Philip Jose Farmer by The Other Log of Phileas Fogg

pulled himself on up and over onto the animal’s back. Fortunately, he managed to get hold of the howdah before the startled beast began running around again. Fogg had hurled himself to one side just in time and then he stood near the shaft and began trying to quiet Kiouni down again.
    The Frenchman threw out the rope ladder, which trailed along a few inches on the floor. He got onto the beast’s neck and did his best to imitate the Parsi. This, with Fogg’s renewed words, brought Kiouni to a standstill. By then, some of the soldiers had run out from the cloud to the far side of the pool and begun firing. Even so, the smoke hindered them.
    Fogg climbed up the ladder quickly and drew the rope after him. Kiouni was urged toward the shaft, finally coming to another stop a few feet from it. This was as close as Fogg dared get him, since soldiers might now be in the chamber below. He was not certain that this was close enough, but he must take the chance.
    “Transmit, for the love of God! And of Passepartout!” the Frenchman cried. “Transmit! Transmit!”
    A shout came from above. Passepartout looked upward, and his eyes rolled.
    “Mother of Mercy! They will shoot straight down! They cannot...”
    His words were beaten into thin sheets by the terrible nine clangings. And they were deaf again, though happy. At least, Passepartout smiled. The expression of Fogg, holding to the cord minus its load, did not change. A second later, both were busy hanging onto Kiouni. It took half an hour to get the nerve-shattered animal back to the buried distorter.
    Arriving at the desired spot, Passepartout descended from the elephant, dug up his watch, cleaned its surface, and reattached it to his old watch chain.
    On the slow journey back up the slope, Passepartout said, “Sir, is it permitted to ask a question?”
    “Certainly,” Fogg said, “though the answer may not be permitted.”
    “One certainly carried an unusual number of unusual watches.”
    “That is an observation, not a question.”
    “But where are these deadly watches obtained? I have seen nothing to indicate their existence. No one could have slipped them to you en route, surely?”
    “They were originally in my bureau in my house. A man who runs his life by the watch would not seem out of character if he had some spare chronometers.”
    “But how did you, sir, get them past my eyes? I am not altogether dull-eyed.”
    “They were in my vest from the beginning.”
    “Ah! And if a prying Capellean had found them and opened them for examination?”
    “The first one to be tampered with would have blown up in his face.”
    “But, sir, I might have found one and, being curious...”
    “Then you would have discovered that there are certain things into which you should not pry.”
    Passepartout was silent for a while. He wiped the sweat off his face and said, “And the rajah’s distorter? Was that a bomb you attached to it?”
    “Set to go off when we were transmitted.”
    Passepartout exclaimed with delight.
    “And now we will return to London? We have killed a major Capellean and destroyed their distorter.”
    “That is the third question, and you stated that you had only one in mind.”
    There was another silence. A leopard screamed in the distance. Mr. Fogg said, “We will not return. The bet has not been canceled.”
    “And this dangerous man of whom you spoke?”
    “He is the one I told you to watch for while we were on the  Mongolia . And there are no more watches.”
    Passepartout wished to ask more questions but was deterred by Fogg’s tone of finality.

 11 
    When they returned to the bungalow, they found the Parsi still snoring beneath the tree and Sir Francis in the same position in which they had left him. They restored Kiouni to his spot beneath the tree where the beast, half-asleep, began ripping off branches and stuffing them into his mouth. Fogg and Passepartout crept into the bungalow, lay down, and this time both slipped away.
    Two hours