Free Assignment Moon Girl by Edward S. Aarons

a great, sandy paw and nodded,
speaking to his fellow-tribesmen in measured tones that held a questioning
note. At last he shrugged and turned back to Hanookh, who listened angrily.
    “He says the Arab took the distributor cap. When this man
questioned him for tampering with government property, the Arab said I had sent
him. It’s hopeless. He’s thrown it away in the desert by now, miles from here.
And there isn’t another part like it within reach. So we must walk.”
    “Not necessarily.” Durell eyed the tall Kurd. “Ask him for
transportation. We’ll pay.”
    “Can you ride a camel or a donkey?”
    “Easier than I can walk.”
    “Yes. And your wound needs tending. You look pale, Mr.
Durell.” Hanookh hesitated. “You do not share your information with me,
but—well, we are allies, eh?”
    The deal was quickly made. The Kurds would not leave until
evening, because of the heat. Hanookh arranged for a room at the caravanserai.
It was no use fretting about the Arabs and the Renault, or the riddle of
Tanya’s torn robe that Durell had found in the truck.
    The Army vehicle had been stripped of everything detachable,
and it was no use, either, trying to recover anything from the silent people in
the courtyard. A hot wind began to moan and blow sand through the village, and
Durell was glad to go up to the room Hanookh got for them. The first-aid
kit from the truck was untouched, and Hanookh made a better bandage for Durell.
He felt tired, and frustrated. His eyelids were gritty and his head ached.
Hanookh promised to stand guard during the hours they had to wait. There was
nothing else to be done. Tanya was long gone. He stretched out on the straw
mattress that teemed with a life all its own. He was beyond caring. After a
time, he slept.
     
    He awoke to gloom and a thumping, scuffling noise
outside the cell-like room. He was bathed in sticky sweat. Someone yelled, and
he rolled instinctively off the narrow pallet to the dirt floor and
reached for his gun in his waistband. The old plank door burst inward and a
knot of struggling, cursing men tumbled in. There were three of them, against a
desperate Hanookh. A knife flashed in the semi-darkness. Glass crunched. He
rolled aside and something thudded into the cot where he had slept. A man’s trousered legs loomed above him and he kicked upward and
the man screeched and grabbed himself and staggered away. Hanookh yelled and
Durell got to his feet in a corner, gun in hand. Hanookh stumbled his way.
Durell shoved the slim lad aside and smashed his gun into a snaggle -toothed,
bearded face. Blood spattered. He felt someone grab for his gun and he squeezed
the trigger.
    The report was enormous. It roared, echoed, and bounced back
and forth in the little room.
    The three men stumbled away. Hanookh was on hands and knees,
shaking his head. His nose was bleeding and his glossy moustache was saturated
with it. His eyes were apologetic.
    “I am sorry. They came so fast—”
    “Who were they?”
    “Har-Buri’s assassins. The first strike.”
    “They struck out, then.”
    “Ah, they will try again. They will not let us leave this
place.”
    “Where are the Kurds?”
    “Gone, without us. Probably they were paid more. I told you
that money was useless.”
    Durell went to the door and looked down the arched corridor
to the entrance of the caravanserai. It was strangely empty. Where the
courtyard had teemed with life, it now stretched desolately in the evening
dusk. He yelled for the proprietor, but no one answered. The attackers had
vanished, and he wondered if there were more of them about. Plainly, Har-Buri’s
power stretched like the tentacles of an octopus, groping everywhere for him.
He wiped sweat and dirt from his face and suddenly longed for a cool, fresh
shower.
    “We can’t stay here as sitting ducks,” he said to Hanookh,
“so we walk, after all. All the way to Teheran, if we must.”
    He crossed the courtyard to the abandoned Army truck. It now
looked as if