Chaga

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Though this book shares the same setting, background and many of the same characters and situations as my 1990 novelette Towards Kilimanjaro, it is not a direct sequel to that story, but rather an expansion and refinement of its ideas. Readers of both may notice a number of seeming inconsistencies; these are deliberate; Towards Kilimanjaro should be read as a working prototype for this book.

Thanks to CEM Computers, who saved a sizeable portion of this book from cybernetic nirvana (always back up. Always back up). Thanks also to Trisha for her inestimable help in the early stages of this work, and in all things.

The light was almost gone now. Late summer purples lay across the Point’s heathlands and salt marshes. An edge of cumulus outlined the hills across the lough. The aircraft warning beacons on the television mast were blinking.

The dogs went bounding out into the setting dark. Freed spirits. Primeval forces. Rabbits scattered for their sandy bolt-holes among the gorse roots. Horace was too old and arthritic to kill. He ran for the joy of running: while he still could run. The vet had diagnosed CMDR. The process was irreversible. The myelin sheaths of the lower spinal nerves would deteriorate until his hindquarters were paralysed. He would not be able to walk. He would piss himself. He would shit himself. Then, the one way ticket to the rubber-topped table. The girl hoped she would not have to be there for that.

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