Sodden with sweat I stopped the Fox-trot mid-stride and abruptly left the dance-floor. I feel guilty these days stepping out to the trot, even as duty, but it has O—d in its grip and won’t let up. The fox I’d been trotting went on oblivious, never more beautiful or inscrutable. She paid no mind as I made my way through the crowd and left the rickety dancehall. Outside on the veranda under a single 60 watt bulb the night air was heavy and oppressive, the raw sounds of the jungle and the smell of fried bacon, blending with the ardor of the dance band. I strolled across the moonlit clearing, lighting up one of the local cigarettes. Dance was up-ending the world. The Fox-trot in particular.

The sound of cornets fading, I stood in the shadow of the vine entangled trees feeling the heat of the packed dirt beneath my feet. I’d been following these insurgent dance movements for years now; seditious groups cropping up in every hell-hole around the world. I glanced at my watch. The Agency had finally got a man through to me, here in O—d. My rendezvous with 3.141, affectionately known as Pi, would be my first with a non native in years. Before this, long before this, I’d been stuck in Kashmirjumpar tracking the aggressive inroads the polka had made into the local culture. So rabid you couldn’t buy an accordion for love nor money. Slap happy bands of yahooing polka extremists had flooded in from the liberated north. And the Kashmirjumpars became so thigh whacking ditzy, in 2/4 time that no one noticed the pockets of angry Fox-trotters that were drawing disillusioned wall-flowers onto the floor.

When our Buck and Wing man out of Addis Ababa was spotted Playing Big Band music on the shores of the Irrawaddy Red Team pulled me down here by way of Rangoon. Sure enough it was Hasson ‘Katz’ Pajamas, the tribal overlord around these parts spreading the word tapping his toe. He is someone worth watching, very light on his feet. Background says he spent time in the States in his youth, graduated from the Arthur Murray School, where he’d favored Fred Astaire over Michael Jackson and specialized in Smooth dances. Word was he was peerless in his imitation of Astaire, and he could do it backwards too, in high heels. After school he drifted for a spell, before slipping into Blackpool for the world Ballroom championships. He came in third in the Foxtrot.

The Brits had been the first to alert us to Pajamas. They interviewed his Blackpool partner, a cashier at the Luton Sainsbury’s, who tearfully told them of Pajama’s fanaticism. His belief in the kick-ball change (usually in syncopated rhythm) was near mania. The Brits were having other troubles too. Outbreaks of the Rhumba in Birmingham, even a Fandango in Finsbury Park. The world was on its feet right now, up and dancing. The Fox-trot so long dormant, almost forgotten, had risen and was drawing long-legged quick-steppers everywhere. MI6 raised the alarm sending a postcard to the Agency; one of those smutty seaside kind with fat ladies in swimsuits.

I sensed movement among the trees before I heard the rustling of the parted plants. Shortstop, my native aide, delicately picking his way through the undergrowth leading my rendezvous out of the jungle toward me. The moonlight brightened their faces for an instant.

“DW40,” I was surprised. “What happened to 3.141?”

“Pi? We lost him to the Tango.

“Tango? He couldn’t even dip.”

“A damn shame.”

“Stiff as a poker.”

“It was a mid-life thing.”

We fell silent for a moment. The steam billowed off him like a kettle. God, the night was heavy and oppressive. It gets like that in O-d. DW40’s nostrils flared catching the night air.

“That bacon?”

“It’s grilled cheese and bacon night.”

He cocked his head listening to the band.

“Satin Doll.” He murmured.

“Satin Doll,” I nodded.

“Feather step?” he looked at me.

“Feather step?” I was unfamiliar with the term.

“It’s a three step thing. Let me show you.”

He took me in his arms and we danced briefly in the moonlight. For the moment, in the transports of grace, and the stars in my eyes, I forgot the troubles of the world. When the music stopped suddenly I saw Shortstop looking at us with blank incomprehension. The clouds mustered about the moon in the edgy silence.

I offered DW40 one of the local cigarettes, full of twigs and brush, and we smoked as he told me why he’d come. The Agency wanted me back home. There was growing schism between the boogie-woogie, jive dancers and those who drew the line at the waltz. The waltzers had grown very harsh, intolerant and adamant about rules: you’ve got to follow the steps, if you don’t follow the steps you’re on the road to perdition. Of course the jitter-buggers were just bouncing off the walls on that one. And Europe was no help, it seemed to be stuck in a hopeless dilemma between the old cha cha and a thrill taking Hip-Hop. Whatever the hell that’s all about I’ll never know. The news made me nervous, tingling with expectation. The jungle will do that to you. It gets deep into your soul, tearing at the very remnants of, well, you know what I mean. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. I was burning up. Then the music came again: I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise.

And in the languorous heat of that supine night we swayed, as we hummed.

“Sir,” Shortstop interupted, alarmed. “You’re on fire, sir.”

As he spoke I realized my cigarette was still in my hand. In my pocket.

“Yes,” I said, “yes, I am.”