Rhodesia

The last time I saw Greystoke he had just got back from an expedition to the Lost Gold Mine of the Zambezi. He was running then every fortnight like clockwork, had the crocs plunging on cue and the hippos roaring as the steamer went by, a little excitement with a cordial crowd shaking spears and whatnot, he was making a pretty good living. But things were getting precarious, with the communists and the natives making a fuss, and he was inclined to get out.

He'd developed a taste for gin during his trips back home, quite a prodigious taste to be truthful, and I found him propping up a bar on a back street on Salisbury. Horrible place, but at least it was so dark you couldn't see the lizards.

We got to talking, and it seemed that he had one last scheme. There was this ape. A most talented ape, strong as the dickens and clever. He could talk to the apes, you know. Damned useful skill, got him out of more than one scrape. So he'd been talking to this ape, name of Don, who'd been watching the newsreels and had seen a chance for the two of them to make a bit of coin. Of course America would never do, those that had gone out there had come to a bad end, but Don thought maybe Japan might be a land of opportunity. There had been a big lizard, he'd made a bit of a mess but had gotten popular nonetheless.

As it happened, I knew an Italian chappie who was also trying to make good in the land of the rising sun, and had developed a few contacts. I told Greystone about him, we had a last drink or six, and I went on my way. Out of Africa for good, thank heaven. Of course Don and the Italian fellow did all right, but I never heard anything more of Greystoke. I suppose they cut him out, poor sot.