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Bedouin garments--the long-sleeved robe and the headdress. He tore these down at once. Discarding his jacket, he put them on, and then cut a bit of the rope itself to tie around his head.

Now he looked like an Arab except for the blue eyes. But then he knew where he might get a pair of dark glasses. He'd seen them in the bazaar. And that was on the way back to the museum. He headed out at a dead run.

*

Henry had been almost dead drunk since he'd come from Shepheard's the day before. The brief talk with Elliott had had a peculiar effect on him somehow; it had sapped his nerve.

He tried to remind himself that he loathed Elliott Savarell and that he himself was pressing on to America, where he'd never see Elliott or anyone like him again.

Yet the meeting haunted him. Every time he sobered up just a little he saw Elliott again, staring at him with absolute contempt. He heard the cold hatred in Elliott's voice.

A lot of nerve Elliott had, turning on him like this. Years ago, after a brief and stupid affair, Henry had had it in his power to destroy Elliott, but he had not done so for no other reason than it would have been a cruel thing to do. He had always presumed that Elliott was grateful for that; that Elliott's patience and politeness signaled that gratitude. For Elliott had been unfailingly courteous to him over the years.

Not so yesterday. And the awful thing about it was that the hatred Elliott evinced had been a mirror image of the hatred Henry felt for everyone he knew. It had soured Henry and embittered him.

And it had also frightened him.

Have to get away from them, all of them, he reasoned. They do nothing but criticize me and misjudge me when they are not worth a tinker's damn themselves.

When they had left Cairo, he would clean himself up, stop drinking, go back to Shepheard's and sleep in peace for a few days. Then he'd strike the bargain with his father and head out to America with the considerable little fortune he'd saved.

But for the moment, he had no intention of curtailing the party. There would be no card game today; he would take it easy, and enjoy the Scotch without distraction; merely dozing in his rattan chair, and eating the food Malenka prepared for him if and when he chose.

Malenka herself had become a bit of a nag. She had just cooked an English breakfast for him and wanted him to come to the table. He had slapped her with the back of his hand, and told her to leave him alone.

Nevertheless she went on with her preparations. He could hear the kettle whistling. She had set china out on the small rattan table in the courtyard.

Well, to hell with her. He had three bottles of Scotch, which was plenty. Maybe he would lock her out later if there was a chance. He loved the idea of being all alone here. Of drinking and smoking and dreaming. And maybe listening to the gramophone. He was even getting used to that damned parrot.

As he dozed off now, the parrot was screeching and clucking and walking back and forth, upside down, on the ceiling of its cage. African greys liked to do things like that. In truth the thing looked like a giant bug to him. Maybe he should kill it when Malenka wasn't here.

He felt himself drifting, dozing, on the edge of dream. He took one more sip of Scotch, so smooth, and let his head roll to the side. Julie's house; the library; that thing at his shoulder; the scream curled at the back of his throat.

"God!" He shot forward out of the chair, and the glass fell out of his hands. If only that dream would stop....

Elliott had to stop to catch his breath. The two bulbous eyes stared at him over the black serge. It seemed they tried to squint in the sunlight, but the half-eaten lids would not fully close. The woman's hand pulled the veil tighter as if she wanted to hide herself from his gaze.

Whispering softly in Latin, he begged for patience. The carriage had been unable to get very close to the house to which they were going. It was only a few paces more.

He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. But wait a moment. The hand. The hand which was holding the black serge over her mouth. He looked at it again. It was changing in the burning sun. The wound exposing the knucklebone had almost closed.

He stared at it for a moment; then he looked at her eyes again. Yes, the eyelids had filled in somewhat and long beautiful black lashes were now curving upwards, hiding the leprouslike ruin of the flesh.

He put his arm about her again: at once she cleaved to him, a soft and trembling thing. A soft sigh escaped her.

He was aware suddenly of a perfume rising from her, a rich, sweet and altogether lovely perfume. There was the smell of dust, of mud, actually, of the deep river silt--but that was very faint. The perfume was strong and musky. He could feel her warmth coming through the black serge.

Dear God, what is this potion! What is it capable of!

"There, there, my dear," he said in English. "We're very close. That door at the end."

He felt her arm slip around him. With a powerful grip she lifted him slightly, taking the pressure off his numb left foot. The pain in his left hip slackened. He gave a little laugh of relief. In fact, he almost broke into outright laughter. But he didn't. He simply moved on, allowing her to assist him, until he reached the door.

There he rested for a moment, and then he pounded with his right fist.

He could not have gone another step.

There was a long moment in which he heard nothing. He pounded again, and again.