“I should be most pleased to do so,” I told him.

“I have purchased what kaiila I need,” said Farouk.

“When will you leave?” I asked.

“At dawn,” he said.

“I must pick up a girl at the pens of Tor,” I said. “I shall join you on the trail.”

“Do you know the desert?” asked Farouk.

“No,” I said.

“Achmed,” he said. “will wait for you at the south gate.”

“I am pleased,” I said.

After coming from the tents of Farouk of Kasra, outside the walls of Tor, I was returning late to my compartment, which lay in the district of tenders and drovers.

Things, it seemed to me, were proceeding well. Enroute I would find the rock, which had been discovered, some months ago, by the boy Achmed, the son of Farouk. This rock would be the place at which my search must begin. After determining this point, I would continue on to the Oasis of Nine Wells, where I would lay in supplies and water, attempt to hire a guide, and, returning to the rock, strike eastward into the Tahari. Questioning nomads, doubtless to be found here and there in the wastes, and the inhabitants of various eases, many of them off the main caravan routes, I hoped, eventually, to obtain enough data or information to make it possible to find the mysterious tower of steel. I thought it likely that there existed such a tower. I doubted that it was a figment of the imagination of the man who had made the inscription and, thereafter, had died in the desert. Towers of steel do not figure in the hallucinations, the delusions of the desert mad. Their delusions are influenced by wish-fulfillment; they involve water. Moreover, they are not likely to take the time to inscribe messages on rocks. Something had driven the man over the desert, something he had to tell. He had been, apparently, a raider. But yet, for some reason, he had fought his way, presumably eventually on foot, dying, through the desert, toward civilization, to warn someone, or something, of a steel tower. I did not doubt there was such a tower. On the other hand, I would have little or no chance of finding it by striking blindly out into the desert. I would have to make contact with nomads, and others, hoping eventually to find one who had heard of, or knew of, the tower. If it were in the dune country, removed from eases and caravan trails, of course, few, if any, might have seen it. Yet, I did not doubt that at least one man had seen it, he who had made the inscription, who had died near it, whose body had been dried, blackened, by the sun.

The streets of Tor were dark. Sometimes they were steep; often they were narrow and crooked. Sometimes I felt my way by touching a wall. Some places a small lamp burned, high, near a doorway.

I thought I heard a step behind me. I threw back the burnoose, unsheathed the scimitar. I waited.

I heard nothing more.

I pressed on through the streets. No more did I hear a step behind me.

I looked back, the streets were dark.

I think I was not more than a half pasang from my compartment when, approaching an opened gate, some forty yards ahead, lit by torches in walls, I stopped.

It was a small courtyard, through which it was my intention to pass.

I saw the shadow, furtive, dart back behind one of the two halves of the gate.

At the same time I heard the movements of men behind me. There were five of them.

I felled the first. I felled the second. I caught the scimitars of three on my blade and leaped back. They separated, intelligently, and, crouching, edged toward me. I backed away, crouching. I hoped to draw the center man forward, to where he might, if I should move to the right, block the man on his own right, or if I moved to the left, block the man on his own left. But he hung back, the two on the sides creeping forward. Whichever man I attacked need only defend himself; the other two would have a free instant, that of his defense, to make their own strokes. These men were not common street thieves.

Suddenly the three men stopped. I tensed. One man threw down his scimitar. All three of them turned and fled.

Behind me I heard the doors of the courtyard swing shut. I heard the beam, locking it, fall in place.

I turned. I could see nothing for the closed gate. The torches, high on the walls of the courtyard, flickered, casting pools of yellow light on the plaster walls.

Then I heard a human scream of horror from the other side of the gate.

I did not know at that time how many men were waiting in the courtyard. I do not think any of them escaped.

I waited, scimitar drawn, outside the closed gate of the courtyard.

High above, in a wall to my right, a light appeared. “What is going on?” cried a man.

Lights appeared in others of the high, narrow windows. I saw men looking out. I saw one woman, holding her veil to her face, peering out.

In what could not have been more than two or three Ehn, men, carrying torches, some of them lamps, emerged into the street. We could hear, too, men on the other side of the courtyard. Within the courtyard we then heard men moving. I heard a woman scream. I could see movement, and torches, in the vertical thread of space between the two halves of the gate.

“Open the gate!” called a man, pounding from our side. We heard the heavy bar thrust up, and then creak, rotating, on its four-inch-thick pin. Four men, from our side, pushed open the gate. The crowd in the courtyard stood back, in a circle. Torches were lifted as men looked to the stones of the courtyard. My eyes examined the heights of the walls, the adjoining roofs. Then I, too, gave my attention to the stones of the courtyard.

Eleven men lay there, and parts of men.

“What could have done this,” whispered a man.

I wondered if any had escaped. I doubted it.

The heads of four of the men had been torn from them; the heads of two others had been half bitten from them; one man’s throat looked as though it had been struck twice with parallel hatchets; I was familiar with the spacing of the wounds; two men had lost arms, one a leg; one of the men without an arm had been disemboweled; there was also the print of jaws in his shoulder; I was familiar with this sort of thing; I had seen it often enough in Torvaldsland; the man is seized about the neck and shoulders and held, while the squat, powerful, clawed hind feet rip at the lower abdomen; twenty feet of gut was scattered in the blood and robes, like wet, red-spattered rope; the man who had lost a leg had had his spine bitten through; I could see the stomach from the back; the other man who had had an arm torn from him, too, had been half eaten, ribs erupted from the chest cavity; the heart and the left lung were missing; the eleventh man had been the most cleanly killed; about his throat, on the sides, were six black, circular bruises, like rope marks; his head hung to one side; the back of his neck had been bitten through.

I looked again to the walls, the roofs about the courtyard. “What could have done this?” asked a man.

I turned and left the courtyard. Beside the two men in the street, who had lasted my scimitar, were gathered several townsfolk of Tor.

I looked down on the two bodies. “Do you know them?” I asked a man.

“Yes,” he said, “Tek and Saud, men of Zev Mahmoud.” “They will kill no more,” said a man.

“At what place might I expect to find the noble Zev Mahmoud?” I inquired.

“He and his men are often to be found at the Cafe of the Six Chains,” said the man. He grinned.

“My thanks, Citizen,” said I.

I wiped my blade on the burnoose of one of the fallen men, and resheathed it.

Looking up, I saw, hurrying toward us, carrying a torch, the small water carrier I had encountered several times. He looked up at me. “Did you see?” he asked.

His face was white. “It was horrible,” he said. He trembled.

“I saw,” I said.

I pointed to the two men in the street. “Do you know these men?” I asked.