Bartles was reading a well-thumbed Steven King novel, his favorite way of winding down after a hard day on the trail. Every now and then he chuckled appreciatively at some particularly grisly passage.

Culp was oiling his rifle. That was his favorite way of winding down when it got too dark to shoot things. He glared at Bartles. "Why do you read that shit, mate? It's bloody stupid, if you ask me."

"And who asked you?" retorted Bartles, "If you was to read a bit it might broaden your bloomin' horizons. Right now they're about as narrow as the road to bloody salvation."

"Yeah, roight. And wot would you know about that?" responded Culp, spitting into the fire. "The only road you ever travelled on was the road to flamin' perdition."

Bartles sneered. "Roight beside you, mate. Roight beside you..."

Detective Morgan ignored them. This was much the way they carried on every night, and it was of no importance. Just the usual bonehead macho routine, but it did get annoying. He comforted himself with the thought that he could shoot them both after the job was done, depending on how good a mood he was in at the time. It would definitely be doing Australia a good turn if he did.

"We're almost to Yaraka," he said, studying the map. "It looks like a small place."

"Damn roight, it's small," said Bartles. "Loik a bleedin' flyspeck."

"Well, we'll stock up on water there," said Morgan. "I got a feeling we're getting close to the chimp. From now on, no lights on after dark."

Bartles shrugged. "Fine with me, boss. It ain't roight, a chimp drivin' around loik a man in Australia. Not natural. We'll run the bastard down. Depend on it."

"Yes, but first we just follow him," said Morgan, lighting his pipe. "So the point is...don't let the chimp know we're around...until we're ready."

"And when we are," said Culp, "Margaret does the job." He patted the rifle affectionately. It was named after Maggie Thatcher, and had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of lifeforms, but never yet a chimp. Culp meant to change that.