Less than five feet tall in his socks, Hunter Schuld hies himself to Africa, the Cameroons, to pursue entomological research on a rare spider--and should he be able to relieve himself of his virginity in the arms of black women, well, that would be nice also. When befriended by an American USIA librarian, Philip Jeffers, and offered a primitive house to live in, Hunter discovers a fringe benefit he hadn't counted on: Myrna, Philip's adulterously bored colonial wife. Hunter and Myrna get it on, and all would be still going swimmingly except for Hunter's bad-conscience wonderings about what all this white-people's shilly-shallying is about right there in the heart of darkness. A houseboy of his, an lbo, is going to be deported back to Nigeria--probably to death. A lot Myrna could care. And maybe he, Hunter, like all white people, is merely an exploiter, no better than an ancestor who came with Stanley in 1887 and did dastardly deeds. Hunter's size, spider webs, sexual triangles, insects who eat their mates--they're all shuffled and re-shuffled into Larson's pretentiously stacked deck. If you're in the mood to be lectured and not much else, crack this one open.