Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  “You see?” he said, shrugging. “You wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Drake stopped fighting against the inexorable grip of the giant black. His captor then set him down but his great hands still pinioned Drake’s arms.

  Humai spoke to the soldiers again and they came to attention, formed two columns and marched down the corridor, carrying Drake and Sharon along as if they were two dolls.

  Humai followed, his eyes twinkling in the round, white expanse of his face.

  The trip was like a nightmarish kaleidoscope to Drake. Their giant captors escorted them down the wide, high corridor, through vast palatial rooms that were adorned with golden statues and intricate fountains which threw lacy sprays of scented water high into the air, into other seemingly endless corridors and at last brought them to a stop before a mighty golden door, flanked on either side by gaudily uniformed sentries.

  Humai spoke in a low voice to the sentries and one of them stepped forward and swung back the great golden door. The giant black guards moved forward again and Drake and Sharon were led into a huge, brilliantly lighted room with a vast domed ceiling.

  The walls were dyed a deep crimson but the floor was of purest marble, white as a summer cloud and shot through with streaks of blue that were like delicate veins.

  Within the room, reclining on silken couches, were dozens of richly clad men smoking from long ivory-stemmed pipes and drinking from glasses containing a dark liquid that filled the incense-laden air with spicy fragrance.

  The black guards marched steadily toward the center of this magnificent room, glancing neither to the right nor the left.

  IN THE middle of the vast hall was a raised dais; a throne of gleaming gold, jewel-encrusted and topped by a brilliant canopy of figured silk. On either side of the throne slim black boys stood waving great feathered fans that stirred the heavy languorous air with a sluggish motion. Steps covered with soft, luxurious carpets led to the dais, and on one of these steps were several slim girls, clad only in soft curled slippers and wisps of silk buckled about their white waists, lying in poses of voluptuous abandonment.

  The giant black guards separated into two columns when they reached this throne and Drake and Sharon were suddenly face to face with the occupant of the dais—a great, bloated creature with sagging soft jowls and sprawling limbs, a man who stared at them sleepily with hard little eyes and breathed noisily through his loose pink lips. He lay rather than sat on the great cushioned dais, his legs sprawled loosely, his short pudgy arms resting carelessly on the rounded arms of the throne.

  Humai stepped forward and bowed low.

  “I have done my best to fulfill your wish, O mighty Caliph,” he said. “You alone can judge whether this lowly servant has succeeded.”

  The gross creature on the throne waved a limp hand negligently at Humai in a weary gesture of dismissal, and the plump little man retreated several steps. The Caliph studied Drake for an instant with sharp little eyes; a slow frown creased his forehead.

  “Who is this creature?” he asked. His voice was soft and throaty.

  Humai stepped forward again, bowing submissively.

  “I was forced to bring him with me, illustrious Caliph,” he murmured.

  “I did not want a man,” the Caliph said, waving his limp hand in a feeble gesture of irritation. “I asked you to find me a woman, a beautiful woman.”

  “And I did, O glorious Caliph,” Humai said. “Look on her; fair as the morning when the sun’s rays break over the purple mountain; as mysterious as the shrouded night when the stars hurl their shafts of light at the surging waters; as passionate as Love, itself. This is the woman I have brought to you, O exalted Caliph. This fairest flower of the future I brought to you to grace your own gardens forever.”

  The Caliph belched sleepily and turned his eyes to Sharon. She felt herself blushing as his sharp gaze moved over her slim body. A slow smile touched his sensual lips as he finally raised his eyes to Sharon’s face. He studied her pale cheeks, crimsoned now with shame and anger, surveyed her flashing green eyes and red hair carefully and impersonally, as if she were an inanimate object he was considering buying.

  “You have done well, Wizard,” he said at last, to Humai.

  “My grateful thanks are yours, o immeasurable Caliph,” Humai said humbly. “May I die the instant I displease you.”

  “Have no fear,” the Caliph said, absently scratching his great belly, “you will.”

  HE TURNED his bright gaze again to Drake.

  “Why did you bring this creature?” he asked.

  “He was her companion,” Humai said. “When I transported her through the realm of Time he had his arm about her waist and thus was transported also.”

  The Caliph frowned.

  “I do not like the thought of his arm about her waist,” he said. “She is mine. She should have been keeping herself for me. You should have brought me a virgin, Wizard. You know my preferences.”

  “Just a minute,” Sharon said angrily. “If you’re implying that I’m not—”

  “Silence, woman,” the Caliph said softly. “You would not look well with your tongue torn out by its roots.”

  “I won’t keep quiet,” Sharon cried. “You’re not going to talk about me as if I’m a loose woman and get away with it. And you’re not going to talk about me like a piece of furniture. If you’ve got something to say to me, I’m standing right here and I’ve got two ears.”

  “Don’t boast of such things,” the Caliph said, “or you may lose them.” He turned to Humai and rubbed his lips petulantly. “I did not want a chattering jay,” he said fretfully. “I could do with a little less beauty and a little more silence.”

  Humai looked pale and distressed.

  “I am so sorry, O mighty Caliph,” he said miserably, “but there was no manner in which to determine that beforehand.”

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Drake said drily. “I’d like to ask you just what your object was in having us brought here. I am an accredited attaché of the United States diplomatic corps and, as such, I demand the right of being heard.”

  The Caliph put his plump hands to the sides of his head and rocked back and forth on the dais.

  “Why does everyone want to talk?” he wailed. “I will go deaf with the noise.” He took his hands down and gestured sharply to two of the giant blacks. “Take this noisy creature to a dungeon, the deepest one you can find, and lock him up there. Tomorrow I will have his tongue cut out.”

  Drake felt huge hands on his arms almost instantly. He struggled with all his strength but it was a futile effort. Sharon ran to his side and clung to him, until another of the blacks pulled her away and held her firmly.

  “Oh, darling,” she cried, fighting against the powerful grip of the giant black. “Make them kill us both. I don’t want to live without you. Please—”

  That was the last Drake heard. He was dragged through a side door of the great throne-room and it slammed behind him with a crash, shutting out the last piteous sound of Sharon’s voice.

  CHAPTER III

  DRAKE was dragged from the room, the Caliph frowned at Sharon’s sobbing figure, held helplessly in the grasp of the giant black guard.

  “Take her to my harem attendants,” he said, with a weary shake of his head. “Have her prepared for me. I wish to see her again tonight.” He frowned darkly at Humai. “I am not pleased, miserable Wizard. There is too much noise and crying. If I remain displeased after tonight, I shall wish to see you again.”

  “Yes, O glorious Caliph,” Humai muttered. With a forlorn bow he retreated from the throne.

  Two of the black guards led Sharon from the great throne room and down several long winding corridors until they reached a large door guarded by a company of the Nubian giants. The door opened, Sharon was ushered into the room beyond, and the door closed with a dry, final click.

  She looked around and saw that she was in a well-lighted room, much smaller than the one in which the Caliph had his throne. There
were comfortable divans about the walls and in the air was the heady scent of fragrant perfumes.

  A door on the side opened and two women, dressed in plain, knee-length cloaks, entered. One of them spoke sharply to the black guards and they withdrew with submissive bows.

  “You must come with us,” one of the women said to Sharon. She was a middle-aged woman with fine, delicate features and gleaming black hair faintly streaked with grey. “My name is

  Tana,” she added. “I am in charge of the Caliph’s harem. We must prepare you for tonight and there is not much time. Will you come along, please?” Sharon realized that no point would be gained by resistance. She followed the women through a connecting corridor of pale marble to a room with couches against one wall and several padded tables in the center. At one end of the room was a sunken tub of black marble which was filled with clear, faintly scented water. There were mirrors on all walls, and an elaborate marble table near one wall was covered with pots of pastes and creams and long tubes of colored wax and rouge.

  The room was furnished so exquisitely that Sharon couldn’t help admiring the details of the appointments.

  A door opened and three plainly dressed young girls entered.

  “They will bathe you,” Tana said. “When you are ready I will come and see that no detail has been overlooked.” She inspected Sharon with a critical, experienced eye. “You will do,” she murmured. “For one night you will be completely satisfactory, I am sure.”

  “Why only one night?”

  Tana smiled sadly. “You will soon know,” she said. With an impulsive gesture she patted Sharon’s cheek shyly. “And you are so young,” she murmured, turning away.

  When she had gone, the three maidens went to work on Sharon. In spite of her protests they disrobed her, bathed her with soft fleecy cloths, massaged her body with pungent, vitalizing oils, lacquered her nails and completed the job of anointing her with subtle perfumes and threading a wreath of fresh flowers into her waving, shoulder-length hair.

  THE three girls chattered among themselves as they brought clothes to her—rich, clinging silk robes that buckled with a diamond clasp at the waist and fell in billowing folds to the floor.

  One of them knelt and fitted small jeweled slippers on her feet and they all stood back like artisans examining their work and stared at her with proud, possessive admiration.

  “Please, girls,” Sharon said, “I appreciate all this, but I’d much rather have a little information. What did Tana mean by saying I’d do for one night? She acted as if I were going to be killed tomorrow.”

  “But you are,” one of the girl giggled. “Surely you know that.”

  Sharon felt a chill tremor run down her spine.

  “What do you mean?” she cried. She shook her head distractedly, as the three girls continued to regard her with curious eyes. “I—I—can’t die now,” she said desperately. “There’s a young man. He’s in trouble. I’ve got to help him. Can’t you girls help me get out of here? Won’t you please?”

  “We can do nothing,” one of the girls said. She regarded Sharon with sad, solemn eyes and turned away slowly. “You must die tomorrow. That is the custom. The Caliph, Zinidad, will spend only one night with a girl. The next day she must die so that no other man will ever again possess her. We can do nothing to help you.”

  “But I’ve got to get away,” Sharon said frantically. She stood up from the couch and desperately paced the length of the room. “I just can’t die now.” The door opened and Tana entered. “You look lovely,” she murmured. “You are worthy of the great honor in store for you. You will come with me now. The Caliph is waiting your arrival with eagerness.”

  “He can keep right on waiting,” Sharon said hotly. “I’m not going.”

  She backed against a wall, her breasts heaving with anger. “You can tell your exalted tub of lard that he’s just out of luck. I’m not going to him and he can’t make me.”

  Tana’s classic features were expressionless as she stepped to the wall and gently tapped a small gong. The clear note of the bell had hardly rippled away to silence before the door opened and two giant blacks appeared. Their huge faces were without expression as they regarded Tana.

  She indicated Sharon with a nod of her head.

  “Take her to the Caliph’s private quarters. He is awaiting her,” she murmured.

  The blacks inclined their heads submissively and then moved toward Sharon. The girl backed away, her small fists clenched desperately.

  The blacks moved stolidly toward her and she suddenly realized the futility of resistance. Her shoulders slumped wearily and she leaned tiredly against the wall.

  “What’s the use,” she said bitterly and walked toward the giant Nubians.

  Their faces were expressionless as they took her arms in their great hands and led her from the room . . .

  THE CALIPH’S private boudoir was a magnificent affair, discreetly illuminated by scented candles, perfumed by pots of fragrant incense and dominated by a vast circular bed covered with soft shimmering silk and adorned by the fat, sprawling figure of the Caliph.

  Sharon was led across the rug-draped, shining marble floor to the side of the great bed. They released her arms then, bowed ceremoniously to the Caliph and backed from the room, making low obeisances every few feet.

  The door closed behind them and

  Sharon heard a bolt sliding into place with a sound of finality.

  The Caliph opened his little eyes and peered at her. He was attired in a loose white cloak that looked like a Roman toga; and his face seemed almost lost in folds of flesh as he smiled slowly and sensually at her.

  “Come to me, my child,” he said. Sharon crossed her arms. Her small jaw was set.

  “I will not,” she said distinctly.

  The Caliph looked at her in injured surprise.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said,” Sharon said firmly. “I was brought here by force, against my will. This is far as I go. If you try anything I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

  The Caliph squirmed slightly. His fat, moon-like face wore an almost comic expression of bewilderment.

  “You must not talk that way,” he said, “Remember I am the Caliph. My words are law.”

  “Not with me they aren’t,” Sharon said grimly.

  The Caliph heaved himself laboriously up on one elbow and regarded her with petulant surprise.

  “May Allah protect us,” he sighed, “from disobedient women.”

  “You’re just too accustomed to having your own way,” Sharon said. “Who gave you the right to order women around as if they were slaves?”

  “But,” the Caliph said, genuinely astonished, “what else are they?”

  Sharon stamped her small foot in exasperation. She was becoming increasingly annoyed with the dictatorial old lecher.

  “You’re just like all men,” she said hotly. “You think because you are women’s physical superior that it gives you a divine right to dominate them mentally and spiritually. A woman is the equal of any man, anywhere, anytime. In fact they have more brains and skill than the average man. Where I came from women have fought for their rights and have proven themselves in all fields to be the equal of any male.”

  The Caliph shook his head ominously.

  “Those are dangerous words,” he said. What would happen to civilization if all women began thinking as you do?”

  “What have men done by themselves,” Sharon said, “other than wage wars and establish elaborate harem systems?”

  ZINIDAD scratched his round head moodily.

  “What have women done in this place you come from? Have they improved things?”

  “Well,” Sharon said, hesitating, “they haven’t gotten everything straightened out yet, but they’re on the right trail. We still have wars; but,” she added defensively, “even in war women are proving themselves the equal of man. They can fly planes as well as any man.”

  “Fly planes?” Zinidad said wonderingl
y. “What are planes?”

  “One of the inventions of my land,” Sharon explained, “is a machine that flys through the air, miles above the ground, faster than any bird. It has revolutionized commerce, warfare and civilization.”

  Zinidad laughed delightedly.

  “What a sport that must be,” he cried. “Tell me more about these marvelous things.” He smiled and wagged a plump finger playfully. “I know there is no truth in what you speak, but it amuses me to hear you tell of such wonderful things.” He patted the edge of his silken bed. “Sit here beside me and tell me more of these fables.”

  Sharon sat down gingerly. She hoped that she had gotten the Caliph’s mind off his original intentions, but she was ready to move quickly if she were wrong.

  She sighed with relief when the Caliph lay back and closed his eyes, a peaceful smile on his face. “Tell me your fables,” he murmured.

  “All right,” Sharon said . . .

  She talked for almost an hour, telling the Caliph of the world of the future, until finally she noticed that his eyes had closed and his breathing had become heavy and regular. Sharon stopped speaking and watched the slumbering figure. Finally the Caliph began to snore, loudly and rythmically.

  “Just like a man,” Sharon thought disgustedly.

  She realized then that she was tired. She thought of Drake but she knew there was nothing she could do to help him until the following day. She rose softly from the bed, careful not to disturb the Caliph and lay down on one of the thick, soft skins that decorated the marble floor. The room was warm and the heavy skin was luxuriously comfortable under her tired body.

  She kicked off her slippers and in a few seconds was soundly asleep.

  CHAPTER IV

  DRAKE had been led from the presence of the Caliph by the giant black guards to a dark, dank dungeon in the bowels of the palace and left there, locked in a miserable cell, five feet by five without illumination or ventilation of any sort.

  When he heard the ponderous footsteps of the guards departing, fading away into silence, he made a groping inspection of his quarters. There was a tiny trickle of running water in one corner that fell into a small open drain; and against the opposite wall a bundle of cold dirty rags was evidently a comfortless substitute for a cot.