"Zero hour," I thought with a quiver of excitement as I stooped through the cabin door onto the landing ramp. On hand to meet me was George Disney, head of the commission, who drove me to the Hotel Albert where I was to put up. He was the leisurely type. Pilon, he said, was up country. He could be called down, or I might go up, just as I wished. In any case I was to consider myself a welcome guest of the Disneys. Disney's conversation had a soft, easy charm. He sipped his aperitif without any sense of urgency, an affable victim of the tropical languor. I proposed leaving right away to meet Pilon. His eyes took on the hurt look of a polite host whose suggestions have been refused. I pressed my point and he reluctantly consented to arrange transport. He left without finishing his drink, a silent rebuke for what he felt was my unseemly haste, I suppose. In half an hour I was flying over the wooded savanahs of Kwango towards the mountains of Lualaba Kasai. The plane set down at Katanga eight hours later, where I fretted for twenty minutes before the commission jeep picked me up for the bumpy ride along a _piste_ through a forest of giant trees. 3 I found Pilon at camp, sitting in his tent in the middle of a jungle clearing, making coffee over a Primus stove. I introduced myself. He said he knew I was coming; had received a message a few hours before from Disney. I accepted his coffee and eased into a casual interrogation. I wove my opening questions around bits of information I had gleaned of Pilon's movements from Disney and the jeep driver. I wanted to test his straightforwardness. But I had to be careful about my questions. Having no official credentials, I dare not overstep my mark and draw a challenge for them. Disney had accepted me, without question, solely on the strength of Armstrong's cable. "Just think," I said with the proper air of wonderment, "last Tuesday I was lecturing quietly in a classroom and here I am sitting in the jungle. What were you doing last Tuesday?" His blue eyes narrowed. "Tuesday?" He paused. "Yes, I was checking ore samples up in the Lake Mwera region." That was true, I knew. Pilon continued to answer me truthfully and with apparent frankness. But I was not satisfied; his eyes had a sly, mocking look to them as if he were really aware of the purpose of my visit and enjoyed this verbal sparring. I distrusted him. Suddenly he broke in vehemently on one of my queries, "Why all these questions? Am I suspected of subversive activities?" I said nothing, scrutinizing him closely. I felt he was acting, his anger a mere pretense to force me to the point of my visit. I stalled for time to think, refilling my cup from the pot on the Primus. "May I see your credentials, sir?" I froze in the act of stirring my coffee. Was Pilon just being nasty? Or had the timidity of my questioning given me away?