Joe puzzled for a moment, then saw what the Moor was driving at. "I lost no men."

"It would take twenty hands to hoist the mains'l alone." the Moor said contemptuously, "and Allah only knows how many to set that which blew away."

"Of your men, yes," Joe agreed. "But we have-" He was about to say magic when he realized that an Allah fearing Moslem might decide magicians were better off dead. "We're skilled sailors," Joe amended. "Our ways are different."

Clean Turban stroked the underside of his beard.

Joe tried to guess what was on his mind. The Moor couldn't understand how the yawl sailed. His felucca was a mankiller with no winches and only primitive blocks in her rigging. She'd probably lost a few men on the run up from the Slave Coast. With a load of unbroken Negroes, Clean Turban needed every man for safety. Other ships were drawing up now but he had no intention of sharing his prize. He waved them angrily on. "What weapons have you?" he asked.

"None," Joe lied. He was acutely aware of the pistol in his belt. Thank Neptune he hadn't used it or they might all be dead. Why hadn't he been searched? Per- haps because no one aboard the Alice wore a sword or dagger and pockets hadn't been invented yet. He glanced at the crew and counted his meager blessings.

The Moor was going to wonder about the pistol soon unless Joe drew his attention elsewhere. He took the binoculars from around his neck.

"What is that?" Clean Turban demanded.

"A gift with which Allah has favored us. I must invoke the Hundredth Name and then you shall see."

Holding the binoculars before him like a chalice, Joe bowed and chanted:

"These boys never saw a pocket.

Keep your hands at attention Or the jig is up.

Amen."

"Amen," Clean Turban responded.

"Amen," Cook and Guilbeau chorused.

"If you are among the blessed you will see. But there is danger here. Do you face Mecca five times daily?"

Clean Turban nodded.

"Do you fast on the appointed days?"

"Certainly."

"Have you eaten the flesh of unclean animals?"

Clean Turban shook his head.

"Have you l.u.s.ted after pagan women?"

The Moor hesitated a moment before answering.

"You may catch a glimpse of the Prophet's throne in Paradise. But if there is falsehood and evil in your heart-" Joe paused dramatically. "-Then Allah will strike you blind." He fiddled surrept.i.tiously until the binoculars were out of focus and handed them over.

Clean Turban put them clumsily to his eyes. "I see nothing," he said.

"You are not looking toward Heaven," Joe explained.

He pointed up and the Moor turned. Eventually, with Joe's help, he lined up on the sun and dropped the gla.s.ses with an ululating howl. Joe caught the strap and swung them back over his own neck. "See," he said comfortingly, "you are not such an evil man after all.

Allah has only warned you. You are not blind, are you?"

Clean Turban blinked tears and released a shudder- ing sigh of relief. "Truly," he said, "you are men of the One G.o.d." He turned and shouted instructions. Mo- ments later a bent old man with scanty white beard was handed over to the Alice along with several prayer rugs and bundles. The boarding party started going back aboard the Felucca. "The imam and I will travel with you," Clean Turban said, "along with ten men- at-arms." Which was not exactly what Joe had hoped for, but it was better than being murdered

"All right," he shouted, "turn to and remember to keep those hands out of your pockets."

Gorson started wrapping a long splice into the main- sheet while the others, realizing that even under new management the ship had to be worked, went forward to take in sodden pieces of spinnaker. With patience and a great deal of st.i.tching something might be salvaged.

Something else had been bothering Joe: Raquel was nowhere in sight. He looked around the deck again

and his suspicion was confirmed. Not only was the girl missing-so was Howard McGrath.

An hour pa.s.sed before Gorson rove the mainsheet.

The hindmost of the slavers was nearly abreast. With a little luck, Joe thought, they might dawdle behind until there were only the twelve men aboard to deal with. The prize crew had marveled over blocks tad sheeting winches. The yawl's wheel was a mystery for men who had known only tillers but a young man, ap- parently son or nephew to Clean Turban, took it. After, a few spins and one near jibe he steered without dif- ficulty.

Joe and Clean Turban faced each other across the galley table. Dr. Krom sat in a corner and surveyed the aged imam across the gulf of no common language.

They had guided Clean Turban and the imam on tour of the electronic gear and had, with Freedy's collusion, managed to give the Moors a shock here and there to discourage meddling.

"What's that?" the Moor wanted to know. He was pointing at the vacuum still. Joe gave some fanciful explanation, only half paying attention to what he was saying. As carefully as possible he had searched for Raquel and McGrath. He wanted to ask if anyone had gone overboard in the melee but that would give them away for sure. Clean Turban and his men had been surprisingly decent so far. Prolonged conversations in English might change their att.i.tude.

He still had the pistol stuck in his belt. He could perforate Clean Turban and the imam point blank, but there weren't shots enough to take care of all the guards.

Clean Turban was looking thoughtfully at Joe. "Didn't you say you had no weapons?" he asked.

Joe held his breath. The pistol seemed to swell in his belt until it a.s.sumed the proportions of a rocket launch-

er. "We are peaceable men," he said. "Pirates are un- known in our waters."

Clean Turban smiled evilly. "And yet you throw fire?"

Joe gave a cracked laugh. "It's not a weapon," he explained. "We use the flares for signaling." How many left? To h.e.l.l with them; sacrifice anything to relieve Clean Turban's mind. He got the flare pistol and ex- plained its workings. Clean Turban was doubtful until Joe explained what a parachute was and why it held the flare up.

The imam said something in Arabic and Joe sudden- ly wondered if he understood Spanish. If he did Joe might be on thin theological ice. Some kind of miracle which didn't set well with the Koran could easily get the lot of them axed for sorcery.

"You're traders," Clean Turban said, "yet I see no stock. What do you sell?"

Oh, what a tangled web we weave. Seconds pa.s.sed and still Joe could think of no answer. After this stall it had better be good! "A rare commodity," he finally said.

"More precious than gold or ivory, worth more than silk or pepper. Our stock weighs nothing and takes no s.p.a.ce in our ship. Yet it is worth more than the finest oils of Maca.s.sar."

Clean Turban looked at him with a light, cynical smile. "What can possibly be so precious?" he asked.

Joe smiled back at him and answered, "Knowledge."

When an avalanche of Infidels swept across the Alice's deck one quick look was sufficient for Howard Mc- Grath. Joe's warning about crusades had made the situa- tion woefully clear to Howie-and he wasn't very in- terested in dying just at this moment. There was great commotion on deck, footsteps and much shouting in the Devil's tongue. Below decks, Howie raced about fran- tically. The chain locker was too open and obvious. Be- sides, that murdering heretic of a girl had her clothing

in there and if he had to touch it Howie knew he could be sick.

He scurried through the ship, searching for a hiding place. Captain's quarters would be the first place they'd look. Lazarette? Full of rye and there wasn't room.

Rushing to look for another place, he stumbled on the cabin sole. Rose must have been working on the engine, for the lineoleum covered floorboard was slightly out of place. There was, Howie remembered, barely room to stretch out alongside the engine.

He kicked the floorboard over a little farther and dived. Abe must've had a mattress down here while he worked, for the landing was soft. Too dark to see for sure. Then inexplicably, the mattress snarled and sat up to jerk the floorboard back in place over their heads.