“Just so. I’ve heard old Ganba roaring and rumbling below the surface and above it well down south of the railway. And I have heard him on the rampage well north of the railway, too. Even farther north than we are now.

“You’ve heard that even the stationabos hate being out on the Nullarbor, I suppose,” Easter went on. “Not only because of Ganba, but because there are wide areas where stock and horses won’t pass over, and that spells underground cavities in the limestone, doesn’t it? You really interested in caves and things?”

“No,” admitted Bony. “I have inherited horror of darkness in a hole, yet I do not suffer from claustrophobia.” He chuckled. “There it is, the fabulous Nullarbor Plain. All is visible, but what of those things that are under it? Up here we have space and sunlight and warmth. But no protection from the storms. Here there is nowhere to hide, no sanctuary, not even a tree to press your back against so that Ganba doesn’t creep up on you. It would be decidedly unnatural for a man to enjoy such nakedness when standing on a bald world.”

They ate cold roast beef and bread well buttered, and each was attacked by a thought neither would ever admit. The jeep was a good companion, was the little secret thought. When Easter stood beside it, the crown of his felt hat was the highest point within the completely unbroken, completely level horizon.

Not yet was Easter accustomed to the change which had taken place in the previously dapper Inspector Bonaparte. The smartly-cut grey suit had been changed for a worn drill shirt tucked into almost skin-tight trousers of greygaberdine. The trousers were grubby in the right places denoting habitual contact with a horse, and although there were no spurs to the elastic-sided boots, their condition also hinted at much riding. Here in the broad sunlight his parentage was more obvious.

Bony sensed the scrutiny. Easter said:

“Have you decided how you will contact me after I leave you at Mount Singular?”