“Population?”

“Almost uncountable in the interior. Officially put at two hundred and twenty thousand in the entire country. That is, thirty thousand Caja and an estimated one hundred and ninety thousand Vindu. But the numbers are a total guess—except probably the Caja can be counted accurately.”

“Then how the hell did they ever hold an election?” asked Manson.

“That remains one of the mysteries of creation,” said Endean. “It was a shambles, anyway. Half of them didn’t know what a vote was or what they were voting for.”

“What about the economy?”

“There is hardly any left,” replied Endean. "The Vindu country produces nothing. The lot of them just about subsist on what they can grow in yam and cassava plots cut out of the bush by the women, who do any work there is to be done, which is precious little— unless you pay them well; then they will carry things. The men hunt. The children are a mass of malaria, trachoma, bilharzia, and malnutrition.

“In. the coastal plain there were in colonial days plantations of low-grade cocoa, coffee, cotton, and bananas. These were run and owned by whites, who used native labor. It wasn’t high-quality stuff, but it made enough, with a guaranteed European buyer, the colonial power, to make a bit of hard currency and pay for the minimal imports. Since independence, these have been nationalized by the President, who expelled the whites, and given to his party hacks. Now they’re about finished, overgrown with weeds.”

“Got any figures?”

“Yes, sir. In the last year before independence total cocoa output, that was the main crop, was thirty thousand tons. Last year it was one thousand tons, and there were no buyers. It’s still rotting on the ground.”

“And the others—coffee, cotton, bananas?”

“Bananas and coffee virtually ground to a halt through lack of attention. Cotton got hit by a blight, and there were no insecticides.”

“What’s the economic situation now?”

“Total disaster. Bankrupt, money worthless paper, exports down to almost nothing, and nobody letting them have any imports. There have been gifts from the UN, the Russians, and the colonial powers, but as the government always sells the stuff elsewhere and pockets the cash, even these three have given up.”

“A cheap tinhorn dictatorship, eh?” murmured Sir James.

“In every sense. Corrupt, vicious, brutal. They have seas off the coast rich in fish, but they can’t fish. The two fishing boats they had were skippered by whites. One got beaten up by the army thugs, and both quit. Then the engines rusted up, and the boats were abandoned. So the locals have protein deficiency. There aren’t even goats and chickens to go around.”

“What about medicines?”

“There’s one hospital in Clarence, which is run by the United Nations. That’s the only one in the country.”

“Doctors?”

“There were two Zangarans who were qualified doctors. One was arrested and died in prison. The other fled into exile. The missionaries were expelled by the President as imperialist influences. They were mainly medical missionaries as well as preachers and priests. The nuns used to train nurses, but they got expelled as well.”

“How many Europeans?”

"In the hinterlands, probably none. In the coastal plain, a couple of agronomists, technicians sent by the United Nations. In the capital, about forty diplomats, twenty of them in the Russian embassy, the rest spread among the French, Swiss, American, West German, East German, Czech, and Chinese embassies, if you call the Chinese white. Apart from that, about five United Nations hospital staff, another five technicians manning the electrical generator, the airport control tower, the waterworks, and so on. Then there must be fifty others, traders, managers, businessmen who have hung on hoping for an improvement.

“Actually, there was a ruckus six weeks ago and one of the UN -men was beaten half to death. The five nonmedical technicians threatened to quit and sought refuge in their respective embassies. They may be gone by now, in which case the water, electricity, and airport will soon be out of commission.”

“Where is the airport?”

“Here, on the base of the peninsula behind the capital. It’s not of international standards, so if you want to fly in you have to take Air Afrique to here, in Manandi, and take a connecting flight by a small two-engined plane that goes down to Clarence three times a week. It’s a French firm that has the concession, though nowadays it’s hardly economic.”

“Who are the country’s friends, diplomatically speaking?”

Endean shook his head. “They don’t have any. No one is interested, it’s such a shambles. Even the Organization of African Unity is embarrassed by the whole place. It’s so obscure no one ever mentions it. No newsmen ever go, so it never gets publicized. The government is rabidly anti-white, so no one wants to send staff men down there to run anything. No one invests anything, because nothing is safe from confiscation by any Tom, Dick, or Harry wearing a party badge. There’s a party youth organization that beats up anyone it wants to, and everyone lives in terror.”

“What about the Russians?”

“They have the biggest mission and probably a bit of say over the President in matters of foreign policy, about which he knows nothing. His advisers are mainly Moscow-trained Zangarans, though he wasn’t schooled in Moscow personally.”

“Is there any potential at all down there?” asked Sir James.

Endean nodded slowly. “I suppose there is enough potential, well managed and worked, to sustain the population at a reasonable degree of prosperity. The population is small, the needs few; they could be self-sufficient in clothing, food, the basics of a good local economy, with a little hard currency for the necessary extras. It could be done, but in any case, the needs are so few the relief and charitable agencies could provide the total necessary, if it wasn’t that their staffs are always molested, their equipment smashed or looted, and their gifts stolen and sold for the government’s private profit.”

“You say the Vindu won’t work hard. What about the Caja?”

“Nor they either,” said Endean. “They just sit about all day, or fade into the bush if anyone looks threatening. Their fertile plain has always grown enough to sustain them, so they are happy the way they are.”

“Then who worked the estates in the colonial days?”

“Ah, the colonial power brought in about twenty thousand black workers from elsewhere. They settled and live there still. With their families, they are about fifty thousand. But they were never enfranchised by the colonial power, so they never voted in the election at independence. If there is any work done, they still do it.”

“Where do they live?” asked Manson.

“About fifteen thousand still live in their huts on the estates, even though there is no more work worth doing, with all the machinery broken down. The rest have drifted toward Clarence and grub a living as best they can. They live in a series of shanty towns scattered down the road at the back of the capital, on the road to the airport.”

For five minutes Sir James Manson stared at the map in front of him, thinking deeply about a mountain, a mad President, a coterie of Moscow-trained advisers, and a Russian embassy. Finally he sighed. “What a bloody shambles of a place.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Endean. “They still have ritual public executions before the assembled populace in the main square. Death by being chopped to pieces with a machete. Quite a bunch.”

“And who precisely has produced this paradise on earth?”

For answer, Endean produced a photograph and placed it on the map.

Sir James Manson found himself looking at a middle-aged African in a silk top hat, black frock coat, and checked trousers. It was evidently inauguration day, for several colonial officials stood in the background, by the steps of a large mansion. The face beneath the shining black silk was not round, but long and gaunt, with deep lines on each side of the nose. The mouth was twisted downward at each corner, so that the effect was of deep disapproval of something.