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"Don't mention it," said Will with mock politeness.

  What a delicious creature! he was thinking as he looked, with amused curiosity, at that smooth golden torso, that averted face, regular as a statue's but no longer Olympian, no longer classical—-a Hellenistic face, mobile and all too human. A vessel of incomparable beauty—but what did it contain? It was a pity, he reflected, that he hadn't asked that question a little more seriously before getting involved with his unspeakable Babs. But then Babs was a female. By the sort of heterosexual he was, the sort of rational question he was now posing was unaskable. As no doubt it would be, by anyone susceptible to boys, in regard to this bad-blooded little demigod sitting at the end of his bed.

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  "Didn't Dr. Robert know you'd gone to Rendang?" he asked.

  "Of course he knew. Everybody knew it. I'd gone there to fetch my mother. She was staying there with some of her relations. I went over to bring her back to Pala. It was absolutely official."

  "Then why didn't you want me to say that I'd met you over there?"

  Murugan hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Will defiantly. "Because I didn't want them to know I'd been seeing Colonel Dipa."

  Oh, so that was it! "Colonel Dipa's a remarkable man," he said aloud, fishing with sugared bait for confidences.

  Surprisingly unsuspicious, the fish rose at once. Murugan's sulky face lit up with enthusiasm and there, suddenly, was Anti-nous in all the fascinating beauty of his ambiguous adolescence. "I think he's wonderful," he said, and for the first time since he had entered the room he seemed to recognize Will's existence and give him the friendliest of smiles. The Colonel's wonderful-ness had made him forget his resentment, had made it possible for him, momentarily, to love everybody—even this man to whom he owed a rankling debt of gratitude. "Look at what he's doing for Rendang!"

  "He's certainly doing a great deal for Rendang," said Will noncommittally.

  A cloud passed across Murugan's radiant face. "They don't think so here," he said, frowning. "They think he's awful."

  "Who thinks so?"

  "Practically everybody!" ;! "So they didn't want you to see him?"

  With the expression of an urchin who has cocked a snook while the teacher's back is turned, Murugan grinned triumphantly. "They thought I was with my mother all the time."

  Will picked up the cue at once. "Did your mother know you were seeing the Colonel?" he asked.

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  "Of course." "And had no objection?" "She was all for it."

  And yet, Will felt quite sure, he hadn't been mistaken when he thought of Hadrian and Antinous. Was the woman blind? Or didn't she wish to see what was happening?

  "But if she doesn't mind," he said aloud, "why should Dr. Robert and the rest of them object?" Murugan looked at him suspiciously. Realizing that he had ventured too far into forbidden territory, Will hastily drew a red herring across the trail. "Do they think," he asked with a laugh, "that he might convert you to a belief in military dictatorship?"

  The red herring was duly followed, and the boy's face relaxed into a smile. "Not that, exactly," he answered, "but something like it. It's all so stupid," he added with a shrug of the shoulders. "Just idiotic protocol."

  "Protocol?" Will was genuinely puzzled.

  "Weren't you told anything about me?"

  "Only what Dr. Robert said yesterday."

  "You mean, about my being a student?" Murugan threw back his head and laughed.

  "What's so funny about being a student?"

  "Nothing—nothing at all." The boy looked away again. There was a silence. Still averted, "The reason," he said at last, "why I'm not supposed to see Colonel Dipa is that he's the head of a state and I'm the head of a state. When we meet, it's international politics."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I happen to be the Raja of Pala."

  "TheRajaofPala?"

  "Since 'fifty-four. That was when my father died."

  "And your mother, I take it, is the Rani?"

  "My mother is the Rani."

  Make a beelinefor the palace. But here was the palace making

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  a beeline for him. Providence, evidently, was on the side of Joe Aldehyde and working overtime.

  "Were you the eldest son?" he asked.

  "The only son," Murugan replied. And then, stressing his uniqueness still more emphatically, "The only child,'1'' he added.

  "So there's no possible doubt," said Will. "My goodness! I ought to be calling you Your Majesty. Or at least Sir." The words were spoken laughingly; but it was with the most perfect seriousness and a sudden assumption of regal dignity that Murugan responded to them.

  "You'll have to call me that at the end of next week," he said. "After my birthday. I shall be eighteen. That's when a Raja of Pala comes of age. Till then I'm just Murugan Mailendra. Just a student learning a little bit about everything—including plant breeding," he added contemptuously—"so that, when the time comes, I shall know what I'm doing."

  "And when the time comes, what will you be doing?" Between this pretty Antinous and his portentous office there was a contrast which Will found richly comic. "How do you propose to act?" he continued on a bantering note. "Off with their heads? L'etat c'est moi?"

  Seriousness and regal dignity hardened into rebuke. "Don't be stupid."

  Amused, Will went through the motions of apology. "I just wanted to find out how absolute you were going to be."

  "Pala is a constitutional monarchy," Murugan answered gravely.

  "In other words, you're just going to be a symbolic figurehead—to reign, like the Queen of England, but not rule."

  Forgetting his regal dignity, "No, no" Murugan almost screamed. "Not like the Queen of England. The Raja of Pala doesn't just reign; he rules." Too much agitated to sit still, Murugan jumped up and began to walk about the room. "He rules constitutionally; but, by God, he rules, he rules!" Murugan

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  walked to the window and looked out. Turning back after a moment of silence, he confronted Will with a face transfigured by its new expression into an emblem, exquisitely molded and colored, of an all too familiar kind of psychological ugliness. "I'll show them who's the boss around here," he said in a phrase and tone which had obviously been borrowed from the hero of some American gangster movie. "These people think they can push me around," he went on, reciting from the dismally commonplace script, "the way they pushed my father around. But they're making a big mistake." He uttered a sinister snigger and wagged his beautiful, odious head. "A big mistake," he repeated.

  The words had been spoken between clenched teeth and with scarcely moving lips; the lower jaw had been thrust out so as to look like the jaw of a comic strip criminal; the eyes glared coldly between narrowed lids. At once absurd and horrible. Antinous had become the caricature of all the tough guys in all the B-pictures from time immemorial.

  "Who's been running the country during your minority?" he now asked.

  "Three sets of old fogeys," Murugan answered contemptuously. "The Cabinet, the House of Representatives and then, representing me, the Raja, the Privy Council."

  "Poor old fogeys!" said Will. "They'll soon be getting the shock of their lives." Entering gaily into the spirit of delinquency, he laughed aloud. "I only hope I'll still be around to see it happening."

  Murugan joined in the laughter—joined in it, not as the sin-isterly mirthful Tough Guy, but with one of those sudden changes of mood and expression that would make it, Will foresaw, so hard for him to play the Tough Guy part, as the triumphant urchin of a few minutes earlier. "The shock of their lives," he repeated happily.

  "Have you made any specific plans?"

  "I most certainly have," said Murugan. On his mobile face the triumphant urchin made way for the statesman, grave but condescendingly affable, at a press conference. "Top priority: get this place modernized. Look at what Rendang has been able to do because of its oil royalties."

  "But doesn't Pala get any oil
royalties?" Will questioned with that innocent air of total ignorance which he had found by long experience to be the best way of eliciting information from the simpleminded and the self-important.

  "Not a penny," said Murugan. "And yet the southern end of the island is fairly oozing with the stuff. But except for a few measly little wells for home consumption, the old fogeys won't do anything about it. And what's more, they won't allow anyone else to do anything about it." The statesman was growing angry; there were hints now in his voice and expression of the Tough Guy. "All sorts of people have made offers—Southeast Asia Petroleum, Shell, Royal Dutch, Standard of California. But the bloody old fools won't listen."

  "Can't you persuade them to listen?"

  "I'll damn well make them listen," said the Tough Guy.

  "That's the spirit!" Then, casually, "Which of the offers do you think of accepting?" he asked.

  "Colonel Dipa's working with Standard of California, and he thinks it might be best if we did the same."

  "I wouldn't do that without at least getting a few competing bids."

  "That's what I think too. So does my mother."

  "Very wise."

  "My mother's all for Southeast Asia Petroleum. She knows the Chairman of the Board, Lord Aldehyde."

  "She knows Lord Aldehyde? But how extraordinary!" The tone of delighted astonishment was thoroughly convincing. "Joe Aldehyde is a friend of mine. I write for his papers. I even serve

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  as his private ambassador. Confidentially," he added, "that's why we took that trip to the copper mines. Copper is one of Joe's sidelines. But of course his real love is oil."

  Murugan tried to look shrewd. "What would he be prepared to offer?"

  Will picked up the cue and answered, in the best movie -tycoon style, "Whatever Standard offers plus a little more."

  "Fair enough," said Murugan out of the same script, and nodded sagely. There was a long silence. When he spoke again, it was as the statesman granting an interview to representatives of the press.

  "The oil royalties," he said, "will be used in the following manner: twenty-five percent of all moneys received will go to World Reconstruction."

  "May I ask," Will enquired deferentially, "precisely how you propose to reconstruct the world?"

  "Through the Crusade of the Spirit. Do you know about the Crusade of the Spirit?"

  "Of course. Who doesn't?"

  "It's a great world movement," said the statesman gravely. "Like Early Christianity. Founded by my mother."

  Will registered awe and astonishment.

  "Yes, founded by my mother," Murugan repeated, and he added impressively, "I believe it's man's only hope."

  "Quite," said Will Farnaby, "quite."

  "Well, that's how the first twenty-five percent of the royalties will be used," the statesman continued. "The remainder will go into an intensive program of industrialization." The tone changed again. "These old idiots here only want to industrialize in spots and leave all the rest as it was a thousand years ago."

  "Whereas you'd like to go the whole hog. Industrialization for industrialization's sake."

  "No, industrialization for the country's sake. Industrialization to make Pala strong. To make other people respect us. Look

  at Rendang. Within five years they'll be manufacturing all the rifles and mortars and ammunition they need. It'll be quite a long time before they can make tanks. But meanwhile they can buy them from Skoda with their oil money."

  "How soon will they graduate to H-bombs?" Will asked ironically.

  "They won't even try," Murugan answered. "But after all," he added, "H-bombs aren't the only absolute weapons." He pronounced the phrase with relish. It was evident that he found the taste of "absolute weapons" positively delicious. "Chemical and biological weapons—Colonel Dipa calls them the poor man's H-bombs. One of the first things I'll do is to build a big insecticide plant." Murugan laughed and winked an eye. "If you can make insecticides," he said, "you can make nerve gas."

  Will remembered that still unfinished factory in the suburbs of Rendang-Lobo.

  "What's that?" he had asked Colonel Dipa as they flashed past it in the white Mercedes.

  "Insecticides," the Colonel had answered. And showing his gleaming white teeth in a genial smile, "We shall soon be exporting the stuff all over Southeast Asia."

  At the time, of course, he had thought that the Colonel merely meant what he said. But now . . . Will shrugged his mental shoulders. Colonels will be colonels and boys, even boys like Murugan, will be gun-loving boys. There would always be plenty of jobs for special correspondents on the trail of death.

  "So you'll strengthen Pala's army?" Will said aloud.

  "Strengthen it? No—I'll create it. Pala doesn't have an army."

  "None at all?"

  "Absolutely nothing. They're all pacifists." The p was an explosion of disgust, the s's hissed contemptuously. "I shall have to start from scratch."

  "And you'll militarize as you industrialize, is that it?"

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  "Exactly."

  Will laughed. "Back to the Assyrians! You'll go down in history as a true revolutionary."

  "That's what I hope," said Murugan. "Because that's what my policy is going to be—Continuing Revolution."

  "Very good!" Will applauded.

  "I'll just be continuing the revolution that was started more than a hundred years ago by Dr. Robert's great-grandfather when he came to Pala and helped my great-great-grandfather to put through the first reforms. Some of the things they did were really wonderful. Not all of them, mind you," he qualified; and with the absurd solemnity of a schoolboy playing Polonius in an end-of-term performance of Hamlet he shook his curly head in grave, judicial disapproval. "But at least they did something. Whereas nowadays we're governed by a set of do-nothing conservatives. Conservatively primitive—they won't lift a finger to bring in modern improvements. And conservatively radical— they refuse to change any of the old bad revolutionary ideas that ought to be changed. They won't reform the reforms. And I tell you, some of those so-called reforms are absolutely disgusting."

  "Meaning, I take it, that they have something to do with sex?"

  Murugan nodded and turned away his face. To his astonishment, Will saw that he was blushing.

  "Give me an example," he demanded.

  But Murugan could not bring himself to be explicit.

  "Ask Dr. Robert," he said, "ask Vijaya. They think that sort of thing is simply wonderful. In fact they all do. That's one of the reasons why nobody wants to change. They'd like everything to go on as it is, in the same old disgusting way, forever and ever."

  "Forever and ever," a rich contralto voice teasingly repeated.

  "Mother!" Murugan sprang to his feet.

  Will turned and saw in the doorway a large florid woman swathed (rather incongruously, he thought; for that kind of face and build usually went with mauve and magenta and electric

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  blue) in clouds of white muslin. She stood there smiling with a conscious mysteriousness, one fleshy brown arm upraised, with its jeweled hand pressed against the doorjamb, in the pose of the great actress, the acknowledged diva, pausing at her first entrance to accept the plaudits of her adorers on the other side of the footlights. In the background, waiting patiently for his cue, stood a tall man in a dove-gray Dacron suit whom Murugan, peering past the massive embodiment of maternity that almost filled the doorway, now greeted as Mr. Bahu.

  Still in the wings, Mr. Bahu bowed without speaking.

  Murugan turned again to his mother. "Did you walk here?" he asked. His tone expressed incredulity and an admiring solicitude. Walking here—how unthinkable! But if she had walked, what heroism! "All the way?"

  "All the way, my baby," she echoed, tenderly playful. The uplifted arm came down, slid round the boy's slender body, pressed it, engulfed in floating draperies, against the enormous bosom, then released it again. "I had one of my Impulses." Sh
e had a way, Will noticed, of making you actually hear the capital letters at the beginning of the words she meant to emphasize. "My Little Voice said, 'Go and see this Stranger at Dr. Robert's house. Go!' 'Now?' I said. ''Malgre la chaleur? Which makes my Little Voice lose patience. 'Woman,' it says, 'hold your silly tongue and do as you're told.' So here I am, Mr. Farnaby." With hand outstretched and surrounded by a powerful aura of sandal-wood oil, she advanced towards him.

  Will bowed over the thick bejeweled ringers and mumbled something that ended in "Your Highness."

  "Bahu!" she called, using the royal prerogative of the unadorned surname.

  Responding to his long-awaited cue, the supporting actor made his entrance and was introduced as His Excellency, Abdul Bahu, the Ambassador of Rendang: "Abdul Pierre Bahu—car sa mere est parisienne. But he learned his English in New York."

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  He looked, Will thought as he shook the Ambassador's hand, like Savonarola—but a Savonarola with a monocle and a tailor in Savile Row.

  "Bahu," said the Rani, "is Colonel Dipa's Brains Trust."

  "Your Highness, if I may be permitted to say so, is much too kind to me and not nearly kind enough to the Colonel."

  His words and manner were courtly to the point of being ironical, a parody of deference and self-abasement.

  "The brains," he went on, "are where brains ought to be—in the head. As for me, I am merely a part of Rendang's sympathetic nervous system."

  "Et combien sympathique!" said the Rani. "Among other things, Mr. Farnaby, Bahu is the Last of the Aristocrats. You should see his country place! Like The Arabian Nights! One claps one's hands—and instantly there are six servants ready to do one's bidding. One has a birthday—and there is a fete nocturne in the gardens. Music, refreshments, dancing girls; two hundred retainers carrying torches. The life of Harun al-Rashid, but with modern plumbing."

  "It sounds quite delightful," said Will, remembering the villages through which he had passed in Colonel Dipa's white Mercedes—the wattled huts, the garbage, the children with ophthalmia, the skeleton dogs, the women bent double under enormous loads.

  "And such taste," the Rani went on, "such a well-stored mind and, through it all" (she lowered her voice) "such a deep and unfailing Sense of the Divine."