The Goons were all around them, a small group to front and rear, and down each flank a single file of guards keeping pace. All were armed with burp guns. Why in the name of God doesn’t he do something? Ansell thought. His stomach fluttered in anticipation. He kept remembering the violence in MacConnachie, the crudeness and force, the unpredictability of a man too dangerous to be liked, and his legs trembled at the recurring realization that MacConnachie had chosen him. He is so much the stronger, Ansell thought; he knows the country and he speaks the language. He had that – thing about physical phenomena; that instinct.

What does he need with me?

MacConnachie put his head down, swung left and charged through the ranks of stumbling men, scattering his former comrades in every direction. One of the Goons at the edge of the precipice saw him coming and, alight with fear, struggled frantically to unsling his weapon. MacConnachie dived full length and, catching him in the face with the crown of his head, carried him over, both of them falling from view. Ansell ran forward, shut his eyes, and jumped after them.

For a moment all orientation was lost to him. He tumbled and spun dizzily, completely unaware of what was happening to his body, of whether he fell by the feet or the head. The wind tore at his face, forcing his eyelids apart and his mouth open. He tried to cry out but the echoing din deafened him. He was on the point of vomiting. The next moment he was twisting and turning his trunk in a ludicrous attempt to pull his bottom out through his bound arms. He couldn’t breathe. He screamed with terror. Then he hit the water with a stunning crash.

He came to the surface at once, unsure he had ever been under it, and began to pump his back legs with the frantic disorder of a mutilated insect. He had no idea in which direction he was swimming.

‘Ansell! Ansell!’

He came suddenly upright and found that he could stand. He started to cough.

‘Here!’

MacConnachie was fifteen feet away. He had the Goon’s head trapped between his knees, and was drowning him. The man thrashed about, swimming downwards.

‘Find the gun!’

Ansell floundered towards him through the warm, brown water.

‘Where is it?’

‘I don’t know – look for the bastard!’

In a curious, enforced slow motion Ansell danced about, feeling the tacky sludge with his feet, trying to find something hard in all that ooze. MacConnachie rode out a last contortion from the Goon and then released the body, which bobbed a moment and slid from view. Ansell said,

‘They’re shooting at us.’

‘I’m not blind!’

The bullets fell about them with the dead violence of dropped stones, barely breaking the surface of the water as they passed through it. From far above, faint popping noises sounded.

‘Here! Over here!’

MacConnachie appeared to have found the gun for, although the churned-up water was impenetrable, he was scowling down at it with fierce attention, slight movements of his head and shoulders indicating that below the surface he was performing some sort of cautious jig. Ansell wallowed over to where he stood.