Trying to remember how they ever came to this place, both speak of Pas?sage as by a kind of flight, all since Tenerife, and the Mountain slowly recessional, having pass'd like a sailor's hasty dream between Watches, as if, out of a sea holding scant color, blue more in name than in fact, the unreadable Map-scape of Africa had unaccountably emerg'd, as viewed from a certain height above the pale Waves,— tilted into the Light, as a geometer's Globe might be pick'd up and tilted for a look at this new Hemisphere, this haunted and other half of ev'rything known, where spirit-powers run free among the green abysses and the sudden moun?tain crests,— Cape Town's fortifications, sent crystalline by the Swift?ness, rushing by from a low yet dangerous altitude as the Astronomers go swooping above the shipping in the Bays, topmen pointing in amaze?ment, every detail, including the Invisible, set precisely, present in all its violent chastity. A town with a precarious Hold upon the Continent, planted as upon another World by the sepia-shadow'd Herren XVII back in Holland (and rul'd by the Eighteenth Lord, whose existence must never be acknowledg'd in any way).
The moment Mason and Dixon arrive, up in the guest Suite sorting out the Stockings, which have come ashore all a-jumble, admiring the black Stinkwood Armoire with the silver fittings, they are greeted, or rather, accosted, by a certain Bonk, a Functionary of the V.O.C., whose task it is to convey to them an assortment of Visitors' Rules, or warnings. One might say jolly,— one would have to say blunt. "From Guests of our community, our Hope is for no disruptions of any kind. As upon a ship at sea, we do things here in our own way,— we, the officers, and you, the passengers. What seems a solid Continent, stretching away Northward for thousands of miles, is in fact an Element with as little mercy as the Sea to our Backs, in which, to be immers'd is just as surely, and swiftly, to be lost, without hope of Salvation. As there is nowhere to escape to, easier to do as the Captain and Officers request, eh?"
"Of course," Mason quickly.
"We've but come to observe the Sky...?" Dixon seeks to assure him.
"Yes? Yes? Observe the Sky,— instead of what, pray?" Smiling trucu?lently, the Dutchman glowers and aims his abdomen in different direc?tions. "'Of course,' this isn't a pretext? To 'observe' anything more Worldly,— Our Fortifications, Our Slaves,— nothing like that, eh?"
"Sir," Mason remonstrates, "we are Astronomers under the commis?sion of our King, no less honorably than ten years ago, under that of his King, was Monsieur Lacaille, who has since provided the world a greatly esteem'd Catalogue of Southern Stars. Surely, at the end of the day, we serve no master but Him that regulates the movements of the Heav'ns, which taken together form a cryptick Message,"— Dixon now giving him Looks that fail, only in a Mechanickal way, to be Kicks,— "we are intended one day to solve, and read," Mason smoaking belatedly that he may be taking his Trope too far.
For the Dutchman is well a-scowl. "Ja, Ja, precisely the sort of English Whiggery, acceptable among yourselves, that here is much bet?ter left unexpress'd." Police Official Bonk peers at them more closely. It is nearly time for his midday break, and he wants to hurry this up and get to a Tavern. Yet if Mason is acting so unrestrain'd with a Deputy direct from the Castle itself, how much more dangerous may his rattling be in the hearing of others,— even of Slaves? He must therefore be enter'd in the Records as a Person of Interest, thereby taking up residence, in a pen-and-paper way, in the Castle of the Compagnie. Into the same Folder, of course, goes a file for the Assistant,— harmless, indeed, in some Articles, simple, though he appears,— pending the Day when one may have to be set against the other.
Although rooming at the Zeemanns', the Astronomers are soon eating at the house behind, owing to the sudden defection of half the Zeemann kitchen Slaves, gone quick as that to the Mountains and the Droster life. This being just one more Domestick Calamity,— along with Company Prices, collaps'd Roofs, sand in the Soup,— that the Cape Dutch have come to expect and live thro', Arrangements are easily made, the Vrooms' having been Neighbors for years. At mealtimes Mason and Dixon go out by the Zeemanns' kitchen, on past the outbuildings, then in by way of the back Pantry and Kitchen to the Residence of Cornelius Vroom and his wife, Johanna, and what seems like seven, and is proba?bly closer to three, blond, nubile Daughters. Mealtimes are a strange combination of unredeemably wretched food and exuberantly charming Company. Under the Table-cloth, in a separate spatial domain such as Elves are said to inhabit, feet stray, organs receive sudden inrushes of Blood,— or in Mason's case, usually, Phlegm. Blood, clearly rushing throughout Dixon, is detectable as well in faces and at bosoms and throats in this Jethro's Tent they've had the luck to stumble into.
Cornelius Vroom, the Patriarch of this restless House-hold, is an Admirer of the legendary Botha brothers, a pair of gin-drinking, pipe-smoking Nimrods of the generation previous whose great Joy and accom?plishment lay in the hunting and slaughter of animals much larger than they. Vroom is a bottomless archive of epic adventures out in the unmapped wilds of Hottentot Land, some of which may even hold a gleam of truth, in among the narrative rubbish-tip of this Arm-chair Commando, wherein the mad Rhino forever rolls his eye, the killer Trunk stands erect and a-bellow, and the cowardly Kaffirs turn and flee, whilst the Dutchman lights his Pipe, and stands his Ground.
One Morning, the Clock having misinform'd him of the Hour, as he hurries to Breakfast thro' the back reaches of the two Yards,— edging past a bright-feather'd Skirmish-line of glaring poultry, a bit more for?ward than the usual British Hen, who stalk and peck as if examining him for nutritional Purposes,— Mason only just avoids a collision with Johanna Vroom, that would have scrambl'd her apron-load of fresh- gather'd eggs, and produc'd, at best, Resentment, instead of what now, even through Mason's Melancholickally smok'd Lenses, appears to be Fascination.
How can this be? Assigning to ev'ry Looking-Glass a Coefficient of Mercy,— term it n,— none, among those into which he has ever gaz'd, seeking anything but what he knows will be there, has come within screaming distance of even, say, 0.5, given the Lensnian's Squint, the Stoop, and most of all, in its Fluctuation day by day, the Size of a certain Frontal Hemisphere, ever a source of Preoccupation, over whose Hori?zon he can sometimes not observe his Penis.
Between Greenwich and the Cape, however, he was pleas'd to note a temporary reduction of Circumference, owing to sea-sickness and the resulting aversion to even Mention of food, though he did achieve a tol?erance at last for ship's Biscuit,— Dixon, for his part, having by then develop'd a particular Taste for Mr. Cookworthy's Portable Soup, any least whiff of which, of course, sent his partner queasily to the lee rail.
As if Dixon had come ashore with Slabs of the convenient yet nause?ating Food-Stuff stowed about his Person, the women of the Colony unanimously avoid him. Not only was he swiftly deem'd eccentric,— he knows well enough the looks Emerson took whenever he came in to Dar?lington Market,— how fiercely did his Students then all leap to his defense!— but more curiously, from their first sight of him, the Dutch have sifted Dixon as unreliable in any white affairs here. They have noted his unconceal'd attraction to the Malays and the Black slaves,— their Food, their Appearance, their Music, and so, it must be obvious, their desires to be deliver'd out of oppression. "The English Quaker," opines Mrs. De Bosch, the Doyenne of Town Arbitresses, "is rude, dis?obedient, halfway to a Hindoo, either sitting in trances or leaping up to begin jabbering about whatever may be passing through on its uncom?plicated journey from one ear to the other. S.N.S., my Children,"— Sim?ply Not Suitable. But Mason is another story. Mason the widower with that Melancholick look, an impassion'd, young-enough Fool willing to sail oceans and fight sea-battles just to have a chance to watch Venus, Love Herself, pass across the Sun,— in these parts exotic even in his workaday earth tones, coming in starv'd from the Sea with all those
 strange Engines, and obviously desperate for a shore-cook'd meal. None of this has appear'd to him in any mirror he's consulted.
Until June, most of their obs will be of Jupiter's Moons playing at Duck and Ducklings, and of fix'd Stars such as Regulus and Procyon, as well as the zenith-Star at the Cape, Shaula, the Sting in the Tail of the Scorpion,— all so as to establish the Station's Longitude as nearly as possible. Many nights in that Season proving to be stormy or clouded over, there will be plenty of time for Mischief to shake her Curls, pinch some color into her Cheeks, and, assuming ev'ryone 'round here is not yet dead, feel free to make a few Suggestions.
"Meet my Daughters," Cornelius is ever pleas'd to introduce them to Strangers, "— Jemima, Kezia, and Kerenhappuch." They are, in fact, Jet, Greet, and Els, as he fails, in fact, to be quite Job.
Jet, sixteen, is obsess'd by her Hair,— as if 'twere a conscious Being, separate from her, most of her activities thro' the long Cape Quotidian are directed by its needs,— from choosing Costumes to arranging Social schedules, to assessing, from the way they behave when in its Vicinity, the suitability of Beaux.
The middle Daughter Greet having chosen good Sense as a refuge when she was seven, Attention to her Hair,— as her older sister has more than once chided,— is limited to different ways of covering it up. Withal, "I am the Tavern-Door 'round here," she cries of her Role as Eternal Mediatrix, for should Els grow too frolicksome, Greet must team up with Jet to restrain her,— yet, should Jet pretend to wield Authority she hasn't earned, Greet must join with Els in Insurrection.
Els, tho' a mere twelve by the Calendar back home, down here in the Southern World began long ago the active Pursuit of Lads twice her age, not all of them unwilling. Of the three Sisters, she seems devoted most unreflectively to the Possibilities of Love, her judgment as to where these may best be sought being the nightly Despair of her Sisters. She never needs to touch her Hair, and it is always perfect.
Cornelius Vroom, anxious as others in the House upon the Topick of Nubility and its unforeseen Woes, has forbidden his daughters to eat any of the native Cookery, particularly that of the Malay, in his Belief that the Spices encourage Adolescents into "Sin," by which he means Lust that
 crosses racial barriers. For it is real,— he has known it to appear, more than once, here and up in the country, where his Brothers and their fam?ilies live. He keeps loaded Elephant-Guns in both the front hallway and the Dispens in back. Deep in the curfew hours, in bed with his pipe, he imagines laughter outside the windows, even when the wind drowns out every sound,— slave laughter. He knows they watch him, and he tries to pay close Attention to the nuances of their speech. Somewhat as his Neighbors each strenuous Sunday profess belief in the Great Struggle at the End of the World, so does Cornelius, inside his perimeter of Maurit?ian smoke at the hour when nothing is lawfully a-stir but the Rattle-Watch and the wind, find in his anxious meditations no Release from the com?ing Armageddon of the races,— this European settlement so precarious, facing an unknown Interior with the sea at their backs, forced, step after step, by the steadfast Gravity of all Africa, down into it at last— It is another way of living where the Sea is ever higher than one's Head, and kept out only provisionally.
The first moment they find themselves in a Room together, Jet hands Mason a Hair-Brush. "There's a bit in back I can't reach,— please give it a dozen Strokes for me, Charles?"
"Nor does she allow just anyone do this," Greet entering, crossing, and exiting, "I hope you feel honor'd, Sir," with a look back over her shoulder that is anything but reproachful. A moment later she's back, with Els, who comes skipping over to Mason, and without a word, lifting her skirts, sits upon his lap in a sinuous Motion, allowing the Lace Hems to drop again, before squirming about to glance at his Face. "Now then, my English Tea-Pot," reaching to pinch his Cheek, by now well a-flame, "shall I tell you what she really wants you to do with that Hair-Brush?"
"Els, you Imp from Hell, I shall shave your Head. Mr. Mason is a Gen?tleman, who would never have such designs upon my bodily Comfort," putting out her hand for the return of the Hair-Brush, " - would you, Charles?"
Mason sits, torpedo'd again. To refuse to return the Brush would be to issue an Invitation she might accept. Yet if he hands it back, she'll shrug and go flitting on, tossing her Hair about, to someone marginally more interesting, and he'll face Hour upon insomniack Hour with the Fevers
 of erotick speculation ever dispell'd by the Cold Bath of Annoyance at himself. Els continues meanwhile to reposition her nether Orbs upon Mason's Lap, to his involuntary, tho' growing Interest. Greet comes over to place her hand on his Brow. "Are you well, Sir? Is there anything I may bring you?" Fingertips lightly descending to his already assaulted Cheek, her eyes Crescent and heated. Her Lips, at least as he will recall this later, beginning to part, and come closer.
"Girls." Johanna bustling in. "You are disturbing Mr. Mason, 'tis obvi?ous, and," switching to Cape Dutch, "in here it begins to smell like the Slaves' Chambers." The three maidens immediately snap to Attention, lining up in order of Height, trying without success to avoid all Gaze-Catching.
When they've been sent away cackling, their mother places an unpremeditated hand upon Mason's arm. "As a man of Science, you understand the role of Humors in adolescent behavior, and will not respond, I hope, too passionately. Is that the word, 'Passionately'?"
"Good Vrou, rest easy,— these days Passion knows me not,...alas."
She gazes long enough at his Member, still erect from the posterior Attentions of her youngest Daughter, before looking him in the eye. "I cannot imagine, then, how 'twill be, once you and It are re-acquainted."
"Should that occur," says Mason, fatally but not yet mortally, "pray feel welcome to attend and observe at first hand." She looks away at last, and in the Release Mason feels an Impulse to smite the Wall repeatedly with his Head. "Then again, your Duties may oblige you to be elsewhere."
She brushes against him on her way out the other Door, raking him with a glistening stare. "0, too late for that, good Sir, far too late."
What is wrong with this family? He feels stranded out at the end of some unnaturally prolong'd Peninsula of Obligation, whilst about to be overwhelm'd by great Combers of Alien Lusts. He now recognizes the Hair-Brush Dilemma in a different form. This time, whatever he may say in reply, will be taken and 'morphos'd, however Johanna wishes. He feels a sudden rush of Exemption. It does not matter what he says.
That night, the Sky too cloudy for Work, Mason is awaken'd by the naked Limbs of a Slave-girl, who has enter'd his Bed. Dixon is not yet
 return'd, tho' 'tis well past the Gunfire. "What the Deuce!" is his gallant greeting. "And,— who are you, then?" He recalls having seen her in the company of various Vroom Girls.
"Austra, good Sir,— 'tis a common name here for Slaves."
' 'The South.'..." He is peering at her in the moonlit room. "I am Mason. Charles Mason."
She takes his Chin betwixt her Thumb and Finger. "A few basic points, Sir. First, no unnatural Activities. Second, no Opium, no Dagga, no Ardent Spirits, no Wine, and so on. Third, their Wish is that I become impregnated,— if not by you, then by one of you."
"Ehm..."
"All that the Mistress prizes of you is your Whiteness, understand? Don't feel disparag'd,— ev'ry white male who comes to this Town is approach'd by ev'ry Dutch Wife, upon the same Topick. The baby, being fairer than its mother, will fetch more upon the Market,— there it begins, there it ends."
"What, no Sentiment, no Love, no— Excuse me? 'Approach'd'? Ahrr! Of course,— was I imagining m'self the first? And you, how many of these expensive little slaves have you borne her?"
"Why be angry with me, Sir? She is the Mistress, I do as she bids."
"Why, in England, no one has the right to bid another to bear a child?"
"Poh. White Wives are much alike, and all their Secrets are common knowledge at the Market. Many have there been, oblig'd to go on bearing children,— for no reason but the man's pride."
"Our Women are free."
'' 'Our'? Oh, hark yourself,— how is English Marriage any different from the Service I'm already in?"
"You must marry an Englishman, and see."
"Not today, Sailor. Yet take warning,— the Mother will set her three Cubs upon ye without Mercy, and make her own assaults as well, all of it intended to keep this rigid with your Desire,— and the only one in the House you'll be allow'd to touch is me."
" 'This'? I say, what's that you're doing there? You really ought not to— “
"Having but an innocent Squeeze, Sir. Keep me in Mind. I'll tell them I couldn't wake you up." She proceeds carefully as she may to the door, expecting at ev'ry step to be assaulted,— he snorts, and paws the Coun?terpane, but doesn't charge. Exiting, looking back over a dorsal 'Scape immediately occupying all of Mason's Attention, "See you tomorrow at Breakfast,— remember to save one of those 'cute Frowns for me." And Damme, she's off.
Next morning, none of the five Sprites is able to engage the Eyes of any other. Dixon wolfs down griddle cakes and Orange-Juice, whilst Mason glumly concentrates upon the Coffee and its Rituals. Cornelius comes in briefly to light his Pipe and nod before proceeding to his Work, which involves a good deal of screaming at the Slaves. Mason's Day, long and fatiguing, is spent popping in and out of doors, being caught alone in different rooms with different females of the household, by others, who then contrive to return the favor. Only slowly does it dawn on him that this goes on here all the time,— being likely the common Life of the House,— and that he but happens to have stumbl'd into it as some col?orful Figure from the Fringes of the World, here for a while and then gone, just enough time for ev'ryone, barring some unannounc'd bolt of Passion finding a Target, to make use of him, perhaps not quite time enough for them to come to despise him.
So Mason prays for clear nights and perfect seeing,— nonetheless, his throat closes and dries, his heart's rhythm picks up whenever the Clouds cover the Sunset, and the Fog rolls swiftly all the way up to the Observatory, and over it, and on up, and he knows he'll be facing any?where up to five distinctly motivated Adventuresses, each of whom, as in some fiendish Asian parlor-game, is scheming against the other four, the field having shifted from Motives of Pleasure to Motives of Repro?duction and Commerce. Its being for them a given that nothing of a Romantick nature will occur,— nothing does. Mason is usually left with an inflexible Object, which, depending upon the Breeches he's wearing that day, not to mention the Coat, is more or less visible to the Publick, who at any rate, as it proves, are quite us'd to even less inhib?ited Displays.
Dixon does his best not to mention it, waiting rather for Mason either to brag, or to complain.
Eventually, "I know what you're looking at. I know what you're thinking."
"Who? I? Mason."
"Well, what am I suppos'd to do about it?"
"First, get out of thah' House."
Mason makes quick Head-Turns, to Left and Right, and lowers his Voice. "Whilst you've been out rollicking with your Malays and Pyg?mies,., .what have you heard of the various sorts of Magick, that they are said to possess?"
Dixon has in fact heard, from an assortment of Companions native to the Dutch Indies, Tales of Sorcery, invisible Beings, daily efforts to secure Shelter against Demonic Infestation. "They are not as happy, nor as childlike, as they seem," he tells Mason. "It may content us, as unhappy grown Englishmen, to think that somewhere in the World, Inno?cence may yet abide,— yet 'tis not among these people. All is struggle,— and all but occasionally in vain."
Mason cocks his head, trying to suppress a certain Quiver that also
gives him away when at Cards,— a bodily Desire to risk all upon a sin?
gle Trick. "Would you happen to enjoy Entree to this world of Sorcery? I
am anxious as to Protection "
"A Spell...?" Dixon suggests.
"Emphatickally not a Love-Potion, you understand, no, no, quite the contrary indeed."
Dixon, to spare himself what might else prove to be Evenings-ful of Complaint, says, "I've met people who are said to possess a special Power,— the Balinese Word is Sakti. It has not, however, always been successful against Dutchmen. Would this be a Hate potion, then, that tha require?"
"Well, certainly not Hate. Inconvenient as Love, in its own way,— no, more of an Indifference-Draught, 's more what I had in mind. 'Twould have to be without odor or Taste, and require but a few Drops,—
"I could have a look about, tho' 'tis more common here to accept what they happen to offer...?"
Difficult indeed are the next few Nights as Dixon, searching the Malay Quarter for an Elixir to meet Mason's specifications, beneath lam-pless staircases, in the bloody lulls of cock-fights, is merrily insulted from one illicit Grotto to another. Oh, they've heard of the Philtre, all right, 'tis quite in demand, in fact, as much by one Sex as the other. As the Company seeks to confine all the Dutch of the Cape Colony behind a Boundary it has drawn, and to rule them radially from a single Point, the least immoderate of Feelings, in such a clos'd Volume, may prove lethal. Over the Mountains, to keep all tranquil, entire Tribes work day and night shifts, trying to supply a lively Market. Imitations and Counterfeits abound.
Mason is not seeking the Potion for himself,— rather, his Scheme is to introduce it into the Soup-Bowl of his Hostess, who is kept tun'd to her own dangerous Pitch thro' the Attentions of a number of young Slave-girls chosen for their good looks,— they haunt her, whisking the flies from her skin, oiling it when the South-easter makes it dry as Pages of a Bible, draping it with silks from India and France. They feed her pome?granates, kneeling quickly to lick off the juice that runs down her hand before it reaches her sleeve. Cornelius has a Peep in from time to time. Though he usually departs with an Erection, it is possible that he is feel?ing the pain of an ineptly shot Beast. But his Expression doesn't change. He sucks upon his Pipe, removes it from his mouth to cough, and, con?tinuing to cough, ambles away.
In Johanna's intrigue to bring together Mason and her senior slave, however, 'tis the Slavery, not any form of Desire, that is of the essence. Dixon, out of these particular meshes, can see it,— Mason cannot. Indifferent to Visibility, wrapt in the melancholy Winds that choir all night long, persists an Obsession or Siege by something much older than anyone here, an injustice that will not cancel out. Men of Reason will define a Ghost as nothing more otherworldly than a wrong unrighted, which like an uneasy spirit cannot move on,— needing help we cannot usually give,— nor always find the people it needs to see,— or who need to see it. But here is a Collective Ghost of more than household Scale,— the Wrongs committed Daily against the Slaves, petty and grave ones alike, going unrecorded, charm'd invisible to his?tory, invisible yet possessing Mass, and Velocity, able not only to rattle Chains but to break them as well. The precariousness to Life here, the need to keep the Ghost propitiated, Day to Day, via the Company's
 merciless Priesthoods and many-Volum'd Codes, brings all but the hardiest souls sooner or later to consider the Primary Questions more or less undiluted. Slaves here commit suicide at a frightening Rate,— but so do the Whites, for no reason, or for a Reason ubiquitous and unaddress'd, which may bear Acquaintance but a Moment at a Time. Mason, as he comes to recognize the sorrowful Nakedness of the Arrangements here, grows morose, whilst Dixon makes a point of treat?ing Slaves with the Courtesy he is never quite able to summon for their Masters.
Yet they entertain prolong'd Phantasies upon the Topick. They take their Joy of it. "Astronomy in a Realm where Slavery prevails...! Slaves holding candles to illuminate the ocular Threads, whilst others hold Mir?rors, should we wish another Angle. One might lie, supine, Zenith-Star position, all Night,...being fann'd, fed, amus'd,— ev'ryone else oblig'd to remain upon their Feet, ever a-tip, to respond to a 'Gazer's least Velle-ity. Hahrrhr
"Mason, why thah' is dis-gusting...?"
"Come, come, and you're ever telling me to lighten up my Phiz? I have found it of help, Dixon, to think of this place as another Planet whither we have journey'd, where these Dutch-speaking White natives are as alien to the civilization we know as the very strangest of Pygmies,— "
" 'Help'? It doesn't help, what are tha talking about...? Tha've a per?sonal Interest here, thy Sentiments engag'd, for all I know."
"Ahrr! My Sentiments! Sentiments, in this Place! A Rix-Dollar a Dozen today, tomorrow wherever the Company shall peg them,— the Dutch Company which is ev'rywhere, and Ev'rything."
"Somewhat like the Deists' God, do tha mean?"
"Late Blow, late Blow,— "
"Mason, of Mathematickal Necessity there do remain, beyond the Reach of the Y.O.C., routes of Escape, pockets of Safety,— Markets that never answer to the Company, gatherings that remain forever unknown, even down in Butter-Bag Castle. I'd be much oblig'd if we might roam 'round together, some Evening, and happen we'll see. Mind, I'm seldom all the way outside their Perimeter,— yet do I make an effort to keep to the Margins close as I may.”
"And I'm making no Effort, is that it, you're accusing me of Servility? Sloth? You're never about, how would you know how hard I'm working? Do not imagine me taking any more Joy of this, than you do."
"Come, then. There's too much Sand in the Air tonight for any decent Obs,— Zeemanns and Vrooms all cataleptick from these Winds, none shall miss us,— mayn't we be carefree Mice for a few Hours, at least...?"
He receives a blurr'd and strangely prolong'd Gaze. "I wish I knew where my Affection for you runs,— one moment 'tis sure as the heart-yarn of a Mainstay, the next I am entertaining cheerfully Projects in which your Dissolution is ever a Feature."
"Calling off the Wedding, again. We must try not to weep...?" For an instant both feel, identically, too far from anyplace, defenseless behind this fragile Salient into an Unknown, too deep for one Life-Span, that begins directly behind Table Mountain.
They do, to be sure, go out that Evening, as into various others together, in search of Lustful Adventure, but each time Mason will wreck things, scuttling hopes however sure, frightening off the Doxies with Gothickal chat of Headstones and Diseases of the Mind, swilling down great and occasionally, Dixon is told, exceptional Constantia wines with the sole purpose of getting drunk, exploding into ill-advis'd Song, losing consciousness face-first into a Variety of food and Drink, including more than one of the most exquisite karis this side of Suma?tra,— that is, proving a difficult carousing partner, block'd from simple enjoyment in too many directions for Dixon to be at all anger'd,— rather marveling at him, as a Fair-goer might at some Curi?osity of Nature.
Mason, no less problematick indoors than out, being an uneasy sleeper, begins at about this time to dream of some Presence with a Krees or Malay Dagger, of indistinct speech, yet clear intention to Dowse for the Well-Spring of Mason's Blood. He wakes up screaming, repeatedly. At length Austra, expressing the will of both Houses, sends him to talk with a certain Toko, a Negritoe, or Asian Pygmy, of a Malay tribe call'd the Senoi. It is their belief that the world they inhabit in their Dreams is as real as their waking one. At breakfast each morning, families sit and report their Dreams to one another, offering advice and opinions passim, as if all the fantastical beings and events be but other villagers, and vil?lage Gossip.
"They live their Dreams," Mason reports to Dixon, "whilst we deny ev'rything we may witness during that third of our Precious Span allot?ted, as if Sleep be too much like Death to advert to for long...." It is at some point that night, after securing the second Altitude of Shaula, that the Astronomers agree to share the Data of their Dreams whenever pos?sible. After those initiatory Hours together upon the Seahorse, having found no need to pretend a whole list of Pretenses, given thereby a wind?fall of precious time, neither is surpriz'd at how many attunements, including a few from dream-life, they may find between them.
"Heaven help me," Mason muttering sourly, "my Dreams reveal this Town to be one of the colonies of Hell, with the Dutch Company acting as but a sort of Caretaker for another.. .Embodying of Power, 's ye'd say, altogether,— Ev'ryday life as they live it here, being what Hell's colo?nials have for Routs and Ridottoes,—
"Why," Eye-Lids clench'd apart, "my own dreams are very like, tho'
without the Dutch Company,— more like a Gala that never stops
Think thee 'tis all this Malay food we're eating ev'ry day...?"
Mason has a brief excursion outside himself. "You're enjoying this miserable Viper-Plantation! Why, Damme if you're not going to miss it when we're shut of it at long last. Arh, arh! What shall you do for Ketjap?"
"They must sell it somewhere in London...?"
"At ten times the price."
"Then I shall have to learn a Receipt for it."
The next time the tall Figure with the wavy Blade approaches him, Mason, willing to try anything, stands his ground, and with the help of certain Gloucestershire shin-kicking Arts, actually defeats his Assailant. "Keep your Face down," Mason tells the Adversary. "I do not wish to see your Face."
"You must then demand something from him," Toko has advis'd. "Some solid Gift you may bring back with you."
"The Krees," says Mason. Silently, the bow'd Figure throws it on the Ground to one side. Mason stoops and picks it up. "Thank you." When
7' he wakes, there it is, the Point lying nearly within the Portal of one Nos?tril,— a wrong turn in his Sleep might have been the End. Despite its look of Forge-fresh Perfection, 'tis not a Virgin Blade,— tiny Scratches, uncleansable Stains, overlie one the other in a Palimpsest running deep into the Dimension of Time.
"Happen 'twill be those Girls, teasing with thee...?"
"Why thankee, Blight, what would a Day be without a Common-sense Remark from you?"
"One of us must provide a Datum-Line of Sanity, and as it seems unlikely to be thee,—
"Aahhrr! The most intimate of acts, the trustful sharing of a Dream, taken and us'd against the Master, by his own sly 'Prentice!"
"Begging thy Mercy, Sir, let us not venture into the terre mauvais of professional Resentment, or we shall certainly miss the culmination of Shaula, that Sting e'er pois'd above the Pates of this unhappy People, to strike which, and which not, who can say...?"
"The very voice of Responsibility Astronomick,— was ever Star-gazer more fortunate than I, to be seconded to this Angelickal Correctness. And yet despite you, Dixon, do you know what, the Imp calls,— it advises me, 'Whom better to bore with the unabridg'd tale of your woeful treatment by the World you so desperately wish to be lov'd by, aye, unto Ravishment, than this unreflective Geordie here? At least he under?stands some Astronomy,' is usually how it goes."
'' 'And being your Second,' " Dixon bats back, " 'he has no choice but to listen.'''
"Just so, and take Notes if you wish, for someday, Lad, you'll be run?ning your own Expedition, bearing all the weight of Leadership, which crusheth a man even as it bloateth his Pride— Aye, miraculous,— per?haps with some luck you'll come to know the Relief indescribable of shedding that Load, dumping months, even years, of accumulated Resentment in one great—
"Eeh, if tha don't mind?"
"Oh. Oh, of course, I hadn't realiz'd. 'Tis but our uninhibited Earthi-ness, we of lower degree, we're forever speaking of shit, you see, without much— Damme, I say, I said 'shit,' didn't I?— Oh, shit, I've said it again,— No! Twice!" Smacking himself repeatedly upon the Dome.
"Be easy, Mason, it's all right."
"You'll report me now."
"Be happy to, if I thought anyone would believe it...?"
"Wouldn't want you getting into any trouble," Mason unable to refrain from adding, "- - Spanish Inquisitors or whatever—"
"Indulge me, Sir, that word again was...?"
"Oh, for Heav'n's sake, 'Authorities,' if you like, if that's not too sec?tarian for you."
"I am not a fucking Jesuit, Mason. If Jesuits are manipulating me, then are we two Punches in a Droll-booth, Friend,— for as certainly would it be the East India Company who keep thee ever in Motion."
"Ah,— and how is that, exactly?"
"Someday, someone will ask, How did a baker's son get to be Assis?tant to the Astronomer Royal? How'd a Geordie Land-Surveyor get to be his Second on the most coveted Star-gazing Assignment of the Century? Happen 'twas my looks...? thy charm...? Or are we being us'd, by Forces invisible even to thy Invisible College?"
"Whatever my Station," bristling, "I have earn'd it. Tho' frankly, I have wonder'd about you. A collier's son,— a land-sale collier at that,— surely there's more wealth and respect in sea-coal?"
"Aye, and we're Quakers as well, is there a Nervus Probandi about someplace?"
"Merely have I gone on puzzling,— as, without influence, nothing may come of a Life, and however briskly you may belabor me with Mr. Peach,— yet who, I ask myself thro' the Watch when Sleep comes not, may it have been, between mouthfuls of 'Sandwich,' as the spotted Cubes went a-dancing, who dropp'd the decisive word about you? Don't tell me Emerson, or Christopher Le Maire."
"Why, 'twas John Bird...? Thought ev'ryone knew thah'. As Mr. Bird's Representative in the Field,— my duty's to tend the Sector,— pray nothing goes too much amiss, requiring me to fix it...? Eeh! I'm the Sec?tor Wallah!"
Mason's response is a Reverse Squint,— each Eye, that is, doing the opposite of what it usually does when he peers thro' a Telescope. Dixon finds it, briefly, disorienting. Mason even seems to be trying to smile in apology. "The Arts of leadership in me how wanting, as all alas must know,
 I bear this command only thanks to a snarl'd and soil'd web of favors, sales, and purchases I pray you may ever remain innocent of. You are right not to accept my Command,— well, not all the time, as I may hope,—
"Am I giving that impression, I'm sure I didn't mean to...?"
"You're the mystery, Dixon, not I. I'm but a Pepper-corn in the Stuffata, stirr'd and push'd about by any Fool who walks by with a Spoon, entirely theirs,— no mystery about any of them, dubious set of Cooks tho' they be, nough' but the same old Criminals, some dating back to Walpole. But your lot, now,— well, they're a different sort, aren't they?"
"Recall last year, Ingenuous,— Clive's in London by the first of August. By the eleventh of September,— that is, the next thing anyone knows,— the Assignments are chang'd, with thee no longer his brother-in-law's second, rather leading a Team of thy own, replaced by an unknown Quantity. What am I to make of this? We scarcely know Maske-lyne. Who is Robert Waddington, anyway?"
"One of the Lunarian Stalwarts, teaching the Mathematicks out near the Monument someplace, Intimate, indeed Housemate, of one of the Piggotts, those eminent advocates of taking the Longitude by Lunar Culminations."
"Maskelyne's sort of Lad...?"
(As Maskelyne will later tell Mason, Waddington from the outset was afflicted with a Melancholy lighter and faster, tho' no less lethal, than the traditional Black sort. "So how be ye, Robert?"
"Two weeks in Twickenham, how am I suppos'd to be? Strawberry Hill, Eel-Pie Island, haven't I seen it all?"
"Yet the Fishing, 'tis said— "
"Oh, Bleak easily the length of a man's hand. Ye take 'em with a Mag?got that dwells only upon that Reach,— quite unknown to the rest of Britain. And if Beetles be your Passion, why, the Beetle Variety there! Fair stupefies one."
"Piggotts all well, I trust?"
A long stare. "Where's the Local 'round these parts, then?"
"A moment's Walk, tho' not as easy to get back from."
"Hum. Bit like Life, isn't it?"
And that was in early January, with the Transit of Venus yet six Months off. They were going to be left together upon St. Helena, an island that, according to rumor, often drove its inhabitants insane.)
 "Tom Birch did happen to mention that 'twas Maskelyne who'd given him Mr. Waddington's address. He show'd me his Note-Book. Maskelyne had written it in himself. It appears he preferr'd as his co-adjutor the friend of the Piggotts to the Friend of the Peaches,— thus allowing me to proceed in a single unprotected little Jackass Frigate, instead of his own giant India-man, in a Convoy, with half the Royal N. there as well to keep them safe...."
"Allowing Dr. Bradley to step in, obtaining for thee the leadership of an additional Observing Team."
"And choosing you upon advice from Mr. Bird, Author of the most advanc'd Astronomickal Device in Creation. Yes, yes, upon the face of it, quite straightforward, isn't it?...And yet, d'ye not feel sometimes that ev'rything since the Fight at sea has been,— not a Dream, yet..."
"Aye. As if we're Lodgers inside someone else's Fate, whilst belong?ing quite someplace else...?"
"Nothing's as immediate as it was.... We might have died then, after all, and gone on as Ghosts. Haunting this place, waiting to materialize,— perhaps just at the moment of the Transit, the moment the Planet herself becomes Solid...."
"Even by then," the Revd declares, "upon some Topicks, the Astronomers remain'd innocent. That few usually believ'd this, might have prov'd more than once an Advantage, in their Strivings with the Day,— had they known how disingenuous they appear'd, they could have settl'd for much more than they ended up getting."
"Oh, Uncle, how can you reckon so?" "By others who did far less, and receiv'd more." "And they're all Dead," says Ethelmer, "so what's it matter?" "Cousin." Tenebras holding a Bodkin in at least an advisory way. Ethelmer scowls in reply, what was a lambent Spark in his Eyes now but silver'd, cold Reflection.
"Brae, your Cousin proceeds unerringly to the Despair at the Core of History,— and the Hope. As Savages commemorate their great Hunts with Dancing, so History is the Dance of our Hunt for Christ, and how we have far'd. If it is undeniably so that he rose from the Dead, then the Event is taken into History, and History is redeem'd from the service of Darkness,— with all the secular Consquences, flowing from that one Event, design'd and will'd to occur."
"Including ev'ry Crusade, Inquisition, Sectarian War, the millions of lives, the seas of blood," comments Ethelmer. "What happen'd? He liked it so much being dead that He couldn't wait to come back and share it with ev'rybody else?"
"Sir." Mr. LeSpark upon his feet. "Save that for your next Discussion with others of comparable wisdom. In this house we are simple folk, and must labor to find much amusement in Joaks about the Savior."
Ethelmer bows. "Temporarily out of touch with my Brain," he mum?bles, "Sorry, ev'rybody. Sir, Reverend, Sir.”