They entered the great domed room where the rectangular pool shimmered in the middle of the mosaic floor. Servants were bustling all about, placing great plates of food and tall bottles of wine on the low marble tables. At one of these tables sat Taggart, gnawing at the drumstick of a chicken.

"Mr. Taggart," said al Hassim, "the banquet is not yet ready ..."

The American continued eating. He did not look up.

"The banquet will begin in half an hour," said the Arab. Sandra sensed that he was vexed.

"I have work to do," said Taggart. "I'll take some of this food to my room if you don't mind."

"But -- pardon my forthrightness -- I do mind. We were going to discuss your copy of Abd' ul Hazrât's Azif."

"It's not for sale."

"Not even for ... ?"

"Not at any price."

Taggart picked up the entire platter of food he had been sampling and walked out of the room.

"Hm -- how very brash," said al Hassim. "No finesse -- none at all. I've met Americans like him before. I much prefer your type, Mrs. Helgeson."

Sandra sat down on a cushion and put her forehead in her hands. Her head ached. She reached for a wine bottle, uncorked it and took a long drink from the neck, half choking in the process.

"Ah -- you, too?" lamented al Hassim. "Here -- here is a wineglass. Please don't drink from the bottle -- it doesn't fit your generally cosmopolitan air. It makes you seem out of character."

"Go to hell!" said Sandra, still sobbing.

"Here -- here is wine in the glass. Yes, drink it -- you will feel better. Ah, poor girl! You need drink -- and food, also. Drink -- not so fast, though. I'll pour you another -- there. Don't think you're not welcome here because your cup 'runneth not over' -- I hate to waste wine on such a silly custom, and rather messy, too -- rather like an American waitress slopping coffee into your saucer, don't you agree? Yes, that's better; try some food ..."

Sandra ate, suddenly ravenous, feeling ridiculous because she could not stop crying. She leaned back against a pillar and ate more slowly, gradually becoming more calm.

The room was filling up with servants: men in white and gold, women and youths wearing nothing but white loin cloths wrapped tightly about their hips. Mueller walked into the chamber and sat down on the floor across the table from Sandra. He seemed irritated.

"Taggart wants to mounts and provisions ready for a trek into the Nafud desert tomorrow," he said to al Hassim.

"By the Prophet! He's a high-handed one."

"You had better do as he says."

"Oh? Is he so important then that you fear him? What is the object of this trek?"

"Power over all the world, possibly," said Mueller. "I told you a bit about the gun-belt he wears. With such weapons our troopers would be invincible."

"What you say is hard to believe," said al Hassim. "Yet when I tried to touch the man ... Tell me -- what does he seek?"

"Something called a 'component.' He reads that old book of his a lot, and gets ideas from it. The 'component,' as far as I can make out, is a great red jewel in some abandoned stone city in the desert. It is also called the 'Fire of Assur ..." I forget -- it's named after one of those Assyrian kings."

"Ah -- the Fire of Assurbanipal!"

For several long moments al Hassim sat in silence, hunched forward, chin on the backs of his hands, staring thoughtfully at the marble tabletop.

"Very well," he said presently. "I shall have camels and supplies ready in the morning. In fact, I shall go along on this trek myself. The clean air o the desert will do me good -- especially after tonight." He straightened, grinning and clapped his hands smartly. "Servants -- let the feast begin!"

The black curtains all around the walls lifted, revealing artistic, detailed murals depicting men, women and animals engaged in various erotic acts. The curtains at the far end of the room parted sideways -- and a great, black tower-like structure in the shape of a phallus was rolled out into the chamber on silent, drape-concealed wheels. The servants who pushed it left it to stand beside the pool and sat themselves down at a nearby table. Then, from an orifice in the top of the phallic tower a man in the garb of a muezzin emerged to his waist and began to chant loudly. The servants all assumed the Moslem position of worship. To Sandra's surprise, the priest intoned his chant in English:

Two Negro slaves at the far ends of the hall began to beat out brisk rhythms on large, tubelike drums. A number of female dancers entered and whirled about in graceful, suggestive gyrations; they were all bronze-skinned with long, raven-black hair flowing loose about their shoulders, and all wore white bikini-style swimsuits and white-rimmed, coquettish sunglasses. From another door several white goats entered, bearing pouches of incense on golden collars and tiny silver bells on their fetlocks. They walked freely among the feasters, tinkling musically as they went, nibbling daintily at the food on the platters. Then from a third arch came servants carrying four plush couch-litters which they deposited on the floor, one at each corner of the rectangular pool. On each litter lay a naked, voluptuously-formed Negress, writhing languidly on her back with eyes closed, groaning throatily through pursed lips.

"What's wrong with them?" cried Sandra, startled. "What have you done ... ?"

"Grieve not for them!" laughed al Hassim. "Their groans are not of pain -- ha! ha! The fire of pleasure burns in their blood, and they dream dreams of ecstasy. Let a man beware them -- or a woman, also! They will clutch on contact, like Venus flytraps -- a clever metaphor, if I do say so. Why do you scowl so, Mrs. Helgeson? Does pleasure affront you, then? We do but obey the mandates of Allah: 'The pious shall dwell amidst gardens and pleasures, delighting themselves in what their Lord shall have given them' -- so saith the Holy Prophet. So let us be pious, then! Come - 'Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.' A wise man it was who said that. Surely you recognized Fitzgerald's rendition of Omar Khyyan -- our muezzin sang it for your benefit alone. Ah, I shall have much to teach you here, Mrs. Helgeson. Much indeed!" He clapped his hands suddenly and cried out, "Suleiman!"

The giant Turk strode into the room, naked, his flesh gleaming with oil, and stood with arms folded across his chest.

"Magnificent!" cried the Arab. "You know your role when in my house, eh?" He turned to Mueller and said, "I purchased a captured Jewess last week -- a gorgeous creature -- and have been saving her for just such an occasion as this. Watch!"

He clapped his hands three times. A huge lotus with petals of ivory rose out of the water of the pool. When it was level with the surface the petals slowly opened and folded themselves out flat upon the dark water. Inside lay a naked, shapely young woman on a large circular cushion. Her skin was of a flawless, creamy texture; long hair of dark hazel spilled airily about her face and shoulders. She was bound hand and foot with nylon cord, writhing sensuously like the Negresses, moaning between full lips slightly parted and painted a delicate crimson.

"Mein Gott!" exclaimed Mueller approvingly. "You have done a good job with her -- she seems more than human. You would never guess she was a Jew."

"Your admiration is appreciated, Herr Mueller," said al Hassim. "It is very gratifying after having taken such pains to achieve just the right effect. She is, you see, as helpless as a sacrifice on the altar, yet utterly willing and abandoned to her fate, knowing nothing in the world but the fire in her loins. See -- observe how she writhes, like a smooth, half-torpid serpent, straining to grasp the unattainable ecstasy! The ropes are no longer necessary, you see, but the effect of total helplessness would not be complete without them. Even a willing woman is so much more stimulating with her limbs bound -- is it not so?"

"You are a poet of poets, Sheik al Hassim!" said Mueller.

"I am honored. Yet this is but the opening of the curtain. The stage is set -- now you shall see the drama." Al Hassim turned to the giant Turk who loomed nearby, a muscled colossus. "Suleiman -- you preside over our merriment like a very god. Show us how the gods appreciate our sacrifices. Take her -- and do not spare her ..."

Sandra leaped up with a cry of horror and dashed away before anyone could stop her. She heard Mueller shout angrily, "Come back!" Al Hassim was laughing and saying, "Fear not -- my servants guard all the boundaries of my grounds." Then she was dashing out of that obscene chamber, away from the groanings of the drugged women, the beating of the drums, the shuffling of the dancers' naked feet, the tinkling of goats' bells -- away down the long, dim-lit corridor past her own room and the bathing-pool and out into the cool darkness of the palm-shadowed back garden. There she crouched in silence amid a clump of shrubs, trembling, listening to the vague sounds of laughter that came from within the mansion ...

How long she crouched and hid there in the garden she had no way of knowing. It seemed like hours. Occasionally she rose and stole about among the trees and plants and along the flagstoned walks flanked by marble urns and benches. Now and then she glimpsed the white shapes of sword-bearing servants pacing along the periphery of the grounds. She passed fountains that glimmered under the moon, and once she came upon a group of wire cages whose furred and feathered occupants stirred sleepily at her approach. But though there was no enclosing wall, the sentries were present on every side of the estate. And, Sandra reflected, what good would an escape do her even if she could accomplish it? She was in a village where there were only Arabs, and where the surrounding country was an endless expanse of desert. Still, the desert was better than Heinrich Mueller ... Or was it? No -- even now, as she bitterly realized, she did not want to die. The will to live was still strong within her, and its strength was a constant anguish.

She stopped suddenly as she neared the southern boundary of the estate. A red pencil of light had flashed briefly into being not far from her, dwindling away into the barren desert to the south. It vanished -- but where it had flickered brightest Sandra now made out the form of a man dressed in black not twenty feet away. He was standing motionless, facing south, holding something in his hands -- a small object she could not make out. His nearness startled her; she stood quietly and held her breath.

The man reached down to a large object atop a marble urn and tipped it up on end. The red beam flashed briefly again -- and Sandra saw that it issued from the great black crystal they had found on the altar far beneath Petra. By the brief flash she saw that the man was Taggart and that the object in his left hand was a compass.

A sudden impulse made Sandra move forward. Her heart beat faster, because she realized she still had a spark of hope left -- but if that hope were crushed ...

"Excuse me," she said. Her voice trembled, and that annoyed her. The man turned quickly and she saw that his belt-clasp, as always, was glowing with a dim blue light. The moon was behind him and she could not see his face.

"I have to talk to you," Sandra continued, managing to keep the tremor out of her voice.

"Oh -- certainly. I didn't recognize you," said Taggart. "That white tunic -- I thought you were one of the slave girls."

"I'm afraid I am." Sandra glanced at the great dark crystal atop the urn. "What are you doing with that?"

Taggart put the compass in his pocket. "Measuring the angle of the beam. From here it's between 110 and 115 degrees. I can pinpoint the source roughly now."

"The source?"

"The Fire of Assurbanipal."

They were silence for a space. Sandra could think of nothing to say. She wished she could see the man's face; he seemed as impersonal as a dark shadow. Why is it so hard, she thought, so hard to ask for help?

"You are afraid," said Taggart.

"Yes -- I'm afraid." Sandra's words came out in a rush. "I'm afraid you won't help me. You're the only one that hasn't treated me like a beast. You can't imagine what I'm going through. You're an American. I have friends in America -- rich friends. They'd pay you well if you could help me ... help me to ..."

She stopped, feeling that her words sounded flat, lifeless. A terrible hopelessness swept over her.

"I'm listening," said the man. "Go on."

"I can't take much more of this," continued Sandra, now annoyed because her voice was calm and level. "The tension -- I feel sick to my stomach all the time. I ... I suppose it sounds stupid to you. I just can't get it across -- I can't even cry any more. Heinrich Mueller is the worst. Last night he ... he ..."

"I know," said Taggart. "He was telling me about it this morning."

"He did something to me!" Sandra's throat was constricting painfully; she found she could hardly speak. "I thought I was a fairly strong person, but he did something to me last night that -- that took something out of me. I can't go through that again -- I just can't!"

Taggart stooped and picked up his brief case. He took forth a small vial, uncapped it and rolled a white pill out on his palm.

"Take this," he said. "It should ease your tension."

Sandra choked back a feeling of rising bitterness. She walked over to a small fountain and gulped down the capsule, then returned to the shadowed place beside the urn.

"As I said, I have rich friends," she said evenly. "They will pay you well if you can help me get back to America."

Taggart scowled at the ground. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"I ... I'm close to a goal I've worked toward for a long time. I can't give it up now."

"I see." Sandra felt her voice breaking. "I'm sorry I troubled you ..." To her chagrin she began to sob and found she could not stop. "I'm sorry -- I'm not a very strong person. I'll go now."

"You idiot!" said Taggart. "You're one of the bravest persons I've ever met."

He said it so emphatically that Sandra was taken aback; it was the first time she had detected emotion in the man's voice. She could think of no reply.

"I have something else to give you," said Taggart after a moment of silence. "Please follow me."

Sandra accompanied him across the garden and into the mansion. They passed down the corridor to the central chamber. Torches burned in brackets on the walls. White-clad servants glanced at them but paid them little heed.

They entered the great domed room, deserted now and littered with soiled plates, discarded clothing and overturned tables and couches. The black tower lay on its side; throaty snores issued from within. A couple of goats nibbled at spilled food. As she crossed the floor, Sandra noticed with a shock the beautiful young Jewish girl sprawled supine on the mosaics, her hands still tied behind her; a trickle of blood from her parted lips showed strikingly against the white of her cheek. Sandra knew at a glance that she was dead.

They passed down another corridor and finally entered a furnished room through a curtained doorway. Taggart placed his brief case and the giant crystal on a table. Then he reached into a canvas knapsack on the floor and drew forth a black automatic pistol which he handed to Sandra. She took the weapon and examined it; it was a sleek, streamlined thing, very light in weight, unlike any gun she had ever seen. Its flowing design seemed somehow futuristic. The word WHITNEY stood out on one side of the breech in slanted white letters.

"It's only .22 calibre," said Taggart, "but it holds eleven shots. Just push up the thumb safety -- there -- and it's ready to go."

"I see," said Sandra dully. "Now at least I have the option of killing myself ..."

"No!"

Sandra was startled. The man's face was grim with a hard tenseness. She looked at the gun in her hand for a moment, then back at Taggart.

"Thank you!" she whispered -- then turned and hurried out of the room.

She ran down the corridor, breathless, her heart pounding. At the end of it she paused and peered carefully into the large central chamber where the lotus-pool shimmered darkly. It was empty. She crossed it, careful not to glance at what lay on the mosaics, and hastened down the main hall to her assigned room.

She had feared to see Mueller there, waiting for her, but the chamber was vacant. She flung herself face down on the bed, still holding the pistol in both hands, her heart beating wildly.

"He will come," she thought anxiously. "He said he would come."

She fondled the pistol almost lovingly. The grip was smooth and comfortable in her hand. She pressed the catch that held the clip in place and slid it out. Ten small bullets gleamed brightly, stacked in a neat, slanting row; there was another in the chamber. She snapped the clip back into place and slid the gun beneath the pillow, keeping her hand on it.

"Why doesn't he come?" she wondered. "Why doesn't he ... ?"

She lay still on her belly, breathing evenly, feeling her nerves relax, her muscles losing their unconsciously-held tension. She knew it was the pill taking effect. It felt so soothing, so wonderful, to be relaxed. Suddenly her eyes were full of tears and she lay crying softly against the pillow, experiencing the vast relief of being able to cry at all.

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

It was Carole Friedman, running to her out of the darkness, flinging herself into Sandra's arms.

"Carole!" Sandra was sobbing, running her fingers tenderly through the silky dark hair, holding the girl's head close to her breast. "Oh, Carole!"

"Don't cry, Sandy. I'm not afraid any more. They can't hurt me now that you're here. You're one of the bravest persons I've ever met."

"They'll never hurt you again, Carole. I've got a gun. I won't let them hurt you. Just let them try!"

The sound of booted feet rang out. Carole pulled away from Sandra's embrace, her blue eyes wide and frightened.

"Sandy -- don't let them hurt me! Sandy ..."

The footsteps rang louder. Sandra was suddenly awake, feeling angry and sad and frightened at the same time. Now the footsteps were at the door. Sandra lifted herself on her elbows and looked back over her shoulder in time to see Heinrich Mueller push the curtain aside and stride into the room.

"Ach! Where have you been?" he said, grinning lopsidedly. "I have looked all over for you. How clever of you to hide in your own room. And how sexy you look in that pose! Why did you leave our fine party, eh? I have missed you all evening."

"You're drunk," said Sandra, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

"And you are ravishing. Ha! ha! Simply ravishing. Al Hassim has excellent taste. That Greek thing becomes you -- you're sexier than if you were naked. I won't even bother to take it off you this time."

Sandra carefully snapped off the safety of the pistol, keeping her right hand under the pillow.

"You have been very cold toward me," continued Mueller. "Well, al Hassim has solved that, too. Tonight you shall have the experience of your life. Just imagine yourself like those women you saw tonight -- squirming, straining in undignified passion, craving me helplessly in spite of all your hatred." He licked his lips and moved a step closer, then opened a small box he carried in his hand and took out a silvery, glittering hypodermic needle. "Do you know what this is? Ha! ha! It's something to warm you up -- it's what they give horses to make them breed."

"And do you know what this is, Herr Mueller?"

Sandra was on her feet, facing the German squarely, the pistol clutched in both hands in front of her. For an instant Mueller stared at the gun stupidly. Sandra sighted at his stomach and squeezed the trigger. The pistol barked sharply in her hands, making her ears ring. The German dropped the hypodermic and continued to stare in bewilderment. Sandra fired again, and two small, dark spots began to widen and gleam wetly on the front of the man's uniform.

Mueller yelled in rage and charged, and Sandra sprang away, terrified, leaping across the bed barely in time to avoid his clutch. Whirling, she fired again, and the German grabbed his left should with a curse. The fourth shot pierced his abdomen. He screamed in fury, grabbed up a small marble figurine and flung it with all his strength. Sandra ducked barely in time, and the statuette crashed to pieces against the wall behind her. Quickly she drew another bead on the German's belt-buckle and fired again.

Mueller cursed shrilly and stumbled across the bed toward her. She fired yet again and the man staggered back, clutching at his face. As he fell he grabbed at the hanging curtains along the wall, and they came down with him. A table crashed to the floor at his impact, and perfume-vials spilled and smashed tinklingly on the marble tiles, filling the room with delightful fragrances. Mueller struggled to his knees, wrestling with the curtains, spitting out bloody tooth-fragments. Sandra walked around the bed and squeezed off another deliberate shot; blood and bone-chips spattered from the man's cheek. He screamed and tried to crawl under the bed; it was too low. He turned and floundered across the glass-littered floor on hands and knees, making for the door. Sandra fired into his body three times more as he crawled, and he sagged on the marble tiles, coughing and vomiting, threshing frantically in the still-clinging drapes. His right hand clutched spasmodically at the buttoned flap of his holster, but he could not get it unfastened. Once again Sandra's gun cracked, and the German lay writhing feebly, hitching himself toward the door with occasional jerks, wheezing fluidly and leaving a slimy trail of blood and vomit across the floor behind him.

Sandra pulled the trigger again; there was only a sharp click, and she realized that the gun was empty. Carefully avoiding the broken glass with her bare feet, she circled the dying German and ran out into the hall. Several men were hurrying down the corridor toward her, among them al Hassim and Suleiman. Two of the servants carried rifles, and the Turk gripped the handle of a great curved scimitar.

"Stay back!" cried Sandra. "Don't come any closer."

Al Hassim saw the gun in the girl's hands, and motioned his group to a half.

"Please throw away the pistol, Mrs. Helgeson. We'd hate to have to injure you."

"Stay away from me!"

"Be reasonable, my dear woman. You have no chance to escape, and, besides, you can't shoot us all at once."

"You know who I'll shoot first!"

Al Hassim smiled weakly. "Now, now, Mrs. Helgeson, let us not be hasty -- we have to think things out and not do anything rash. Yes, please turn that pistol a little to one side, if you will -- it's not at all conducive to rational discussion. Merciful Allah! where is that groaning coming from ... ? Ah -- I'm afraid I understand. Poor Herr Mueller! Just let me step into your room here, Mrs. Helgeson. Suleiman -- come here with me. The rest of you go and start digging another hole in the garden ... Ah -- I was afraid so! And all those fine perfumes spilled over the floor -- what a mess you have made, Mrs. Helgeson! Suleiman -- pull down the rest of that curtain and help me roll him up in it."

Al Hassim and the Turk vanished into Sandra's room; the servants hurried past her, scowling and fingering their rifles as she kept her pistol trained on them, and continued down the corridor toward the gardens. When they had gone Sandra noticed a man standing at the opposite end of the hall, motionless, silhouetted against the dim light from the central chamber. It was Taggart.

Sandra hurried up to him, noticing again the way his belt glowed with a faint blue light.

"I killed him!" she exclaimed in a voice she hardly recognized as her own. "I killed him!"

Taggart made no reply. He turned and motioned for her to follow, and they walked to his room without a word being spoken. Sandra felt herself begin to tremble in reaction to what she had just been through.

"Here are fifty more cartridges," said Taggart, handing Sandra a small box he had taken from the packsack on the floor. "Please don't kill al Hassim unless you have to. I'll let him know you are not to be disturbed. You may have this room."

"Where are you going?" demanded Sandra.

"I'm going to sleep in the front garden for the rest of the night. It's been rather noisy inside so far."

"I'm coming, too -- I can't stand this place any more. That is, if you won't mind ..."

"Of course not. Just grab a couple more blankets and pillows off the bed."

They walked out of the mansion and found a comfortable shadowy spot to roll out their blankets between a sundial and a short, thick-boled palm tree. Sandra curled up in a blanket, adjusted her pillows till she was comfortable, and began to reload her pistol in the moonlight. The grass was soft and cool, and the leaves of the palm were like great black feathers against the sky overhead. She felt herself relaxing somewhat. The American was still largely an unknown factor, but she knew now that he was not just another unfeeling enemy and she had no intention of forfeiting his company from here on.

"It's so strange," she said. "I'm not a fighter. I came to Israel as a volunteer nurse to save lives if I could, not to kill. I hated the fighting. I never dreamed it would make me feel so good to kill someone. It frightens me."

Taggart shrugged. He spread out a blanket by the sundial, rested his packsack against it and sat down. "You had to do it yourself," he said. "You'd never have felt right about it any other way."

"No."

She lay in silence, huddled warmly in the blanket, savoring the clean, fragrant smell of the grass. The pistol felt cool and comforting in her hand. She slipped it under the pillow and snuggled down more comfortably. A multitude of questions thronged her mind, but she was too tired to ask any of them. The soothing effect of the pill was creeping back, but there was also a deeper sense of unaccustomed security, a relaxing of tension such as she had not known for a long, long time. She felt warm -- actually feverish, in fact -- but it was so wonderful to have the tense ache of fear gone from her stomach, such a pleasure to ride the dark whirlpool of fatigue down to its focus of warm, untroubled nonentity ...

The warm waters of slumber stirred with vague menace. She knew that she dreamed, that she had been sleeping for hours, and dreaming, wondered how she knew.

Dark currents of fear, unlike anything she had ever felt before, swirled about her. Pulsations of menace seemed to radiate down to her from incredible vastnesses of space, where stars drifted and swirled like motes of dust in countless profusion on the dark tides of existence. There were vast and terrible entities out there, and they were angry, and their anger was cold and inexorable -- the righteous anger of grim and invincible gods.

She tried to retrieve her calm, her relief, her security, for somehow she knew that this was what offended those dark beings that seemed to tower over all the universe. They were trying to draw her back into the red gulfs of pain and fear. She cried in helpless rage at the unfairness of it, but she was so tiny and there was no place to hide.

Then she felt the black crystal near her, an orange spark at its heart. It was like a warm cave, a refuge. She wondered how she could see it through her closed eyes. But she did not wonder long, for the drums of menace were throbbing ever more intensely from the black depths of the universe.

She entered the crystal and plummeted down through leagues of space to its orange heart. Suddenly, with startling clarity, she found herself resting on the open palm of a gigantic skeleton, and all about her was the gloom of a vast, shadowy stone chamber dimly lit by a red-orange glow that seemed to radiate from herself. She could not see her own body, but all angles of the huge circular room were visible to her simultaneously. The skeleton in whose hand she rested sat upon a mighty throne, and several other skeletons lay some distance away on the dusty floor. The changeless silence of eternity lay unbreathing all around her, as if she were preserved forever in red amber ... And then, somehow she knew that there was a hidden door at a particular place in the stone wall and felt suddenly terrified that it would open. There were other beings besides the dark gods that lurked in the gulfs of space -- imprisoned or furtive beings that hid and waited for the day when hidden gates would reopen and might thunders of vengeance would peal crashingly across the entire universe ...

She woke toward morning, knowing that her fever had broken for she was shivering in a cold sweat, weak and nauseated. Near her she glimpsed the black crystal resting beside Taggart's brief case on the grass, its heart glowing like a dim orange spark. She rose shakily, staggered over to a nearby fountain and retched. For a moment she was so violently ill that she cried out feebly in pain. She fainted before she could make it back to her blanket, and was only half conscious of the American bundling her up in it and carrying her into the mansion.

She slept very soundly for a long time after that, and felt weak but not at all sick when she awoke. Taggart was sitting at a nearby table, reading. The rays of the sun came through the window slantingly, and she guessed it was late afternoon. She sat up in bed, feeling limp and lightheaded but otherwise much improved.

"How do you feel?" said Taggart.

"Hungry."

"I'll go get us something to eat."

When he had gone Sandra rose and looked out the window. The palms were making long shadows across the garden. Then she saw her pistol lying on the table and picked it up. Warily she walked out of the room and down the corridor to the central chamber. The place had been cleaned up, and nothing indicated that the horrible party of the previous night had ever occurred. She proceeded on to the room of the bathing pool, which she found as deserted as the rest of the mansion seemed to be.

After indulging in a luxurious soaking for about ten minutes, she put her white tunic back on, wrapped her damp hair in a towel and returned to Taggart's chamber. She found the American seated at the table again, reading in his ancient book.

He looked up as she entered and indicated a great, metal platter that rested on the table.

"Help yourself -- it's all I could scrape up."

The platter was piled high with dates, pomegranates, olives, meats, cheeses, bread and a couple of half-empty bottles of wine -- evidently all leftovers from the party. Sandra sat on the edge of the bed and attacked some bread and cheese for a starter.

"Where is everybody?" she asked.

"Al Hassim has gone to get some camels ready. He sent the servants away for a few days."

"I'm afraid I've held up your journey, haven't I?"

"No. It's better to travel at night in the desert, especially when there's a moon. Do you feel well enough to start riding in a couple of hours?"

"Yes." Sandra grabbed some olives and dates and swung her legs up on the bed, leaning back against the wall. "Tell me -- where are we going?"

"I'm not sure. We'll see when we get there."

"You're following the beam from that crystal. Isn't that it?"

"Yes."

"And the thing you call 'the Fire of Assurbanipal' is at the end of the beam."

"I'm sure of it."

"And just what is this thing?"

"That's too complicated to go into just now," said Taggart.

"All right, then, tell me this: after you've accomplished whatever you're doing here, what's going to happen to me? Do you own me now -- or are you going to help me get back to America?"

"I'll get you out if I can."

"I take that to mean you're not going back to America. You certainly don't volunteer any information!" Sandra's voice rose; she did not fear this strange man, but his reticence seemed enough like indifference to anger her. "I wish I knew something about this mysterious goal of yours. It's not just idle curiosity; it's my life that's at stake and I want to know all the factors."

"I'm sorry. It's just that you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"All right." Taggart sighed. "I'm not going back to America because I can't. The America I knew doesn't even exist now. I saw it destroyed utterly."

"That's an awfully bitter attitude," said Sandra. "I admit our government's made some rotten decisions lately -- especially since the Partition of Palestine -- but I'm afraid you won't find a better country anywhere on this whole crazy planet."

"You don't understand." A strange hardness had set into Taggart's face. "I'm not speaking in metaphors. I saw America destroyed. Not just America, but all civilization throughout the entire world. I saw it destroyed by fire -- radiation -- poison gas -- hydrogen bombs -- winds that whipped the atmosphere of the entire planet into one tremendous hurricane. I saw all but a tiny fraction of earth's population annihilated in less than a single day! Do you understand?"

Something cold passed over Sandra, and she realized there was some strange gulf between her and this enigmatic man. And now she glimpsed the emotion that drove him, that normally hid behind his matter-of-fact voice and expressionless features. It was hate.

"I told you you wouldn't believe me," said Taggart. "Let's see about getting the camels ready."

They rode at dusk through the oasis of al Jauf, past the dark fortress at its eastern end and out into the great desert. The landscape was weirdly beautiful under the rising moon, stretching off to a far, dim horizon of pale silver under the night-blue heavens, replete with shadows that lay like dark pools in the gentle sandy hollows. Occasional areas of rock thrust up above the sand in weird, wind-carved formations. Now and then a soft breeze whispered.

They proceeded in silence, and Sandra was somehow uneasy. Behind her rode the giant Turk, leading the supply-carrying camel. Each time she glanced back the giant's small, dark eyes seemed fixed on her in an inscrutable scowl. His bald head gleamed under the moon and the shadow of his black mustache added to the sinister cast of his face; the camel he rode seemed ridiculously small beneath his massive frame.

Taggart seemed lost in contemplation, and Sandra did not venture to break in on his thoughts. But presently al Hassim, who rode in the lead, fell back and drew alongside the American.

"You need be silent no longer, Mr. Taggart," he said. "There are only the four of us and the desert here now. Secrets are unnecessary. In any case, I know more about your quest than you may have realized."

"Oh?" said Taggart.

"I know that you are looking for a great red jewel called the Fire of Assurbanipal, and that it is supposed to be hidden in an abandoned stone city somewhere in this desert. You see, I too have read Abd' ul Hazrât's Azif -- though not in so ancient a copy as yours. I have heard of the city often. It is called Beled el Djinn -- the City of Devils -- by the Bedouins, though I've never found one who claimed to have seen it. They do say the jewel exists, though. Two decades ago a pair of adventurers came out of the desert half-starved, claiming they had seen the city and the gem, but nothing would induce them to go back or even give directions to others. It seems whoever tries to steal the gem is slain by a guardian demon. These legends are never very original, are they! The moral of this one seems very obvious: beware the demon of greed when you reach to pluck life's bounty, or it may destroy you. A little overworked, wouldn't you say?"

"You know better than that," said Taggart.

"Very well!" Al Hassim was suddenly serious, his voice containing a steely quality Sandra had not seen him display before. "I shall 'level with you,' as your expression has it. I know you are no mere treasure-seeker, and you must know that I am not assisting you to find the pot full of gold, either. I think I know what you seek, and I want to help you."

"Why?"

"Ha! ha! Do not try to fool me. I, too, have read many strange old books, and I have traveled to many strange parts of the world. I have seen the ancient rock caves in Cappadocia where you discovered the Azif, and I know the sort of cults you must have dealt with in order to obtain it. I have not read your copy in the original Arabic -- but I have read the incomplete Latin version of Wormius in the British Museum, and that gives me a good idea of what you hope to accomplish."

"And what's that?"

"You are going to open the Five-angled Gate!"

Taggart shrugged but made no answer. Al Hassim laughed again.

"I've talked to the cult-men all over the world," he continued. "Whoever they worship, whether it is Yog-Sothoth or Koth or Hastur or any of the others, they all agree that the world shall ring with riot and ecstasy and that their enemies shall all taste death when the Great Old Ones break through. I want to be 'in the front row,' as you Americans say -- I do not want to be crushed when the rioting begins. Also, there is little scope for men of my tastes and talents in this world at present -- but I've seen some of the cult-orgies in Tibet and Sung and the Pacific islands, and I understand they are just a foreshadowing of what is to come -- a 'preview of coming attractions,' as you say. Ha! ha! You see, I know about these things. When the Gates open and the Great Old Ones come again to claim this world, there is going to be more entertainment for those who join the right side in time than even our Nazi friends could dream up in a thousand years. Those Nazis knew it, too, I am sure -- I knew some of the occultists they had working secretly for them, and Herr Lammerding told me much more -- but they bungled it, and now their New World Order is a fading dream. But now you see what I am getting at: I've seen those cults worshipping the Great Old Ones with blood-frenzy and ecstasy, and when that sort of thing multiplies a million-fold and sweeps the globe, I do not wish to be caught with the 'suckers,' as you say. I have thought much about this -- about the power a man of talent and taste could attain to by helping the Old Ones in their return. You have also, Mr. Taggart, or you would not be a student of such things. Obviously you have made contact -- those weapons you carry could not have come from any place on earth. So you see, wherever you are going I will be happy to accompany and aid you."

"Suit yourself," said Taggart.

Al Hassim scowled and rode back to the front of the line. Sandra sensed he was irritated by the American's indifference. To her, their conversation had been practically unintelligible -- senseless, in fact -- and yet it had disturbed her strangely.

When at last they pitched camp and ate in the dark hour before dawn, Sandra joined the American where he sat some distance from the others and their camels.

"I've got to know what's going on here," she said. "Where did those weapons of yours come front?"

Taggart stopped eating and looked up at the sky. "There," he said presently, pointing westward. "See that hazy patch of light not far from the big square of stars? That's the Andromeda galaxy. Just look along my finger and you'll see what I mean."

"I take it you mean it's none of my business," said Sandra.

"No -- I'm not making fun of you."

"Then why do you say such things?"

"I won't say any more, then."

Sandra laughed. "I wish I could make sense out of you."

Suleiman was putting up a small tent while al Hassim fed and tended the five camels. Taggart sat cross-legged before his dying cook-fire, staring into the coals. In the east, the sky was lightening before the advancing dawn.

"There's no reason you have to," said Taggart.

"Yes, there is. You're the most important person in my life right now. I need to learn all I can about you. That's not being nosy, I hope."

"No -- not at all."

Sandra regarded the man closely from where she sat on the opposite side of the fire. The flames made lurid reflections in his spectacles so that she could not see his eyes.

"You make me uncomfortable sometimes," she continued. "I think the others feel that way, too -- though al Hassim seems to understand you better than I do."

"He doesn't know about the Will-crystal, at any rate," said Taggart. "The Latin version contains no reference to that."

"Are you talking to me or to yourself?"

"I'm sorry. I'm a little preoccupied. I don't mean to be rude."

Sandra smiled, rose and arranged a blanket at the base of a rock outcropping. "I wish you'd tell me something about yourself," she said.

"What do you want to know?"

Sandra settled down comfortably and rolled up in the blanket. "I don't know -- anything you care to tell me. Where you were born, when, what sort of life you've had ..."

"Well .." Taggart adjusted his spectacles and rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. "I was born in 1941 ..."

Sandra laughed. "And this is 1951 -- hm! Let's see -- that makes you all of ten years old now, doesn't it!"

"One hundred would be closer."

"There you go again -- making fun of me." Sandra made a pillow of her clothes and snuggled deeper into the blanket. "I'll quit bothering you and go to sleep."

"You're not bothering me -- not at all."

Taggart stood up beside the dying campfire and looked off toward the approaching dawn. He stood slightly hunched, hands in his pockets. Sandra sensed a strange feeling of isolation about him.

"What is it you're trying to do?" she asked finally. "Please try to tell me."

"Very well." Taggart wrapped a blanket about his shoulders and sat down near her in the shadow of the boulders. "I'm trying to get back out there." He pointed to the sky.

"Where?"

"Well, probably to the Kothian base on Venus first, then to a Zarrian ship if possible, then out to Pluto and beyond. I was on a ship from Zarr, and we had established a polar orbit around Earth when a Galactic shot us down. I was one of the few who wasn't transferred to another ship in time. Zarrians had priority in the atomic transmitters, then Kothians and other star-empire minions. Except for a few semi-human Deep Ones, I was the only native of Earth on board. The Deep Ones who weren't transferred got away safely to the oceans, but I had to touch down on land, of course. I picked a remote spot in California. It has taken me months to get this far, but if I can get the Kothian in Beled el Djinn to show me to the Five-angled Gate I may be able to use the Will-crystal to make an escape ... You still think I'm making fun of you, don't you?"

"I don't know. Maybe we just don't have much in common. You were on a ship from -- from where?"

"From Zarr. Actually, from a Zarrian outpost in this galaxy. I've never been to Zarr itself -- that's the galaxy in Andromeda I pointed out to you. You look puzzled -- I must sound ridiculous."

Sandra laughed, and even Taggart smiled wanly for a moment.

"Good night," said Sandra finally.

The American moved away to the base of a large boulder and curled up in its shadow. Sandra could see his blanketed form outlined faintly in a blue light.

"Don't you ever turn that thing off?" she asked.

"Al Hassim has a Luger," said Taggart, "and Suleiman has a scimitar."

Sandra frowned. She felt suddenly that the American was more alone than anyone else she had ever met. It made her realize, too, that now she shared his aloneness, and before she fell into an exhausted sleep, she checked the streamlined pistol he had given her.

There were more nights of riding under the waning moon, more days of fitful sleep out on the hot desert. Always they rode in silence, and always Sandra was uneasily aware of the dark stares of the Turk and the occasional calculating glances of al Hassim. These two never spoke to her, but their silent attentions seemed somehow maliceful and bothered her more than she liked. On the fourth morning, as she lay wrapped in her blanket under a lone and stunted shrub, she mentioned her feelings to the American while he sat staring as usual into the fading coals of his campfire.

"They hate you," said Taggart.

"Why?" Sandra demanded. "I don't understand."

"Because they have done you harm and you have recovered. Because they are not free to do you harm now. Perhaps especially, because you are a woman and they cannot assert power over you. Men don't like restrictions like that."

"That's horrible! I hope you never feel that way."

"No -- I don't think so ..."

The fire died slowly as the dawn came creeping over the white sands.

"Tell me," said Sandra presently, "do you believe in God?"

"What do you mean by God?"

"Why ... I don't know. Just God."

"There are many gods. Or beings -- entities -- one name is as good as another."

"But don't you acknowledge a supreme being of some kind?"

"Sure. There's the mindless force-principle -- called Azathoth by the most ancient civilizations of this planet. It created -- to use the term loosely -- the space-time matrix. But the word 'create' implies time itself, and is therefore misleading. Let's say rather that the preconditions for space-time are a function of Azathoth. Then there are the Elder Gods and the Great Old Ones ..."

"Good heavens, what a pagan you are!"

"I take it you don't believe me."

"You can't really expect me to. I was brought up a Presbyterian -- not a very good one, I'm glad to say, but my preconceptions will always exclude a pantheon from my beliefs, I'm afraid. What are these ... these 'Old Ones?'"

"There are many of them," said Taggart. "Aeons ago they fought a war with the Elder Gods and lost, and they have been 'banished,' to use an anthropomorphic metaphor, ever since. Many of them are mentioned in the Azif: Yog-Sothoth, Hastur, Tsathoggua, Koth, ..."

"You mean you actually believe ... ?"

"The Elder Gods and the Great Old Ones started most of the religions of mankind," Taggart went on. "Satan, formerly Ahriman, still lurks somewhere beneath Persia. Cthulhu and Dagon are the prototypes of most sea-gods. Shub-Niggurath, who dwells now in the caverns of Yog beneath Irem, has been worshipped as an earth-goddess in nearly every ancient religion. The thing worshipped as Yahweh or Yog-Sothoth was imprisoned in a mountain on the Sinai Peninsula till I helped release it over three thousand years ago. Usually the Great Old Ones are pictured by man's religions as evil beings, fighting against the benign Elder Gods. Actually, I fear there's little to choose between them."

"How do you mean?" Sandra wondered suddenly if the American were insane. The thought was disturbing -- but there was an even more disturbing alternative ...

"You might say the Elder Gods are something like Mueller and al Hassim," said Taggart. There was a grim tenseness in his voice. "They enjoy creating pain for its own sake, and they live off the psychic energies generated by all the suffering and dying creatures throughout the universe. They brought about the periodic disturbance we call matter, with its inherent tendency to form into stars, planets, biological phenomena and eventually creatures possessing nervous systems that can suffer the most exquisite pain and anguish. The desire to exist, to achieve impossible or ephemeral goals, to reenact a perpetual tragedy -- all this was put into the base wave-patterns of matter by the Elder Gods, and the process they started has provided them with a psychic feast generated by suffering for billions of years. Is it any wonder they fight to preserve the material worlds, which the Great Old Ones would sweep away or mold into a different pattern?"

"What a bitter outlook!" exclaimed Sandra. "What you're saying is that the universe is a flop."

"No, it's extremely successful. Each galaxy is a feasting-place where the Elder Gods can come and bask in the psychic energies given off by myriads of suffering and dying creatures on millions of worlds. Their centers closest to us are a planet circling the giant star Betelgeuse and another circling Celaeno in the Pleiades, but there are many others. They maintain an army of indestructible robots called the Galactics to keep races in this galaxy from destroying one another after space travel is achieved; actually, the Galactics themselves were created long ago by a roughly human-like civilization somewhere near the galactic center, to maintain order; the original race gradually died out, but the robots who replaced them are still going blindly about their duties, and the Elder Gods don't interfere because it prolongs their feast. Perhaps other galaxies are run the same way. But in the Zarr Galaxy, the Elder Gods have been driven out by Zathog and the Zarrians ..."

"Please, wait!" Sandra could not help laughing. "I can't follow all this. Isn't there something that makes sense about you? Every time I ask you what I think is a simple question, you floor me with something outlandish. Please tell me something about you that I can understand."

"What do you want to know?"

"I'd like to know what your purpose is -- what you hope to gain by all this. You seem as dedicated a man as I've ever met, and I'd like to know why. What are you after?"

"I hope to escape from this planet," said Taggart.

"And then? Is that all?"

Taggart studied the backs of his hands absently. "Eventually," he said, "I hope to help the Great Old Ones destroy the entire universe."

The quiet remark came to Sandra almost like a slap in the face. Once again she was made aware of the wall between this strange man and herself -- by the strange belt he always wore.

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