They put their heads together and muttered under their breaths for a while. Then Short Schmidt walked over to his own hut and returned a minute later with a big metal box.
“One handful,” he said, opening it up. “No more.”
I reached in and pulled out a fistful of rubies and sapphires and other such trinkets and stuffed them into my pockets. Then I took them out behind my hut to a little spot I'd marked, dug down about five or six inches with my fingers, and handed them the tube.
“Anything I can do for you two when I reach civilization?” I asked, preparing to take my leave of them while they were fiddling with the shortwave. “Any messages you want me to deliver?”
“Just send a note to our folks back in Pittsburgh telling them we're okay,” said Short Schmidt. “And maybe find a way to tell the Pirates they need more left-handed pitching.”
Just then the Giants score three runs in the top of the eighth, and I could see that there wasn't much sense in trying to talk to them any longer, as they were spending all their energy calling down their godly wrath on John McGraw, so I took my leave of them.
Melora shot me the first smile I had ever seen from her and walked me to the tunnel and guided me through and didn't even holler when I didn't exactly grab her hand again.
We finally made it to the plateau that the crater sat on. I kissed her good-bye real courtly-like and, with a handsome fortune in my pockets, I set off for civilization with the happy knowledge that me and God would finally be co-landlords of the Tabernacle of Saint Luke.
Chapter 10
THE LORD OF THE JUNGLE
Me and the Lord spent the next couple of weeks walking in a northerly direction and discussing just how much of our modest fortune should go into the actual building of our tabernacle and how much should be held back for the two of us to live on.
I also learned that having a pocketful of gemstones is a hell of a lot different from wanting one. Now that I was a wealthy man, I was so worried about highwaymen and other rogues robbing a law-abiding citizen like myself that I carefully avoided all cities and military outposts, and even made a huge detour that took me a good forty miles out of my way rather than chance running into a safari that I heard up ahead.
In point of fact, it was all this maneuvering that got me lost. I started hitting one forest after another, which I knew meant I was having some slight difficulty, since British East ain't got no forests, and pretty soon there weren't any gaps at all between them, and then it started doing a little serious nonstop raining, and I soon got to the point where I would gladly have accepted the Lord's share of the stones for a raincoat and a map.
Also, as I walked along I kept getting the feeling that I was being watched by unseen eyes, which in my broad experience on the Dark Continent are the very worst kind of eyes to be watched by. Finally one day I started seeing huge manlike shapes way off in the distance, so I figured I was in gorilla country and spent most of my waking hours trying to recollect whether or not gorillas ate people. I even did a little serious lumbering and grunting in the hope that they might think I was one of them, but then I got to figuring that I looked pretty feminine as gorillas went and I didn't want to have to fight off no impassioned bull gorillas, or even bull chimpanzees if push came to shove, so I went back to walking like the good-looking God-fearing white man that I am.
I spent another couple of days in the muck and mire of the forest floor and was just about sure I was lost beyond salvation when an arrow thudded home about three inches from my head as I leaned up against a huge old tree. I looked up just in time to see a tall, bronzed white man wearing nothing but a dagger and loincloth step out from behind some bushes, with a bow and a couple of arrows clutched in his right hand.
“What are you doing in my jungle?” he demanded in deep, stern tones.
“Looking for a way out,” I told him sincerely.
“And who are you?” he asked, glaring at me.
“The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service,” I said, flashing him a big Sunday-morning smile. “Preaching and salvation done cheap, with a group rate for funerals.”
“Good!” he said, sighing deeply and looking mightily relieved. “I was afraid you might be from Barrow, Phillips, and Smythe.”
“Who are they?”
“My British creditors.”
“You expect them to follow you here?” I asked.
“You've no idea how firm their resolve can be,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am John Caldwell, Lord Bloomstoke.”
“Make up your mind,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Which are you: Caldwell or Bloomstoke?”
“Both. One is a title. Unfortunately, it costs a lot more to support a title these days than it ever used to, and finally I had to flee the country to avoid my creditors and their solicitors.”
“But why here?” I asked. “I ain't seen naught but grubworms and an occasional monkey in days.”
“I thought I was purchasing an up-to-date plantation,” he admitted. “You can imagine my distress when I found out that what I really owned was six square miles of the Ituri Rain Forest.”
“Who'd you buy it from?” I asked, just out of politeness.
“A realtor with absolutely impeccable credentials,” replied Bloomstoke. “What was his name now? Ah, yes—Von Horst.”
“Figgers,” I said.
“You know of him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I answered. “How long have you been out here?”
“Four years, as near as I can tell.”
“That's a long time to be stuck in the bush,” I remarked. “What do you do to keep from going nuts?”
“Oh, I spend a lot of the time talking to my friends,” he said.
“Friends?” I repeated. “You got friends stashed away around here?”
“Watch,” he said with a smile. Then he put his fingers to his lips and let out a weird whistle, and a couple of minutes later a pair of gorillas broke into a clearing about thirty yards away. Bloomstoke immediately started jabbering at them in some gutteral language I hadn't never heard before, and they nodded their heads and disappeared back into the forest.
“Are you telling me they understand you?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “I studied French at Oxford. There's very little difference, except that apes have only the haziest understanding of the future imperfect except as it relates to hunting for grubworms.”
“You're pulling my leg, right?”
“Not a bit.” He smiled. “If you have any messages for them, I'll be happy to translate for you. Of course, you have to be a little careful with your idioms. For example, if I were to tell them that you thought we were pulling your leg, and I didn't remember to drop half a tone on the double
arrrgeth
sound, they could immediately come over and pull your leg off.” He paused. “But aside from such minor technicalities, we have quite excellent conversations. Of course, it's not as if they can discuss Plato's
Republic
with any depth of understanding, but on the other hand they also can't discuss Sartre and Decartes at all, which I for one consider a definite plus.”
“And you live with these here gorillas?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” he said happily. “In fact, I've worked my way up into their hierarchy due to my physical prowess. You see, apes fight for their various leaderships positions. At this very moment,” he added with more than a touch of pride, “I am Assistant to the Second Vice President.”
“Now, I would have sworn they had a king,” I said, shaking my head in wonderment.
“Oh, they used to, before we started discussing the problems inherent in constitutional monarchies,” replied Bloomstoke. “We currently have a very limited republic, but I won't quit until we've established a true socialist state.”
“Well, Brother Bloomstoke,” I said, “it sure sounds like you've accomplished quite a lot in just four years’ time.”
“Thank you,” he said modestly. “But there's so much to do! My God, do you realize that we haven't even taken the first small steps toward establishing a group medical plan?”
“I would imagine that most of your medical emergencies consist of being et by lions and leopards and the like, and as such would be somewhat beyond the scope of a group plan,” I opined.
“True,” he admitted. “But you can't just have a bureaucracy and not give it anything to do. That's just plain wasteful. No, Doctor Jones, I appreciate your kind words, truly I do, but there is so much left undone.”
“Seems to me you've done more than enough,” I said soothingly.
He shook his head sadly. “Even our military establishment can't seem to function efficiently.”
“You got a military establishment?” I asked, surprised.
“Of course,” he said. “Our economy was in a shambles. We couldn't see any way of bringing it back to life except by gearing up for a little war.”
“Who are you going to fight with—elephants?”
“That's not an issue at this point,” he said. “When we're geared up and ready, we'll find an enemy.”
“Have you considered the possibility that maybe you bit off a little more than you can chew?” I suggested.
“Sometimes it feels that way,” he admitted with a deep sigh. “I mean, I speak to them of Romeo and Juliet, or Arthur and Guinevere, and all they want to do is enter into uncomplicated relationships with other apes. That's all right; I can accept that. I really can. But when I try to discuss welfare statism and all they want to do is peel bananas...” His voice trailed off, and his handsome face contorted as he fought to hold back a manly little sob.
“Look at the bright side,” I said. “You got your health, you ain't sitting in a debtor's prison, and you've actually learned their language.”
“I know,” he said. “But sometimes I get so frustrated! Do you know what the gorilla word for ‘moon’ is?
Kablooga
!
You
try to write a poem and see what the hell rhymes with
kablooga
! In a way it's an even sillier language than French.”
“Of course, there ain't no law that says you got to associate with them,” I pointed out.
“With all their faults, they're still preferable to men,” he replied hotly. “They don't cheat at cards or vote for
laissez-faire
capitalism or mix their drinks...”
“I'm just pointing out alternatives,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I'm inclined to be emotional these days. I suspect it all goes back to my troubles with Barrow, Phillips, and Smythe.”
I was about to make some comforting remark or other when a huge bull gorilla broke cover about two hundred yards away, stared balefully at us for a couple of minutes, and walked off into the bushes.
“That was George,” said Bloomstoke. “He's probably trying to let me know tactfully that it's time for a meeting of the Governing Council.”
Another gorilla came out of the bushes no more than ten feet away and walked up to me.
“It's just George,” explained Bloomstoke calmly. “He's come to see where you are.”
“But he was a furlong away just a couple of seconds ago!”
“No, that was a different one,” said Bloomstoke.
“You call them both George?” I asked.
“I call them
all
George,” he replied. “It helps impart the notion that the state is more important than the individual.”
The George that was examining me put his face about two inches from mine and glared into my eyes with his own little bloodshot ones. His teeth were sort of rotten, and his breath wasn't much better, but as much as I wanted to turn my head away I thought it best not to make any real sudden moves.
At last George turned to Bloomstoke and jabbered something. Bloomstoke jabbered back and then turned to me.
“George wants to know if you're a Whig or a Tory,” he said.
“I got to admit it ain't a subject over which I've pondered many long and burdensome hours,” I answered.
They jabbered back and forth again, and finally George gave me a little snarl and went back off into the jungle.
“I told him you were an anarchist,” said Bloomstoke. “It was easier than explaining why you choose not to exercise your franchise.”
“Actually, I used to exercise the tar out of it when I was back in the States,” I said. “I'd vote early and often for whichever candidate was quick on the draw with a ten-spot or a little pure Kentucky bourbon.”
“An interesting notion,” remarked Bloomstoke, “and one I may have to introduce very shortly. You see, we've got a sheriff and a marshall and a police force, but the concept of lawbreaking is totally unknown to them, which makes for more waste than usual among our officeholders.”
Well, it was all too complicated for me, and I just walked along in silence while Bloomstoke outlined his grandiose plans to me. He must have been running off at the mouth for the better part of an hour when we heard a gunshot off in the distance.
“More territorial aggrandizement!” he muttered, his eyes gleaming. “I'll have to put a stop to this.” He turned to me. “How are you at racing through the treeways?”
“You mean swinging on vines like unto a monkey?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Brother Bloomstoke, I got troubles enough just keeping on the trail as it meanders along through the bush, and
that's
with the comforting knowledge that if I slip and fall I'll hit the ground in less than twenty or thirty seconds and probably won't bounce. Maybe you'd best race off ahead of me.”
“I'd like to, but I can't leave you alone with the apes,” he replied. “They've never seen an anarchist before, and there's no telling what they might do.”
And with that, he cupped his hands over his mouth and gave a scream that would have woke such dead as weren't otherwise occupied at the time. I couldn't figure out what was going on until about two minutes later, when a huge elephant thundered up out of the bush, crushing trees right and left and skidding to a halt directly in front of Bloomstoke.
“Goola, my friend,” he said, stepping forward and petting the elephant on the trunk while I decided that the whole proceedings made a lot more sense when watched from behind a large tree. “Come on out, Doctor Jones,” he called. “Goola will provide us with transportation.”