Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “How stunning!” Sharon whispered to Drake. “Everything looks so real it’s amazing!”

  They were taken to their host and after a few polite exchanges Drake murmured an excuse and escaped with Sharon toward the dining-room where refreshments were being served.

  The room was thick with incense and more exotically garbed guests. Food and drink were being dispensed by serving girls in gaily colored silk trousers, tight brassieres and chaste veils.

  Drake garnered two glasses and led Sharon to a divan. They lit cigarettes, sipped their drinks and watched the party.

  “Fortunately,” Drake said, “we can leave early.”

  “Oh, I’m enjoying this,” Sharon said. “But I could do with a little less incense.” She coughed and fanned herself with a handkerchief. “It seems to be a little rich for my taste. Could you open a window?”

  “Sure thing,” Drake said.

  He put down his drink and stepped to a row of draped windows directly behind their divan. He tried unsuccessfully to open them, then returned to Sharon’s side with a shrug.

  “Funny,” he said, “they’re bolted shut.”

  “Well, never mind,” Sharon smiled. “I can put up with it for a while.” Drake frowned at the windows. “Yes, but it’s odd. Supposing there was a fire?”

  “Oh, there you go being practical again,” Sharon laughed. “Please don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I thought it was going to worry you.”

  “Well it does,” Drake said.

  “Now you’re being stuffy,” Sharon smiled. “If you started worrying about everything that was irregular you’d have a full time job on your hands.”

  WHILE they were talking a smiling little man waddled across to them with a glass of hot, spiced wine in his plump, pink hand.

  “How do you do?” he said, smiling until his face seemed to be a net-work of soft creases.

  Drake glanced at him in surprise; for the man’s salutation had been delivered in Arabic; not modern Arabic, but a variation of the tongue that was now considered archaic. His astonishment was the same as if he’d been addressed in the English of Chaucer.

  Drake answered him courteously, using the same archaic dialect. The smiling fat man appeared delighted.

  “How nice, how nice,” he said, rubbing his plump hands together. “It is so nice to hear my tongue spoken.” Sharon tugged Drake’s sleeve.

  “What goes on?” she asked in a whisper. “He isn’t using the Arabic you taught me. Although I can make out the general meaning of what he’s saying.”

  “It’s an old dialect,” Drake answered. “I haven’t heard it since I was a post-grad.” He turned to the fat man who was regarding them with genial, twinkling eyes. “My name is Masterson, Drake Masterson. May I present Miss Sharon Ward.”

  “I am charmed,” the little round man murmured, still speaking in ancient Arabic. He bowed extravagantly. He was dressed in loose red trousers and a short jeweled vest. A tassle-topped fez was set at a rakish angle on his pumpkin-shaped head. His face was a soft, pasty white and his little eyes looked like shiny raisins set in a pan of bread dough.

  “My name is Humai,” he said. “I am very, very glad to meet both of you. Could I get you a glass of wine or something to eat?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Drake smiled, “but thanks just the same. As a matter of fact, Miss Ward and I were just thinking about leaving.”

  “Oh, you can’t go yet,” the little man cried. His eyes twinkled merrily. “The party is just beginning. Do you not find everything delightful?”

  “Yes, it’s very nice,” Sharon said politely. She coughed slightly and fanned herself. The thick swirling clouds of incense moved sluggishly from the draft caused by her hand.

  “Do you not like the incense?” the little fat man inquired solicitously.

  “It’s pretty thick,” Sharon said. She coughed again and smiled wanly at Drake. “I think I’ll have to step outside and get a breath of air.”

  “Sure thing,” Drake said. “I’ll go with you. Do you need a wrap?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  DRAKE helped her to rise. Humai watched with a solicitous expression on his round white face.

  “I am very sorry,” he murmured. “That’s all right,” Drake said. “Miss Ward will be fine after a little air.” Sharon put her hand to her forehead. “Yes, I’ll be all right,” she said. “My knees feel a little weak, that’s all.”

  “It is so unfortunate,” Humai murmured. “The entertainment has not yet started. It is unfortunate that you must miss it.”

  “I think we’ll mange to bear up under the loss,” Drake said drily.

  He put an arm about Sharon’s waist and started across the room. The fumes of incense were swirling about his head in a cloying suffocating cloud.

  “But you do not know what you’re missing,” Humai said, trotting beside them on his short, fat legs. His round, brown face was creased anxiously.

  “Please, Drake,” Sharon murmured weakly against his shoulder. “Let’s hurry.”

  Humai tugged at Drake’s arm. “Look just one instant,” he begged. He waved his hand in the air and suddenly, to the left of the girl, a swirling segment of the smoke began to coalesce into the shadowy outlines of a human figure. Sharon drew away from Drake and stared with amazement at the figure, whose shape and outline were becoming more definite with each second.

  She threw her hands up in an instinctive gesture of astonishment as the figure completed its emergence from the smoke and stood before her—a towering, brown-skinned, turbaned genie, bearing an immense tray of sparkling jewels in his arms.

  “Drake!” Sharon cried. Her voice was a blend of incredulity, astonishment and fear.

  Drake stepped to her side and the heavy, dense smoke billowed in the wake of his passage. He coughed as the spiced fumes seemed to bite into his lungs.

  “It’s some kind of a trick, darling,” he gasped.

  Humai was at his side, grinning.

  “Yes, it is a trick, but such a nice one,” he said. “Would you care to see more?”

  He waved his pudgy hand and the towering apparition vanished slowly into the smoke. “I will show you, now—”

  “We’re getting out of here,” Drake snapped. “Miss Ward needs fresh air.”

  IT WAS getting a little annoyed with this bland, round little man and found it hard to keep the irritation from his voice.

  “Let me help you to the door,” Humai suggested anxiously.

  “We can find it,” Drake said. “Thanks.”

  Humai took his arm gently.

  “Please,” he said, “there is a side door that leads to the garden. It is quicker, I will show you the way.”

  “All right,” Drake said. He felt annoyed with himself for his irritation. After all, the little fellow only wanted to help. “Let’s go,” he said.

  He put an arm around Sharon’s waist.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, concerned.

  “All right, I guess,” she whispered. She put a hand slowly to her forehead. “Everything seems sort of vague and fuzzy. Are all the lights off?”

  “Of course not,” Drake said. He glanced around the room worriedly.

  The place did seem darker. The electric illumination had been replaced by huge candles that guttered splendidly in the bizarre gloom of the tapestried room. “It’s just this damn incense,” he said, coughing.

  Humai took his hand.

  “Just follow me,” he said. “We will be outside in a moment.” He hesitated a moment. “Don’t you think she had better walk without support?” he asked gently. “The exercise would do her good.”

  “No,” Drake said grimly. “She needs help. Please hurry.”

  “Of course,” Humai said.

  He padded toward the center of the room and then turned right down a long corridor that Drake did not remember seeing when they arrived. Drake followed him, supporting Sharon with an arm about her waist.

  The corridor wa
s murky with the same thick incense and he couldn’t make out any details, except that the ceiling seemed to tower hundreds of feet above their heads and that the carpet on which they walked was incredibly thick and soft.

  Humai walked directly ahead of them, waddling slightly from side to side and turning occasionally to smile reassuringly at them.

  “How much longer?” Drake asked anxiously.

  “Not very far,” Humai answered. “It is only a little way from here.”

  Drake tried to peer down the length of the corridor, to pierce the gloomy, incense-laden air, but it was impossible. He could only see a dozen feet ahead, before the visibility was obscured by the thick pall-like curtain of yellow, pungent incense.

  “Just a few more steps,” he whispered to Sharon.

  “I’m all right,” she murmured sleepily. She was almost a dead weight on his arm. Drake attempted to walk more rapidly but he found that his legs were curiously weak. He was practically staggering. There was a peculiar cloudiness before his eyes that was not caused by the dense vapors of the incense.

  HE SHOOK his head and coughed rackingly. Tears were streaming from his eyes and he was on the point of collapse when a sudden strong draft of cool, bracing air blew into his face. It was as reviving as a plunge into a cold mountain lake.

  He breathed deeply, gratefully, and he could feel the cloudiness fading from his brain. Dimly he could see Humai standing at an open door, beckoning to him with a friendly hand.

  “That was not so long, was it?” he asked.

  “Long enough,” Drake said weakly.

  He helped Sharon through the door and Humai followed, closing the door softly behind him.

  Drake wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and took several deep breaths of the cool air before he turned to Sharon.

  “There,” he said, “you’ll feel better in a minute.”

  She leaned against him, breathing slowly. Her eyes were closed and her face was ghostly white in the dim moonlight.

  “I feel better already,” she murmured.

  She smiled and opened her eyes slowly.

  “That’s the girl,” he said cheerfully. “You just had a bit too much of that incense.” He shook his head slightly and took another deep breath. “It almost got me for a moment.”

  Sharon smiled, and then her gaze moved casually from his face and past his shoulder. For an instant her features seemed to be frozen in blankness and then a dazed, stricken, incredulous expression spread over her face. Her eyes grew dark and wide with a terrible fear.

  “Drake,” she gasped, and her voice was a whisper that almost died in her throat. “Drake, I’m losing my mind!”

  Drake patter her shoulder.

  “Ssssh,” he said gently. “You’re a little tired and nervous. You—”

  “No, Drake,” Sharon cried. Her eyes did not come back to his face, but remained fixed on something over his shoulder. “Where are we? What’s happened to us?”

  There was no mistaking the terrible urgency in her voice. Drake turned and the sight that met his eyes left him weak and breathless.

  CHAPTER II

  THEY were standing at the edge of a garden—a garden that stretched hundreds of feet before them; and beyond the garden the towering spires and minarets of a dazzlingly weird city were visible in the pale, ghostly moonlight.

  The familiar scenes of Washington were gone. Capitol dome, Washington monument, all the majestic avenues of great buildings had disappeared completely. In their place, sprawling before Drake’s stunned gaze, was a grotesque city of startling architecture and crazy-quilt design.

  It was incredible!

  Drake shook his head groggily and passed a hand over his eyes. This must be some sort of mirage, some optical illusion or distortion. But when he looked again nothing had changed. The great white city of weird arches, mosques and towers still glistened in the moonlight, sprawling as far as his eyes could reach.

  Sharon gripped his arm tightly.

  “Am I going crazy, Drake?” she asked. Her voice was dazed, weak.

  “Maybe we both are,” Drake said grimly. He turned suddenly on Humai, the bland, round-faced little man who had led them to this place. He was watching them with a pleasant smile on his pale face.

  “What’s this all about?” he demanded, waving a hand helplessly toward the vast gleaming city.

  Humai appeared politely perplexed.

  “I am afraid I don’t quite understand,” he said, looking from Drake to Sharon with puzzled eyes.

  “What’s this city?” Drake asked. “Is it some kind of an optical illusion?” He glared angrily and helplessly at the bland little man. “Don’t tell me you can’t see it,” he snapped heatedly.

  “But of course I can see it,” Humai murmured. He smiled again and his eyes almost disappeared in soft folds of flesh. “It’s a very lovely city, isn’t it? I’m sure you will learn to enjoy its many attractions.”

  “What do you mean?” Drake demanded.

  Humai then shrugged his soft round shoulders and squinted comically at Drake.

  “Allow me,” he murmured, “to welcome you in the name of the Caliph Zinidad to his royal palace. I am sure the Caliph will wish to express his welcome personally in the near future. Particularly,” Humai said, smiling directly at Sharon, “will he wish to—ah—welcome the charming young lady.”

  “What kind of nonsense are you talking?” Drake snapped. “Who is this Zinidad you’re babbling about?”

  “Zinidad,” Humai said, “is the Caliph of Bagdad. A most charming person—ah—under certain circumstances.”

  Drake stepped closer to Humai, his hands knotting into capable looking fists.

  “Listen, my fat friend,” he said. “I’m just about out of patience. I’m tired of listening to your attempts at comedy. If you can explain what in the name of Heaven has happened, do so, but stop chattering about the Caliph of Bagdad.”

  “But he is a most important person,” Humai said, smiling. He shrugged and stepped t ick a pace, dropping his hand to the handle of the door that had opened to the garden. “But since you do not beliefs me,” he said mildly, “I will say no more.”

  DRAKE automatically glanced at the door and when he did he received another shock. The door was of massive construction and, even in the pale moonlight he could see that its surface was ornately gilded with a substance that gleamed like gold. It reached dozens of feet above him and was topped by a wide arch whose wings reached fully thirty feet on either side of its apex.

  Sharon was staring at the monstrous door with amazed, stunned eyes. “Drake,” she cried. “Look!”

  She pointed to the immense palace whose turrets and ramparts were visible beyond the great arched gate. The palace was a sprawling mass of weird architecture with odd wings and abutments seemingly thrown in without design or any attempt at order or unity. Ghostly moonlight shone on the alabaster walls of the palace transforming it to a shimmering creation of strange beauty. Windows gaped from the white walls like dark, unfriendly eyes.

  “You are gazing upon the palace of the Caliph,” Humai said. “I hope you find it pleasing, for you will be seeing it many times in the years to come.”

  As he finished speaking he tapped lightly on the great door. Almost instantly it began to swing open, ponderously, slowly.

  “You will come with me,” Humai said gently.

  “I’ll be damned if we will,” Drake said grimly.

  “I am afraid I must insist,” Humai said.

  “Go to hell,” Drake said calmly. “I don’t know who you are or what your game is, but I don’t like it. We’re staying right here until we find out what this thing is all about.”

  Humai sighed gently, almost sadly.

  “As you wish,” he murmured.

  He clapped his hands together and the immense gate swung back rapidly; a splash of light fell across them from within. Heavy footsteps were heard.

  Sharon moved close to Drake.

  “What is it?” she whispered.
“I’m frightened, Drake.”

  He put his arm about her slim shoulders and drew her to his side.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” he said.

  When the gate had swung open they were facing a wide, high arched corridor; and down this corridor, coming toward them at a purposeful march, was a company of brawny, half-clad soldiers. The advancing group of men wore loose trousers and gaudy sashes into which were stuck gleaming, curved scimitars. In their hands were torches that cast an eerie guttering illumination against the burnished wall of the great hallway.

  Sharon shrank against Drake as the company came to a halt before Humai. The soldiers—eight in number—were giants, almost eight feet in height, with great deep chests and Herculean shoulders. Muscles rippled like sinewy ropes beneath their smooth black hides.

  One of the company bowed to Humai and murmured something inaudible to Drake. The rest of the great creatures stood in attitudes of submissive attention. It was an incongruous spectacle; the huge soldiers standing like great dumb animals before the small figure of Humai, waiting motionlessly for his orders.

  HUMAI turned from the leader of the guards to Drake, still smiling agreeably.

  “These soldiers are part of the personal bodyguard of the Caliph. They will escort you to him now.” He waggled his round head seriously. “I advise you to go quietly.”

  Drake shoved Sharon behind him and stepped forward, his knees bent slightly, his hands clenched.

  Humai murmured something under his breath to the great black who stood beside him and the creature started for Drake. Drake feinted to one side, palling the black off balance, then he lunged for Humai. He wanted to get his hands on the little man’s throat—for just a few seconds!

  But the black was faster than his great bulk indicated. He wheeled like a panther and his huge arm whipped out, catching Drake about the waist.

  He felt his feet leave the floor as the black jerked him into the air and held him there struggling helplessly.

  Another of the guards caught Sharon’s arms behind her back. She fought wildly, but he held her as if she were a child, his big round face stonily impassive.

  Humai clucked his tongue and regarded Drake solemnly.