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representations, insulting a sovereign nation. We were preparing a formal protest when Goray had the idea of doing an inventory at the steelyard. The contractor—what was his name?” Goray shrugged happily—“had erected a long shed with posts every few meters marked to separate the different lengths of girder. And he had begun by stacking the girders to the left of the marker, but in time there had been confusion and some were stacked to the right, so everything in the ten-meter bay was nine meters long, and so on. In the thirteen-meter bay were all the twelve-meter girders we could use in a year. So we trucked the short ones back, a hundred and twenty-five miles through the bush, and replaced them, and made a formal apology, and thus averted world war three. Building a bridge is not so simple here.”
    Goray giggled. “And I was promoted, for my brilliant suggestion. What do you think of that?”
    â€œIt’s very funny,” Morrison said politely.
    â€œAnd very inefficient and typical of a backward country.” Goray smiled still but the mirth was gone away.
    â€œI’ve seen the phrase in the newspapers,” Morrison said slowly. “I never knew it was used in conversation.”
    â€œIt is better than ‘primitive,’” Philips said easily.
    â€œOr ‘savage,’” Goray said not so easily.
    â€œI believe the politicians now say ‘developing.’” Morrison’s tone was light but his hands trembled. “You have no monopoly on mistakes.”
    Goray glowed, and was lively again. “That is true,” he cried. “That is true. The only real democracy. An equality of ineptitude. Well! Now we can eat. Or would you like another?”
    They liked another, and drank beer with the meal; Goray ate a stew of lamb and tomatoes, and Philips and Morrison had something called a cook-pot, finely chopped beef with peppers and spices. It required seas of beer. Goray’s appetite was as awesome as his good cheer. He chewed and chattered, gestured and bubbled, belched and laughed. He mentioned Erasmus and spoke once in Latin. He talked of the distillation of sea-water and the glories of nuclear power-plants. He said that painting always foreshadowed political change, and told them why, and Morrison did not understand. Morrison swilled and listened. Soon Goray came back to his own country and went on about animism and sculpture. “That you may call primitive,” he said. “There it is all right because that is the accepted name for art conceived in the simple and natural spirit. However refined the technique, you see.” Morrison did not see, but nodded. “That spirit produced remarkable works, and not merely works of art. My people, for example, had traditional and effective sanitary arrangements when the English were still defecating in public parks.” He chortled. “Did you know that? In public parks. In London. And because it would have been embarrassing to be recognized, they turned their backs to the road. How elegant. The century of your Doctor Johnson. Your Mozart. Your American Revolution. In the public parks.” He gobbled his lamb.
    Morrison roared laughter, and Goray paused. “You did not know that?” he said. “That strikes you as very funny?”
    â€œNo, no,” Morrison said, when he could talk. “I was remembering my mother. ‘Bernard,’ she said, ‘there are some things we do not discuss at the table.’”
    The guitarist drifted off and came back with a full glass. He was not bothering to smile.
    â€œSo they bought tractors,” Goray said. They were drinking brandy. The room was hot and full of smoke and music. So was Morrison; also too much food and too much drink. Possibly too much Goray. “All very modern. A revolution in agriculture. Of course they were spending money, which we do not have, for the equivalent of labor, which we have too much of.