The imam who visited the camp was a man of true holiness, but he was also a practical man who knew when to close an eye. He was aware of the women who were brought to the camp every month, but he chose to ignore them, just as he chose to ignore the western music that The Prisoner played on his phonograph. The main concern of the imam was to keep his Holy Warriors finely tuned, and much of his time was spent in trying to convince The Prisoner that his enforced idleness was a form of positive action.

On one particular day, alone with The Prisoner, the imam compared his situation to that of a hegira, and asked if The Prisoner could not see it in that light. The Prisoner considered the idea. He understood hegira in the historical sense as the flight of the Prophet from the hostile people of Mecca, and he also knew that in another sense the word meant a going away, an emigration, a withdrawal. But he could not see how it applied to him.

"I have not accomplished hegira," he said softly. "In the past year I have accomplished nothing at all."

"Foolish words," said the imam. "Listen to the words of Gholam-Reza Fada'i-Araqi." In a sing-song voice, he recited, "In its Islamic meaning, hegira signifies the withdrawal from a society in which true believers can no longer live in accordance with their faith. In such a society, conditions of life are so hard that the true believer must either die, or renounce his faith. It is then that the third choice is suggested: that of cutting oneself off, even to the point of going into exile. That is what you have done, and it is a true hegira."

"I was offered no choice," The Prisoner protested. "I was ordered to stay here. I was ordered into this exile."

"And you accepted the order willingly. Remember this. The way of the hegira may be chosen only with the understanding that the period of withdrawal will not be too long, and that it will be used for the purpose of gathering forces in order to return and destroy the enemy. That is what you are doing."

"How long is too long? What you call hegira seems like nothing more than cowardice to me."

The imam raised a warning finger. "No excuse will be accepted from those who submit to the rules of a Satanic society and who do not accomplish hegira. Those who can withdraw but refuse to do so for whatever reason, will be held responsible. As they lie dying, they will see angels, who will ask, 'Was not Allah's land vast enough to offer you a corner of peace?' How will you answer them?"

"I will tell them that I have had enough of peace. I am a man of war."

"You are not thinking clearly. Remember that most of the hundred and twenty-four thousand prophets sent to mankind by the Almighty have been forced at one time or another to perform hegira, either to go into exile or to go into the desert. Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and our own Prophet all were forced into exile."

"I do not belong in such company."

"Do you not?" The imam leaned forward intently. "The hegira is a means of struggle for those who have no links with this world, those who cannot be enslaved by earthly possessions and interest. Does that not describe you?"

The Prisoner thought: Does that describe me? Have I nothing left?

"It is you," said the imam.

The Prisoner bowed his head. He thought of the girl with the broken face. "Yes, it is I."

6

SAMMY made the assignments, and he gave the Polk College job to Vince. Vince frowned when he heard it, and shook his head.

"You got a problem with this?" asked Sammy.

"Definitely."

"I don't see it." Sammy was genuinely surprised. "You go up to New Hampshire, you get close to the team, and you tap their heads. You find out which of the players are in on the fix, and you take it from there. What's the problem?"

"We don't even know if there is a fix. This Domino could have some other angle."

"You've got to be kidding. Domino's instructions are simple, the Polk Bulldogs have to lose, and there's only one way to guarantee that. There has to be a fix."

"Maybe, but I still don't want it. Let me switch with somebody else."

"No switching, not unless you have a damn good reason."

"How about this one. It's racist. Just because it's basketball, you figure that you have to put a black man on the case. That sucks, Sammy."

Sammy said calmly, "I'll let that one go by. You call it racist, and I call it common sense. They've got a twelve-man squad at Polk, and seven of those kids are black. The coach is white, but the assistant coach is black, and so is the team manager. You think I'll get the same results if I give the job to a white man?"

"How about a white woman? Martha would love it, all those young studs running around in their underwear."

"Martha has her job, and you have yours. You'll have to give me a better reason than that."

"Basketball is the stupidest game in the world. Did you know that eighty-seven percent of all college games are decided in the last two minutes?"

"So what?"

"So why don't they play just the last two minutes? The hell with the rest of the game."

"Get serious, will you? That's no reason."

"Then how about this one? I can't take the cold. Look at the others. All right, Martha gets the rape job, and that's no day at the beach, but Snake goes to Florida on the arson job, Ben gets to go on a Caribbean cruise while he bodyguards that comic, and good old Vince gets to visit that iceberg in New Hampshire."

Sammy shrugged. "Dress warm."

"I'm not going to any New Hampshire."

"You are."

"Old Hampshire is more like it. Clotted cream, fishing in the Avon, strolls along the chalk downs. Send me there, Sammy, that's my style."

Sammy stared at him for a moment. "There's something else, isn't there? Something you aren't saying."

Vince hesitated, then shook his head.

"Come on, open up. What's bugging you?"

"Forget it."

"Meet you head-to-head?"

Vince nodded. He and Sammy opened up, dropping the mental blocks that were part of their everyday equipment, and doing it that way, head-to-head, Vince was able to show what he had not been able to voice.

You're asking me to put the finger on a brother.

Doesn't have to be a brother doing the fix.

The odds say yes. How the hell can I tag some ghetto kid who's looking to make a dollar the only way he can?

Not the only way. It's crooked, Vince.

Crooked? Just about everything in this country is twisted out of shape, there's no reality any more, and you're worried about a lousy basketball game.

Don't preach to me. I'm worried about the job. The game is just a part of it.

Not my part, not if it means handing some black kid over to the law.

Who said anything about the law?

How else?

That's up to you. All I care is that the game gets played on the level. You work it out whichever way you want.

No law?

Not if that's the way you want it. Just get the job done.

This straight?

When did I ever?

Never, Vince admitted.

You know, you remind me of my grandmother.

You got a black grandmother?

I've got a Jewish grandmother, and she goes into instant mourning whenever she reads in the paper about some Jew who's screwed up. Makes no difference what he did-a holdup, a swindle, an axe murder-if the guy has a Jewish name it's like the disgrace is on her own family. She shrivels up and walks around all day shaking her head and muttering to herself. She takes it personally, not just the shame, but the burden of responsibility. Which is stupid, because nobody can carry that much weight, not even my grandmother, and she's one tough old lady. You can't carry it, either.