Free Adventures by Mike Resnick Page B

he still had my ivory, and without it the Tabernacle of Saint Luke wasn't likely to get itself built in the real near future.
    Every day I'd ask the Dutchman about this Ali ben Ishak character, and every day he'd tell me that he was too fond of me to discuss the matter. The only thing he'd say was that Ali ben Ishak was one of the five wealthiest Arabs in the world, and that he (the Dutchman) felt just terrible about this whole situation. I must confess that the more I tried to talk about it, the more he wasn't the only one who felt terrible. Finally I decided to put the entire thing in the hands of the Lord, after explaining the problem to Him and making certain recommendations of my own. Thereafter I spoke no more about it, and concentrated mostly on not dying of heat stroke, a considerable task in its own right.
    It was a week to the day since we'd been captured that I looked ahead of me and saw a huge cloud of sand out near the horizon. It came closer, and finally I could make out a batch of Arab sheikhs and warriors mounted on horseback and camels, all wearing colorful robes and headgear and sporting expensive-looking rifles. The Dutchman signaled us to stop and then had us walk in a circle, just like the old-time pioneers did whenever Indians drew near. Then he had his dozen men brandish their weapons and position themselves around our close-knit little group.
    The leader of the mounted Arabs signaled his own men to stop about twenty yards away. Then he rode his horse slowly toward me and the Wanderobo, circled us twice, and turned to the Dutchman.
    “Slaves?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
    “Friends and relations,” said the Dutchman hastily.
    “In chains?” asked the old sheikh.
    “I don't get along with them very well,” answered the Dutchman.
    “Where are you going?” asked the sheikh
    “Nairobi,” said the Dutchman.
    “You're heading in the wrong direction,” said the sheikh.
    “We thought we'd get a little exercise along the way,” said the Dutchman.
    “And who are you?” asked the Arab.
    “Colonel T. E. Lawrence,” replied the Dutchman. “But my friends call me El Aurens.”
    Suddenly the old sheikh's attitude changed, and he became positively servile. After offering Allah's blessings on the Dutchman and his friends and relations, he rejoined his men and beat a hasty path around us.
    “That was close!” sighed the Dutchman, wiping some sweat from his forehead.
    “How did you know they'd leave you alone if you told them you were Lawrence of Arabia?” I asked.
    “Trial and error. One batch almost tore me apart when I told them I was Chinese Gordon. I guess they don't view the fall of Khartoum quite the same way you and I do. Anyway, after a number of confrontations, I found that Lawrence's name worked best.”
    “And what will happen if the real Lawrence ever shows up?” I asked.
    “I imagine they'll think he's Chinese Gordon and tear him to pieces,” replied the Dutchman with a chuckle.
    He walked over to me and attached me to the porters again. “I hate to do this to you, my friend,” he grated as he was attaching the chains, “but we reach Cairo in two more days and I wouldn't want you to do anything unwise.”
    I promptly asked the Lord to strike him down and set me free, but evidently my Silent Partner was otherwise occupied at the time, for I spent the next two days in chains, walking north to Cairo.
    It was dark when we got to the outskirts of the city. We made camp about three miles from one of the poorer sections, of which there were an awful lot, lit a campfire, and allowed the Arabs to ply us with a number of bottles of native beer. When I remarked upon the Dutchman's generosity, he replied that while it was undoubtedly true that he was the very soul of generosity, it would also serve to make us look a little fatter on the auction block the next morning.
    “And now, Doctor Jones,” he added with a strange glint in his eye, “I think it is time for my men to unshackle