hardly slept that night. The cow was bivouacked in the refrigerator and Cormack got up periodically to attend to the cold presses that Stanton Bosch had prescribed for her stumps.
The morning, when it came at last, was cold and clear. Proton was on the Tropico’s sun deck, performing his exercises in a canary yellow ski-suit, when Cormack came upon him with a mug of coffee.
‘Look at the SplatterHorn!’ said Proton, as he jumping-jacked. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Cormack looked beyond the balustrade and saw the mountain for the first time. It had lost its shroud of fog and was standing clear and stark against the pale blue sky. It did look magnificent - a classical conical volcano, lolling huge in the distance and unconcernedly steaming a pale flume of smoke into the cold mountain air as though it were the side-stream from its post-coital cigarette.
‘Are we really going to climb it, Proton?’ asked Cormack.
‘Sure are, mate! Don’t worry, it’ll be a breeze. You’re with a team of survival experts.’
‘Is the cow coming too?’
‘Cormack, the cow is an unnecessary burden. And remember, we have the chicken to worry about now as well. We can leave her in the fridge in the hotel. She’ll be fine until we get back.’
‘If wes get back,’ said Stanton Bosch, who had arrived on the terrace wearing tight lederhosen and a felt mountaineering hat sporting a tiny red feather.
‘Stanton Bosch! Top of the morning to you! How did you sleep?’ said Proton.
‘Not so good.’
‘You’ve finished the preparations?’
‘Aye, we have,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brothers are all here. They’ll be acting as your Sherpas.’
‘I’m not going without the cow,’ said Cormack peevishly.
‘You know the cow might come in useful to us, Captain,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘A little jerky in a blizzard…’
‘He wants to take the living cow.’
‘I’m not going without her.’
In the end, they acceded to Cormack’s request without telling him why, and the cow was tied to a stretcher that the Boschs had procured from a haberdashers they had found in town. She was to be raised like an Indian Princess on a howdah by a team of four and was enthralled at the prospect.
‘Ooooh, Cormack,’ she said quietly, feeling a little chirpier. ‘And me a little Zargonic cow what’s lost me legs. Why ever are they treating me so?’
By nine, breakfast having been consumed and bags packed and bills satisfied, they were all set. Proton was to lead off with Stanton Bosch as his guide. Then would come Cormack, walking, and the cow, lifted by the other Boschs, both surrounded by a phalanx of Guards to prevent escape.
The road from Bartislard was at first tarmaced and in good condition, but soon it deteriorated into a cobbled track and then, after they had marched for a couple of hours, it fell away completely and became a tightly wound footpath, lightly pebbled, that cut through the jungle vegetation wonkily and seemed at times to be leading them away from the mountain.
After a couple hours, Proton had them stop by a clear, cold stream to take on water and refill their canteens. He had the chicken in a little cage, tied to his backpack, and it was in constant flight, clucking and fussing and pecking at him like a bad conscience.
Cormack found Stanton Bosch standing barefoot in the stream, washing his feet.
‘Three days march, skinny man,’ he said. ‘We camp tonight a little way up from the foot of the mountain.
Then the next night we’ll be halfway up. ‘Tis only on the third night we’ll make the summit. Conserve your energy. It will be a tough march.’
They chugged on when they had filled their canteens, along the path that began to wind upwards now.
The vegetation gave way a little and soon they were amongst scrub and gorse. There were grazing animals that looked like sheep or goats, but with long curled horns, pulling at the moss with broken yellow teeth.
They stopped for lunch at noon, under
The morning, when it came at last, was cold and clear. Proton was on the Tropico’s sun deck, performing his exercises in a canary yellow ski-suit, when Cormack came upon him with a mug of coffee.
‘Look at the SplatterHorn!’ said Proton, as he jumping-jacked. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Cormack looked beyond the balustrade and saw the mountain for the first time. It had lost its shroud of fog and was standing clear and stark against the pale blue sky. It did look magnificent - a classical conical volcano, lolling huge in the distance and unconcernedly steaming a pale flume of smoke into the cold mountain air as though it were the side-stream from its post-coital cigarette.
‘Are we really going to climb it, Proton?’ asked Cormack.
‘Sure are, mate! Don’t worry, it’ll be a breeze. You’re with a team of survival experts.’
‘Is the cow coming too?’
‘Cormack, the cow is an unnecessary burden. And remember, we have the chicken to worry about now as well. We can leave her in the fridge in the hotel. She’ll be fine until we get back.’
‘If wes get back,’ said Stanton Bosch, who had arrived on the terrace wearing tight lederhosen and a felt mountaineering hat sporting a tiny red feather.
‘Stanton Bosch! Top of the morning to you! How did you sleep?’ said Proton.
‘Not so good.’
‘You’ve finished the preparations?’
‘Aye, we have,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brothers are all here. They’ll be acting as your Sherpas.’
‘I’m not going without the cow,’ said Cormack peevishly.
‘You know the cow might come in useful to us, Captain,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘A little jerky in a blizzard…’
‘He wants to take the living cow.’
‘I’m not going without her.’
In the end, they acceded to Cormack’s request without telling him why, and the cow was tied to a stretcher that the Boschs had procured from a haberdashers they had found in town. She was to be raised like an Indian Princess on a howdah by a team of four and was enthralled at the prospect.
‘Ooooh, Cormack,’ she said quietly, feeling a little chirpier. ‘And me a little Zargonic cow what’s lost me legs. Why ever are they treating me so?’
By nine, breakfast having been consumed and bags packed and bills satisfied, they were all set. Proton was to lead off with Stanton Bosch as his guide. Then would come Cormack, walking, and the cow, lifted by the other Boschs, both surrounded by a phalanx of Guards to prevent escape.
The road from Bartislard was at first tarmaced and in good condition, but soon it deteriorated into a cobbled track and then, after they had marched for a couple of hours, it fell away completely and became a tightly wound footpath, lightly pebbled, that cut through the jungle vegetation wonkily and seemed at times to be leading them away from the mountain.
After a couple hours, Proton had them stop by a clear, cold stream to take on water and refill their canteens. He had the chicken in a little cage, tied to his backpack, and it was in constant flight, clucking and fussing and pecking at him like a bad conscience.
Cormack found Stanton Bosch standing barefoot in the stream, washing his feet.
‘Three days march, skinny man,’ he said. ‘We camp tonight a little way up from the foot of the mountain.
Then the next night we’ll be halfway up. ‘Tis only on the third night we’ll make the summit. Conserve your energy. It will be a tough march.’
They chugged on when they had filled their canteens, along the path that began to wind upwards now.
The vegetation gave way a little and soon they were amongst scrub and gorse. There were grazing animals that looked like sheep or goats, but with long curled horns, pulling at the moss with broken yellow teeth.
They stopped for lunch at noon, under
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