by E. C. Tubb
“A garrison,” said the young man. “Or a fort, or even, though I doubt if they would attack it, the arsenal at Marojia.”
“Exactly. So, in order to squash this incipient hell, we must know just where to expect the preliminary attack. If we can crush that, beat them back and punish them for breaking the peace, then we may, and I repeat, may, be able to avoid bloodshed.” He stared at the young man. “That is your job.”
“Mine?”
“Yes. You have been among the Arabs before and can speak like one. You know their ways and could pass where another man would be discovered and tortured to death. You are to mingle with the camel drivers, they always seem to know what is going on, and from there ferret out the truth.” Le Farge sighed. “I may be starting at shadows, I hope to God I am, but if there is anything in what I feel, then we must take every precaution.”
“You wish me to stay in the city and to report to you personally?”
“No. You are attached to the garrison at Onassis and you must return there. Make your way in disguise and, when you discover anything of value, report to Colonel Marignay. He will forward the information to me in cipher.” He stared at the young man. “Any questions?”
“Am I at liberty to time my own movements or must I report within a certain time?”
“Use your own discretion. I shall inform Colonel Marignay to expect you. Once you have reported to the garrison you will resume your normal command.” Le Farge hesitated. “Be careful. I have reason to believe that information as to the Arab Division has been reaching ears for which it was not intended. Two agents have mysteriously vanished and one other was found yesterday, horribly mutilated and still alive.” Le Farge swallowed. “He died in hospital a few hours after he was found.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I hope that you do.” The old man dropped his hand familiarly on the other’s shoulder. “Find out what you can and report it to the Colonel. Take no risks other than those you cannot avoid.” His grip tightened a moment. “I am depending on you, my young friend. See to it that you do not let me down.”
“You may trust me, my Colonel,” said Corville quietly. For a moment the two men stared at each other, one so old, the other so young. Then Corville snapped his arm into the salute, turned, and without a backward glance marched from the office.
Behind him Le Farge sighed, stared at the map a moment, then reached for a new bottle of wine.
CHAPTER TWO
DEATH IN THE DESERT
HEAT. A simmering bowl of the brightest azure for a sky in which the lambent ball of the sun glowed like the feral eye of some angry god. From it, reflected from the undulating dunes of the desert, torrid heat blazed with furnace-like fury, sucking the moisture from man and beast and turning the fine sand of the desert into an impalpable dust that rose in soft, cloud-like plumes from beneath the plodding feet of the camel train.
A big train it was, fully two score of heavily laden beasts together with outriders mounted on sleek Arabian horses whose manes were decked with brilliant scraps of cloth and whose bridles and saddles were studded with silver. Grim men these outriders, hawk-faced, their eyes ever watchful as they scanned the desert for signs of a raiding party, many of them with their long Jezails, old-fashioned muzzle-loaders chased and ornamented with silver, resting across their saddle bows. Others carried more modern weapons, Lebels and Mausers, with here and there a Schnider. Swords too, they carried, the heavy-bladed scimitars and in the belts of all were slender bladed knives.
Corville rode on the neck of a haughty camel, his face half-hidden in a fold of his burnoose, and let his eyes drift over the surrounding terrain. For three days now he had worked as a camel driver and during that time the caravan had pushed on with a speed almost unknown for desert travel. Sidi bel Abbes had long since fallen beneath the horizon and, to his surprise, instead of the caravan heading directly towards Onassis by the shortest route, they had made a swinging detour to the East. Now, riding as if part of his beast, the young officer let his mind toy with the problem of why, an apparently innocent camel train, should have both veered from its regular path, and be pushing on with incredible speed.
He thought that the answer lay hidden in the thickly wrapped bundles carried by more than half the camels.
How they had passed the inspectors at the town Corville didn’t know. He had joined the train just before it had left the encampment outside of the city and, because they had needed an extra driver, he had been engaged with only token questions. The armed outriders had joined them on the second day and, watching them, Corville began to have an idea of what was behind the detour and the speed.
Guns.
Smuggled weapons for some rebellious tribe loaded and passed by bribed inspectors now on their way to delivery at a rendezvous deep in the desert away from the prying eyes of the Legion. Rifles from Italy, Greece, the Turkish States and perhaps from foreign countries further north. Weapons to arm the tribesmen so that they could rise and turn against their protectors and lawmakers. Guns to blast innocent traders and settlers, villagers and peaceful natives, Legionnaires and tourists. Guns to set the desert aflame.
And there was nothing the young officer could do about it.
Sitting on the camel as he steered it across the featureless sands he had evolved and discarded a dozen schemes to destroy the lethal load. All of them were impracticable. If he was discovered tampering with the loads he would die, not quickly, but with all the diabolical ingenuity of the East. Being buried alive with only his head protruding above the sand for the vultures to peck out his eyes would be nothing compared to what the outriders would do to him. They would strip him naked and then, even if they did not discover he was a Ferengi, they would tie him to a horse and drag his body over the desert until the skin had been worn from his bones. Or they might choose the fire-torture, or that inflicted by the thin, razor-edged knives and which turned a man into ghastly abomination to whom death was a welcome relief. Corville shuddered as he thought about it and, beneath the loose burnoose, his hand touched the butt of his automatic as if to reassure himself that, should all else fail, he could still die a clean death.
The shouting of his fellow drivers attracted his attention and he stared ahead to where the foremost outriders had wheeled their mounts with a flurry of sand from beneath their hoofs and were now racing back towards the caravan.
“Toureg! Toureg!”
The word was enough. At the mention of the dreaded raiders of the desert, the so-called ‘Veiled ones’, or the ‘Scourge of God’, something like panic disorganised the camel caravan. For a moment men shouted and prayed to Allah then, with the fatalism of their race, settled down to fight or die.
Long-muzzled Jezails were loaded from powder horns and heavy bullets rammed home. Scimitars glinted in the brilliant sunlight and others, too poor to own sword or gun, whetted their knives as they prayed for compassion. Finally, after a brief flurry of activity, the caravan was ready to fight or die though, knowing the reputation of the notorious Touregs, Corville had little doubt as to the outcome.
Dust rose from the horizon, a swelling cloud of disturbed particles lifting and rising towards the harsh clearness of the sky. Figures became visible, the mounted warriors of the Toureg, their faces veiled against the sand and their bodies appeared to be one. Sound came before them, thin shouts and the deeper, more menacing sound of shots.
“Allah preserve us this day,” muttered a man standing next to Corville. “Look at them! What chance does a humble driver of camels have against the Scourge of God?”
“Allah is wise,” said the young officer enigmatically. “What is to be, will be, Peace, brother, maybe we die this day, but what is written is written and no man can escape his destiny.”
“So be it,” replied the man, and began to pray with hopeful fervour. “Allah the all-wise, the all-compassionate, the all-knowing....”
Incredibly it seemed as if his prayers were answered. Directly towards the waiting camel train the Tou
regs rode. Directly towards the grimly waiting outriders and the trembling drivers, their mounts spurning the sand, their weapons glinting in their hands their veiled faces making them seem like beings from another world. Abruptly they reined. Sand plumed towards the mounted horsemen, hiding them, almost covering them with its fine grit, then it settled and, in solid array, the Touregs rested on their motionless steeds.
“Allah be praised,” shouted the man next to Corville. “He has heard and answered my prayers!”
“Silence, dog!” One of the Touregs, tall in his saddle, stepped his horse forward and spat the words as if they hurt his mouth. “Where is the leader of this caravan?”
“Here, lord!” A fat merchant, who, up till now had ridden in a covered palaquin, stepped forward, his thin beard almost touching the desert as he bowed, his fat hands washing themselves in invisible soap and water. “It is I whom you wish to see, mighty Sheik. I....”
“You have too much tongue,” interrupted the Toureg. “Have you that which we seek?”’
“Aye, lord.”
“It is well.” The Toureg gestured with the short whip he carried in his hand. “Proceed. By nightfall you should be at the oasis of Haroom. Camp there and, in the morning, we shall conduct our business. Follow!”
As he finished speaking he turned his horse’s head and, without a backward glance, rode on into the desert, his men falling in line behind him. Immediately the air resounded with the shrill orders from the merchant, the camel drivers goaded their ungainly steeds into motion, and, before the Touregs had reached the horizon, the camel caravan was plodding at increased speed after them,
Corville was thoughtful as the day dragged on. The Touregs had acted totally out of character in not attacking the caravan. The fat merchant had expected attack, else why the heavily armed escort? But he had also seemed to be expecting the visitors. Corville shrugged, making a note to keep alert that night, and, reaching for his goat skin of water, allowed a little to trickle into his mouth. He would have preferred wine, or, as no Moslem was supposed to touch wine or strong waters, cooled sherbert, but to a thirsty man water, even tepid and stale, is the most welcome drink of all.
Night fell before they reached the oasis. The sun sank with the abrupt suddenness of the tropic regions, the clear azure of the sky changed to a bowl of blackness glittering with stars, almost as if some careless jeweller had tossed a double handful of diamonds against the soft black velvet of space. Low on the horizon a swollen moon floated like a full-sailed ship over the gleaming sands and silence, the incredible silence of the desert, folded the caravan as if in a wor1d of its own.
Corville was nodding with fatigue when they arrived. He jerked awake to shouted commands and slipped, stiff-legged from his mount, First came the necessity of feeding and unloading the camel, watering it at the muddy pool which supported scant life for a dozen palm trees and a scattering of sparse vegetation. His duties over, he joined the rest of the camel drivers around a small fire and dipped his hands into the communal dish of cous-cous and boiled and spiced mutton. Dried dates followed the meal and long, cooling drinks of sherbert, an unaccustomed luxury for the humble drivers. Lying on his side Corville listened to the idle gossip of the chattering men.
“By Allah I swear it,” said one, and the young officer recognised the man who had stood beside him while waiting for the Tauregs. “Even as I waited for the angel to sweep down to carry me to Paradise my prayers were answered and the Scourge of Allah halted in their tracks.” He gulped at the sickly sweet sherbert. “This tastes the pleasanter because of it. Never did I think to drink again.”
“If your throat had been cut from ear to ear, still would you drink,” laughed a man, a squat, scarred-faced man whose dingy turban showed the green thread of a Hadji. “But this I will say, our leader, may dogs defile his grave, has never thought to give such as we sherbert before. Rather rotten meat and sour water, not cous-cous and sherbert. Allah must have moved his bowels for compassion for him to do this thing.”
“So you say!” Corville set down his untouched bowl of sherbert. “I am new among you,” he explained. “I know not the ways of your master. Is this indeed a rare treat he has given us?”
“Rare?” The Hadji spat into the sand. “I have slaved for the spawn of Shaitan for twenty moons now and this is the first time he has cast more than a curse my way. And yet,” he added reflectively, “he did push us hard.”
“Hard? My bones are sore from the jolting and my tongue is as the leather of the harness.” A third man, old and wizened, dipped his bowl into the urn and slobbered as he gulped the sherbert.
“He must hate his camels to treat them so. More, two days more, of such speed and bones will litter the sand. Not even the Ferengi would treat men so.”
“The Ferengi!” The Hadji spat. “Infidel dogs!”
“They are as Allah made them,” said Corville, and tipped the contents of his bowl into the sand at his side. “Who are we to question the workings of Allah?”
“Allah is all-wise,” agreed the Hadji impatiently, “But Allah has infinite patience and we have not. How long must we tolerate the infidel? How long must we listen to their jeers? It is said that three Ferengi spat on the Muezzin at the Mosque of El Farid. Is that a good thing?”
“It is a bad thing,” said Corville, who knew the tale to be a lie. “If it be true then Allah should smite the unbelievers with his sword of fire.”
“If it be true?” The Hadji glared at the young man. “If? Doubt you my word?”
“Not so.” Corville bowed his head in submission. “And yet a man may hear a tale from one man, who heard it from another, who heard it from yet a third. Could Shaitan have started stories to arouse unrest?”
“Allah defend us from Shaitan,” droned the man who had prayed. He seemed to be half-asleep and, as he lifted his bowl to his mouth, spilled the contents over his filthy burnoose.
“Allah defends those who defend themselves,” said the Hadji seriously. He yawned. “Allah, but I feel tired. May the spirits of air and water watch over us this night. May....” He yawned again then, falling as a tree falls, toppled almost directly into the fire. Corville saved him, pushing the recumbent form away from the flames with the sole of his shoe, his nostrils wrinkling to the smell of the singed hair of the other’s beard. He glanced around the fire.
All the drivers seemed cither asleep or about to fall asleep. Corville nodded as he saw it, his suspicions confirmed then, to allay any watchers, he deliberately filled his bowl from the urn and, turning his head, pretended to gulp his fill of the sherbert. Carefully he tipped the contents onto the sand, yawned, stretched, yawned again, then fell flat on his back, his head turned away from the fire so as to avoid the betraying reflection of firelight from his eyes. Lying there, every sense alert, he strained his ears and listened.
Time passed, how long he did nol know, but he forced himself to lie quietly despite the fact that several ants had found their way inside his burnoose and had sunk their mandibles into his flesh. Finally, just as he was about to rid himself of his tormentors, he heard the scuff, scuff of slippers and the sound of voices.
“Are they asleep?”
“Yes, my lord,” whined the voice of the fat merchant. “I gave them sherbert well tainted with a certain drug which will make them as dead until tomorrow’s dawn.”
“It is well,” said the voice of the Toureg leader. “And yet it would be better should they not live to see another dawn. Dead tongues cannot wag, merchant. I would rest more easily should these dogs greet the new sun with sightless eyes.”
“That cannot be,” said the merchant hastily, then resumed his whine. “Think you, lord. The Ferengi know when I left the city of Sidi bel Abbes. They know the duration of the journey to Onassis whither I am bound. Should 1 arrive so late as to arouse question, or arrive without the drivers I have employed, then eyes will be sharpened and much harm will be done to my trade.”
“Your trade.” Contempt thickened the Sheik’s voic
e. “What is your trade to me, dog?”
“Less than the sand beneath the hoofs of your steeds, Sheik El Morini,” snarled the merchant. “And yet it is a strange thing that it was to me that you came for aid. I....”
“Mock me not, you dog!” Corville tensed to the hiss of indrawn breath. “See this steel, of Damascus inlaid with writings from the Koran which gives the metal great power against devils and succubi. I doubt me not that it would sink readily into your heart. Shall I test the potency of the blade?”
“Nay, Lord,” stammered tbe merchant. “I did but jest.”
“Jest? Then you would not deny me a smile at the sight of your blood?”
“I have eaten your salt,” babbled the fat merchant, now in a terror. “I have shared your bread. You cannot kill me now.”
“You are safe beneath the laws of hospitality until the next dawn,” admitted the Sheik. “Yet do not trifle with me man of too great flesh, It comes to me that you and those like you are the first to sell their dignity for Ferengi gold. It would be as well for you to remember that. Remember too that the Veiled Ones have a long arm and that their power does not end with the ending of the desert.”
“Why speak to me so,” whined the merchant. “Have I not done as I promised? Here I have brought you many rifles from distant lands. Good weapons with which to slay the infidel. I....”
“Are the guns the same as used by the Ferengi?”
“The Foreign Legion? Lebels? Yes, it was as you so ordered.” The whine increased. “Other weapons would have come cheaper, lord, but these rifles are scarce and difficult to obtain. Much gold I had to spend in having them shipped across the water. More to close the right eyes and seal the right mouths. Of profit I do not speak, it is sufficient that I serve you, but the risk! Aye the risk!”