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sunlight.
A howl came up from some hundred throats.
    Harvey pulled his Berber down to
him and threw the man headlong into the first wave. A small cluster of gray
went spinning, skidding down the ravine, sending up a cloud of strangling dust.
    The second wave drew back and dropped into the
protection of boulders. After that only the black muzzles of rifles and the
red-shot whites of eyes were visible.
    Harvey took the automatic out of
its holster and dropped it in the dust. They came up to him then, and took hold
of his arms, leading him into the bottom of the canyon.
    Rubio was swearing in a monotonous, high-pitched voice, trying
to dash the blood out of his eyes so that he could see.
    â€œSteady,” said Harvey.
    They were marched by a twisting route to the village. As
Harvey listened and watched his triumphant foes, he was reminded of a parade
through the streets of Rome, where the captives were lashed to chariot wheels,
made to walk before the multitudes, led ignominiously, like beasts.
    The tallest, broadest, whitest house in the village
seemed to be their destination. Standing there on the heat-cracked earth was
Caid Kirzigh.
    He was bland, not at all fierce and scowling. His smooth
cheeks were no darker than an Italian’s; his beard was well combed. And his
eyes were a light blue, suggesting Western ancestry. His burnoose was whiter
than the rest and his hands were clean and soft. He was almost as tall as Jack
Harvey though much older and therefore a little expansive about the belt line.
    Harvey was thrust to the front,
face to face with Kirzigh.
    â€œFranzawi,” said the
caid, smiling a little, “we are glad to make you welcome.”
    Harvey looked at the blinded
Rubio. “Like you made Grauer?”
    There was no hostility to his voice. His tone merely
suggested that it was rather hot to stand out here in the sunlight.
    â€œAh,” replied the caid, “that was his name. I wondered
if you had received my message.” He smiled with assurance. He knew that his
French was flawless. “Perhaps, when you flew overhead, if you had not taken it
upon yourself to slaughter some dozen of my men and horses, I might even now
greet you as a guest. However, your action and the attitude of my men will
scarcely permit that.”
    â€œNo, of course not,” agreed Harvey.
    â€œThey are a little hard to hold, Capitaine. Like
the men of your Legion at times, hein ? The time the Legionnaires
attacked that peaceful village south of here and killed the old men and . . .
well, soldiers and women . . .”
    â€œI don’t recall,” said Jack Harvey.
    â€œOf course not. You do all your killing from the air,
naturally. You do not know what happens here on the ground. You kill and fly
away, hein ?”
    â€œYes,” Harvey replied. “Yes, of course.”
    â€œAh, I see you are a man of understanding, Capitaine. But come, let us get on with this. My men have waited long for one of your
sky birds to fall in their midst. Suppose we start with the sergeant, hein ?”
    â€œTorture?” said Harvey.
    Caid Kirzigh turned and began to bawl orders in a
language which Berbers will tell you is Shilha. The men about Rubio snatched
heavy holds on his arms and lugged him, feet trailing in the dust, to a mud
post in the center of the village.
    Rubio was once more swearing—words picked up in the
gutters of faraway towns. However, the Berbers did not understand.
    Harvey looked on. He could do
nothing else. Rifles were hard against his spine. His turn would come next.
    Rubio was lashed to the post, arms extended. Unable to
see, his imagination was gaining the upper hand over his sanity. He screamed an
incoherent gibberish of French, Spanish and Italian. He kicked out with his
legs until they fastened them down with leather thongs.
    Caid Kirzigh looked at Harvey. “It may be a little
brutal, but these men of mine—they have long memories.”
    A tall, withered man with a