Chicago studied the red sardine jacket, giggling as he read: “Add variety and zest to hot or cold meatless main dishes.…By special royal permission. Finest Norway brisling sardines.”

“Brisling?”

“It’s that advertising thing,” Chicago said. “Brisling is Norwegian for ‘sprat,’ which means small marine fish. Not each and every small fish you pull in is certifiably a herring; some other small fish get picked up by the school. No false advertising this way.”

“Wow,” Indiana said sardonically. “Are you Norwegian or something?”

“Lebanese,” Chicago said. “I already told you that.”

Indiana said, “Who runs that country, anyhow? I was there, and I don’t know that much. All I remember is that they won’t even give you the time of day.”

“No way,” Chicago said. “The people are friendly as hell. The government of Norway is a hereditary constitutional monarchy, a parliamentary democracy, and the king is endowed with a certain amount of executive power. In reality, however, the king is limited in the exercise of power.”

“He’s a Norway freak!” Indiana said.

“More likely he’s got a photographic memory,” Hartman said.

“Touché, Mr. Hartman,” Chicago said.

“I still can’t believe I’m in Africa,” Indiana said. “Heavy. Fourteen-year-old kids with machine guns—and, my God, look at the stars. There are so many of them.”

“Stop acting so fucking incredulous,” Hartman said. “You’re really getting on my nerves.”

“Watch Sister Doris,” Koestler said. “She’s forgotten more about jungle medicine than I’ll ever know.”

“Doris? Man, she’s unattractive. She’s ugly, man,” Indiana said.

“She’ll be looking pretty good in about five months; that is, if you last that long,” Hartman said. “You’ll be having some pretty intensive fantasies about that woman. Are you going to last, sonny boy?”

“Fuck off. I got through a residency at Bellevue. I guess I can hack Africa.”

“The thing about Doris,” Koestler said, slicing the air with the edge of his hand, “is that she’s what we call an A-teamer. The A-team takes all of this business seriously. Tight-asses. Father Stuart is A-team beaucoup. There are B-teamers, who take a more casual approach. You will line up with one of these factions. Personally, if the political thing doesn’t ease up a bit, I’m going to boogie out of this hellhole. I’ve no desire to have my throat slit. Stuart and Doris will stay until the last dog is hung.”

“Go back to Kiwiland and listen to them harp about All Blacks rugby and that bloody yacht trophy,” Hartman said. “Family’s gone. Africa’s your home, man.”

“I’ve got a few cousins left in Auckland, and I do miss New Zealand beer, rather,” Koestler said. “I’m not going to hang around and get my throat cut. I’d rather try a little lawn bowling.”

“The natives are restless?” Indiana said.

“Yes, Percy le Poof,” Hartman said. “The natives are restless.”