And then the unexpected happened. There was this man Pedro Murieta, whom I had seen at Presidential House in company with the Mendozas; he has something to do with Dalban and something to do with the publishing house that issued Felipe Mendoza’s books, and everyone seemed to know of him once his name was mentioned but scarcely thought of it otherwise — thatsort of a man.

And when he was through, Arrio was in jail on a charge of murder.

I wondered what the position of the two rival parties was now. The Nationals seemed to have made up ground; they had lost both Juan Tezol and Sam Francis under discreditable circumstances, but the Citizens had now had Andres Lucas impeached for conspiracy and Arrio jailed for murder. Both sides could now throw an equal amount of mud.

By the weekend, though, the rioting dissolved in a stalemate. Every cell in the city was full of people under arrest. The police had used the machine-gun in the Plaza del Sur — once. After that things were quieter. By Sunday night, aside from the few store windows boarded up and holes in the road where halfhearted attempts had been made to barricade a street, there was no sign that mobs had passed this way.

Nonetheless, I had believed when I came to this city that Aguazul was remarkably free of violence for a Latin American country. Either I’d picked the wrong time to come, or the official propaganda machine had spread a highly convincing untruth.

I was pretty sure that the first alternative was the correct one. Reactions like Angers’s couldn’t have been simulated. Angers dropped in to see me at the hotel on Sunday evening and told me, gray-faced, that he had never known such events in the decade he’d lived in Vados. He had just seen his wife off at the airport; he had sent her to stay with friends in California until the situation calmed down. And that was likely to be some time yet. The only other significant development over the weekend, though, was a stern and dignified challenge against Dominguez by Professor Cortes. Cortes made no attempt to defend Lucas — nobody was attempting to defend Lucas at the moment — but he maintained that Dominguez’s accusations against Caldwell were totally baseless. He had himself, so he claimed, seen far worse things in Sigueiras’s slum and in the shantytowns than found its way into the health department reports.

I wasn’t sure about Cortes any longer. Not now that I’d seen Sigueiras’s place for myself. Of course, Cortes carried great authority, and he wouldn’t be consciously lying in a matter like this. The best one could say, though, was that he had a fertile imagination. Or perhaps he just had a greater capacity for being shocked than most people.

Not greatly put out, Dominguez replied that it wasn’t his unsupported word in question; the report on which he had based his statements was an official one prepared by a special investigator called Guyiran, on the staff of the Ministry of the Interior. In other words, Dominguez implied, if you’re going for anybody, you’ve got to go for Diaz, and if you don’t, your complaints won’t cut any ice.

Apparently Cortes wasn’t prepared to go to such lengths; he preserved a hurt silence.

There seemed to be a fantastic network of interlocking rivalries and fields of influence here. Some of it was due to the peculiar semi-independent constitution of Ciudad de Vados, which wasn’t autonomous and yet didn’t seem to be amenable to the national government as easily as the rest of the country. Doubtless this was due to Vados’s personal relation with his “offspring.” But each development seemed to be laying bare new tensions created by the city’s privileged status, and people seemed to be far more aware of these tensions than they had been five weeks ago, when I arrived.

I wondered how much of the change was due to the loss of Alejandro Mayor and his inspired manipulation of the organs of information. I wondered whether Maria Posador had been right to fear for the future of the country when the creators of its highly individual technique of government died or grew too old.

The way things were now, it seemed she must have been right.

I had an early call again from Angers on Monday morning.

“A pleasant surprise for you, Hakluyt,” he said in a voice that wasn’t wholly ironical. “El Presidente himself is dropping in at the department this morning and wants you to be there. You have exactly thirty minutes — can you make it?”

“No,” I said. I took forty. But Vados was late himself. He looked very much older than he had at our previous meeting, at Presidential House. It might just have been that he was tired and worried, but, of course, to have been in power for so long as he now had, he must in any case be over sixty and perhaps nearing seventy. I found him in Angers’ office, poring over a relief map of the city. Angers wasn’t with him. The only other person present was a man in plain clothes who sat inconspicuously in a corner, his eyes fixed on me, and whom Vados ignored completely.

“Please sit down, Señor Hakluyt,” he said. “It is not at a good time that you have come to our beautiful city, is it?” I nodded wry agreement.

He shifted a little on his chair and leaned back with one hand in the side pocket of his jacket. “In essence, señor, I have called you to ask a favor of you.” He spoke as if he felt slightly shamefaced asking favors of anyone, and the effect was to make me feel — as he obviously intended — rather flattered.

“You’re my employer,” I said, shrugging. “Good.” Vados looked me straight in the eyes and smiled. Even at his present age he was a strikingly handsome and distinguished man. He had been fiddling with something in the pocket where his hand was hidden; now he brought it out, and I saw that it was a beautifully chased silver crucifix, not more than two inches long. He caressed it with the tops of his fingers as he spoke.

“Well, señor, I have seen the memorandum which you prepared regarding the slum below the monorail central. It was sent to Minister of the Interior Diaz, and he had occasion to refer to it at our emergency meeting of the cabinet yesterday. This is an admirable document, señor — high-principled and showing a great regard for the human beings who will be affected. Unhappily, it is worthless.”

He spoke the last sentence without a change of tone or expression, taking me by surprise. I said, “I’m sorry — I don’t see why.”

He shrugged. “Señor, I believe you can be a discreet man. I also believe that since you have never been to our country before and will quite happily be working in Nicaragua or New Zealand or Nebraska as soon as you leave, you will not pass on in haste what I shall say. Effectively then, señor, there is a flaming row going on over this question which you are aiding us so cleverly to solve.”

“That’s fairly obvious,” I said. “Señor Presidente, you must know as a politician and a practical man that someone who is told simultaneously to do a job and only to half-do it realizes very quickly that the people telling him to do it don’t know their own minds. Angers warned me that Señor Diaz would be sure to turn down my suggestion, but it’s the only long-term solution.”

He gave a weary smile. “Long-term solutions are no good to us, señor! In two years, yes, perhaps, but today we are merely trying to gain time, to prevent disaster overwhelming us. As you so rightly state, Diaz is unhappy with your plan. Our government is in a way absolute — that is true. But in all countries men have sometimes to resort to a coalition government in times of emergency, and in many countries on this continent — as you will doubtless realize — there is a perennial state of emergency. I am not a dictator, señor. I am the head of a government composed of men of sometimes conflicting views, who have one desire in common — that our country should be well and firmly ruled. Diaz and I are not only old colleagues — we are old enemies as well.”