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for spying on Lubinda?” Her tone was
suddenly but mildly hostile.
    “Not very much. A hundred a month. Lubinda doesn’t rate ‘with
the State Department." He paused. “It’s not a matter of spying on the new
republic. It’s more a question of relaying social and economic data. Like the
progress LMO is making in their exploratory offshore drilling.”
    “Oh. Brady was interested in the Lady.”
    “The Lady?”
    “Lubinda Lady No. 1. The offshore drilling platform.”
    “I see. How was he interested?"
    “Well, I just thought it was because he came from Texas, and
I figured everybody from Texas is interested in oil. Dumb of me, I
reckon. Brady was really just a businessman. We’re doing real well in the
export business, although President Kumashaga took a
hefty whack at our revenue for licenses to ship out what he claims to be
Lubinda’s cultural heritage.”
    Durell took a picklock from his pocket and worked at the
Smith-Hawes lock on the door. He wasn’t sure what he would find. He
didn’t think Brady Cotton’s big body was lying dead behind the door. In this
climate, such a fact would have become self-evident.
    “Can I go in with you?” Kitty asked.
    “He’s not in there.”
    “I know. But I’ve never been in before.”
    “No.”
    “You owe it to me. I helped you get away from the Apgaks.
That Lopes Fuentes Madragata is a real son of a bitch, you know. He’d have
sliced you up, but good. I’d feel better if the local fuzz finally put him
in the slammer.”
    He shrugged. “All right.”
    The room had no windows, and it still held the pent-up,
explosive heat of past days. Since there were no outlets, Durell put on the
light after closing the door behind the girl. The heat poured over him like a
wave, and sweat popped out through his shirt. The girl said, “Shall I put on
the air conditioner?”
    “No.”
    “You think somebody is outside watching?”
    “Possibly.”
    “It‘s torture in here.”
    “We won’t be long. Do you have any of Brady’s bourbon?”
    The girl‘s voice changed. “He doesn’t drink anymore.”
    “Since when?”
    “Since I asked him not to. Right after we were married.”
    One wall of the room was filled with the GK-12 radio
transceiver with which Brady sent his reports to Luanda, in Angola, where they
were relayed through the consulate to Washington. Everything here seemed to be
in order. There were filing cabinets, a desk against the opposite wall.
Durell went to the desk, pulled out the lower right-hand drawer, and lifted a
square bottle of sour mash.
    The girl’s lips tightened.
    “The sneaking bastard,” she said.
    Durell took a short drink from the bottle, watching her. She
didn’t say anything more. Then he carefully searched the desk. There was
nothing incriminating there. The filing cabinets and the desk reflected
Brady Cotton’s casual habits. Nothing seemed to be in its right place. It could
be in character with Brady; or the place might have been searched by someone
who hadn’t cared if the search was known, He couldn’t tell which it was. He
felt frustration building up in him, along with the stifling heat in the
airless room.
    He went to the long table against the opposite wall. There
were geological charts of the ocean bottom similar to those he had seen in Hobe
Tallman‘s office. And clipped to a sheaf of typewritten specifications was a
data list on the drilling rig and a draftsman’s sketch of the offshore
platform. He skimmed through the closely typed list of figures.
    The drawworks were driven by two
1200-HP GE 752-R electric motors, with Elmagco 6000
brakes. There were five Caterpillar D-398-TB diesels, each rated at 800
HP, connected to a 520-KW generator. There were two Continental mud pumps; and
the drilling mast rose 142 feet with a 25-foot base rating a 900,000-pound
static hookload , and provisions for stringing ten 1
3/8-inch lines. Durell skimmed details of the rotary table, blowout preventers,
Byron mud-mixing pumps, mud tanks of