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By Root 4646 0

�hen climbed in, balancing precariously, with a hand on William's arm; then the German; the boat sank almost to the gunwales. "We shall not have room for the stores," said K�hen. "My boat in Matto Grosso was twenty feet long," said the German drowsily. "It turned over and went straight to the bottom. Two of my boys were drowned. They had always said it would sink." "If we get safely to the French border," said K�hen, "shall we leave the boat there for you? Will you want it again?" "No." "We might sell it and send you the money." "Yes." "Or we could keep the money until we get to Europe � it will be easier to send." "It is an abstract speculation," said the German, suddenly awake, and impatient. "It is a question purely of academic interest. We shall not reach the French border. Let us start." "Good-bye," said K�hen. The two figures sat opposite one another, knees touching, expectant, as though embarking upon the ornamental waters of a fair-ground; lovers for the day's outing, who had stood close in a queue, and now waited half-reluctant to launch into the closer intimacy of the grottoes and transparencies. William released the boat; it revolved once or twice, slowly, as it drifted into midstream; there it was caught in the full power of the flood, and, spinning dizzily, was swept out of sight into the dawn.

William returned to his empty room. The boy had put back the debris of the Christmas dinner, carefully ranged upon the writing table. A cleft stick lay across the bed, bearing no message for William. He sat down at his table and, with his eyes fixed on the label of the turkey tin, began to compose his despatch. "Take to wireless," he ordered his boy. "Sit on step till open. Then come back and sit on this step. Don't let anyone in. Want to sleep very much." But he did not sleep very much. The boy shook him at half-past ten. "No send," he said, waving the typewritten message. William painfully roused himself from his brief sleep. "Why no send?" "No Jacksons. No Government. No send." William dressed and went to the wireless bureau. A jaunty black face smiled at him through the guichet; starched collar, bow tie, long ivory cigarette holder � the welterweight. "Good morning," said William. "I hope you are not feeling too sore after your meeting with the goat. Where is the wireless clerk?" "He is on a little holiday. I have taken over from him." "My boy says that this cable has been refused." "That is so. We are very much occupied with Government business. I think we shall be occupied all day, perhaps for several days. It would have been far better if you had gone for the tour we had planned for you. Meanwhile perhaps you would like to see the manifesto that we are issuing. I think you do not read Ishmaelite?" "No." "A very barbarous language. I have never learned it. Soon we shall make Russian the official language of the country. I have a copy here in English." He handed William a sheet of crimson paper headed Workers of Ishmaelia Unite and snapped down the trap of the guichet. William stepped out into the sunlight. A black man on a ladder was painting out the name of Jackson Street. Someone had stencilled a sickle and hammer on the front of the post office, a red flag hung limp overhead. He read the manifesto.

...development of mineral resources of the workers by the workers for the workers ...Jacksons to be speedily brought to trial... arraigned for high treason to the Revolution...liquidated�New Calendar. Year One of the Soviet State of lshmaelia...

He crumpled the paper into a scarlet ball and tossed it to the goat; it went down like an oyster. He stood on his verandah and looked across the yard to the beastly attic from which K�hen used to greet him, at about this time in the morning, calling him to come out to Popotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour. "Change and decay in all around I see," he sang softly, almost unctuously. It was the favourite tune of his uncle Theodore. He bowed his head. "O great crested grebe," he prayed, "maligned fowl, have I not expiated the wrong my sister did you; am I still to be an exile from the green places of my heart? Was there not, even in the remorseless dooms of antiquity, a god from the machine?" He prayed without hope. And then above the multitudinous noises of the Pension Dressler came a small sound, an insistent, swelling monotone. The servants in the yard looked up. The sound increased, and high above them in the cloudless sky, rapidly approaching, there appeared an aeroplane. The sound ceased as the engine was cut off. The machine circled and dropped silently. It was immediately overhead when a black speck detached itself and fell towards them; white stuff streamed behind it, billowed and spread. The engine sang out again; the machine swooped up and away, out of sight and hearing. The little domed tent paused and gently sank, as though immersed in depths of limpid water. "If he comes onto my roof," said Frau Dressler. "If he breaks anything ..." The parachutist came on the roof; he broke nothing. He landed delicately on the tips of his toes; the great sail crumpled and collapsed behind him; he deftly extricated himself from the bonds and stood clear. He took a comb from his pocket and settled the slightly disordered auburn hair about his temples, glanced at his watch, bowed to Frau Dressler, and asked for a ladder, courteously, in five or six languages. They brought him one. Rung by rung, on pointed, snakeskin toes, he descended to the yard. The milch-goat reverently made way for him. He smiled politely at William; then recognized him. "Why," he exclaimed. "It is my fellow traveller, the journalist. How agreeable to meet a fellow Britisher in this remote spot!"