The Eye of the Beholder.

Fanshaw awaited his fate in an outer room in the upper echelons of the Foreign Office in London, staring miserably out of a window at the November fog creeping down Whitehall.
He looked up as the door at the far end of the room opened.
"If you will come with me, Sir Dennis will see you now."
He was ushered into an oak paneled room where a large man sat behind a mahogany desk, checking through a batch of papers and making an occasional note in the margins.

On the far wall, a portrait of Queen Victoria looked down at him, austere, unsmiling.
Fanshaw waited.
He was fairly confident he was safe from dismissal but there were a selection of equally unpleasant alternatives open to the service; demotion to the third officer in charge of sheep dipping on a remote Scottish island for example. Oh god, I detest porridge.
Finally Sir Dennis placed the papers in the out tray.
"Ah Fanshaw, please, take a seat. You're looking a trifle pale old man, not still worrying about that unfortunate business are we, over and done with and Olga has been returned to Moscow."
Fanshaw shivered; Olga dark eyed and sensuous, teasing him out of his middle class respectability into nights of limb twisting passion until that Friday evening when the men in dark coats arrived at 69 Acacia Avenue.
"Frankly, I don't why she bothered, it's not as though you have security clearance for anything important is there?"
"No sir"
"You could do with a break old man and as luck would have it I have just the job for you."
Sir Dennis rose and crossed to the map pinned on the wall under Queen Victoria. He lovingly traced his finger over the vast expanse of red which marked the spread of the British Empire and settled on the east coast of Africa.
"Here we are, Backtiaria, a small nation of no more than a few thousand square miles but it happens to have the only large deep water harbour on the east coast of Africa. Your mission is to secure the leasing rights for the Royal Navy."
He returned to his desk and took a bulky folder from a drawer and gave it to Fanshaw.
"Everything you wish to know is in there. It should be an easy mission; the lease carries a hefty addition to the countries' finances. Your passage is booked on the steam packet the Rochester Castle leaving Southampton on Tuesday week."
"But sir, I don't speak any language other than English."
Sir Denis smiled and laid a friendly hand on Fanshaw's shoulder.
"Not to worry old son, President Mumboco had the advantage of an English governess as a child and speaks reasonable English. Oh, and Fanshaw, don't foul up this time, I'm told that our station in Outer Mongolia is in urgent need of a sewage inspector."
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The young doctor found Fanshaw collapsed in a cane backed chair in his room of the only hotel in the harbour town of Basto.
"It's all arranged, you dine with the President Mumboco at his palace on Saturday evening."
"Thank god for that, another week here would finish me off."
The doctor grinned.
"You get used to it."
"Really? Have you arranged the transport?"
"Of course, the camel will be here at six thirty."
"CAMEL?"
"Yes, ships of the desert, don't you know"
Fanshaw groaned
"Don't mention ships to me, I left my stomach on that rust bucket that brought me to this god forsaken place."
The doctor smiled again.
"Well I have to leave. Oh, and don't on any account discuss business at dinner, its not done my friend."

President Mumboco had evidently gone native, his palace turned out to be a large black marquee in a jungle clearing.
Fanshaw however was grateful to rest his aching backside on the sumptuous cushions arranged around the various dishes set out on a large Persian carpet.
The President and his entourage to his surprise seemed to be remarkably good company. Towards the end of the meal a dish of cooked meat was set before him. He sampled it hesitantly at first and finding it delicious emptied the bowl.
A fanfare of trumpets announced the last dish of the evening; a large silver platter was placed in the centre of the company
Fanshaw gulped, on a bed of rice and mangoes rested a single eyeball. He had heard of this delicacy of a sheep's eyeball offered to favoured guests by certain African tribes but surely no, it couldn't be meant for him.

But his worse fears were realised when a servant placed the bowl of rice and the eyeball before him to the warm applause of the president and his entourage.
Fanshaw thought furiously.
"I am sorry Mr President but my religion forbids me to eat the meat of a sheep."
Mumboco rose in anger.
"Sheep? Would I insult an honoured guest with such an offering? No my friend, be at ease, before you is the left eyeball of the notorious rebel Patini Robonder which can not be distasteful to you since you have just eaten his ears with great relish."
At which point Fanshaw threw up over the entire company and left Backtiaria on the next available ship bound for England.

The harbour was leased to the French some two months later. Presumably human eyeballs presented no problems to a race brought up on frog legs and snails.