SLAVE TRADING

It was with a certain feeling of quiet pride and accomplishment that I led my seventy porters eastward toward civilization, carrying a modest fortune of ivory on their broad, sweat-streaked backs. We marched for about three days, and headed north toward the Sudan just to make sure that we didn't bother any game wardens or British officers who might have been in the area, which is how I lost my fortune before I had a chance to build my tabernacle.

One night we were lying down by the campfire, totally exhausted—them from toting all that ivory, and me from converting it into dollars inside my head—when a bunch of shots rang out and pretty soon we were surrounded by a dozen Arabs in full desert regalia. Now, I know that on the surface it seems kind of hard to envision twelve men surrounding seventy-one, but it's a lot easier than you might think when the twelve men have rifles and the seventy-one don't.

Anyway, they motioned me to step aside, and herded the porters into a tight little circle, making them kneel down and raise their hands above their heads, a gesture I was not unacquainted with, but had previously seen only on Sunday mornings and in games of chance involving little white cubes with spots painted on them.

“Not a bad haul,” said a familiar voice. “And ivory, too! Not bad at all, my friends.”

Then a fat man in a soiled white suit stepped out of the shadows and nodded to me.

“Dutchman!” I exclaimed.

“Doctor Jones,” he replied with a smile. “What a pleasant surprise to see you once again, my good friend.”

“What the hell is going on here?” I demanded.

“I am afraid thatyou are responsible for my presence here, my dear Doctor Jones,” smiled the Dutchman, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the sweat from his pudgy face.

“Me?”

“Indeed. You see, when Herr Von Horst made off with a certain shipment of, shall we say, perishable goods, purchasing them with funds that you freely gave to him, I found that I had to expand my primary business to make up for the income you had cost me. Regrettable, to be sure, but fitting in a way, would you not agree?”

“I most certainly would not!” I snapped. “That ivory and them porters are mine! Though, of course, if you want to rent them from me once they deliver the tusks, I'm sure we can do a little business.”

“Oh, no, my friend,” laughed the Dutchman. “I'm doing my business right now. You wouldn't happen to know your wrist and ankle sizes, would you?”

“Surely you're not thinking about putting shackles and chains on a fellow white man, Brother Dutchman?” I said in horror.

“What guarantee have I that you won't try to run away before we reach our destination?” he asked, putting a pudgy hand to his chin and eyeing me warily.

“You've got my word as a Christian gentleman and a man of honor,” I replied.

“Get the chains!” he called to one of his Arabs.

“Brother Dutchman!” I cried. “It's inhuman to chain me like I was some black heathen on the way to market. Surely we can work out some accommodation that would be mutually acceptable.”

“Oh, it's just for a little while, Doctor Jones,” he said. “Once we get into the desert, I'll be happy to release you.”

“You will?”

“Certainly. After all, I'll have the only water for hundreds of miles in any direction.”

And so I was chained, hand and foot and neck, to my seventy porters. Out of deference to my race and my position, the Dutchman chained me first in line, which struck me as only just and fitting, until I figured out that the first man in line was also the first to step on snakes and scorpions and other foul denizens of the desert. And, of course, anytime one of the porters tripped or even slowed down, I usually found out about it in an exceptionally painful and undignified way.

Then there was the matter of the ivory. The Dutchman didn't want to leave it behind, but it was kind of hard for the porters to carry, shackled up as they were, so we had to stop every half hour or so for them to shift the weight.

Finally, on the second evening of my captivity, after our neck chains were unhooked for the night, I moseyed over to where the Dutchman was sitting alone by his fire.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked, sitting down next to him as gracefully as my chains would allow.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replied, taking a swig from a half-empty flask of something that sure didn't smell much like water. “After all, how will it look to the hired help? I don't even letthem share my fire or my liquid refreshments.”

He gestured to the twelve rifle-toting Arabs, who were eyeing me with open hostility.

“Besides,” he continued, “I try never to mix business with pleasure. If we got to talking and drinking and swapping lies, I'd feel absolutely miserable about what I'm going to be doing to you in a week.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes, Doctor Jones. It would fair break my heart. On the whole, I think it would be best if you were to quickly take leave of me and return to your porters.”

“Well, actually I didn't come over here to swap lies with you, Brother Dutchman,” I said.

“Well, if we're speaking business, that's a whole different matter,” said the Dutchman, suddenly alert. He offered the flask to me. “Have a drink, Doctor Jones.”

“Don't mind if I do,” I said, taking a long sip and then another. “How much ivory do you suppose I've got here with me, Brother Dutchman?”

“None,” he replied with a smile. “But if I understand the thrust of your question, I've got about eighteen thousand dollars’ worth.”

“There's a lot more where that came from,” I said softly, which was technically true, since it had originally come from elephants, and as far as I knew there wasn't any current and severe shortage of them.

“You're suggesting that if I release you you'll lead me to all this ivory?” asked the Dutchman with a sly grin.

I nodded, returning his grin.

“Well, I do wish I could accommodate you, Doctor Jones,” he said, still smiling, “but the porters can hardly carry what we've got now. Besides, ivory is very difficult to sell in Egypt, whereas ... But I think you get the point.”

“Say no more, Brother Dutchman,” I said confidently. “If it's more black heathen you want, I can round ’em up and have ’em here in no time.”

“You still don't seem to understand,” said the Dutch man. “Everyone sells natives. Natives are a drug on the market. It is you, Doctor Jones, who constitutes thepiece de resistance of my current consignment.”

“Me?” I repeated.

“You,” he said, nodding sadly. “And because I have nothing against you personally, other than the fact that you cost me a modest fortune back in Dar-es-Salaam, and are a scoundrel and liar to boot, I must confess to you that it grieves me more deeply than you can imagine to have to sell you to Ali ben Ishak, no matter how much he pays me.”

“Ali ben Ishak?”

He nodded again.

“Nasty fellow, is he?” I asked as a small knot formed in my belly and began to grow.

“Under other circumstances I wouldn't wish your fate on my worst enemy,” said the Dutchman gravely.

“Tell me about him,” I said.

“Please, my friend,” said the Dutchman, holding up a hand for silence. “I wish to speak no further on the subject. It would only depress me.”

“If it upsets you all that much, Dutchman,” I suggested, “perhaps it might be better not to sell me to this Ishak person after all.”

“My dear fellow,” he said severely, “this isbusiness . I'll just have to learn to live with the guilt.”

That being settled, he had another swallow from his flask and ambled off to his tent. His Arabs shooed me away from the fire, and I rejoined my porters, thinking that maybe they weren't such unfortunate souls after all, at least compared to some people I could name, like me for instance.

The next three days passed pretty uneventfully, unless you think trudging across a desert with your hands and feet chained together qualifies as an event. At that point, which was five days into our little sojourn, the Dutchman had one of his Arabs unshackle me after first explaining that we were at least a four-day march from water of any kind.

Now, I could find a lot of fault with the Dutchman's ethics and morals and appearance and even his personal hygiene, but I'd never noticed much wrong with his business sense, so when he told me that I took him at his word and made no attempt to sneak off from the caravan. Besides, he still had my ivory, and without it the Tabernacle of Saint Luke wasn't likely to get itself built in the real near future.

Every day I'd ask the Dutchman about this Ali ben Ishak character, and every day he'd tell me that he was too fond of me to discuss the matter. The only thing he'd say was that Ali ben Ishak was one of the five wealthiest Arabs in the world, and that he (the Dutchman) felt just terrible about this whole situation. I must confess that the more I tried to talk about it, the more he wasn't the only one who felt terrible. Finally I decided to put the entire thing in the hands of the Lord, after explaining the problem to Him and making certain recommendations of my own. Thereafter I spoke no more about it, and concentrated mostly on not dying of heat stroke, a considerable task in its own right.

It was a week to the day since we'd been captured that I looked ahead of me and saw a huge cloud of sand out near the horizon. It came closer, and finally I could make out a batch of Arab sheikhs and warriors mounted on horseback and camels, all wearing colorful robes and headgear and sporting expensive-looking rifles. The Dutchman signaled us to stop and then had us walk in a circle, just like the old-time pioneers did whenever Indians drew near. Then he had his dozen men brandish their weapons and position themselves around our close-knit little group.

The leader of the mounted Arabs signaled his own men to stop about twenty yards away. Then he rode his horse slowly toward me and the Wanderobo, circled us twice, and turned to the Dutchman.

“Slaves?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Friends and relations,” said the Dutchman hastily.

“In chains?” asked the old sheikh.

“I don't get along with them very well,” answered the Dutchman.

“Where are you going?” asked the sheikh

“Nairobi,” said the Dutchman.

“You're heading in the wrong direction,” said the sheikh.

“We thought we'd get a little exercise along the way,” said the Dutchman.

“And who are you?” asked the Arab.

“Colonel T. E. Lawrence,” replied the Dutchman. “But my friends call me El Aurens.”

Suddenly the old sheikh's attitude changed, and he became positively servile. After offering Allah's blessings on the Dutchman and his friends and relations, he rejoined his men and beat a hasty path around us.

“That was close!” sighed the Dutchman, wiping some sweat from his forehead.

“How did you know they'd leave you alone if you told them you were Lawrence of Arabia?” I asked.

“Trial and error. One batch almost tore me apart when I told them I was Chinese Gordon. I guess they don't view the fall of Khartoum quite the same way you and I do. Anyway, after a number of confrontations, I found that Lawrence's name worked best.”

“And what will happen if the real Lawrence ever shows up?” I asked.

“I imagine they'll think he's Chinese Gordon and tear him to pieces,” replied the Dutchman with a chuckle.

He walked over to me and attached me to the porters again. “I hate to do this to you, my friend,” he grated as he was attaching the chains, “but we reach Cairo in two more days and I wouldn't want you to do anything unwise.”

I promptly asked the Lord to strike him down and set me free, but evidently my Silent Partner was otherwise occupied at the time, for I spent the next two days in chains, walking north to Cairo.

It was dark when we got to the outskirts of the city. We made camp about three miles from one of the poorer sections, of which there were an awful lot, lit a campfire, and allowed the Arabs to ply us with a number of bottles of native beer. When I remarked upon the Dutchman's generosity, he replied that while it was undoubtedly true that he was the very soul of generosity, it would also serve to make us look a little fatter on the auction block the next morning.

“And now, Doctor Jones,” he added with a strange glint in his eye, “I think it is time for my men to unshackle you and bring you over here for a bath.”

They did so, and I must confess that the Dutchman prepared the bath of my life for me. It was sweet-smelling and filled with all kinds of soaps and oils. Then, after I dried myself off, the Dutchman himself gave me a haircut and a shave, after which two of the Arabs gave me a rubdown and poured more oils onto me.

When all this was done the Dutchman handed me back my clothes, which had been washed while all this other preparation was going on. I got into them, and then he stood back, hands on hips, and just kind of stared at me.

“Oh, yes,” he said at last. “Eighty thousand Maria Theresa dollars, at the very least.”

Well, this made absolutely no sense to me, because as far as I could see the whole damned lot of usplus the ivory wasn't going to bring anything near eighty thousand dollars. And while Ali ben Ishak may very well have been one of the richest men in the world, rich folk didn't get that way by overtipping, or remembering the cook's birthday, or bidding eighty thousand dollars for a slave in a bear market.

Still, if it made the Dutchman happy to think otherwise, it was no skin off my back—and keeping my skin on my back had suddenly become pretty imperative to me.

Pretty soon the Dutchman and the Arabs began drinking the leftover beer, and since I was still unchained I kind of helped them a bit. It must have been a lot stronger than I thought, because in about half an hour only the Dutchman was still awake, and he and I got to talking about old times and sipping generously from his flask, and within another ten minutes or so he was out cold.

I gave serious consideration to trying to free the porters, but I didn't want to chance waking up any of the Arabs while searching for the keys to their chains, and besides,some one had to stick around to carry all that ivory back to Mombasa, so I just gave them a brief but friendly smile and raced off toward the city.

Being in my usual marvelous condition, and a fine figure of a man as well, it took me only a couple of hours to negotiate the intervening three miles, and I arrived in Cairo hardly panting at all. I must have come in the back way or something, because while there were a lot of huge palaces at the far end of town, I was in an area of twisting streets and little white shacks. I asked two or three locals for directions but they kept speaking some foreign tongue so I just kept on walking past the bazaars and the ramshackle housing and such until I suddenly found myself on what seemed to be a main road.

I hopped on the back of a slow-moving double-decker bus, rode about a mile, and slipped off without distracting the conductor from his appointed duties. Finally I saw a white man in a white suit just like the Dutchman's, only not so soiled, and wearing a straw hat, and I walked up to him.

“Good evening, brother,” I said.

“No handouts,” he grunted, and kept walking.

“Now, brother,” I said, falling into step beside him, “do I look like a man in need of a handout? I happen to be the Right Reverend Doctor Jones, pastor of the Tabernacle of Saint Luke from down south of here.”

“Must be a mighty small church,” he grated. “There's nothing but sand south of here.”

“What direction are we walking?” I said quickly.

“North, you numbskull,” he said with some distaste.

“Well, that explains it,” I said. “My church is to the east of here. I just got turned around a little.”

He stopped, hands on hips, and glared at me. “Just what the hell is it that you want?” he demanded.

“Nothing much, brother,” I replied. “I just need some directions.”

“Well?” he persisted.

“If you were looking for a slave market in Cairo, just where do you suppose you'd find it?” I asked at last.

“I don't traffic in slaves,” he said coldly.

“Neither do I,” I assured him quickly. “In fact, it's my intention to buy a batch of them poor lost souls and set them free.”

“A noble sentiment,” he said, still looking a mite suspicious. “However, I still can't help you. Now, if you'll just stop following me, I'll—”

“Just a minute!” I said, suddenly smitten by another revelation. “Where would I find Ali ben Ishak?”

“What would someone likeyou want with someone likehim ?” he demanded.

“He's my partner,” I replied. “The two of us plan to crisscross the countryside buying slaves and setting them adrift on a sea of freedom.”

“Not that I believe a word of all this,” he said, “but Ali ben Ishak lives in that huge domed building up ahead.”

I looked ahead in the direction he indicated, and saw an enormous building, about the size of the White House, at the top of a mild incline. “That one?” I asked, pointing to it.

“No,” he answered. “That's just the governmental palace. Ishak lives in thebig one over toward the left.”

I looked again, and saw a gold-spired building that completely dwarfed the government palace. Each of my porters could have had two rooms and a bath and would probably only have taken up the first floor of the guest wing.

“Thank you, brother,” I said, heading off toward Ali ben Ishak's abode. “May the Good Lord look after you.” It was a sincere blessing, especially since the Lord hadn't done such an all-fired good job of looking after him so far this evening, what with me having removed his wallet while he was pointing out the government palace to me.

I reached Ali ben Ishak's door in about fifteen minutes. I could tell right off that I wasn't going to have to spend a lot of time searching for a doorbell and wondering how to introduce myself, because two huge Egyptians wearing fancy headdresses and baggy pants and not much else withdrew their wicked-looking swords when I tried to enter.

“What is your business here?” asked one of them in a much higher voice than fit his body.

“Oh, nothing special,” I said quickly. “I just stopped by to see if your boss would like to make a friendly little contribution to the Tabernacle of Saint Luke.”

“The Master supports no charities,” said the other, in an equally falsetto voice.

“Who's talking charity?” I said. “The Tabernacle of Saint Luke is perfectly willing to make an equally friendly contribution to Ali ben Ishak. Why don't one of you boys run off and bring your Master down here?”

The two conferred in low whispers for a moment. Then one of them put two fingers into his mouth and let loose with a shrill whistle, and a minute later another half-naked muscleman in baggy pants and a turban showed up. There was some more whispering, a few gestures, a whole lot of staring at me, and then the new arrival told me to follow him.

And let me tell you, that was some house I followed him through. All the draperies were made of spun gold, and more jewels than you could shake a stick at sat in glass cases along the walls of the main gallery, each being guarded by a swarthy-looking Egyptian with a curved sword. We walked through a dining room that would comfortably have sat twelve or thirteen hundred close friends and admirers, circled a tiled pool that was only a little bit smaller than Lake Victoria, and finally we came to a halt in what sure as blazes seemed like a throne room. At any rate, it was a huge room filled with ornate Persian rugs, and there was only one chair in it, a big, luxurious, cushioned thing that sat smack-dab in the middle of the floor.

“I will tell the Master that you are here,” said my guide, vanishing through a doorway that was pretty much hidden by some hanging tapestries. Since I found myself alone with a few minutes on my hands, I decided to take a look at some of Ali ben Ishak's trinkets and doodads that were sitting on shelves all over the room, and discovered, with some dismay, that they were all carvings and paintings and other renderings of naked white men, with an occasional white boy thrown in for good measure.

Suddenly it occurred to me why the Dutchman was so sure I'd bring all that money, and I lost no time in heading back the way I'd come in, but as I got to the door two more of those damned Egyptian heathens appeared from nowhere and crossed their swords right in my path. I considered stooping down and walking under the blades but thought better of it and went back to the interior of the throne room, looking vainly for a little dirt to rub onto my skin.

Then a silk-and-satin-clad figure, kind of old and skinny but wearing enough jewelry to make him look twenty and handsome in the eyes of most women, entered from behind the tapestries. I smelled him about three seconds before I saw him, and I stopped worrying about all the scents that the Dutchman had rubbed onto me. They were drowned out by his perfume the moment he entered the room.

“Ali ben Ishak?” I said, extending my hand and thanking the Lord that none of the Arabs had thought to give me a manicure.

“Yes,” he purred. “And you are Mister...?”

“Doctor,” I corrected him. “The Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service. In a manner of speaking,” I added hastily.

“And to what do I owe the extreme pleasure of this visit, Doctor Jones?” he asked, staring at me through half-lowered lids, which gave him a sort of cockeyed look.

“I believe we have a little business to transact,” I said.

“Have we indeed?” he giggled, easing himself onto the chair.

“Ali ben, my friend, I ain't going to mince words with you,” I began. “I have a certain commodity to sell that I just know is going to meet with your approval.”

“It already has,” he said.

“How can it?” I asked. “You don't even know what I'm talking about.”

“I understand perfectly,” he simpered.

“Don't go understanding me so all-fired fast,” I said quickly. “As I was saying, I've brought this particular commodity all the way from the Lado Enclave at enormous personal expense and hardship, knowing that a man of your taste and status would properly appreciate it.”

“I'm sure I will,” he breathed.

“You can search the whole of Africa and you won't find none better,” I said.

“What an absolutely charming notion!” said Ali ben Ishak, closing his eyes and smiling a very strange smile.

“Well, then,” I said, “I suppose we'd better get down to talking price. Brother Ali ben, for anyone else I'd charge thirty or thirty-five thousand dollars, but for you the price is a dirt cheap twenty grand.”

“That's more than I'm accustomed to paying,” he said petulantly.

“You're getting six tons,” I pointed out. “That comes to less than two dollars a pound.”

“Six tons?” he screamed. “What are you talking about?”

“Ivory,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing,” he muttered, blushing the prettiest shade of pink I ever did see.

“Have we got a deal?” I asked.

Well, we got to haggling and bargaining, and finally I sold him the ivory for sixteen thousand dollars, which was less than I wanted but also sixteen thousand dollars more than I had, so I guess we were both pretty pleased about it.

“You going to be sending your servants out after it?” I asked.

“Immediately,” he replied. “And I trust you will remain as my guest until they return with the ivory.”

“It'll be my pleasure, Brother Ali ben,” I said, since I could see I didn't have much choice in the matter.

He summoned a pair of his major-domos, and I told them exactly where the goods were. “While you fellows are out there,” I added, “I've got eighty-three items for tomorrow's slave auction. Would you be good enough to bring them back and clean ’em up a little for me?”

They looked at Ali ben Ishak, who nodded his approval, and then took their leave.

“Nice fellows,” I said.

“They used to be,” he answered through pursed lips.

“I read about fellows like that in the Good Book,” I said. “They were Enochians or something like that, weren't they?”

He didn't answer but just looked kind of wistful, and I could see that he wasn't in a mood to talk to me anymore, so I ambled off, found myself a goose-feather mattress covered with satin sheets and a fur blanket, and plunked myself down for the night.

One of those squeaky-voiced Enochians woke me in the morning, and I didn't even have time to scrounge up a little something to eat before Ali ben Ishak's whole entourage, including me, were out the door and headed toward the slave market.

It was a grungy, grimy little place just west and a bit south of town, but it was crammed to overflowing with sheikhs and sultans and potentates who were all dressed to the nines. When we got there they were auctioning off an East Indian woman who I wouldn't have minded bidding on myself, and I followed Ali ben Ishak to a row of chairs that seemed to have been set aside especially for him and his retainers.

Next the twelve bleary-eyed Arabs came on as a single unit, and I spent a goodly amount of time rummaging on the floor looking for diamonds and other trinkets that my neighbors might have dropped until they were knocked down for ten thousand dollars and led out of sight and earshot.

And then, cursing so loud we could hear him while he was still outside the building, the Dutchman was dragged up onto the auction block.

“Lot Number 27,” announced the auctioneer. He tried to show the Dutchman's teeth to the crowd and almost got his finger bitten off for his trouble.

“There he is!” screamed the Dutchman, catching sight of me. “There's the son of a pig who's responsible for this!”

I stood up and waved to the crowd, who cheered raucously and threw a few coins in my direction.

“You don't understand!” bellowed the Dutchman. “He'ssupposed to be up here being sold!I'm supposed to be down there!”

“The man's obviously gone off the deep end, Lord protect him,” I said somberly. “I ask you, brothers, to compare our appearances. Do I look like a man who's been dragged through the desert to stand on the block? Or, better still, ask my host and good friend Ali ben Ishak.”

That quieted everyone down for a while, and the auctioneer went back to telling the crowd how much work the Dutchman would be happy to do in a thirty-hour day. But Ali ben Ishak paid no attention; instead, he just stared long and hard at me.

“Is something troubling you, Brother Ali ben?” I asked at last.

“I'm just wondering how you did it,” he purred.

“Did what?”

“Managed to trade places with the Dutchman. I know who he is, of course.”

“I don't suppose you'd like to let that little tidbit of knowledge remain our personal secret, would you?” I said.

“If I tell what I know, you will be put on the auction block,” he said, more to himself than to me. “And if I were to bid on you...” His voice trailed off and he looked thoughtfully at me.

“Brother Ali ben, I know what you're thinking, and while it's immoral and disgusting and unChristian as all get-out, I just can't bring myself to hold it against you, given that I'm doubtless the handsomest young buck you've ever run across. But a lot of these other guys have been looking at me just the way you have, and it's only fair to warn you that if I go on the block I'll probably cost you a million dollars or more. I have it on good authority that the Sultan of Graustark himself has authorized his agents to go that high for me.”

“Oh?” he said, knitting his brows.

“Whereas a rum-soaked, foul-mouthed old sex fiend like the Dutchman ought to go for five thousand dollars tops.”

“But he's so ... so...” Ali ben Ishak searched for the right word.

“I know,” I said. “But dry him out for a month, starve him for a couple more, and buy him a wig, and you'll be surprised at the change in him. I mean, he'll never look as good as me, Lord knows, but you can make yourself one hell of a bargain.”

He lowered his head, lost in thought, for about three minutes. When he rejoined the land of the living, the price on the Dutchman was eight hundred dollars and rising by ten-dollar increments. Ali ben Ishak put in a bid of three thousand, and got him before the opposition could muster a rally.

Then they marched out my seventy porters, and while they were showing off each one's teeth in turn, a big one on the end gestured to me to come up to the platform. I did so, and he leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“It is not commonly known that I speak English,” he said.

“It ain't even uncommonly known,” I replied in surprise. “Why in tarnation didn't you ever speak to me during that whole goddamned long trek through the desert?”

“I never had anything to say,” he replied.

“And now you do?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said with a grim smile. “And if you do not find a way to free me and my fellow tribesmen, I am going to say it to everyone in this room. I am sure the auctioneer would like to know that since the Dutchman is in no position to make any claims, he can keep one hundred percent of the proceeds he could realize from your sale, rather than merely his commission.”

The auctioneer walked over and gave me an inquiring look, which I answered with a sick little grin. Then I returned to my seat.

“The bidding is open!” announced the auctioneer.

“Four thousand for the lot,” said one potentate.

“Five,” said another.

“Seven,” offered a bejeweled rajah.

“Eight thousand,” I said, wondering if my remaining eight thousand was enough to start my tabernacle.

“Nine,” said the rajah.

“Ten,” I said. “And that's all those lazy bastards are worth!”

“Eleven,” said the rajah.

“I told you ten was all they were worth!” I shouted. “You got wax in your ears or something? Twelve, and that's my last bid.”

“Thirteen,” said the rajah.

“Fourteen,” I said. “Maybe I can get that much out of them before the law discovers I own ’em.”

“The law?” asked one of the potentates.

“They ate their chief,” I answered.

The rajah walked up to the platform and looked them over long and hard. “They really ate their chief?”

“Would I lie to you?” I said.

“Fifteen,” he said after much hesitation.

“Sixteen,” I said. “They're also homosexual rapists.”

Ali Ben Ishak jumped to his feet to make a bid, but I stomped on his toe and he sat back down, cursing. The rajah took another long hard look, shook his head, and walked back to his seat.

“Sold, for sixteen thousand dollars,” cried the auctioneer.

I looked at my English-speaking porter, who just grinned at me.

“Turn ’em loose and point ’em south,” I said. “I changed my mind. They're just too dangerous to keep.”

The auctioneer shrugged, and I heard a voice in the back of the room say, “Well, you know those big-shot American millionaires: easy come, easy go.”

The auction ended in another hour, and, once again penniless, I took my leave, more than willing to let Ali ben Ishak keep the auction money I should have been paid for the Arabs and the Dutchman in exchange for his silence.

Well, not quite penniless. He did pay me two hundred dollars for presiding at the ceremony that wed him, once and forever, to Caesare Tobur, alias Winston Riles, alias Hans Gerber, alias Horst Brokow, alias the Dutchman. It may have been a little irregular, but I did my usual heart-rending job. At least, I don't recall ever seeing any bride cry and carry on quite as much as the Dutchman did.