Eszterhazy and the Autogondola-Invention

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The mist was thick and white and wet, and from every side came the sounds of trickling waters. Huge grey rocks loomed, showed their lichenous and glistening contours, fell behind to be succeeded by impossibly steep vistas where tufts of grass and twisted trees lured the stranger on, perhaps only (the stranger thought) to betray him into placing his foot on a narrow and slippery footing whence he would at once plunge into a gorge. From right behind him a voice spoke. “You all right, Lieutenant?” said the voice.

Captain Skimmelffenikk of the Royal and Imperial Scythian- Pannonian-Transbalkanian Excise swore a bit. “How can anybody be all right who tries to climb a saturated mountain in riding-boots?” he asked, next.

He could not see the sergeant, but he was certain that the sergeant shrugged. The sergeant said, “You ought to wear rope-soled sandals, like the rest of us. Ain’t that right, Mommed?” The guide was up ahead and equally invisible; he was a Mountain Tartar and a Rural Constable. His reply was a grunt. That is, it sounded like a grunt to the lieutenant, but to the sergeant it had sounded like more. “Hey, that’s a good idea,” said he. “Stop a bit, sir. Now grab hold of that tree and hold it for balance. Now stick your leg backwards as if you was a mule and I was а-shoeing you. Right leg first.” It was a mad-sounding instruction, but no madder than anything else on this tour of duty; and the officer had no one but himself to blame as it was his own misconduct (sleeping off his annual hangover in a public place) which had brought him here as punishment — and lucky he hadn’t been cashiered! — here at the wild border of Hyperborea, one of the Confederated Hegemonies of the Empire. Holding onto the moist bole of a tree, he stuck his right leg backwards.

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