Officer Henry Scobie is hobbled less by wartime restrictions, the oppressive heat, the absence of anything resembling a social life, or his doting wife for whom he cares for out of obligation than he is by his own unemotional dedication to process or his conscience. His unraveling is as much the product of his deep discomfort at letting others down, unable to recover from the piling lies and deceptions that mount from the avoidance of others' possible disappointment.