The American Embassy sent a well-dressed young attachÉ to call for Hall in the morning. He arrived in a low-slung yellow sedan, introduced himself as Orville Smith, snubbed everyone in sight, and relaxed only when he and Hall were well out of sight of the camp. "They said that you sure hung one on," he said pleasantly and, Hall realized, with even a touch of admiration.

"Must have been something I ate," Hall answered.

"Glad you turned up intact, old man. Might have led to some amusing complications. If the major had called five minutes later, this would have appeared on the front page of El Imparcial this morning."

He gave Hall a galley proof of a news story. Missing American Writer Believed Victim of Communists. Missing since yesterday ... last seen leaving hotel ... On Wednesday, at American Embassy party, Hall had discussed Red threats to his safety, told publisher of Imparcial that giant Red assassin had followed him day before ... Embassy officials described Hall as author of book on experiences on H.M.S. Revenger ... The missing American failed to phone or keep appointment made with publisher of Imparcial in connection with Soviet threats ... Feared abducted and killed.

"What do you make of it?" Hall asked.

"Politics. They take their politics seriously down here. Was it true that you were followed?"

"Yes. But not by the Reds. By the fascists."

"Are there any fascists down here?" This in a tone of detached amusement.

"A few. How well do you know Fernandez?"

"Quite well. He's one of the few gentlemen in San Hermano. Comes from an old Spanish aristocratic family. Did you really have an appointment with him?"

"It wasn't definite. He told me he had heard of some Red plot to bump me off. I just kidded him along."

"Mr. Fernandez is really very well informed," Smith said. "He has a crack staff of reporters, and the information that they pick up shouldn't be ignored."

"Yeah," Hall said. "I hear he's good. Matter of fact, I heard Imparcial is getting the Cabot Prize this year."

It was like a shaft driven into Smith's armor. "No!" he exclaimed. "Who told you?"

"Some puta," Hall said, dryly. "In bed." He watched the blood rushing to Orville Smith's head. "You'd be surprised at what a gal who sleeps around can pick up."

"She was pulling your leg, Hall."

Hall grinned. "Please, Mr. Smith," he said. "Gentlemen don't discuss such things." Smith grew redder.

"Not to change the subject," Hall said, "but what's cooking in town? In politics, for example. Doesn't the Congress open today?"

"Not really. They have the ceremonial opening this afternoon. According to tradition, the President speaks to the entire Congress. Then they settle down to a week of reviewing last year's business. The first working session really starts in about ten days."

"And today I guess Gamburdo is speaking instead of Tabio."

"Oh, beyond a doubt. Tabio is really on his last legs, old man. I suppose I should feel sorry about the old coot, but then you learn things in my game."

"About Tabio?"

"Oh, yes. We had information that in his address to the Congress, Tabio was planning to call for the nationalization of all the mines in the country."

"But why?"

"Oh," Smith said, "because he was being forced into it, I guess. I've met Tabio and he's not as bad as his enemies make him out to be. But what are you going to do when you are elected by a Popular Front majority? The Communist Senators and Deputies are all from the mining provinces up north. They've been hollering for the nationalization of the mines for twenty years. Now they're strong enough to put the squeeze on Tabio."

"But isn't Gamburdo in the Popular Front?"

"Gamburdo is different," Smith said. "He has different ideas, and he can't be pressured by the bolos."

"I'm doing a story on Gamburdo for a magazine back in the States. You get around. Tell me more about Gamburdo. I've got him down as the coming man on the continent. Am I half cocked, or is he really hot?"

Orville Smith discussed Gamburdo, Tabio, the political scene. He talked about the politicos, about their ideas, about the gossip which followed them in their careers. Carefully prodded by Hall, he spoke fluently for nearly two hours. It was a very revealing monologue. It told Hall how Orville Smith had spent his three years in San Hermano. Week-end parties at the estates of wealthy Spanish planters. Dinners, cocktails, high masses, weddings, fishing trips with the Vardienos and the Fernandezes and the Gamburdos. Info straight from the horse's mouth.

Tabio the tool and or agent of bolshevism. The better element. How social legislation would push taxes up and cut down returns on American investments. Vardieno gives lovely parties on his island. No, not many lately. No oil for the boats, hard enough to get it for his narrow-gauge Diesel locomotives. Fine lad, young Quinones; made the golf team at Princeton. The Vardieno girl in the Press Bureau? That would be the one who went to finishing school in the States. She just started in at the Bureau for some experience. Cross and Sword? Oh, I know the pinkos back home would call it fascist. It's not, really. Conservative, for free enterprise and private ownership. All the better-element folks belong or support it. Do I know any labor leaders? No, never met one. Did I ever spend a week-end in a small village hotel? No, thank you, the roaches are bigger than sparrows in the sticks.

Hall thought about the art of diplomacy. You take a kid from the FFV's and at an early age you wrap him in cellophane and send him off to some nice, prophylactic boarding school, well-heeled white Gentiles only, thank you, High Episcopalians preferred, and only nice clean thoughts, none of them less than a century old, are gently swished against the cellophane until some of them seep through by osmosis. He meets only the sons of the better element and outside of an adolescent clap he picks up on one wild week-end with some of the boys in New York he has no real problem until he's eased out of prep and then he has an idea he wants to go to Harvard but the family prevails and he does time at Princeton, nearly makes varsity football but a high tackle in a practice scrimmage changes his mind, and then he is ready for his place on the board of the mill but someone—a nice girl of fine breeding, no doubt—puts another idea in his head. So he goes to Georgetown, fills out a lot of nasty forms, and then, voilÁ!, the young monsieur arrives in Paris as Third Secretary and dreamily sends that first letter home to the folks: Hello Folks, here I am in Gay Paree learning how to be an Ambassador.

And then in Paris, Hall thought, listening to Orville Smith, your young Third Secretary naturally gravitates to his French equivalents, the young bluebloods who were reared in French cellophane and got the same ideas, only in French, in their own versions of Princeton and Groton. The better element meets the better element, and he makes factual, intelligent reports. The Popular Front falling into hands of the bolos. This he learns at a week-end party on Flandin's yacht. The Croix de Feu and the Cagoulards are fine, conservative forces. Only the pinkos call them fascists, but Bertrand de Juvenal, the fledgling ambassador's pal, knows otherwise. Sit-down strikes, forty-hour week, vacations with pay—he puts them all down in his reports; communist, of course. Got the lowdown on the beach at Cannes just the other day. Daladier is the man to watch. Yes, he is in the Popular Front. But Daladier's different. He's like Monsieur Laval, the French Calvin Coolidge. Fine force for sensible government. There will be no war, Munich has settled that. Got the lowdown from Flandin himself. Germany will be defeated. Spent a most fascinating week-end with General Weygand. Marechal PÉtain is man of the hour. Marechal PÉtain will make France another Verdun. Vichy wants to be friends with Washington. The Marechal indignantly denies, in private, that that was a Nazi salute you saw in the newsreels, sir, he says he was just waving at the cameramen. But Bertrand de Juvenal does not deny, and Laval does not deny, and Daladier weeps in his collapsed house of cards. And then comes the transfer to San Hermano at a better rating.

Smith pointed to the suburbs of San Hermano ahead of them. "We made good time," he said. "We'll be in the Embassy in ten minutes."

"Good going. You can drop me at the Bolivar, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, old man. But say, why don't you drop by for a spot of lunch with the old man and the boys at the Embassy? We'd love to have you with us and, besides, the old man will probably want to see for himself that you're in one piece."

Hall looked at his watch. "What time do you have lunch?"

"About one."

"Good. I'd like to join you. But I'll still have time to stop off at the Bolivar to change and pick up my mail. I'm expecting a letter from my sweetheart."

Pepe was waiting in his cab in front of the Bolivar. He was contrite and subdued. "I nearly killed you with my stupidity, Mateo," he said. "I should have known that cafÉ was owned by Falangistas."

"It's nothing, Pepe. I had it coming to me. I'm all over it now, anyway. What's new?"

"I have the complete list of where the passengers from the Marques de Avillar are staying. Their names, too. Except the names of the two men who are at the Gamburdo ranch. But they are still there."

"Did you recognize any of the names?"

"My friends are examining the lists now. I'll have them back for you in the evening."

"Have you seen Duarte?"

"I told him about you. He wants you to call him at the Mexican Embassy."

"I will, later. I have to go to my room for a minute, and then I want you to take me to the American Embassy. I'm having lunch there." He entered the hotel and asked for his mail at the desk. There was a message from Jerry, a short gossipy note from his publisher, and another love letter from Havana.

The note from Jerry was very short. "I missed you, you dog," it said. "Phone me when you return to town. Jerry."

The letter from Havana, mailed the day after the first letter, was almost a duplicate of the first. Again it protested its love, but this time it said, "How many times must I tell you that the man you think is your rival is unworthy of all human decencies? Far from being a rival in my eyes, I look upon him as a creature worse than an assassin. You must believe me; I detest the man." Hall put the letter in his wallet.

He examined his room carefully. It had not been searched, the stethoscope was still in its hiding place, his clothes were just as he had left them. Everything was as it had been. Hall took out his portable typewriter, copied the El Imparcial story which had been killed, and sealed the copy in an envelope. He went downstairs, got into the cab, and slipped the envelope into Pepe's pocket.

"Give the envelope to Dr. Gonzales," he said. "And tell him to get the information to Major Segador right away."

"I'll drive right out to the doctor as soon as I leave you. Shall I wait for you outside of the American Embassy after I see the doctor?"

"I think you'd better."

Ambassador Skidmore seemed pleased to see Hall. "You gave us quite a scare, young fellow," he said, his ruddy face beaming, white hair bobbing as Skidmore shook his head from side to side in mock anxiety. "Ah, you newspaper boys," he laughed. "Always going off on a tear when you are least expected to! And here poor Joe Fernandez was so sure that the Reds had made hamburger out of you, Hall."

"I'm sorry I spoiled a good story," Hall said. "I'd better call Fernandez on the phone before he sends out another alarm."

"No need to, my boy," the Ambassador said. "Joe Fernandez is joining us at lunch."

Fernandez showed up with a former Senator, a dignified old dandy named Rios, who sported a silver-headed cane, a waxed, dyed mustache, and a Cross and Sword emblem in his lapel. They shared the table in the Ambassador's small private dining room with Hall, Orville Smith and the Ambassador.

The publisher fawned over Hall like a long-lost brother. "You are safe," he exclaimed. "Thanks be to the Virgin Mother! What happened? Was it very bad?"

"I got drunk," Hall said. "That's all that happened."

"Ridiculous, SeÑor Hall! You are a man who can take his drink. You were drugged. Mark my words, seÑor, you were drugged. You don't know these Reds."

Orville Smith winked broadly at Hall. "The main thing is," he said to Fernandez, "that Hall is safe now. I'm sure he appreciates your concern, Don JosÉ." In deference to the Ambassador's three-word Spanish vocabulary, Smith and the others spoke English. Rios, who spoke only Spanish, sat between Skidmore and Smith, who acted as their interpreter.

"What province did you represent in the Senate?" Hall asked the former Senator.

"San Martin, in the north."

"Don Joaquin is a great statesman," Fernandez interrupted. "But when El Tovarich prepared his gangsters for the elections two years ago, he armed the Red miners and they held their guns in the ribs of Don Joaquin's majority."

Hall listened to Smith translate this account of Rios' defeat at the polls before he spoke. "And do you plan to run again, SeÑor Rios?" he asked.

Fernandez answered for the dandy. "He will run again," he shouted, "and he will be elected. Fire can fight fire. Guns can fight guns."

"I have pantalones," Rios said. "I am a man of honor."

"Don Joaquin's constituents demand that he runs again," Fernandez said. He turned to the Ambassador, became his own translator. The ex-Senator nodded happily at every word Fernandez addressed to the Ambassador, as if by nodding he could bolster the words whose meaning he had to guess.

"How do you think things will go in Congress today?" Hall asked Fernandez.

"The same as every year, SeÑor Hall. Ceremonials, the speech, and then—quiÉn sabe?"

Rumors rose from the table. Everyone had a choice rumor to air. Rios had it on good authority that Tabio's illness was merely a pretext; the President was afraid to face the Congress lest they force him to justify his wild socialistic measures which had put the national budget in such dire peril. Orville Smith informed the men at the table that Tabio's illness had taken a more serious turn. "In fact, I understand that Dr. Ansaldo has informed the government that he will refuse to operate on Tabio without the written permission of the Cabinet." Fernandez spoke of Ansaldo's skill as a surgeon.

"How about Gamburdo's speech, Joe?" the Ambassador said. "You promised to bring me an advance copy."

"I told my secretary to bring it to you as soon as it arrived," Fernandez answered. "It is very late in arriving today."

"Have you any idea of what he is going to say, Joe?"

"He is a very sound man," Fernandez said. "I am sure that the speech will be satisfactory."

"It won't call for the nationalization of the mines, at any rate," Smith added.

He made the mistake of translating his remark for Joaquin Rios. He might just as well have dropped a match into a keg of gunpowder. The wax mustaches under the purpling nose of ex-Senator Rios began quivering even before he unleashed an avalanche of ringing livid paragraphs on the subject. His eyes blind to the cold stares of JosÉ Fernandez, he unlimbered his heaviest verbal artillery, pounded the table until the glasses rattled, pointed accusing fingers at every corner of the room, and otherwise managed rather effectively to end the luncheon. Fernandez fairly had to drag him out of the Embassy to cool him down.

"Fine fellows," Skidmore said to Hall when they were gone. "Best of the lot down here."

"Sure," Hall said. "I've known all about Fernandez for years."

"He's a great guy, Hall. Publishes one of the best newspapers on the continent. As a matter of cold fact, old man, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he won the—well, he might be in for a rather high honor."

"I know. The Cabot Prize."

"Who told you?"

Hall looked at Smith, who was growing uncomfortable. "I can't remember," he said. "But it's hard to keep such a secret in San Hermano."

"Well, I'll be damned," the Ambassador laughed. "It was nice to see you again, old man. Drop in any time when you have a problem."

"Problems in San Hermano? Things seem to be pretty much under control, I'd say."

"Yes," the Ambassador admitted. "Things are pretty quiet."

"Will it be as quiet when Tabio dies? I heard talk that the Gamburdo crowd is pretty close to the fascists."

"Gamburdo?" Skidmore grew both amused and indignant. "What kind of communistic nonsense have you been hearing? I know Eduardo Gamburdo intimately. I've entertained him at the Embassy, and I've week-ended at his estate. He's a fine conservative influence on this government and, damn it all, young man, Gamburdo is a thorough gentleman."

"Yeah," Hall said. "Thorough." For a few seconds, during the luncheon, he had toyed with the idea of telling the Ambassador all that he knew about Gamburdo and Ansaldo and the role of the Falange. Now he cursed himself for a fool. Skidmore, he saw, was Orville Smith at sixty, but with the power to make trouble for any visiting American who rubbed against his deep-set prejudices. "Well, thanks for everything," he said. "I guess you're pretty busy today."

Hall rushed out of the Embassy, his face twitching crazily as he charged down the marble walk to the curb. He had broken into a heavy sweat which drenched him from head to toe. "Get me out of here," he roared at Pepe. "Get going before I kill someone."

"What happened?" Pepe asked.

"Nothing. Where are we going?"

"Nowhere. What's the matter with your face?"

"Nothing." He put his hand against his right cheek. "Nothing. Did you see Gonzales?"

"I gave him the letter. He said you should go to the opening of Congress today. He says you might be surprised."

"Thanks. I had my surprise for the day already."

"Gonzales was serious. He says you should go. It starts at four o'clock."

"All right. I'll go. Better take me to Gobernacion. I'll need a pass from the Press Bureau. No, wait, let's go to Duarte's place. He takes his siesta at this time. I'll call that Vardieno bitch from his place."

Hall opened his tie. "Have we time to stop for a beer?" he asked. "I'm dying for a drink."

"No. We might miss Duarte. He'll have beer for you."

Pepe was right. Duarte did have beer, and had they stopped on the way, they would have missed him. He was about to leave the house when they arrived. Duarte was wearing the green dress uniform of a Mexican lieutenant-colonel, to which he had pinned his Spanish medals and insignia.

"Going to war?" Hall asked.

"No. To the opening of Congress."

"You've got time."

"Hall is dying," Pepe said. "He needs cold beer."

The Mexican brought out five bottles of beer. "I've got more in the ice box," he said. "What's the matter?"

"He wants to kill someone," Pepe said.

"Me too. What of it?"

Hall put the mouth of the opened bottle to his lips, tilted his head back. "God," he said, "Pepe is right. Let me make one phone call, and then I'll spill it. I've got to get it off my chest before I blow the top."

He reached the Vardieno girl on the phone. She was so sorry. The lists had all gone down to the Hall of Congress. Anyway, all requests for foreign writers had to come through their embassies. That was the Press Chief's new ruling.

"That's fine. That settles it," Hall said when he put the phone away. "Now I must ask the Ambassador to approve me for the press gallery."

"Sit down, Mateo," Duarte said. "I can wait a full hour if necessary." He put a bottle of cold beer into Hall's hand. "Tell us about it."

"I'll wait outside," Pepe said.

"No. Stay with us, Pepe. I want you to know the facts. Do you both remember that I was waiting for a letter from Havana? Well, I got it. Two letters, in fact. They told me what I wanted to know about Ansaldo." He drained the second bottle and then told them what had happened to him at the Embassy.

"Don't bother with him," Duarte said. "You don't need his permission. I'll give you my diplomatic invitation and my carnet. The uniform is all I need to get through the gates. You'll sit in the diplomatic gallery with me."

"Great."

"You can even act as Skidmore's interpreter."

"Con mucho gusto!"

Riding to the Hall of Congress, Duarte drew Hall's attention to the loud speakers fastened to the poles in every plaza. "The government has bought over a hundred speakers in the past two weeks," he said. "I know, because most of them were bought in California and I had to O.K. their transit duty-free through Mexico. I think our friend Gamburdo is up to something today."

Hall looked at a knot of grim-faced Hermanitos standing under one of the speakers. "I think the people suspect it too."

"We couldn't get an advance copy of the speech at the Embassy, Mateo. Usually, Tabio releases advance copies to the press and the diplomatic corps on the morning of the speech."

"I wonder why?"

"I can only suspect the worst. After the speech, can you come back to the house with me? I want to hear what happened to you. Commander New called me this morning and told me that he had asked the police to investigate Fielding's death."

"What? On the phone?"

"Yes."

"Oh, the damned idiot! Now even if the police are not fixed every damned fascist in South America knows that the Fielding thing went wrong!"

"It's too late for cursing now. Let's talk about the whole picture after the speech."

The plaza facing the Hall of Congress was filling up with citizens who had come to hear the speech over the public-address system. Scattered through the crowds were men carrying signs reading "Viva Eduardo Gamburdo." Duarte pointed them out.

"Every one a Cross-and-Sword ruffian," he said. "I used to see the same faces while the Falange was legal. They then wore the blue shirt."

"I can't see their faces," Hall said.

"I've seen their faces. Three months ago Lombardo came to San Hermano to address the C.T.A.L. convention. The same gang showed up with their filthy signs, only this time the signs read: 'Viva Christ the King' and 'Go back to Bolshevik Mexico, you Dirty Jew' and 'Down with the Commune of the anti-Christ' and other lovely things. I know them."

"Something is happening," Duarte said when they were in the building. "Everyone is too quiet." They followed a military escort to the Mexican box.

The Mexican Ambassador was tense. "I don't like it," he said to Hall and Duarte. "Why is everyone so quiet on the rostrum?"

"They look as if they've seen a ghost," Hall said.

Duarte studied the faces of the officials on the flag-decked rostrum. "Where's Gamburdo?" he said. "Has anyone seen him?"

"I saw his car parked outside when I came in," the Ambassador said.

"What's that? Do you hear it, Mateo?"

"Sounds like distant thunder, Felipe."

"It's not thunder. It's the crowd. What have they got to cheer about?"

"Gamburdo's cheer leaders must have gone to work."

"I don't like it," the Mexican Ambassador said. "I don't like it."

A gavel fell on a block. At a signal from the President of the Senate, a military band hidden in one of the caucus rooms began to play the national anthem. The music was piped in to the great hall over the public-address system.

The gavel called the Congress to order. A clerk called the roll, the Senate head started the parliamentary ritual. Then the band started to play the national anthem again, this time without a signal. A door behind the rostrum opened.

In the doorway, flanked by his two young sons, Anibal Tabio sat in a wheel chair. His closest friend, Esteban Lavandero, the Minister of Education, stood behind him. Slowly, the chair was wheeled to the rostrum.

"Members of the Congress," the Senate Chief shouted, "The President of the nation has come to deliver his annual address."