"I don't trust him," said Kenneth.

Abu Adil turned to him. "I don't either, my friend, but that doesn't mean we can't behave in a civilized manner.

We're being watched by a lot of people today."

"Try to hold your animosity in for a little while, Ken-neth," I said. "I'm willing to forgive and forget. For now, anyway." He only glared at me and turned away.

Abu Adil put a hand on my shoulder and pointed down to a unit of men assembled at the foot of the plat-form, on the right side. "Those are your platoons, Lieu-tenant Audran," he said. "They make up the Al-Hashemi Detachment.

They're some of our finest men. Why don't you go down there and meet your noncommissioned of-ficers? We'll be getting ready to start the drills sootf."

"All right," I said. I climbed down from the platform and walked up and down before my unit. I stopped and said hello to the three platoon sergeants, then went through the ranks as if I were inspecting them. Most of the men seemed out of shape to me. I didn't think the Jaish would make much of a showing against a real mili-tary force; but then, the Jaish was never intended to go into battle against an army. It was created to bully shop-keepers and infidel intellectuals.

' Maybe a quarter of an hour later, Abu Adil spoke into a microphone, commanding the parade to begin. My unit had no part in it, other than to keep the civilians from interfering. Some of the specially trained companies showed off their stuff, marching and turning and juggling rifle-shaped pieces of wood.

This went on for an hour under the hot sun, and I began to think I'd made a serious mistake. I was starting to feel weak and wobbly, and I really just wanted to sit down. Finally, the last showcase company snapped back to attention, and Abu Adil stepped forward to the speaker's podium. He harangued the Jaish for another half an hour, going on about the horror of Dr. Abd ar-Razzaq's murder, and how we all had to swear allegiance to Allah and the Jaish, and never rest until the brutal assassin had been captured and executed according to the dictates of Islamic law. I could tell that Shaykh Reda had roused every man in uniform to a barely contained frenzy.

Then, surprisingly, he called on me to speak. I stared at him for just a second or two, and then I hurried back up to the platform. I stood at the microphone, and Abu Adil backed away. An anxious hush fell over the uni-formed men assembled before me, but beyond them I could see the hordes of tens of thousands of men and women whose pent-up fury was still seeking an outlet. I wondered what I was going to say.

"My fellow Soldiers of Allah," I began, raising my arms to include not only the Jaish, but also the mob be-yond.

"It is too late for anything but vengeance." A loud cry went up from the onlookers. "As Shaykh Reda said, we have a sacred duty, authorized in many places in the noble Qur'&n. We must find the person who struck down our holy imam, and then we must make him taste our keen-edged justice." Another cry, this one a strange, hun-gry, ululating sound that made me shiver.

I went on. "That is our task. But honor and faith and respect for the law demand that we control our anger, for fear that we revenge ourselves upon the wrong man. How, then, shall we know the truth? My friends, my brothers andsisters in Islam, I have the truth!"

This drew a loud shout from the mob, and a surprised sound from behind me, where Abu Adil and Kenneth were standing. I opened a few buttons of my tunic and brought out the needle gun, holding it high for everyone to see.

"This is the murder weapon! This is the horrible instrument of our imam's death!" Now the reaction was long and frightening. The hysterical crowds surged for-ward, and the foot soldiers of the Jaish struggled to keep the people from rushing the platform.

"I know whose needle gun this is!" I shouted. "Do you want to know? Do you want to know who murdered Dr.

Sadiq Abd ar-Razzaq, shamefully in cold blood?" I waited a few seconds, knowing the uproar would not subside, but pausing only for effect. I saw Kenneth start toward me, but Abu Adil grabbed his arm and stopped him. That surprised me.

"It belongs to Police Lieutenant Hajjar, a Jordanian immigrant to our city, a man with many past crimes that have long gone unpunished. I do not know his motives. I do not know why he stole our imam from us. I only know that he did that evil deed, and he sits this very moment, not far from here, in the police precinct on Walid al-Akbar Street, content in his sinful pride, certain that he is safe from the just retribution of the people."

I'd thought of a few more things to say, but it was impossible. From that point on, the mob became a terri-fying thing. It seemed to shift and sway and shake itself, and voices were raised in cries that no one could under-stand, and chants and curses went up all around us. Then, in only a few minutes, I could see that a bewildering orga-nization had taken place, as if leaders had been chosen and decisions made. Slowly, the mob animal turned away from the platform and the Jaish. It began to move south-ward along the lovely Boulevard il-Jameel. Toward the police station. It was going to claim Lieutenant Hajjar.

Hajjar had foreseen the behavior of the outraged mob. He had foreseen the terror of its mindless rage. He had only failed to foresee the true identity of its victim.

I watched, fascinated. After a while, I stepped back, away from the microphone. The afternoon parade of the Jaish was over. Many of the uniformed men had broken ranks and joined the wrathful rabble.

"Very well done, Audran," said Abu Adil. "Excellently played."

I looked at him. It seemed to me that he was entirely sincere. "It's going to cost you one of your most useful hirelings," I said. "Paybacks are a bitch, aren't they?"

Abu Adil only shrugged. "I'd written Hajjar off al-ready. I can appreciate good work, Audran, even when it's done by my enemy. But be warned. Just because I'm con-gratulating you, don't think I'm not already planning a way to make you pay. This whole matter has been a disas-ter for me."

I smiled. "You brought it on yourself."

"Remember what I said: I'll make you pay."

"I suppose you'll try," I said. I climbed down the steps at the back of the platform. Kmuzu was there. He led me away from the boulevard, away from the surging mob, toward our car.

"Please take off that uniform, yaa Sidi," he said.

"What? Ride home in my underwear?" I laughed.

"At least the tunic. I'm sickened by everything it stands for."

I complied, and tossed the tunic into a corner of the backseat. "Well," I said, stretching out, "how did I do?"

Kmuzu turned around briefly, and he gave me one of his rare smiles. "Very fine, yaa Sidi," he said. Then he turned his attention back to driving.

I relaxed and leaned back against the seat. I told my-self that the slight interruption in my life caused by Abu Adil and Lieutenant Hajjar and Imam Abd ar-Razzaq was over, and now life could get back to normal. The matter was closed. As for Shaykh Reda himself, any plans of pay-ing that son of a bitch back the way he deserved had to be tabled until sometime in the hazy future, after Fried-lander Bey was gathered by Allah into His holy Paradise.

In the meantime> Papa and I restored our good names. We met the next day with the amir and presented him with information and evidence concerning the deaths of Khalid Maxwell, Abd ar-Razzaq, and Lieutenant Hajjar. I didn't feel it necessary to go into detail about the sudden demise of Sergeant al-Bishah in Najran, or certain other pertinent points. Shaykh Mahali then ordered one of his administrative deputies to clear us of the false charges, and expunge any mention of Khalid Maxwell's murder from our records. I was rather gratified by how easily I slipped back into my old routines. I was soon back at my desk, reviewing information concerning a revolutionary party that was gaining strength in my homeland of Mauretania. Kmuzu stood beside my desk and waited for me to notice him. I looked up.

"What is it?" I asked.

"The master of the house wishes to speak with you, yaa Sidi," said Kmuzu.

I nodded, not knowing what to expect. With Papa, it . was sometimes impossible to predict whether you were being summoned to receive reward or punishment. My stomach began to churn; had I earned his disfavor again? Were the Stones That Speak waiting with him to break my bones? Fortunately, that proved not to be the case. Friedlander Bey smiled at me as I entered his office, and indicated that I should sit near him. "I commanded you to find an elegant solution to our difficulties, my nephew, and I am well pleased with what you accomplished."

"It makes me glad to hear it, O Shaykh," I said, re-lieved.

"I have what I believe is adequate recompense for all you have suffered, and for all the labor you performed on my behalf."

"I ask no reward, O Shaykh," I said. Well, I like re-wards as much as the next guy, but it was good form to

1.

offer a token refusal.

Papa ignored me. He pushed a thin envelope and a ' small cardboard box toward me. I looked up at himques-tioningly. "Take them, my nephew. It pleases me greatly to give them to you."

The envelope contained money, of course. Not cash, because the sum was too large. It was a bank draft for a quarter-million kiam. I just stared at it for a few seconds, swallowed, and set it down again on the desk. Then I picked up the box and opened it. There was a moddy inside. Friedlander Bey was strongly opposed to personal-ity modules on religious grounds. It was highly unusual for him to give me one. I looked at the label. The moddy was a re-creation of my favorite fictional character, Lutfy Gad's detective, al-Qaddani. I smiled. "Thank you, my uncle," I said softly. The moddy meant more to me than the huge amount of money. There was a kind of warm significance to it that I couldn't put into words. "I had the module created specially for you," said Papa. "I hope you enjoy it." He looked at me for a few seconds more. Then his expression grew serious. "Now tell me about how the datalink project is going. And I need a report on the final disposition of the Cappadocian situation. And further, now that Lieutenant Hajjar is dead, we must decide on a reliable replacement." Months of torment, relieved at the end by a single minute of good cheer.

What more could anyone want?

Books by George Alec Effinger What Entropy Means to Me Relatives Mixed Feelings Irrational Numbers Those Gentle Voices Felicia Death in Florence Dirty Tricks Heroics The Wolves of Memory Idle Pleasures The Nick of Time The Bird of Time Shadow Money The Zork Chronicles When Gravity Fails A Fire in the Sun