"Just a moment, I have it here somewhere," said the qadi. "Yes, a police officer named Khalid Maxwell. The crime was discovered by an associate of Shaykh Reda Abu Adil."

"I knew Abu Adil's name would come into this," I growled.

"Khalid Maxwell," said Papa. "I've never had any con-tact at all with anyone by that name.""I haven't either," I said. "I've never even heard of the guy -"

"One of my most trusted subordinates," said Hajjar. "The city and the force have suffered a great loss."

"We didn't do it, Hajjar!" I shouted. "And you know it!"

The qadi looked at me sternly. "It's much too late for denials," he said. His dark face didn't seem sturdy enough to support either his bulbous nose or the bushy growth attached to it. "I've already reached my verdict."

Papa began to look a trifle upset. "You've already made your decision, without letting us present our side of the story?"

The qadi slapped his handful of paper. "All the facts are here. There are eyewitness accounts and reports from Lieutenant Hajjar's investigation. There's too much docu-mented evidence to allow for even the slightest doubt. What is your side of the story? That you deny committing this foul crime? Of course, that's what you'd have said to me. I didn't need to waste my time listening to it. I have all this!" Again he slapped the papers.

"Then you've reached a verdict," said Papa, "and you've found us guilty."

"Precisely," said the qadi. "Guilty as charged. Guilty in the eyes of Allah and your fellow man. However, the death penalty will be set aside because of an earnest peti-tion from one of the city's most respected citizens."

"Shaykh Reda?" I said. My stomach was starting to bother me again.

"Yes," said the qadi. "Shaykh Reda appealed to me on your behalf. Out of respect for him, you will not be be-headed in the courtyard of the Shimaal Mosque as you deserve. Rather, your sentence is banishment. You're for-bidden ever to return to the city, under pain of arrest and summary execution."

"Well," I said sourly, "that's a relief. Where are you taking us?"

"This shuttle's destination is the kingdom of Asir," said the qadi.

I looked across at Friedlander Bey. He was doing his serene old wise man routine again. I felt a little better, too. I didn't know anything about Asir other than it bor-dered the Red Sea south of Mecca. Asir was better than some places they could have shipped us, and from there we could begin drawing on our resources to prepare our return to the city.

It would take time and a lot of money passed under a lot of tables, but we'd come home eventu-ally. I was already looking forward to my reunion with Hajjar.

The qadi glanced from me to Papa, then nodded and retired again to the rear cabin. Hajjar waited for him to leave, then let loose a loud guffaw. "Hey!" he cried. "What you think of that?"

I grabbed his throat before he could duck out of the way. The goon rose out of his seat and threatened me with the needle gun. "Don't shoot!" I said with feigned terror, all the while squeezing Hajjar's larynx tighter. "Please, don't shoot me!"

Hajjar tried to say something, but I had his windpipe shut off. His face was turning the color of the wine of Paradise.

"Release him, my nephew," said Friedlander Bey af-ter a moment.

"Now, O Shaykh?" I asked. I still hadn't let go.

"Now."

I flung Hajjar away from me, and the back of his head bpunced off the bulkhead behind him. He gasped and choked as he tried to force air into his lungs. The goon lowered his needle gun and sat down again. I got the impression that he was no longer personally concerned with how Hajjar was feeling. I took that to mean that he didn't have a much higher opinion of the lieutenant than I did, and as long as I didn't kill Hajjar outright, I could pretty much do whatever I wanted to him without the goon interfering.

Hajjar glared at me hatefully. "You're gonna be sorry you did that," he said in a hoarse voice.

"I don't think so, Hajjar," I said. "I think the memory of your red, pop-eyed face will sustain me through all the difficulties to come."

"Sit in your seat and shut up, Audran," Hajjar uttered through clenched teeth. "Make a move or a sound, and I'll have your friend over there break your face."

I was getting bored, anyway. I put my head back and closed my eyes, thinking that when we arrived in Asir, I might need my strength. I could feel the maneuvering engines roar to life, and the pilot began turning the giant shuttlecraft in a long, slow arc toward the west. We de-scended rapidly, spiraling down through the night sky.

The shuttle began to tremble, and there was a long booming noise and a high-pitched wail. Hajjar's goon looked frightened. "Landing gear locking into place," I said. He gave me a brief nod.

And then the shuttle was down and screaming across a concrete field. There were no lights outside that I could see, but I was sure we must have been surrounded by a great airfield. After a while, when the pilot had braked the shuttle to what seemed like a crawl, I could see the out-lines of hangars, sheds, and other buildings. Then the shuttle came to a complete stop, although we hadn't ar-rived at a terminal building.

"Stay in your seats," said Hajjar.

We sat there, listening to the air-conditioning whining above our heads. Finally, the qadi reappeared from the rear cabin. He still clutched his sheaf of papers. He held up one page and read from it: " "Witness, that regarding the acts of members of the community, which acts are certain crimes and affronts to Allah and all brothers in Islam, those in custody identified as Friedlander Bey and Marid Audran are herein found guilty, and their punishment shall be exile from the com-munity which they so grievously offended. This is a mercy shown unto them, and they should count the remainder of their days a blessing, and spend them in seeking the near-ness of God and the forgiveness of men.' "Then the qadi leaned against the bulkhead and put his signature to the paper, and signed a duplicate copy so that.

Papa could have one and I could have the other. "Now, let's go," he said.

"Come on, Audran," said Hajjar. I got up and moved into the aisle behind the qadi. The goon followed me with Papa behind him. Hajjar brought up the rear. I turned to look back at him, and his expression was oddly mournful. He must have thought that soon we'd be out of his hands, and so his fun was almost over.

We climbed down the gangway to the concrete apron. Papa and I stretched and yawned. I was very tired and getting hungry again, despite all the food I'd eaten at the amir's celebration. I looked around the airfield, trying to learn something of value. I saw a big hand-painted sign that said Najran on one of the low, dark buildings.

"Najran mean anything to you, O Shaykh?" I asked Friedlander Bey.

"Shut up, Audran," said Hajjar. He turned to his goon. "Make sure they don't talk or do anything funny. I'm holding you responsible." The goon nodded. Hajjar and the qadi went off together toward the building.

"Najran is the capital city of Asir," said Papa. He com-pletely ignored the goon's presence. For his part, the goon no longer showed much interest in what we did, as long as we didn't try streaking across the landing field toward freedom.

"We have friends here?" I asked.

Papa nodded. "We have friends almost everywhere, my nephew. The problem is getting in touch with them."

I didn't understand what he meant. "Well, Hajjar and the qadi will be getting back aboard the shuttle in a little while, right? After that, I guess we're on our own. Then we can contact these friends and get some nice, soft beds to spend the rest of the night in."

Papa gave me a sad smile. "Do you truly think our troubles end here?"

My confidence faltered. "Uh, they don't?" I said.

As if to justify Papa's concern, Hajjar and the qadi came out of the building, accompanied now by a burly guy in a cop-like uniform, carrying a rifle slung under his arm. He didn't look like a particularly intelligent cop or a well-disciplined cop, but with his rifle he was probably more than Papa and I could handle.

"We must speak soon of revenge," Papa whispered to me before Hajjar reached us.

"Against Shaykh Reda," I replied.

"No. Against whoever signed our deportation order. The amir or the imam of the Shimaal Mosque."

That gave me something else to think about. I'd never learned why Friedlander Bey so scrupulously avoided harming Reda Abu Adil, whatever the provocation. And I wondered how I'd respond if Papa ordered me to kill Shaykh Mahali, the amir. Surely the prince couldn't have received us so hospitably tonight, knowing that when we left his reception we'd be kidnapped and driven into exile. I preferred to believe that Shaykh Mahali knew nothing of what was happening to us now.

"Here are your prisoners, Sergeant," Hajjar said to the fat-assed local cop.

The sergeant nodded. He looked us over and frowned. He wore a nameplate that told me his name was al-Bishah.

He had a gigantic belly that was pushing its way to freedom from between the buttons of his sweat-stained shirt.

There were four or five days of black stubble on his face, and his teeth were broken and stained dark brown. His eyelids drooped, and at first I thought it was because he'd been awakened in the middle of the night; but his clothes smelled strongly of hashish, and I knew that this cop passed the lonely nights on duty with his norIHah.

"Lemme guess," said the sergeant. "The young guy pulled the trigger, and this raggedy-looking old fool in the red tarboosh is the brains of the operation." He threw his head back and roared with laughter. It must have been the hashish, because not even Hajjar cracked a smile.

"Pretty much," said the lieutenant. "They're all yours now." Hajjar turned to me. "One last thing before we say good-bye forever, Audran. Know what the first thing is I'm gonna do tomorrow?"

His grin was about the most vicious and ugly one I'd ever seen. "No, what?" I said.

"I'm gonna close down that club of yours. And you know what's the second thing?" He waited, but I refused to play along. "Okay, I'll tell you. I'm gonna bust your Yasmin for prostitution, and when I got her in my special, deep-down hole, I'm gonna see what she's got that you like so much."

I was very proud of myself. A year or two ago, I'd have smashed his teeth in, goon or no goon. I was more mature now, so I just stood there, looking impassively into his wild eyes. I repeated this to myself: the next time you see this man, you will kill him. The next time you see this man, you will kill him. That kept me from doing anything stupid while I had two weapons trained on me.

"Dream abouMt, Audran!" Hajjar shouted, as he and the qadi climbed back up the gangway. I didn't even turn to watch him.

"You were wise, my nephew," said Friedlander Bey. I looked at him, and I could tell from his expression that he had been favorably impressed by my behavior.

"I've learned much from you, my grandfather," I said. That seemed to please him, too.

"Aw right," said the local sergeant, "come on. Don't wanna be out here when they get that sucker movin'." He jerked the barrel of his rifle in the direction of the dark building, and Papa and I preceded him across the runway.

It was pitch black inside, but Sergeant al-Bishah didn't turn on any lights. "Just follow the wall," he said. I felt my way along a narrow corridor until it turned a corner. There was a small office there with a battered desk, a phone, a mechanical fan, and a small, beat-up holo sys-tem. There was a chair behind the desk, and the sergeant dropped heavily_into it. There was another chair in a cor-ner, and I let Papa have it. I stood leaning against a filthy plasterboard wall.

"Now," said the cop, "we come to the matter of what I do with you. You're in Najran now, not some flea-bittenvillage where you got influence. You're nobody in Najran, but I'm somebody. We gonna see what you can do for me, and if you can't do nothin', you gonna go to jail."

"How much money do you have, my nephew?" Papa asked me.

"Not much." I hadn't brought a great deal with me, because I didn't think I'd need it at the amir's house. I usually carried my money divided between the pockets in my gallebeya, just for situations like this. I counted what I had in the left pocket; it came to a little over a hundred and eighty kiam. I wasn't about to let the dog of a ser-geant know I had more in the other pocket.

"Ain't even real money, is it?" complained al-Bishah. He shoved it all into his desk drawer anyway. "What about the old guy?"

"I have no money at all," said Papa.

"Now, that's too bad." The sergeant used a lighter to fire up the hashish in his narjilah. He leaned over and took the mouthpiece between his teeth. I could hear the burbling of the water pipe and smell the tang of the black hashish.

He exhaled the smoke and smiled. "You can pick your cells, I got two. Or you got somethin' else I might want?"

I thought of my ceremonial dagger. "How about this?" I said, laying it in front of him on the desk.

He shook his head. "Cash," he said, shoving the dag-ger back toward me. I thought he'd made a bad mistake,I because the dagger had a lot of gold and jewels stuck on it. Maybe he didn't have anywhere to fence an item like that.

"Or credit," he added. "Got a bank you can call?"

"Yes," said Friedlander Bey. "It will be an expensive call, but you can have my bank's computer transfer funds to your account."

Al-Bishah let the mouthpiece fall from his lips. He sat up very straight. "Now, that's what I like to hear! Only, you pay for the call. Charge it to your home, right?"

The fat cop handed him the desk phone, and Papa spoke a long series of numbers into it. "Now," said Papa to the sergeant, "how much do you want?"

"A good, stiff bribe," he said. "Enough so I feel bribed. Not enough, you go to the cell. You could stay there forever. Who's gonna know you're here? Who's gonna pay for your freedom? Now's your best chance, my brother."

Friedlander Bey regarded the man with unconcealed disgust. "Five thousand kiam," he said.

"Lemme think, what's that in real money?" A few sec-onds passed in silence. "No, better make it ten thousand."

I'm sure Papa would have paid a hundred thousand, but the cop didn't have the imagination to ask for it.

Papa waited a moment, then nodded. "Yes, ten thou-sand." He spoke into the phone again, then handed it to the sergeant.

"What?" asked al-Bishah.

"Tell the computer your account number," said Papa.

"Oh. Right." When the transaction was completed, the fat fool made another call. I couldn't hear what it was all about, but when he hung up, he said, "Fixed up some transportation for you. I don't want you here, don't want you in Najran. Can't let you go back where you come from, either, not from this shuttle field."

"All right," I said. "Where we going, then?"

Al-Bishah gave me a clear view of his stumpy, rotted teeth. "Let it be a surprise."

We had no choice. We waited in his reeking office until a call came that our transportation had arrived. The sergeant stood up from behind his desk, grabbed his rifle and slung it under his arm, and signaled us that we were to lead the way back out to the airfield. I was just glad to get out of that narrow room with him.

Outside under the clear, moonless night sky, I saw that Haj jar's suborbital shuttle had taken off. In its place was a small supersonic chopper with military markings. The air was filled with the shriek of its jet engines, and a strong breeze brought me the acrid fumes of fuel spilled on the concrete apron. I glanced at Papa, who gave me only the slightest shrug. There was nothing we could do but go where the man with the rifle wanted us to go.

We had to cross about thirty yards of empty airfield to the chopper, and we weren't making any kind of resis-tance. Still, al-Bishah came up behind me and clubbed me in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. I fell to my knees, and bright points of color swam before my eyes. My head throbbed with pain. I felt for a moment as if I were about to vomit.

I heard a drawn-out groan nearby, and when I turned my head I saw that Friedlander Bey sprawled helplessly on the ground beside me. That the fat cop had beaten Papa angered me more than that he'd slugged me. I got unsteadily to my feet and helped Papa up. His face had gone gray, and his eyes weren't focused. I hoped he hadn't suffered a concussion. Slowly I led the old man to the open hatch of the chopper.

Al-Bishah watched us climb into the transport. I didn't turn around and look at him, but over the roar of the aircraft's motors I heard him call to us. "Ever come to Najran again, you're dead."

I pointed down at him. "Enjoy it while it lasts, motherfucker," I shouted, "because it won't last long." He just grinned up at me. Then the chopper's co-pilot slammed the hatch, and I tried to make myself comfort-able beside Friedlander Bey on the hard plastic bench.

I put my hand under the keffiya and gingerly touched the back of my head. My fingers came away bloody. I turned to Papa and was glad to see that the color had come back into his face. "Are you all right, O Shaykh?" I asked.

"I thank Allah," he said, wincing a little. We couldn't say anything more because our words were drowned out as the chopper prepared for takeoff. I sat back and waited for whatever would happen next. I entertained myself by entering Sergeant al-Bishah on my list, right after Lieu-tenant Hajjar.

The chopper circled around the airfield and then shot off toward its mysterious destination. We flew for a long time without changing course in the slightest. I sat with my head in my hands, keeping time by the excruciating,rhythmic stabs in the back of my skull. Then I remem-bered that I had my rack of neural software. I joyfully pulled it out, removed my keffiya, and chipped in the daddy that blocked pain. Instantly, I felt a hundred per-cent better, and without the adverse effects of chemical painkillers. I couldn't leave it in for very long, though. If I did, sooner or later there'd be a heavy debt to repay to my central nervous system.

There was nothing I could do to make Papa feel bet-ter. I could only let him suffer in silence, while I pressed my face to the plastic port in the hatch. For a long time I hadn't seen any lights down there, not a city, not a village, not even a single lonely house stuck far away from civiliza-tion. I assumed we were flying over water.

I found out how wrong I was when the sun began to 1 come up, ahead of us and a little to starboard. We'd been flying northeast the entire time. According to my inaccu-rate mental map, that meant that we'd been heading out over the heart of Arabia. I hadn't realized how unpopu-lated that part of the world was.

I decided to remove the pain daddy about half an hour after I chipped it in. I popped it, expecting to feel a wave of renewed agony wash over me, but I was pleasantly surprised. The throbbing had settled down to a normal, manageable headache. I replaced my keffiya. Then I got up from the plastic bench and made my way forward to the cockpit.

"Morning," I said to the pilot and co-pilot.

The co-pilot turned around and looked at me. He took a long look at my princely outfit, but he stifled his curios-ity.

"You got to go back and sit down," he said. "Can't be bothering us while we're trying to fly this thing."

I shrugged. "Seems like we could've been on autopilot the whole way. How much actual flying are you guys do-ing?"