Howie's flesh crawled. His whole being wanted to erupt and run shrieking from this den of iniquity. Not enough to be penned in darkness with a murdering pa- gan. On top of it all she had to go and be a woman!

What would his mother say? But Howie faced the dreadful choice between should and must, for the foot- steps were belowdecks now. Directly over his head someone was shouting in Satan's tongue. With Death standing over him and Eternal d.a.m.nation wedged tight- ly beside, there was only one thing left: Howie fainted.

The captain of the Alice had no time for such luxuries.

Clean Turban was apparently satisfied with his c.o.c.k and bull yarn about a Point Four program, but it was chow time. The Moors wouldn't eat off plates. Cook finally put half the sheep in a dishpan and pa.s.sed it up on deck with a few loaves of bread. "Fewer dishes to wash," he philosophized. Joe couldn't remember whether Tenth Century Arabs drank coffee. After a taste, Clean Turban's men pa.s.sed up the burnt rye brew in favor of water. They sat around the dishpan, digging in with right hands, and emitting volcanic belches after each

mouthful. "I'll get some bicarb," Cookie offered. "When do we jump 'em?" he added under his breath.

"They like your cooking," Joe explained. "They're be- ing polite." He tried to throw in a mysterious smile in answer to the second question.

The Alice had been built with accommodation for ten. With Krom and Lapham aboard she carried twelve -Raquel made thirteen. Clean Turban and his imam brought it up to fifteen. And then there were ten men-at- arms. But it turned out that the Moors did not care for bunks, so the Alice's men slept undisturbed. The weather was clearing and with the Moors standing watch it began to look as if the Alice's crew might get a full night's sleep for once. Joe took a final turn around the deck and Gorson clutched his sleeve. "What're we going to do now?" the chief demanded when he had pulled Joe behind the dinghy.

"I don't know," Joe said. He was shocked at the sud- den realization that he hadn't been giving much thought to the matter of escape. "Something will turn up," he said comfortingly. Gorson grunted and disappeared.

Clean Turban's young relation was still at the wheel.

He steered confidently by the wind, ignoring the bin- nacle in front of him.

"Do you know what that is?" Joe pointed at the com- pa.s.s. The steersman smiled and shook his head. Joe started to explain about compa.s.ses until the young man said something in Arabic and shook his head again. This one, at least, didn't know Spanish. But he knew where he was going.

Joe sighed and headed for his cabin. He found the white bearded imam squatting on his bunk, peering with much interest into the pages of Bowditch's Naviga- tion. "Can you read it?" Joe asked.

"No," the imam replied to Joe's surprise. The old man had given no indication of understanding Tenth

Century Spanish. "But the diagrams and numbers make me suspect its subject matter."

Joe collapsed into the chair. Throughout the afternoon he had alternated between hope and despair. Now he knew the imam was going to accuse him of sorcery.

The storm, the responsibility of command, the nights of interrupted sleep, all had led him past exhaustion. Was that why he had given up so easily? He wondered if he could have made a better fight of it and tortured himself with thoughts of all the things he might have done. He had saved their lives-most of them, any- how. If McGrath and Raquel were alive it was only a matter of time before they'd be caught. And when they were, Clean Turban might be less inclined to trust him.

The imam was still looking at him with peculiar intent- ness in his rheumy eyes.

"There is no joy in losing," the old man said.

"How would you know?" Joe muttered.

The imam laughed a short hard cackle. "Do you think I was born a holy man?" he asked.

Joe stared.

"You claim to be a stranger," the old man continued.

"I don't read your language but your maps are de- tailed and, I suspect, somewhat better than our own."

He laughed dryly. "Are you Moslem?"

"There are very few Moslem in our country," Joe hedged.

"Christian?"

"I doubt it," the young man sighed. "Three equals one always looked like unsound mathematics to me; I've never made much sense out of the Trinity."

The imam smiled. "Then you believe in one G.o.d who does not go about splitting himself into disconnected particles?"

Joe thought a moment. "There was a Jew in our land whose name was-" In search for words he unthinking- ly translated a proper name into its roots. "One Stone

spent a lifetime studying the nature of G.o.d. Before he died he left us the Unified Field Theory. It proved that everything was controlled by the same law and that there can be no exception to the Law. I believed this man."

"I think," the imam said slowly, "that you are a Moslem."

"Suppose I were," Joe sighed, "what would it gain me?"

"I was born on an island which your map calls Corfu."

"You must've been Christian!" Joe exclaimed.

"Slave or free, we go on living," the old man con- tinued. "I truly believed in the divinity of Christ and in the Holy Trinity."

"What changed your mind?"

"I was fourteen when they took me from my father's sardine boat. I spent two years as a camel boy in Alexandria.

"No, I wasn't mistreated. My master was a simple, devout man who prayed daily for my guidance and conversion. When he died I was willed to the mosque and there a muadhdhin taught me to read.

"Conversion-" He waved a scrawny hand and spat.

"I learned Arabic years before I could read my native Greek-which, incidentally, you p.r.o.nounce very poor- ly. As a Christian I might still be drawing water and hewing wood. As it is, I've pa.s.sed a pleasant and scholarly existence. G.o.d may judge me in the next life.

Let Him do it in the knowledge that I made the best of this one."

"You think I should turn Moslem?"

"What can you lose?"

"My men and my ship."

"Already gone. But if you'll be circ.u.mcised and pro- fess Islam I may be able to keep you together. As long as you're together, who knows?"

"Why do you tell me this?"

The imam stroked his scant white beard and shrugged.

"Two reasons. I had four wives and twenty-one sons, no counting how many daughters. It's hard to remember their faces. Age makes fools of us all. But with each year I remember one face more clearly."

Joe looked a question at him.

"I remember an old woman who died in Corfu, never knowing what became of her son. I was an only child, you know."

Joe was silent for a long moment. Suddenly and ir- relevantly, he remembered Ariadne Battlement. The last he had heard she was knitting socks and turning collars for another Bright Young Man.

"Sidi Ferroush is a fool," the imam said, "but he is a kind fool."

Joe boggled for a moment, then realized the imam referred to Clean Turban. "What was the second reason?

he finally asked.

"I have seen perhaps a hundred books in my life- time, but never any like yours. I would hear more of your land. Oh, yes," he added parenthetically, "do not use that thing you keep trying to hide in your belt.