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By Root 4598 0

�t think it of them," said Corker, bitterly. "Going past us like that without a bloody word. Shumble I can understand, but Whelper and the Excelsior Movie-News bunch...With that great lorry of theirs they could have towed us out in five minutes. What have they got to be competitive about?...and those two photographers I gave up half my room to at the hotel � just taking a couple of shots of us and then driving off. Two white men, alone, in a savage country...it makes one despair of human nature..." The preceding day had been one of bitter experience. Within a quarter of a mile of the city the metalled strip had come to an end and the road became a mud-track. For four hours the lorry had crawled along at walking pace, lurching, sticking and skidding; they had forged through a swollen stream which washed the undercarriage; they had been thrown from side to side of the cab; the binding of the stores had broken and Pigge's typewriter had fallen into the mud behind them, to be retrieved, hopelessly injured, by the grinning cook's boy. It had been an abominable journey. Presently the track had lost all semblance of unity and split into a dozen diverging and converging camel paths, winding at the caprice of the beasts who had made them, among thorn and rock and anthills in a colourless, muddy plain. Here, without warning, the back wheels had sunk to their axles and here the lorry had stayed while the caravan it had led disappeared from view. Tents had been pitched and the fire lighted. The cook, opening some tins at random, had made them a stew of apricots and curry powder and turtle soup and tunny fish, which in the final analysis had tasted predominantly of benzine. In bitter cold they had sat at the tent door, while Pigge tried vainly to repair his typewriter and Corker, struck with nostalgia, composed a letter to his wife; at eight they had retired to their sleeping bags and lain through the long night while their servants caroused outside. Corker surveyed the barren landscape and the gathering storm clouds, the mud-bound lorry, the heap of crapulous black servants, the pasty and hopeless face of Pigge, the glass of soda-water and the jagged tin of fish. "It makes one despair of human nature," he said again.

It was some days since William had seen Bannister so he drove out that morning to the Consulate. There was the usual cluster of disconsolate Indians round the door. Bannister sent them away, locked the office and took William across the garden to his house for a drink. "Looking for news?" he asked. "Well, the Minister's got a tea-party on Thursday. D'you want to come?" "Yes." "I'll get them to bung you a card. It's the worst day of the year for us. Everyone in the place comes who's got a clean collar. It's the public holiday in honour of the end of the rainy season and it always pours." "D'you think you could ask a German girl at my boarding-house? She's rather lonely." "Well, frankly Lady G. isn't very keen on lonely German girls. But I'll see. Is that why you didn't go off on that wild goose chase to Laku? You're wise. I shouldn't be at all surprised if there weren't some rather sensational happenings here in a day or two." "The war?" "No, there's nothing in that. But things are looking queer in the town. I can't tell you more, but if you want a hint look out for that Russian I told you about and watch your friend Dr. Benito. What's the girl's name?" "Well I'm not sure about her surname. There's some difficulty about her papers." "Doesn't sound at all Lady G.'s cup of tea. Is she pretty?" "Lovely." "Then I think you can count her off the Legation list. Paleologue's been trying to interest me in a lovely German girl for weeks. I expect it's her. Bring her along to dinner here one evening."

K�hen was delighted with the invitation. "But we must buy a dress," she said. "There is an Armenian lady who has a very pretty one �bright green. She has never worn it because she bought it by mail and she has grown too fat. She asked fifty American dollars. I think if she were paid at once it would be cheaper." She had become cheerful again. "Wait," she said. "I have something to show you." She ran to her room and returned with a sodden square of bandana silk. "Look, I have been doing some washing after all. It is your handkerchief. I do not need it now. I have stopped crying for today. We will go and play ping-pong and then see the Armenian lady's green dress." After luncheon Bannister telephoned. "We've had a cable about you from London." "Good God, why?" "The Beast have been worrying the F.O. Apparently they think you've been murdered. Why don't you send them some news?" "I don't know any." "Well for heaven's sake invent some. The Minister will go crazy if he has any more bother with the newspapers. We get about six telegrams a day from the coast. Apparently there's a bunch of journalists there trying to get up and the Ishmaelite frontier authorities won't let them through. Two of them are British, unfortunately. And now the Liberals are asking questions in the House of Commons and are worrying his life out as it is about some infernal nonsense of a consentration of Fascists troops at Laku." William returned to his room and sat for a long time before his typewriter. It was over a week now since he had communicated with his employers, and his failure weighed heavily on him. He surveyed the events of the day, of all the last days. What would Corker have done? Finally, with one finger, he typed a message.