We were told that to the Pathet Lao, a kidnaped American was worth at least $750, a fortune in Laos. Everyone had heard of the American contractor who had spurned an escort. Now Pathet Lao propagandists were reported marching him barefoot from village to village, as evidence of evil American intervention.

Although we enjoyed our rounds of the government offices in Vientiane, with officials offering tea and pleasing conversation in French, we were getting nowhere. We had nearly decided that all the tales of Lao lethargy must be true, when we were invited to take a trip with the Prime Minister. Could we be ready in 15 minutes? His Highness had decided only two hours ago to go out of town, and he was eager to be off.

And so, after a flight southeast to Savannakhet, we found ourselves bouncing along in a Jeep right behind the Land-Rover of Prince Boun Oum of Champassak, a tall man of Churchillian mien in a bush jacket and a ten-gallon hat from Texas. From his shoulder bag peeked the seven inch barrel of a Luger.

The temperature rose to 105 `. With our company of soldiers, we made one long column of reddish dust.

In Keng Kok, the City of Silkworms, the Prime Minister bought fried chickens and fried cicadas, and two notebooks for me. Then we drove on, until there was no more road and we traversed dry rice fields, bouncing across their squat earth walls.

It was a spleen crushing day. An hour of bouncing, a brief stop in a village to inspect a new school or dispensary. More bouncing, another stop, a new house for teachers, a new well. Then off again, rushing to keep up. We were miserable.