For each of the five hundred steps leading up to the temple
there were ten reasons I hated this country. At the top of the list:
there was no jazz whatsoever. There was no jazz on the radio- only
government and rebel militia propaganda. It was impossible to bring
jazz records and a record player because American appliances couldn't
work on the direct current electricity they generated here. (Why the
hell would a country that gets all its electricity from a
hydroelectric plant generate DC? Probably a requirement for some of
the radio-jamming equipment in this temple.) You couldn't see a live
jazz band anywhere. And certainly, I couldn't play in my hotel room
lest I blow my cover, so there was no point at all in even packing my
clarinet. So, for six weeks I'd been in a totally jazz-free country.
This was 1961, goddammit! I was beyond worried- I was SCARED- at the
new stuff back in the States I was missing out on. I know that hauling
my butt off to places like this to deal with miscreants was part of my
job, but so was keeping up with the latest jazz- and a bigger part, I
feel.
	Besides the musical situation, there were the bugs and the
heat and the rain, and the grinning natives with purple teeth. And
this climb. I guess those steps had lasted six centuries because they
discouraged visitors with their steepness. When I got over the canopy
of the jungle, I estimated that I was half-way up, but I gradually
realized what a huge underestimate that was.
	I accepted that it would be a few minutes of climbing stairs
yet before coming face-to-face with the devilish Dr. Tzruk-Mannheim,
and so I used that time to contemplate again my mission. It had taken
a month and a half just to get to these steps, and another month and a
half, I mused, it would take to climb them. That was why they sent me.
Anybody could walk up these steps (eventually), point a gun and pull a
trigger. But the preliminaries were byzantine, to say the least. There
was a great deal of security in the form of fences, trenches, mines,
guards and dogs surrounding this place. But even finding your way to
this place, and finding out how you can find out was next to
impossible. Nobody in the whole country, outside of the base
perimeter, seemed to be involved in any way with the activities that I
came here to halt. Few had any idea that anything pertaining to radio
jamming was going on here, and none of those who did know about it had
an opinion. Nobody in this country knew a damn thing, which is what
you expect from a society that is completely devoid of jazz. I had
nothing but contempt for these idiots who sat around baking smelly
roots in their clay pots as their children chewed on flayed cow heads
and grinned stupidly at passersby- namely, me.
	I guessed that maybe there wouldn't be any security at the top
as they would figure that nobody could possibly get this far, so I
strode uninhibited into the huge square pavilion at the top of this
pyramid. A few Chinese soldiers, their uniforms dark with sweat
grunted and pointed their rifles at me. I don't think they could
fathom that a man could stand a suit in this heat, much less a hat.
But I knew that I looked fabulous. The good doctor seemed to have
been expecting me as he walked, smiling and calm towards me. He was
magnificent.
	"So, is this a clumsy attempt to interfere with my
operations?" Even his voice was magnificent, deep and strong, showing
hints of both sides of his Kazakh-German ancestry.
	"Perhaps I should let you go so that you can tell your
superiors back in Texas what the infamous Dr. Tzruk-Mannheim is like.
Perhaps it would please them so to have that one small glimpse into my
operations."
	"I'm not from Texas," I replied.
	"But your superiors," he said, grinning evilly and nodding,
"they are in Texas."
	"Well... no. Washington."
	"TEXAS!" he shrieked, making even my hair stand on end. He
pivoted on his heel and turned away from me, and walked all around the
pavilion, in and out of the statues of African gods, which seemed
pitiful in comparison to his tall figure. He walked absorbed in
thought, sometimes wandering close to me, but ignoring me totally,
sometimes venturing all the way to the other side, standing out in his
labcoat like a white needle against the dark green jungle far below us
and in the distance. He frequently muttered the word "Texas" as he
rubbed his chin. This went on- and I am not exaggerating- for three
hours as not I, nor the Chinese guards, nor the African gods moved at
all. Finally he came back towards me and spoke again.
	"Do you know that this temple is six hundred years old? DO
YOU?"
	I did.
	"Even your Texas," he said with pride, "is not six hundred
years old."
	I just smiled and was unable to keep from puffing out a small
laugh. I wanted to tell him again that I was not in any way operating
for the concerns of Texas, except that Texas happened to be a part of
the United States, but I was afraid to. It was an unusual feeling,
being awed by his physical presence as well as the enormous power he
wielded, but being unable to keep from taking him lightly due to his
misconception about the relative importance of Texas. I sensed
that my snicker might start an avalanche of rage in him, so I spoke to
move on to the matter at hand.
	"I'm here to shut you down, Tzruk-Mannheim."
	"They wish to halt my operations and they send you? One man?"
He looked off in thought for a moment. "One man is supposed to make
this my- Alamo?" He caught my eyes as he spoke the last word, as
though to measure my admiration for his knowledge of Texan folklore.
	Well, I did make it his Alamo, and as I walked down the many
steps I reflected for a moment on the good I had done, and looked
forward to returning to Washington and resuming my work with jazz.