothing like that grew here.

I scanned the horizon. People don't realise that is a skill you have to learn. When you're looking from one place to another, your eyes move in jerks. Try it. Find a mirror, and look at your left eye, then at your right. You never see your eyes move. If you don't know this, and don't take your time to move in very small skips, you can miss things. This got explained to me when I was a liaison officer in the Navy. And what I saw on the horizon was one place that was a bit darker than the rest. Just as I opened my mouth to say something, Nazeem piped up.

"The spirits are speaking to Nazeem, at just this moment. They command us to move in that direction." Nazeem pointed at the dark bit. Probably some kind of oasis.

"Well fancy that," I said. "Them spirits is mighty concerned about us heathens. Let's go!"

 
We all got back on board, and the Beast ran on in the direction of the trees. We kept rolling on until it became too dark to see anything. Andrew Parsons stopped the Beast without being asked to. Miss Tennant looked down the hatch.

"Why are you stopping?"

Andrew came up. "I cannot see the trees anymore. If we keep going, then we may miss them."

"I can see them," said Miss Tennant, pointing. "They're straight ahead. Just keep going on the same course."

"The Spirits..."

"Shut up, Nazeem," I said. "Miss Tennant, your brother may have made for that patch of trees, but there's no telling if he made it. If he collapsed somewhere, then we could run right over him and never know."

Miss Tennant looked at me, cold as ice.

"We need the light, Alexandra," I said. "The headlights won't cut it. Get some sleep, and tomorrow's another day."

"You don't know my brother, Mr. Riley. When he sets out to do something, nothing will stop him. He did not collapse somewhere between here and that patch of trees. We don't need the light to reach it."

I've worked in very nasty places for a lifetime. There isn't a thing on God's green Earth that I haven't seen human beings do to other human beings. I've seen people hanged. I've seen people shot. I've seen people flogged to death. Burned alive. Torn to pieces by dogs. Cut with knives. Left to starve. I've wondered about the sheer genius people sometimes display for the purpose of making another human being miserable, and wondered why? Why invent all these ingenious devices? All you really need is a piece of rope, and it works on everybody. I've seen the poor bastards, the victims. Completely broken people for whom death comes as a friend. And I've seen how much people can endure. People with no fingers, bodies twisted, broken and burnt, and still not talking. There's a place where people's minds go, and no matter what you do to their bodies, you won't touch it. It's a place of despair, a place where you simply wait for death. The cruelest torturers recognise it, and then, they do the worst thing a man can do to another human being.

They give them hope. They give them hope, and then they start all over again, crushing it.

I wasn't about to do that to Miss Alexandra Tennant. I didn't particularly like her, but I could admire her spirit. And nobody deserves that.

"Where he's gone, it doesn't make any difference if we arrive a few hours later. If he made it to the trees, then good. He had a nice shady place to die in. But like as not, he's under a foot of sand right now. You've read his letter. He was sick already. He dropped his goddamn gun on the ground, and he didn't even care." I looked into Miss Tennant's eyes. "You're not going to find him alive."

She gave me a look, filled with the purest hate. Good. Let her hate me. Let her want to claw my eyes out, but damn it, let her believe me.

"You do not know what Carl is capable of. He is alive. He is waiting for us at the oasis."

"He is not a goddamn immortal, Miss Tennant. Nobody survives a hundred-mile trek across the desert with poison in their veins. He's dead, and the troubles of this world no longer concern him. Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I am an expert, I am the goddamn professor on what a human being can endure. We're going to find him, we're going to bring him back to the camp, and then we're going to stick him in an orderly grave next to his learned friends. We're going to say the Lord's Prayer over him and then we're leaving. That's what we're going to do."

Miss Tennant snarled. "Go to hell."

She turned round and went into the Beast. I looked up. Andrew stood next to the tracks, watching me with a blank stare in his eyes. Nazeem stood next to him.

"Well, what do you have to say?"

Andrew shrugged. "I have no data upon which to build a hypothesis as to the condition of Mr. Tennant."

"Carl Tennant lives," said Nazeem. "This, Nazeem was given by the Spirits to know. But unless the Spirits wish otherwise, he will die soon."

"So we have two votes for alive, one for dead, and one abstention. Priceless. Well, I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me when you want me to take a watch."

 

---

 
I lied. I didn't go to sleep that night. What I really did was pretend to sleep until Miss Tennant and that brute Parsons were sleeping. I crept out, pulled out my revolver, fitted the silencer so as not to disturb my friends' sleep, and went to have a chat with Nazeem. Nazeem was sitting on his mat a few dozen yards away from the Beast. No use sneaking up on a guard. I sat down on the ground in front of him and pointed my gun at him.

Now let me tell you a few things about holding people at gunpoint. Once you do it, you have to know and accept that they may end up dead. There can't be the slightest doubt in your mind that you'll pull that trigger. It's the one poker hand where you really can't bluff. They'll know. It is the ultimate battle of wills, and I love it. I've been held at gunpoint myself several times. There was one time when some guy thought I'd molested his sister. I held out my hand, and told him that he didn't want to do that, and to give me the gun before someone got hurt. It took me maybe two minutes of talking, and then he broke and actually gave the gun to me. As it happened, I'd never even seen his sister let alone laid a finger on her, but so help me. That moment where he gave the gun to me, and he crawled away with his tail between his legs? I wouldn't have traded it for a whole week alone with his sister.

 
So I assure you, when I sat down there for a friendly chat with our Master of Strange Powers, I was absolutely prepared to shoot him if I had to. I have to say he didn't even flinch. He looked at me with a dark look in his eyes.

"Who are you working for?" I said.

"It is as Nazeem has said. The spirits of the elements have spoken, and Nazeem must obey."

"Cut out the crap, Nazeem. We both know that all that spirit mumbo-jumbo is just to fool the ignorant morons we meet. Who are you really working for?"

"Nazeem speaks only truth, and no lies have ever passed his lips. Has Nazeem not been a faithful companion to you? Then why do you not trust his words?"

"How did you know which way the expedition went?"

"Nazeem was given this to know..."

"So help me," I said, raising my gun. "If you mention those goddamn Spirits one more time, I'll put a bullet in your head."

Nazeem glowered. "No earthly weapon may harm Nazeem. Your bullet will circle round his body, and strike down the heathen who fired it. So speaks the Spirit of Air, and so speaks Nazeem."

"Oh that I have to see," I said, and pulled back the hammer with a click.

Nazeem raised a hand. "Wait."

I looked at him. "Well?"

"To satisfy your curiosity, and put to rest your unfounded suspicions, Nazeem will share these words with you. Nazeem belongs to the mystical order of Cross and Moon. This Order was founded in the time of the Crusades, when it was revealed that the wars of hatred between Christian and Muslim were a fabrication of an evil influence that desired the destruction of all people on Earth. It was to study and oppose this influence that the Order was formed. Nazeem is the last in a long line of Masters. Through the power of our minds, the Order succeeded in putting to rest the malevolence, and free the Elements so that Mankind might serve them, and that the Elements might serve Mankind in return."

I took a deep breath. "Damn it, Nazeem. I thought you were going to tell me something useful there. I'm giving you one more chance. If you don't tell me something I can work with, I'm gonna bury you under the Beast and say you were gone when I came to relieve you. Start talking sense."

"There is nothing else to say! Even if you do not believe in the Elemental Spirits, do you not believe in people who do?"

I had to admit, he had a point. Ghosts and witches and wizards may not really exist, but there's always stupid people who want to believe, and smart people who get rich by letting them.

"So this Order," I said. "What do they want with Hammond's rocks?"

"The samples unearthed by the Hammond expedition are dangerous. We know spirits of Earth, of Air, of Water, and of Fire. But this is something new, something... evil. It is the old malevolence, changed in form, and awoken to new deeds of ruin. When left to its own devices, it will destroy the world."

"So you tried to stop them?"

"No! Without the aid of the Order, given in secret, their bones would now lie in the forest. The Order wished them to succeed, that we might obtain the knowledge of this new form of evil, and by knowing, end it."

"Still, they're all dead now. Outlived their usefulness?"

Nazeem bowed his head. "We were defeated. This new form of Spirit is powerful beyond anything we know. It is the fear of Nazeem, and of the Order of Cross and Moon, that nothing can stand in its way. Yet the greatest of powers can be brought to nothing by those who have the wisdom to understand the source."

I gave Nazeem a long hard look. His expressions were hard to read at the best of times, but in the dark of night, it was impossible.

"What are your plans?"

"To bring the evidence to our Order, and learn what we may, before it is too late. Then, the Order will oppose the Malevolence as ever it did, and turn to naught all its efforts."

I want to make this perfectly clear. I didn't believe a word of any of that mystical clap-trap, but Secret Orders are thick as flies on this continent. Cloaked and hooded figures. Rules, laws, and hierarchies complex beyond belief. Sometimes, the head of the order is himself a believer, sometimes he's just a fraud who plays his followers for fun and profit. Some of these orders are really fanatic, and will die for their beliefs. It made sense, if sense is the right word for it. I pointed my revolver up, held the hammer and pulled the trigger, lowering it gently onto the cartridge.

"Today Nazeem, you live."

I got up and turned towards the Beast. Nazeem looked over his shoulder at me.

"Riley?"

"Yeah?"

"If ever you point a weapon at Nazeem again, it is his promise that he will unleash upon you the full force of the elements, and scatter your limbs to the four winds. Thus speaks Nazeem."

I gave a little laugh, and went back into the Beast.

 

---

 
Miss Tennant had the last watch, and she roused us all at the crack of dawn. We fed Andrew Parsons his breakfast first, then ate ourselves with the Beast in motion. We all sat on top, staring ourselves blind on the sand and the small clump of trees in the distance. Nazeem, who wasn't one for idle chatter at the best of times, now kept his mouth completely shut and didn't look at me. Miss Tennant sat next to him with her rifle, looking through the scope, which was after all a superb piece of optics. Unfortunately, Carl Tennant hadn't seen fit to drop more of his stuff to give us a clue, but Miss Tennant was absolutely certain that we would find him at the oasis, and that we would fix him up with a few cups of tea. It was almost painful to watch her, so I didn't. I climbed down the hatch to keep Parsons company. He was sitting strapped in his chair, completely motionless except for slight movements of his arms to steer. I have to admit, I couldn't have done that. How a man with such an active mind could sit still for hours on end, was a complete mystery to me. Maybe he was immune to boredom.

 
I awoke from a nap I hadn't meant to take by a shout from Miss Tennant and a sudden stop of the vehicle that nearly threw me into some piece of equipment. I bit back a few of the words that my grandfather used to say on such occasions, and went up top. There was a line of native warriors standing in front of us. Their body language was clear. They wanted us to get lost, and to get lost in an easterly direction. Since we wanted to go west, we were in what the analysts call a conflict situation. There were maybe two dozen of them. They had throwing spears. Notice how I didn't say they had only throwing spears. They could slaughter the lot of us in a heartbeat. I looked at their faces. Dark, tense, but trusting in their leader, and quite prepared to fight. I looked at their leader. He was not holding a weapon, and had stuck his spear in the sand next to him. As soon as I showed myself, his eyes turned to me. Now body language is everything in a situation like this. Miss Tennant was standing up with her rifle in front of her, pointing away from anyone. Nazeem stood raised to his full height, arms crossed in front of him, his gaze gliding over the line of warriors, as if sizing them up for magical retribution. I could see several of them looking at him nervously. Word of these sorcerors got around.

I turned away from the warriors to Nazeem, and motioned him to stand down, do not attack. Just as I made to jump off the Beast and walk up to the leader, Miss Tennant put down her gun and jumped down. Oh crap. Granted, she had her back to me, but this, damn her, was my department. She should have known better. She walked up to the leader, and just as she opened her mouth to say something, the leader drew back his arm and hit her with a flat palm right between the boobs. Miss Tennant flew back, and landed on her butt right in front of the Beast. Nazeem cried out, leapt down and with a great cry jumped in front of the leader and hit him in the chest with a double handed stroke that sent the leader flying backwards into his men. I drew my revolver and fired three shots into the air. Everything stopped.

"Nazeem. Take Miss Tennant and put her inside."

"I'm... alright," said Miss Tennant.

"I don't give a damn," I said. "Pick her up, Nazeem. Alex, don't move. Play dead."

Nazeem picked up Miss Tennant in his arms, and walked round the back with her. Andrew opened the back hatch. Meanwhile, the leader had gotten to his feet, and now walked forward. I looked him straight in the eye and cocked my gun. He could break my neck. I could shoot him. Clearly, these people knew what firearms were. I deliberately broke eye contact, put away my gun and climbed on top of the Beast. I picked up Miss Tennant's rifle and climbed down the hatch. I shut it with a clang, locked it, and breathed out.

"Turn around Andrew," I said.

Andrew did what I said without a word. Good. Nice for a change. We rolled away for about two hundred yards.

"Stop. Turn around again. When I say, all ahead full. As fast as this crate will go."

"There are people in front of us," said Andrew.

I reached for the steam whistle.

"They'll get out of the way."

With a great hiss of steam and thundering of engines, the Beast stormed forward. I blew the steam whistle and all the warriors scattered to the sides, except the leader. He drew back his arm and hurled his spear at the Beast bearing down on him. He actually hit one of our headlights. Parsons had to go and pull the spear out afterwards. When I looked, there was no blood anywhere, so I assume he hit the deck and the Beast rolled right over him. I hope the stupid bastard got medals or lion skins for that. We thundered on towards the trees. I picked up Miss Tennant's rifle and handed it back to her. She looked at me.

"Only my friends get to call me Alex, Riley. You're not my friend."

"For future reference, Miss Alexandra Tennant, when there's weapons out, I call the shots. You could have gotten us all killed. Now are you injured?"

"I'll live."

"Good."

 

---

 
A few hours later, Parsons stopped the Beast between the trees, in the shade. Miss Tennant leapt out. That woman is irrepressible. She stood there, rifle out, looking round. Parsons calmly walked round the back and started to repair the headlight. Nazeem stood there with his arms raised, chanting, slowly turning on the spot. For once, he wasn't the first to spot something. Miss Tennant ran forward, then fell to her knees in the shade of one of the trees. Lying on his back was a tall man. He had taken off his shirt, and his chest, face, and arms were covered with sores, just like the poor bastards we found back at the camp. He was dead. He had to be. But of course, some people take a little convincing. Miss Tennant was shaking him. Of course his body would still be warm. This place never gets below body temperature. I waited for her to realise that no Earthly help would be of any use here. That his suffering was over, that he was in a better place now and all that crap. She was calling his name, again and again, and getting no answer. Then, I could see her take a deep breath. The corpse on the ground coughed, turned its head towards her.

"Alex?"

Oh crap.

 
With Carl Tennant in one of the bunks and Miss Tennant watching over him, and yes, pouring tea into his mouth, we thundered across the stretches of sand, back to camp. We couldn't see beyond the headlights, but since this was Andrew Parsons navigating, I had no doubt we'd get there. We got back in the early morning, to find the camp back in order, soldiers and Wadcroft in one tent, Prof. Enderby in another. We put Carl Tennant in one of the empty tents, and Enderby and Miss Tennant watched over him. I didn't stay long. The man was clearly in a lot of pain, and I'd be surprised if he made it till morning.

I'd had enough. I didn't want to sleep in the bunk where a sick man had been. Infected blankets is how we got rid of the Indians back in the day. The same went for the beds in any of the empty tents. People hadn't got round to burning those blankets. So I went aboard the Beast, grabbed a couple of blankets and a seat cushion, stretched out in one of the supply tents and was asleep before my head hit the ground.

 

Contact with the enemy

The sick bed of Carl Tennant - Homeward bound - Taking on fuel - The betrayal of Master Nazeem - Run for the hills

 

Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss. At our age, the death of people you know becomes a more and more regular occurrence. Funerals are rare occasions until slowly, stealthily, they become more and more frequent and you develop a certain routine. Gerald was killed in the very fulfillment of his life's work, doing what he loved doing. That ought to count for something, your final thought being that unicorns are real, or in Gerald's case, chupacabras. I got Gerald home, as well as the beast that killed him. It's now in the Natural History museum, stuffed, in a corner that also holds paintings of dodos, and a skeleton thought to belong to an Australian Bunyip. I go and look at it now and then, and wonder whether it was all worth it. When I figure it out, I'll tell you.

 

-- Prof. Margaret Enderby, "Proving the negative wrong"

 
The Beast rolled into camp, and Riley and Nazeem came out with Carl Tennant on a stretcher. It took me only one look to see that this was bad. In his prime, in fact up to a few weeks ago, he must have been a very handsome man. Now, he would be lucky to survive the night. With Alexandra looking on, I got him out of his clothes, and covered the sores on his body in soothing ointment. Alexandra tried to feed him some thin soup, but he shook his head. He looked up at her.

"Alex? Why did you come here?"

"To find you, you oaf."

Carl coughed. "It's not safe here, Alex. It's a horrible place. The cave... enough to drive you insane. All those lights, and the way it feels on your skin."

"Ssh. Try not to talk too much." Alexandra gave him some water to drink. "We'll have you out of here soon, and back on your feet."

Carl smiled. "Who are you talking to, little sister? Me or yourself?" He briefly closed his eyes. "I look as bad on the inside as I do on the outside. Should have stayed away from those cursed rocks."

Alexandra moved a bit closer to her brother. "What happened here?"

"Pitched tents. Went into caves. Dug up lots of glowing rocks. Hammond almost dancing with joy. He said it was the beginning of a new industrial revolution. All coal steam would be gone in ten years."

"Idiot."

"Alex, I hate you being in this place. But I'm so happy to see you before..." Carl sighed. "Only one other that I would want to see."

"The girl in the village near Kodok?"

Carl opened his eyes wide. "You've met her?"

Alexandra smiled, nodded. "There's something..."

"Fatin. That's her name. Isn't she beautiful?"

Alexandra looked at her brother, who had closed his eyes. A gentle smile was on his face.

"Well," said Alexandra. "I distinctly remember you fawning over Veronica Cardinale. This is a change."

Carl laughed quietly. "Sister, every man fawns over Veronica Cardinale. It is the law." He looked up at Alexandra. "Fatin... she is incredible. The kindest soul you could hope to meet. She spoke to me, and I understood, even though our native tongues could not be more different."

"Talking was not all you did, though," said Alexandra.

"It wasn't," said Carl, a light in his eyes. "I've never felt like that before. The sheer..." He looked into Alexandra's eyes. "You would take it the wrong way if I said 'want'. The sheer need of her."

"I might," said Alex, "if I hadn't met her. I showed her your picture. She looked so happy. Such a shame you had to leave."

"Alex, I was going back to find her. Stay with her in their camp. They are going to the valley of the White Nile for summer. These are good people."

"I know," said Alexandra. She ran her hand through Carl's hair, and I could see her smile harden as some of it came loose in her hand. "In a few years, there'll be a little boy in that camp. His skin will be a bit lighter than that of the other children. Maybe he'll be blond. And when he grows up, lions will shake with fear where he walks."

Carl looked up to Alexandra. Tears trickled down his face. "Fatin is..."

Alexandra's voice was soft and low. "You will be a father. You will watch over him as he hunts. Keep him safe."

I watched Carl Tennant's face become hard. A light that had not been there before now shone in his eyes.

"I do not believe in ghosts."

"No," said Alexandra.

"I have a job to do," he said.

 

---

 
We were rolling steadily on through the sandy plains, until we reached forested areas again. Carl Tennant was weak, but alive, and resting in the bunk opposite Andrew's. Frankly, I really couldn't see how he was holding on, but knowing that the girl Fatin was bearing his child must have given him a new sense of purpose.

It was only eighteen days ago that we were dropped down from Boreas' clutches, but it seemed longer. Nobody mentioned it, but whoever was on lookout, looked to the sky for the improbable cigar shape of our transport back home. I suppose the expedition was a success. We set out to find Hammond's expedition, and we did. But it was not what we had wanted. Everybody thinks they're a hero, and we had all thought we'd just find the expedition members, maybe snatch them out of one of those iconic cooking pots that the tribes use in the uninformed imagination of the Europeans. Finding most of them dead was the worst possible outcome.

Because Alexandra would not leave Carl's side, Alan now sat in the chair next to Andrew, and we had to talk round him.

"He might make it, you know," said Alan.

"He looks awful," I said. "And that stuff you have in the trunk killed everyone else."

"It's properly sealed, Margaret. I am not tired of life yet. I've been reading Saknussemm's reports. Mr. Tennant was never part of the scientific side of things. Everybody else was sitting in the tent, in the dust, breathing it in. Carl wasn't. He was in charge of the running of the camp. And then the bearers and other people ran away, and he was lord of nothing."

"That was very clever of them," I said.

"I know he looks bad, but all he ever did was carry bags of rocks around. I'm at a complete loss as to what happened to these people. It's not an infection, it's not a toxin, because those are carried in the blood stream and affect the whole body rather than just a few places. It almost looks like Mr. Tennant was burnt, but there was no fire."

"Did Dr. Saknussemm have anything to say about this?"

"No," said Alan. "Poor woman just sat there with everyone, watching them get sick and die. And then she herself was... well, I say 'infected', but without some proper equipment, I can't say whether it even is an infection."

"It's that bloody tent," I said. "People died earlier the more time they spent in that tent."

"It's those rocks, and the glowing parts of it, and the dust. I know there are luminescent rocks, but those work by storing up sunlight, and emitting it when it gets dark. This? I haven't an idea."

 

---

 
The Beast was standing still in the shade of a large tree. Helping hands had carried Carl outside and he was sitting on a chair, sipping tea, staring out into the woods. We were poring over a map given to us by Captain Gaskin. Andrew leapt down from the Beast, and walked up to us.

"We have one day of coal left," said Andrew. "We need to take on fuel."

Wadcroft frowned. "I thought you said we could go for twenty days?"

"That is correct, but the assumption was that we would simply travel. We have travelled further than originally specified, and we have made demands on the Mk.1 that were not in the original plans. We went to fetch Mr. Tennant. On seven occasions we have travelled faster than the optimum for fuel consumption."

"Can't argue with that Wadcroft," I said. "We were optimising for not having our hides perforated."

"Still, it's bloody inconvenient," said Wadcroft. He looked annoyed with himself.

"If Nazeem may be allowed to make a suggestion?" He pointed a finger at the map. "In this place, there is a coal mine, owned by a local cartel. They may be able to sell us a few tons of coal."

"Friends of yours?" I said.

"These people are known to Nazeem. They supply fuel to the Somali railways, and to the government."

Andrew frowned. "Do they have high-energy coal? The Mk.1 is designed for energy-enhanced coal. If we use lower grade coal, then efficiency will suffer."

"Nazeem does not know."

Wadcroft looked at Andrew. "How much will efficiency suffer? Will it slow us down?"

"No, Sir," said Andrew. "But a full bunker will only last us for between one-hundred and twenty and three hundred hours." A painful look was on his bearded face. Andrew liked his margins of error small.

I looked over to where Carl and Alexandra were sitting next to each other, quietly talking. I imagined that Carl was looking slightly better, but that might just as well have been wishful thinking. The boy had been exposed to something that we didn't know about. Usually, it's wonderful to find something you don't know

"Well, one thing is certain," I said. "If we have no coal, we'll be standing still in twenty-four. I'd prefer not to slog it. Especially not with young Carl on our backs."

"Hopefully that'll be enough to get us back to Kodok," said Wadcroft. "Well, that settles it. North-west by north, Andrew."

"North-west by north, Three-hundred and twenty six. Yes, Professor."

 
We set off in the direction of the coal mine, the spectre of fuel following us about, hissing at us through the pipes that drove the big turbines, promising to catch us and mire us far away from help, far from home. We were rolling along under the trees, and could not see the sky where Boreas would be looking for us. In every expedition, there is a moment when all those concerned realise that the time has come to go home, compile the volumes of information that you have gathered, and write the learned papers that you set out to write. But we had nothing. Nothing that a scientist could set teeth into and produce some worthwhile conclusions. I had all the writings of Hammond and his aides, but frankly, they were pure fantasy. We had a young man with us, the sole survivor of a thirty people strong expedition. We hadn't a notion of what was the matter with him, and he might still die of it. We did not know what had killed all the expedition members. Wadcroft and I had carried out a basic autopsy on two of the bodies, but neither Alan nor I really knew what we were doing, so we could only bring tissue samples for those who did. We still had no idea who had sent that poor bastard who had fallen to his death on our way to Cairo. We had no idea what our mystic friend Nazeem was playing at. Sometimes, the path to knowledge does nothing more than point out to you how ignorant you really are.

Wadcroft had climbed up on the roof and through the open hatch, I could just see his face, staring fixedly ahead of him, drawing on his pipe. He knew just as well as I do that you don't measure success by the things you confirm. Objectively speaking, our expedition was a succes, but he didn't think of it that way, and neither did anyone on board the Beast. Even Alexandra, who had found her brother alive, knew only too well that she might still lose him. Whether Nazeem was content with his results, nobody knew but him. Oh, and of course Oberst Klemm was looking forward to a good paycheck. At the cost of the life of one of his men. I heaved a deep sigh, and wished that this expedition was over and done with.

 
After a few hours' steady driving, Wadcroft shouted through the hatch. We had rolled up to a large sign showing that here was the Balian-Ibelin Mining Company. Originally founded by a pair of Frenchmen, it had been taken over by the local authorities at gunpoint. In their turn, the local authorities had been kicked out by an English coal mining company. The Sudanese government had protested, with the appropriate amount of military sabre-rattling, but they had been brought down by that most effective of weapons: money. The coal mining company had grown, until this small coal mine in darkest Africa was the least of its worries. Coal was transported out, money was transported in, and beyond that, they didn't care. The current owner, a Mr. Qureshi, greeted us with proper enthusiasm, once it became clear that we would be buying a lot of coal. I left the negotiations to Riley and Wadcroft, and went to see how Carl was doing.

It appeared that the rest was doing him good, and while I didn't dare get my hopes up too much, there was no denying he looked a lot better than he had when first they rolled him into camp. The sores on his face were starting to dry up, leaving a few scars that young Miss Fatin would hopefully find interesting rather than revolting. The poor boy was obviously head over heels in love with this girl. I only hoped that enough of his strength would return for him to be able to join their tribe. Lovely people they might be, but the harsh reality of the matter is that the one thing they cannot afford is to drag people around who cannot make themselves useful. The one unbreakable law is that you have to pull your weight. Old women can still make clothes. Old men can brew medicine and remember the tales of old that serve as the library for communities that have not developed writing. One cannot live without love, but love in and of itself doesn't fill empty bellies. Did Carl realise that? Looking at his expression, I'm sure he did.

We put Carl outside on a few seat cushions a few yards away from the Beast, and watched the mine. Wadcroft could have told you exactly how it worked, being a geologist and all that, but all I could see was an endless string of people walking in and out of a large tunnel entrance, dragging baskets or carts filled with the black gold of this age. Andrew came jumping down from the top of the Beast and started off to the line of people dragging out the coal, meaning, no doubt, to take a small sample so he could give a proper estimate for how long it would keep us moving. I followed him and, with a slight push from Carl, so did Alexandra. Klemm walked with us, casually undoing the strap on his revolver. Klemm's face showed no emotion at all, but his eyes were roving about, noting details of a tactical nature. It should have been comforting to know that he expected any situation to turn into a scrap, and was prepared for us, but to tell you the truth it was bloody unnerving.

As we approached the line of toiling people, a man came out of the mine opening and walked up to us. He introduced himself as Mr. Shamoon, overseer of the mine. Andrew asked if he could have a small sample of coal, and Mr. Shamoon made a grandiose gesture. Andrew took a few coals out of a passing wagon and examined it closely.

"This is good quality coal," said Andrew. "The grade is between bituminous and anthracite. I would have to measure its caloric output to see how much energy is contained. This is suitable to our purposes, Mr. Shamoon."

"Of course, Sir," said Mr Shamoon. "Is very good, highest quality. It burns long and hot. Only the best from Balian-Ibelin."

At that moment, one of the miners who was pulling a load of coal to the waiting line of carts, stumbled and fell. Mr. Shamoon turned round, a furious expression on his face, and started to shout at the miner. My breath stuck in my throat. This was not a grown man, this was a young girl maybe fourteen years old. She was trying to get back to her feet, but fell down again. Mr. Shamoon pulled back his foot for a kick, then remembered us, changed his mind and turned back to us.

"Forgive me, honoured customers, while I deal with this miserable worker. There will be no delays, you have my word."

I dropped to my knees next to the girl and looked her over. She was thin, with large, dark eyes staring at me in fear. I smiled at her, but there was no change in the expression on her face. I turned round to give this God-bereft slave driver a piece of my mind, but he was talking to Andrew. Alexandra had turned round and was running back towards the Beast. Klemm stood off to the side a bit, wearing his usual expression of almost bored detachment.

"I must apologise," said Mr Shamoon. "No matter what we do, we cannot seem to get a good day's work out of these people."

"That is in line with expectations," said Andrew. "One cannot expect a young female to do that kind of work. Her specifications are too low."

"Oh I assure you, Sir, they can pull their load. All we need to do is give them a good reason." Mr. Shamoon looked at the girl. "I blame myself for failing to do this."

"The development of her skeleton is not complete," said Andrew. "Putting such a load on it is damaging to her future development."

"Yes, yes Sir. I'll grant you they do not last as long as the boys. After three, maybe four years of use, the back gives out and then they are only good to keep the men happy. But until then, I assure you, I can get them to do the work they need to do."

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Alexandra stood next to me holding one of the individually wrapped ship's biscuits that we use when there is no chance to bake bread. I tore open the package and gave the hard biscuit to the girl. She snatched it out of my hand and made it disappear in mere seconds. Then, she looked up at me for more. Luckily, Alexandra had brought a few packets, all of which were history at the same speed.

"How much coal does this girl transport per day?" There was a tone in Andrew's voice that I had never heard before.

"Oh, they can easily shift fifty loads per day."

Andrew looked at the basket, lifted up one end with no more effort than a normal size man would lift a suitcase of clothes. "This is one load?"

"Yes good Sir."

Andrew closed his eyes for a few moments, calculating. Then, without another word, he took off his shirt and stomped off to the mine entrance. He lifted one of the mine carts out of its tracks, attached a rope, and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, he came out again, covered in black coal dust, dragging a full mine cart of coal behind him. Alexandra and I simply stood and stared. We had always known Andrew was strong. We simply never realised how strong he was. He looked like one of the giants from Norse mythology. Sweat was pouring off him, making streaks in the coal dust that covered his body. Grunting with the effort, he dragged the mine cart over to the Beast and turned it over. He opened a hatch in the side of the Beast, fetched a few shovels and told the soldiers to start loading. The soldiers looked at each other, and set to work as Andrew turned round for another load. For about an hour or so, Andrew kept up his relentless pace, building up a small mountain of coal next to the Beast, the soldiers struggling to keep up with him. We were joined by Alan and Riley.

"What's he doing?" said Wadcroft. "Surely, they have personnel here to load up our coal for us?"

"They do," said Alexandra, her face tight. The girl was sitting next to her, forgotten about for the moment in the spectacle.

As we watched, Andrew came out of the mine once more, dumped his load next to the Beast, then returned the mine cart to the rail track. He detached the rope, coiled it up and hung it on the cart. Then he joined us.

"Mr. Shamoon? I have transported as much coal as this girl would have in fourteen hundred days. She no longer needs to be in the mine."

Andrew turned round and walked over to the Beast to help the soldiers load the last of the coal. Riley sidled up to me.

"You know that girl is gonna be back down in that mine as soon as we show them our tails, do ye?"

"I know," I said. "Don't tell him. It's still a good deed."

 
There were a few more financial details to be taken care of, and Wadcroft followed Mr. Qureshi carrying a bundle of cash. Meanwhile, we sat by the Beast and waited for the turbines to come up to speed. Mr. Klemm appeared next to us.

"Meine Damen und Herren, we will now put Herr Tennant in the Panzer and make ready to depart. At speed."

I looked round, and saw that the soldiers, who had been resting from their labours, were now sitting up alert, rifles ready in their arms.

"Something up Klemm?"

"I notice that several armed guards are readying themselves for combat. I also notice that Herr Nazeem has disappeared. This worries me, and I would like to be better prepared for a strategic retreat."

Riley checked his revolver, then helped Carl to his feet and put him inside. Alexandra disappeared inside and emerged a minute later with her rifle idly hanging on her back on its strap. She looked like she fancied shooting a few people. I looked over to the small office building, and to my relief saw Alan come out, shaking hands with Mr. Qureshi. He started out towards us, when at a gesture from Mr. Qureshi, one of the guards pulled out a kukri, a long, curved knife. Before I could shout out to warn Alan, there was the short, sharp rapport of Alexandra's rifle, and the knife fell out of the guard's hand as the bullet pierced his wrist. There was the click of the bolt being pulled back, and then another shot, which hit Mr. Qureshi in the shoulder. Alan looked round, hesitated only a fraction of a second, then set of at a surprising speed for someone his age. Like Mr. Shamoon said, fear of your life is a wonderful motivator. Meanwhile, Andrew ran one ofd the tracks forward, the other back, making the Beast turn on the spot. The guards, seeing what had happened, now opened fire on Alan. There were a few short, sharp orders in German from Klemm, and our soldiers opened up. I saw several of the guards fall, and the rest took to cover.

"Einsteigen!" Klemm's orders left no room for hesitation, and I leapt into the open back hatch of the Beast. My revolver was absolutely useless at that distance, and the best I could do was put myself out of harm's way. Alexandra followed me, carrying her rifle and Carl's seat cushions, which she dropped on the floor and rested her rifle on. She quickly fired a few more rounds. Wadcroft must have heard them buzzing by his ears. He leapt for the entrance.

"Vorwärts! Slow! Wait for the men to enter!"

With a shock, the Beast set itself in motion. The soldiers one by one got up from their firing position and joined us inside. Guards now came running from the compound towards us. There were rifle shots, loud, inside, and I saw that Carl had grabbed his rifle and was firing out. Alex looked at him accusingly.

"I may be weak, dear sister of mine, but I can still pull a trigger." Carl grinned at her. She grinned back, and they concentrated on their shooting.

Suddenly, Alexandra looked up, an incredulous look on her face. "It's Nazeem! He's following us!"

Riley scowled. "Is he going to wizard at us?"

Alexandra looked back through her rifle scope. "I can drop him."

Riley grabbed Alan's binoculars and looked back. "They're shooting at him! Don't shoot him. I want to know what he's got to say for himself. Andrew, slow down."

Master Nazeem almost didn't make it. He had a bleeding wound on his head, and one on his shoulder. With the strength of desperation, he hurled himself into the hatch, and despite everything, we quickly pulled him inside.

"All ahead full, Andrew!"

Riley looked down on Nazeem, grinning like a shark. "Why hello there, Master Nazeem. Decided to throw your lot in with us, then? Relations with the bad guys gone sour?"

It took Nazeem a while to recover his breath. "Nazeem was betrayed," he said.

Riley laughed. "God damned spies. No honour among thieves is there?"

Nazeem said nothing.

"Well stop leaking on our nice clean floor and start talking."

 

Loud noises

No more nonsense - The better part of valour - Outfly the North Wind - The moral high ground - Objects in the mirror may be closer than they appear

 

Of all the things a lady can bring on an expedition, by far the most important is her wits. You can survive without food for a while, without water for a few days, even without any equipment. Leaving your brain at home is a recipe for disaster. Human beings have survived without advanced technology for a longer time than we can imagine. The thing that sets us apart from a sabre-tooth tiger's lunch is our capacity for rational thought, and our ability to cooperate. A single human against a hungry tiger equals a well-fed tiger. Ten organised humans against a tiger equals a good meal for all, and a nice rug to sleep on.

 

-- Alexandra Tennant, "The young lady's adventuring guide"

 
The sky was painted in magnificent colours of red, yellow and purple when we cleared the trees and emerged onto a wide open plain. As the sun was setting, the Beast was rolling on at a considerable speed while we saw to Mr. Nazeem's wounds. A bullet had glanced his left arm. Margaret cleaned the wound, then wound a bandage round it. His head wound provided a bit of a problem as he hesitated to remove his turban. It took Margaret a little effort to convince him, but finally he unwound it, revealing long black hair with the occasional streak of grey. Probably from worry rather than anything else, as surely Master Nazeem did not do such a mundane thing as age. Margaret didn't have to do much besides put a bandaid on, and Nazeem solemnly combed out his hair, and as we watched, tied it in a loop on top of his head, then covered it with a black piece of cloth. He carefully re-wrapped his turban, turned round and looked at us. He crossed his arms on his chest and bowed to us.

"Nazeem thanks you, my friends."

"I ain't so sure we're friends," said Riley. "As I see it, you were setting the dogs on us, and then your friends in the mine felt you had outlived your usefulness. You led us here, you bastard. Did you tell those cotton-pickin' coal diggers to slaughter us?"

Nazeem shook his head, wincing. "I did no such thing. It is true that I had to come here, but it was not to do you harm."

Riley waved his hand in a keep talking kind of way.

"It is the Malevolence I spoke of," said Nazeem. "The Order of Cross and Moon wants it buried, all knowledge of it forgotten. It is an abomination of Nature."

"Dammit, Nazeem. Prof Enderby just patched you up. If I knew you were going to spout more of that mumbo jumbo I'd have told her to hold off so she could bandage up all the bullet holes in one go. Stop pissing about. Who are you working for?"

"The Order is real," said Nazeem. "I am one of its servants. It was my task to bury this latest manifestation of evil, so that none of it could ever be found. The unworthy creatures at the Balian-Ibelin Mining Company were to find the camp of Hammond's expedition and utterly destroy it, then demolish the entrance to the cave."

"And then get rid of all the witnesses?"

"No. There is no need for that. You will never find back the cave that should never have been opened. The sample you have taken will lose its potency in only a few months, and then it will be useless. We have encountered this evil before."

"So what went wrong?"

"The dogs of Balian-Ibelin did not heed the command of the Order of Cross and Moon. Greed had awakened in their hearts, and they wanted to mine these minerals, to harness the power." Nazeem's eyes turned dark. "Harness it! A manifestation of purest evil! Intent on destroying all living things! It is an aberration."

"Yeah, yeah. Bad ju-ju. I get it. Now give me a reason why we shouldn't just kick you out of the hatch."

Nazeem closed his eyes. "Nazeem has none. He can only implore your forgiveness and mercy."

I noticed that Nazeem had gone back to speaking of himself in the third person. What did that signify? Was he speaking the truth before, and did he now feel confident to return to his mystical fakir persona? Was it a deliberate subterfuge to make us think that? There really was no way to tell.

"Okay then. Open the back, Mr. Parsons."

Andrew, to whom sarcasm and irony were strange and alien things, opened the back hatch.

Wadcroft waved a hand. "That'll do, Riley. Throwing Mr. Nazeem out here is tantamount to murder, as sure as pulling a trigger."

Riley grinned. "I can do that too, if you like."

"Oh do shut up, Riley," said Wadcroft. "Nazeem? Will these people follow us?"

"It is their wish to keep the forbidden knowledge to themselves. They will take... measures to ensure this."

"Do they have anything at that mine that could outrun us?"

"They have fast horses," said Nazeem. "And they have a store of weapons. Rifles. Beyond that, Nazeem does not know."

"Excuse me," said Carl. He had been looking out of the open back hatch while this was going on. "I think we have, as the saying goes, company."

 
I leapt to the rear of the Beast, and aimed my rifle out. In the scope, I could see a team of eight horses drawing some kind of cart. The next moment, Prof. Wadcroft was next to me, looking back through his binoculars.

"If the blighters want to catch us, why would they drag a bloody cart along?"

I adjusted the magnification on my scope, and looked again. I couldn't quite understand what kind of cart it was. It was fairly large, with some kind of wooden lifting apparatus on top, much like a mast. Perhaps it was a lifting crane of some description, but it looked strange to me. The one thing I could understand, though, was the machine gun that was on it.

"They've got some significant artillery there, Professor," I said.

"Artillerie?" Klemm pushed Wadcroft aside and snatched his binoculars away from him. He peered at our pursuers, then looked at me wearily. "Fräulein Tennant, that is a Maschinengewehr, not a cannon."

"Looks a bit silly to me anyway," said Wadcroft. "The way it is set in the cart, they can't use it without shooting their horses."

At that moment, the cart, or whatever it was, cleared the trees. I could see men, their brown torsos bare, starting to pull on ropes. The mast rose up, and a sail was raised. The wind filled it, and moments later, men jumped onto the backs of the horses drawing the cart. The cables fell away, and the cart that we now realised was a land yaught, picked up speed, easily overtaking the horses. I took a closer look through my scope.

"They are gaining on us!"

"Verdammt noch mal," said Klemm. Whatever else he was going to say was lost in the noise of the machine gun on the land yaught opening up, and the buzz of bullets. At that distance, and on a moving vehicle, the chance of hitting us was remote, but they compensated for that by having many bullets to fire.

I tried to draw a bead on the land yaught, but movement was too much for me to be sure of even hitting it. Any of the soldiers would have had as good a chance, and I am a surgeon, not a blunt instrument. Klemm seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and ordered the soldiers to return fire. I couldn't see if they were scoring any hits.

"Klemm, I need to be on the ground if I'm going to have any effect."

"Ausgeschlossen," said Klemm. "We need to escape, and our hope is in speed. If we let you out of the Panzer, then we will not be able to pick you up."

I looked through my scope again. "Twelve hundred meters," I said. "Open to suggestions."

At that moment, a lucky shot buzzed through the open hatch and struck the roof. There was some swearing in German and American. Klemm shouted. "Parsons! Close the hatch!"

The hydraulics hissed, and the heavy back hatch rose up. The bolts closed, and we were safe. Several more bullets hit the Beast, but none penetrated. Klemm moved over to the front hatch, and looked back through the binoculars, ignoring the bullets flying round his head.

"Eleven hundred and sixty meters," he said. "They are gaining on us uncomfortably fast."

"They will have reached us in seventeen minutes," said Andrew. "Can we not simply discuss the matter with them?"

I could see Klemm looking down with a big grin on his face. "Regrettably, mein Junge, they appear to be bent on destroying us."

"Why would they want to do that?"

"A good question but not, at this moment, the most important one."

"Turn to port," said Wadcroft.

"Wie bitte?"

"It's a bloody sail boat on wheels. We turn into the wind, and the sail boat stops."

"Good idea," said Klemm. "Please turn North, Herr Parsons."

With a flick of the controls, the Beast turned, and was now steadily running uphill. A thousand meters back, the land yaught noticed, and changed its course accordingly. I saw them adjust their sails. Because of the angle, they wouldn't come to a complete stop just yet, and they could always tack, but they were undeniably slowing down. The sun slowly sank below the horizon, and night fell. Andrew turned on the headlights and the Beast ran on, away from its pursuers. Klemm announced that we were now gaining on the land yaught, gave a satisfied nod and climbed down. He patted Andrew's shoulder.

"Well done. Weiterfahren."

"Yes, Mr. Klemm," said Andrew.

 
The people on the land yaught had now given up shooting at us. They were having to run along at an angle to our direction, making tacks left and right like a dinghy on the river Orwell. They could not aim their machine gun at us from that angle. Margaret poked her head through the hatch, and looked back. The bright moonlight shone on her face. She sneered.

"Why won't the silly arses give up?" she said. "They know they can't catch us like that."

"Maybe they're hoping we'll run out of coal," said Riley. "We must be burning through it like there's no tomorrow."

"Our bunker is three-quarters full," said Andrew. "I estimate we can keep going for five days, unless we must keep up our current speed. That would reduce the time to..."

Without any warning, Andrew hit the brakes as though he'd thrown out an anchor. Several of us were thrown forward and we landed in a big heap of bodies. Margaret, as luck would have it, landed right on top of me, knocking all the wind out of me. I quickly looked round to Carl, but he had been in one of the bunks, and had not been thrown about as much as the rest of us.

"Andrew!" Wadcroft bristled. "What is the meaning of this?"

"We have come to the end of the hill, Professor," said Andrew. "The drop is too steep for the Mk.1 to negotiate."

Klemm spoke up. "Turn around! Open the hatch! Jäger! Aussteigen!"

The land yaught dropped its sail, and rolled out its speed some seven hundred yards away from us. It immediately started firing again.

"Bastards!" Margaret bristled. "Shooting at us from half a mile away. Let them come here and try that."

"This is suppressive fire," said Klemm. "We can be certain that there will be other infantry heading for us. They are merely keeping us from moving. Or so they think. My Jäger are made of sterner stuff!"

I dared to poke my head up outside the hatch. Bullets hissed through the air, sometimes hitting the Beast with a musical 'ping' and the sound of fragments falling.

"Klemm? Want me to take out the machine gunner? I've got half a mile of range on them."

"Excellent idea," said Klemm. "Möller? Take Miss Tennant out some five hundred meters and spot for her."

Möller grabbed the spotting scope, and we crawled away on our bellies. A hundred yards further on, we could get to our feet and run, bent down low, flitting from shrub to shrub. Looking back, we could see the Jäger and Klemm firing on the approaching miners.

"Hurry up, Miss," said Möller. "I suspect they will have explosives. They can easily blow up the Panzer."

We ran on for a few more hundred meters, until I had a clean shot. I lay down and propped my rifle on my ammunition belt. Möller sat down behind me and raised his spotting scope, adjusting focus, distance.

"The man at the machine gun," said Möller. "Range, eight hundred and twenty five meters. Crosswind eight point three meters per second North."

I aimed, adjusted according to Möller's directions, pulled the trigger. The machine gunner's head blew up in a spray of blood and the machine gun stopped abruptly.

"Well done," said Möller. "His assistant. Same distance. Wind increased to nine point one."

My next shot hit the machine gunner's assistant in the neck. Had we been shooting at paper targets, I might have enjoyed this. It is always a pleasure to work with someone who knows what he is doing. The miners saw what happened to their friends, and hit the ground. This is the reason why snipers are so effective. In a normal firefight, maybe one in a hundred, if not a thousand bullets finds a mark. A sniper would hand in her rifle if she missed more than once in a hundred shots, except maybe at extreme ranges. The knowledge that anyone can die instantly if he shows himself, can completely paralyse a whole company of soldiers. At Möller's directions, I put a few rounds into the machine gun itself. I could hear Möller move round quickly.

"A lighter! Two o'clock, range eight hundred and five, head wind seven point five."

I turned, adjusted my scope as quickly as I could. In a splintered second, I saw a man light the fuse on a stick of dynamite and pull back his arm to throw. I pulled the trigger and hit him centre mass. I saw him try to throw the dynamite away, but he only managed a few feet or so. I closed my eyes for the explosion so as not to spoil my night vision. The explosion thundered through the night, and I had to take a few deep breaths to control myself.

"Excellent," said Möller. "No need to bury him. Time to move before they see where we come from."

I grabbed my ammo belt and we ran. Out between the Beast and the land yaught, I could see men crawling over the ground, heading for the Beast, no doubt armed with more sticks of dynamite. I dropped down on the ground, propping my rifle on my knee. I don't like that position as much as lying down, because of the added movement, but at that range it made no difference. At that moment, the Beast turned on the large search light on top and began sweeping the area ahead. Klemm's Jäger quickly took out two of the advancing miners. I hit another. Möller put his hand on my shoulder.

"Good shooting, Fräulein."

"Thank you," I said. "Last time was a bit of an own goal." I turned my eyes to Möller. "I'm very sorry for that one."

Möller sniffed. "You mean Meiwes? That Sitzpinkler? I would have shot him in the leg. The Schweinhund abandoned his post. If the cannibals had attacked us, we would never have known before they were eating us." Möller looked at me. "He was new. He was no true Jäger. Oberst Klemm brought him as a last chance for him to show his worth. He failed. We do not have room in our fighting force for people who are ruled by their Schwanz. This..." Möller waved a hand at the Beast, the attacking miners, everything. "This is almost a pleasure stroll. We have conquered cities, and wiped places off the face of the Earth."

"Not just the six of you, though?"

"There are twenty seven Jäger, not including the Oberst. We have lost nine, not counting Meiwes. No more are needed. We should return to the Panzer."

 
We ran back to the Beast, and Möller gave a small whistle to let them know not to shoot at us. Klemm gave him a nod.

"Report."

"Machine gunner and assistant dead, machine gun kaput."

"Gut." Klemm sneered the way only Prussian officers can. "I am sorry to say they have reinforcements. They are trying to blow up our Panzer with dynamite. Prevent them from doing so."

"Jawohl," said Möller, and joined his comrades.

I looked round. More of the miners had arrived on horseback, and were shooting at us. Both of our headlights and the search light had been shot out, and the moon was the only light there. I ran into the Beast, dragged my trunk out onto the back hatch and stood on it, which raised my head just enough above the Beast for shooting. Möller might be confident in his abilities, but we were still stuck between a field full of hostile fighters with enough firepower to blow us up, and a sheer drop behind us. I managed to take out two more miners, and then the ground was rocked by an enormous explosion. Dirt rained down upon us.

"Granatwerfer!" Klemm's voice sounded loud and steady.

I looked round, trying to find where this new threat was coming from. A mortar would have no trouble destroying us, and a competent team would need only a few shots to hit us. I looked round to see Möller had appeared next to me like a ghost. He pointed.

"That is where they come from. Two thousand meters. Do you feel up to a challenge?"

I set my scope for infinite distance, to the greatest magnification. To my eye, they were smaller than breadcrumbs. Möller whispered in my ear.

"Two thousand and five. Wind four meters per second, north-west. Elevation minus twenty meters. Fire at will."

I steadied my breath, breathed in, slowly breathed out while lowering my rifle. A fraction of a second after the shot fell, I knew I would not hit the target I was aiming for. I reloaded.

"Five meters short," said Möller. "Wind increased to five point two."

I adjusted again, aimed for one of the men two thousand meters away, trying to ignore what they were doing. My bullet travelled the distance in a few heartbeats, and I saw one of the men fall over, clutching his leg.

"Well done! Wind six point seven."

I fired three more shots, two hits, one miss, none lethal. Then, another explosion rocked the Beast. It was uncomfortably close by, and it came from a different direction. Klemm shouted.

"Everybody on board! There are too many of them. We will force our way through!"

"Oh Mother of God..." Riley came running round the Beast, looking unhurt.

Margaret was already inside, with Carl. Wadcroft came round, followed by Nazeem. I heard the angry buzz of a rifle bullet, and Nazeem quickly turned round, reached out and cried out. As he passed me, he dropped a small hot object in my hand. I stared at it. It was a bullet. There were more explosions round the Beast. Running straight at our adversaries was an act of desperation. Nobody said it. Everyone knew. I don't know if any of us was particularly brave. We were all putting off the thought that we were going to die to the very last moment. Andrew pushed both handles forward with the same calm he had always displayed, and the Beast set itself in motion, steam whistle roaring, tracks eating up the ground. Klemm ordered his soldiers and anyone who could shoot to take up stations by the half open hatch. At that point, there was another mortar round, and the Beast jumped up and slammed down again. It lurched to the right.

"There is a defect to the right track," said Andrew. "We cannot move forward."

His words were lost in another explosion. Then, incredibly, unexpectedly, without any warning, the night was turned to a bright white place. Behind us, the massive bulk of the airship Boreas rose above the precipice, bright gas lights ablaze, cannons firing, steam engines pounding as it made for height. It started to rain down hate and discontent upon the miners.

"I didn't know Boreas was armed," I shouted.

Riley laughed out loud. "Well, now you do."

"About time the bloody Yanks showed up," said Wadcroft.

"We got this thing in the States called the Mason-Dixon line," said Riley. "I happen to know that Captain Gaskin's cradle stood in Arkansas. He's a goddamn Reb. If I told my granddad I was happy to see him, he'd shoot me."

"They're all Gringos," I said.

"Didn't know you were Mexican, Miss Tennant."

I gave Riley a vague smile. "I knew someone who was."

"But not in the Biblical sense," said Carl.

"What do you know?" I said.

 

---

 
For safety's sake, we stayed in the Beast while Boreas drove off the miners who had attacked us. We were all looking round with that dazed look in our eyes that meant that we were happy, and a bit surprised, to be alive. Andrew walked out, took a look at his poor mangled track, and pulled out his toolbox. The air rang with the sound of his hammer. Klemm and the Jäger patrolled round us, guarding against any resumption of hostilities. Apart from Andrew banging on bits of metal, all was quiet, all was still.

The airship returned, hovering over us. It lowered its cables, we attached them to the Beast, and then we were winched up into the air. We all walked down the gangplank, and went to the forward observation lounge. I looked down as Africa fell away below us. Was this the end of all of our adventures? There were so many questions left unanswered. We still didn't quite know who wanted us dead. We still didn't know who that poor bastard was who had fallen to his death on our way to Egypt. We still didn't know the first thing about the mysterious ore that had killed all of Hammond's expedition. I felt a hand on my shoulder. Carl was standing next to me, looking down on the beautiful African jungle as I was. I said nothing, just looked ahead. We'd find the answers. We're explorers. It's what we do.

 

Home is where you write your theses

A slight detour - The disappearance of Master Nazeem - Ipswich bound - Family matters

 

At the risk of being soppy, I do enjoy a happy ending to what might otherwise have been a gruelling tale of death, betrayal and violence. The white man has a rather bad reputation for walking into peaceful places, taking what nature has to offer, so to speak, then buggering off leaving the locals to deal with the results. It was a heartwarming sight to see Carl Tennant come back to life and take his place in the life of the woman he, to put it bluntly, got in the family way. Yes, I am aware of the role promiscuity plays in keeping the gene pool of the various tribes healthy, and Miss Fatin would probably have been fine whether or not Carl ever showed his face again, but still.

 

-- Professor Margaret Enderby, expedition report.

 
"Captain, I have a request."

Carl Tennant stood in front of Captain Gaskin. He had recovered enough to be on his feet again, and the colour had come back to his face.

"By all means," said Captain Gaskin. "What is it?"

"When I was with the Hammond expedition, we met a friendly nomadic tribe, who helped us find our way when we were lost. Their community is exceedingly interesting, anthropologically speaking. I would like to study them further."

Behind his back, I could see Alexandra make a brave attempt to keep her face straight. She picked up a convenient copy of the Gazette and hid herself behind it.

Carl held out a thick manila envelope to Captain Gaskin. "I am aware that the University would require me to act as a witness in the case of the disappearance of our expedition. To this end, I have written out a complete account of all the relevant events in the matter. I hope this will serve."

"Thank you, Mr. Tennant," said Gaskin, with a polite nod. "I am sure that this will clear up any remaining questions."

"Now my request is for the airship Boreas to aid me in finding back the tribe. They told me that they were planning to spend most of the dry season on the banks of the White Nile. I am aware that this is outside of Boreas' original mandate, but on foot, it would take me many months to find them, and time is of the essence. I will gladly reimburse you for any extra..."

The Captain raised his hand. "Mr. Tennant, Boreas is above all a research vessel. It is our ongoing mission to seek out new life, and new civilisations. To go where none have gone before. We have a debt of gratitude towards you, and I assure you, a small airborn search along the river banks is well within the parameters of our mission."

The look of relief on Carl's face was a sight to see. "Thank you Captain. You cannot know how much this means to me."

"I've been told that you have another reason as well, a more... personal one?" Gaskin's eyes gleamed.

"Um. Yes Captain," said Carl. The poor boy was actually blushing.

"Well, give my best to the young lady. I'll tell the helm to make for the White Nile."

 
"Well, do you have everything you need?"

Alexandra was fussing over her brother. We were standing on the bank of the White Nile. We could see the grey dead vegetation showing the level of the river before Summer's hot sun reduced it. Carl had cut down two straight young trees, and fashioned them into a kind of sledge for dragging his trunk over the ground. There was a yoke in the middle so he could lean into it when he moved. Pre-historic technology, and it still worked as well as anything we could come up with.

"Everything I'm likely to need," he said.

"Medicine?"

"Quinine, laxatives, constipants, disinfectant, bandages, salt, tea. Enough to tide me over until I learn the medicines used by the tribe."

Alexandra looked into his eyes. "Are you really sure about this?"

"Yes. More than anything." Carl slowly began to smile and his face lit up. "Think of the books I'm going to write. I will know more about nomadic African tribes than anyone North of the Mediterranean. I've got three big empty books. When I fill them up, I'll be back."

I looked up the river. In the distance was the settlement re-built. Fires were burning, people were walking about. I couldn't see if Fatin was there.

"Well off we go then," said Alexandra.

"We?"

"I'll walk you there. Are you coming Margaret?"

I had to laugh. "Of course! Me? Miss a chance to get my kit off? Come on!"

We set off, Carl dragging his luggage.

"Get your kit off?"

"Oh yes," said Alexandra. "Very liberating. Fatin squeezed my boobs if you must know."

Carl's eyes opened wide in mock horror. "What did you do with the woman I love?"

Alexandra shrugged. "Squeezed back. It seemed rude not to. Hers are very nice. Top marks on your taste in boobs."

"Good God," said Carl, shaking his head.

"All the women were squeezing mine," I added. "Not to worry. Plenty to go round."

"Oo! Do you think hers will have gotten bigger? What with my big brother having got her pregnant?"

"Bound to," I said. "Can't wait to see the difference. How about you, Carl?"

Carl stuck his fingers in his ears and walked faster.

 
We walked into the camp about twenty minutes later. Several of the women recognised us and waved, walking out to meet us. Someone shouted Fatin's name, and a few moments later, she emerged from one of the tents where she had been weaving a basket. She stared at Carl, and dropped the reeds from her hand. Then she slowly walked up to him. Carl dropped his sledge. For a few moments, they simply stood there. Then, Fatin's hand, deep brown with her palm a lighter colour, touched Carl's marked cheek. I could see her swallow. Then, in the blink of an eye, she wrapped her arms round Carl, and pressed herself against him, whispering into his ear. Carl hugged her as though he was never going to let go again. All round him, people were pointing, laughing, smiling. I looked at Alexandra. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she was smiling along with the rest. One of the tribe women pointed a hand at the pair. I shrugged, and we both laughed. For some things, it really doesn't matter where you come from. There's a good anthropological and evolutionary reason for it, but bollocks to that, I say. People are people. It really is as simple as that.

 

---

 
Alexandra and I were back on board. Boreas was steaming full speed on a course for Cairo. The diplomatic mess caused by our rather direct tactics in Khartoum had not quite been cleared up by the bastards with soft voices and hard minds. At least we hadn't annoyed anyone important in Egypt lately. Wadcroft was buried in the unavoidable paperwork. Riley was in his cabin, doing God only knows what. Andrew was hanging precariously next to the Beast in an extra large bosun's chair, hammering away at the broken track. He was hoping to get the track repaired and the Beast back to full function before we reached Cairo. I'd watched him for a while, but his acrobatics made me queasy. Alexandra was sitting curled up in her usual chair in the observation lounge, an empty gin-and-tonic next to her.

I put my hand on her shoulder. "Refill, dear?"

She looked up to me. "Please."

I picked up her glass, and walked over to the drinks cabinet to do the necessary. Just as I turned round, glasses in hand, Riley came in. He looked round, then turned to me.

"You seen Nazeem anywhere?"

"Meditating in the aft observation room, thirty minutes ago," I said. "Why?"

"He's not there anymore. Damn. I was certain he'd try to give us the slip at some time, but I figured he wouldn't try it seven hundred feet up in the air."

"This is a big ship, Riley. Checked the loos have you?"

"What am I, a god-damned idiot? I'm heading to the archive room, and if I find as much as a piece of paper out of order, I'm organising a full-on search."

"You do that," I said. "If you need any volunteers to beat the bushes, you know where to find us."

Riley stormed out, and I handed Alexandra her glass. "Drink up dear. We may need it."

Alexandra sipped her drink. "I think Riley has lost it. Why on Earth would Nazeem up and disappear? We're heading for Cairo. That's the natural habitat for shady frauds and spies. He'd be much happier there than down here in the jungle."

"Maybe he transported himself there by magic," I said.

Alexandra gave me a little smile. "I'm not Wadcroft. I don't believe you are serious."

"Hah! Didn't you see him snatch a bullet out of the air?"

"He snatched at something, and then he gave me a bullet. Not the same thing."

I sat down and pulled up a footstool, I pressed down the slice of lemon in the glass and watched one of the pips drift to the surface. I tried fishing it out with the stirrer, but it fell back down. Sometimes, you need to get your hands dirty. I fished the pip out with my fingers instead and wiped my fingers on my sleeve.

"We still don't know who that poor bugger was who fell to his death on the way here. I didn't mean for that to happen."

"My count is now up to fourteen confirmed," said Alexandra. "This is an expensive expedition."

"It is," I said. I honestly couldn't think of anything else to say. So I said nothing, and we sat together, watching the sky turn from blue to black.

 
By the next morning, Nazeem still hadn't been found. Riley kicked up a frightful fuss, and we searched all of Boreas from top to bottom. The rock samples from Hammond's camp were undisturbed. All their records, every rambling word, were still there. Riley tried to get Captain Gaskin to turn round, but Gaskin shouted him down. Nazeem had disappeared in a way as mysterious as he had arrived, and that was all there was to it. Like all magic tricks, everybody secretly knew how he did it, but when you come right down to it, who gives a toss? Perhaps we would see him again, him and his spirits, but for now, he was gone. We got to Cairo in good time, and set down Klemm and his Jäger. Two of them were sporting bandages, but apart from that pig named Meiwes, none of them were seriously hurt. Klemm marched his soldiers down the gangway. I was half expecting him to throw off a military style salute, but he simply waved, said it had been a pleasure and walked away. Riley walked past us, carrying a suitcase. He put it down to shake hands with us, then disappeared into Cairo's busy streets. No doubt, he would be combing the whole of Africa for information on our rather shadowy adversaries. If anyone can find them, Riley can, and they won't be the happiest of people when he does.

 
Boreas now turned back to the North West. Captain Gaskin was setting us down in exactly the same place where he picked us up two months ago. Andrew had put away his tools, and as we passed over the beaches of the Netherlands, heading west, he was looking down one of the telescopes, enthralled, at something moving about on the beach. I looked through the other telescope and saw what he was looking at. A herd of mechanical strandbeest was scuttling along the beach, legs moving in a strange crab-like fashion, dorsal sails undulating in the wind. A Dutch artist had constructed these strange creatures out of balsa wood. Part of his legacy was that people would come regularly, and keep the strandbeest in repair with fresh supplies of wood, string and so on.

"Their gait is very regular," said Andrew. "The legs are constructed using a very precise ratio between the various struts of the limbs. This is obviously a great advantage when travelling on loose sand. The calculations must have been immense."

Far below us, the wind picked up, and the creatures sped up to a run.

"We have a few of Mr. Janssen's dissertations in the library," I said. "I think he said once that building these creatures gave him a sense of the problems the real Creator had to solve." I looked up from my telescope. "Say Andrew, did you ever finish reading the Bible?"

Andrew shook his head. "Before I stopped reading, I found one hundred and fifteen instances where verses contradicted other verses, and a further seventy-five where verses contradicted observable facts. I believe that Father Nathaniel must have given me an uncorrected proof by mystake. I will find a more up to date version in the Library."

"They don't update this book much," I said.

Andrew has a special kind of frown that he shows when he is faced with one of those strange facts of life that simply don't make sense to one with a literal mind like his.

"Surely, to have an accurate description of the Creator is of the utmost importance. Why would people not bring their description up to date?"

I looked down again at the strandbeest. Creatures of wood, wind, and mathematics. Everything about them measured and understood.

"They can't agree on what the Creator looks like. When they do, they'll be sure to put out a new version."

 

---

 
The sight of the Algernon University bell tower was greeted by cheers from all us Brits. Gaskin, with a flair for drama, turned on all the external lights and turned round Boreas, then slowly descended towards the tethers. These had been thoughtfully put in to avoid Boreas flying away when the Beast was unloaded. Andrew stoked up the furnace once more, and drove the Beast through the beautiful new doors to its stable. There, it de-pressurised itself, extinguished its fire and went to have a well-earned sleep. We unloaded our luggage, piled it up in the entrance hall, and went to see the Chancellor to report. Wadcroft was carrying a briefcase full of everybody's notes, carefully typed out on board Boreas. Wadcroft did most of the talking, and I slowly sunk back in my chair until Alexandra nudged me.

"Time for dinner," she said.

I leant over to whisper to her. "How long was I out?"

"Concentrating deeply on Professor Wadcroft's melodious voice, you mean? Just ten minutes."

"Thank goodness."

We walked off to the dining hall. Captain Gaskin had politely declined our dinner invitation. He had to sail back to Arkham to report. Andrew never goes to official dinners. Large crowds tend to upset him, with the noise and the random motions. Miss Felicia had helped him unpack and he would probably be back in his workshop, writing his poems in steel and fire. So it was just Alan, me and Alexandra.

Normally, I didn't eat in the common dining hall. To tell you the truth, sitting at High Table, so we can be properly adored by students eagerly watching our every mouthful, makes me want to scream. But today, we were the conquering heroes, and being worshipped was part of the job. Algernon university's dining hall was cavernous, dimly lit by gas-lamps, and at the moment, filled with row upon row of tables and the hard folding chairs that give our younger generation a bit of backbone. The dining hall was also used for popular guest lectures, like the one given by that shining star of the silver screen, Veronica Cardinale, a while back. Despite the fact that her most marketable assets are in her tight sweater, and for some reason she always plays completely brain-dead airheads, she is also the director of her own production company. I quite enjoyed her talk while all round me, boys were gently dribbling and girls were memorising her hairdo. Several weeks after, I was gazed at in lectures from behind strands of hair artfully hanging over one eye. We were now striding regally down the central passage on our way to High Table. I saw one of the girls waving at Alexandra, who waved back and veered off the path to join her and her friends. We walked on, climbed the stairs and took our rightful place at the hand of the Chancellor. I looked at the menu card, which for the occasion was all in French, and probably differed a bit from the food on the floor. I looked over where Alexandra was sitting next to a girl who was talking excitedly to her friend and making shooting gestures. Instead of a filet mignon with haricots verts and pommes frites, Alexandra was in grave danger of being served les twizzleurs de turkey with les soggy chips and les petits pois maché to within an inch of their lives.

As the kitchen slaves started to trudge out bearing plates, there was something moving next to us. A wheelchair was being pushed up the ramp at the side of the platform. In the chair sat a man who was looking a bit worse for wear. Irregular patches of his hair were missing. He wore a black eyepatch, and his left arm lay motionless in his lap. One of his legs had been amputated below the knee. I gave him a friendly nod as he was wheeled to the seat next to me.

"Good evening, Sir," I said.

"Good evening, Doctor Enderby," said the man.

I blinked. How did this man know my name?

"Have we met before?"

The man laughed. "Yes, we have. But I forgive you for not recognising me. I have... let us call it changed."

The laugh did it. "Philip? I thought you were dead!"

A waiter came and filled our glasses with the house claret. Philip Tennant picked up his glass, and sipped carefully.

"So did I, for a while. But then I found myself in a hospital in the city of Hnctplep. That city, by the way, has absolutely nothing to do with any African culture, so Barnaby is still not vindicated. They have very good doctors, though. Now I have been told that my daughter was a member of that expedition of yours. Where is she? And did she find my son?"

I pointed. "She's down there talking to some students. She'll be up in a minute."

The bell rang once, and there were the requisite five seconds of silence for people to pray. Then, happy troughing commenced. Alexandra made her way to the High Table and put her hand on my shoulder in passing.

"Did they set me a plate? Sorry for ducking out, but I think I have just promised to start a marksmanship club at..."

She fell silent, and stared at Philip. I could see her starting to tremble.

"Father?"

Philip pushed his wheelchair back, and looked up at his daughter.

"Forgive me for not getting up, Alexandra. In fact, I am here to have your physicians fit me with one of these marvellous prosthetic legs."

Alexandra bent down and wrapped her arms round Philip's neck. I could see his face over her shoulder, eye closed, a smile on his face that said that all would be right with the world in a bit, hand gently stroking Alexandra's back. Alexandra looked at his face, ravaged as it was. Philip looked back at her, fingers brushing her cheek.

"Tell me, Alexandra. Did you find Carl?"

"Yes. Yes I did. But he didn't come back with us. He's... He has a..." Alexandra breathed in deep. "You're going to be a grandfather."

Philip simply stared. "I'm too young to be a grandfather! I have expeditions to go on. Discoveries to make. Books to write. I can't do that with a string of grandchildren at my knees, whining for sweeties!"

Alexandra laughed. A genuine laugh of happiness. It was lovely to hear. She sat down next to her father.

"Let's eat," she said. "I'll tell you all about it later."

"I have stories of my own, Alexandra," said Philip, picking up his fork.

Alexandra pulled his plate over and cut his filet into smaller pieces. Then, she pushed the plate back to him.

"Good," she said.