The doctor retained his composure throughout the episode and, speaking to his pet in reasonable tones, attempted to persuade him to come down. Koestler knew that baboons did not climb trees as a rule, and while Babbitt was not an ordinary baboon, he was very unsteady up in a tree, even when sober. But the more sweetly Koestler coaxed, the more Babbitt raged at him. Koestler instructed Johnson—the only African who was not holding his sides with laughter—to run back to the compound and obtain a stretcher to use as a safety net in case Babbitt passed out and fell from the tree, but as the doctor was intently giving Johnson these instructions, a wedge of smile cracked the African’s face and he fell to howling as well.

“So, Cornelius, this is how it is with you,” Koestler said with a certain amount of amusement. “You have betrayed me as well.” As the others continued to hoot and wail, Koestler remembered that his friend Jules Hartman, the bush pilot, would be flying a pair of new American docs in later that day, and considered what a marvelous story this would make. He wanted to join in the fun, but as Babbitt began to masturbate, Koestler’s impulse to laugh and give in to the moment was quickly vanquished by feelings of shame, anger, and real concern at the possibility of Babbitt’s falling. Furthermore, it was his job to see that things didn’t get out of control. An inch freely given around here quickly became the proverbial mile. The doctor raised his voice just slightly, insisting that the audience make a pile of leaves underneath the tree to break Babbitt’s fall, which seemed all but inevitable. “Mister Johnson, see that this is done immediately,” Koestler said. “I had better see heel-clicking service, do you hear me?”

Johnson wiped the smile from his face and began abusing the Africans. Soon a formidable pile of leaves had been gathered, but then Koestler, who was plotting the trajectory of the possible fall, was distracted when a small boy charged onto the scene and summoned the doctor to the clinic. A child had been bitten by a snake and was dying, the boy said. Koestler hastened back, the heavily laden pockets of his bush shorts jingling against his legs as he trotted alongside the young messenger, trying to get the boy to identify the type of snake responsible for the bite so he would be able to respond immediately with the appropriate dosage of antivenin, based on the victim’s body weight, the bite pattern and location, the amount of edema present, and a number of other factors, including the possibility of shock. His alcohol-benumbed mind was soon clicking like a computer.