Hartman clutched his chest and panted frantically, wheezing. Rivulets of sweat coated with black dust rolled down off his face and dropped on his lap like oily pearls. Koestler poured out a large glass of whiskey and handed it to Hartman and said, “Here, old man. Drink yourself sober.”

“Just having a bit of fun is all,” Hartman said agreeably. “Didn’t mean anything by it.” Indiana drew away from Hartman, who managed the entire glass of whiskey in three gulps. “I believe all that marijuana got me going. No offense intended. Apologies all around.”

Hartman took a mashed cigar out of his pocket, twisted off the broken end, and lighted it. He puffed rapidly without inhaling and wafted the smoke in front of his face to clear away the mosquitoes. Then he pulled himself up, set his glass on the table, and said, “It’s been a long day, and here I am, shitfaced again. Good night, all.”

Hartman hastily made his way up the path toward the sleeping quarters beyond the surgery. As he went, he laughed again and repeated the famous Monty Python litany, “And now for something completely different—sawing logs. Ah, zzzzz! Ah, zzzzz! Ah, zzzzz!”

Indiana turned to Koestler. “What is with that guy?”

“Don’t mind Jules. He’s a jolly good fellow. You’ll grow to love him. And he won’t remember a thing about tonight. Blackout drunk, this—presumably. I might not remember any of it, either.”

From the distance, an elephant blared, a big cat roared, the hyenas began their freakishly human wailing, and the whole cacophony of jungle sounds took over the night.

Was it a minute or an hour later that Babbitt hopped on Hartman’s empty chair and seemed to beseech the cardplayers to deal him in? The men had drifted off into their separate thoughts. Babbitt grabbed the bottle of Canadian Mist from the card table and, brandishing sharp canine teeth that shone like ivory in the glow of the Coleman lanterns, caused both the young doctors to duck to the floor before he quickly sprang off into the black jungle. Even Koestler hit the deck, wrenching his knee. When he got up, he brushed himself off and said, “That settles it, I’m getting myself a dog.”

“Christ, that’s one mean son-of-a-bitch!” said Chicago. “And I thought you said a baboon will only get drunk once. Here I thought he was poised to go for that goat-shit cigar. I mean, so much for your full Cleveland.”

“Georgie is not your average baboon,” Koestler said with a shrug. “Especially when he’s stoned. When you’ve got a stoned baboon, all bets are off.”

Indiana looked at Koestler. “What are we going to do? Are we going after him?”

“Not likely—anyhow, you need to clean up. Put something on those scratches. They can go septic overnight in this climate.”

“But the leopard.”