helicopter to our drop point. From there I had no trouble getting back to the clearing. Today, then, marks the first day since I've been in the Wild that I've not seen a single member of the Asadi, and I continue to miss The Bachelor. . . .
Day 68: I went looking for the pagoda again. Very foolish, I confess. But the last four days have been informational zeroes, and I had to take some kind of positive action. I got lost again, terrifyingly so. Green creepers coiled about me. The sky disappeared. How, then, did I get home, especially since Benedict's helicopter isn't due for two more days? Once again, the suspicious tickings of leaf and twig: I followed them, simply followed them, confident again that The Bachelor is still out there and steadfast in my decision to make no more expeditions until I have help.
Day 71: The Bachelor is back!
Day 72: The Bachelor still has very little mane to speak of, and the Asadi treat him as a total outcast. Another thing: The Bachelor, these last two days, has demonstrated a considerable degree of independence in his relations with me. He follows me less often. He no longer hunkers beside my lean-to at all. Does a made structure remind him of the pagoda to which he led me and for whose discovery to an outsider he was publicly humiliated? I
find this new arrangement a felicitous one, however. A little privacy is good for the soul.
Day 85: The note on yesterday's supply bundle: "Send up a flare tomorrow night if you wish to remain in the Wild. Eisen is seriously considering hauling you out of there. Only a flare will save you. My personal suggestion, sir, is that you just sit tight and wait for us. Your good friend and subordinate, Ben." I've just sent up two goddamn flares. Day 85 will go down in cultural-xenological history as Egan Chaney's personal Fourth of July.
Day 98: I'm holding my own again. I've survived an entire month without venturing away from the assembly ground. Most of my time has been devoted to noting the individual differences among the Asadi. Since their behavior, for the most part, manifests a bewildering uniformity, I've turned to the observation of their physical characteristics. Even in this area, though, most differences are more apparent than real; beyond the principles of sex and the quality of the mane (length, color, thickness, and so on), I've found few useful discriminators. Size has some importance, certainly—but no matter how tall the Asadi, his or her body usually conforms to an ectomorphic configuration.
The ability of the eyes to flash through the spectrum is another discriminator. Of sorts. The only Asadi who don't possess this £ibility in a complete degree are the old chieftain and The Bachelor.
Still, I can recognize on sight several Asadi other than these prominent two. I've tried to give descriptive names to these recognizable individuals. The smallest adult male in the clearing I call Tumbull because his stature puts me in mind of Colin Tumbull's account of the pygmies of the Ituri and of my own work among that admirable people, now gone and unrecoverable. . . . A nervous fellow with active hands I call Benjy, after Benedict. . . . The old chieftain continues to exert a powerful influence
on my thinking. His name I derived by simple analogy: Him I call Eisen Zwei.
The Bachelor now seems intent on retaining his anonymity. His mane has grown very little since the shaving. I would almost swear he plucks it at night, keeping it short on purpose. These last few days, after ascertaining my whereabouts in the morning and then again before sunset, he's completely avoided me. Good. We're both more comfortable.
Today was another drop day. I didn't go out to retrieve my parcels—too weary. But I've sworn off Placenol, and the psychological lift attendant on this minor victory has made my physical weakness bearable. As I've tapered off the "nonaddictive" drug, the amount of P-nol in each drop has correspondingly decreased. To hell with the base-camp
Day 68: I went looking for the pagoda again. Very foolish, I confess. But the last four days have been informational zeroes, and I had to take some kind of positive action. I got lost again, terrifyingly so. Green creepers coiled about me. The sky disappeared. How, then, did I get home, especially since Benedict's helicopter isn't due for two more days? Once again, the suspicious tickings of leaf and twig: I followed them, simply followed them, confident again that The Bachelor is still out there and steadfast in my decision to make no more expeditions until I have help.
Day 71: The Bachelor is back!
Day 72: The Bachelor still has very little mane to speak of, and the Asadi treat him as a total outcast. Another thing: The Bachelor, these last two days, has demonstrated a considerable degree of independence in his relations with me. He follows me less often. He no longer hunkers beside my lean-to at all. Does a made structure remind him of the pagoda to which he led me and for whose discovery to an outsider he was publicly humiliated? I
find this new arrangement a felicitous one, however. A little privacy is good for the soul.
Day 85: The note on yesterday's supply bundle: "Send up a flare tomorrow night if you wish to remain in the Wild. Eisen is seriously considering hauling you out of there. Only a flare will save you. My personal suggestion, sir, is that you just sit tight and wait for us. Your good friend and subordinate, Ben." I've just sent up two goddamn flares. Day 85 will go down in cultural-xenological history as Egan Chaney's personal Fourth of July.
Day 98: I'm holding my own again. I've survived an entire month without venturing away from the assembly ground. Most of my time has been devoted to noting the individual differences among the Asadi. Since their behavior, for the most part, manifests a bewildering uniformity, I've turned to the observation of their physical characteristics. Even in this area, though, most differences are more apparent than real; beyond the principles of sex and the quality of the mane (length, color, thickness, and so on), I've found few useful discriminators. Size has some importance, certainly—but no matter how tall the Asadi, his or her body usually conforms to an ectomorphic configuration.
The ability of the eyes to flash through the spectrum is another discriminator. Of sorts. The only Asadi who don't possess this £ibility in a complete degree are the old chieftain and The Bachelor.
Still, I can recognize on sight several Asadi other than these prominent two. I've tried to give descriptive names to these recognizable individuals. The smallest adult male in the clearing I call Tumbull because his stature puts me in mind of Colin Tumbull's account of the pygmies of the Ituri and of my own work among that admirable people, now gone and unrecoverable. . . . A nervous fellow with active hands I call Benjy, after Benedict. . . . The old chieftain continues to exert a powerful influence
on my thinking. His name I derived by simple analogy: Him I call Eisen Zwei.
The Bachelor now seems intent on retaining his anonymity. His mane has grown very little since the shaving. I would almost swear he plucks it at night, keeping it short on purpose. These last few days, after ascertaining my whereabouts in the morning and then again before sunset, he's completely avoided me. Good. We're both more comfortable.
Today was another drop day. I didn't go out to retrieve my parcels—too weary. But I've sworn off Placenol, and the psychological lift attendant on this minor victory has made my physical weakness bearable. As I've tapered off the "nonaddictive" drug, the amount of P-nol in each drop has correspondingly decreased. To hell with the base-camp
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