The gold spoon again stopped halfway to Moombasa's mouth. Its slimy cargo puckered up against one edge, held there by surface tension, and then, as Wissex watched, the spoon tipped more and the weight of the slime exceeded its cohesion and more egg slid off the spoon's bowl onto Moombasa's chest. He ignored it.
"What?"
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"It is true, Generalissimo. We have failed. The United States has won again, crushing under its militarist heel your worthwhile ambitions to rescue your people from poverty and its oppression."
"Hell with that crap. What about the gold?"
The spoon was forgotten now and its contents just kept dribbling off onto Moombasa's velvet jacket.
"I'm sorry, great leader," said Wissex. "But the House of Wissex is withdrawing. We have been at this for centuries and perhaps it is time now to close down our operations. Perhaps we will raise bees." Wissex could smell the eggs now.
Moombasa's heart went out to Wissex. He had never seen the Englishman looking and sounding so depressed. "But training. Special squads. All the things I count on you for," he said. "What of them?"
"You will have to have your own men take charge," Wissex said.
"My own men couldn't take charge of a shoe-shine stand," Moombasa said. "Not if somebody gave them a picture of feet. I need you. What has happened?"
"The woman and the two bodyguards have escaped again. They have foiled the efforts of my best men."
"And you have none of these best men left?" Moombasa asked.
"We have many," Wissex said, "Our best operative is still available, but he planned on retiring several months ago. I didn't want to disturb him in his retirement, particularly on such a difficult mission."
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"Disturb him," Moombasa ordered with a bellow. "You have obligation to provide me with your best. Perform this mission. That mountain of gold must be mine."
"And Hamidia's," Wissex corrected.
"Yes. Hamidia's. Of course," Moombasa said. "Nothing must stand in the way of the gold being returned to its rightful owner. Me. And Hamidia."
He threw the egg plate and the spoon and the tray holding them to one side. It all teetered on the edge of the bed for a moment, then fell over, smearing itself on the expensive Persian carpet. Moombasa arose, walked to Wissex, and put an arm around the Englishman's shoulders. Wissex moved slightly in his chair so that none of the egg all over Moombasa would drip on his tweed suit.
"We have been together a long time, Lord of Wissex," said Moombasa. "Now, at the pinnacle of our adventures together, is no time to stop. You use all the resources of Wissex. Together, we conquer the evil fascist Yankee beast."
"Well, if you insist ..."
"I insist, I insist."
"I'll get on it right away," Wissex said. He rose quickly, turning away from Moombasa to protect his suit, and walked toward the door.
He went out without looking back. Moombasa looked at the closing door, pleased that he had been able to buck up Wissex's courage. A productive House of Wissex was important for his continuing rule. He thought how strange it was. People always thought of Englishmen as cool, not given to worry or panic, but here was Wissex, a very old title, coming to him, Generalissimo Moombasa,
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for encouragement. Someday it would be a chapter in his memoirs. How he had come to the rescue of the British lion and given him the courage of Moombasa, when the Englishman was on the verge of losing all his faculties.
Wissex reappeared in the doorway and Moom-basa's eyebrows lifted in surprise.
"The same fee system?" Wissex said.
"Of course," Moombasa said grandly, with a smile. Wissex nodded and left. Just like a child, Moombasa thought. Wissex needed to be led. Just like a child.
He smiled to himself and then looked around to see if his egg had suffered so much damage on contact with the carpet as to render it uneatable.
"Commander Spencer here." The voice crackled over the long-distance telephone line.
"Wissex. Put on your scrambler."
Neville Lord Wissex waited at the Hamidia airport in the last of a bank of telephone booths. He knew that all the telephones in Hamidia were tapped because the House of Wissex had set up the procedures itself. The very best equipment in the world, Wissex had told Moombasa, when he sold him the surplus British Army World War II devices. Moombasa had insisted also on buying scrambler decoding equipment and Wissex had been happy to sell.
But the scrambler he now attached to the earpiece and mouthpiece of the telephone could not be decoded by Moombasa's expensive toys. Wissex could barely restrain a smile. Who in Hamidia had anything to say worth tapping?
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But Moombasa had insisted on all the equipment when Wissex told him that the United States routinely tapped all the telephones in its country. The generalissimo had the mind of a child.
Spencer's voice came back onto the line, crackled and distorted through electronics.
"Got it, Neville," he said. "How goes it?"
"I just left the idiot. In for a penny, in for a pound."
"Good," said Spencer. "I thought you might have a spot of trouble this time."
"Not really. He's an infant. I had him ordering me to continue the battle against the American oppressors," Wissex said.
"So, what's next, old bean?"
"Well, honestly Spencer, I'm a little annoyed at this woman. And her two bodyguards. I thought you should take a run at them. Bring in the girl and dispose of those other two for good."
"I thought you'd never ask, old chap."
"It's just that I've had enough of wogs and hired help," Wissex said. "It's time to send a Brit. A real Brit. To do a Brit's work."
"I'll bring their heads back on my shield," Spencer said. "Where will I find them?"
"I've sent them to Spain next."
"Ahhhh, the land of senoritas and ole. Did I ever tell you about "
Wissex knew Spencer was about to launch into one of the interminable stories of his former career as Britain's top spy. And he had heard all the stories over and over again, so he said quickly: "No, I don't think so. But later. I've
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