Somewhere, high above the Kalihari Desert, a rusty, single-engine plane completes its daily route from Mbasa to one of several nearby destinations. The plane chugs along steadily, with just the amount of hesitance one might expect of a 10-year old aircraft. The pilot, a nondescript fellow of Australian heritage (colonial, not Aboriginal) sweats profusely as the glaring heat of the African sun bears down on his little Daedelan contraption. The pulsing orange god bears its defiance begrudgingly, but continues to spare its existence.