FICTION BY RICHARD L. TIERNEY

They pulled into Amman in the afternoon, and Heinrich Mueller obtained rooms for the group at one of the most plush hotels in the city. The manager, an extravagantly dressed Arab sporting a jeweled head-cloth, seemed to be a personal friend of Mueller's. Sandra listened with mounting rage as the German carefully explained to him that she was a Jew, a "prisoner of war" and a personal prisoner at that; moreover, that anything to the contrary she might say must not be taken seriously, as it would only be part of an attempt on her part to escape back to Israel.

"Above all, she is not to be allowed out of this hotel unless accompanied by me," Mueller concluded.

The manager smiled at Sandra in an almost affable manner, bowed formally, and conducted the group to their rooms on the second floor. Sandra was ushered into a richly-furnished chamber that made her think of a 20th century version of a sultan's boudoir.

"You will find a shower in the next room, Mrs. Helgeson," said the manager. "There are a number of fine robes in the closet. Pull this cord if you need anything at all."

He bowed again, smiled, and withdrew to the hall. The door closed -- and Sandra heard a key turn in the lock.

She paced the carpeted floor for a bit, examining the room closely. There were French windows looking out over the city, but they were locked also. At length she peeled off her filthy khakis and took a hot shower. That relaxed her somewhat, and she donned a flower-patterned robe and spent some time working cosmetic creams into her sunburned skin and combing the tangles out of her hair. At length she lay down on the bed and, in spite of her apprehensions, drifted off to sleep.

She woke up to the sound of a key in the latch, realizing she must have slept two or three hours. As she sat up the manager entered, still grinning.

"Herr Mueller wishes that you will join him for dinner in half an hour. He will await you in the lobby."

The man stepped back from the doorway, and two stewards entered carrying a large wardrobe cabinet between them. They set it down against the wall and went out. The manager bowed and smiled as he back into the hall after them and closed the door.

Sandra found the wardrobe full of European-style feminine clothing in many sizes. In other circumstances she would have been delighted by such a selection, but as it was she felt only a heightening of the almost constant despair.

She quickly found a white suit that fit her well, though the skirt was too short for her taste, and a pair of white, high-heeled shoes to match. In about twenty minutes she had gotten herself looking, and even feeling, nicely civilized.

Mueller met her at the foot of the stairs in the lobby (the elevator did not work), impeccable in his military dress, and Sandra realized how deceptive a civilized appearance could be. He ushered her out on the terrace, and they sat at a table near a low wall while occidentally-dressed waiters hurried to and fro with food and wine.

"A beautiful evening," said Mueller.

"Yes -- it is."

Mueller laughed and sipped from his wine glass. "Ach! how you hate me," he chuckled. "Your tone chills the very air of evening. Come -- drink some wine."

Sandra picked at the food before her, not bothering to reply.

"Very well," said Mueller. "You will warm up one way or another when I wish it. Heinz thought he could do it by catering to your prissy bourgeois tastes. Bah! We red-blooded Germans are no good at that -- we are men before we are 'gentlemen.'" He said the last word with a sneer. "Anger heats the hottest," he concluded.

"You are beasts," said Sandra, keeping her tone as matter-of-fact as she could.

"And why not? That is what makes us great. We are not hypocrites like most people -- that is the only real difference. What we want we pursue with no qualifications, and with no stupid bourgeois reservations. It was beasts like us who brought about the downfall of the mighty Roman Empire ..."

"And the Third Reich."

Mueller scowled. "The Jews ...!" he began. Then he chuckled and sipped his wine. "No -- you will not irritate me so easily," he said.

"You just have to blame the Jews for all your failures, don't you! You just can't admit ..."

"Ach! Failures? Did not your own country fight us? Did not your soldiers die in thousands before the night of our whermacht? The German army and the German soldier were the mightiest the world has ever seen. Ask all who fought us -- the French, the Yugoslavs, the Russians, the Norwegians, the English. Ask your own countrymen. We fought them all -- all at once -- and we beat them. In battle after battle we beat them. Was this failure? Was it failure that brought all Europe to its knees before us? No -- it was victory! And the whole world would have gone down before us had it not been for the poisonous, cowardly Jew in our midst pretending always to ..." Mueller's voice suddenly choked with rage. "... to be loyal supporters of the Reich. The German soldier was strong -- brave -- loyal. He could never had been defeated from outside!"

Sandra laughed before she could stop herself. Immediately a cold fear lanced through her. Mueller was glaring at her, red-faced.

"Bravery!" she said recklessly. "What would you know about that? You sat behind a desk in your Gestapo headquarters deciding who should be sent to which concentration camp -- while your brave, loyal soldiers died for you at the front."

"I fought the Jew!" cried Mueller, smiting the table with his fist. "I fought the most subtle, insidious enemy of all. My life was in constant danger; I had not a moment's rest. I had to be perpetually alert, vigilant, or I would have been lost. I had to become immune to fear!"

"If that's so," said Sandra, "why do you fear Taggart?"

Mueller clenched his fists. For an instant Sandra was afraid he might strike her. Then, abruptly, he relaxed, drew a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lit it.

"You have become adept at irritating me," he said, smiling tightly.

"Why do you fear him?" Sandra persisted.

"I do not fear him! But -- I must deal with him cautiously for awhile yet."

"Why?"

Mueller drew on his cigarette. "He is a strange one. That belt he always wears, and that pistol -- he even sleeps wearing them. I don't doubt you've noticed ..."

"Yes."

"Listen --" Mueller hunched forward, elbows on the table. "One of our Arab patrols came across him last month at the Jordan-Israel border -- right in the battle area -- alone, mind you -- walking down a road with his brief case in hand. He claimed he'd come down from Turkey. Our patrol wasn't going to let him by without standard interrogation, of course, but he wouldn't obey their commands and so they fired on him."

"Naturally," said Sandra.

"But the man would not die! It seems that belt of his generates some sort of a -- a sheath of impregnable energy that can ward off bullets. Yes, it sounds fantastic, but I've felt the thing. It's like a frictionless surface all around him when you try to touch him. He always keeps it turned on when anyone is around."

"But what did your Arabs do, then?"

"Nothing. The man blasted them to pieces with that pistol of his. I saw their remains the next day. They were scattered all over the roadside -- nothing left but charred meat and bones and guts -- ach! I managed to track him down after I heard the reports, and found him just south of the Sea of Galilee. I told him there would be no more hostilities toward him, and managed to negotiate. After all, he was obviously an Aryan and not one of the Jews ..."

"Was that all you could think about?"

Mueller scowled, crushed out his cigarette and began to eat in silence. Sandra wanted a cigarette but decided she would not ask even that much from the German. When they had finished their meal it was dark; the muezzins had finished their chantings from the turrets, and a few stars were coming out.

They rose, and Mueller conducted Sandra into a cocktail bar filled with Europeans, some of them wearing Nazi uniforms.

"Drink?" asked Mueller, showing Sandra to a table.

"No -- but I'll have a cigarette."

Mueller handed her one, sat down opposite her and ordered a waiter to bring cognac. Sandra gazed about the bar, noticing the many German officers with their monocles, iron crosses and polished leather belts. Most were accompanied by young, smiling women who seemed to be competing to see who could laugh the loudest at the men's jokes. The conversation was largely in German.

"You see, there are still many of us," said Mueller. "The Arabs hold us in high esteem. We grow in strength every day. The men you see in this room will one day be among the core of the New World Order."

"How exciting. They're rather noisy -- they strike me as slightly tipsy braggarts."

"You are quite infuriating at times, Mrs. Helgeson," said Mueller, grinning. "It will be very enjoyable to take you against your will."

Sandra felt cold all over. "And you are very brave, Herr Mueller." She suddenly felt the strange detachment that she had noticed occurring more frequently of late during moments of fear and pain -- the feeling almost of being watched. The memory of what had happened in the dark stone chamber beneath Petra flashed through her mind. "Heinz Lammerding ..." she muttered.

"What about him?"

"He died in fear. I supposed he was brave in his own hard way, but there was none of that left when he died. There was something horrible about it. He screamed 'they watch' -- remember? Why do you suppose he said that?"

"Who knows? The ravings of a dying man. What does it matter?" The German gulped down his cognac, glanced at his watch and rose. "Enough of this -- we waste time. Come with me."

Sandra followed him apprehensively through the lobby and up the stairs. She felt strangely fatalistic toward Mueller. Her anxiety subsided. Whatever he did to her, she felt she would always despise him.

The German stopped at a door and rapped. The door opened, and Taggart confronted them.

"You made me a promise this morning," said Mueller. "You said you would show me where those weapons of yours came from. I am very curious."

"Ah -- yes." Taggart's face was expressionless as he stepped into the hall. "Follow me."

He led them to the stairs at the end of the corridor and began to climb them.

"What kind of a farce is this?" demanded Mueller. Taggart did not answer but continued to lead them up several more flights of stairs, till finally they passed through a door that opened out onto the roof of the hotel. The door closed behind them, and they stood in silence for a moment in the cool night air.

"There," said Taggart presently, pointing to the sky.

"There -- what?" snapped Mueller irritably.

"Andromeda," said the American. "There's an enormous galaxy there containing about two hundred billion suns -- you can hardly see it because of the city lights. That's where the weapons come from."

Sandra stood silent, noticing once again how the man's belt seemed to glow with a faint blue phosphorescence in the dark. The night air seemed suddenly colder.

"I see, Herr Taggart, that you are determined to make a fool of me," said Mueller. "I shall give you no more aid unless you are willing to cooperate in return."

Taggart shrugged as if indifferent to the matter.

"Then you will not cooperate?"

"I've told you it's impossible," said Taggart.

"Why is it impossible?"

"Because I won't have access to more of the weapons myself until I get to the lost stone city of Nafud."

"Ah -- this puts things in a different light," said Mueller. "The weapons are in the stone city, then."

The American made no reply.

"Very well," said the German after a long silence. "I will take you to al Jauf tomorrow."

Taggart nodded. He turned and went back into the hotel and down the stairs, leaving Sandra and Mueller on the roof.

"You really don't know much about him, do you," remarked Sandra.

"I know he has weapons that could enable us to conquer the world!" said Mueller violently. "As long as there is even a possibility that he may lead us to them, I shall take the chance and aid him. We shall leave at dawn."

He took Sandra back downstairs and locked her in her room. After he had gone she undressed, slipped into her flowered robe and sprawled out on the bed. She felt weak, tired, perplexed. There were so many thing she did not understand, so many unknown factors. And deep down she was afraid; somehow the fear never quite left her for a moment. She was afraid of Mueller, afraid of the giant Turk, afraid of what lay ahead of her. And the past, too, was an ache, sometimes an agony. Carole ... Isaac ... She pressed her knuckles to her forehead, rubbed them against her eyelids so that flashes of light seemed to cross her retinas. She felt alone, devoid of hope. Only the American did not frighten her, but he seemed aloof and somehow alien -- and she could not even get out to talk to him. She wanted to cry, but tears would not come. Only the fear smoldered on ...

The latch clicked, and Sandra sat bolt upright, her heart pounded. The door opened, and Heinrich Mueller came in and closed it behind him. Sandra rose to her feet and faced the man.

"Please go away," she said.

"Not this time!" Mueller crossed the room and took the girl roughly by the shoulders; he tried to kiss her on the mouth but she turned her head away. He nuzzled her neck; she did not move.

"Aren't you going to fight against me?" demanded the German.

"You'd like that very much, wouldn't you."

Mueller stepped back, his face working with anger, his eyes scowling.

"Go ahead," said Sandra. "Take all the satisfaction you can get from ..."

Sandra did not see the man's fist coming till it caught her savagely in the pit of the stomach. The blow sent her reeling backwards to fall heavily to the carpet, doubled up in pain, fighting for breath. The German stood over her, smiling rigidly.

"I intend to get a great deal of satisfaction from you," he said evenly. "You have a lot of spirit, and I like that. You will learn to hate me very much before you are broken entirely -- you will hate me more than you have ever hated anyone. I will be the most important person in your life, Mrs. Helgeson. I learned many things from the Russian police, an running the Gestapo taught me even more. You will not be able to help hating me!"

Sandra clawed at the carpet, sobbing and gasping, fighting the pain in her stomach. The air felt cold on her body as she felt her robe being torn violently away.

"Above all, she is not to be allowed out of this hotel unless accompanied by me," Mueller concluded.

"You will find a shower in the next room, Mrs. Helgeson," said the manager. "There are a number of fine robes in the closet. Pull this cord if you need anything at all."

He bowed again, smiled, and withdrew to the hall. The door closed -- and Sandra heard a key turn in the lock.

She woke up to the sound of a key in the latch, realizing she must have slept two or three hours. As she sat up the manager entered, still grinning.

"Herr Mueller wishes that you will join him for dinner in half an hour. He will await you in the lobby."

"A beautiful evening," said Mueller.

"Yes -- it is."

Mueller laughed and sipped from his wine glass. "Ach! how you hate me," he chuckled. "Your tone chills the very air of evening. Come -- drink some wine."

Sandra picked at the food before her, not bothering to reply.

"You are beasts," said Sandra, keeping her tone as matter-of-fact as she could.

"And the Third Reich."

Mueller scowled. "The Jews ...!" he began. Then he chuckled and sipped his wine. "No -- you will not irritate me so easily," he said.

"You just have to blame the Jews for all your failures, don't you! You just can't admit ..."

Sandra laughed before she could stop herself. Immediately a cold fear lanced through her. Mueller was glaring at her, red-faced.

"If that's so," said Sandra, "why do you fear Taggart?"

Mueller clenched his fists. For an instant Sandra was afraid he might strike her. Then, abruptly, he relaxed, drew a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lit it.

"You have become adept at irritating me," he said, smiling tightly.

"Why do you fear him?" Sandra persisted.

"I do not fear him! But -- I must deal with him cautiously for awhile yet."

"Why?"

Mueller drew on his cigarette. "He is a strange one. That belt he always wears, and that pistol -- he even sleeps wearing them. I don't doubt you've noticed ..."

"Yes."

"Naturally," said Sandra.

"But what did your Arabs do, then?"

"Was that all you could think about?"

They rose, and Mueller conducted Sandra into a cocktail bar filled with Europeans, some of them wearing Nazi uniforms.

"Drink?" asked Mueller, showing Sandra to a table.

"No -- but I'll have a cigarette."

"How exciting. They're rather noisy -- they strike me as slightly tipsy braggarts."

"You are quite infuriating at times, Mrs. Helgeson," said Mueller, grinning. "It will be very enjoyable to take you against your will."

"What about him?"

"Who knows? The ravings of a dying man. What does it matter?" The German gulped down his cognac, glanced at his watch and rose. "Enough of this -- we waste time. Come with me."

The German stopped at a door and rapped. The door opened, and Taggart confronted them.

"You made me a promise this morning," said Mueller. "You said you would show me where those weapons of yours came from. I am very curious."

"Ah -- yes." Taggart's face was expressionless as he stepped into the hall. "Follow me."

He led them to the stairs at the end of the corridor and began to climb them.

"There," said Taggart presently, pointing to the sky.

"There -- what?" snapped Mueller irritably.

"Andromeda," said the American. "There's an enormous galaxy there containing about two hundred billion suns -- you can hardly see it because of the city lights. That's where the weapons come from."

Sandra stood silent, noticing once again how the man's belt seemed to glow with a faint blue phosphorescence in the dark. The night air seemed suddenly colder.

"I see, Herr Taggart, that you are determined to make a fool of me," said Mueller. "I shall give you no more aid unless you are willing to cooperate in return."

Taggart shrugged as if indifferent to the matter.

"Then you will not cooperate?"

"I've told you it's impossible," said Taggart.

"Why is it impossible?"

"Because I won't have access to more of the weapons myself until I get to the lost stone city of Nafud."

"Ah -- this puts things in a different light," said Mueller. "The weapons are in the stone city, then."

The American made no reply.

"Very well," said the German after a long silence. "I will take you to al Jauf tomorrow."

Taggart nodded. He turned and went back into the hotel and down the stairs, leaving Sandra and Mueller on the roof.

"You really don't know much about him, do you," remarked Sandra.

The latch clicked, and Sandra sat bolt upright, her heart pounded. The door opened, and Heinrich Mueller came in and closed it behind him. Sandra rose to her feet and faced the man.

"Please go away," she said.

"Not this time!" Mueller crossed the room and took the girl roughly by the shoulders; he tried to kiss her on the mouth but she turned her head away. He nuzzled her neck; she did not move.

"Aren't you going to fight against me?" demanded the German.

"You'd like that very much, wouldn't you."

Mueller stepped back, his face working with anger, his eyes scowling.

* * *

She was in a place where it was dark and horrible, replete with hideous, high-pitched vibrations that were soft as silk yet heavy with dull pain. Black stairs wound through the darkness down tunnels whose evil convolutions swelled and contracted, now black and watery, now dull-veined with glowing red. Vapors seethed and eddied while she groped through them, afraid, not knowing whether she was searching for or fleeing from something.

"Sandy! Sandy! Please -- help me, Sandy!"

The voice came from far, far away, and she knew with a poignant agony that it was Carole Friedman. Then she saw her -- a slim, black-haired wraith of a girl with frightened blue eyes. Then by some strange circumnavigation of geometry they were suddenly on their knees in one another's arms, sobbing, holding each other close -- somewhere on a desert plain under a black sky that glared down painfully as if it were a giant sadistic eye, watching ... watching ...

"Sandy -- don't let them hurt me again, don't let them!"

"I won't, Carole, I won't! We'll go to America and live there and they'll never be able to hurt you ..."

"You're crying, Sandy -- please don't cry. I'm all right. I felt so rotten when it happened -- but I'm all right now."

The mists came swirling back, and there were faces in the mists, horrible Arab faces, and a crowd of them was jostling her away from Carole. The mist was steam from a train, and the crowd on the platform was jostling them apart and Carole was being swept away in their midst.

"Sandy -- Sandy! Help me!"

"Carole!"

The train was pulling away, going to Auschwitz, to the gas-chambers, and Mueller was standing on the back platform with a glass of cognac in his hand. Sandra tried to get through the crowd but a giant Turk pushed her back, scowling threateningly.

"Carole! Carole!"

"Don't cry, Sandy -- please don't cry!"

"Carole!"

* * *

Sandra woke, sobbing, lying face down on the rough plank floor that was jouncing roughly beneath her. Tears were moist on her face and she could taste fine dust between her teeth. Then she remembered where she was -- huddled in the corner of a military truck that was bouncing its way along a rough, dusty road into Saudi Arabia.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, still sobbing fitfully. Gradually she grew calmer. It had been like this all day -- fitful snatches of sleep terminated by horrible dreams. She glanced up at Fahad and the Turk, who sat across from her on a wooden bench. The scrawny Arab grinned at her, and she turned her face to the wall.

The truck slowed to a halt; the engine droned a moment more, then became silent. Metal doors opened and slammed.

"On your feet, girl!" said Fahad. "Rest stop."

Sandra rose painfully and climbed out the back of the truck. She saw a muddy water hole nearby and a couple of scrubby palms beside it. The sun was blazing hot in a late afternoon sky, and all around stretched a bleak, jagged, rocky wasteland.

"Break out the rations, Suleiman," ordered Mueller. "We'll stay here fifteen minutes, then move on. We should make it to al Jauf by sundown."

Sandra dusted off her khakis absently and sat down, her face in her hands. Mueller walked over to her with a canteen and a box of sandwiches. He set them down beside her.

"Come, now -- you haven't eaten all day," he said. "You must keep your strength up."

Sandra did not look up or answer.

"You'll need strength tonight," he added with a short laugh. "Last night was just a sample, you know."

Sandra clenched her fists together in her lap but did not look up. Mueller walked off.

"He wants me to break," she thought to herself. "He wants me to cry, to beg him to spare me." And she knew with a hopeless shame that before long she would -- just as she had the night before.

A lizard darted up to her foot. She regarded it with a detached clarity. It looked up at her with a beady eye for a brief moment -- then it was gone in a flash. Sandra regarded the sandwiches Mueller had left beside her, but could find no desire to eat. Finally she took a few sips from the canteen. The water tasted flat.

The crack of a pistol shattered the stillness. Sandra looked up. Suleiman, Mueller and Taggart were all eating lunch; Taggart sat some distance away from the others under a palm tree. Fahad was on his feet, a sandwich in one hand and his clumsy Webley revolver in the other.

"Missed!" cried the Arab. He took aim and fired again. "They move fast, by Allah!"

Sandra realized that he was shooting at the small lizards that darted about over the sand and rocks. Whenever one stopped Fahad took aim and fired, cursed, and then waited for another. Finally one of the creatures ran up a boulder and perched inquisitively on top of it, motionless, a perfect target. Carefully Fahad stuffed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, gripped the revolver with both hands and took aim.

"Run!" thought Sandra frantically. Somehow it seemed tremendously important to her that the little lizard should escape. "Oh please -- run!"

The gun roared -- and Sandra saw the tiny reptile fly up from the chipped rock. It landed on the sand not a dozen feet from her, writhing and threshing, its body nearly cut in two.

"I got him!" shrieked the Arab. "Ha! ha! Did you see? I got him!" He looked around, still chewing on his sandwich, saw another lizard and took aim.

"Fahad!"

Taggart was on his feet, his strange bulky pistol clenched in his right hand. The Arab turned toward him and saw the gun; his face went white.

There was a searing blast of blue-white light -- a roaring concussion of thunder -- an instant of prickling heat. The ground erupted beneath the Arab's feet and he was flung twenty feet through the air to land heavily on the sand.

Mueller and the Turk cursed and sprang to their feet. Sandra jumped up also, perplexed and terrified. She saw that Fahad's legs were gone and that the sand around their ragged stumps was stained red. The Arab was writhing and flopping about, trying to sit up, spattering the rocks with his blood.

Taggart walked over to the dying lizard, set his heel on it and ground it into the sand.

"Get into the truck," he said to Mueller. "We're moving on."

Fahad began to scream. Suleiman strode over to him, glanced casually at his hopeless wounds, then drew a curved knife from his sash.

"Get away from him," said Taggart, the gun still in his hand. His voice was low and even but somewhat hoarse. The Turk scowled, stood erect and back away carefully.

"Herr Taggart -- what is the meaning ..."

Mueller stopped speaking. For an instant Taggart's lips were drawn back in a feral snarl, and his whole frame trembled. Sandra realized she was looking at a man poised on the brink of murderous, unreasoning fury. The gun in his hand was trained squarely on Mueller's belly. The German's face was white as chalk. For a long moment no one moved or spoke.

Taggart sighed and lowered his eyes with a pensive frown. He sheathed the bulky pistol in the holster suspended from his faintly glowing belt. Mueller and the Turk relaxed visibly.

"You drive," sand the American to Mueller. "Let's go."

Suleiman ushered Sandra into the back of the truck and climbed in after her. The engine roared, drowning out Fahad's hysterical screams. The last Sandra saw of him was a glimpse from the back of the jouncing truck through a cloud of dust -- a small, dwindling form writhing feebly in the sand alongside the road.

They came at evening to al Jauf, a long, green oasis where white stone houses clustered amid rows of tall, feathery date palms that stood black against the darkening sky. Sheeted Arabs with camels bearing great bundles and sporting tinkling bells filled the dusty roads.

The truck stopped in front of a large, domed edifice surrounded by lush gardens and flagstoned walks -- a palm-fringed, parklike estate, enchanted in the dusk.

When the four of them stepped out, they were met by a number of armed, white-clad servants wearing golden sashes and turbans. Mueller spoke to them briefly, and they conducted the newcomers into the mansion. Inside was a many-columned hall that opened into a large, domed chamber at the center of the house. A pool with a fountain shimmered in the middle of the domed space, and the tiles round about it were gorgeously patterned mosaics. The room was elegantly furnished with colorful reed mats, plush cushions and low tables of black marble. Around the walls, great black curtains bordered with scarlet hung from the ceiling nearly to the floor.

A tall, large-built Arab wearing black robes and a white head-cloth strode rapidly into the hall. The expression on his face was one of expansive good humor combined with a somewhat overbearing self-confidence. His features were large but finely formed, his nose curved and slightly bulbous, his eyes dark and brilliant under horizontal brows. His complexion was very fair for an Arab's, almost white, and very smooth.

"Ah, Heinrich -- Suleiman!" he cried, flashing a row of solid white teeth. He shook Mueller's hand in the European manner. "It is good to see you. Diversion is always good. You have brought guests, I see."

"Herr Taggart -- an American ..." began Mueller.

"Welcome, Mr. Taggart -- welcome to al Jauf," said the Arab in perfect English. "I am Sheikh al Hassim."

He had reached for the American's hand -- but his fingers had seemed to slip over the man's flesh as if over oiled glass. The Arab jumped back as if electrified.

"Mishallah! What are you wearing?"

Mueller said something in German, and the Arab chief answered him in the same language. For a moment they conversed thus.

"I see," said al Hassim presently in English. "How very strange. I don't suppose you have read Abd' ul Hazrât's Azif, have you, Mr. Taggart?"

"I have a copy," said the American, "-- as Mueller has doubtless just told you."

"How extraordinary! Dr. Dee's copy in English, I presume. A scholarly work, but full of omissions."

"No. The original Arabic."

"What!" The Arab flung his arms wide in his enthusiasm. "The original Arabic -- banned by the Caliphs ... I cannot believe it! You must show it to me!"

Taggart opened his brief case and took out the great old book that Sandra had come to recognize so well. He passed it to al Hassim, and the Arab took it from him carefully, almost reverently, opening its ebony cover on a low marble table and peering closely at the yellowed pages.

"By Mohammed -- it is true! I would never have believed ... Yes -- yes! here is a paragraph that is not in the Latin version -- incredible! Where did you get it?"

"From a very old hermit pretending to be a Christian ascetic in Cappadocia." Taggart took the book back from the Arab. "It took me several months to track it down."

"Months? Why, for years I have inquired after this work! Most scholars think it no longer exists. The only copy I ever heard of existing in the twentieth century was owned by a pair of strange occultists in your own country -- in Oakland, California, to be precise -- and that seems to have been lost after an obscure tragedy that left them both dead."

"Yes -- I know," said Taggart.

"Ah! I suspect we will have much to discuss, Mr. Taggart. If I may ask -- is this the same copy?"

"It is. Certain cultists managed to retrieve it after the -- uh -- tragedy. It ended up in Turkey -- minus the gems that used to inlay the cover, as you can see."

"It is still extremely valuable. You got it from an old hermit, you say?"

"Yes. He got it from an Arab who stole it from a Turkish customs official, who had previously stolen it for the gems. The Arab sold it to the hermit for a mere one hundred dollars; the hermit sold it to me for a mere ten thousand."

"Ten thousand! By the Prophet, I'll pay you fifty -- no, a hundred thousand for it! What do you say?"

Taggart smiled slightly but said nothing.

"Ah -- I feared as much," said al Hassim. "You are a discerning man, Mr. Taggart. I want to talk more about this with you tonight. And speaking of tonight -- yes!" He turned to the white-clad servants and said, "A feast -- prepare a feast. Tonight is a special night. We must have entertainment such as our guests will enjoy. See to it!"

As the servants hastened away, al Hassim turned back to his guests and said, "And who is the young lady?"

"Mrs. Helgeson," said Mueller. "An American woman we captured in the company of a band of Jews."

"Ah -- how fortunate you are, Mrs. Helgeson, that you were rescued in time!" The Arab winked and grinned confidentially as if in great good humor. "I could tell you tales of Jewish barbarity that would shock you terribly ... But, no -- please excuse me, you have doubtless experience that sort of thing first hand. Rest assured that here you will be safe and that every consideration shall be taken into account to insure your speedy recovery from the barbarous treatment you have obviously received from Israeli hands."

"I was fighting on their side!" cried Sandra. "Voluntarily!" The words were out of her mouth before she realized she had said them. She trembled with fury at the feeling that she was somehow being made fun of.

"Ha! ha! what spirit you have! Herr Mueller would scowl now if he understood English, eh? Well, these Germans have always had a very limited outlook. You must not disagree too strenuously with them or you will find that their ultimate argument is the fist. But I fear you find this an uncongenial subject -- we shall speak no more of it."

Al Hassim clapped his hands. A servant came hurriedly at his behest.

"Show these three gentlemen to separate rooms. Then see how the banquet is preparing and report to me." As the servant departed with Mueller, Taggart and Suleiman, the Arab turned back to Sandra and said in English, "Follow me."

He led her down another hall and into a large, marble-tiled room where a shallow bathing-pool steamed in the middle of the floor. Half a dozen shapely, dark-haired girls in white kirtles answered the imperious clap of his hands.

"Clean this woman up and bringher some suitable attire," he ordered in Arabic. Then he sat down cross-legged near the edge of the pool to watch. Sandra felt too tired to feel more than a token embarassment as she was stripped nude and led into the circular pool. The water came only to her knees, but it was warm and soothing to sit down in it and let the Oriental women bathe her.

"Yes, these Germans are a heavy-handed lot," said al Hassim, apparently forgetting his promise to avoid that subject. "Energetic and ingenious they are, to be sure, but one-sided in all things. All take and no give about them. Have you read Nietzsche, Mrs. Helgeson? No? Ah -- how charmingly you shake your head! I don't believe I've ever seen such radiant red-gold hair, if I may be so bold. Like the finest spun copper! And you haven't died it either, I see. Amazing! Well, as to Nietzsche -- once you've read him you've read the 'German Testament,' you might say. Force justifies all ends and means -- that's what it all boils down to. For the German, force is the glory of life, whether he deals with nations or women. He has to be dominant in all things. As an American woman I don't suppose you find that attitude particularly agreeable, eh?"

"No."

"Ah -- you speak reluctantly. Doubtless you are tired. Well, good wine shall soothe you tonight. Heinrich has not treated you at all delicately, either, I see -- we shall have to do something about those bruises. A crime to mar such smooth, white flesh with dark bruises -- these Germans are so insensitive! And the sun has done your face no good, either. Well, some balm will help that. If you were mine, I'd see that you were treated more in keeping with your aesthetic appeal. I shall purchase you. Ah -- forgive me, I am so used to dealing with Orientals. I shall liberate you -- yes, and restore you to your dignity."

"That's very kind ..."

"No, no, not at all. Nothing is ever done in kindness, except perhaps in kindness to one's self. I shall get a great deal of pleasure out of restoring you to your optimum beauty, and in initiating you to the pleasures and mysteries of this land -- my land, that is, for the country outside this house of mine is very provincial and un-intellectual, by and large. If the good citizens of al Jauf knew of what goes on in this mansion ... Ah, it will be pleasant to converse with you, Mrs. Helgeson. You have no idea how inhibited the women of this country are, thanks to Allah and his bucolic Prophet! American women struggle and fight for their rights and ideals. Occasionally they develop thoughts. Is it not so?"

Sandra made no reply. The servant women led her from the pool and began to dry her with towels. Perfumes, salves and scented garments were carried in and laid out on the rose-marble table.

"Ah -- I sense a slight resentment," said al Hassim. "Well, I'm sure you have thoughts of your own quite often, Mrs. Helgeson -- forgive me if I seem patronizing or sarcastic. It is part of my nature -- patronizing because I have lived among the women of the East for so long, sarcastic because the loss of Eastern values has left me disillusioned. You have read Edna S. Vincent Millay, I presume?"

"Why, yes -- I have," said Sandra, startled. "I think she ..."

"Ha! I knew it -- you are an intelligent and sensitive person. A tragic woman, Miss Millay -- but a glorious one, and full of the spirit of Western woman. The Germans would do well to read her -- for a woman cannot be crushed to her uttermost until one first understands how to raise her up. The Russian police could not teach Herr Mueller that. Well, the Germans are clumsy at everything, even sadism! They have no finesse. My, how exquisite you look -- women like you should model the fashions in New York and Paris ... No, Yasmin, not the breastplates -- she is not the voluptuous type. Try the white Grecian tunic withthe soft pleats -- yes. Now ... oh, yes -- sadism. Have you read de Sade, Mrs. Helgeson?"

"No. I'm afraid I'm awfully uneducated."

"A pity. You will have to be Justine a while longer, I fear, but perhaps someday you will graduate to Juliette status. Or perhaps not. You weren't raised Catholic, were you? I thought not. I supposed Riesman's concept of 'inner direction' exemplifies your predominant outlook, then. But as I was saying about de Sade -- he is rather crude, you know, but he formulated a very important principle: nothing is more delightful that deliberate crime. Ha! ha! Can you imagine a German saying such a thing? To the German, the only crime is one done by other people -- it is an action done contrary to his wishes. You see? The German can commit no crime, and therefore he has cut himself off from the greatest of all pleasures. His brutalities are extravagant, true -- perhaps because he senses he lacks something. He lacks the artistic delicacy required to draw out the most exquisite anguish in his victims. Ah, how lovely you look -- the Greek tunic suits you well. No ornaments, Yasmin -- simplicity is the best friend of true beauty. I wish we had more time to work on that striking hair of yours, Mrs. Helgeson ... Ayesha, use the softer brush on it! Yes, de Sade was rather crude, but his ideas could have appeared as the gems they were if he hadn't overworked them so. Now Baudlaire -- ah, there was an artist. A fraction of the volume written by de Sade, but the quality of that fraction! The true beauty of evil -- that was his theme, and the very music of evil sings in his lines. A, vertigineuse douceur! You inspire me, Mrs. Helgeson. Come, my arm -- the banquet awaits us, and more wines than Mohammed ever dreamed he was forbidding!"

Al Hassim ushered Sandra into the hall. The marble felt cold under her bare feet. They stopped at a curtained doorway, and the Arab showed Sandra inside.

"Your room, Mrs. Helgeson. Probably a bit ornate for your taste, but the best I have at the moment. Later, after I have purchased you, I shall alter it a bit -- although, alas! many items of European furniture are difficult to obtain here in al Jauf. I would like to establish you in your natural setting -- a New York penthouse effect, perhaps. I've never experimented with an American woman of your cosmopolitan type, and I want to create an environment to suit you, as it will be much more stimulating that way ..."

"What are you running her -- a zoo?" Sandra burst out.

"I have a small menagerie in the garden, of course -- certain animals offer very interesting possibilities -- but I think you occupy a higher niche than that, Mrs. Helgeson. You possess 'class,' as your expression has it."

"I won't be 'experimented with'!" exclaimed Sandra, close to tears. "And I won't be 'purchased'. I'm not a slave of yours ..."

"Of course not -- Heinrich Muller will first require a high price of me, I'm sure. But you will be worth it. He has not done his job of softening your attitude yet, I see -- but in a few more days you will no doubt be in a more amenable frame of mind. After all, these Germans are so indelicate! But I forget -- I promised not to speak of these things. I see you are distressed. Come -- dry your tears, and let us go eat and drink. You will need your strength tonight when Herr Mueller renews his demands."

The Arab took Sandra by the hand and led her down the corridor. She followed listlessly, sobbing in spite of herself. She had not eaten for a day, and her hopelessness was nearly complete.

Created: September 18, 1997; Updated: August 9, 2004