Free Assignment Moon Girl by Edward S. Aarons Page A

locusts had devoured it. The tires were gone, the canvas top of
the stake body had vanished, the cab seats, sun visor, canvas water-bottles,
wooden racks, instrument panel and wiring—all was stripped away. He kicked at
the ashes where the Kurds had camped. A few coals still glowed. He looked at
the sky. The moon was rising. A dog howled in one of the alleys nearby.
    “Food and water,” he said to Hanookh.
    “We can try the kitchen here.”
    They found some cold rice, a few pieces of lamb, a hand-pump
that yielded brackish water when Hanookh tried it. Durell took a clay pot and
made a sling and carrying band for it. The place was silent and empty. Hanookh
was pale. He washed the blood from his nose and moustache.
    “We are trapped here, Durell, sir.”
    “People come and go all the time, don’t they?”
    “Just traders, caravan folks.”
    “Well, let’s look.”
    The alleys were quiet. The clay houses leaned toward each
other, darkening the way. He walked to the village gate and saw no one. A last
light glimmered over the desert in the west. The hills were rugged, barren. A
faint track made by caravans, an occasional truck, and donkey and camel
droppings showed him the way home. The air was turning cold again. He shivered
and turned to Hanookh.
    “I wonder where the three who jumped us went.”
    “The villagers will hide them. Har-Buri has many
sympathizers. The others obey him, out of fear.”
    “But the assassins got here, didn’t they?”
    “I don’t know what you mean—”
    “They were sent in to stop us. They haven‘t left. So they
must have the means to leave, right?”
    Hanookh’s eyes glistened. “True. A car or a jeep—”
    “Let’s look. I prefer to be the hunter.”
    Durell led the way back to the caravanserai. It was still
deserted. There was an oil lamp in the vaulted corridor, and he took it down
and lit it with one of his remaining matches, and searched the floor for
blood. He knew he had hit one of the men with his gunshot. He found a few
spatters almost underfoot, and followed them to the rear of the inn, skirting
the kitchen. They came to a blank door. There was a bloody handprint on it,
above the iron latch. He listened, but heard no sound from beyond. His gun was
ready when he shoved quickly at the panel and jumped through. A flight of
dark, earthen steps yawned before him. He went down fast, with Hanookh at his
heels, the lamp in one hand, extended far out from his body.
    A woman screamed, and he recognized the owner’s frightened
voice. They were in a storage cellar, and the innlceeper and his wife were the only people in sight.
    “The hashishim ,”
Hanookh said angrily. “Where are they?”
    The man was a Hindu. He shook with his fear. “Sahib, I am
poor but honest, and have only my wife and no children, alone in the world,
struggling to exist—“
    “Shut up.”
    The cellar was empty. Another door led them up an adjacent flight
of dirt steps. They found themselves in the next village house. A single,
circular room, with a smoke-hole in the antiquated beehive roof, was deserted.
Durell spotted more blood on the floor.
    “Hanookh, I smell gasoline.”
    “I don’t, sir."
    “Come along.”
    They found the jeep behind the house, under a shed thatched
with palm fronds. A dog barked furiously at them, and Hanookh chased it away.
There was no further trace of their attackers. Perhaps the one he’d shot was in
a bad way, Durell thought, and the others had taken him somewhere else in the
village for help. He checked the jeep rapidly, found the open gas can that had
given away its presence, and set to work to jump the ignition wires. In a few
moments, the engine roared into life.
    Hanookh grinned broadly. “All Americans are good auto
mechanics,” he said.
    “It’s our way of life,” Durell told him.
     
    The jeep was old and rusty, and its second gear didn’t work,
but it took them through the village gate with a roar, In minutes, the oasis
was out of sight behind the