“You think Assama’s the end of the rainbow?”

“There’s no end of the rainbow. But maybe we could pick up a bundle, fast, and retire early from the goddam human race. Maybe we could buy an island or something.”

“You talk like Grady—ends justifying means.”

“That’s because we’re both more realistic than you…”

“But Assama, for God’s sake? It’s risky.”

“Any more risky than eating a clam in New York? Just what do you know about the place?”

“I did a little research in the Britannica, back in the fun house attic, when I found out it was where Abdul came from. There’s no running water, hot or cold. No electricity. Not one indoor toilet.”

“There must be something…”

“Sure. Malnutrition, scurvy, dengue, jaundice—Christ, the diseases read like a textbook on pathology.”

“Isn’t that a challenge? You could be a big help to those people by introducing modern medicine. All you got to do—get off your ethical ass and insist that Grady take along a medical team.”

It took all of a minute before I nodded in approbation at the invincibility of her logic. But not without a certain queasy disturbance attending the acknowledgment that she had so easily skewered the meat of my argument. Not that logic had much to do with it. I had grave doubts about the road I was taking. But if she wanted Assama, I’d just have to get us there. Hell, if she had wanted the moon, I’d have sat in my old tuba and flown into space.

Subject reopened.

* * *

“So he wants to steal into my country.” Abdul al Sadr grinned unpleasantly.

“What he really wants is to steal my country.”

“He’s offering…”

“You told me. He’s offering toys.”

“…and medical aid.”

“I’m not interested in a few doctors and a carton of antibiotics. For Assama that’s like charging hell with a bucket of water. What ails us is poverty. Cure that and we’ll buy our own pills.”

“Don’t you have to begin somewhere?”

“Where we have to begin is with electrification, which your country’s been promising us since the war began. We have to develop our own industry, and I don’t mean beads and bangles and imitation weapons for the walls of American rumpus rooms. What I want,” he crossed the room to lean over Val and empty her ashtray, “and you can tell Grady to write it down with a grease pencil on his refrigerator door—what I want is nuclear power. And I’ll settle for nothing less.” He smiled at her. “How about a game of checkers?” he asked.

Subject closed.

Joseph Grady browed his glasses, narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips. “Nuclear energy for Assama…” He snorted scornfully.

I said, “I know it’s absurd, but…”