“Still does,” Hartman said. “Whatever he can mooch from the Africans.”

“Well, I’ll soon put an end to that,” said Koestler. “He’s getting fat and short-winded. His cholesterol is up there. How long has he been smoking this time, the bloody bugger? He’ll end up with emphysema, too. And how come I didn’t know about this? I used to know everything that went on around here! I’ve got to cut back on the juice.”

“Dain bramage,” said Hartman.

“It’s not funny,” Koestler said.

“What’s the normal cholesterol for a baboon?” Indiana asked. His cherubic face made him seem impossibly young.

“Forty to sixty or thereabouts,” Koestler replied. “I couldn’t even get a reading on his triglycerides—his blood congeals like cocoa butter.”

Indiana began to giggle. “Jeez, I still can’t believe that I’m in…Africa.”

“Tomorrow you will believe,” said Koestler. “You will voice regrets.”

“I mean, I know I’m in Africa. I knew that when Mr. Hartman landed that DC-3. Talk about a postage-stamp runway—and those soldiers! Are those guns loaded?”

“That runway is a piece of cake,” Hartman said. “More than adequate. And the guns are loaded. The political situation is very uptight these days. Not that we can’t handle that; it’s just that it’s getting impossible to make a decent wage. I’ve got a mind to sell the plane and head back to Oz. I’m getting too old for this caca.”

“You won’t last a week in Australia and you know it,” Koestler said. “All the oppression of civilization. Sydney’s getting almost as bad as Los Angeles. Every other bloody car is a Rolls or Jaguar. Not for you, my friend. You’ll have to put on a fucking necktie to take in the morning paper.”

“Darwin’s not so bad,” Hartman said, punching at a large black fly. “In Darwin an eccentric can thrive. Colorful characters. Crocodile Dundee and that sort of thing. I can make milk runs to New Guinea, do something—”

Suddenly Hartman seemed drunk, and he glowered at Indiana. “If you think this runway was crude, sonny boy, you’ve got a fuckin’ long way to go.” He sailed the half-empty bowl of banana mash into the wisteria bushes, and a few of the monkeys went after it, scrapping over the paste.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly O’Hare International,” Indiana said. “And how come the Africans sandbagged the tires?”

“To stop the hyenas from eating them,” Koestler said. “It’s hell to procure tires in these parts.”

“Eating tires?” Indiana said. “You’re shitting me!”

“The object of our little get-together is to ease you into your new reality,” Koestler said. “If you get hit with everything too fast, it can overwhelm. Tomorrow will be soon enough. The leper colony—a rude awakening.”