Wilbur Fonts in Africa

"Eddie," I said, "you want to know who my hero is?"

"Sure," said Eddie, making his gibson a thing of the past.

"Jack Wilkes," I said, trying not to slur my words. "Limey political agitator, Eighteenth Century. He knew how to cut other people down to size. He wasn't a big-hearted sucker like us. When he bit they bled,"

"Like for instance," said Eddie ordering a fresh brace.

"Like once a jerk approached him and said, 'Wilkes, I don't know which would be a more apropos fate for you -- a venereal infection, or the gallows. Do you know what Jack replied?"

Eddie thought for a moment. "'Screw you,'" he suggested.

"Wrong," I said. "Old Jack looked him straight in the eye and snapped, That would depend, sir, on whether I embraced your mistress or your principles.' Now I never would have thought of that."

"A mighty mot," Eddie conceded glumly, "frequently attributed to Disraeli, by the way. But it serves to remind that you and I will be embracing naught but vacant air this evening."

Eddie and I were imbibing at Whiskey à Moriarty's, a Third Avenue saloon full of sawdust, cigar smoke and not-so-quiet desperation. We both toil for the newsmagazine Eon, Madison Avenue's answer to God, and such moments of liquid reprieve are usually fraught with chicks, chuckles and cheer. But not so this P.M.: two pneumatic actress-types, toward whom we had displayed a corporate interest, had stood us up for a tryout in Westport; our own anticipated first-night performance would just have to wait.

We were sitting there, knee-deep in gloom, when Managing Editor Bob Maxfield sailed into view, as welcome as a Russian fishing trawler off Canaveral. His lovable wart-hog eyes glimmered with what might have been taken for intelligence, had we not known better.

"Well, well," he bleated, "dig the lush vegetation. Not that I'm surprised. Never been anything anonymous about you alcoholics. Many a sip 'twixt the cup and the lip, eh, lads?" He laughed his carefree taps-at-Arlington laugh, and then beamed at me. "Jack, doll, by a count of swizzle sticks (continued on page 118)Wilbur Fonts in Africa(continued from page 83) there you must be feeling on top of the world."

Just once, I thought, just once let me pop his satelloon. "Well, sir," I replied, somewhat thickly, that would depend on whether I embraced your mistress or your principles.

"Why, thank you," he said, flushing with pleasure. "You know, I'm glad I ran into you two chaps. Just after you left the office -- sort of jumped it gun-wise, didn't you? -- a telegram came to the Old Man from Washington. It's a break for you -- Congressman Fonts wants your services again."

"Dear God," I said.

"Another round" Eddie told Moriarty. "Doubled and redoubled."

"I thought you'd be pleased," said Fighting Bob. "Here, have a look for yourself."

The telegram had been sent by Congressman Wilbur T. Fonts to his long-time buddy, the Editor-in-Chief of Eon magazine. It read: Require Frost And Moreau Press Aides Soonest X have New Project to spearhead free world initiative X Give us tools and we shall finish job X God bless in hour of Peril X Wilbur =

"About as clear." I said, "as a Haiku by Gertrude Stein."

"By tools he means you and Eddie," purred the M.E. "The Old Man has given his thumbs-up. Starting tomorrow you both have a two-week leave of absence from the mag, to aid and assist the Congressman in the realm of public relations." He paused to consider us, and a rare look of thoughtfulness glazed his eyes. "Frankly, fellows, democracy sometimes scares the hell out of me."

I don't suppose we have any choice," I said glumly.

"Why, of course you do," Fighting Bob replied. "You don't have to do what the Old Man wants. I imagine you could always find another job -- on the Murmansk run, say, as able-bodied seamen. No need to feel obligated."

Eddie and I joined glances and glasses in a silent toast. We had an idea what we'd be up against. Futility, obscurity, negligence, trouble, and strife -- put them all together and the spelled Fonts, the original Washington square. This was one leave of absence that did not make our hearts grow, any fonder.

"Keep a stiff upper, old sport," chortled Bob, clapping my on the back and driving my incisors deep into a gin-logged olive. "Think of it as a chance to win the plaudits of grateful nation."

"In Washington," I manage, "there'll more likely be booze and hisses.

"What's the matter?" he cried. "Aren't you in favor of capital punishment? Do you dig, lads? A pun on the word capital!"

We dug. Eddie and I shook with merriment, while Fighting Bob bared his gums in modest glee. That's one trouble with Mad Av -- keeping one's job very often is a laughing matter.

• • •

"Africa!" boomed Congressman Wilbur T. Fonts. "The awakening of a slumbering giant! A continent that stands astride the present, one foot in the primeval mists of yesteryear the other planted on the bright hopeful hills of tomorrow! Africa! Land on the move, caldron of dark agony, a beacon for man's destiny! By God, gentlemen, doesn't it make your blood sing?"

Well," said Eddie, "there's this kind of humming sound --"

"I never trust a man who isn't moved by music," the Congressman said.

"Yes sir," I said. "About Africa ..."

"Exactly!" he cried. "Precisely my point! A gleaming warrior, blowgun in one hand, sextant in the other. We must point the way!"

The Congress man stabbed the air with an illustrative forefinger, but unfortunately whatever way he was indicating was lost in the primeval mists of his own moist rhetoric. We were in his chambers on the sixth deck of the Sheraton-Park; although a smattering of snow was sifting past the window on its chill descent to Connecticut Avenue, the air within was hot and stilling, for Congressman, Fonts had turned the heat up as far as it would go. He was clad in a pair of tartan bathing trunks, and as he moved about he looked like a great glistening hard-boiled egg with filter-tip legs.

"It's going to be damn hot where we're going," he explained. "I intend to be preconditioned."

"I don't mean to pry, Congressman "I said. "But does that mean you are planning to take us to Africa with you?"

"Was there any doubt in your mind, Jack?" He paced as he talked, trekking from the bedroom through the living room to the bathroom and back again. Eddie and I sat dissolving on the couch, trying to revive ourselves with huge tankards of beer, watching his progress like spectators at a slow-motion tennis match.

"The times cry for a sober assessment of a turbulent and explosive situation," he cried, pivoting and reappearing from the bathroom. "I never renege on a campaign pledge. 'I shall go to Africa,' I told the folks back home and that, by sweet God, is where I'm headed. I'll show this Dag what's-his-name a trick or two. Decisive leadership! Fonts displays intimate knowledge of African problems! U.N. hails the Fonts crusade for a brighter tomorrow!"

Eddie wrapped his handkerchief about his forehead like a bandage. "And you want us to --"

"Naturally, this trip will arouse world-wide interest. You two boys will help arrange the big international press conferences, issue biweekly bulletins, that sort of thing. Eddie, I'll want pix of me advising the local leaders on just what they're doing wrong. But --" he help up a plump sausage finger -- "don't think for a minute it'll be, all work and no play. No sir! Boys, a dynamic leader always runs the risk of driving himself too hard. By God, we deserve a little welfare and recreation -- owe it to the free world to be well-rested. Here, this is what I have in mind."

He jounced over to his desk, and returned bearing an armload of pamphlets and books. In a twinkling Eddie and I had glommed the titles: Fundamentals of Big Game Hunting, Through the Rain Forests with Spoor and Spear, Nine Ways to Skin a Cat, The ABCs of Gorilla Warfare

"Ah-ha," murmured Eddie. "A faint light is beginning to dawn."

"Yes indeed," the Congressman said excitedly. "Can't you just picture it? There, over the fireplace ... the fearful head of a buck lion ... downed by Congressman Wilbur T. Fonts While the bearers fled in panic ..."

"I see," I said. "A kind of status simba."

"You mean symbol," he said. "Well, chaps what do you think?"

"Safari so good," said Eddie. "I hope to God."

"Oh there's nothing at all to worry about," the Congressman said, bending to replenish our brews. "I have a feeling that this will turn out to be a most memorable trip.

"Yes sir," I sighed. "I'm afraid it will."

And so it was.

• • •

Forty-eight hectic hours later our expedition had arrived in Bangara, capital city of Tamkasso, the small newly-independent country in East Africa bounced on the north by Uganda and on the south by Kenya. We had jetted in to Nairobi the day before, where Congressman Fonts had lingered only long enough to purchase mosquito netting and a case of Beefeaters.

"Head north, that's the cry," he cried. "We must show Tamkasso that we stand beside them in their brave experiment. Besides, their noble little land is amply stocked with leopard bongo, hartebeest and rhino." So we dumped our luggage on board the branch local and chugged north, marking our trail like good hunters with strategically tossed empty bottles.

As a city Bangara leaves practically everything to be desired. The buildings rise like yellowed teeth from the muddy pink gums of the streets. Traffic is comprised mainly of cows, who lower their heads, hold their breath, and sprint while passing through. Huge file drone like powerboats through the humid air. It is, in a word Philadelphasville.

Thee main drag (believe me, drag is the mot juste) had, on the day we arrived, two hotels, one restaurant and forty-three bars. We put up at the more fashionable hostel, the Bangara Arms, an establishment whose grimy walls and fertile floors would have sent Mr. Clean into cringing hysterics.

"Well, boys, this is it," the Congressman said, as he broke the back of a bull scorpion with a sturdy kick. "Back to fundamentals. The basics of life."

Speaking of that." I said," how is the Beefeaters holding out?"

"Later," he snapped. "There's work to be done right now. Incredible drive and energy. Take notes. Jack There's a book in all this. The Real Wilbur Fonts. An informal portrait of greatness. Be snatched off the bookstalls."

"Yes sir," I sighed. There was not much else you could say to the real Wilbur Fonts.

We went first to see the Mayor, a mustachioed native, with shoes and accent by Oxford.

"Glad to see you blokes take an interest in Tamkasso," he said courteously. "Bit of a hot spot, you know. Bad crop of cashews. Economic instability, that sort of thing. Be glad to brief you."

"Son. " said Congressman Fonts. "I'll be frank with you. We want to see the little people and how they live. We'd like to get out in the country. I think you could help us most by recommending a first-rate white hunter."

The Mayor's jaw fell like a drawbridge, then snapped shut. "Impossible," he said, in a voice that could have been penalized for clipping. "There's not a hunter in Bangara who would go half a kilometer into the bush the way things are today. These are revolutionary times, sir. The hills are thick with bandits and insurrectionist tribes. Rum luck. Now, here we have a brochure on technical and vocationsl training centers --"

"It is not, by God, the American way to give up that easily." congressman Fonts interrupted, slugging the desk for emphasis. "We'll go have a look for ourselves, thank you. Trouble with you fellows is you're still thinking Nineteenth Century." So saying, he tapped on his pith helmet and canoed out the door, leaving several badly frightened tsetse flies in his wake.

But an afternoon of hunter hunting proved the Mayor one-hundred-proof correct. Safaris, for the moment, were as dead as mah-jongg. Not a man wanted to step past the local suburbia. "Don't try it," a burly trigger-man advised us. "A chap's life ain't worth a ha'penny o' dirty ice out there." His sentiments were echoed by a dozen others.

Thoroughly disgusted, Congressman Fonts proposed that we fall back and regroup in the hotel bistro. We camped at a musty table and began to take great healing gulps of liquid tranquilizers.

"Damn nation," the Congressman grumbled between sips. "Swarms of big game all around us, but not one white hunter with guts enough to show us the way. I promise you one thing, they're going to feel this in their sugar quota next session."

"Speaking of sugar," Eddie whispered, "do you see what I see?"

I saw. She was a raven-haired little doll who rippled as she walked, a chick clad in jodhpurs that clung to her flanks with an understandable avidity. Bangara might still be undeveloped; she most certainly was not. With an instinctive agility I was on my feet. "Would you care to join us, miss?" I asked as she approached.

She brushed past me and bent over the Congressman, who gaped upward, toward heaven. "Fonts," she said, in a curious thick accent, "they say you look for a hunter, Perhaps I can help you."

"Young lady," the Congressman said reverently, "if you feel you can be of any assistance to me whatsoever, please don't hesitate --"

"I can," she husked, "if you'll just follow me."

"Our pleasure, murmured Eddie, and we were on our way. She led us through a discordant progression of alleys and back streets, stopping at fast at a hutch of colonial design deep in the native quarter.

The doll clapped her hands and shouted, "Gregor!" and in a twinkling a middleweight heavy stood on the stoop, regarding us with crafty eyes. His shaven head and scarred cheeks had about them a kind of mischievous Gestapo charm.

"Ah," he said with a frosty smile, "the American Congressman, and his two campfollowers. Gentlemen, I'm honored." His accent was a faint carbon of the girl's.

"Howdy," said Wilbur Fonts, proferring his paw in the approved grass-roots fashion: "We are looking--"

"I know for what you are looking." Gregor interrupted. "Your search is over. Yes, Maria, I think you are right. Gentlemen, we will personally lead you into the veld. Can you be ready by tomorrow morning?"

"Why, no," said the Congressman. "We haven't bought supplies--"

"Logistics is not a problem," said Gregor, "We have food, guns and bearers. If you have doubts, talk them over with Maria. I'm sure you'll find her ways most winning. Until eight, then, gentlemen. "So saying, be unmade the scene by dissolving into the hutch.

Beneath a sky that was by now as black as night Maria showed us the way back to the Bangara Arms. There she smilingly accepted out offer of a drink. For a while we chatted with her, entranced by her bedside manner. But when, in the middle of round three, she excused herself to powder her nose Eddie and I both turned dubious faces toward the Congressman.

"Let's take a rain check on this one," Eddie pleaded. I trust that big Slavic torpedo about as far as I can throw Haystack Houn."

"Damn the torpedoes," said Congressman Fonts grandly. "You lads worry too much. Besides, can you think of a more delightful traveling companion than young Maria? A living symphony, boys, artfully composed. And speaking of that, how about leaving the old maestro alone with her for a bit, eh?"

Grumbling, Eddie and I went up to our room. "Living symphony," I muttered. "I'll bet he doesn't win any good-conduct medals with her."

"Well," said Eddie, "she does have a charming Bach-side."

"Yes," I concurred. "And I'd like to Handel what she's Haydn."

Neither of us could think of any more, so we went to bed.

The caravan which lurched its way out of Bangara by the next day's dawn would have brought a blush of shame to E. Hemingway's snowy jowls. Gregor and the Slav girl provided two belching Land-Rovers, vintage vehicles both with patrtriotic slogans from the Boer War still legible on their flanks. The five of us manned the front car; the second followed close behind, crammed with crated chow and out three boys, a trio of ebon hatchetmen who chatted merrily among themselves about the good old days in the Mau Mau. We headed north on the Tamkasso thourghway and soon were tooling through the dusty yellow plains of the veld country.

Gregor drove with a heavy foot, speaking only long enough to spit epithets at jay-walking antelope. Eddie and I jounced beside him, busily resurrecting our childhood prayers, while in the back seat, between the gun racks, Wilbur Fonts happily plied Maria with Congressional inquiries. She knew the country well, and for the most part her responses were as pithy as our helmets. But once or twice a certain double entendre quality in her voice caused my hackles to stir.

"Tell me, my dear," the Congressman boomed at one point, "what trophies do you envisage our bagging, as it were?"

She chuckled in a minor key. "I assure you, Congressman, you will get everything you deserve. In a week's time all of Africa will know your name."

"Splendid," he beamed. "Of course you'll be amply rewarded --"

"Our reward will lie in the knowledge of a job well done," she replied, in a soft purr that sent the shivers shimmying up and down my spine.

All day we faced the barren waste, rumbling along the faint trail toward distant purple foothills. Dust plumed behind us, masking the horizon behind a prophetic yellow shroud. Patches of forest began to appear, and thorn bush, and all kinds of Africa-type game, and it was just like a Disney True-Life short without the violin sound track. Once we saw picnicking lions taking cat nips from prime zebra, but Gregor did not even slow down. "Tomorrow," he promised, "the real game will be up." Maria joined his laughter, their voices sounding like the multiple snik of multiple switchblades.

We camped at dusk beneath a grove of teak, where a little stream hiccuped out of the soil. The bearers pitched tents and Eddie, by rubbing two bottles together, produced gin-and-tonics that would have done credit to any Boy Scout. One of the bucks crept into the bush and butchered a quartet of rabbits for supper; we all felt better after sampling the hare of the wog.

The meal over, Congressman Fonts sank to the grass beside Maria. "My dear," he whispered, "why don't you and I slip away to observe the rising of the moon?"

The dying embers plucked highlights from her svelte pelt as Maria laughed her derision. "No, Willy, not tonight. I suggest you get as much rest as you can. The road will take its toll tomorrow." Smiling, she arose and entered her tent--alone.

So the Congressman, Eddie and I retired, without social security. A pair of hyenas stalked through the thickets, taking turns imitating Fighting Bob Maxfield. We waited for sleep to knock us out.

"I'm lost out here," mumbled Eddie. "Do you think we'll ever get the lay of the land?"

"Stop thinking about her," the Congressman and I growled in unison.

• • •

If you think Forty-second street is sticky going of a Monday morning, you should try the rain forests of Tamkasso's northern foothills. By ten o'clock the next day the trail had become so clogged with vines and brush that both Land-Rovers failed in the clutch and we had to leave them simmering gently in a gully. We pressed on by foot, prodded by Gregor's whiplash baritone.

"We are almost there," he promised. "Soon there will be hunting such as you have never dreamed."

He was, unfortunately, right.

It happened in a small clearing the size of a stage, a place with bamboo curtains and a peanut gallery of chattering monkeys. One moment we were walking alone, the next the plot had suddenly thickened and we found ourselves circled by a score of beady-eyed Pygmies. They popped up like burnt toast and stood eying us with a marked lack of affection, fingering blowgun and spear. For a moment no one moved. Then their leader stepped forward and began to speak rapidly to Gregor in a patois I did not dig.

But Gregor did. He smiled and replied in the same lingo. Instantly the dark hands clapped like castanets, and six of the bush leaguers lept forward. Before we knew what had happened Eddie, Congressman Fonts and I were all standing with our hands neatly laced behind us.

"What, by God, is going on here?" the Congressman trumpeted.

Maria smiled, as unruffled as Betty Furness peddling freezers. "Don't boil over, Congressman," she cautioned. "At least not yes. It's quite simple. You wanted to meet the little people, didn't you? Well, here they are. Gentlemen, the only Pygmy cannibal tribe extant on the African continent."

There, was a moment of strained silence. "Cannibals?" said Eddie.

"Cannibals," said Gregor. He rubbed his hands together, hands unbound and determined. "I ask you to consider the international repercussions, my friends, when the world learns that a visiting American statesman has been devoured by African natives. Rather humiliating for you capitalist swine, eh?"

"I see," I said, a little weakly, "And naturally there won't be any Red meat on the menu."

Gregor shrugged philosophically. "The Russo-Mongongo Reciprocal Trade Act of 1960 for bids such a barbarous eventuality," he replied. "You see, my friend, the kettle in--ah--question was manufactured at the Vladivostok Iron Works."

"Oh, stop talking shop," Maria chided. "I think we ought to be on our way. After all, we don't want to be late for supper."

It was a scene that had all the clammy familiarity of morning-after nightmare. The small clearing dotted with thimble-shaped huts. The big black kettle set with domestic care atop a pile of logs. The happy natives, filled with kindling emotions. A scene, in short, to warm the hearts of all concerned--unfortunately, even ours.

They made us sit down in the center of the clearing. In a few minutes Umlaut, King of the Mongongo, strolled out to look us over. He was a dignified little man the size of a fire hydrant. He probed Congressman Fonts' stomach with a forefinger, and smacked his lips appreciatively.

"Now see here," the Congressman said sternly, "I must protest in the most forceful terms this entire incident."

"Well done," said King Umlaut, though whether he was commending the Congressman or placing his order was not quite clear.

"You speak English?" we chorused.

"I extra King Sullivan's Mines," he explained gravely. "Cut! Roll 'em! Where in hell Granger? I speak, yes."

"You're not -- you're not really going to eat us, now are you, old sport?" said the Congressman.

"Yes, yes, yes," replied King Umlaut. "Make trade agreement. Roll 'em! Yes, yes, we eat. Where in hell Granger? Sun go down, we have chow chow." He bowed courteously, and waddled off.

"Well," sighed Eddie, "at least we've found someone in the world who admires the taste of Americans."

"Oh, shut up" said Congressman Fonts.

The prodigal sun soon defected to the west; with the coming of dusk the barbecue fans began to stir and chatter among themselves. When a couple of beatnik originals began to tap on bongo drums we knew with grisly certitude that dinner was about to be prepared.

"You know what they're playing?" I wheezed. "Sounds like I've Got You Under My Skin."

"Well," said Eddie with a sickly smile, "I've always said that if I've got to go, I'd like to go stewed."

Congressman Fonts glared at us both. "Boys," he growled. "just for the record, you're both fired."

At that moment King Umlaut left his hut and approached us slowly. His painted face looked like an abstract by Revlon. "Cut!" he said, with a little ceremonial bow. "We start now. Make chow chow. You be nice."

"I'll be damned if I'll be nice," said the Congressman. "Where's Gregor? Where's Maria? I'm going to write the stiffest note they --"

"They take long walk." the King explained. "Weak stomach. OK, we start. Roll 'em!"

He raised a pudgy hand above his head, and a glad cry arose from the Pygmy villagers. They swarmed toward us from cover of hut and tree, and soon had us ringed with hungry eyes. One, I noted with horror, carried a torch. The King shouted, and sudden silence fell upon the clearing.

"Mongongo have tradition," he said solemnly. "He who about be chow chow make talk. Show him brave, no worry. Then we eat, be brave too. Who talk first?"

There were no immediate volunteers.

"Oh, go ahead, Jack." the Congressman said grouchily. "You're the hotshot press aide. Go on, talk us out of this one."

Necessity, mother of invention, gave birth. "Listen, Congressman." I said quickly, "you're one of the great orators of our time. I've always said so. Why don't you try to stall things with an old-fashioned filibuster?"

"Because I've never made a filibuster, that's why," he snapped.

"It's our only chance," I pleaded. "Look, this is going to be written up in a lot of books. If nothing else, it's a great chance to make a name for yourself..."

"Fonts magnificent in darkest hour," he said thoughtfully. "The new Nathan Hale speaks out. Hell, I don't suppose there's anything to lose." He glowered at the King and said. "All right, if it's a speech you want, that's what you'll, by God, get."

The King shouted an order and his subjects shuffled back a few paces, ravenous but quietly obedient. The tradition of the dying man's declaration was one they apparently respected. Congressman Fonts scrambled to his feet, looming over them like Mont Blanc over foothills. He glanced down at us gloomily and said. "I don't know where we'll meet again, lads."

"I have an idea," sighed Eddie. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire."

"You're the lousiest press aides I ever had," the Congressman said. He cleared his throat.

"Your Majesty, ladies and ... and gentlemen ..." Thus begun what was easily the most remarkable speech of Wilbur Fonts' career.

He seemed a bit ill at ease at the start. He fumbled for words and stuttered and shuffled his feet. But, in view of the fact that he was about to fill in for the main course at an outdoor cookout, I think his nervousness was understandable. Anyway, after those first bad moments a change came over him, and soon the old Fonts magic began to take hold.

With chin jutting and chest ballooning like a sloop's spinnaker, the Congressman suddenly found his lost chords. He lifted his gleaming pate and opened wide his mouth, and the great resonant freight train sentences started to roll forth, sonorous, mellifluous, freighted with oil.

He spoke of his abiding affection for Africa and his deep admiration for Pygmy culture. He linked the American dream with that of Tamkasso's, made an eloquent plea for racial tolerance, and then launched a spirited condemnation of the Taft-Hartley Act.

The Pygmies, who, with the exception of their King, could not understated a word that was being said, stared at the Congressman in wonder.

His power-drill tonsils operating at full capacity, his eyes bright with the wonder of his own voice, Congressman Fonts boomed on, now recalling childhood days in East Lansing, now demanding the repeal of the Federal Reserve Act, now telling of his love for the common man.

Eddie and I glanced at each other, hardly daring to breathe. For the first time that day our spirits were beginning to lift. There before us we were witnessing that most exalting of sights, that of a man fulfilling himself, a man meeting his rightful destiny. Wilbur Fonts, it was now clear, had an absolute genius not only for saying nothing at all, but for saying it at extraordinary length. But what really gave us cause for hope was the remarkable effect of his words on his captive audience.

First two or three Pygmies sat down. Then others, yawning, did the same. King Umlaut nodded, caught himself, nodded again. The torch hissed and went out. Someone began to snore gently.

The voice droned on, softly now beneath a mellow moon, melodious, reassuring, lulling the little people into the profoundest of stupors. There, in the heart of Tamkasso, as peace came gently to the jungle, Congressman Fonts carte of age.

It must have been after midnight when Eddie finally spoke.

"Congressman," he whispered. "I think maybe you can sit down now."

Wilbur Fonts looked about the darkened clearing. Not one Pygmy was still awake. I saw a small triumphant smile cross his face.

"Boys," he said after a moment's thought, "boys, I think I'm about reads for the Senate."

The delightful decision to free us was made early the next morning. King Umlaut himself stepped forward to cut loose our bonds. "You god," he said simply to Congressman Fonts. "Have power put everyone to sleep. Not right god chow chow. Where in hell Granger? You go. All go."

"I can assure you that this has strengthened the ties between our two lands," the Congressman said carefully as he flexed his sore hands. "But may I ask what you are going to do with Gregor and Maria?"

The King's answer was instantaneous. "Chow chow." he said, grinning and showing a royal flush of anticipation.

While it was surely risky business to argue with him -- we might still get ourselves into hot water -- it did not seem right to leave our two fellow travelers behind. We finally established our own Reciprocal Trade Act -- Gregor and Maria were handed over to us in exchange for two Ronson lighters and a bottle of meat tenderizer. Taking them into custody with the cheerful aid of our three bearers, we bade adieu to the melting pot of Mongongo civilization and made rapid tracks back to the waiting Land-Rovers. None of us had any burning desire to stay.

All the bumptious way back to Bangara our chums spoke nary a word. We promptly turned them over to the local constabulary, explaining how we had caught them red-handed stirring up trouble among the natives. As they started to lead her away, Maria scorched us with her fire-water eyes.

"I hate doing this to you, my dear," the Congressman said. "It may comfort you to know that you are still first lady in the White House of my heart."

For a moment her lovely lips remained as tight as her jodhpurs. Then she spoke. "Lucky pig," she snarled. "Horseshoe toad." They took her away, a sputtering firecracker set to blow her flip-top lid.

The Congressman sighed. "Never a word of thanks for saving her luscious skin," he murmured. "I tell you, lads, this statesmanship is one rough racket."

• • •

The rest, of course, is history. The news conference that Eddie and I set up in Bangara the next day would have reflected credit on Hagerty in his prime. Newsmen flew in from all over Europe to see and hear the crusading American Congressman who had personally come to Africa to nab the two Russian agents who were subverting the government of young Tamkasso.

"If, in my own small way, I have helped to dramatize the dangers of Communist infiltration in this great and troubled continent," he rumbled into a bouquet of microphones. "then I feel my trip has not been entirely in vain." As Eddie's camera recorded the scene for posterity, the band of cynical newsmen arose, applauding in spontaneous tribute.

Eddie and I smiled. the gleeful intoxicated smiles of men who know that, come next pay day, they will still be numbered among the employed. We had preserved, to coin a phrase, our heads and tails.

.jetting stateside two days later, we sat and read the headlines. Fonts breaks red white-hunter spy ring. Fonts bags kudos from world leaders. Veld done Wilbur, mother Africa's favorite son.

"I guess I owe you both an apology," the Congressman mused. "That filibuster idea was a choice bit of pot luck. Matter of fact, I may want to use you two again as my press aides."

"There's no tearing rush, sir," I said quickly. "I guess you rate as a fullfledged African expert now."

"I try, jack." he said. "In my own humble way, I try."

"Kind of too bad, though," said Eddie. "You never did get that safari trophy you wanted so much."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." He reached into a pocket and produced a ruffled pink garter, a garter which bore a delicately embroidered M. It could only be the souvenir of a comrade in arms.

"There are trophies, lads," he said slowly, "and there are trophies."

Wilbur Fonts closed his eyes with a happy sigh. Winging over the best of all possible worlds, a world still safe for democracy, he and Eddie and I roared home.