It had been a grueling day, and Koestler was drinking warm whiskey on an empty stomach. At first, he was impatient for a meal, then resigned to waiting, then half smashed and glad to wait, and he began offering Babbitt straight shots of booze. When he saw the look of sheer ecstasy that came over Babbitt’s Lincolnesque face, he let the simian drink on, convinced that the animal was undergoing something holy. And perhaps he was, but after the initial rush of intoxication, Babbitt made the inevitable novice drinker’s mistake of trying to amplify heaven. He snatched the whole bottle of Canadian Mist and scampered off into the bush like a drunken Hunchback of Notre Dame. Koestler had to laugh; it seemed so comical—the large Anubis baboon was unwilling to share the last of the amber nectar with his master. Well, there was always more where it came from, but suddenly Koestler wondered about the rapidity with which Babbitt had been slamming it down. He was afraid Babbitt would poison himself. Koestler took off into the bush after the animal, and he was instantly worried when he did not find Babbitt in any of his favorite trees. But Babbitt, who was perched higher than usual, announced his presence by launching the empty bottle down at Koestler like a bomb, just missing him. It was a calculated attempt at mayhem, Koestler realized, as Babbitt began to rant and rave at him with an astonishing repertoire of hostile invective that not only puzzled Koestler but wounded him to the core. Koestler had been Babbitt’s champion and staunchest defender. Virtually no one on the compound had any use for the large and powerful baboon. As Sister Doris, the chief nurse, liked to say, Babbitt was aggressive, noisy, a biter, a thief, and a horrendous mess-maker with no redeeming quality except the fact that he was one of God’s creatures. Father Stuart quickly pointed out that crocodiles were God’s creatures, too, but that didn’t mean you had to let them move in with you. Almost every day someone would come up to Koestler and besiege him with complaints about the animal. Only Father Stuart had the nerve to confront Babbitt directly, once using a bird gun to shoot Babbitt’s red ass with a load of rock salt, an incident that caused the priest and the doctor to cease speaking to each other, except through third parties. Koestler and the priest had become so estranged that Koestler refused to dine with the rest of the staff, and this suited him fine, since he no longer had to sit through the sham of hymns, prayers, and all the folderol that surrounded meals in the lodge.