Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

Great War commenced, your people committed mediumistic acts of sabotage against German industry. When it was discovered that the diamonds were the tools your Gedankenleser had used to perpetrate their crimes, Bismarck passed them to Nietzsche, that he might employ them to-what is the word? — accentuate the talents of our own people. Nietzsche kept the Cambodian stones but sent the African ones to Rasputin, and the two men used the power of the Eyes to secure an alliance between Germany and Russland. Then, in 1914, Nietzsche overthrew Bismarck and Rasputin deposed the Tsar.”

“Two traitors betraying their leaders,” Burton said scornfully.

“Two visionaries,” Lettow-Vorbeck countered, “committed to creating a better world.”

Shouts penetrated the office from outside. The prisoners were being rounded up and marched out of the camp, on their way into the Usagara Mountains to continue work on the road.

Burton asked, “What has any of this to do with me?”

“We shall come to that. Nietzsche took control of the Greater German Empire, but before Rasputin could do similar in Russland, he died of the Hirnblutung. German agents retrieved the African stones and returned them to Nietzsche. Now we come to the interesting part of the story, for our emperor had spent considerable time probing the Cambodian fragments and he'd detected in them a remnant intelligence.”

“Yes. The Naga,” Burton muttered.

“The mythical reptiles? Nein, das ist falsch.”

Burton looked surprised. “Then what?”

“A man. A philosopher named Herbert Spencer. It was little more than an echo, but some information could be gleaned from it; specifically that Spencer died in 1862 yet his intelligence somehow survived for a further year, before finally being extinguished in a temple filled with jewels.”

“A temple? Where?”

“Somewhere here in Africa. Fascinating, ja? So now Nietzsche probed the African stones, also, and in them, too, he found the remains of a man-the residual memories-and in these, the temple was also present, but in greater detail, and Nietzsche saw that this mysterious place, encrusted with gems of unsurpassed value, was a vast device designed to channel enormous energy.”

“To what purpose?”

“To transcend the boundaries of time, Herr Burton. And it was also recorded in the remnant memories that you, mein Freund, were sent through the device. It is how you came to 1914 from 1863.”

“I was? Why?”

“You ask me that! Es ist meine Frage!”

Burton examined his blistered hands and frowned with frustration. “I don't remember. These past four years, I've been slowly piecing together what happened to me prior to my arrival in 1914, but there are still gaps.”

“Ah. I am pleased. You admit who you are. And do you remember this temple?”

“No.”

“That is unfortunate. The Kaiser knows only that it is located somewhere in the Ruwenzori Range, deep inside the Blutdschungel.”

“The Blood Jungle? This Ruwenzori Range, was it-?”

“Once known as the Mountains of the Moon? Ja. That is the case. An area of Africa most important to you, I think!”

The German fell silent for a moment and considered Burton, who warily watched the other man's glittering eyes. Generalmajor Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, the explorer decided, was as dangerous as a venomous snake.

“Well,” the generalmajor said, “we have attempted to burn away the Blutdschungel but it grows back so fast! It is impenetrable, it covers the mountains, and it is spreading. All these years we have made no progress into the region, but that, perhaps, is because we do not know where in it we should be going. So, we have a plan.”

“And your plan involves me?”

“Ja. That is correct. As I have said, the Kaiser saw in the diamonds that the temple sent you to 1914. He therefore ordered me to find you. It has taken a long time. Africa is big! But, finally, here you are. A man from the past.”

“So?”

“So you will locate the temple for us. You somehow found your way out of it and through the Blutdschungel, so obviously there is a route.”

“But, I told you, I don't remember.”

“I think this-” the German raised a hand and tapped his forefinger against the side of his head, “-will return to you.”

Burton sighed. “So what now?”

“Now we shall escort you all the way to your Mountains of the Moon and you shall show us the way to this fabulous temple. With it, the Kaiser can send agents back in time to prevent the interference that has so delayed the expansion of the Greater German Empire! British interference, Herr Burton!”

Lettow-Vorbeck stood and slipped the dossier back into his briefcase.

He barked, “Wache!” and the two rhino guards returned. “Ab mit ihm zum Transporter!”

They hoisted Burton to his feet.

“Wait! Wait!” he urged.

Lettow-Vorbeck looked at him and asked, “Haben Sie eine Frage?”

“Yes,” Burton replied. “Yes, I have a question. The memories imprinted in the African stones-whose are they?”

“Ah,” Lettow-Vorbeck said. “Ja. Ja. This you should know! They belonged to a man named William Trounce.”

“I'm dead!” Trounce announced. He waved a large earthenware jar in the air. “Not a drop left!”

“All is not lost!” Swinburne declared. He held up a second container, and the pombe in it sloshed invitingly. “I must say, though, Pouncer: while there may be life left in my jar, the invincible languor and oppression of this climate have sucked the very last drop of it from yours truly.”

“But not the poetry,” Trounce growled. “Invincible languor, my foot! Why can't you just say, the weather in Africa is as hot as hell, like any normal person would? Pass the beer.”

After taking an immoderate swig from it, Swinburne handed the container to Trounce, who poured an extravagant amount of its contents into his mouth, swallowed, hiccupped, then said, “We've been on the blasted continent for so long that I'm even beginning to enjoy this foul brew.”

He received a belched response.

The two men, dressed in light khaki suits, were relaxing beneath a calabash tree in the centre of Ugogi, a village that lay slightly more than halfway along their route to Kazeh. It had taken two weeks to reach here from Dut'humi, passing first through cultivated lands, then following the marshy bank of the Mgazi River, before chopping their way through thick dripping jungle of the most obstinately difficult kind, and crossing a quagmire, two miles wide, where a mule had sunk completely out of sight in the stinking, sulphurous mud.

Arriving at Zungomero, in the head of the Khutu Valley, they'd at last begun the climb onto higher terrain, escaping the dreadful and diseased swamps that had made the first stage of their safari so miserable. The foothills of the Usagara Mountains, which now rose all around, were densely forested and resplendent with jungle flowers and fruits; the air was laden with the scent of jasmine, sage, and mimosa blossoms; and fresh springs jumped and tinkled across the sloping land.

It had been the only pleasant stage of the trek. All too soon, the ascents and descents became so steep that the mules had to be relieved of their loads before attempting them, and the watercourses in the valleys grew deeper and stronger and more perilous to cross.

The climate changed, too. As they gained altitude, the temperature swung from one extreme to the other. The nights were raw, the days bright and hot. But it was the damp mornings that had the most impact, for thick