“To quote Professor Childish.”
“Indeed.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Sadly, no,” said Johns. “He had done all the hard work long before I was around.”
“Any notion of what he was like?”
“A real footslogger, apparently, but to start with it was mainly uphill. He first began to promulgate his ideas through a series of minor publications, followed by an extensive tour of lectures and public meetings. Then came the book, which famously received dreadful reviews. From the outset he was severely castigated; his proposals were considered unthinkable, offensive even; but gradually, as time passed, the Theory started to catch on. An early death left his work incomplete, but others soon picked up the baton, notably Younghusband and Clark, who quickly became the leading lights. It was they who came and built the blockhouse, of course, paving the way for those who followed. Unfortunately none of their mules survived the sea journey, so they didn’t venture inland. That was in the closing decade of the last century, before the details had been properly thought through. Eventually a great conference was held, attended by many interested parties, including myself.”
“And Tostig.”
“Yes, Tostig was there too, so I’m told. I’ve never met him either. Not even an introduction, would you believe? As a matter of fact, I got the impression my presence was being ignored generally, so I didn’t bother with the second conference they held the following year. Not that it made any difference by then. The main achievement of that first conference was its success in agreeing coordinates for the Furthest Point from Civilisation. It took days of debate and discussion, but finally an accord was reached. All further talk seemed superficial to me, so I just left them to it and got on with the job.”
“‘Time for Action not Words’.”
“Yes, indeed.”
Johns nodded and smiled at Summerfield, then began leafing through the pages of the newly returned book.
“Tell me, Summerfield,” he said, without looking up. “How do you find the new system of rationing?”
“It appears to be working well enough,” replied Summerfield.
“Have you had to tighten your belt yet?”
“Not yet, Mr Johns, but I’m quite prepared to do so if necessary.”
“And does that go for all of your companions as well?”
“I’m sure it does.”
A moment passed before Johns spoke again.
“I hope you’ve noticed that the mules’ allowance has not been reduced.”
“Yes, I must say I’ve noticed.”
“On this occasion it’s the men who have made the sacrifice.”
“Yes.”
“So you see we do treat them as fairly as we can.”
Six
With the passing of time, the days became gradually lighter. Spring was returning. The members of the eastern expedition, alerted by Thorsson, had paused to witness the long-awaited gleam in the southern sky, since when they had emerged from their rocky wilderness on to a broad windswept plain where they could find their way much more easily, although for the most part darkness still predominated. Tostig had chosen to mark the change in terrain by establishing a staging post for their return journey. Here were deposited some quantities of dried food, some water, and various pieces of equipment. Also three of the five pocket tents. The plan was to travel as lightly as possible for the final outward leg, Thorsson having calculated that the Agreed Furthest Point was at last within reach.
“Odd to think, is it not?” said Tostig. “That by our own definition we are now beyond the scope of civilisation.”
He was lying side by side with Guthrum in the first pocket tent. The second tent was occupied by Thorsson and Snaebjorn, while Thegn slept alone in the supply tent, crammed amongst the bare necessities.
“Odd indeed,” replied Guthrum.
“And it highlights a dilemma of mine,” Tostig continued. “Namely, the matter of the green ink.”
“What’s your quandary?”
“Simply this, Guthrum. The nearer we get to our destination, the less the likelihood of finding the haven we’re searching for. Oh, I know I haven’t mentioned it to the men, but, let’s admit it, the evidence is far from encouraging. This blasted wind hardly suggests the kind of climate we seek, and there has been absolutely no hint of greenery since we came across that sprig of foliage.”
“A false sign if ever there was one.”
“Quite,” said Tostig. “Which brings me to the green ink. We have one bottle and it remains unopened. The bottle weighs the same as a day’s ration of dried food for five men. The purpose of our march is to discover a sort of green oasis, and the purpose of the ink is to illustrate it on our map. Yet there seems little sense in carrying the ink when it probably won’t be used. Far better to leave it behind and take an extra ration instead.”
“But if there’s no green haven then our journey becomes pointless.”
“My dilemma in a nutshell.”
Tostig gave a sigh and fell momentarily silent. Outside in the blackness, bells could be heard tinkling as two or three mules sought shelter in the lee of the tent. (Tostig’s mules remained untethered at night.)
“Shall I shoo them away?” asked Guthrum.
“No, leave them where they are,” said Tostig. “There’s nothing out there that can do them any mischief, and all the food is safely stowed with Thegn. Let them sleep where they wish.”
“Very good, sir. Now, with reference to your dilemma.”
“Yes?”
“I take it you have no intention of turning back?”
“Correct.”
“Then in my view there’s only one solution.”
“Really, Guthrum? Well, tell me: I’m all ears.”
“It lies in the simple fact that the map must be finished, come what may. As far as the expedition is concerned, it makes no difference what we find at the AFP, whether it be oasis or desert. Either way, we cannot return home without a complete record of our journey; therefore, the ink will have to go with us.”
“You’re right, of course, Guthrum, and very well put, if I may say so.”
“Thank you.”
“Remind Snaebjorn to include it when he loads up tomorrow. In the meantime, we must prepare ourselves for another kind of disappointment: the possibility that Johns may have beaten us to our destination.”
“Is it likely?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Tostig. “Nonetheless, it merits serious contemplation. If he has indeed overtaken us, then he will have proved his route to be the faster of the two. This in turn will bring him all the benefits of priority; and for us, nothing. Because without question, Guthrum, there’s much more to it than the simple matter of planting a flag.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Imagine for a moment that the Theory turns out to be workable; that just beyond the horizon there lies a land which fully meets our requirements. It follows that the person who gets there first will not only receive all the credit, but also stands to rake in a handsome profit when the process of resettlement begins. Think of the lucrative contracts waiting to be won: the shipping, the supply lines, the transit camps. No wonder Johns has made such a race of it!”
“You don’t believe his motives are altruistic then?”
“Oh, I’m certain his original intentions were beyond reproach,” declared Tostig. “I’ve read several of his published articles and it’s clear he shares our desire to return the mules to their natural state. Even so, there’s no denying that he’s persistently trodden an independent course: not once has he co-operated with the other interested parties; nor has he asked for their assistance. Johns is a true man of enterprise, but like other great explorers he is also flagrantly self-seeking. In his case, I’m afraid ambition has achieved the upper hand.”