“It doesn’t take Jane Goodall to see that,” said Hartman. He had flown the Americans in that morning, and had got a head start on the Canadian Mist that afternoon. To Koestler’s eye, the pilot appeared to be on the road to a mean, brooding drunk, rather than the more typical Hartman drunk—that of merriment, cricket talk, vaudeville routines, and bawdy songs. Koestler had recently run some blood work on his friend and knew that Hartman’s liver was getting a little funny, but he could only bring himself to give Hartman a perfunctory warning and a bottle of B vitamins, since Koestler liked to match Hartman drink for drink when he made his twice-weekly drops at the mission and, as Koestler told Hartman, chastising him would seem like a ridiculous instance of the pot calling the kettle black. Like himself, Hartman was an old hand in Africa, and while he was not a Kiwi, he was close, having been raised in Launceston, Tasmania. Those pretentious types from mainland Australia looked down their noses on Taz, as they did on New Zealand—the poor sisters.

While Hartman had the typical apple cheeks and large ears that made Tasmanians look almost inbred, he liked to claim that he was Welsh. “May the Welsh rule the world!” he often said, but at other times he admitted that a year in Wales, with forays into much detested England, had been the most boring of his life. Whenever the subject came up, whether he was drunk or sober, the English were “Those bloody Pommy bastards!”

From the moment Babbitt had refused the alcohol mash, the doctor had been in a good mood, and now he began to pontificate. “As a rule, a baboon will only get drunk once, a monkey every day. Incredible animals, really, are baboons. Very smart. Did you know they can see in color? Actually, their visual powers are astounding.”

“What happened to its neck?” the young doctor from Hammond, Indiana, asked. “It keeps rubbing its neck.”

“It’s a long story,” Koestler replied. His cheerful countenance turned sour for a moment. “George Babbitt is a long-term experiment. He’s come from the heart of darkness to the sunshine of Main Street. My goal is to turn him into a full Cleveland.”

“What’s a full Cleveland?” Indiana asked.

“A full Cleveland is a polyester leisure suit, white-on-white tie, white belt, white patent-leather shoes, razor burn on all three chins, and membership in the Rotary Club and the Episcopal church.”

“You forgot the quadruple bypass,” the other newbie, who was from Chicago, said.

“Well, he’s got a running start there,” said Koestler.

The baboon had stationed himself between Hartman and Koestler. Hartman held the stump of a wet cigar in his hand and seemed poised to relight it. Babbitt was intent on his every move.

“Georgie smokes a half a pack of cigarettes a day,” Hartman said.

“Used to smoke—”