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accompanied him to Riyadh. Nothing of great interest had happened at the conferences. The Arabs had been as rude as they dared. The newsmen were bored and surly from the desert heat and no one had brought enough liquor along. They sensed something newsworthy and thought that, as usual, they were being lied to. Bill Bowers, Pentagon correspondent for The New York Times , had been irritatingly persistent.
    Mr. Secretary, isn't there a connection between Jumbe's recent erratic behavior   and your decision   to pay him a visit at this time?
    I wasn't aware that he'd been behaving erratically.
    Out of character, then. He invaded   Zambia, and he's refused to meet with a mediation team from the O.A.U.
    That's properly a question of diplomacy, and because I'm not in possession of all the facts I wouldn't want to comment. Bill, Jumbe and I were friends before Jamhuri. It's been too long between visits.   When he heard I was in Riyadh he invited me down for a long weekend, and I was delighted to accept. I welcome the opportunity to show my son a little of Africa.
    Do you plan serious political discussions with Jumbe? He can hardly avoid asking your advice about the war–
    Let me repeat, this is not an official visit. But we're both statesmen, and Jumbe loves a good debate.
    Nowadays instead of debating, he seems to be more fond of taking provocative stances. "Peace does not come except by the point of a sword." He was talking about apartheid. You've read the Guardian interview?
    No, I haven't had the opportunity.
    But too much of his conversation with Jumbe had been cause for lingering concern: The President, who spoke English well, retained his Cambridgian eloquence but lapsed into stressful pauses and seemed muffled by sorrow.
    "I appeal to you, Morgan. In the course of events it may well be our last opportunity to see each other."
    "Jumbe, that sounds ominous. You're not sick?"
    "My days are filled with sickness . . . the educated African's malaise, an intellectual pox that disfigures while we deliberate, in one quarrelsome council after another, on the fate of our continent."
    "I don't understand."
    "Morgan, I've been too good a student of prehistory, the patient unfolding of epochs, and a dull student of my own tinderflash times. I've learned terrifying lessons of statecraft that unfortunately . . . I may lack the time to apply. But that's another matter. It's our friendship that most matters at this hour. You can't imagine my joy at hearing your voice again. I'm at Chanvai for the weekend. Say you'll come."
    His voice faded down the daylong distance, becoming indistinct. Morgan wasn't sure he heard him correctly:
    "Perhaps, in passing, I can be of some use to you and the nation you serve so ably. Some intelligence has come my way, just out of the blue. I think you'll be grateful."
    The 707 settled down on the runway, with only a mild thump, and the engines braked thunderously. Morgan quickly read through the last paragraphs of The Guardian's interview with Jumbe Kinyati.

    He sits on the verandah of the rambling but unpretentious estate house in Chanvai, where he now spends most of his time, smoking an old Meerschaum pipe and gazing across one of the world's loveliest lakes . at the solitary might of Kilimanjaro. For two decades Jumbe has been acclaimed as a truly progressive leader, unafraid to criticize Africans for their lack of vision and self-righteousness, adamant in his insistence that what Africa needs today is sound economic planning and creative statesmen, not revolutionaries.
    "For my people," Jumbe has said, "Utopia is not to be found in an imitation of European social norms, but in a childhood free of disease, a well-filled belly, and peace of mind."
    But peace of mind, and freedom to speak one's mind, are becoming rarer in Tanzania. It is known that Jumbe has been shopping for sophisticated weaponry which the Chinese are reluctant or unable to provide. The army and air force have undergone massive buildups. For