The man from O.R.G.Y.? That's me, Steve Victor. Indeed, to bypass discretion and be absolutely honest about it, I am O.R.G.Y. The initials stand for “Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth”—-which is something of a deliberate misnomer. O.R.G.Y. is really a one-man outfit dedicated to compiling data about sex. Its financing comes in the form of grants and specific assignments from various foundations having a sociological interest in such facts. I sometimes exaggerate the scope of O.R.G.Y. for the purpose of getting this financing, but other than that my operation is on the up-and-up. I do my own investigating, and the info I pass along is quite authentic. O.R. G.Y. has an untarnished reputation, and many of the most reputable research organizations in the world make use of my services.
None of them, however, was responsible for my being in Malta, nor for my too-close interest in milk-shpritzing Maltese goats. It was the U.S. government—unoffficially, and prepared to disown me at the drop of a Stetson, of course—which prompted my Maltese sojourn Ostensibly, I was just another tourist responding to the new Maltese government’s efforts to build up the economy by attracting vacationers. Anybody digging deeper might uncover my connection with O.R.G.Y., but that was all right. Let them think my ulterior motive in coming to Malta had to do with sex investigations. That was just another layer of camouflage to conceal my real purpose.
There was supposed to be only one other person in Malta besides myself who knew what that real purpose was. Arrangements had been made for us to meet that first night after I checked into my hotel. We would know each other on sight, for we had met before.
His name was Lagula. He was an Oxford-educated African Pigmy in the service of British Intelligence. The last time I’d seen him had been in Rhodesia. On that occasion he’d been hightailing it for the bush and thumbing his nose at the white supremacist cops falling behind in their pursuit of him. The last thing he’d asked me to do was to submit his regretful resignation to British Intelligence. The rebel Rhodesians were onto him, and he felt he’d outlived his usefulness. So Lagula had planned to return to his tribe which, having been decimated by an earthquake, consisted only of five eager Pigmy girls whose demands on his virility would be excessive to say the least. On my way to meet him, I wondered how he’d measured up to those demands and if they’d had anything to do with his rejoining British Intelligence.
We were to contact each other in the gambling casino. This is an all-new and quite lavish setup which has just been opened by the Maltese government as part of its effort to compete with the Italian Riviera for the tourist trade. It operates on a government subsidy, as do the two new hotels recently erected in Valletta, the capital city of Malta. I was staying at one of those hotels. En route from it to the casino, I passed the site selected for the building of a third hotel. This will be the Hilton-Wyncorr, a 400-bed luxury establishment which it is estimated it will take two years to build. The newly independent Maltese government is providing fifty percent of the financing for it.
This Maltese independence only dates from September 21, 1964. Prior to that it was a British possession. Today it still exists as a member of the British Commonwealth of Nations. This enables the British to maintain a strong military garrison on the Maltese Islands, in exchange for which privilege they are providing the Maltese with some fifty million pounds of economic assistance. By the terms of this agreement, British troops are supposed to remain for ten years, but the Malta Labour Party, which stands in opposition to the present government, is likewise strongly opposed to the agreement with the British. Since this-party lost out in the recent constitutional election by only a hair—they lost 66,000 to 5 6,000, but an additional 9,000 votes were declared “invalid”— the British foothold in Malta is extremely precarious.
Nevertheless, there were many British officers in the casino when I arrived. On the whole, these officers were career types. They sported dress uniforms, escorted angular, expensively bedecked British ladies, and generally seemed to be looking down their noses at both the native Maltese and the tourists. They were anachronisms, the living forebears of the “ugly American” despite their being British, and exuded an air of self-satisfied superiority.
Their snobbery asserted itself with the appearance of Lagula at the roulette table. I’d been standing there for a while before he arrived, staking some of the U.S. taxpayers’ money on the black. As usual, the taxpayer landed in the red. I stayed on black anyway, aware that the shadowy agent which supplied funds for my expenses was never called to account or such disbursements.
Lagula stood at my elbow for a moment and watched, smiling at my stubbornness. The top of his head just about reached that elbow, and his eyes were just about on a level with the spinning wheel. Yet, in his miniature fashion, he cut a fine figure. Black tux, white shirt with a subdued ruffle, maroon bow tie -- Lagula was right in style, and not at all overdressed. His high brow, which lent his sharp-featured face s look of intellect to which he more than lived up, wrinkled with cynical humor as some of the British officers responded to his presence by ostentatiously moving their ladies away.
It burned me. So much so that while I made my greeting casual, I also made sure it was loud enough to be overheard. “Good to see you again, Prince,” I said. “How did things go in London? Did you and Harold come to an agreement? ”
“In essence, but the details remain to be finalized.” Lagula was quick on the uptake. “Our discussions were frank, and Sir Harold did agree on the need to weed out certain of the more insufferable members of the officer caste before appointing a governor general and a military advisor. He appreciated the fact that the Sandhurst tradition might drive us smack into the arms of the Russians. One snub, after all, can undo months of the most delicate and high-level diplomatic discussions.”
“Then there will be a shake-up in the Colonial services?”
“Absolutely. And,” Lagula added in a loud whisper, “the first troops will be supplied from the Malta garrison. Those officers with a history of color discrimination will be the first to be reassigned. Sir Harold has a sense of humor, you know. He intends to act on my recommendations by attaching the undesirables to the Gurkha volunteer regiments as sub-officers under a Nepalese commander.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” One of the officers was prodding his reluctant lady back alongside us. “I’m Major Dwight Worthby.” Watery blue eyes tried hard to look friendly as they peered out of a lobster-red sunburn over a toothbrush moustache. “And this is my-”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve committed a serious breach of protocol,” I interrupted. “The Prince does not speak to foreigners unless they have a letter of introduction. Do you have such a letter? ”
“Ha-rumph! Well, no, but—”
“Then there is nothing more to be said.” I turned my back on him and watched the last of my chips fall prey to the red.
Lagula and I moved off together. “Major Dwight Worthby,” he mused aloud. “I will make a note of that name.”
“Of course, Your Highness. You could hardly be expected to accept an officer who doesn’t appreciate his place.”
In our wake, Major Worthby’s face turned from red to scarlet. Lagula and I grinned at each other and went into the ornate cocktail lounge. We found a table at the back where we could talk without being overheard.
It is good to see you again,” I told him when the waiter had moved away after serving our drinks.
“And I am happy to see you, Mr. Victor.”
“Save the ‘Mister’ for the colonial put-on, will you?”
“Okay, Steve.”
“How come you’re back with the English I-spies?” I asked him.