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completely expressionless
leather-face drew out a rough knife and tested its edge with a thick thumb.
Evidently satisfied, he approached the writhing sergeant.
    Harvey stiffened and the rifles
bored deeper into his spine.
    The leathery one reached up and ripped away Rubio’s
shirt, exposing the rippling muscles of the white back. With two quick slashes
he drew the sign of the cross. The blood came slowly from the wounds. Rubio
screamed louder.
    Taking a handful of salt, the leathery one rubbed it
into the slashes. Then he reached back for a whip, his fingers as thin and
fleshless as so many stale bones.
    The whip shrilled as it came down. It landed with a
report as loud as any pistol shot. Harvey winced as though the lash had struck
him. Rubio moaned with agony.
    The whip came down again and then rose and fell so many
times that Harvey lost count. Not that he was counting. He tried to look away,
but each report brought his eyes swinging again to the bleeding pulp which was
Rubio’s back. The marks of the knife cross had long since disappeared in the
presence of countless red-blue, oozing gashes.
    Tired, the leathery one stopped and mopped the sweat
from his forehead. He dropped the whip from his numbed hand and rubbed his
tired muscles.
    Rubio had sagged against the thongs. His head lolled
crazily, loosely. His glazed eyes stared up unseeing at the metal blue sky.

    A tall, withered man with a completely expressionless
leather-face drew out a rough knife and tested its
edge with a thick thumb.
    The crowd turned sullenly to Jack Harvey. The caid shook
his head at them and waved the guards toward the biggest, whitest square house.
    The back of Harvey’s shirt was blackened with sweat. He
stumbled twice, groggy with heat and reaction.
    Caid Kirzigh motioned that the capitaine should
seat himself upon a mat in the dim interior. Harvey leaned back against the
wall, eyed the caid.
    Harvey could see the sagging
body of Rubio through the doorless entrance.
    â€œFor France,” he said quietly.
    Caid Kirzigh had not heard. Rubbing his hands together
he smiled. “ Capitaine, I believe you left your plane nearby. Is that not
so?”
    â€œYes, that’s true.”
    â€œAnd hidden somewhere in that plane,” said the caid,
“you will have military maps of all Morocco, showing the railheads, the
outposts, the concentration centers. Is that not so?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    Kirzigh nodded brightly. “Then, perhaps if you were to
show me these maps and tell me some other small things, I might . . .” He
raised his hands in a vague gesture and leaned forward on his haunches. “I
might see fit to let you off with mere shooting.”
    â€œYou have large ambitions,” said Harvey.
    â€œNot too large. After all, Capitaine, we had all Europe in our power at one time, you know.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œAh, yes. The Moors , you see . . . Perhaps again . . .
One never knows these things until he sees the pages of the Great Book. We
built all the structures which Spain considers so beautiful. We introduced an
architecture that was new and still lasts. We invented the curved sword with
which we captured the world. We invented the system of counting, the
mathematics which you conquesting barbarians use to plot your artillery
trajectories. Is it so strange that I should like to know about these maps?”
    â€œYou want to see the maps, that’s all?”
    â€œThat’s all. Just the
maps. I should, of course, like to hear some other things, but . . .” He shrugged.
    Harvey nodded. “All right.
Perhaps you hold the winning cards, Kirzigh. I’ll show you the maps if you’ll .
. . well, if you’ll let me off with a mere shooting.”
    â€œExcellent,” smiled the caid. He sprang up and went to
the door. “We still have a little time before darkness. We shall go, hein ?”
    Jack Harvey stood up and allowed himself to be led into
the fading