The Slave Market of Mucar (14 page)

Ten minutes later Slingsby reported in full uniform with automatic weapons. Weeks, by this time, was fully dressed and smoking his pipe, though looking somewhat crumpled after his disturbed night.

Weeks surveyed the saluting youngster closely.

"Slingsby, you're off on a special mission," he said. "You'll meet a Mr. Walker on the drill ground, near the helicopter hangars. Take all your further orders from him."

"Yes, sir."

Slingsby saluted and then paused near the door.

"This mission with Mr. Walker, sir? Can you tell me any more?"

"No! Vamoose!" said Weeks curtly. He grinned again at the door closing behind the young officer.

"I wish I knew myself," he said ruefully to the walls of his room.

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Down on the drill ground, it was dark and Slingsby made for the helicopter hangar, which showed yellow squares of radiance at its entrance. As he neared the big, eight-seat scarlet-painted Jungle Patrol helicopter, Slingsby reached a high state of curiosity. He wondered what authority Mr. Walker had to inspire Colonel Weeks's complete confidence. Well, he would know soon enough.

A shadow moved behind the big machine and a huge form advanced into the dim light emanating from the hangar doors. Slingsby saw a man in a light check raincoat with a hat pulled down over his eyes. He had a square jaw and a determined mouth, but big, square sunglasses masked the upper part of his face, shielding his identity. Slingsby was not aware of Mr. Walker's exact rank, but he knew it must be a high one, so he gave the huge man a smart salute.

"Mr. Walker?" he said somewhat nervously. "Colonel Weeks detailed me to join you on a mission, sir. I'm to take my orders from you."

The big man bowed slightly. Walker was a name he used when traveling in normal attire. It was derived from another of his names-The Ghost Who Walks.

"Hop in," he said informally, sliding back the door of the helicopter with a flick of his huge hand.

"Come on, Devil," he said in a strong, resonant voice. Slingsby did not have to see the yellow eyes of the wolf or to listen to the voice more than a second to know that once again he was in the presence of his masked befriender of two nights earlier.

"Glad to meet you again, sir," he said, getting up into one of the passenger seats of the helicopter and stowing his gear. The big man didn't answer and Slingsby felt he might be on dangerous ground; so he didn't venture any further comments.

Mr. Walker kept his hat and raincoat on, even in the helicopter. Devil went to sprawl on a rear seat, in apparent comfort, and regarded the two men sleepily. He put his big head down on his forepaws.

"I'll tell you our mission when we're in the air," Walker said, sliding into the pilot's seat and checking the instruments. He closed and locked the door after them and fastened the chest belt. He tapped Slingsby's belt and held it up.

"Strap yourself, in."

Slingsby did as he was told. Walker switched the engine on, it coughed once or twice, and the big blades over their heads chopped the air spasmodically. The rotors cast deep bars of shadow over the pilot's face.

He was an incongruous sight at the controls, but Slingsby had no doubt he knew how to fly the powerful machine. Then the motor picked up and the blades were turning faster, invisible now. The cabin began to vibrate and he could feel the lift of the rotor. Devil lifted his head in momentary alarm, but then dropped it again on command from his master. The pilot sat warming the engine, watching the control tower through the plexiglass bubble in front of him. A green light finally flashed twice from the tower and Mr. Walker spoke into the microphone he wore on a harness round his neck.

"GKH-2Y0 taking off," he said crisply. "Special mission authorized by Colonel Weeks. Over and out."

The light winked again from the tower and then the motor roared; as the r.p.m.'s increased, Walker altered the pitch of the blades and the heavy machine started to lift off. Soon the drill ground faded away

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beneath them and then Walker set course. The vibrations lessened as they gained altitude, and shortly Slingsby saw a river like graven steel in the moonlight, following the course of a ravine, wrinkled mountains like the surface of the moon, the sea like a dull shield, the strip of desert and then the green bowl of the jungle below them.

He realized for the first time what an incredible variety of scenery there was in Number Eight Patrol's area; they were fortunate not to be confined to the baking heat of the desert. Then life would be really hard.

Slingsby was lost in reverie for the next fifteen minutes, lulled by the beauty of the night; the noise of the motor had decreased now and formed a background to his thoughts.

Then he roused himself, conscious that Walker was pointing down. He saw a long, square-turreted building, beautiful in the moonlight.

"One of the old Arab forts," said Walker, raising his voice above the motor.

Slingsby nodded.

"May I know where we're going now, sir?" he asked. The pilot grinned, showing strong, square teeth.

"About seven hundred miles," he said. "To a place called Mucar. To see an old friend of yours."

Slingsby was puzzled.

"Who might that be, sir?" he said.

"Warden Saldan of Masara Prison!" said Walker simply.

Slingsby's eyes widened in amazement.

"Saldan!"

He was stupefied.

"Yes," said the pilot calmly. "He's selling the escaped prisoners as slaves in the old slave market of Mucar."

He moved the controls and the helicopter leaned sideways, following the contours of a fertile valley.

"Normally I'd go alone," said Walker, when they were level again. "But there'll be a few dozen slave guards, not to mention a thousand men in the Prince's army."

The pilot smiled.

"On top of that, there'll be five hundred miles of desert to cross with ten prisoners."

He turned approvingly toward Slingsby.

"So I thought the job would need the two of us!"

Slingsby gulped, but thought it wiser not to make any comment of his own. He took out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead wonderingly.

"Warden Saldan arranges the prison breaks, then sells the prisoners for slaves? That's fantastic, sir!"

"But true," said Walker quietly. "And he's only a few hours ahead of us this time."

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Presently they skimmed across a thin wedge of sea, which slid along a shoreline of jagged, inhospitable mountains. Walker took no notice of the solitary dhow which ploughed its lonely way onward. But the handcuffed men aboard the ancient craft had noted the machine's passage with envy.

"How much longer on this cursed boat, Zadok" said a tall, ugly man with a shaved head. "We've been sailing for days already."

"More important, when do we get the cuffs off?" said another.

Zadok chuckled confidently.

"Tomorrow at dawn, boys," he said reassuringly. "It will be all over then. You'll gain your freedom."

He went to the rail, his thin shoulders shaking, and looked across the silver water to the mountains over which the helicopter had disappeared. The men were right. It had seemed a long voyage. But now they were reaching journey's end.

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CHAPTER 13

A VISIT TO THE PRINCE

Saldan's light aircraft banked and started its final approach to a small oasis at the edge of the desert. It had been a pleasant trip and Saldan was pleased. The refrigerated food on board had been a delicious change from the commissary at Masara and the stewardess had been a delightful companion. He smiled approvingly at her. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder as they rolled to a stop on the tightly packed sand.

"Take off again immediately, mind you," he said. "We don't want to advertise ourselves."

The pilot nodded.

"Don't worry, sir. We'll be off in no time and we never remember where we've been!"

Saldan nodded with approbation. "Just don't forget it," he said. He gave the stewardess another insincere smile and descended through the air-door. With his light gray suit, blue bowtie, brown homburg in his left hand and attaché case in the right, he looked just as dapper as when he had set out. This was certainly the way to travel in this part of the world-coolness, after the infernal heat. It reflected off the rim of the desert like a furnace once he had left the plane. He looked longingly back at the stewardess as she closed the door behind him, banging on the panel to let the pilot know he was out.

Then the machine gained momentum across the sand, its slipstream throwing up thousands of particles; it slowly lifted off into the overheated air and was rapidly lost to sight in the cobalt-blue sky. Saldan waited a moment longer, the sun drilling into his back. He walked over toward the fringe of palm trees, conscious of the tall figure of an Arab standing as straight and slim as a tree at the edge of the clearing. The man bowed as Saldan came up.

"The Prince sends his greetings, Mr. Saldan," he said.

Saldan acknowledged his greeting, Arab fashion, but clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"Now, now," he said heavily. "You know we don't use my name here."

He took a heavy case the Arab handed him and opened it. It contained his boots, pith helmet, riding kit, and other desert gear and, of course, his mask. He smiled cynically. The mask was assuredly necessary here.

The Arab went to stand beyond the rim of the trees, as though he were the brooding spirit of the desert.

Despite the heat he wore heavy robes and a blanket about him, Saldan wondered how these people stood the heat. He himself, though only out of the plane for a minute, was already drenched in perspiration. He spread out the gear from the case and quickly changed into what he called his slaving outfit. Then he put his suit and other clothing back into the case with his briefcase on top and closed it.

He handed the case to the Arab who had now come back. The man bowed, and led the way between the palms.

"Prince Selim is eagerly awaiting your arrival, sir," he said in his singsong English.

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I'll bet, Saldan thought to himself, but all he said to the Arab was, "We have, after all, been friends for a long time, your master and I."

The Arab smiled a lopsided smile and Saldan was irresistibly reminded of Zadok, the only man he had been able to half-trust among all the desert tribes. He was the most reliable Arab he had ever met, which did not bring him even halfway up to Western standards, in Saldan's book. He smiled heavily to himself. Zadok should be nearly here now with the latest cargo.

Two white horses were tethered to the boles of two of the palms, the long halters allowing them to crop the sparse, stunted grass of the oasis.

The Arab vaulted on to a beast which had no saddle or bridle. The other whinnied on recognizing Saldan and thrust its soft nose into the big man's outstretched hand. Saldan got up into the saddle, the stirrup-leathers creaking beneath him. He wondered idly how many trips he had made to Mucar in the past few years. They were many, he knew that. Every bag of gold credited to his secret accounts in undisclosed banks had been hard-earned in sweat, time, pain, and danger.

Saldan and the Arab spurred out across the desert, the horses' hooves throwing up feathery plumes of sand behind them. The serrated ridges of the dunes looked like knife-edges in the clear, hard light; it was amazing the way the wind carved the sand into fantasies which seemed so permanent. Yet disturb one grain and the whole edifice came tumbling down. At the moment a light wind was starting up from the East; as Saldan watched, a whirling plume eddied in the far distance.

Then the dunes nearest them started to blur and dissolve as the skirts of the wind caught them, and long streamers of sand boiled off the ridges like smoke. The Arab had already put his head into his burnous.

Now Saldan reached in his shirt pocket and came out with the heavy black mask he always wore within the walls of the desert city of Mucar. He put it on. Already, grains of grit were flying about, stinging the eyes.

He took a large red-and-white handkerchief from the pocket of his riding breeches and tied that round the lower part of his face.

He had always meant to bring sand goggles but somehow, when the time came, they were the one item which seemed to get left behind, He could certainly use them now. He closed his eyes momentarily as the strength of the wind increased, blowing the stinging particles off the ridge edges with knifelike force. The Arab seemed impervious to the bombardment; he rode as though glued to the horse's back, his eyes steadily fixed ahead as though the flying sand were rose petals.

Saldan felt that he would never understand the Arab mind, however long he spent in their cursed country.

Masara was bad enough, but at least one did enjoy a better climate and there was always the sea. The desert was something else. He had always abominated it and long experience with its ways and its people had only served to confirm his first impression.

Saldan dismissed these and other thoughts which were crowding his mind. He concentrated on his riding.