Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

Trounce retrieved the medical kit and returned to the poet.

Burton, meanwhile, spoke to Spencer: “Are you all right, Herbert?”

“Battered, Boss. Dented an' scratched all over-but tickin' an' serviceable.”

Burton saw that the able-bodied among the Wanyambo had drawn together and were talking quietly, with many a gesture in Spencer's direction.

“I don't think our friends consider you a leper any more,” he said.

Sidi Bombay crawled out of the undergrowth. “Wow! Mr. Spencer is like the thing called pocket watch, which you gave me long and long ago and which one of my six wives stole!”

“Yes, he is, Bombay,” Burton agreed. “Can you explain that to the Wanyambo?”

“I shall try, though none of them has met my wives.”

While Bombay joined the surviving warriors, Burton checked the injuries of the fallen. Three were dead and five too seriously hurt to continue on to the Mountains of the Moon. That left twelve-which meant his forces and Speke's were about even.

Bombay rejoined him and explained: “Wow! I told them that, just as the bad muzungo mbayahas bad magic, so the good muzungo mbayahas good magic. And Mr. Spencer is good magic.”

“And they believed you?”

“Not at all. But they will continue with us to the mountains anyway.”

“Good.”

“They will not go into them, though, for the Wanyambo are afraid of the Chwezi, who you say don't exist.”

“Very well. Help me with these injured, then we'll regroup and go after Speke. It's high time he and I brought our feud to an end-whatever it takes to do so.”

Sidi Bombay stood motionless and gazed up at the mountains. He made clicking noises with his tongue.

Burton watched him, then stepped to his side and asked, “You are sure this is the route Speke took?”

Without moving, his eyes remaining glued to the scene ahead, Bombay answered: “Oh yes, this is it. Wow! It is an evil place. There is a bad feeling in the air, like when my wives stop speaking to me because I have come home drunk.”

“It's certainly quiet,” Burton replied. “An oppressive silence.”

“There are no birds in the trees.”

“There are two. We're having the devil of a time getting Pox and Malady down. Algy is climbing up to them.”

“Your friend is like a little monkey.”

“I'll be sure to tell him.”

“I do not like these mountains, Mr. Burton. The Chwezi live here. The Chwezi who don't exist, and who serve the Batembuzi.”

“And who are the Batembuzi?”

“They are the children of the gods who once ruled these lands. Long and long ago they disappeared into the underworld.”

“We have no choice but to go on, Bombay,” Burton said, “but you aren't obliged to accompany us. Do you want to remain here in the camp with the Wanyambo?”

“Wow! I want to, but I will not, because I have five wives and I expect you will pay me much more if I accompany you.”

“I thought you had six wives?”

“I am trying to forget number four.”

It was early in the morning. Two days had passed since the plant vehicle had attacked them. In that time they'd trekked across sodden and difficult terrain, and had at last reached the base of the Mountains of the Moon. They were now camped at the tree line.

A steep ravine lay ahead of them. Tall pointed rocks of a blueish hue stood like gateposts at the foot of the slope leading into it. According to Bombay, this was the path to the Temple of the Eye.

“I found them!” Swinburne a

“By Jove!” Trounce exclaimed. “And what did the happy parents-to-be have to say on the matter?”

Swinburne jumped to the ground. “Pox called me a fumbling toad-gobbler, and Malady told me to sod off.”

Burton moved away from Bombay and over to his friends. “It looks like this expedition has had a happy ending for one of our little family, anyway,” he said. “Come on, let's leave them to it and get ourselves moving.”

“I've divided what's left of the supplies into light packs,” Trounce advised. “What equipment remains, we'll have to leave here.”

Swinburne, looking up into the branches he'd just vacated, shook his head. “Why would they want to live in a place like this?” he asked. “There are no other birds.”

“P'raps they likes their privacy,” Herbert Spencer suggested.

“Maybe they need the space so they can begin a dynasty,” Trounce offered.

The poet sighed. “I shall miss the foul-mouthed little blighters.”

They hefted their bags, took up their spears, and started to scrabble up steep loose shale, sending rivulets of stone clattering down behind them.

Sir Richard Francis Burton, Algernon Swinburne, William Trounce, Herbert Spencer-with his discoloured, scratched, and dented body unencumbered by robes or polymethylene-and Sidi Bombay entered the Mountains of the Moon, and more than one of them had a question on his mind.

How many of us will come back?

CHAPTER 11

“-the sombre range

Virginal, ne'er by foot of man profaned,

Where rise Nile's fountains, if such fountains be.”

Burton and Wells drew their harvestmen to a halt at the top of an incline and turned the vehicles to face the way they'd come. Beneath the mechanised spiders' feet, poppies grew in abundance. The red flowers weaved away in an irregular line, disappearing into the hazy distance, back toward the dirty grey smudge that marked the position of Tabora.

High overhead, looking enormous even though it was flying at a very high altitude, the L.59 Zeppelindrifted closer to the city.

It was a remarkable craft-a vegetable thing, like a gargantuan pointed cigar with ruffled seams on its sides. All along this join, oval bean-like growths swelled outward, and even from afar, it was apparent that they'd been hollowed out and fitted with portholes.

A giant purple flower grew from the rear of the vessel, similar in appearance to a tulip. Its petals were opening and closing, throbbing like a pulsing heart, driving the ship through the air.

“It's magnificent,” Wells said. “And utterly horrible.”

“Horrible because we know what it's carrying,” Burton replied. “I wonder how big an area the A-Bomb will destroy? Surely the spores will drift?”

“Perhaps they're potent for only a few minutes,” Wells mused. “But even if the effects are of short duration and confined to the city, thousands of people are going to die. There simply hasn't been time for everyone to get out. Look! Those dots rising up from Tabora-that's a squadron of hornets!”

“We need a rotorship.”

“There are none. Our last was brought down more than a year ago.”

The hornets-twelve of them-raced across the shrinking distance between the city and the German vessel. As they neared the bomb carrier, they exploded one after the other and fell to the earth trailing smoke behind them.

“No!” Wells shrilled. “What the hell happened?”

“There!” Burton pointed. “See the trails of vapour curving out from the Zeppelin?The Germans must have some sort of manoeuvrable shells.”

“By heavens, Richard. Has it reached Tabora already? I can't tell.”

“Any time now,” Burton replied. “Be prepared to-”

Without warning, the sun erupted from the ground beneath the city. A blinding light blazed outward, and though Burton squeezed his eyes shut in an instant and clapped his hands over them, still he could see it. He heard Wells scream.

“Bertie, are you all right?” he yelled.

Wells groaned. “Yes. I think-I think it's passed.”